She was twenty, serving whiskey at a company dinner. He was forty-three, divorced, guarded, and far too old to be looking at her the way he did. One reckless night was supposed to be the end of it. Instead, it became the beginning of an unusual romance neither of them knew how to explain—and neither of them was willing to walk away from.
warning; age gap. smut.
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Ryomen Sukuna had not planned on falling in love again.
At forty-three, he had become comfortable with that truth.
Comfortable with the quiet house. Comfortable with the long hours spent at his drafting table, the low hum of his computer filling rooms that no one else disturbed. Comfortable with coffee gone cold beside architectural plans and evenings that ended precisely the way he expected them to.
He worked from home most days, designing hospitals, office towers, private residences, and expensive buildings that would belong to people he never intended to meet. He was good enough that clients tolerated his bluntness, wealthy enough that he no longer accepted projects he found boring, and established enough that no one questioned why he declined nearly every invitation that came his way.
Sukuna liked being alone.
Or at least he had convinced himself he did.
He had been married once in his early twenties, back when he still believed love was something two people could build correctly if they followed the proper plans. The marriage ended before he turned thirty. No dramatic betrayal. No overturned furniture or screaming in the street. Just two people slowly realizing that affection could not always survive the weight of everything they wanted the other person to become.
After the divorce, Sukuna stopped trying.
He dated occasionally.
Rarely more than once.
He disliked small talk, hated crowded bars, and had no patience for pretending he was interested in another person’s hobbies simply because their face was attractive. Women called him handsome, difficult, arrogant, emotionally unavailable.
All of those things were true.
He did not care.
Then he met you.
You were twenty.
Too young, though he had not known that immediately.
Beautiful enough that he noticed you before he noticed anything else in the room.
The company dinner had been held inside the ballroom of an expensive hotel, the kind of event Sukuna attended only because his name appeared on several of the projects being celebrated. Long tables were dressed in black linen. Champagne glasses caught the light. Executives laughed too loudly at one another’s jokes while architects pretended not to resent the contractors.
Sukuna had been there for less than twenty minutes when you approached with a tray of whiskey.
Your long brown curls fell in heavy ringlets down your back, half pinned away from your face. The black uniform hugged your soft waist and fuller hips, and the little name tag pinned over your chest sat slightly crooked.
You stopped beside him. “Whiskey?” Sukuna looked at the tray.
Then at you. “What kind?” Your brows lifted slightly. “The kind they gave me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
His mouth twitched.
You noticed.
That had been the beginning.
He took one glass.
Then another when you passed again.
By the third, you stopped beside him and glanced at the mostly untouched drink already in his hand. “You know, you’re supposed to finish the first one.”
“I know.”
“You keep taking them.”
“I know.”
“Why?” His eyes moved over your face. “Maybe I like the service.” You smiled.
Not shyly.
Not nervously.
Slowly.
Like you knew exactly what he meant and had decided to reward him for saying it.
“You tip well?”
“I don’t reward mediocrity.” Your smile widened. “Then I suppose I’ll have to impress you.” You walked away before he could answer.
Sukuna watched you go.
He should have left it there.
He knew that.
You were working. He was old enough to understand when attention could become pressure, and Sukuna had never needed to chase anyone who did not clearly want to be caught.
But you kept returning.
You brought him another whiskey without being asked.
You leaned closer when he spoke, though the music was not loud enough to require it. When he asked how long you had been waitressing, you admitted it was temporary, just something you did for extra money while attending college.
“What are you studying?” he asked. “Literature and communications.”
“You want to be a writer?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I want to work in publishing. Or teach. Or write. I haven’t decided.”
“That’s expensive indecision.” You gave him a flat look. “You’re an architect at a company dinner. I’m sure you had your life perfectly planned at twenty.”
“I did.”
“Of course you did.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I was hoping you had at least one interesting flaw.” He lifted his glass. “I have several.” You glanced at him over your shoulder as someone at another table called for you. “I’ll believe that when I see them.”
By the end of the night, Sukuna had taken enough whiskey from your tray that one of your coworkers noticed.
She whispered something when you returned to the service station.
You glanced at him.
Sukuna looked away before you caught him watching.
He was forty-three then.
You were twenty.
He learned your age near the end of the evening, when the tables had begun to empty and the executives were leaving in expensive cars.
The discovery should have ended everything.
Instead, he found you waiting near the hotel entrance after your shift, curls loosened from their pins, coat folded over one arm. “You need a ride?” he asked.
You looked toward the dark windows beyond the doors.
“My friend was supposed to get me.”
“And?”
“She forgot.” Sukuna took out his keys. “I’ll drive.” You looked at him carefully. “You do this for all the waitresses?”
“No.”
“Just the ones who keep bringing you whiskey?”
“Just the ones who flirt with me all night and then pretend they weren’t.” Your cheeks warmed. “I wasn’t pretending.” That answer followed both of you into the parking garage.
What happened in his car was not romantic.
Not at first.
It was heat and impatience, the tension from the ballroom snapping beneath the dim light of the garage. Your hands tangled in his shirt. His mouth found your neck. You kissed him like you had already decided there would be no morning after, no awkward conversation, no expectation of anything beyond one reckless night.
Afterward, you adjusted your clothes in the passenger seat, avoiding his eyes.
Sukuna watched you smooth your curls.
“You regret it?”
“No.”
“Then stop looking guilty.”
“I don’t look guilty.”
“You look like you’re about to apologize.” You turned toward him. “I mean, isn't this a one-time thing?” He looked at you for a moment.
Then he took your phone from where it sat between the seats.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you my number.”
“You could ask.”
“You would say yes.”
“That’s arrogant.”
“It’s accurate.”
He entered his name and handed the phone back.
You looked at the new contact.
Sukuna.
Nothing else.
No last name.
No explanation.
“Call me,” he said. “For what?” His gaze moved over your mouth. “To do it again.” You laughed softly. “One more night?”
“One more.”
There were many more.
At first, that was what the two of you called them.
One more night.
You met after your classes, after his work, after dinners neither of you attended together. Sometimes he picked you up near campus. Sometimes you arrived at his house by an Uber and left before morning. You told yourself it was casual because the alternative felt absurd.
Sukuna was more than twice your age.
He had a divorce behind him, a successful career, a large house, investments, routines, expensive tastes, and a personality sharpened by decades of knowing exactly what he wanted.
You were twenty, working events on weekends and surviving on instant noodles during finals.
There was no sensible shape for the two of you.
So you kept it shapeless.
Until one night, you stayed.
Not just until morning.
Through it.
You wore one of his shirts because yours had fallen somewhere beneath the bed. You sat curled into the corner of his couch, bare legs tucked beneath you, watching an old movie he claimed was good.
“It’s boring,” you said. “It’s been on for twelve minutes.”
“Nothing has happened.”
“People are talking.”
“That is not a plot.”
Sukuna looked at you.
You looked back.
Then, without thinking, you moved closer and rested your head against his shoulder.
He went still.
You noticed immediately. “Sorry.” You began to lift your head, Sukuna’s arm moved around you. “Stay.” You did.
By the middle of your twentieth year, one more night had turned into whole weekends.
You left clothes at his house.
A toothbrush appeared beside his in the bathroom. Your favorite tea began showing up in his kitchen despite the fact that he called it “perfumed water.” Sukuna started asking about your assignments.
Not politely.
“Did you finish the paper?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’ve been saying that for three days.”
“I have a process.”
“You procrastinate.”
“That is my process.” He would complain, then sit beside you with his laptop while you wrote. If you got distracted, he tapped the table.
If you became overwhelmed, he ordered food.
If you fell asleep on the couch, he carried you to bed while muttering about how little common sense college students possessed.
You began dating without either of you formally announcing it.
The conversation happened after Sukuna canceled dinner with a woman he had known professionally for years because you had asked if he wanted to watch a movie.
You had not known it was a date.
When you found out, you stared at him from the kitchen doorway.
“You canceled for me?”
“She was irritating.”
“You hadn’t seen her yet.”
“I remembered.”
“Sukuna.”
“What?”
“Are you really not seeing other people?” He looked up from the cabinet where he was searching for popcorn. “No.” Your stomach fluttered. “Since when?”
“Months.” You hesitated. “I haven’t either.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You’re here constantly, and you told me how you felt.” Your eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you don’t have time for anyone but me.” You crossed your arms. “You’re impossible.” Sukuna set the popcorn on the counter.
Then he looked at you. “Do you want to date me?” The bluntness made you blink. “Are you asking?”
“Yes.”
“Like actually date?”
“What other kind is there?”
“We already sleep together.”
“That isn’t dating.”
“We eat together.”
“That’s dinner.”
“I leave my clothes here.”
“That’s poor organization.” You laughed.
Sukuna stepped closer. “I want you here.” The humor faded from your face.
He touched your waist. “Not just when we’re in bed.” Your chest tightened. “What about the age difference?”
“What about it?”
“People will talk.”
“People talk when they have nothing worth saying.”
“That sounds like you don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
He did, though.
Not then, perhaps.
Not fully.
But he would.
You said yes.
By twenty-one, you lived with him.
The decision happened gradually enough that neither of you could identify the exact day you moved in. Your textbooks took over one shelf in his office. Your clothes filled half of his closet. Your skincare crowded the bathroom counter until Sukuna bought organizers and complained while arranging everything by height.
When your apartment lease ended, you did not renew it.
Sukuna cleared out one of the spare rooms and turned it into a study for you, though most nights you still worked at the dining table because he was nearby.
No one knew you were together.
Not your classmates.
Not his colleagues.
Not beyond a handful of people you trusted.
The secrecy was partly yours.
Partly his.
At twenty-one, you were old enough to make your own decisions, but the world had opinions about women your age and men like Sukuna. Some people looked at you as though you were being manipulated. Others looked at him as though he had chosen you only because younger women were easier to control.
Neither was true.
But truth rarely stopped strangers from enjoying themselves.
Once, at a restaurant, a couple seated behind you whispered loudly enough to be heard. “Unbecoming,” the woman said. “An older man taking out someone that young.” Sukuna’s hand stopped around his glass.
You watched his expression flatten.
Normally, he would have turned around.
Normally, he would have said something sharp enough to ruin their evening.
Instead, he placed the glass down and asked whether you wanted dessert.
You knew then that he cared.
Not about them.
About what their judgment could do to you.
You were building a reputation at school. Applying for internships. Earning recommendations. Sukuna understood that people were crueler to young women than they were to established men. He knew any rumor would cling to you more stubbornly than it would to him.
After that, you ate at home more often.
And you loved it.
Sukuna cooked while you sat on the counter and stole ingredients. You watched films with your legs across his lap. You studied while he drew revisions beside you. You spent long mornings tangled in bed and quiet evenings curled beneath blankets, the rest of the world safely outside the walls.
It did not feel like hiding.
Not most of the time.
It felt like protecting something tender.
Your father changed that.
Sukuna met your parents when you were twenty-one.
Your mother was polite.
Your father was not.
The dinner began badly and deteriorated quickly.
Your father was fifty.
Only five years older than Sukuna.
The realization sat visibly between them from the moment Sukuna introduced himself. Your father stared at him, then at you, then back again. “How old are you?” he asked.
Sukuna answered without embarrassment.
Your father gave a short, humorless laugh. “You’re practically my age.” Sukuna took a sip of water. “You look older.” You closed your eyes.
Your mother coughed into her napkin.
Your father’s face darkened.
The rest of the meal became an interrogation.
How did you meet?
Why was a man in his forties attending a dinner where college students worked?
How long had you been together?
Were you living with him?
Was he paying your bills?
Did you understand how this looked?
You answered calmly until your father accused Sukuna of using money to control you.
Then Sukuna spoke. “She moved in because she wanted to.” Your father leaned across the table. “And you let her.”
“She’s an adult.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“And?” The single word nearly ended the dinner.
Your father turned toward you. “If you continue this, I’m not paying another cent toward that school.” Your mother whispered his name.
He ignored her.
You went quiet.
Sukuna did not. “That’s your choice.” Your eyes snapped toward him. Your father scoffed. “Easy for you to say.” Sukuna’s face became still. “I said it’s your choice.” The two men stared at each other.
You knew then the evening was over.
The drive home was silent.
Rain streaked the windows. Streetlights passed in long gold lines over the windshield. Sukuna drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw set.
You stared out the passenger window.
Your father had already sent a message confirming he had removed his payment information from the university portal.
The semester bill was due in three weeks.
You had some savings.
Not enough.
Your throat felt tight, but you refused to cry in the car.
Sukuna glanced toward you twice.
He said nothing until you reached home.
The moment the front door closed, you took off your shoes and walked toward the bedroom without speaking. Sukuna followed.
You climbed into bed still wearing your clothes and curled onto your side, facing the wall.
The mattress dipped behind you.
Sukuna moved close, slid one hand beneath your cheek, and gently turned your face toward him.
Your eyes were wet.
His expression softened.
“Don’t worry about school.”
You swallowed.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“I already did.”
“What?”
“I’m paying for it.”
Your eyes widened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Sukuna.”
“No.”
“You can’t pay my tuition.”
“I can.”
“I won’t let you.”
“You don’t control my bank account.”
“That’s so much money.”
“I have more.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It is to me.”
You pushed yourself up slightly.
“Sukuna, I have senior year next year, and then two years for my master’s.”
“I know.”
“That is not a small amount.”
“I know.”
“You already pay for the house, groceries, everything.”
“And?”
You stared at him.
He reached up and brushed one curl away from your face.
“I’ve saved more than enough.”
“For retirement.”
“I’m not retiring tomorrow.”
“For emergencies.”
“This is an emergency.”
“It is not.”
“You were just threatened out of school by someone who was supposed to help you.” Your face crumpled, Sukuna’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I adore you,” he said.
The bluntness of it broke something open.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice softened. “I’m not having children. I don’t want them.” You blinked through tears. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I have money. You have a future.” Your lips parted. “I’d rather put it into your career than watch it sit in an account until I die.”
“That’s morbid.”
“It’s practical.”
“You could change your mind about kids.”
“I won’t.”
“You could regret paying.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “I know myself.” You looked away. He touched your chin and turned you back. “I’m not buying you.”
“I know.”
“I’m not asking you to owe me.”
“I know.”
“You finish school. You get your master’s. You do whatever you planned before your father decided money was a leash.” Your tears finally spilled.
Sukuna sighed.
Then he pulled you against him.
You pressed your face into his chest, crying quietly while his hand moved through your curls. No one had ever offered you something so large without using it to demand something in return. Your father had paid for school because he believed paying gave him authority.
Sukuna paid because he wanted your life to remain yours.
That night, gratitude blurred into love so intense it frightened you.
You kissed him first.
Not with urgency.
With tenderness.
You touched his face and told him you loved him even though the two of you rarely said it aloud then. Sukuna looked at you like the words had struck him somewhere unprotected.
Then he kissed you back.
You made love slowly, passionately, with none of the impatience of your first night in his car. Sukuna held you like he understood exactly what you were giving him. Every touch carried care. Every kiss lingered.
He loved how responsive you were.
How your breath caught when he touched you gently.
How your curls spread across his pillows.
How you said his name like it belonged only to you in those moments.
Afterward, he held you against his chest and reminded you twice that tuition would be paid before the deadline.
It was.
Now you were twenty-two.
A senior completing the final year of your bachelor’s degree, though graduation would not truly be the end. Two more years waited afterward for your master’s program, already mapped across notes and application deadlines pinned above your desk.
You had been with Sukuna for two years.
You had lived in his house for one.
The house no longer felt like his.
It was yours too.
Your books filled the shelves. Your shoes sat beside his at the door. Your mugs occupied half the kitchen cabinet, though Sukuna insisted three of them were “structurally useless.” Your shampoo filled the bathroom with the scent of flowers. A framed photograph of the two of you sat discreetly in his office, turned slightly away from the window.
Your private social media account held the only visible pieces of your relationship.
A picture of two coffee cups on his drafting table.
His hand resting over your knee in the passenger seat.
Your curls spread across his chest.
The profile photograph showed the two of you together, though your face was partly hidden against his shoulder and his was turned toward you. Anyone from your family could have scrolled past without realizing it was you.
Sukuna pretended not to care about social media.
Then he asked why one picture of him had fewer likes than another.
“You said likes were meaningless,” you reminded him.
“They are.”
“Then why are you counting?”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re jealous of your own picture.”
“That one was better.”
“You were frowning.”
“I look good when I frown.”
“You always frown.”
“Exactly.”
That evening, you sat at the kitchen island with your laptop open, surrounded by textbooks and highlighted articles. Sukuna worked in the adjoining office, visible through the glass doors he kept open whenever you were home.
You had a presentation due Monday.
He had a hospital design review at eight the next morning.
Neither of you was doing the work you were supposed to be doing.
You kept watching him.
Sukuna sat at his large drafting desk wearing dark trousers and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Reading glasses rested low on his nose, something he hated enough that you had been sworn to secrecy about them.
They made him look devastatingly handsome.
Older.
Sharper.
Distinguished in a way he would have mocked if you said it aloud.
You stared too long.
Without looking up, Sukuna said, “Stop.”
You blinked.
“Stop what?”
“Staring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“How would you know?”
“I know when you’re looking at me.”
“That sounds narcissistic.”
“It’s experience.”
You smiled and returned to your laptop.
Thirty seconds passed. “Come here,” he said.
You looked up.
Sukuna had removed the glasses. “I’m working.”
“No, you’re reading the same paragraph again.”
“You were watching me?”
“I know when you’re not working.”
“That sounds narcissistic too.”
“Come here.” You closed the laptop halfway. “I have a presentation.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Monday.”
“It’s Friday.”
“I like being prepared.” Sukuna leaned back in his chair.
“You’re lying.”
“I do.”
“You started the slides this morning.”
“I was busy.”
“With what?”
You hesitated.
He lifted one eyebrow.
“Laundry.”
“I did the laundry.”
“Reading.”
“You fell asleep.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“On my chest.” You smiled. “That sounds productive.” Sukuna stared at you.
Then held out one hand.
You knew better than to reward him.
You stood anyway.
The moment you entered the office, Sukuna pulled you between his knees and wrapped both arms around your waist.
You rested your hands on his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be working.”
“So are you.”
“You called me in here.”
“You came.”
“You’re impossible.” His face settled against your stomach.
You looked down at the top of his pink hair.
For someone who had spent two decades alone, Sukuna had become remarkably attached to having you nearby.
He did not admit this.
He demonstrated it constantly.
If you studied in the bedroom, he eventually moved his laptop there. If you sat on the couch, he appeared within ten minutes and stretched out with his head in your lap. If you went to make tea, he followed as though the kitchen had suddenly become architecturally significant.
“You miss me?” you asked. “You’re ten feet away.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
His arms tightened.
“No.”
You smiled.
“Liar.”
Sukuna lifted his head.
His eyes moved over your face.
“Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A granola bar.”
“That’s not food.”
“It is literally food.”
“It’s compressed crumbs.”
You laughed.
He stood, still holding your waist, and guided you toward the kitchen.
“My presentation—”
“You’re eating.”
“You have a review tomorrow.”
“I’ll finish.”
“So will I.”
“After dinner.”
You watched him open the refrigerator.
There it was.
The shape of your life together.
Sukuna pretending orders were not affection.
You pretending you did not love being taken care of.
The age difference remained.
Twenty-three years could not be erased by affection. It existed in the music you did not recognize from his childhood, the technology he complained had changed unnecessarily, the gray beginning to thread subtly near his temples.
It existed in the way strangers sometimes looked at you.
The way your father spoke his name with disgust.
The way Sukuna checked your academic calendar more carefully than you did because he refused to let anyone claim your relationship had distracted you from school.
But it also existed in the patience he had learned before meeting you.
In the stability he could offer without using it to trap you.
In the quiet certainty with which he loved you.
You crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around him from behind.
Sukuna paused with one hand on the refrigerator door.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you attached to me?”
“You attach yourself to me all the time.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m older.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is authority.”
You laughed against his back.
Sukuna turned in your arms.
His hands settled at your waist.
“You’re in a mood.”
“I love you.”
The teasing left his face.
It always did when you said it unexpectedly.
His eyes softened.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“Even with the glasses.”
His expression darkened.
“I knew this was a mistake.”
You smiled brightly.
“You look very handsome in them.”
“You tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”
“Your secret is safe.”
He leaned down and kissed you.
Slowly.
Warmly.
His thumb brushed the curve of your waist beneath your shirt.
For a moment, deadlines and family and gossip disappeared.
There was only his mouth against yours.
The house around you.
The future waiting beyond Monday’s presentation.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You’re finishing school,” he said.
You smiled faintly.
“I know.”
“All of it.”
“I know.”
“No matter what your father says.” Your expression softened. “I know.” Sukuna kissed your forehead.
Then he turned back toward the refrigerator. “Now eat.” You sighed dramatically. “Romance is dead.”
“It’s in the pan.” You laughed and leaned against the counter while he began cooking. Two years earlier, you had thought he would become one more night you remembered too clearly.
Instead, he became breakfast.
Tuition receipts.
Movies on the couch.
His reading glasses left beside your textbooks.
A quiet house slowly filling with two lives instead of one.
And for the first time in decades, Sukuna no longer mistook solitude for peace.
Not when peace sounded like your laughter drifting through the room beside him.
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❝You’ve been glued to Ryomen “permanent scowl” Sukuna’s side since he stomped up to you at six years old, insulted your picture book, and then sat down to read every single page. Now he’s the fight-happy neighborhood menace and you’re his soft-spoken partner in crime, the only one who can make him do his homework, share his snacks, and admit (under extreme duress) that you’re his favorite human.❞
main masterlist | series masterlist | end
The apartment was small enough that if you burned toast, the whole world knew about it.
The living room was also the dining room and, if you scooted the couch forward, sort of the workout area. The kitchen had three cabinets, two of which squeaked, and the bathroom door stuck when it rained. Your bedroom barely fit the bed, one dresser, and a cheap floor lamp that tilted like it had given up.
It was perfect.
You were twenty-four, with a fresh degree and a very unglamorous, entry-level book editing job at a small press that paid you mostly in stress and free advance copies. Sukuna was twenty-five, working as an electrician—certified, licensed, and very smug about the fact that he could fix literally anything with wires.
“I went to war and came back a light switch therapist,” he liked to grumble, tightening something in the breaker box. “This socket has seen some things.”
You had a cat named Mochi—a round, opinionated tuxedo who strutted through your one-bedroom kingdom like she paid the rent. She slept on Sukuna’s chest and ignored you unless you happened to be eating chicken.
You wore a thin gold ring on your finger with a small marquise diamond that flashed every time you reached for the kettle or turned a page. It still made your heart flutter when you caught it in the light.
“Fiancée,” Sukuna would say sometimes, testing the word like it was heavy. “Still weird.”
“You proposed,” you’d remind him.
“Yeah, I do a lot of dumb things,” he’d say, then kiss you like it was the smartest thing he’d ever done.
You hadn’t planned a wedding.
Not really. You had a shared Pinterest board and a notebook with ideas—dates circled, venues bookmarked, dress screenshots saved in your phone. But there had always been something else in the way: your classes, his training, your last semester, his overtime, your first job.
“We’re engaged,” you’d say, half apologetic, when people asked. “We’re just… taking our time.”
“Why rush?” Sukuna would shrug. “You’re stuck with me already.”
You lived like you were already married anyway.
He was still vulgar. Still a furnace you leaned into on every cold night.
You were still shy, still blushing when he leaned down to murmur something in your ear while you washed dishes or studied on the couch.
“Come sit with me,” he’d grumble from his spot, sprawled in the corner like a huge, sulking cat, remote in hand.
“I’m working,” you’d say, red pen poised over a manuscript.
“You can work right here.” He would pat his thigh.
When you ignored him, he got louder, not in volume but in mood—sighing more dramatically, shifting so the couch creaked, nudging your calf with his foot.
He was all long limbs and tattooed skin now, stronger than ever from hauling ladders and equipment up and down stairs all day. There was always a faint smell of metal and dust on his clothes when he came home, under the warm scent that was just him.
“You’re ridiculous,” you’d mutter, closing your laptop.
“You love me,” he’d say.
Unfortunately, you did.
You’d cross the room and settle onto his lap, his hands immediately bracketing your waist, fingers curling in the hem of your shirt like he was making sure you wouldn’t vanish. His mouth would find yours, and the rest of the world would drop away—the ticking clock, the unpaid bill on the fridge, the half-edited chapter waiting for you.
You’d learned each other slowly and all at once after he came home at twenty. Learned how you fit together in the dark, how to talk and laugh and stumble through firsts without shame. Learned that you could be both shy and sure, nervous and wanting.
By twenty-four and twenty-five, you had a rhythm: busy days, cramped space, shared mugs, shared bed, the soft, steady intimacy of knowing someone down to their sighs.
You were good at talking.
You’d argued and made up about money, about schedules, about whose turn it was to scoop the litter box. You’d had hard conversations about holidays, about family, about future kids and if you wanted them. You knew how to say “I’m sorry” and “that hurt me” and “I’m scared” without the world ending.
Except in one place.
He could not talk about the war.
It slipped out in small details at first.
He’d flinch when fireworks went off too close to the apartment building.
Once, the power went out unexpectedly, and he went absolutely still, every muscle wired, eyes sharp in the dim, until the lights flickered back on and he could pretend he’d just been annoyed.
He always sat with his back to the wall in restaurants.
When you watched a movie and a scene came on with a convoy or a desert or too many uniforms, he would reach for the remote. “This is boring,” he’d say, tone light but eyes flat.
You didn’t push. Not at first.
You knew there were places inside him lined with sharp edges, things he’d seen that had carved out their own territory. You knew he’d spent nights under a sky you’d never seen, in a heat you’d never felt, hearing sounds you couldn’t understand.
Sometimes you woke up to find him sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark, elbows on his knees, breathing slow like he was forcing it.
“Nightmare?” you’d ask softly.
He’d shrug. “Just… noise.”
You scooted closer, pressing your cheek to the warm plane of his back, arms wrapping around his middle. He’d cover your hands with his and let out a breath that sounded less like a sigh and more like surrender.
“Go back to sleep,” he’d murmur. “Work tomorrow.”
You never told him you stayed awake longer, listening to his heartbeat under your ear.
It came to a head on a Tuesday.
You’d had a long day at work—three manuscripts behind schedule, your boss in a mood, your eyes sore from staring at tiny comments in the margins. You trudged up the stairs to your apartment, grocery bag bumping against your leg, mentally running through what you could make for dinner that wouldn’t set off the smoke alarm.
When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was the quiet.
The TV was off. No music. The lamp in the corner was on, casting warm light over the room. Mochi perched on the arm of the couch, tail swishing, ears tilted back in that way that said something was weird.
“Suku?” you called, toeing your shoes off. “I brought—”
“Kitchen,” he muttered.
You found him at the counter, half in his work clothes, half out. His boots were off, but his shirt was still on, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense. His hands rested on the edge of the counter, fingers digging into the laminate so hard his knuckles were white.
A little pile of mail sat unopened next to him. Beside it, his phone lay facedown.
Your heart tugged. “Hey,” you said gently. “Rough day?”
He let out a humorless breath. “You could say that.”
You set the groceries down carefully. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, eyes fixed on the countertop.
“Job site?” you prompted. “Boss being an idiot? Clients not understanding how electricity works again?”
He huffed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Those are normal levels of stupid. I can handle those.”
You stepped closer, instinct pulling you into his orbit.
“Suku,” you murmured. “Talk to me.”
He shuffled a fraction away, and the distance hurt more than you expected.
“Got an email,” he said eventually. “From one of the guys. Unit chat. Someone sent pictures.”
You waited, chest tight.
“Family they’re helping,” he said. “Over there. Still.” He swallowed. “Little kids. House torn up. Dad missing. Mom… trying to hold it together.”
His voice dulled on the word “mom.” The light in his eyes shuttered a little more.
Your throat thickened. “Oh,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said. He still wasn’t looking at you. “I know it’s supposed to be… inspiring. ‘Look, we’re still making a difference,’ or whatever. And they are. Those guys are good. But all I could think about was—”
He cut himself off so sharply it was almost a physical sound. His fingers tightened on the counter.
You took another step, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his arm.
“Sukuna,” you said softly. “You can say it.”
His jaw clenched. “No,” he muttered. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because once I start,” he snapped, finally looking at you, eyes bright and furious and hurting, “I’m not gonna stop. And I don’t want to dump all that on you.”
You met his gaze steadily, even though it made your chest ache.
“That’s not dumping.” You shook your head. “That’s sharing a weight you’ve been carrying by yourself for years.”
He scoffed, but it wavered. “You already carry enough. Work. Suki. Your parents. Me. You don’t need—”
“I want you,” you cut in quietly. “All of you. Even the parts that scare you. Especially those.”
He looked at you like he wanted to argue. Like he had a speech prepared about how he was protecting you. Like he was building a wall in his head as he spoke.
Then something in his expression cracked.
“I saw so much,” he said, the words flat and distant, like they were coming from a long way off. “Stuff you only hear about in briefings or see in movies. Except it wasn’t a movie. No safe distance. No cut scenes. Just… there.” He gestured vaguely, like he could point to the place in the air where everything still existed. “People screaming. People not screaming anymore. Houses that used to have life in them and now just… holes. Dust. I kept thinking, ‘Okay, this is the worst thing I’ll ever see.’ And then the next day would prove me wrong.”
You didn’t speak. You just reached out and laid your hand over his on the counter, your fingers small over his tense knuckles.
He stared at your hands like they were a strange, fragile animal.
“There was this one village,” he said, voice turning rougher. “We were supposed to just… check in. Routine. Whatever. And then we turned a corner and… the whole street looked wrong. Like someone had taken a giant hand and scraped it down the middle. Houses on one side untouched. Houses on the other…” He exhaled, the air leaving him like a punctured tire. “Gone. Or almost. Crushed. Pieces. There were toys in the rubble. Clothes. A crib.”
Your heart tightened painfully. You squeezed his hand.
“We had to keep moving,” he said. “We had orders. Clear this area, check that route, make sure nobody’s about to blow us up. I get that. We’ve got our job, they’ve got theirs.” His mouth twisted. “But I kept thinking about that crib. About how someone probably set it up and argued about which wall it should go against. How proud they were when they finished. How they must’ve had to stand there and watch it all get crushed.”
His voice cracked on “watch.”
You stepped closer, your other hand coming up to touch his arm.
“Suku,” you whispered.
He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it. “And then the pictures today. Different family, same story. And I’m here, you know?” He finally turned fully to you, and the look in his eyes almost knocked the breath out of you. “I’m here in a one-bedroom with a cat and a fiancée and a job where if I screw up, somebody can’t charge their phone for a few hours. And I’m glad. I’m so glad. But I also feel… wrong. Like I stepped out of a fire and everyone expects me to just… be normal now.”
Tears blurred your vision. “No one who loves you expects that.”
He laughed, a short, broken sound. “You’re gonna tell me you don’t want normal? A boyfriend who doesn’t wake up at 3 A.M. because a truck backfired three blocks over? A future husband who doesn’t check exits like he’s still on patrol? Someone who doesn’t go quiet when the news shows anything with sand in it?”
“I want you,” you said again, fierce now. “All of it. The loud, the quiet. The parts that make you check the exits and the parts that make you cry when a kid on a bus gives up their seat to an old lady.”
“I did not cry,” he muttered. “You sniffled very suspiciously,” you corrected.
His mouth twitched.
The tiny crack of humor only made the tears in his eyes stand out more.
“I feel like if I say it all out loud,” he admitted, voice dropping to a whisper, “it’ll make it real again. I’ll be back there instead of here.”
You stepped into his space fully now, pressing your chest to his, tilting your head back to meet his gaze.
“Then let it be real,” you said. “For a little while. With me. So it doesn’t have to be real when you’re alone.”
His throat worked. His hands left the counter, hovering awkwardly for a second, like he wasn’t sure where to put them. Then they settled on your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like a lifeline.
“Y/n,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to think I’m weak.”
The words punched right through you.
You reached up and framed his face with both hands, thumbs resting at the sharp edges of his jaw.
“Look at me,” you said softly.
He did.
“There is nothing weak,” you said, steady, “about surviving something like that and still choosing to love people. To have a life. To come home and learn how to fix someone’s ancient wiring without setting the building on fire. To let yourself care. That’s the opposite of weak.”
His eyes shone. “I see them,” he whispered. “Sometimes when I close my eyes. The guys we lost. The kids. The families. I see their faces and I think, ‘Why am I here and they’re not?’”
You swallowed hard. “That’s not a question you can answer alone.”
“I don’t know how to answer it at all,” he said, desperation threading through his voice now. “It just sits in my chest like a live wire. Buzzing. Waiting to fry something.”
You did the only thing that made sense.
You pulled him down into your arms.
He came willingly, folding over you like he’d been waiting for permission to collapse. His forehead found the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin. His arms wrapped around your waist, crushing you to him, fingers digging into your back hard enough to almost hurt.
You held on just as tightly.
For a heartbeat, he was silent.
Then he broke.
It wasn’t loud at first. Just a shuddering inhale, the tremor running from his shoulders into your chest. His fingers tightened, his whole body shaking. A wet sound escaped him, half-choked, like he was trying to swallow it down and failing.
You slid one hand up, weaving your fingers into the short hair at the back of his head, the other splayed between his shoulder blades. Your shirt dampened where his face pressed into your neck.
“Hey,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He made a noise that might’ve been your name or a curse or both. His breath hitched, and suddenly the dam truly gave way—harsh, broken sobs tearing out of him, his chest heaving against yours.
You’d never seen him cry like this. Not when he left for basic. Not when he came home. Not when he’d called after a bad day.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to shush him or tell him it would be okay when you didn’t know what “okay” would ever look like, exactly.
You just held him.
“You’re here,” you murmured into his hair. “You’re here. You came home. You built a life. You’re working. You’re loving. You’re allowed to feel all of it. You’re allowed to be sad and angry and scared and still be strong.”
“I shouldn’t have left them,” he choked out into your skin. “I shouldn’t have… why am I here?”
“Because you made it,” you whispered, tears sliding down your own cheeks now. “Because you took ten thousand steps you were ordered to take. Because you made a hundred choices and some of them were yours and some of them weren’t. None of that makes you less worthy of being here.”
He shook his head against you, but he didn’t pull away.
You stayed like that for a long time—long enough for Mochi to hop up on the counter, meow once, then decide this was above her pay grade and leave. Long enough for your legs to start to ache, but you didn’t loosen your hold.
Eventually, his breathing slowed.
The sobs quieted to hiccups, then to deep, shuddering breaths. His arms loosened enough that you could lean back slightly and see his face.
His eyes were red, lashes clumped, nose a little pink. There was a rawness there that scared you and made you want to kiss every piece of it.
“Well,” he croaked, voice wrecked. “That was disgusting.”
You laughed wetly. “You’re beautiful.”
“You need better standards,” he muttered, sniffling.
You cupped his cheeks gently, thumbs brushing away the lingering wetness. “Does it… feel any different?” you asked. “Saying it out loud, I mean.”
He thought for a moment, then nodded once, tiny but real.
“Lighter,” he admitted. “And heavier. But in a way that… makes more sense? Like… like it wasn’t supposed to just be in my head this whole time.”
You smiled through your tears. “That’s because your head isn’t meant to be the whole world.”
He snorted softly. “Try telling it that.”
You rose on your toes and pressed your forehead to his.
“You are not weak for this,” you said again, firm. “You are stronger for it. For letting me in. For letting me see you. I know that’s hard for you. Letting anyone see you when you don’t have your armor on.”
He huffed. “I don’t wear armor.”
“You wear sarcasm,” you countered. “Same thing.”
He gave the tiniest smile, fragile around the edges, but it was there.
“You sure you still want to marry me?” he asked quietly. “All this fine print in the contract.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Sukuna, I said yes when you were nineteen and covered in dust and crying in my mom’s backyard. I said yes when we couldn’t afford anything but gas station coffee and frozen dumplings. I’ll say yes with your nightmares, with your bad days, with your mail, with your ugly crying. I’ll keep saying it until we’re eighty and your back hurts and Mochi’s reincarnated three times.”
He stared at you like you’d just handed him something he’d forgotten he’d lost.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said softly.
“That’s not how this works,” you replied. “We chose each other. That’s it. That’s the math.”
He exhaled, a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “You and your math.”
You leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t about distraction. Not about turning pain into something else. It was slow, steady, your lips moving against his with the same quiet insistence as your words. His hands came up to frame your face now, thumbs rubbing absent circles at your jaw, almost apologetic.
You parted, foreheads resting together.
“Talk to me again,” you said. “When it comes back. When the pictures show up. When the nightmares happen. I can’t make it go away. But I can keep it from eating you alone.”
He nodded, eyes closing briefly. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll… try.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” you said.
Later, you made dinner together—simple stir fry, chopping vegetables side by side. He bumped your hip with his as you reached for the soy sauce. You flicked a piece of pepper at him. He pretended to be offended.
You watched a movie, his head tilted back against the couch, your feet in his lap. Mochi kneaded his thigh and then curled into a loaf, purring like nothing had ever been wrong in the world.
When you went to bed, he pulled you close, his chest pressed to your back, one arm tucked under your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist, fingers brushing your ring where it glinted in the dark.
“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice low and rough, but steadier than earlier. “Thank you. For… all that.”
You smiled into the pillow. “Anytime.”
“Even if I’m gross again,” he said.
“Especially then,” you answered.
He chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating against your spine. Then his breathing evened out, slower, deeper. You felt the tension in his body ease in tiny increments, like someone turning a dimmer switch down.
You stared at the faint outline of the curtains against the window, at the city lights pulsing beyond, and thought about how strange and beautiful it was that lives could be rebuilt in one-bedroom apartments with thin walls and imperfect wiring.
He had seen things you never would.
You could never fully understand the weight he carried from those years.
But you could sit with him in the kitchen when it got heavy. You could be the person who didn’t flinch when he sobbed into your neck. You could be the one who held his shaking hands and told him he was still whole.
You could keep choosing each other, over and over, in a tiny apartment that smelled like stir fry and laundry detergents and cat food.
You didn’t have a wedding date yet.
But when you closed your eyes, his arm around you and his breathing steady in your ear, the gold band warm against your skin, it didn’t feel like waiting.
It felt like living the promise already, one day at a time.
Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar
part 1 here! . part 2 here! . part 3 here!
cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X
Play this.
-
By the time you arrived at Choso’s party, his house was already overflowing.
Bodies crowded every room, conversations blurred into laughter, red cups littered every available surface; and the air smelled like cheap perfume, vodka, and the unmistakable sweetness of someone smoking weed by the open door to the garden.
You'd already lost count after your second shot.
Maybe your third.
Shoko was talking to Choso beside you, animated as always, but the alcohol had turned her voice into little more than background noise.
Then the music shifted. The opening beat sent a ripple of cheers through the room. You barely noticed, until the lyrics started.
“I wanna watch you like a movie…”
Your fingers tightened around your cup. Not now.
“I wanna put you on the stage…”
You took another sip. Maybe the burn of the alcohol would be enough to keep that damn video from resurfacing every time the lyrics seemed determined to drag it back.
“I wanna know what you’d do to me…”
Apparently not. The universe had to be fucking with you.
“I wanna put you on the tape…”
The corner of your mouth twitched. Whoever had made the playlist had an awful sense of timing.
“Flashing red light, baby you’re a star…”
You lifted your cup for another drink, your eyes drifting absentmindedly across the room.
“Fuck me all night, show me who you are…”
Your eyes landed on a familiar face, and suddenly the music died.
“No fucking way” you whispered.
Satoru was leaning awkwardly against the far wall, towering over almost everyone around him, looking as though he’d somehow got lost on his way to the library.
A plain white T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, dark jeans hugging long legs that seemed unfairly endless. His white hair was still messy in that unintentionally perfect way, but something was different—
He wasn’t wearing his glasses.
You’d never seen him without them before.
Under the pulsing red and blue lights, his eyes looked impossibly bright, scanning the room with the same restless uncertainty he always seemed to carry outside the safety of a classroom.
God.
The alcohol was making this so much worse.
He looked dangerously handsome.
And completely miserable.
Only then did you notice the blonde girl standing beside him, chatting easily with a small group of friends.
Satoru wasn’t saying much. His shoulders were stiff, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his smile polite but painfully strained. He looked like he was about to jump out of his own skin. Every few seconds his eyes drifted somewhere else, as though he were searching for an escape route.
The sight twisted something ugly inside your chest.
He definitely came here for her.
So why did he look like he wanted to be anywhere else?
“Oh… damn,” Shoko murmured, following your gaze “He cleans up nice.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, your eyes found Choso behind the kitchen counter, busy pouring another round of drinks.
“Choso” You called over the music, nodding toward the living room. “Do you know that guy? The really tall one with white hair?”
Choso glanced over, squinting through the crowd. “Oh, him? Not really” He shrugged “The blonde girl invited him—I think? They’re in the same class or something.”
Your chest tightened painfully. Of course. You’d known it before you’d even asked. He’d come because she invited him. That was why he was here, looking unfairly hot in a party setting he clearly didn’t belong in.
Jealousy burned hot and ugly in your stomach.
“Right” you muttered.
You reached for the nearest cup and downed it in one go. It tasted like fruit punch and regret, but it didn't matter.
Shoko raised an eyebrow “You good?”
“Perfectly” you lied.
An hour later, you were properly drunk. You’d lost Shoko what felt like an eternity ago, and the air downstairs had become too thick—heavy with perfume, sweat, and a bass that hammered relentlessly against your temples.
You needed to get out.
Your feet ached inside heels that had long since become instruments of torture, carrying you away from the madness. You drifted through the crowded house, weaving between strangers with half-empty cups in their hands. Laughter blurred into conversations you couldn't quite make out.
Your head felt pleasantly light.
Or maybe dangerously so.
As you climbed the stairs, the flashing lights faded behind you. The music that had swallowed the house only moments ago softened into a dull pulse, vibrating through the floorboards and echoing faintly against the walls.
The upstairs hallway was almost empty. A single lamp cast a warm glow over the wooden floor, leaving the far end swallowed in shadow.
You blinked once.
Twice.
Letting your eyes adjust.
And then you saw him.
Satoru was standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, half-swallowed by the darkness, his phone resting loosely in one hand. The pale glow of the screen washed over his face, tracing the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck.
Somehow, he looked even more beautiful than usual.
For a fleeting second, reality snapped back into focus. The precarious balance on your heels. The dull ache in the arches of your feet. The desperate need to stay upright.
Almost instinctively, your fingers found the hem of your skirt, tugging it down where it had ridden up against the back of your thighs—a clumsy, subconscious attempt to make yourself look at least a little more put together.
He came here for her.
And yet… He was alone. The girl who’d barely left his side downstairs was nowhere to be seen.
Your eyes lingered on the broad shoulders hidden beneath the plain white T-shirt, then drifted to the long fingers loosely curled around his phone before settling on the nervous way he shifted his weight against the wall.
He looked exactly the same as he always did.
Quiet. Awkward. Completely unaware of how beautiful he was.
Your curiosity curled hot in your stomach.
The version of Satoru you knew in daylight and the one you’d watched through a screen felt like two different people.
You were dying to know which one would look back at you if you got close enough.
Before your brain had the chance to catch up, your feet were already moving across the hallway, the sharp click of your heels breaking the silence.
“Hey.”
Satoru startled so badly he nearly dropped his phone.
“Shit—”
He looked up, quickly locking the screen before slipping the phone into his pocket with practiced ease. The movement was almost too quick, too casual—the kind of I’m just standing here composure that would’ve been convincing if his ears hadn’t already started turning pink.
“Oh…” His eyebrows lifted. “Hi.”
A beat.
“…You’re here.”
You took another step toward him. The hallway suddenly felt much narrower.
“Didn’t expect to see you at a party.”
“Yeah, I…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t usually come to these.”
“But you came because she invited you.” you countered, the alcohol sharpening your edges
He blinked, visibly caught off guard by the accusation.
“I—”
You didn’t let him answer.
Instead, you tilted your head, your gaze drifting over his face.
“You’re not wearing your glasses.”
You were close enough now to catch his scent—clean soap, something fresh and woody, and something underneath it that was unmistakably him.
His hand flew to his face almost on instinct.
“Oh. Yeah. I... I thought the contacts might be better for a party. Less likely to get knocked off or fogged up or… whatever.” He laughed nervously “I feel weird without them.”
You took another step. The height difference was staggering; he had to look down at you, and the way he did it—soft, shy—made your knees feel weak. You reached out, your fingers ghosting over his jaw, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone.
Satoru went completely still. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating until the icy blue was nearly swallowed by black.
“I like you better with the glasses,” you murmured, your eyes fixed on the place where your fingertips brushed his skin. “They make you look… smart. Cute.”
“You…” His voice cracked, a high, strained sound. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into your touch as if he were trying to memorize the feeling. “You're…” He hesitated, struggling to find his voice. “...really close.”
“Does it bother you?” you challenged, your hand moving to the back of his neck, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. “Or is it that you’d rather be with someone else?”
He shivered, a visible tremor running through his broad shoulders. He looked down at your lips, his own parting slightly.
“N-no” he whispered.
You smiled, the expression a little tipsy and a whole lot dangerous. Your other hand came up, resting flat against his chest. The fabric of his shirt was soft, but the muscle beneath it was hard, and you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your palm. You tilted your head back to meet his gaze, savoring the warmth radiating from him.
“You’re too tall,” you murmured, the words slipping out with a hunger you didn't bother to hide. “Always towering over everyone.”
Satoru swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I know. Sorry—I’m always in the way.” He tried for a light laugh, but it came out as a ragged exhale. His hands remained at his sides, fists clenched until the knuckles turned white, as if he were physically anchoring himself to the wall to keep from touching you. “You’re… you’re drunk, aren’t you?”
The question sounded like a desperate attempt to break whatever had settled between you, to remind himself of the boundaries that were rapidly dissolving.
You didn't answer. Instead, you leaned in closer, your nose brushing against his collarbone as you inhaled deeply, letting his scent fill your lungs.
“You smell so good,” you whispered against his skin, almost drunk on it “God, why do you smell so good?”
You didn’t care anymore that you weren’t the girl he thought about when he recorded those videos. The alcohol had burned away every last bit of restraint.
“You’re so soft..” you breathed, dragging your lips slowly along the warm skin of his neck, savoring the feeling.
Without a second thought, you pressed a slow, lingering kiss right where his pulse was jumping wildly beneath your lips.
He let out a soft, broken sound—half whimper, half sigh. It was the exact sound you’d heard a dozen times through your headphones, but hearing it now, feeling it vibrate against your mouth, was a visceral, jolting experience. The hallway felt like it was closing in, and the muffled music from the party below felt miles away.
“You shouldn’t… I mean, you’re drunk, and I—” He whispered the words. But even as he spoke, he betrayed himself by tilting his head slightly, giving you more access to his neck.
You welcomed the invitation.
Your lips trailed lower, moving to the ridge of his collarbone. You dragged your tongue slowly across the bone in one long, teasing lick. Satoru shuddered violently, a pretty, needy moan escaping his throat.
“Fuck—why are you...” His breath hitched “Ahh—why are you doing this to me?”
You could feel him hard against your hip when you pressed closer, the thick outline unmistakable. Yet his hands remained glued to his sides, fists clenched, shaking with restraint.
One of your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his soft white hair. You pulled him down slightly, making the height difference even more obvious, and latched your mouth onto the side of his neck again.
This time you kissed him open-mouthed, sucking gently on his skin. Satoru whimpered, the sound breaking beautifully as you sucked harder, determined to leave a mark.
“Please—” he breathed. “I can’t—”
He still wouldn’t touch you back. His arms stayed rigid at his sides, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was fighting a war with his own instincts.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
Satoru’s eyes were half-lidded, lashes fluttering, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink. It finally clicked in your hazy mind: he wasn’t touching you because he knew you were drunk. He was letting you use him however you wanted, but he refused to take advantage.
That realization might have been the hottest thing you had ever experienced in your life.
You leaned in slowly again, the height difference forcing you to stretch. Satoru’s eyes widened the moment your breath brushed his lips, impossibly surprised, almost disbelieving. He stared at you, pupils blown wide with shock and something much darker.
“What are y—”
You kissed him.
It started soft — just a gentle press of lips — but the second you felt the tiny, broken whimper vibrate against your mouth, something inside you snapped. You tilted your head and deepened the kiss, sliding your tongue along his bottom lip before pushing inside.
Satoru moaned into your mouth, the sound needy and desperate. His body trembled against yours, but his hands still stayed glued to his sides, shaking.
You kissed him harder, hungrier. Your tongue explored his mouth with lazy confidence, tasting him, teasing him, sucking on his tongue whenever he shyly tried to respond. Every little sound he made — those pretty, broken whimpers you had become addicted to — only made you more relentless.
One of your hands stayed at the back of his neck, fingers tangled in his soft white hair, while the other slowly slid down his chest. You felt every hard line of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, your palm gliding lower and lower until it stopped just above his belt.
You could feel how hard he was.
The thick, heavy length of his cock pressed insistently against your stomach, hot and unmistakable even through his pants. The same pretty cock you touched yourself to while watching him fall apart on camera. The realization made heat flood between your thighs.
The kiss turned wet and messy. Obscene sounds filled the quiet hallway as you devoured his mouth, biting his bottom lip gently before soothing it with your tongue. Satoru was shaking, breathing heavily through his nose, completely lost in the kiss but still refusing to touch you back.
God, he’s really not going to touch me.
He was letting you use his mouth, his body, his neck — whatever you wanted — while he held himself back because you were drunk.
It was infuriatingly respectful. And an absolute torture.
Just then, a voice echoed from downstairs.
“Hun? Are you up here?!”
Shoko.
Your heart jolted. You pulled back sharply, breathing hard, lips still tingling. For a second you just stared at him — at the mess you had made of him — and reality came crashing down like cold water.
Fuck. What did I just do?
Your hands were shaking. Your knees felt weak. The hallway suddenly felt too bright, too quiet. You took a shaky step back, almost losing your balance on your heels.
“I—” you whispered, voice cracking.
You couldn’t even finish the sentence.
You gave him one last frantic look — his messy white hair, swollen glossy lips, and the faint red marks you had left on his neck — before turning around. You walked away quickly, almost stumbling down the hallway, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.
You didn’t look back.
Just as you disappeared down the stairs, Satoru’s head fell back against the wall with a quiet thud, eyes squeezed shut. A second later, his legs gave out and he slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, completely ruined.
He didn’t know what was more pathetic: his trembling hands, the frantic drum of his heart, or the warm, humiliating mess in his pants.
yep. i'm basically torturing everyone: reader, Satoru, you and me.
summary: your new life was entirely perfect. you had a devoted boyfriend whom you had recently moved in with, and coworkers who greeted you with open arms on your first day. everything in your life was falling into place seamlessly. too seamlessly
wc: 8.2k
warnings: dark content, suggestive, manipulation, yandere themes, surveillance
an: heed the warnings and let me know if i missed any
It had all started with a single request from your boyfriend of two years. “Would you move in with me?” It was a no-brainer. You loved him. Couldn't imagine your life with anyone else. You nodded, enthusiastically accepting, a wide grin lighting up your face. Caleb had brought you into a crushing hug, laughing in relief that you agreed. He’d been fretting over that one little question all week.
From there, it was a blur of logistics and boxes, packing your entire life away in cardboard and bubble wrap to begin what you hoped was the rest of your days with the love of your life. It had been stressful, to say the least, but that was expected, and Caleb was there every step of the way, meticulously wrapping fragile items and carrying the heavier boxes without you having to ask.
It was endearing how keen he was to bring you into his space without worrying about when you would have to return to Linkon. Not once did he leave your side, always making sure you wouldn’t lose your balance while carrying boxes or overexerting yourself. It was the domestic fantasy you had always dreamed about.
As smooth as Caleb made the moving process, your boss had been a thorn in your side from the get-go. He had refused to sign your transfer request to the Skyhaven facility, staunchly opposed your leaving, and said he didn't want to have to train someone else on the job. It took a week of back and forth for him to finally sign, his attitude on the matter doing a complete 180°, now eager to get you out of the building and wishing you great success. You furrowed your brows, unsure where this sudden change came from, but frankly, you were too excited to tell Caleb that the transfer had been approved to dwell on it. You didn't see his sigh of relief when you were finally leaving.
Caleb had gone as far as to take time off to help you settle in and unpack, but it soon became abundantly obvious that he had ulterior motives. Though he had lived there for some time, he still proclaimed that now that it was a family home, the rooms would have to be christened. Even if it wasn't a new place, it was a new, joint life, and that was good enough for him.
As promised, there was not a single room that Caleb hadn't indulged in your body. You think you spent more time that week wrapped in his arms, under him, and, occasionally, on your knees for him, than you did actually unpacking. Unfortunately, as much as you loved being doted on, that single week was all the time you had been allowed before resuming your work, albeit in a different location.
“Just a few more minutes, Pips,” Caleb groaned, pulling you tighter against him, refusing to let you get out of bed.
“You said that ten minutes ago,” you answered, pushing on the arm that was snuggly wrapped around your waist, laughing as you did so. “We’ll both be late, and then what? I can’t be late on the first day.”
He nuzzled his nose into your shoulder, giving you one final squeeze before relenting and letting you go. You rolled over, kissing his cheek softly before reluctantly leaving the comfort of both your boyfriend’s strong arms and the warmth of the bed. He didn't take his eyes off you, watching the way the morning light illuminated your figure and caressed the sliver of skin that was exposed when you raised your arms to stretch. He was beginning to regret hitting snooze instead of using his time to admire the mouthwatering sight. It helped, though, knowing that his home was now your home. He had the rest of his life to cherish and adore you.
“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, his expression soft as he gazed at you. Heat rushed to your face. Despite his constant praise, there would always be a part of you that got flustered with his every compliment. How had you found such a perfect guy? Despite not having the time to do all he wanted, Caleb wasn't deterred from slipping his hands under your shirt and stroking the soft skin as you prepared breakfast in the kitchen.
As much as he insisted on driving you to work, you were no stranger to the public trains of Skyhaven, having visited so much. You settled on him driving you to the station, talking your ear off about how he wanted to know everything when you got off work, and how great he was sure it would be. Like your former boss, you didn't see the way his features hardened when you got out of the car, observing the other commuters.
The ride was uneventful, and you passed the time by scrolling on your phone. You frowned when your message to a friend didn't go through. Everything else seemed to be working fine, but no matter how many times you tried, the message stubbornly kept that little red exclamation mark signifying that it couldn't be delivered. You sighed, choosing to worry about it later. Maybe it had something to do with being on a floating island. You'd never had issues before, but there was a first time for everything.
When you arrived at your stop, you stood smoothly from your seat, sliding your phone into your bag and readjusting the straps on your shoulder. You were pleasantly surprised to find that, unlike most other public transportation you had been on, it seemed as if the passengers here were acutely aware of personal space. Not one person bumped into you on their way in or pushed you forward to follow the crowd of those disembarking.
From the train station, your work was a short walk away, the tall office building visible before you had even left the station. You hesitated when the doors came into view, your nerves getting the better of you. You hated feeling like the new kid at school, but such was life. You took a deep breath to calm yourself, pulling the door open with a confidence you didn't actually possess. You soon learned that there was no reason to be so nervous.
Upon entering the facility, the woman at the front desk startled so hard she nearly knocked over the mug of steaming coffee on her desk. She rose from her seat to welcome you. “Hi, you must be the new employee! My name is Penny. Mr. Burbank told me we were expecting you today,” she said, her smile a little too wide, and her voice a little too chipper. She grabbed something from the desk, handing it to you. “Here’s your employee ID. Mr. Burbank is in his office just down the hall. You can't miss it. It has his name on it and everything,” she joked in that overly-friendly tone.
You returned the smile. “Thank you so much! It was nice to meet you, Penny.” You made your way down the hall, scanning the doors looking for “Burbank” written on one of them. You found it towards the end, and before you could so much as raise a fist to knock it swung inward, revealing who you assumed to be your new boss.
“Ah! And you must be our newest member of the team!” he greeted you, even more enthusiastically than the receptionist had, if that was even possible. You put on a polite smile, though it was becoming a little unnerving how unnaturally upbeat people seemed to be, even as your boss gave you a tour of the space and introduced you to your coworkers. You brushed it off as them just trying to be welcoming and accommodating to the newcomer.
It should be easy enough to get in the groove of things. After all, it was the same job you had been working previously, just at a new location and with new people. Mr. Burbank cut his over-the-top hand gestures short, patting the edge of a sleek, modern desk. “And this is where you’ll be working! We wanted to make sure you felt right at home, so it’s already been supplied with pens and such. If you need anything, absolutely anything, my door is always open!” With a final, blinding smile, he marched back to his office, leaving you to settle in at your new desk.
You let out a long, quiet breath as you settled into the office chair, surveying the array of supplies that came with the desk. Oddly enough, the mesh organizer was already filled with the exact gel pens you had always sworn by. You hummed, pleased that you wouldn't have to worry about finding your original ones in one of the many unpacked boxes still cluttering Caleb’s home.
“He’s a lot to deal with on a Monday, isn't he?”
A head of soft curls popped over the partition separating your desks. The girl attached to them gave you a sympathetic smile, a knowing glint in her eyes. “I’m Evelyn,” she said, leaning her elbows on the divider. “Don't let Burbank scare you. He’s a big fan of extra espresso shots, if you couldn't tell. You’ll get used to it.”
You laughed genuinely for the first time today as you introduced yourself. “Good to know. I guess I’d rather have a passionate boss over a rude one.”
Evelyn nodded understandingly, eyeing the pens in the mesh holder before shifting back to your face. “No question about that.”
You thought that would be the end of the conversation, but she spoke up again. “Well, as Burbank said, if you need anything, don't be afraid to ask. Honestly, the system is the same as the Linkon branch, so you shouldn't have any trouble.”
Your eyes widened slightly in shock. “How do you know I’m from Linkon?”
“Oh, since you're working next to me, Burbank let me know we were getting a transfer from the sister office,” she answered flawlessly without a hint of hesitation. You accepted her answer, not having any reason to doubt it.
As she said, and as you expected earlier, you had no trouble taking up the work. The time flew, and before you knew it, Evelyn was tapping you on the shoulder to get your attention.
“Since you're new in town, how about getting lunch with me and Pen? You met her at the front desk, right?”
You glanced at the clock, seeing that it was indeed already time to eat. You happily accepted the offer, grabbing your bag from where it was stored under your desk and following Evelyn out to the lobby. “Ready to go, Pen?” Evelyn asked.
“Yeah, just give me a sec,” she answered, her attention wholly on the computer in front of her as she typed something feverishly. The second she finished, she spun in her chair to face the pair of you waiting. “Oh!” she exclaimed, seeing you. “Are you coming, too?”
“If it’s no trouble—” you started, suddenly concerned that you were intruding despite having been invited by one of the parties.
“No, of course not! The more the merrier!” Penny was quick to reassure you.
“So!” Evelyn cut in, clapping her hands. “What about that bistro a few blocks from here? The one with that BLT I really like?” She turned to you. “They have a great lunch menu. You’ll love it, I promise.”
With everyone in agreement, off you went. It was nice to have met such nice women on your first day. The bistro was close enough to walk, and they chatted with you the entire way there, ensuring you were never left out, going so far as to catch you up on the latest office drama.
The bistro was packed with the midday rush, filled with the comforting aroma of garlic, melting cheese, and the chatter of patrons. Luckily, the wait was shorter than you had anticipated, and the three of you were seated in record time.
After giving your drink order to the waiter, Pen leaned towards you, propping her arms on the table. “So, tell us about you. What brought you to Skyhaven?”
Evelyn mirrored Penny’s posture, eagerly wanting to listen to learn more, too.
You looked away sheepishly, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I moved in with my boyfriend. We’ve been dating for two years now, and it just felt like the right time. His job is here, and way more important than mine, so it only made sense for me to move in with him instead of vice versa.”
The girls squealed at your answer.
“That’s so sweet,” Evelyn gushed. “What’s he like? He must be something special to relocate your whole life.”
“Yeah, tell us about him.”
Their excitement was infectious, and you couldn't help but indulge their fun. “His name is Caleb, and yeah, he’s amazing,” you said, your cheeks warming when you recalled him holding you in the kitchen that morning. “He’s incredibly attentive. He takes care of everything before I even think of it.”
“And what does he do for a living? You said his job was way more important, but I don't know. I personally take great pride in what we do,” Evelyn probed.
“He’s a colonel for the fleet,” you answered proudly.
“Oooh, impressive, and it sounds like he really adores you.”
“He does,” you agreed, feeling an intense wave of gratitude wash over you.
Before they could ask any more questions, the waiter returned with your drinks, pulling out a notepad to take the rest of your orders. Once he was gone, you turned the questions around.
“What about you two? Anyone special in your lives?”
Penny shook her head, and Evelyn groaned. “Nothing more than a string of bad first dates. I mean, is it really so hard to find a decent guy, or do I just have bad taste?”
Penny rubbed her back soothingly, but the comfort didn't last. “Maybe a bit of both?” she suggested, grinning wryly.
Evelyn’s jaw dropped as she scoffed. “And what about you, huh? Didn't the last guy you go out with turn out to already have a girlfriend?”
“You promised not to talk about that!”
The duration of lunch was spent in that fashion: discussing each other’s love lives, even if you were the only one with a significant one, hobbies, interests, etc. They were great, truly, and you felt so fortunate that you were able to seamlessly slide into the easy chemistry that the two already had. While waiting for the checks, you pulled your phone out both to check the time and the message thread with your friend from back ho— Linkon, you corrected yourself. Skyhaven was home now.
You sighed, frowning slightly, drawing the attention of the table.
“Something wrong?” Penny asked. Her voice was light, but her posture was remarkably still as she watched you tap frustratedly at the screen.
“Yeah, just…trying to text a friend back in Linkon, but it won’t go through.”
“Oh, don't sweat it,” she said easily, waving a dismissive hand. “Skyhaven tends to eat external signals. Happens to all of us eventually. It’ll clear up!”
“As high-tech as this place is, you'd think the service would be more reliable,” you remarked.
She shrugged. “A little bad service is worth the trade-off, don't you think? Everything you need is right here. Once you're a resident, there's not really a need to look elsewhere. Plus, you've got a handsome colonel waiting for you at home.”
You tilted your head towards her, confused. You hadn't said anything about Caleb’s looks. Maybe she just naturally assumed that since you were his girlfriend, you’d find him attractive. Objectively speaking, he was, but she didn't know that. Her words before that also threw you, sounding like a rehearsed line, like someone trying to talk you into buying something. You almost expected her to pull out a pamphlet of Skyhaven’s highlights. But her bubbly way of speaking made it easy to ignore. You were new to living there full-time, so it could also be that she was just trying to ease any homesickness you may be feeling.
———
“Go on, get out of here,” Evelyn laughed, shooing you away from your desk as the clock finally ticked to five. “Your colonel is probably already waiting.”
You rolled your eyes, but acquiesced, shutting everything off for the day after double-checking that all the files were saved. “Less waiting, and more cooking. He’s making his signature braised chicken to celebrate,” you admitted, mouth already watering as you thought about it.
“You definitely won the lottery,” she said, giving you a playful wink. “Have a good night, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don't wait up on me, I’ve gotta run this-” she held up a stack of papers “-to Burbank.”
The commute back felt entirely different than the one there. This time, instead of being filled with a frantic nervousness for your first day, you were happy and content, excited to tell Caleb all about the two women you had already befriended. And, unlike most of the train rides you had boarded in Skyhaven, this time you weren't a visitor. You were a resident going home. It made your heart flutter in your chest to think about it.
When you walked in, you were immediately enveloped by the savory scent of Caleb’s cooking wafting from the kitchen. The moment the door clicked shut, Caleb was calling out for you. “Pips? You home?”
Before you had even taken your shoes off, he appeared in the doorway. He’d already discarded his uniform, opting instead to don his more comfortable lounge clothes, an apron covering them.
“Hey,” you greeted, dropping your bag onto the entryway table.
Caleb crossed the room in two large strides, catching you by the waist and pulling you flush against his chest. He held you tightly, one of his hands sliding up your back to cup the back of your head. He held you in place like he never wanted to let go. You laughed, wrapping your arms around his trim waist and melting into his familiar warmth.
“How was your day? Did they treat you well?” he asked without breaking the hug.
You pulled back slightly to see his face. “It was great! I met these two really nice ladies named Penny and Evelyn. They even invited me out to lunch with them!”
Caleb smiled tenderly at you, kissing your forehead. “Good. That’s exactly what you deserve. Only the best.”
Dinner was filled with idle chatter about your days, and Caleb’s attention never wavered from you, not even for a moment. When your plates were empty and your stomachs full, you practically had to force Caleb out of the kitchen and into the living room.
“But, Pips, I really don't mind cleaning up. In fact, it should be me,” he protested.
“Nope,” you replied. “You cooked, so I’ll take care of the cleanup.”
“That’s hardly fair. It’s more like I made the mess, and you’re the one cleaning it.”
You only shook your head at him, continuing to usher him out. He eventually relented, but you could see him pouting on the couch where he was waiting. As soon as the last of the kitchen was tidied, you made your way over to Caleb, who pulled you onto his lap before you were able to take the seat next to him. “You're finally here,” he whispered, his lips brushing your jawline as he drifted down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of burning, lingering kisses. “My beautiful girl. No more different cities. No more goodbye trains.”
“No more goodbyes,” you agreed softly, tilting your head back to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his dark hair.
He groaned, a low vibration against your skin, and adjusted his hands to grip your hips, rolling your hips against his. His eyes were dark with an overwhelming, desperate adoration that made you feel like the center of his whole world. When his lips met yours, it was slow, possessive, and all-consuming— a silent vow of complete and utter devotion. Your body was pliant against his as he rose from the couch, your legs wrapping securely around his waist as he carried you to your shared bedroom, all of your worries and anxieties melting away in the security of his strong hold.
Two months dissolved into a golden haze of domestic bliss. Skyhaven had long since stopped feeling like a new city and actually felt like home. Life with Caleb settled into a rhythm that felt almost impossibly perfect. Given the nature of his job, his days were spent dealing with high-stress tasks, yet he was always sure to leave work at work, never taking his issues home where his pretty girl was waiting for him. No matter what his job put him through, he was still your Caleb; still the same man who insisted on you not lifting a finger; still the same man whose only concern was ensuring that you were as cared for as you could be.
He was fiercely, unapologetically attentive, whether it was a coffee thermos waiting for you on the counter on the days he had to leave earlier or rubbing your shoulders when you complained about stiffness after sitting at a desk all day. Contrariwise, you did whatever you could for him. Making sure the formal coat he discarded over the arm of the couch was properly hung up so it wouldn't get wrinkled, offering reassurances whenever he doubted making the wrong decision at work, anything he needed, you were there, as he was for you.
At the office, the initial corporate stiffness evaporated, and Penny and Evelyn became permanent fixtures in your life. Friday nights at a local bar became a ritual. They knew your favorite drinks, celebrated your small successes at work, and constantly reminded you how lucky you were. “Honestly,” Evelyn had mused one night. “A man who looks like that, who holds a rank like that, who treats you like that? You're living a fairy tale most of us can only dream of.”
You believed her. You really did.
The first time the illusion rippled was a Tuesday morning in mid-October. Mr. Burbank had bounded into the room, practically vibrating with his usual high energy, pushing a rolling cart loaded with coffee carafes and several boxes from a nearby bakery.
“Good morning, everyone! Brilliant numbers last week, truly brilliant!” he beamed, clapping his hands together and gesturing towards the spread. “Please, help yourselves. A reward for all your hard work! Keep it up!”
You stood up with Evelyn, moving towards the table to fix a coffee. You were scanning the assortment of pastries when Mr. Burbank stepped up beside you, immediately reaching into one of the boxes with a pair of tongs. He pulled out a muffin with an impeccable streusel topping, placing it onto a paper plate before handing it to you. “There you go! Raspberry-white chocolate!” he said with a jovial nod. “Your favorite, right?”
You froze, the weight of the muffin in your hand taking on a weight it didn't previously have. You stared down at it. It was your favorite, but you hadn't mentioned that to a single soul here. “Oh,” you said, forcing your voice to remain light as you looked up at him. “Yeah, it is. But how did you know that, sir? I don't think I've ever mentioned it.”
He faltered, all gusto melting from his face, a blank expression replacing it. He glanced sharply over your shoulder toward Evelyn, who had stopped pouring her coffee. Then, like flipping a switch, his bright smile returned stronger than before, but was a little tighter around the edges. “I’m certain I’ve heard it somewhere. Maybe it was in your information during onboarding. We’ve always been a very thorough company, you know.” He walked away hurriedly after his rushed explanation, not giving you the chance to question it. Surely no company was that thorough, right?
You were still puzzling over it when Evelyn nudged you with her elbow. “C’mon, get some coffee before it goes if you want some,” she said, pulling your thoughts away from Burbank’s strange behavior.
The unease only deepened that Friday, tucked away in a corner booth with Penny and Evelyn. Your phone sat on the table next to your glass. The screen lit up briefly with a notification: Message to “Jane” failed to send.
You sighed, propping your head up and rubbing one of your temples. “Hey, are you guys still having trouble with external signals? I still haven't been able to get a single call or text to Linkon since moving.”
Penny paused, her cocktail glass just an inch from her lips. Beside you, Evelyn tensed. The easy, girlish chatter vanished, replaced by a thick, suffocating silence.
“Oh, the defense grid has been super high-intensity lately,” Penny said, her bubbly voice sounding forced. “The fleet’s been doing a lot of training exercises.”
“It’s getting really frustrating,” you admitted, swirling the straw in your drink. “I miss my friends and family. I’m thinking of taking a long weekend next month to visit. Just booking a train ticket and staying in Linkon for a few days. It’s been too long since I've seen everyone.”
Penny’s glass hit the table with an abrupt clink.
“Why would you want to go back there?” Evelyn asked. Her tone wasn't that of a friend asking a casual question. It was sharp. Defensive. Accusatory.
You blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. “I just told you. I miss my family and friends. Linkon was my home for my entire life until a few months ago.” You didn't understand why this seemed to be such an issue to them.
“Skyhaven is your home now,” Penny rebutted smoothly, though her eyes were darting rapidly between you and Evelyn. She reached across the table, covering your hand with hers. “And you have us now! Besides, Linkon is way more dangerous. Wouldn't it be better to stay safe up here? Caleb would worry himself sick over you.”
You frowned. “It’s not like I’d be traipsing through the N109. Again, I grew up there. I can navigate the city just fine. Why are you pushing this so hard?”
“It’s just not a good idea,” Evelyn said, her voice dropping into a stern, unyielding tone, like a parent chastising a child. “You're safer here. There's no reason to go back.” They both stared at you, their expressions of manufactured friendliness not quite reaching their eyes. You pulled your hand back from Penny’s, dropping the subject in conversation, but not forgetting it altogether. For the rest of the night, something in you remained unsettled.
“I think I’m going to head home. It’s been a hectic week,” you informed them, checking the time on your phone. “It’s getting late, too.”
“Do you want us to walk you to the station?” Penny asked, already rising from her seat.
“No, no, please. You two stay and enjoy yourselves. Caleb already offered to pick me up whenever I’m ready.”
They nodded understandingly, watching as you pulled up your chat with Caleb, the only one that never seemed to experience a single second of network delay. Ready to head home, you typed, your thumbs flying across the screen. Can you come get me?
He answered immediately. On my way, Pips.
It had barely been five minutes when he texted you again to tell you that he was waiting outside. That’s curious, you thought. It should have taken him at least twenty minutes from home. Nevertheless, you bid the girls goodbye, hurrying out to see Caleb’s sleek, dark car pulled up at the curb. You slid into the passenger seat, placing your bag on the floorboard as you settled in, the scent of Caleb’s cologne enveloping you and offering a familiar comfort you only associated with him.
“Have fun?” he asked as he pulled away, glancing at your outfit from the corner of his eye. God, the things you do to him.
“Yeah, I guess so. You got here really fast. Were you already near?”
Caleb nodded, taking one hand off the wheel to point to the backseat with his thumb, where you saw an assortment of plastic bags. “Yeah, just picking up a few things. Found this soup recipe that I think you’ll love. Saw your text right as I was leaving.”
You hummed, and he continued, stretching his hand across the console to rest a hand against your thigh. “Anyways, you said you guess you had fun? Did something happen? Are you okay?” he inquired worriedly.
You smiled gently at his concern. “I’m fine, Caleb. The girls were just a little strange. I brought up wanting to visit home since I still can't contact anyone. You'd think I'd suggested walking into a warzone.”
Caleb’s thumb, which had been rubbing circles on your skin, stilled. “Oh, yeah? What did they say?”
You let out a long breath, relaying everything that had been said, how intensely opposed they had been. “Am I reading too far into it? It’s like they were trying to prevent me from leaving.”
Caleb kept his dark eyes on the road, jaw clenching. You should never have been made to feel uncomfortable. “They were probably just worried about you, that’s all. It’s not unusual for friends to be concerned.”
You weren't convinced, but said nothing. He continued. “If you really want to go so badly, though, just let me know when so I can make some arrangements. We’ll go together. It’s been too long since I’ve had your mother’s cooking.”
You blinked at him, stunned, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’d really take time off for that? I’m just looking to visit for a few days, and they need you here.”
“If it’s just a few days, then they can survive without me, don't you think? The fleet isn't so fragile as to fall apart over me missing for a few days,” he laughed, enjoying how cute your concern was. “You are my number one priority. Always.”
Your reservations melted away, replaced by the absolute security that Caleb provided. You set your hand on top of his, where it still rested on your thigh, content to let the conversation fall into silence and admire the lights of the passing buildings through the window.
Your side profile was illuminated beautifully, but he could hardly relish the sight as he normally would have, not when you had thrown his thoughts into such disarray. You wanted to leave? Why couldn't you just forget about your old friends? Weren’t the new ones enough? He had finally made his home yours. He loved you. He would do anything for you. Anything except let you go.
The comfort lasted for exactly three days.
On Monday, you found you didn't have much of an appetite and opted to visit a small, local cafe for a small pick-me-up. It was a quaint and homey place, in a quieter section of the city. Caleb had recommended it to you on the very first weekend in Skyhaven, raving about the ham and cheese croissant. You had been there with him several times since, now heavily associating the place with his warm laughter.
Today, you were alone, not wanting to deprive Pen or Evelyn of a decent meal just because you weren't in the mood. The regular barista you usually saw wasn't there, though you guessed that made sense since you were here at an entirely different time of day than usual. Instead, it was a young man with short-cropped hair, looking decidedly bored with everything around him.
“Welcome in,” he greeted. “What can I get for you?”
“A small vanilla latte and an almond croissant, please,” you answered, digging through your purse for your wallet.
“You got it,” he said, already getting to work on the coffee. You waited patiently off to the side, not really paying attention to much around you until your name was called to get your order. You didn't think much of it at first, but then his words hit you like a bucket of ice water. You never gave your name.
You collected your items, but called out to stop him from walking away. “How did you know my name?” you asked, heart racing in your chest. He looked like a deer in the headlights, his bored expression now one of someone who had made a grave mistake. He didn't answer, only apologized that he was busy and didn't have time for idle chatter.
You hurried back to the office, unsure how to tell Caleb you would likely never return to the cafe that had become a favorite casual date spot. You decided to find answers yourself before telling him. The next morning, you left extra early to have time to drop by. The bell above the door chimed as you walked in, and the barista you usually saw was back behind the counter. She glanced over at the door after hearing the bell, her posture going ramrod straight, almost seeming to recognize you.
You approached the counter apprehensively. She flashed you a blinding smile and welcomed you in, her customer service dial turned as far as it could go with her artificially cheery tone. “Hey, I’m looking for the barista who was here yesterday. Short, dark hair? Was on the clock around noon?”
She looked at you, puzzled. “We don't have anyone here that looks like that, I’m sorry. But if you're ready to order, I can certainly help with that!”
“No, he was here yesterday,” you said, bile rising in your throat. Something was so terribly wrong, even if you couldn't quite pinpoint just what it was yet. “He made my drink.”
“I’m sorry, ma'am, but you must be mistaken.” Her smile hadn't wavered once, only changed from the megawatt one that it had been when you first walked in to an apologetic one. “Can I get anything started for you?” She tried again.
You shook your head, leaving without another word. You couldn't shake the distinct feeling that something was off.
The rest of the week passed by quietly, with nothing else out of the ordinary. You went to work, kissed Caleb goodbye, talked to Evelyn and Pen over lunch, went home, and spent your evenings curled up with your boyfriend. By Saturday morning, you had nearly settled back into the mundane comfort of everyday life.
Caleb had been called in for a briefing, and you found yourself needing to work off the restless energy. You figured you might as well be productive and grabbed a broom, determined to have the house spotless by the time Caleb returned. You were sweeping the hallway when you noticed his office door — which was always closed and locked — was cracked open, an unheard of occurrence from the man who had never once forgotten to secure it, the files and paperwork within far too important.
You knew you shouldn't, but you couldn't help yourself. You propped the broom against the wall and pushed the door open, walking in slowly. It was meticulously organized, not so much as a single pen out of place. You stepped closer, reaching out for a manila folder with the fleet’s insignia on it. The first thing that greeted you when you opened it was your own face. You were so startled you nearly dropped the folder altogether.
You scanned the page, finding all the information about you that anyone could ever want to know. All the basic personal details, such as your name and birthday, but beyond that, it also included your blood type, medical history, daily routines, and even a brief list of your favorite things as well as dislikes. Your entire life was printed in front of you in black and white.
Your heart was beating against your ribcage so hard it felt like it was trying to escape. Swallowing thickly, you continued flipping through the document, feeling more and more sick with each one you saw. Though they were far less detailed than yours, there was a file for Evelyn, Penelope, Burbank, and even the mystery barista. All low-ranking members of the fleet. All assigned to you with specific instructions about how to behave around you.
Numb with shock, your eyes drifted to the computer that had been left on, the screen idling. You shook the mouse, and a digital map of Skyhaven was pulled up. At the very center was a pulsating crimson dot hovering over the house. Without confirmation, you already knew exactly who that dot was tracking.
Not knowing what else to do, you put everything back exactly as it was. You backed out of the room, clicking it shut this time. For the next forty-eight hours, you gave the performance of your life. When Caleb came home, you kissed him as usual. You cooked dinner. You talked about each other’s days. You curled into his side and let him stroke your hair when it was time to sleep. You just had to make it to Monday, when you both returned to work. Then, you would have your window to run.
When Monday came, you slid from your desk, not bothering to answer Evelyn’s questioning look. You ignored Penny’s calls to you as well; your mind made up that you had to get to the train station as soon as possible. You’d barely made it to the end of the block when you rounded a corner and ran directly into what felt like a wall. Before you’d even looked up, you knew you’d have to lie through your teeth. You recognized that uniform.
Glancing up, you were met with Caleb's purple eyes staring down at you, his brows furrowed. “Where are you going in such a rush?” he asked, concern dripping from his words. “Do you feel sick? Need to go home? You seem a little flushed.” He raised his free hand to your forehead, checking your temperature.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were on duty today,” you asked, wondering just how he had gotten there so fast.
He held up one of his hands, drawing your attention to a take-out bag from one of your go-to spots. “I thought we could have lunch together,” he said sheepishly. “But if you’re not well, you’re probably not very hungry either.”
You nodded, once again resigned to pretending everything was normal.
“Let’s go home,” he said softly, taking your hand in his and leading the way. The workday wasn't even over, and you obviously weren't able to leave quite yet, but you couldn't bring yourself to care about any repercussions. Given that your boss was stationed by the fleet, there likely wouldn't be any repercussions at all.
Caleb didn't act any differently than normal, fussing over your well-being and insisting you get some rest as soon as you were back home. He was no fool. He knew you’d finally realized, yet he clung to the illusion that he had so carefully curated. He desperately didn't want you to be afraid of him.
He stayed by your side until you fell asleep, and he was gone when you woke. You wasted no time throwing a duffel bag together, your hands shaking as they violently zipped the bag shut. It was harder to walk out the door than you thought it was. Your heart was bleeding for what could have been, for what should have been. You stood in the kitchen, looking around the space, memories coming to you unbidden. Caleb at the stove, an apron the only thing covering his chest; the first morning after moving in, when he hugged you from behind; the living room that had hosted countless movie nights. Was all of that fake, too?
Your vision was becoming blurry with tears that you wiped as soon as they fell. The hardest part of it all was that a part of you still wanted to stay. To pretend your relationship was as perfect as you always thought. You still loved him. Loved the man who prepped your coffee in the morning, the man who rubbed the tension from your shoulders after a long day, the man you thought you’d marry someday.
You steeled your heart to the best of your ability, pushing down both memories and your heartbreak. Making sure to leave your phone on the counter so that the incriminating red dot would remain in the house, you walked out the door.
———
The train station was winding down for the night with just a few stragglers left. You approached the ticket window, pushing your civilian ID through the slot. “One way to Linkon, please. The next available train.”
The ticket seller, an older man with tired eyes, slid your card through the electronic reader. For a second, the system chimed normally. Then, a sharp ring cut through the glass. The screen in front of the man flashed bright red. You watched the color drain from his face, his posture going rigid as he stared at the alert on his monitor. He looked at you, his eyes wide. “I’m…I’m sorry, ma'am, but the lower tracks are under maintenance. There won't be any more trains for the night.”
“What?” your voice pitched higher, a cold panic exploding in your chest. “What about tomorrow?”
The man shrugged helplessly. “The system is locked. I can't help you, I'm sorry. If it’s urgent, you can come by first thing in the morning to check.”
You backed away from the window, your mind racing. What now?
You couldn't call anyone from home, you couldn't call your “friends” here, and you couldn't leave the island. Surely local law enforcement still had some integrity. That singular thought is what kept your legs moving all the way to a local station, pushing open the heavy doors. The lobby was sterile, smelling of industrial cleaner.
Behind the security desk sat a low-ranking Fleet officer. His posture was relaxed until he looked up and caught sight of you, breathless and trembling.
“Miss, are you alright?” He stood up immediately, concerned.
“The trains are down,” you choked out. “And my phone stopped working. Please, I need to get to Linkon. Is there any other way?”
The officer blinked, taking in your frantic state. A flash of genuine pity crossed his features. “Calm down, miss. The Coelum Express is experiencing a temporary failure. I’m sure it’ll be back up in no time. But if it’s imperative that you get there, I’ll see what can be done.” He gestured to the empty lobby. “Why don't you take a seat?”
You nodded slowly, gratefully sinking into the hard plastic chair, your knee bouncing up and down with nervous energy. Through the glass partition, you watched him sit back down, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
You let out a breath you felt like you had been holding for hours. Someone was really helping you.
At the desk, the officer pulled up a transportation request form. “Miss?” he called out across the quiet lobby, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “I need your full name to complete the request.” You gave it, your voice much softer now that your heart rate was finally returning to baseline. “Thank you. Just one moment, please,” he replied warmly, typing in the letters and hitting enter.
You didn't see what happened next. You were looking down at your hands, completely unaware of how the color drained from the officer’s face as he read the warning that flashed across the screen.
WARNING: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. ASSET UNDER CUSTODIAL JURISDICTION OF COLONEL XIA.
The officer’s fingers froze over the keys, reading the warning over and over, specifically the name that had ice flowing through his veins. The officer couldn't bring himself to look at you, so much more than the stranded civilian he had believed you to be. He pitied you. He really did. But it was out of his hands, now.
Forcing his voice to remain flat and neutral, he kept his eyes focused solely on the screen. “Alright, miss, I just need a supervisor’s approval, and then you’ll be all set.”
“Thank you,” you murmured gratefully, offering a small, fragile smile of relief. You watched him disappear into the back offices, entirely oblivious that the officers were already phoning the colonel.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. You were starting to worry that something was wrong when you heard the door to the station open again. You glanced over, expecting to see another citizen or perhaps another officer of the station. Instead, what greeted you was the intimidating figure of the very man you had worked so hard to get away from.
He was still in full uniform, cap and all, looking every bit the colonel everyone else saw, and for once, you did too, rather than your boyfriend. It lasted only a moment, his eyes softening with such profound relief when he saw you, and he was back to looking like your Caleb.
He walked towards you, offering a hand for you to take. You felt something break inside you, looking over to the desk to see the officer had returned, his head tilted down in a display of shame. There was nowhere for you to go. There was nothing you could do. With no other options, you slid your hand into his. You stood, and he cupped your face, directing you to look up at him. “I was so worried about you, Pips,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. You didn't reply, trying to reconcile that you’d never go back to the way things were before. “Let’s go home, yeah?” he said softly, looking at you like a pet that had wandered a little too far from home.
Before leaving, Caleb turned to the officer. “Thank you for your vigilance, Adjutant.”
He didn't speak on the ride home, and neither did you. In fact, you didn't even move, like prey hoping to avoid a predator’s notice. Not that it mattered when you were already in the passenger seat of his car.
It wasn't until the front door shut behind the pair of you and the lock clicked into place that he finally spoke, placing his cap on the entryway table.
“Why did you leave, Pips? Don't I make you happy?” he asked, his voice cracking with agonizing sorrow. You remained silent, choking back sobs. You tried to walk around him, keeping your head down, but he caught your arm. “No. Don't do that. You can't just walk away from me,” he pleaded. “I’ve done everything to make you happy. To keep you safe. I thought we were happy.”
“Why?” was the only thing you could muster, tears welling up in your eyes and strangling your voice.
Caleb seemed caught off guard, but didn't hesitate to answer as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because I love you.”
“This isn't love, Caleb, this is a lie,” you sobbed, grabbing onto his wrists. “I don't understand. How did you even—” you couldn't finish, your legs giving way under you. Caleb went down with you, pulling you into his chest as you cried, stroking your hair the way he always did.
“Having you here is what keeps me here, and the Fleet wouldn’t replace me easily. But they didn't understand that you are my priority.” He pulled back just enough to look at your tear-stained face, his eyes dark with all-consuming devotion. “I was worried about you moving here. What if you didn't adjust well? What if you got homesick? It was distracting. In a world where you were protected and happy, I wouldn't have to worry so much. It was all for you.”
You buried your face back into his chest, your body wracked with sobs. The crushing weight of his confession paralyzed you. And the absolute sickening tragedy of it all was that you still loved him. You didn't want to leave him, to give up the happiness you had with him. You were entirely horrified by the lengths he had gone to and the scale of his deception, but more than his lies, you were trapped by the depth of your own feelings for him. You couldn't stop loving him, even if it meant choosing your own captivity.
Sensing your compliance, Caleb let out a sigh of relief. He scooped you into his arms and carried you to the bedroom, laying you gently on the mattress and crawling in beside you, his arm over your waist, holding you tightly against him.
“Everything will be okay. I promise,” he whispered into the quiet of the room. “You just have to stay with me.” He paused, pressing a kiss into your hairline. “I love you. So much.”
Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself to relax into his hold, your heart clenching in your chest. “I love you, too,” you admitted. And you did. You really, truly did.
contains: dry humping & some domesticity. that's it that's all ^.^
wc: 1.9K (idk how i did that)
i did proofread, but yk... ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜
so easy to fall in love ♡
“saturday? yeah, i got it. well, tell auntie that we’ll try our best to be there, but i can’t make any promises.”
your eyebrows furrow and your lips morph into a curious pout as you zone in on the tail end of your boyfriend’s phone call. the movie you had been streaming immediately became unimportant with the brief mention of his family claiming your full attention instead.
likely referring to another impromptu get-together that they’re clearly asking for you both to attend, you were itching to learn the details of it over the plot of a film you admittedly had little interest in before you even pressed play. the fact that the volume hadn’t made it past ten should’ve been enough to emphasize its insignificance.
“doesn’t matter to me, but i’ll ask her and see what she thinks.” valko exhales with a hum of approval in acknowledgment to whatever else his cousin was relaying, leaning back and tilting his head so that his temple can rest comfortably against your knee. with the warmth of him against you and the soft caress of his fingers along and around your ankle, little moments like these made you cherish having a man so mindlessly affectionate.
to call your boyfriend clingy was an understatement, but it was something about him that you’d never trade for anything in the world. the moment you welcomed him into your life with open arms and kissed him sweetly when he confidently asked you with the silliest smile to be his girl forever, you knew what kind of relationship it was bound to be.
to this day, it didn’t matter if he had important phone calls, intricate things to study up on, or confidential documents to overlook and analyze. one thing for certain was that he would always do any and all of it wherever you were if he could.
ten minutes go by before he’s finally sitting up and removing the earbuds from his ears and the whole headset from around his neck. whatever work he had been click-clacking away at for the last two hours after taking a shower and having dinner was disregarded when he shuts the screen of his laptop and turned to look up at you holding the cute wolf plushie he’d won for you a couple months back.
“everything okay?” you ask him softly as he faces you completely, reaching out to gently rake your fingernails through the soft and now fully dried hair right behind his ear.
getting to watch that handsome face of his fall completely relaxed and content was truly a sacred experience. his immediate submission is something you frequently tease him for when compared to his cocky demeanor, but you both knew you’d never hear the end of it should you stop for any reason.
“yeah, it’s all good. random brunch for the third time this month over the weekend. you up for it? by all means, say no if you prefer to just chill with the love of your life or whatever.”
“you and your family are just too cute. once again, i’m reminded where you get all that audacity from.”
valko grins at the giggle you can’t contain, continuing to explore the softness of your skin as you both doted on the other silently. settling between your legs while he sits on the floor was on the top of his list of his preferred kind of intimacy. “but you know i’m down if you are. i go where you go. i mean duhhh, that’s how we always move. like a pack, right?”
he leans deeper into your touch, eyes nearly falling shut completely from the euphoria he gets out of the way you love on him with one of the things he classifies as a guilty pleasure. truthfully, he wasn’t secretive about such an obsession at all, but what was known didn’t always need to be said out loud. unless used against him, of course.
“didn’t even give you any info on it yet and you’re already so eager to follow me like a good little pup, huh?”
“oh, i’m the eager one?” the protest ready to fall from his lips is first expressed in the pinch of his brows when your hand slips away from the stimulation being given to one of his favorite spots. his expressions had the tendency to give away any thoughts before he could say a word. it’s why he always says you read him better than any book he’s ever laid his eyes on.
“what the fuc—”
“watch it,” you warn playfully. whatever was to be said is swallowed down when the pads of your fingertips begin tracing the defined outline of his jawline before resting on the underside of his chin. “so quick to start with me. aren’t you supposed to be my good boy?”
valko takes your lighthearted taunting as a challenge, grasping you by the wrist and bringing it up to his nose to inhale your addictive scent and the faint aroma of your perfume.
“aren’t i always?”
“you have your moments. i’ve gotta say though, obedience looks super sexy on you.”
“hm. i bet it does.” his grin brings out the subtle dimples in his cheeks. “is it my turn to make a move now?”
he’s pulling you off the couch and on top of him before you’re capable of offering a response to his vague request. the two of you are caught in a laughing fit all the way down until his back hits the plush rug and you’re settled in his lap.
the chuckles are interrupted when you feel his not-so-little friend prodding at you for some kind of attention.
“oh, you perv.”
“perv? that’s not a nice thing to say to the man of your dreams, now is it?” he’s slipping his hands beneath your shorts as his palms slide up the outside of your thighs. “i just consider this instinctual. others would say natural. can’t blame me for what i can’t control.”
the heaviness of his hardening cock pressing into you from below had a steadily increasing heartbeat thumping in your panties. from the soft look he sports with his glasses, the oversized red sweater you got him last christmas, and the dark gray sweats doing nothing to conceal what you were quickly becoming unashamedly desperate for, no way were you getting off of him without some kind of relief.
valko watches you closely as you raise said sweater to sit below his chin, revealing the big, strong, and sculpted body that you’ve fallen helplessly head over heels for. he was hard where you were soft, and it was opposites like that that made you fit so well.
“would you look at that. and i’m the one being labeled a pervert. baby, i think we’re mixing things up.”
“can’t i admire my boyfriend? isn’t this natural?”
it’s almost like his eyes shine when you use his own words against him.
“‘course you can. in fact, you better. but…” he sniffs up at the air four times, a smug grin taking over his lips. “i’m sensing that admiration isn’t the only thing you’ve got planned in that big head of head of yours.”
“fuck off,” you laugh, pinching his nose. “and don’t act so tough.”
with one slow upward motion of your hips, the thickness pulsing against you seems to swell even bigger than before. his teeth tuck his bottom lip into his mouth from the sensation and his hold on your hips deepens, nails biting deliciously at your flesh. “admiration isn’t enough for you anyways.”
your lips fall to his quickly, tongues battling for a dominance you know he’d fight tooth and nail to be the one to conquer. but he throughly enjoys a biting prey and it’s why he loves you.
his hands are sliding out the fabric of your sleepwear to find purchase on other parts of your body the more heated your sensual exchange becomes. as he licks at the roof of your mouth and tries his hardest to devour you whole, you’re embraced by his large hands grabbing at you like the greedy beast he’s proud to be.
it’s when he makes his way back to your hips that you both know this wouldn’t last long. and when he starts to frantically guide you to grind against him faster, holding you down to feel him through the few layers of clothes that’s causing separation, instinctively you knew that it was in your best interest to prepare yourself for the more he was going to give soon after this.
“you’re not… hah—wearing underwear…” you breathe against his mouth glistening with your shared saliva. you’re quick to take off his glasses from the growing frustration of them getting in your way of being closer, discarding them towards the plush cushions with fingers crossed for a safe landing.
“aren’t you smart.” the teasing inflection in his tone and the deepness of his voice has your cunt throbbing to the point of growing uncomfortable.
your clit continues to ache the more you move with him, nipples grazing underneath your top and begging to be sucked into his mouth.
“sit up,” he says breathlessly with another sloppy kiss to your partially swollen lips.
he keeps you moving on his cock as you rise, lustful gaze focused on the way your shorts ride up your thighs and cling to your pussy from how taut he’s got them pulled to increase the friction. the outline of his dick moving against it back and forth, trying its best to nestle in between—the visual alone has him bucking up and trying to make that a reality.
valko’s hands slide up the sides of your torso and his thumbs delicately play with your peaked nipples beneath your t-shirt.
“val,” you whine, resting your hand on his chest to keep you steady as you try your hardest to not lose your shit from the sensitivity taking over everywhere. “w-want it inside. want it so bad…”
“you open that pretty mouth for everything else.” he flicks them this time to make you tense and for tears to damn near overfill both your waterlines. “should’ve just said how much you wanted to be fucked way sooner, pup. saves us so much time.”
but you can’t wait for that now, not when you’re so close. the lone idea of stopping was aggravating enough.
your head falls back from the insatiable manner in which you chase your high, using his body to the highest degree to help get you there.
“you smell so sweet,” he coos through a husky moan. “mm. you’ll let me taste it later? it’s not good to be stingy.”
“right t-there,” you mewl, pressing your lips together before your vision practically blurs and and has you seeing dots. your orgasm is cataclysmic, and valko keeps your momentum going despite the clear overstimulation you’re experiencing. hearing you sing for him like this and watching you fall apart was worth your little hits of retaliation later.
he’s not far behind you either, thick spurts of sticky cum making a complete mess in his pants soon after you cave and quickly seeps through the material to add to the wet spot in between your legs.
both of you sit breathless with the sound of your forgotten movie still playing and being the only thing to fill the silence.
“you can taste it if i can taste you, too.”
“a deal?” he raises an eyebrow as if he’s open to negations. “other than the obvious, what’s really in it for me?”
of course he never misses an opportunity to play coy.
“keep making me feel good…” your thumb swipes along his bottom lip. “and maybe you’ll find out. or are you too scared?”
you sure were bold to offer up another challenge like this. and he could show you better than he could promise that this time, he wouldn’t go easy.
a/n: ofc i haaaddd to write about that picture. i’m so obsessed with it. like i was genuinely imagining this…. i almost felt it—AND, i know we can’t really tell if he’s ooc or not but if you think he’s ooc… DON’T TELL ME!!!!!!! valko baby, you’re ALIVE over here. they can’t take you from me. i hope you enjoyed, my cuties. MWAH MWAH!!!
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synopsis: after getting pricked by a porcupine, valko is sentenced to the cone of shame for 7 days. the vet has one additional instruction: avoid skin-to-skin contact with you.
slowly, he descends into depravity.
tags: fluff, smut, comfort, established relationship, porn with plot, sexual tension, porcupine, valko goes to the vet, poorly researched veterinary procedure, valko implied to have previously been sprayed by a skunk, this dog eats chocolate, plot gets progressively hornier, clingy valko, switch valko, begging, facesitting, cunnilingus, face riding, cum eating, doggy position, spit kink, scent kink, licking, light predator prey, light wrestling, floor sex, male masturbation, voyeurism, biting, manhandling, unprotected penetrative sex, knotting, at least i tried knotting im not too involved with that so i dont know for certain, shirt sniffing, pillow sniffing, these are out of order, poorly proofread
pairing: valko x fem reader
word count: 5.4k
a/n: may you forever frolic in that big forest in the sky 🕊️
“Koko! Where are you? We’re going to be late!”
Your gut swirls with worry as you check your phone again. It’s been over an hour—is he still not back from his run?
Any longer, and your reserved seats for the newest horror movie would be stolen for sure. Not that you think he’d mind, though—he usually curled up into you before the second act even started.
Peering around the backyard, you scan the dense, verdant woods in all directions. He’d never dedicated himself to any particular trail, which meant that he could return from anywhere.
It also meant that he could be anywhere right now.
Fighting a losing battle with unease, you slide your phone into your back pocket and take a few timid steps toward the forest. No matter where he was, he’d come running if you got into trouble. You knew that for certain. How many times had he jumped defensively in front of you only for a bunny or a bird to be the perceived threat? Still, the unpredictability of nature gives you pause.
Just as you inch forward a few more steps, there’s a rustle at the treeline.
You can hear that Valko's hurt before you can see it. Those breathy, frustrated whines—you’d recognize them anywhere. But where is he? How is he injured?
A wall of green stares back at you, refusing to answer.
You’re jogging toward the trees now, throwing caution to the wind as you follow the sounds of his pain. Just before you cross into the forest, you finally spot your boyfriend’s massive figure, his wine red hair being the giveaway. He’s facing a pine tree, tail stiff and laid low, touching his head and wincing repeatedly.
As he registers your scent and whips around to face you, you understand why: at least 15 black-tipped, spindly death daggers sprout from his cheeks and nose.
“Valko?” You cover your mouth in shock, and he stumbles closer, falling forward against you.
“Hurts,” he grunts.
Like always, you struggle to support his large body. Even more so now that one wrong move could further impale him. “What happened?”
“Porcupines are supposed to be nocturnal,” he says, voice grim and shaky. “This one wasn’t.”
If you had an extra hand, you’d drag it down your forehead right now.
Skunks, raccoons, exceptionally angry squirrels—those had all happened before. A porcupine, though? That was new. Almost impressive.
“You just get into all sorts of trouble, don’t you.” Taking a step back, you brace your hands on his chest to examine him. “Let me have a look at you.”
The quills look like toothpicks dipped in black ink. And while a few of them seem to have barely penetrated his skin, the majority mark the porcupine’s decisive victory.
“Can you take them out?” he asks, staring down at you pleadingly. “If we hurry, we can still make the movie on time. I know I’m super late. I’m sorry.”
Twenty of nature’s finest knives in his face, and he’s worried about the movies?
“You obviously had a reason,” you murmur, cupping his less-affected left cheek in your hand. “I don’t know if I should, Koko. The tomato bath was one thing, but this… If I do it wrong, I’ll just make it worse.”
His response is simple: “I trust you.”
Cute. But not what you need right now.
Blowing out a breath, you stand up on your tiptoes and reach for one of the looser quills. Your fingers barely brush the tip of it when renewed anxiety shoots through you. “No, no. I can’t! I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You couldn’t if you tried.” He snorts, then winces at the pain.
“Tell that to the porcupine.” You narrow your eyes. “I think it missed the memo.”
His ears swivel in acknowledgment. He’s 0–2 in battles today.
“All right, change of plans,” you announce, clapping your hands and turning on your heel. “We can go to the movies another day. Right now, we need to go to the vet.”
“It’s not that serious,” he protests. “I’d do it myself if I just had a mirror. Let’s go back to the house, and—”
“I’ll get the car ready.” Your word is final.
His ears droop atop his head.
Ultimately, you had to ease him into the passenger’s seat so he didn’t accidentally nudge any of the quills. You debated just shoving him into the trunk so he’d have extra room, but figured extraction would be a difficult task in the clinic’s often-packed parking lot.
In the waiting room, you try to shield him as best you can from quizzical looks and a particularly curious cat, but he’s without a doubt the largest patient in the room. Likewise, once he’s called to the back, his sheer size makes the exam room furniture look like dollhouse accessories. The central table is nearly the length of his tail alone, and it creaks under his every movement. But you stand dutifully at his side, making sure he’s as comfortable as can be, given the circumstances.
The vet’s entrance is prompt as always—part of the reason why Valko prefers this clinic. The other is the giant fish tank in the waiting room that he gets to busy himself with. Today, he was in too much pain, but he typically holds intense staring contests with its oblivious inhabitants, bragging to you whenever he “wins.”
“Well, I typically ask, ‘What seems to be the problem?’,” Dr. Song jokes as she shakes both of your hands. “But today, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Sighing, Valko scratches at his jeans. “I went out for a run, and I heard something grunting in a bush nearby. I thought it might’ve been a lost pup, so I went to check it out. Anyone would, right?” He looks to you for support.
Smiling softly, you rub a hand down his back. “Right.” Not in most circumstances, no!
Nodding gratefully, he continues. “As soon as I crouched down and saw it, it whipped its tail at me. Next thing I knew, it had stabbed me a million times.”
“Well.” Dr. Song sighs and pulls out a pair of tweezers. “You’re not the worst case I’ve seen. Sometimes, it’s the whole face—and neck.” She waves her hand forward, and Valko scoots toward her on the table. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
You take a step back to give her some space, but she quickly shakes her head. “Oh no, you stay standing next to him. I might need you to hold him down.”
──────
Right when you wonder if Valko’s death grip will shatter every bone in your hand, Dr. Song holds up the final quill in triumph. “That’s nineteen quills total. Looks like Mr. Porcupine let you off easy.”
Valko kicks the air in desolation. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
“It will when you wake up tomorrow and you don’t have to wonder, ‘How did it even get my nostrils?’,” she retorts, heading to the door. “Now, let me just get your treatment, and you’ll be free to go.”
The second she steps into the hall, Valko turns to you and whimpers. “It hurts.”
Frowning in sympathy, you run your free hand through his hair. “How bad?”
“Really.”
You start to shush him and scratch the backs of his ears how he likes, but approaching footsteps force him to regain his composure. Still, when Dr. Song re-enters the room, he holds your hand a little tighter.
“All right,” she begins. “I’m going to disinfect and put ointment on the wounds, and…” She pulls out a familiar, conical object from behind her back.
Valko freezes as soon as he sees it. Your own mouth parts in shock.
Is that…?
No way.
“...to keep them from getting infected, either through scratching or contamination, I recommend you wear this recovery cone for a week. Just to be safe.”
When she waves the transparent cone through the air, Valko sputters in consternation. “You want to put me in jail?”
“Of course not. You’ve done nothing wrong. But to prevent further irritation, it’s best that for the next seven days, you only remove this from your neck when absolutely necessary. Also, you should avoid certain skin-to-skin activities that may aggravate the entry spots.”
You understand her implication, but Valko’s tail thrashes in unease. “What…what kind of activities?”
The doctor smiles down at him. “The usual. Scenting, kissing, anything further than that. Now! Raise your head for me so I can clean the punctures.”
Before he does, Valko gives you a look that needs no decoding: I think I’m gonna be sick.
Day 1
Your keys clatter on the kitchen counter as Valko trails inside behind you.
Knowing he’ll be glum about his current confinement, you try to get ahead of it, hoping you can offset the bad with so much good, he’ll forget about being in plastic prison.
“So, is there anything you want to do this evening? Watch a drama, make double chocolate chip cookies, play a video game? I could order in from your favorite steakhouse if you want. Or we could go for a walk?”
Despite your efforts, his lips stay curved downward. His ears barely twitch at the mention of his favorite things.
“Okay, what about—”
“I look dumb,” he mumbles suddenly, blinking at you through the cone. It surrounds his head like petals to a flower, stopping just above his nose. He looks like an upright bullhorn, or perhaps a frilled lizard, but you can’t tell him that.
“You look safe,” you say instead. “That’s what matters, yeah?”
“Not when I look dumb, too.” With a huff, he reaches behind his head, eager to free himself of Conecatraz. But before he can undo the clasp, you’re crossing your arms and tapping your foot, giving him a withering glare.
“You know you aren’t supposed to touch that. Put your hands down.”
“Make me.”
Oh, really? That’s how it is?
Scoffing, you cock your head at him, and the first signs of regret appear on his face. “‘Make’ you, huh? Should I call the vet and tell her what you’re up to? I’m sure she has advice for patients who break the rules. Like, maybe if you mess with your cone too much and stunt your healing progress, you’ll just have to wear it even longer to make up for it?” You start to turn, ready to stalk toward the house phone.
“No, wait!” Lurching forward, he tries to bend down to snuggle you in apology—a favorite habit of his. But you sidestep him quickly, clicking your tongue in admonishment.
As he loses his balance, he gives you a look of ultimate betrayal.
“Don’t pout at me. I'm doing this for you, okay? You heard the doctor. Where your face is concerned, skin-to-skin contact is off limits for now.”
As if he didn't hear you, he ducks toward you again, desperate to marry his cone to your shoulder. This time, you give his arm a healthy pinch, and he yelps in shock.
“No, Koko. It's for your own good.”
Frustration grows on his face, beginning to claw at your heart, too. He’s never had to limit contact with you like this. Even when you first met, he was stuck to you like a magnet.
Sighing, you try to bring him some comfort. “Here. Get on your knees.”
He follows the order without further prompting, sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor. Even like this, he’s still half your height.
“Come here.” Reaching through the cone’s opening, you pet the top of his head, running your fingers through his soft strands with care. When he leans into your touch, you trace his ears with light strokes and smile when he shudders. Gradually, the deep frown on his face shrinks to a mild line of displeasure.
He wraps his strong arms around your thighs in a stubborn thank-you, and you can't help but coo down at him. “You’re my big, strong wolf, aren’t you? It’ll be over before you know it. You can handle this, no problem.”
Day 3
Valko could not handle it, and there were many problems.
In fact, while he was bored out of his mind the night of Day 2, he pried open his laptop and drafted a list of complaints.
Eating has become an unpleasant experience. While he’s permitted to remove the cone at mealtimes, he must eat in a separate room so your scent doesn’t lure his unprotected self over. Worse, you will not enter the room until he’s refastened the cone around his neck. The humiliation of having to cone himself solely to win your presence is quickly becoming too much to bear.
You won’t let him go on errands with you, lest he get into something he shouldn't and aggravate his wounds. This makes him incredibly restless—especially when you come home smelling like other people and things, and there’s nothing he can do about it. This causes significant anxiety and emotional distress.
He usually sleeps with his tail curled around you and his face shoved deep into your skin. This earns him a constant stream of your scent. However, a wall of pillows now separates your sides of the bed. Even worse, he is not permitted to remove the cone for the night. This causes discomfort and loss of familiarity, which undermines the restorative purpose of sleep. He will be sending you any medical bills that arise due to his sleep deprivation.
Last, but perhaps most important: the cone obstructs his view of you, which he depends on for energy throughout the day. (You’re quick to deem this one questionable, because the cone is fully see through???)
A document of his grievances was taped to your blanket, just over your heart, this morning.
Clearly, he had a lot on his mind.
Now, you lie on the sofa watching TV, trying to cuddle with him as best you can. Your fingers are intertwined, and he’s sprawled awkwardly across your lap, face up and eyes begging. You try to ignore the incessant nonverbal pleading, rubbing circles into his skin with your thumb.
Sometimes, he turns his head into your belly—or maybe a little lower—and inhales as deeply as he can through the plastic. When you gasp and swat at him, suddenly scandalized, he only huffs and grumbles, bringing you closer. “Just let me have this.”
As the sun dips in the sky, he almost relaxes. He grows captivated by the nature show you’re watching, ears going into overdrive from all the birdsongs and animal calls. It’s the calmest he’s been in the last three days, you think—until the “woodland creatures” portion of the show begins.
His mortal enemy lies in wait within.
“It’s not as big as the one that did this to me,” he growls at the porcupine stumbling around on the screen. “He was a monster.”
“I’m sure he was,” you answer automatically. You’re used to this by now. “How else could he have taken you down?”
Valko grunts in agreement, then pauses the TV. “Can we do something else now?”
“Okay.” You squint at him warily. “Something like what?”
Slowly, as if you won’t be able to see him, he trails his hand down your side, gently squeezing at your hip.
“No,” you sigh, firmly returning his hand to him.
Tuning out his protests, you unpause the show. At that moment, a closeup of the porcupine’s snout fills the screen.
“Can you at least change the channel, then?” he mumbles.
Day 5
Since you’ve known him, Valko has never been one to give up. Driven and scrupulous, he approaches life with an outlook that’s both endearing and exhausting: if not now, maybe later.
It’s no surprise, then, when his attempts to hold and claim you like normal escalate to new heights.
One time, you catch him in the midst of the most primal desperation.
It’s not even noon yet, but here he is: laid out nude in the middle of your bed, head propped on his set of pillows while he clutches one of yours to his cone. With his instincts compromised and your scent already flooding his nose, he can’t yet tell that you’ve entered the room. And boy. If you thought he was shameless in public, Valko in private is a whole different animal.
His hand is all but glued to the heavy bulk between his legs, pumping and twisting like he’ll die if he doesn’t.
His thumb circles his tip as he works his rhythm, abs flexing with each ragged breath. Every soft, broken moan of your name is an axe to your resolve.
Before you do something you’ll regret, you try to back out of the bedroom and leave. But as soon as one foot is out the door, your shoulder hits the wall with a quiet thump.
You freeze instantly, your heart dropping to your feet.
There’s no point in hoping he didn’t hear. To Valko, no sound is ever quiet.
He jerks his head toward you immediately, steady pumps getting wilder the moment your eyes meet. “Fuck,” he pants, writhing desperately on the sheets. His massive thighs tremble with every movement, sending tiny shocks of heat to your core. “Fuck.”
“Valk—”
“Please help me. Please, it hurts so bad. I need you so bad, please, it’s been days.”
You bite your lip so hard, you think you’ll draw blood. “You know I can’t.”
“I don’t care what the vet said,” he growls, fist finally coming to a stop. “I care about you.”
Clinging to resolve, you cross your arms and stay put. At that, he closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep through his nose.
“Just— Help me finish, please. You don’t have to touch anywhere near my face. That’s the rule, right?”
As that pleading stare pins you to the spot once more, you bite your lip in consideration. He’s flushed all over, and a thin sheen of sweat coats his whole body. He really does need your help, but can you risk it?
When his mask slips, letting the hungry glint in his eyes shine through, you know you can’t.
“I won’t touch you, Valko. But you can use this.” Swiftly, you tug your shirt over your head and toss it onto the bed. He catches it with ease, and behind the cone, his face contorts in bewilderment.
“Use it?”
“To finish,” you explain, folding your arms across your bra. “It’s the safest way I can help you right now.”
Gazing at you like you’re a deity reborn, he presses the fabric to his cone’s exterior, right outside his nose. As he inhales, a deep, guttural groan escapes him. “Thank you,” he pants. His hand returns to his reddened length, and he redoubles his earlier efforts.
Leaking arousal glistens on his skin, and you can hear how much easier it makes things for him. Covered in his own desire, he slides his hand up and down with no friction, creating lewd, wet sounds that echo through the room.
“Thank you, thank you— Fuck, thank you. I’ve done this like ten times already, and it’s taken me longer every go,” he admits shamelessly. “This is so much better. Not as good as you, but so much better. Thank you.”
He bucks his hips into his giant fist, and for a moment, you fear your shared bed might collapse under his ferocity. Once he starts licking the cone’s wall, as if he’ll be able to taste your shirt through the plastic, you almost want to avert your eyes and leave the two of them alone together.
You don’t have long to ponder it. Soon after, Valko comes quickly with a deep groan of your name, coating his skin in spills of white. As he convulses in pleasure, you approach his bedside to stroke his hair through the cone’s opening—just like you have for the last several days. Valko whines at your touch.
“Shh, baby. It’s okay,” you whisper. “Just two more days, yeah?”
His response is halfway between a growl and a grunt. Chuckling, you bend to kiss his damp, darkened hair. “Just two more days.”
Day 7
At 12 a.m., you wake to an empty bed. “Koko?”
There’s no response to your call. Groaning, you throw off the covers and stretch your tired limbs. Where did he run off to? It’s barely been two hours since you went to bed.
Hugging yourself to keep warm, you pad into the dark hallway. The home gym is clear, and he’s not in the kitchen sneaking chocolate. Where could he be?
It doesn’t take long to find out.
In the living room, Valko stands at the back door, gazing at the moon through the window.
He’s clad only in loose grey sweats. More notably, he’s missing his cone.
The only indication that he knows you’re there is a near imperceptible twitch of his ears. “It’s day seven, did you know that?” he rumbles.
Suddenly nervous, you shift on your feet. “I did.”
“So you also know what I’ve been missing the last seven days.” He turns to face you, eyes stormy and narrowed. “What I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. What I begged you to give me, but you refused. Acted like you were doing me a favor,” he spits out, lips curling into a snarl.
In the moonlight filtering through the window, his amber eyes are a new level of otherworldly. Pale, greyish-white slivers flicker across his chest, making his taut abs seem to ripple in front of you.
After seven days, he looks very, very grumpy.
You get the sense that you’re in trouble.
“Koko,” you start, stepping forward to placate him, “you know that’s not—”
“Don’t ‘Koko’ me,” he snaps. “That’s reserved for people I’m close with.”
Is he serious? “You know I’m closer to you than anyone.”
“Right now? After this week? I’m not so sure. But you will be.” His tail swishes behind him as he takes a menacing step toward you. “Come here,” he growls out.
“We can talk about this, but I’m not going to—”
“Three.”
“Okay, are you seriously threatening me with a countdown?”
“Two.”
“That’s my thing! You know, when you won’t let me get out of bed, or when you bite too hard, or—”
He doesn’t let you get to “one.”
When he bursts forward at superhuman speed, he doesn’t even give you the chance to run.
You’re in his arms in an instant, thrashing wildly as he tries to pull you both to the floor. “You’re heavy as fuck!” you bark at him. “Let me go!”
“No.” He overpowers you easily, lowering you to the carpet and quickly pinning you there. He only takes a moment to revel in your submission—your high squeaks and whimpers and feeble attempts to swat him off. Evidently, he has bigger plans for you.
While you wriggle beneath him, he deftly kicks off his sweats and quickly deals with your clothes. You’re wearing only a nightshirt—his, you notice all too late—and completely vulnerable to his impatience.
He rips a line straight down the middle, clumsily shrugging the worn fabric off you. While you’re too busy gawking to register his actions, he slides down your body, coming to a halt at your traitorously wet heat.
“Usually, at least a little bit of my scent lingers here,” he says, inhaling you deeply. “You’ve lost it after not taking me for so long. But we’ll fix it, won’t we?”
When you don’t respond, his eyes flash up at you. “Won’t we?”
“Y-Yeah,” you whisper, signing away your fate.
“Yeah, we will.” Surging forward, he places an open-mouthed kiss to your entrance, swirling his tongue into you without warning. His ensuing groan could start a national scandal.
“I’m gonna let you go, all right?” He nips your inner thigh. “Don’t try to run from me. I’ll catch you.”
He watches closely as he eases off of you, but there’s no need—you obey.
“Good girl,” he mocks, and you break his gaze with a huff.
Chuckling, he sweeps his hair back and lies down on the carpet, grabbing your arm and dragging you to him. “Sit on me.”
“…What?”
“My face. Sit on it.”
“…What?”
“Oh, I get it. Is this a ‘make me’ kind of thing? Well, if you insis—”
“No!” You hold your hands out in defense, grimacing when he grins at you. “You know we’ve never…done that before.”
He shrugs. “First time for everything. Hop on.”
You stay put, shaking your head with vigor no matter how hard your center pulses. “What if you can’t breathe?”
“Don’t need to.”
“I think you do, but okay.” Playing with your fingers, you search for another excuse. “What if I’m too heavy?”
Valko’s smile slips, and his top lip curls as he looks at you flatly. “Now you’re just insulting me.”
In retrospect, you should’ve known that one wouldn’t get you very far.
“Fine,” you concede shakily. Crawling toward him, you put your hands on either side of his massive body and sit down on him in a straddle. Gingerly, you scoot up, and up, and up, until your hips are right below his chin. His smirk widens all the way.
“Last chance to back out,” you offer helplessly. How would grilled porcupine taste?
“In your dreams.” In an instant, his arm shoots out behind you and guides you forward. You cry out the second your sensitive flesh meets his skin, nearly cursing from the foreign sensation.
For a moment, all he does is breathe you in. Lewd, deep inhales, trying to siphon the scent from your depths. “Missed this,” he murmurs, words slightly muffled. “Missed you. Fuck, you’re so good. You smell so good.”
You’re afraid to look down, but you don’t have to. You can hear his smile.
Instead, you look behind you, seeing that his thick, veiny length is flushed and leaking already. Your gulp echoes in your ears.
A soft press of his lips to your throbbing clit pulls you back to your senses. With another kiss, he positions the bud over his nose and your entrance over his mouth, so he’s sure to catch all your desire.
When he squeezes your hip, you know he’s asking for more. Gently, timidly, you rock against his face to appease him. Valko, though, ever observant when you’re involved, knows you’re withholding your full weight.
And he won’t have it.
Simultaneously, he delivers a sharp slap to your backside and nips your clit in warning. When you squeal out into the cool air, he soothes the sting with a searing lash of his tongue.
“I’m trying!” you cry. “Whenever we do this, I’m always the one on my back! I feel weird.”
Squeezing your hips, he lifts you up just enough to speak. “Tough.”
Then, he plops you right back down, the smack of skin on skin spreading a wildfire across your cheeks.
Eager to explore, he glides his tongue around your core, poking and prodding wherever he likes. When you arch away from the pleasure, too sensitive to stay still, he decides he’s had enough.
His tight grip on your hips is his first act of defiance. But when he starts bouncing you on his face, alternating between his mouth and nose, you’re more than ready to throw in the towel.
“Valko!” you whine. Up and down, down and up. Up and down again and again. How long has he wanted this?
A response would require a pause in his actions, so of course, he doesn’t provide one. Instead, he flattens his tongue against your clit and makes you grind your hips down onto him, like he’s nothing but an extension of you. “Valko!” you repeat, stars quickly clouding your vision.
All he offers is an unburdened grunt, clearly not planning on stopping anytime soon. And why would he, when there’s so much to lap up?
A mix of his saliva and your arousal pools between you, with sound effects previously unheard of filling the room. You’re so wet, at one point, you almost slide down his face to his forehead—but he hauls you back up with a laugh, the vibrations only exacerbating the issue. When you pull at his hair, shy and embarrassed, he merely sucks your clit into his mouth and releases it with a pop.
Captive to his relentless touch, it isn’t long before your muscles contract and release, sending more and more wetness gushing toward his waiting mouth.
Your mind is a haze as he licks you clean, making sure not to waste a single drop. You do register, though, how he inhales once again when he’s finished. “Smells like me again. That’s better.”
Thinking his wrath has exhausted itself, you feel your body deflate like a popped balloon. You’re more than ready to melt into the sheets and sleep off the worst of the aftermath.
“We should seal the deal, though. Just to be sure.”
Valko has other plans.
Before you can blink, he flips you over with force, driving your hands and knees into the carpet. When you yelp, he squeezes your backside in apology, only to slip his fingers down to your open slit. Once he confirms that you’re ready for him, he braces his hands on your hips and slides into you with ease.
Your startled gasp is his grand opportunity. As you cry out his name, he shoves his fingers into your open mouth, making you sputter and swallow around them. With his other hand, he clamps your jaw shut so you’re forced to bite him, your blunt teeth barely a threat against his skin.
All the while, he’s moaning and laughing, hips stuttering from his rapid thrusts. Each time his base slaps your backside, you feel him grow larger and larger, until you’re being speared on something you’re not sure you can take. But as your muscles contract around him once more, squeezing him with all that they have, you don’t think that matters anymore.
In tune with your own release, hot spurts shoot deep into your channel, followed by a searing, swollen pressure you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to. It’s at this point that the last of your strength crumbles. But when you start to slump into the floor, you find you can’t move too far—not without bringing Valko with you.
As you both catch your breath, locked together until the comedown, he slides his hand out of your mouth and slaps your cheek lightly, signaling for you to open your screwed-shut eyes. When you do, he sticks his drool-coated fingers into his own mouth, canines poking into his flesh as he swipes his tongue greedily.
All you can do is whine.
You don’t know when your bodies will loosen up enough for you to separate. All you know is that he’s got you here, right where he wants you, for a long, long, agonizingly long time.
──────
“Are you satisfied?” you deadpan as the beast finally tucks you into bed.
“For now.” You can hear his smirk as he flicks off the lights. Doesn’t make much of a difference, though.
It’s dawn.
“But you can check back with me in an hour. Maybe my answer will be different.”
“In an hour, I will be dead to the world and recovering from you,” you grumble. Suddenly, you purse your lips. “I’m gonna miss that cone, you know.”
Even in the dim morning light, you can see his brows furrow. “What?”
“You looked cute in it. Like a little puppy.” Reaching out, you grab his face and squish his cheeks between your fingers. “So cute.”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his tail thumps the mattress. “Whatever. It did have its benefits, though. Tonight was so good, I wouldn’t mind a repeat.”
“You really think you can do that again? Seven whole days, no contact?”
“‘Course I do. It wasn’t that hard for me.”
Your eyes narrow into slits. “Not even you believe that.”
“Yeah. This was fun, though,” he says through a yawn. “We should do it again sometime. Goodnight.”
As he rolls over and tucks his tail around you, blanketing you in half his body weight, a nagging thought won’t leave your head.
Should you switch vets?
requested tags (you have been warned): @creator-freak, @hughugh20, @saineden, @driedrosesanddaffodils, @pjselee, @strawberrybananamin, @applefishiedragonluvin, @oolong-tea-leaf, @ceceoboro, @simpforsylus3, @akisashtray
[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — it was obvious when this started, it was simply a mutual understanding between two horny college students — with very high libidos, and didn’t want any random stds — that this was purely a sexual relationship only. and yet, both of you are unintentionally toeing the line between that and something else ✦ frat!kuna fwb ✦ ongoing series
[ TAGS ] — MDNI. 18+ only. nsfw. angst. FAMILY DRAMA. a wholeeeeeee lot of plot. fwb. slight degradation. dumbification. sukuna’s thick happy trail. SEXTING. phone sex. dacryphilia. toxic frat culture. sukuna has ANGER issues. crying. toxic co-dependency. TRAUMA. domestic abuse. child abuse. depression. anxiety. wc: 22.6k
series masterlist ✮ previous chp ✮ next chp (coming soon)
the buzzing in sukuna’s ear was deafening.
all the blood in his body felt like it was burning through his skin. anger pounding behind his eyes as they stare at the red hand print on his little brother’s cheek.
the band on stage continues playing, a backdrop of chaos and cheering, all while sukuna stands completely still backstage. his heart pounds against his chest, cracking his ribs with boiling rage. the sweat builds on his face, and he slowly drags a finger towards kaori.
“…did you fucking touch my brother?”
choso, eyes rimmed red and glossy, glances up quickly at the familiar voice. his pupils grow wide at the sight of sukuna, shaking with rage. and already fallen off the edge…actively losing it.
kaori’s eyes widen in shock, her gaze drops to her hand then to her step-son. she swallows thickly. her short black bob lays flat on her head, a black skirt hugs her waist, as the rest flows, reaching her boney ankles. her formal attire stands out in the sea of casually under dressed teenagers and young adults. and none of it can hide the slight wrinkles around her neck, or the unnerving sensation that shoots through sukuna when she meets his gaze.
“choso said you weren’t here—“
she doesn’t get the chance to finish her sentence when sukuna’s suddenly slamming the frail woman into the wall. choso’s eyes widen as sukuna’s frame towers over her with little effort. he ignores how his hand shakes, gripping the collar of her blouse, squeezing. every muscle in his body shifts, tightening his hold on her.
“I asked you a fucking question!” he shouts in her face. unbothered by the sudden looks of people backstage, including ino, who ran into the crowd to call for sukuna when the woman came in.
a few moments earlier….
ino’s standing beside mechamaru, the two watching over choso as he adjusts his guitar for the fourth time that night.
“dude it sounded fine before, now you’re just messing with it,” mechamaru exhales in exasperation.
choso’s brows pinch, “no, this chord is loose.”
“because you keep playing with it.”
“just give me a sec!” choso snaps.
the two boys glance at one another, looking down at their distraught friend. it’s obvious choso’s been on edge since they arrived. but the guy won’t give them a straight answer. instead he keeps fidgeting and messing with his guitar like there’s a fly constantly buzzing in his ear. to make matters worse, ino and mechamaru noticed sukuna coming in with a couple of his friends. last they heard, choso still hasn’t cleared the air with him. is that why he’s on edge?
“got it,” choso finally exhales.
unfortunately, the good news is immediately cut short when choso notices his bandmates looking like they’ve just been shot.
standing behind him is the uncanny woman that looks like a spitting image of their best friend. choso’s heart drops to his ass, and the blood drains from his face in seconds.
“choso.”
the unnerving sound of his name coming from this woman’s lips has a chill running down his spine. his sweat turns cold as he looks up from his seat on the ground, quickly moving to stand up. choso stands at nearly the same height as the tall skinny woma, maybe an inch or so taller.
“mom, how’d you—“
SLAP!
the sound rings so sharp it cuts through the muffled bass bleeding from the stage outside. choso freezes. completely still. his head jerked with the impact, black hair falling into his face as the sting blooms hot across his cheek. for a second, he doesn’t even process what happened. his body locks up as his brain tries to catch up. his eyes are wide and unfocused as he stares somewhere past her shoulder.
ino and mechamaru go dead silent. the two boys stand there like statues, shock written all over their faces as kaori lowers her hand with terrifying calmness. there’s no guilt at all, just that same unreadable expression.
“you lied to me,” she says coldly. the authority in her voice settles instantly, suffocating the space around them.
choso slowly lifts a hand to his cheek, fingertips brushing over the burning skin, still unable to wrap his mind around the fact that she actually hit him. it’s been years— his throat feels tight.
“choso,” she says again, sharper this time. “i’m speaking to you.”
his eyes flick up properly now, confusion and disbelief behind his eyes as he finally looks at her. then instinctively, his gaze darts toward ino and mechamaru.
his jaw clenches.
“can we talk after?” he mutters quickly, voice rougher than normal. “i’m about to go up—”
“no. we’re talking now.”
her fingers wrap around his wrist immediately. it tightens, making choso stiffen as she pulls him toward the farther corner backstage, away from the noise and people passing through, heels clicking.
the second they’re out of earshot, mechamaru’s neck nearly snaps as he whirls toward ino. “why is she here?!” he whisper-shouts.
ino throws his arms up, drumsticks still clutched in one hand. “i don’t know! that was a hard fucking slap too—”
both boys suddenly glance back toward the corner kaori dragged choso to, he’s sitting on a stool as she stands in front of him. and the reality settles ugly in their stomachs. maybe this is exactly why sukuna didn’t want choso around her alone. and neither of them have to voice that realization.
“should we—”
“i don’t want him killing us though—”
“he’ll kill us for sure, but if we call him he probably won’t!” ino cuts in frantically, already moving. “c’mon!”
the two practically trip over themselves rushing out backstage. the second they hit the main crowd, the noise slams into them full force. music shaking the grass, colored lights flashing violently overhead from the strobes attached to the makeshift stage, and bodies shove shoulder-to-shoulder near the elevated stage as another band screams through their set on stage. the battle of the bands was the first huge event kicking off summer break, and the turnout at the rented park is insane and only getting bigger as more people flood in.
finding sukuna in this mess feels impossible.
“i honestly don’t know which way he went!” mechamaru yells over the music, shoving past a group near the bar trucks.
“split up!” ino shouts back immediately. “call me if you find him!”
they separate without another word, because somewhere in this packed park is a six-foot-four soccer captain with face tattoos, a terrifying temper, and enough presence to make grown men shut up when he walks into a room, and right now they need him.
eventually, ino spots a familiar head of pink hair through the sea of people. well….two heads.
an almost identical, much smaller version of the man he’s looking for sits perched on sukuna’s shoulders, glow sticks hanging around yuuji’s neck as the eleven-year-old screams along to the music like he’s completely lost his mind. sukuna isn’t much better, one tattooed arm is hooked around yuuji’s leg while he shouts something toward the stage, feral under the flashing lights.
ino nearly cries in relief, “sukuna!”
he starts shoving through people immediately, bumping shoulders and muttering rushed apologies until he finally reaches the college student. his hand grabs the back of sukuna’s plain black tee.
sukuna whips around instantly, ready to shove whoever grabbed him, then stops. “ino—”
“there’s a small problem!” the drummer’s panting, sweat dripping down his temple from sprinting around the park venue. sukuna’s expression shifts immediately. brows pinching sharply as his stomach drops before ino even finishes speaking. he can see it all over the kid’s face.
“choso’s mom is here.”
everything happens at once. yuuji yelps as sukuna grabs him off his shoulders without warning, shoving the younger boy toward gojo’s side. the white-haired man barely catches him properly before sukuna’s already gripping ino hard by the arm.
“where?”
“backstage—she took him—”
“watch him,” sukuna snaps toward gojo and geto, voice suddenly low cutting through the music.
gojo’s grin vanishes instantly. geto’s brows pinch instantly, that tone isn’t new to them. “for sure,” gojo says immediately.
ino doesn’t hesitate. he spins around and starts forcing his way back through the crowd, sukuna right behind him. except “behind” isn’t even the right word, his shoulder slams into strangers hard enough to make them stumble, dark eyes fixed ahead as the noise around him dulls. his pulse pounds violently in his ears with every step, ino’s words looping over and over in his head.
choso’s mom is here. his jaw clenches so hard it hurts. and somewhere deep in his chest— something ugly starts waking up.
present….
“I asked you a fucking question!”
kaori raises a hand to her step-son’s forearm. lips parting as her eyes dart over his hardened expression, his eyes flashing red, every muscle on his body protruding as sweat beads down his forehead.
“are you deaf?—“ he snaps after she takes too long to respond. his head snaps to choso still sitting on the stool. “she hit you?”
choso stands, head dropping and hand covering his face. his heart pounds against his chest.
“choso—“
choso’s clenches his jaw, blood boiling.
“choso—“
“forget about it!” choso snaps.
sukuna suddenly lets go of kaori, taking the single step to uncover choso’s face. his other hand cups his chin, tilting his face up, and it all hits him at once. the tears building behind his brother’s brown eyes, looking away from the older as he bites down on his teeth, and the bright red hand print on his right cheek.
kaori smooths out the front of her wrinkled blouse, eyes cold as ice.
“choso lied to me,” she says flatly, but not to sukuna, she never talks to him, it’s always at him. “he told me the money was for cram school because he was falling behind in his classes and needed it for his finals.” her lip curls faintly as she gestures toward the backstage area and the unruly screaming crowd beyond the curtains. “then i find out it was for this.”
choso tries pulling away from sukuna’s grip, but sukuna’s frozen, completely still as he stares at the red handprint burning against his little brother’s cheek. the heat builds u see his skin, sweat collecting behind his neck.
“spending time with you has rubbed off on him, something I did not want to know.”
that finally makes sukuna’s eyes snap upward, sharp and furious as his gaze cuts to choso instead of her. “how would she know to give you that money?” he asks quietly, that tone is worse than yelling.
choso visibly shrinks, shoulders tightening as he avoids eye contact. “she asked to meet with me,” he mutters, uncomfortable. “and asked if i needed anything.”
sukuna’s jaw flexes hard enough to hurt. “so when I asked you, it was before that?” choso looks away. and that’s all he needs. sukuna’s head whips toward kaori so fast it nearly startles ino beside them. “I’m getting a fucking restraining order on your fucking ass.”
kaori scoffs immediately. “we both know that’s not an option.” she crosses her arms now, anger bleeding through her composed expression. “i’m more concerned about my son going around asking people for money over some ridiculous band competition while struggling in school—”
“choso isn’t struggling with shit!” sukuna barks. “he’s a fucking genius. that’s how he scammed your psycho ass in the first place.”
people nearby are definitely staring now. a few phones are raised before mechamaru immediately starts hissing at people to stop recording while ino frantically waves others back. choso looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.
“are you seriously praising him for lying?” kaori demands.
“to you? fuck yeah.” sukuna steps closer. towering. violent rage practically radiating off him. “actually, i’m disappointed he didn’t ask for more money.”
“ryo—” choso starts weakly, oozing with embarrassment.
“that’s what you get for going behind my back,” sukuna cuts over him, eyes locked onto kaori. “throw all the money you want at him. choso isn’t going anywhere near you.”
“choso,” kaori says again softly, completely ignoring sukuna, that sets him off. choso’s face twists, confusion and guilt and stress all mixing together as he looks between them. “you know i’m just disappointed in your actions,” kaori tells him, voice suddenly gentler in a terrifying way that makes sukuna see red. “you can tell me if you’re having trouble asking your grandfather for things.”
the faux sweetness hits choso like another slap. sukuna sees the hesitation and confusion immediately. choso’s chest tightens, and suddenly sukuna’s moving again.
“stop fucking talking to him like that,” he snarls, voice low and shaking with fury. “jus’ ‘cause he answered your texts doesn’t mean you can suddenly care about him.”
“ry—” choso tries, voice tight.
sukuna doesn’t even hear him.
“you’re outta your fucking mind if you think giving him money is gonna win him over.” sukuna spits at kaori.
“i was helping my son,” kaori fires back immediately.
“your son?” sukuna laughs harshly. “now he’s your son?”
“ryo,” choso says again, louder this time, but sukuna’s blood is roaring too loudly in his ears to listen.
“i didn’t forget the way you fucking treated them,” sukuna steps closer. “some mother leaving bruises on her fucking kid, making him all jumpy. not after the shit you did with me—“
“i said stop!”
the shout cuts through backstage so sharply that even the people shouting over the music nearby go quiet for half a second. sukuna freezes. choso’s chest heaves. his face is bright red now from humiliation and anger. his eyes are glossy with held back tears that only seem to piss him off more.
“I don’t give a shit!” he snaps, voice cracking despite how hard he’s trying to keep it steady.
kaori’s expression shifts quick. “choso—”
“no—” he jerks away before she can touch him again, stumbling closer to sukuna, instinctively. “don’t— don’t touch me.” his breathing is uneven. ino and mechamaru exchange nervous looks from a few feet away. “I don’t fucking care about anything other than playing tonight—that’s it!” choso gestures wildly.
sukuna’s jaw clenches.
“i can handle my own shit,” choso continues, breathing shakily now, attention now on his older brother. “ya don’t have to make a big deal outta something when I didn’t ask for it!”
sukuna’s eyes darken immediately. “the hell you mean by that?”
“i mean i’m not yuuji!” choso explodes. “you don’t have to hover over me every second like i’m two!” a thick ugly silence follows, even choso goes quiet after saying it, but he doesn’t take it back. instead he glances briefly at his older brother, than at his mother, his jaw tightens. “i’ll pay you back the money by the end of summer,” choso snaps, eyes burning now. “so you can be disappointed at me, somewhere else.”
the words hit hard, then choso walks away, angry. truly angry.
sukuna watches his younger brother shove past the backstage clutter, shoulders stiff and fists clenched at his sides and for a split second, the resemblance is almost nauseating. not in appearance — sukuna’s always known choso looked too much like her — but in their temperament. the rage settling ugly beneath his skin until it explodes. sukuna never really noticed how much of himself choso inherited. but kaori notices it immediately, especially when her expression flickers.
choso reaches ino and mechamaru, both immediately crowding him with questions.
“dude are you okay?”
“what the hell was that?”
“did she seriously—”
“i’m fine,” choso cuts sharply. the three fall quiet, choso’s fingers tighten around the neck of his guitar before he looks toward the stage entrance where the current band is finishing up.
“we’re up next,” he says, jaw locked. “and we’re gonna fucking win this.”
ino blinks, then quickly grins. “HELL YEAH,” he shouts, shaking choso’s shoulders.
mechamaru nods quickly beside him, still nervous, but determined all the same. and just like that, the three disappear further backstage toward the stage call area, leaving sukuna alone with kaori.
sukuna’s sharp eyes cut through her, there was no holding back now that choso was gone. his hand snaps back onto her blouse, fingers curling in the fabric until it bunches tight and strains under his grip. he yanks her forward, lifting her just enough that her heels barely touch the ground.
“i’m going to fucking kill you,” he spits. his voice is low, and shaking with controlled rage. it was worse than shouting. “I’ll rip your arm straight out of your body if you—” his grip tightens again, the words weren’t enough to contain what he meant. “—ever lay a finger on him.”
kaori’s breath catches. she’s on her tippy toes now, frozen, sweat gathering at her temple, and for the first time, something in her cracks. this wasn’t another intimidation tactic or performance. it was a real threat from sukuna.
he leans in closer, voice dropping even further, every word precise, already imagining how it would happen. “i won’t even give you a chance to breathe,” his eyes are deep crimson blood, “if you touch them again… i’ll rip you in half before you even know what’s happening.”
and with that, sukuna lets go of kaori, and she stumbles back a step, catching herself with a sharp inhale.
“keep threatening me,” kaori spits, chin lifting even as her voice wavers at the edges. “I don’t take childish boys seriously—“
something in sukuna snaps again. “i’m gonna fucking kill you, you cunt—”
he steps forward, already closing the distance with terrifying quickiness— and then an arm locks around his chest and yanks him backward.
“what the fuck?!” sukuna twists immediately, muscles tensing as he fights the grip, but it holds him steady, pulling him off his line like he weighs nothing. he doesn’t even need to see the face at first, he just knows from the strength alone.
toji.
sukuna digs his heels in, shoulders straining as he tries to wrench free. “get off me,” he snaps, still fighting forward, still locked on kaori like she’s the only thing in the room. but toji doesn’t budge. he just drags him back another step, grounding him with pure force, cutting through the athletes strength with some struggle.
“get a fucking grip!” toji snaps in his ear. he uses every muscle in his body to knock sukuna off his weight again and drag him further away.
sukuna digs his fingers into toji’s forearms, but it’s too late when he’s pushed back to the exit, joining the crowd cheering the current band.
“fuck!” sukuna shouts, receiving a hard shove from toji until he’s completely knocked back. the rage had boiled way over, that toji standing in front of him, just as pissed, then he’s gripping sukuna’s collar, bringing him to his face, fist raised.
“are you fucking seventeen again!” he shouts, the music and chaos around them made everything much calmer than what was actually happening. “I’ll knock your teeth out if you don’t calm down!”
sukuna still struggles—
PUNCH
the hit directly lands on sukuna’s eye, sending him back, but toji keeps him up. fist curling tighter. “you wanna fuck everything for your brothers? do you!”
“you fucking bitch,” sukuna spits on toji, just to receive another punch directly in his solar plexes, almost knocking the wind straight out of him.
his breath catches, a few people nearby step away in surprise. the ocean crashes in the distance. toji still grips his shoulder. sukuna is hunched over, catching his breath, back rising and falling like a beast ready to attack. but instead, sukuna aggressively shrugs toji’s hand away.
“I’m going to fucking kill her,” he repeats under his breath.
toji rubs his face, chest heaving with his own rage.
“woah! what happened!” yuuji shouts over the music, eyes wide as sukuna finds them in the crowd again, toji not far behind.
gojo, geto, megumi, and now nanami, all glance up, all stunned at the bruise slowly forming around sukuna’s eye. sukuna looks furious still, not explosive like before, but still pissed. the anger settling deep. his chest still rises hard under each breath, jaw locked tight enough to crack teeth.
toji walks a few steps behind him, equally pissed, rubbing at his own face.
“jesus christ,” gojo says first, brows lifting. “did you get jumped?”
“shut the fuck up,” sukuna mutters instantly.
his voice comes rougher than usual, and he wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand standing back beside his brother.
yuuji stares up at him wide-eyed. “did someone hit you?!”
sukuna finally looks at him then. his expression doesn’t soften much, but something in his eyes shifts slightly at the sight of his little brother hovering there, worried out of his mind.
“i’m fine,” sukuna says shortly.
yuuji clearly doesn’t buy it. “your eye’s all swollen.”
“and?” sukuna shoots back, dismissive, though the edge in his tone dulls just a little. “still standing.”
toji scoffs behind him. “barely.”
sukuna cuts him a glare sharp enough to kill. for a second, it looks like sukuna might start yelling again, but then he just exhales hard through his nose and leans his head back instead. the ocean crashes somewhere behind them. music shaking the ground beneath their feet.
geto studies the tension between the two men carefully. “what the hell happened?”
“nothing,” sukuna says immediately. yuuji still lingers beside him, nervous energy practically radiating off him, and sukuna notices immediately.“quit staring at me,” he mutters, finally shoving lightly at yuuji’s shoulder. “i said i’m fine.”
yuuji doesn’t even get the chance to respond before sukuna suddenly grabs him by the waist and lifts him back onto his shoulders like nothing happened. except everyone notices the slight wince that flashes across sukuna’s face. his hand brushes his stomach for half a second, fingers pressing there instinctively before he adjusts yuuji’s legs over his shoulders again.
toji notices immediately. his jaw tightens.
“choso is up,” sukuna says instead, voice flat, already looking back toward the stage through the crowd.
yuuji steadies himself, hands gripping the top of sukuna’s head as he tries to lean down to see his brothers bruised eye. “are you sure you’re okay?”
“you ask too many questions,” sukuna mutters. but he keeps one hand locked around yuuji’s calf anyway, secure and steady despite the bruise forming around his eye and the ache spreading through his ribs.
gojo watches the whole thing with raised brows. “wow. tough guy for real.”
“say another word and i’ll knock your teeth out.”
“there he is,” geto sighs. nanami shakes his head slightly, though the corner of his mouth twitches for barely a second. behind them, toji exhales through his nose, still irritated, but at least sukuna has settled for the time being.
everyone’s attention shifts fully to the stage as choso’s band gets called up. megumi sits on toji’s shoulders, arms loosely resting over his dad’s head as the whole group drifts closer to the center front where the crowd thickens. lights flare across the stage, as the anticipation of the next band rolls through the audience. yuuji immediately lights up the second he spots choso stepping into place.
“CHOSOOOO!!!” he screams at the top of his lungs, bouncing on sukuna’s shoulders. sukuna tightens his grip instinctively, keeping him steady. the motion pulls at his bruised ribs again, but he doesn’t show it beyond a slight tightening of his jaw.
“THAT’S MY BROTHER!”
sukuna exhales through his nose, eyes fixed on the stage. choso stands under the lights now, adjusting his position at the mic, shoulders rolling back shaking off everything that happened earlier. the crowd noise builds around him, voices overlapping, everyone cheering.
gojo cups his hands around his mouth. “YOU GUYS GOT THIS!!”
on stage, choso finally looks up, and for a split second, his eyes find the group in the crowd.
yuuji waves wildly like his life depends on it. “you got this choooo!!!!”
sukuna doesn’t wave, but he holds eye contact with choso for a moment longer than anyone else, steady and sharp. the bruise on his face not visible under the shifting lights.
choso inhales sharply, shaking off the rest of his anxiety. sweat building from the nerves and heat. and then they start.
the first hit of ino’s drums sends the entire crowd shouting with excitement…
sukuna’s chest tightens. the uneasiness weighs on his shoulders as a dark pit quietly stirs awake inside him. though his focus remains ahead, eyes locked on his brother performing their first set, there’s that lingering anger that he hasn’t felt in a long time.
not since he was seventeen, standing by the intersection, red and blue lights flashing across his face, and his dad’s car jammed slightly beneath the truck, completely crushed.
“shit—that’s your dad’s car?” kashimo repeats, as if saying it again will snap sukuna back.
but he’s already moving. his feet stumble off the sidewalk before his mind catches up, shoving straight into the street. his skull is split open by the sirens screaming loudly. ambulances and police cars clogging the street. the headlights blur his vision, only seeing the wreck straight ahead.
“SUKUNA—!” kashimo pushes after him, nearly slipping as he forces his way through the growing crowd. officers notice immediately when the two teenagers duck beneath the tape.
“hey! kid—!” an officer grabs for sukuna’s arm.
sukuna violently shoves him off. “THAT’S MY DAD —!”
his voice sounds unfamiliar to him as it tears straight out of his throat, making the officer stumble back just enough for sukuna to break free and start running the second he sees paramedics dragging someone out from the passenger side.
his stomach drops.
the familiar body is pulled out, and all he sees is his father covered in deep red blood.
blood coats his face, runs down his neck, soaks through the front of his shirt. glass sticks to his skin. bruises already spread dark beneath the flashing lights while firefighters shout over each other around the wreck. controlling the truck from starting a fire. sukuna drops beside his dad so fast it scrapes the skin clean off his knees.
“shit—shit, shit, shit—” his hands shake violently as he looks at all the blood.
one of the paramedics tries pulling him back. “kid, you need to move—”
“dad?” sukuna grabs onto jin’s arm anyway, panic rising so violently inside him it feels like he’ll throw up. “dad, what the fuck—? WHAT THE FUCK?!”
his voice cracks at the end, eyes wide as jin tries to respond but only wheezing comes out. blood covers one of his eyes as he struggles to open them properly. every breath sounds wet and broken.
“r-ry—” his fingers twitch upward weakly, trying to reach him.
and suddenly sukuna can’t fucking breathe, the anger explodes through his chest making him dizzy. “YOU SHOULD’VE STAYED WITH ME!” sukuna shouts, tears burning hot behind his eyes. “WHY DID YOU GO AFTER HER?!”
jin barely seems aware of the wreck around him, or the paramedics putting a mask on him, or the blood soaking through his clothes. instead, his entire focus stays on his eldest son kneeling beside him with bloodshot eyes, and an anger he can’t seem to ease.
“ryo…” he wheezes painfully. “men…” his hand finally reaches sukuna’s hand, smearing blood across his skin.
behind them, paramedics pull another person from the opposite side of the car, alive and walking. kaori stumbles against the police cruiser, hysterical, mascara running down her face. her eyes are bloodshot and unfocused.
“ma’am,” an officer says sharply, catching her arm before she falls again. “have you been drinking tonight?”
another officer immediately steps in beside him after smelling it. kaori starts crying harder, words slurring together into panicked nonsense.
sukuna looks up. then something inside him twists… his father is laying in front of him and she’s standing.
“you fucking bitch,” sukuna spits, shoving himself to his feet so fast his knees nearly give out beneath him. jin’s bloodied hand slips from his sleeve, still reaching after him weakly.
“ryomen…”
but sukuna already storms forward. an officer immediately moves between him and kaori. “hey—hey! back up!”
“get the fuck out of my way!” sukuna barks, trying to shove past him again, completely losing it.
kaori sits against the side of the ambulance now while a paramedic presses gauze against the cut on her forehead. another wraps a blanket around her shoulders despite the smell of alcohol practically soaking the air around her. she looks up just in time to see sukuna lunging toward her and for the first time that night, genuine fear crosses her face.
“you did this!” sukuna screams.
two officers grab him before he reaches her. sukuna fights violently in their grip, rage tearing through him he can barely see anything besides red.
“HE WENT AFTER YOU!” he shouts. “HE FUCKING WENT AFTER YOU!”
“kid, calm down—”
“DON’T TELL ME TO CALM THE FUCK DOWN!”
behind him, paramedics suddenly start shouting near jin’s stretcher. one of them yells for another medic, and starts pushing sukuna’s father faster toward the ambulance.
what followed turned into a blur that sukuna’s mind never fully managed to piece together afterward. his body moved before his mind did. one second officers held him back, paramedics shouting around him, and the next he climbed into the ambulance beside his father while someone yelled that he couldn’t ride along unless he stayed seated.
sukuna didn’t even remember agreeing, he just remembered the inside of the ambulance feeling freezing cold, remembered the medic cutting jin’s shirt open, and remembered the blood. so much blood.
sukuna sat there with blood covering both hands, staring while they worked on his father right in front of him. jin barely stayed conscious the entire ride. every now and then his eyes opened halfway, searching weakly until they landed on sukuna again. like he needed to make sure he was still there. and every single time, sukuna felt something twist apart inside his chest.
then the hospital lights replaced the sirens. people moved around him constantly, nurses, doctors, officers asking questions—but sukuna stayed hunched over in the waiting room chair with his elbows on his knees and his father’s blood smeared across his hands. he stared at the floor so long he lost track of everything.
the automatic doors eventually opened again. heavy footsteps quickly coming towards him. toji. and then his gramps following close behind him.
“ryomen,” toji says immediately, breath uneven like he rushed there as fast as possible. “what happened?”
sukuna doesn’t answer. he just sits there, shoulders tense, brows pinched tight while his fingers curl harder against his palms. staring at the blood in the creases of his hands. then he mutters. quietly. low. “she killed him.”
toji’s expression shifts instantly. “what?”
“she killed him,” sukuna repeats, harsher this time, the words scraping out of his throat. “she killed him.”
sukuna barely notices the two men hovering around him. he keeps staring at the blood on his hands instead. his scraped knees. his football uniform still on.
sukuna genuinely can’t tell how many hours or minutes pass. the hospital waiting room grows quieter as the night drags on. his grandfather quietly rests his head back, while toji paces near the windows like he might punch straight through the glass. and then finally, the doors open again, a doctor walks out. everyone freezes immediately. and sukuna doesn’t need to hear the words, before the doctor even speaks.
he’s dead.
and it’s her fault.
the hard yank on his hair snaps sukuna straight back into the present. music crashes through the field while people scream their heads off around them. yuuji sitting on top of sukuna’s shoulders has one hand gripping sukuna’s phone while the other fully tugs on his brothers hair to keep balance.
“GRAMPS DO YOU SEE HIM?!” yuuji screams into the phone loud enough to blow out the speaker.
gramps voice crackles back immediately. “you keep shaking the damn phone!” the camera angle violently jerks around. all yuuji can see is the top half of the old man’s forehead shoved way too close to the screen. “stay still!”
“OHHHHHHHHH!!!!” yuuji completely loses his mind the second choso steps up to the mic again.
the entire field erupts with him.
ino’s drums shake through the speakers while the guitars kick in harder, the stage lights flashing over choso and his band as they absolutely light up the crowd. even nanami cups his hands around his mouth to yell, whatever dignity he usually carries cracking under the sheer energy of the performance. gojo screams something incomprehensible beside him. geto laughs while shoving him. megumi claps from toji’s shoulders with far more enthusiasm than he’d ever show on a regular day.
and somehow yuuji’s excitement finally drags sukuna with it. the tension in his chest loosens for the first time all night as yuuji bursts into louder cheering.
the two brothers start yelling toward the stage together, voices getting swallowed by the music and chaos around them while choso stands under the lights. and sukuna’s resolve hits him that very moment too.
he’s not letting these two out of his sight.
the celebrations, surprisingly, continued through the night until all the performers were done.
sukuna and the boys watched in the audience as all the bands crowded onto the stage and the promoters stood in the middle with a list and began announcing the six bands that will be proceeding to the semi-finals in two weeks.
“DEATH PAINTINGS DEATH PAINTINGS DEATH PAINTING!” yuuji starts the cheers, sitting back on sukuna’s shoulders. the rest quickly join, and as the four bands are announced, the chanting grows louder. the crowd joining, a universal want for choso’s band, death paintings, to be one of the semi-finalists.
“and the final band to make it into the semi finals is….” the host waits for the anticipation to simmer, but it’s not realized with how unbelievably loud the chanting has gotten for different bands, but the loudest being for— “DEATH PAINTINGS!!”
—
the culmination of celebration among the group extends to choso. him and his two friends are on cloud nine after the announcement, riding the adrenaline. somehow, choso manages to push everything else aside that almost swallowed the entire night.
people keep stopping him before he can even take three steps, congratulating the band, asking questions, slapping him on the back. toji leaves before everyone else, megumi staying behind with the group as security pushes the crowd out of the venue field and toward the beach nearby. bonfires burn in the distance and music continues from portable speakers.
everyone was distracted, except sukuna. his decision settled during the performance and by the time they return home, well after midnight, the house felt exhausted. choso’s friends immediately crash his room. megumi sleeping in yuuji’s room without complaint. doors shut, voices fading until silence settles over the house.
sukuna sits alone at the kitchen table. the only light comes from his laptop screen.
the black envelope sits beside it. opened.
a thick paper rests beneath his hand as he reads the letter again for what must be the hundredth time. an invitation. the one he’s waited to receive again for the past five years.
a la liga club. three weeks training with one of the best clubs in the world. three weeks that could change his entire future. the letter might as well weigh a hundred pounds. for weeks, sukuna pushed away replying, even when everyone brought it up. he had more pressing things at the front of his mind….
his eyes drift toward the hallway where his brothers sleep. a few months ago the answer would’ve been simple. obvious, even…but since kaori, everything’s changed.
his jaw tightens as his fingers move across the keyboard.
Dear Recruitment Team,
Thank you for extending the invitation. I am honored by the opportunity and would like to formally accept.
But before finalizing travel arrangements, I would like to discuss one logistical matter. I am the primary caretaker of my two younger brothers and am responsible for their supervision and wellbeing during the summer. As a result, I will not be able to travel without them and would like to ask whether accommodations can be made for my brothers to accompany me during the three-week training period. Their presence would not interfere with my participation in training or any club obligations.
his eyes narrow, reading over the email. he isn’t asking, he already knows what he’s doing. if the club says yes, yuuji and choso are coming. end of discussion. if they don’t…then. his fingers flex, veins straining.
both outcomes will result in consequences. the first is choso, but after today, he doesn’t care if choso throws a fit, or if he gets called controlling or insane. he isn’t leaving them behind after tonight and remembering exactly how fast everything can disappear.
his fingers resume moving.
I understand this is an unusual request, but I wanted to address it before confirming. If necessary, I would be happy to discuss the situation further and provide any information you may need.
Thank you again for this opportunity. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Ryomen Sukuna Itadori
sukuna leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. for a moment, the silent churning deep in his chest twists… the lingering feeling that’s been pushed returning. a familiar one that’s ruled his life for years. bad things happen whether you’re ready or not. people leave whether you hold onto them or not. life keeps moving whether you’re scared of it or not. and if that’s true—
his gaze drops back to the laptop. the cursor hovers over the send button. the house remains completely silent. inside their rooms, his brothers sleep peacefully, completely unaware that their summer plans are about to change.
SEND
the email vanishes.
for several seconds he simply stares at the screen. then he reaches over, grabs the black envelope, and crushes it in his fist. three weeks in spain. suck it up.
—
the following two weeks went by with a breeze. aside from two separate incidents in two completely different places. one unraveled in the itadori household a few days after the battle of the bands tournament, and the second was in a certain hospital staircase that same day.
your jaw tenses. shoko quietly stands beside you, your hands tucked behind your backs. a resident stands across from you while an attending stands front and center. the staircase feels too small and you already know this isn’t about a patient, glancing at shoko beside you.
the attending, your father, removes his glasses, folding them in his hand. “you know why we’re having this conversation?”
you shift your weight, shoko glances at you. heat crawls up from the back of your neck. you finally respond with a small shrug. the resident cringes, your father doesn’t. “you asked shoko to ask a resident physician to prescribe medication to you.”
you swallow thickly biting your cheek. shoko opens her mouth, but your dad holds a hand up.
“I’ll give you a chance. I’m asking her to answer first.” you can feel his eyes on you, waiting for you to meet his gaze. which you do.
“i asked a question,” you clear your throat. “I was asking shoko to ask for me.”
“you put them in an inappropriate position,” he cuts, silencing you in seconds.
your chest tightens, heat spreading to your face now. the embarrassment sits heavy on your chest now. you see shoko try to raise her hand beside you again.
“can I—“ the attending finally turns his head to shoko. “we were just talking.” she clears her throat, “we both didn’t know what the policy was on—“
“the policy is your supervisors can’t prescribe you medication,” he snaps.
shoko nods, glancing at the resident, who’s supervising this summer’s undergrad students, including her and you. “yeah, I was told.”
you scratch your wrist awkwardly, “I didn’t mean to put anyone in an…inappropriate position.” you wet your lip, pushing the coil crawling up your throat. “it won’t happen again.”
he processes your apology. his eyes flick to the resident and shoko, dismissing them. shoko glances at you as she follows the resident out, the staircase door shutting behind her. the silence grows louder with just the two of you. you inhale sharply, your head falling back, hands covering your face.
“dad—“
“do you need a new prescription?”
“no,” you cut, hands shielding you from his gaze.
“then why did you ask? have you spoken to your doctor about this?”
“I’m not—“ you stop, taking a deep breath. “I don’t need another prescription. and I told you already I’ve been talking to my doctor. I was just asking a question— I was just stressed.”
“why? you’ve done all this before,” he cuts, brows furrowed, and arms crossed in confusion.
“I’m stressed about other stuff,” you exhale, hands falling, face still burning from the humiliation earlier.
“what other stuff?” he pushes. genuinely confused about what you could be worrying about. “you don’t have classes or exams. you know everything. if you have any questions you can ask me—“
“yeah, I’m worried about other stuff, like generally,” you huff, rubbing your face. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“you’re not taking any medication now?” he changes the subject back, brushing off your concerns to push his own out, “jennie told me you weren’t when she visited.”
your teeth clench, rubbing your eye, “yeah, I don’t need it anymore. I haven’t had them since finals.”
his eyes narrow, you can see the concern pinching his brows. “I don’t have a problem if you still need to take them. you know that—“
“yeah, but I don’t need them,” your stomach curls tighter, especially when he glances over you like…like you’re causing him more stress. it’s confusing, you know tjat. saying you don’t need any more medication, but then asking a resident a question about whether they can give you some for stress. it doesn’t make sense, and at this point you’re getting frustrated with yourself. “it’s not a big deal. next time I just won’t ask anyone anything,” you mutter.
“we’re having a conversation, so don’t do that,” he shakes his head in disappointment. the pit in your stomach growing at the sight. “I want to understand why you asked.”
you stomach churns, “it’s fine.”
the silence stretches between you, then you finally decide to leave.
“you should go home,” he steps to block the door.
you barely blink, the comment rolling off your back as you hum. “great.”
your father exhales through his nose. “i’m serious.”
“i know.”
“you don’t sound like you know.”
your jaw tightens, ignoring the passive aggressive tone. “can i go now?” you ask.
he stares at you for another second before stepping aside. the staircase door swings open and you leave. your shoes slap against the floor as you move through the hallway. nurses pass, residents pass, families pass, and it all irritates you. you don’t even realize how fast you’re walking until another set of footsteps catches up beside you.
“hey.” you don’t look over. shoko keeps a quick pace beside you anyway. “hey.”
“what?” you stop.
the word comes out harsher than intended. shoko is unfazed, “i’m sorry.”
you glance at her. the two of you standing by the lockerroom. “for what?”
“for telling the resident.”
“yeah well you didn’t tell on me.”
“still.”
you put the code in before entering the locker room, shoko follows. “still what? i asked a question and apparently that’s illegal.”
“that’s not what i mean,” shoko sits on the bench as you take your backpack out.
you sigh, “i know what you meant.” you start changing. “it’s just annoying that I was scolded like that and I didn’t even wanna do this stupid ass program in the first place. no offense,” you start rambling. “but seriously, how many times does this make it—like the fifth freaking time I get yelled at in front of these residents and I haven’t even done anything that crazy. asking a question?! god forbid!” you throw your hands up in sarcastic defense. you scoff at the situation rolling your eyes.
“this whole thing is just a humiliation ritual of being a fucking doormat, and having every single person around me be the biggest ops ever—not you,” you put your shirt on, pulling your jeans up right after. “let’s bet how much shit I’m gonna get if I just mention to jennie how annoyed I am,” you roll your eyes, knowing exactly what she’ll say. “if yOU doN’t LiKe it sO mUCh jusT qUiT,” you mimic her voice.
shoko, who has been quietly listening, stifles her own laugh. “why do you let her get under your skin?”
you deadpan. “she is the only person that can ragebait me until i wanna tear my hair out,” you’re basically clawing at your skin. “can’t even complain about anything anymore,” you mutter more to yourself. “whatever.”
shoko gives you a sympathetic look.
“call me when you finish, I’ll come pick you up,” you conclude, waiting for shoko’s hum before leaving.
and just a few miles away, another incident was unfolding in the itadori garage.
“what?” choso’s voice cuts through the room. “you’re lying.”
“you don’t want a free vacation?”
“it’s not a free anything! i’m not going to spain! the tournament—”
“yeah, the finals are the day before our flight, still lying—”
“i’m not lying! when we win we’re gonna be meeting with producers and stuff—”
“and stuff,” sukuna laughs. “you can zoom in.”
“that’s not the same thing!”
“sounds the same.”
“it literally isn’t!”
the garage erupts. the old fan rattles uselessly in the corner, guitar cables snake across the floor and choso stands in the middle, face red with frustration while sukuna lounges against the workbench like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all week.
“i’m not missing opportunities because you’re going to spain!” choso shouts.
sukuna shrugs, “good thing i’m not asking.”
“you can’t do that!”
“watch me.”
“ryomen!”
“choso!”
the younger teen looks seconds away from committing a felony, his jaw tightens, anger bubbling dangerously, “you’re possessively controlling.”
“shocker,” sukuna replies lowly, checking his phone after it buzzes.
“you can’t just drag people across the world!”
“sure i can.”
“i’m sixteen!”
“exactly.”
choso makes a strangled noise just as the garage door suddenly slides open.
“hey, i brought—” ino freezes, a pizza box hangs from one hand. his eyes dart between the brothers. “…oh.”
“tell him he’s insane!” choso shouts, voice cracking and pointing at the tattooed brother lounged in the corner on his phone.
“tell him i’m right,” sukuna says at the same time with less effort as his younger brother.
ino slowly starts backing out. “nope.”
choso’s jaw clenches, “ino.”
ino shakes his head more, “no.”
“ino,” choso’s words strain.
“naaahhhh man.” the teen points at both of them, pizza box fumbling. “last time i got involved in your family drama i got interrogated by psycho satan.” he means sukuna.
“that’s dramatic,” sukuna snorts.
“you threatened me,” ino huffs.
“that’s different,” sukuna casually scratches his large tatted bicep, with an added shrug.
ino frowns, “how is that different?!”
suluna shrugs, while the younger teen throws his hands in the air, choso’s black hair is messy and pushed out of his face from how much he’s run his hands through it. “he accepted the offer!”
“what offer?” ino asks.
“the spain one,” choso frowns, and sukuna eyes dart up, not realizing how many people knew about this offer. ino blinks, lips parting and eyes lighting up.
“…spain spain?”
“yes, spain spain,” choso snaps.
“like beaches?”
“yes.”
“europe?”
“yes!”
“yoooooo,” ino is smiling wide now, stepping further into the garage. “that’s so cool!”
“dude—“ choso snaps.
ino cringes, but the smile doesn’t go away, “sorry, but like DAAAAANG, remember a couple years ago, we talked about it—duuude,” ino’s attention shifts to sukuna, smiling wide. “congrats!!”
“what—stop glazing him!” choso interrupts, and ino holds back his tongue, conflicted.
“cool but like yeah, no, that’s actually insane, why does choso needa go with you? not cool,” ino falls in line.
choso relaxes just a bit, “thank you.”
“but also…” ino hesitates, and choso’s eyes narrows immediately.
“don’t.”
ino puts the pizza on the table, shrugging, “i’m just saying—”
“ino.”
“i mean…spain is kinda sick,” he plays devils advocate. and sukuna barks out a laugh.
“ino!” choso looks ready to throw his guitar right at his best friend. “you never help, shit friend.”
“he’ll get over it,” sukuna says to ino, who feels slightly guilty, opening the box to take out a slice while it’s hot.
“i won’t!” choso shouts, putting his guitar down.
sukuna ignores him, “he will.”
“i won’t!”
“you always do.” the words come out too casual, and for half a second, the garage falls quiet. choso’s jaw tightens, and sukuna’s grin fades slightly, watching his younger brother’s expression shift, the anger burning hotter. the same anger claws at sukuna’s own chest remebering why he has to force choso to come with him.
“I’m staying with gramps,” choso’s voice is lower. his own brain trying to wrap around the sudden information. he hadn’t even known that his brother accepted the offer when he wouldn’t even talk to anyone about it. and to find out he accepted it and was told it’s okay for him to bring his brothers without even asking him?!
“gramps is going to the lake with his war buds like he does every summers so yeah, you’re not staying here alone.” sukuna tsks, standing up. he glares at choso across the garage, waiting for choso to test him. the tension suddenly hits ino full force. the bickering had turned into something charged in a matter of seconds. his chewing slows, awkwardly.
“I’ll stay with ino,” choso pushes, eyes darting between sukuna’s.
“this lying shit?” sukuna scoffs pointing at ino without glancing at him.
ino chokes, coughing, “me?!!”
sukuna frowns, eyes narrowing sharply, “I fucking asked you if he saw that bitch of mom and you said no. that constitutes as lying.”
ino lowers his head.
“I told him not to say anything,” choso defends, “he’s my friend.”
“exactly why you’re not staying with him because he’ll lie and I won’t know if you see that woman again or not.” sukuna takes a step towards his brother.
“i took money from her,” choso tilts his head, clearly not afraid of the older as his eyes narrow. “I’m gonna give her that money back.”
“I don’t give a shit if you don’t or if you take more money from her. she owes you and yuuji a shit ton of money anyways,” sukuna stops in front of choso. an unknown look crossing the man’s face, and choso hesitates for a moment. “I have a problem that she laid her hands on you.”
choso’s jaw clenches, stepping away. “I stole money from her.”
“so you think you deserve to get hit?” sukuna snaps. choso rolls his eyes, grabbing a slice of pizza, forcing himself to act casual. “she’s a toxic psycho.”
“whatever, man,” choso mutters, dismissing the conversation about his mother. an uncomfortable twist settling deep in his stomach making him slightly nauseous. “I don’t wanna talk about her with you.”
“why because I don’t sugarcoat how horrible she is?” sukuna scoffs. choso’s defensive attitude quietly triggers the older. choso rolls his eyes again, gaze locked at the pizza, but sukuna catches it and ino sinks further in the corner. “stupid ass teen,” sukuna grabs his keys from his pocket, walking towards the door, opening the garage. “fucking proving my damn point by acting stupid as fuck.”
sukuna scoffs, pissing himself off as the memories of this woman flood his mind. jaw tensing as he looks at choso turning away from him. “mothers don’t beat their kids, and she was more of dad’s fucking mental patient than a mom to you”
“how the fuck would you know!” choso finally snaps. “your mom left and my mom isn’t yours, I have my own memories!”
“the ones when you were two?” sukuna scoffs, walking towards the parked pick-up truck. “I doubt you remember shit before you were twelve,” sukuna says the comment without realizing the flame he lit.
“I remember you going to jail too and losing your first club offer,” choso spits. “great example compared to her. definitely my role model!”
sukuna stops dead in his tracks, jaw tightening, he glances over his shoulder and choso doesn’t back down. “you’re more like her than me or yuuji are, so it’s pretty hypocritical that I’m being forced to go to spain with another psycho.”
mechamaru had just parked his car and is exiting when he hears the yelling from his friend’s open driveway. ino has attempted to blend in with the couch, empty plate in his lap while choso’s chest heaves. the strings in his heart strain ignoring the unfamiliar look on his brothers face. especially when sukuna fiddles with his keys with one hand, the jangling fills the tense air, before sukuna licks his teeth.
“at least I’ve never hit you guys.”
the response is deeply honest that choso pauses, unable to respond. sukuna swings his keys between his fingers, rubbing the back of his neck and walking down the driveway. he passes mechamaru silently, unlocking his truck.
the teens are left in defending silence minutes after sukuna’s already driven away. ino and mechamaru exchange looks, especially when choso disappears into the house to wash his face.
at some point the houses thin out and the ocean appears. the clouds hang low and heavy overhead, turning the late afternoon gray. rain threatening to fall any minute. sukuna parks in an empty lot overlooking the beach and kills the engine. his hands are locked around the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.
you’re more like her than me or yuuji are.
his jaw aches. choso hadn’t even sounded afraid when he said it, he was angry enough to mean it. sukuna drags both hands over his face, wishing he can claw at everything. “fuck.”
the word disappears, waves crashing against the shore, ahead as his phone vibrates inside. and miles away, parked beside an empty field, you do the same.
the hospital sits somewhere behind you, and your home is in the opposite direction, and neither destination sounds appealing. the engine is off. the windows are cracked. summer wind drifts through the car as you stare at absolutely nothing. your father’s voice rings around your skull making you rest your head against the window. you don’t want to go home or go back or do anything.
eventually your phone lights up.
after another few minutes of staring at the ocean, his hand finally reaches for his phone. notifications flood the screen, group chats, soccer shit, gojo being annoying, something from toji, and his thumb scrolls through the usual unopened messages until he sees a certain contact.
his thumb stops. three days ago.
crybaby: where’s the video of your brother’s band?
his gaze lingers. for some reason, that message irritates him less than everything else. he opens the chat and for a moment he considers not responding, his thumb mindlessly scrolls through your earlier conversation, until the photo you sent him fills his screen.
dumbass: they made it to the semifinals
a beat passes..
dumbass: i forgot to send the video
your phone vibrates against the passenger seat making you glance down and see his name, and despite the day you’ve had, despite everything, your chest loosens just a little.
crybaby: woww
crybaby: a whole 3 days later
crybaby: i was starting to think u hated me
sukuna snorts. his head tips back against the seat. outside, thunder rumbles somewhere over the water.
dumbass: good guesser
you roll your eyes, holding back a smile.
crybaby: haha u’re soo funny
sukuna scrolls through his camera roll. easily finding the video gojo had taken and sending it to you. you heart the message, and a few minutes later the texts flood in.
crybaby: WHAAAA
crybaby: WTHHHH UR BROTHER IS SO GOOD
dumbass: u def thought they were gonna be ass
crybaby: ngl…I wasn’t expecting much
dumbass: rude
crybaby: ONLY BC I’ve gone to a few in the past and RARELY r they ever good
crybaby: NO OFFENSE
dumbass: I’m offended
you don’t realize the smile on your face as you watch another video sukuna sends. relaxing back in your seat, jaw agape.
crybaby: no like actually wth — ur brother’s voice is making me tear up
crybaby: it’s so angelic esp for a hard rock band
sukuna snorts.
dumbass: crybaby
crybaby: did I say CRY? I said TEAR UP smh smhh
a few beats pass, not long enough for you to fully exit your messages, but long enough to watch the little typing bubble appear then disappear, and then your face fills your screen.
….incoming FaceTime from dumbass….
your lips part, cheeks warming as you easily click accept, the call connecting. sukuna’s face fills your screen, the camera angle is terrible, but somehow he still looks unfairly attractive.
the lighting inside the truck is dim from the storm clouds outside, shadows cutting across the sharp lines of his face. his pink hair looks soft, a few strands hang loose across his forehead. his tattoos disappear beneath the collar of his black shirt, the dark markings curling up the side of his neck. his forearm rests against the driver’s side window, broad shoulders, strong jaw—you hate how hot he looks.
on the other side of the call, sukuna feels much the same.
he expected your voice, but there’s something about seeing your face. your hair is slightly messy from your long day. you’re leaning sideways against the drivers seat, cheek pressed against the headrest of your car seat. golden evening light spills through the window in front of you, softening everything. you look tired, but pretty…really pretty. something in his chest loosens.
your eyes blink slowly, then narrow, “what happened to your face?”
sukuna’s brow furrows, “what?”
you lean closer to the camera, “your eye.”
his hand immediately comes up, glancing at the mirror in front of him. forgetting about the faint bruise caused by toji a few days ago, and barely noticeable to anyone except apparently you.
his fingers brush beneath it. “nothing.”
you stare and sukuna stares looks back at his phone, “that’s not nothing.”
“it’s nothing.”
“yeah definitely,” you sarcastically quip.
“it’s literally nothing.” your expression flattens. his matches yours instantly. neither of you budge. the silence stretches then—
“did you get punched?”
the offended look that flashes across his face almost makes you laugh. “the fuck kind of question is that?” he snaps.
you shrug fast, “it’s a valid question.”
“no it isn’t.”
“it is, since that’s what people who get punched in the face look like,” you say, like you’re some expert.
“speaking from experience?” he tosses, irritation scratching at your questions.
“yeah,” you lie, and he probably knows that, but still he leans back in his seat again. “it definitely looks like you got a bruise.”
“yeah, because i play a contact sport,” he huffs. you squint suspiciously as he rolls his eyes so hard it physically pains him. “gojo elbowed me in the middle of a game.”
“see?” you point triumphantly. “that wasn’t hard.”
sukuna tsks, “you’re annoying.”
“i was curious,” you shrug.
“it’s a bruise.”
“on your face.”
“you sound like yuuji.” the corner of his mouth twitches, barely there, but enough for the tightness in both of your chests to ease just a little. your lips part, still looking at the bruise.
“does it hurt?” your voice is softer, allowing something warm to settle in sukuna’s chest.
a smirk tugs on the players lips. “yeah. you gonna come make me feel better?” the teasing has your thighs clenching. his voice is low, deep, watching your eyes dart off screen. “where are you right now?”
you shift in your seat, flipping the camera to do a 360 of your surroundings. sukuna notices your bag in the passenger seat, “you get off work?”
“yup left early,” you flip the camera back, your phone on your lap as you fix your necklace in the mirror.
“you ditched?”
you laugh, “no,” you pick your phone back up, “I was kicked out.”
sukuna whistles. “bad girl. what’d you do?”
you shrug, leaning back in your seat, “I punched a patient.”
sukuna’s eyes blow wide, “you’re lying.”
you snort, “obviously,” you smile, pretty lips glossy as you wet them. “just had a chat with my dad and he told me to go home.”
“are you home?”
you shake your head, tilting just a bit as you watch sukuna through the phone. the silence fills both your environments. “doesn’t look like you’re home.”
“got work soon,” he answers, eyeing the curve of your jaw as you look out the window as if you weren’t parked in a deserted lot. still he can’t help the churning in his stomach as you fiddle with your earrings, lips parting again.
“so you gotta go soon?”
sukuna can’t fully read your emotions through a shitty phone screen, but he can catch the slight sweetness in your tone. and that was enough to pull a subtle smirk from him. he’s fully resting his back against his seat, arm propped on the open window holding his phone, while the other rests on his lap.
“I have some time,” he tilts his head, eyes narrowing a tad when you hum. “you have something in mind?”
you wet your lip, eyes twinkling as you nod your head. “yeah, i wanted to ask you a question.” he smirks, letting you continue. “how fast did you cum when i sent you that picture on saturday?” sukuna’s smile falters. “because you sent me a pic like three minutes later.”
you really love to push his buttons. the scowl is written all over his face. “i was already on edge, so i was doing it for awhile before you even sent it.”
your smile grows, if possible, a devilish twinkle in your eyes. “so i really helped you cum, ryo, hmm?” you wet your lip, and the action, coupled up with your sultry tone, has sukuna’s pants growing tight, “you made a big mess. cumming all over yourself like that,” you tsk, teasingly. “do you always make a big mess when you play by yourself?”
sukuna’s jaw tightens, his crotch swelling from your teasing. the bulge pushing up against his jeans, just as his palm digs against the evidence. unable to hide the fact that you’re turning him on.
“don’t be embarrassed, ry,” you coo with faux sweetness. “big boys make messes too.”
a loud, strangled scoff, escapes the man’s mouth. cheeks hot, as you continue degrading him. “suddenly y’er all confident because I can’t pin you down from here?”
you shrug, little smirk still playing on those pretty lips of yours. fuck, he misses having those lips on him. kissing you deeply, swallowing your whines and strangled moans. “am I not allowed to make you feel better?”
“fucking teasing me,” he grunts, jaw tightening as he palms his bulge.
heat pools between your legs, face warm as you see his shifting. “did I make you hard?” the excitement was obvious in your tone.
“don’t act surprised,” he mutters, flipping the camera to see the big bulge he’s gripping over his jeans. sukuna see’s the dizzy like look you have, lips parting.
“take it out.”
he smirks. you’re a little perv. and not so surprisingly, you see the uncoordinated moving as he unbuckles his belt, the phone dropping then getting raised again to see the way he pushes the waistband of his black Calvin’s, dragging it down. his dark pubes not as well groomed as it usually is, and that has you biting back a whimper.
fuck fuck, you miss pressing your face there, licking the coarse hairs, kissing his base.
and finally his hand wraps around the chubby length, freeing his semi-hard cock in his car. thunder cracks in the distant, rain starting to pour.
“gonna keep telling me what to do, or do you want closeups?” he teases, stroking his base lazily, biting his lip.
you shift in your seat.
“spit on it—“
you already see his spit fly and hit his flushed cock, immediately making your cheeks sting.
“c’mon, gotta keep talkin’ to me like my personal slut,” he hasn’t done anything since spitting on his cock, waiting for you to continue your directions. if you’re gonna act all dominant, then he’ll give you all the control…at least when you’re separated by a phone screen.
“stroke your cock…slow,” you command, wetting your lip as you watch him, and he listens. a wave of quiet confidence floods your head at his submission. “rub your slit with your thumb…yeah…” your lips part watching him stroke his cock. “faster.”
his breath is heavy behind the phone, grip tightening when he reaches the base, before twisting his hand back up, thumb collecting his pre and spreading it to the rest of his cock.
“do you usually jerk off like this?” your lewd curiosity always makes him smirk.
“I’m taking your direction.”
“jerk off like you usually do then…I wanna see,” you interrupt.
he snorts, loosening his jaw, before his pace picks up, tugging on his impressive size, collecting more pre and doing his best to self lubricate. his grunts are slightly louder, sending heat to your pussy, you can already feel your drenched panties.
“let go.”
a strangled noise comes out of him as his hand lets go making his cock bob between his legs, his thighs flex, jaw tightening as more pre cum leaks out in humiliation. “fuck.” he runs his hand on his abs, lifting his shirt higher, watching his own cock throb and twitch mid-air. the weight angling his cock down.
“ow!”
he doesn’t fully realize what you’re doing, until you yelp. his brows pinch, eyes narrowing because your phone is no longer on your face, but on the ceiling of your car.
“what’re you doing?” his words fall on deaf ears, when you’re suddenly lifting the camera back up, and revealing the state you’re in. you’re completely naked from the waist down, shirt pushed above those beautiful tits, and your lips all wet from how much your biting them. “fuck, baby.”
you smile, pushing the drivers seat further back to give yourself space, cheeks hot as you spread your legs. “lemme see your face, ryomen.”
he easily flips the camera back. you blush seeing the pink dusting his cheeks. “you like risky stuff,” he points.
“I’m alone.”
“still public.”
your lips part, rubbing your nipple, slowly teasing yourself. his eyes darken, gaze darting between your face and those beautiful perky nipples he wishes he could suck this very second. fuck, when you’d run your nails through his hair when he’d bite your perky buds and you’d moan so sweetly.
“you’re not even twisting them hard enough,” he tsks, watching you play with yourself…incorrectly. “how often do you touch yourself.”
“not as often as you touch me.”
sukuna chokes. you’re way too fast for him, and it catches him off guard every once in a awhile. he quickly recovers, “show me how wet you are.”
you listen, managing to face the passenger seat and have the phone propped on your bag.
“aw, you’re dripping,” he coos, biting his lip, as you run your fingers through the mess, spreading your pretty folds for him. “dirty girl,” he groans, hand sneaking down to his twitching hard cock—
“don’t touch yourself,” you cut possessively. “it’s my turn.”
“I didn’t even cum,” he tsks, but still eases back, thick legs spreading wider as he watches you shrug. “fine, lemme see how many fingers you can put in that little pussy.”
“one.”
“I said: let me see,” his voice drops an octave and that has you clenching and blushing all over. “lick your finger.”
you lean close to the camera, making a show of caressing your plump bottom lip, then easing your middle finger in. your suck the digit, eyes heavy as they look directly at sukuna. he silently watches, jaw loosening as he tries his best to keep his hand away, especially when you pull your middle finger out, flipping him off.
“cute,” he smirks, screenshotting. “put it in.” he tilts his head, humming as you sit back just a little. he eyes the way you open your legs, running your finger down your body, before circling your clit. your lips part and sukuna notices the way your back arches just a bit, finally pushing in, “theere we go.”
you hum along, jaw agape as you curl your finger in slowly pumping your finger. it’s not the same though. you hate having to do this shit yourself, it would kill the mood if sukuna wasn’t praising you on the other line.
“fuck, your pussy looks so pretty,” he groans, “so hot.”
you bite back a moan, lashes fluttering as you move your finger back to your clit. unaware of the disappointment until you hear a loud tsk.
“why’d you take your finger out?” sukuna barks.
you frown, still rubbing your clit, “It doesn’t feel as good.”
“bullshit,” he huffs, “put two fingers in.” your cheeks flush hot, collecting your arousal on your finger and teasing your hole again. “fuck your pussy like I told ya too.”
you wet your lips with attitude he can clearly read, especially when you add a sarcastic, “yes, sir.”
pre oozes from the brute’s twitching cock.
still, his eyes narrow with lust as he watches you dip your pretty little fingers in that tight hole. it’s always the initial stretch that has your lips parting. “keep moving your fingers. curl ‘em,” he husks, voice much lower and sexier, unbelievably turned on. “dirty girl fingerin’ herself in her car.”
you whine, back pressed against the door, as you angle your hips up, back arching as you continue fingering yourself, especially when you curl them and finally feel that spot. “got it?”
your glossy lips part, nodding, “y-yeah haah—ry-touch y’rself to me.“
fuck.
he doesn’t waste a second grabbing his cock and working himself up to the pace you’ve set. his own jaw clenches, watching your legs tremble as you pump your pretty fingers in and out, watching the way your fingers glisten every time you pull out, pretty nipples all hard and exposed, and lips glossy.
his thigh trembles, jaw tensing as he squeezes his base, holding himself back as you pull your fingers out to stimulate your neglected clit.
“good girl,” he husks under his breath, unaware of how much he enjoys watching you and getting jealous from nothing. you respond with a heavy sigh, tongue poking out as you feel yourself getting closer.
“gun- cum with me…ry-haah?”
he starts working his chubby cock, wishing to death he can feel the heat of your pussy against his swollen tip. “yeah, keep working those little fingers, make yourself cum.”
your whine pitches a little higher in the small car. thighs spreading wider as you stimulate your clit, oblivious to the low praises sukuna is muttering, feeling his heavy balls clench up. and just as your about to reach the edge, toes curling in your shoes, your phone tips over, hitting the ground just as sukuna hears you moan—
“anhh—“
“what the fuck!?”
you whine, back hitting the door as your legs close around your hand. lips parted as your chest rises with each heavy breath. you don’t even realize what happened until you hear your name being called, followed be another “where the fuck did you go?!”
your brows furrow, glancing at where your phone once was, then to its place on the floor of the passenger side. “oh.”
you move over the center, reaching down to lift your phone, and the moment your face comes to view, sukuna’s jaw tenses more.
“you came?”
your lips part sitting back in your seat. “yeah, I think i accidentally kicked my bag. did you cu—“
“no.” he cuts sharply. you suck your lips in to refrain from laughing. “cum again.”
your brows rise. “I can’t.”
sukuna barks out a humorless laugh. “I always make you cum more than once—“
“yeah, YOU—not ME. I don’t know how to overstimulate myself,” you reach for some tissues to clean yourself off camera. but sukuna groans loudly, cock throbbing as he works himself. “just imagine me cumming.”
his jaw locks, head tipping back so you can get a perfect shot of his sharp jaw. the silence stretches for a second before sukuna opens his mouth, refusing to look at his phone, missing the way your lips part, and face burns.
“talk into the phone then.”
your stomach flips with something you don’t want to name, especially when he tilts his head back clearly still working his monster of a cock that’s painfully red. “I’m close. speak.”
the command has you closing your thighs tighter, raising the phone to your lips, inhaling slowly, controlling the butterflies.
another beat passes before you finally begin.
“my fingers are so wet after cumming…” you dramatize a gentle sigh, “my pussy is so empty…I need your big fat cock filling my tight…little…pussy…ryo.”
“fuck,” sukuna’s jaw clenches harder, abs tightening as he aggressively twists his hand up his cock, thumb digging into his slit, much more aggressive than how you’d touch his cock, but he just needs to cum.
“can’t wait to see you, ryomen,” you exhale sweetly, adding a little pitched hum, “want you to use my pussy like it’s your pretty toy,” you blush at your own words, keeping it just a little over a whisper because if it was any louder than you might melt into the seat with embarrassment. but sukuna’s strained, low grunts, is reassuring. “fuck me until I can’t move, kiss me until I can’t breathe…you wanna kiss me right, pretty boy?” your cheeks sting viscously at the pet name that casually rolled off your tongue—
but then, a long deep groan comes from the back of the 6’4 footballer’s throat.
your entire body catches on fire, and a smile quietly tugs at the corners of your lips.
“you wanna kiss me that bad, baby?” you tease lightly, and even though sukuna refuses to reply, his strangled grunts, and sounds of his squelching cock being tugged, is enough reassurance to give you that final sentence that pushes him off the edge. “you also wanna stuff my pretty pussy right: wanna fill me with your thick…heavy cum, don’t you ryo?” you bite your lip the moment you hear the choke on the other end.
you quietly listen, pulling your phone to see that sukuna’s phone is forgotten in his lap. your finger playing at your lip, still smiling, waiting for sukuna to come down from his orgasm.
the man’s jaw is locked. head tipped back against the head rest. chest heaving. and face burning with a light shade of pink.
“you cum?” you break the silence, tone laced with something that twists in sukuna’s gut. the phone shifts, your face unable to stop your smile when you see his flushed face. your fingers still playing with your lips with faux innocence.
“yeah.” his clipped tone isn’t too harsh, but definitely shielding something else as he looks down at the mess. his jaw tenses seeing his cum covering his hand and splattered on the steering wheel. even if the phone is on his face, you can see the way his eyes are looking past it.
“you made a mess?”
he licks his teeth, eyes catching yours. “yeah.”
dang he’s cold. is he embarrassed? a warmth settles in your tummy at the thought. it’s hard to read him, but it’s even harder when it’s through the phone. either way, you shift around your car, putting your panties and pants back on and pulling your shirt down, fixing your bra. on the other end, sukuna is pulling his shirt off, and using it to clean the mess he made. jaw tensing every time your voice rings in his head again.
“who taught you how to talk like that?” he raises his hips pulling his pants back up, tucking his softening cock in.
your brow quirks lightly, “nobody lol,” you look back at your phone. “I was just going with the flow,” you smirk, head tilting just a bit that the man freezes, stomach flipping at the pretty sight on his phone and he instinctively just….*screenshot* “was I good?”
he makes a grumbling noise, then, “made me cum.”
“so, good?”
he rolls his eyes, “sure.” he ignores your smile as he finishes cleaning his mess. the buzzing of your phone interrupting. “you have to go?”
you hum, “yeah, gotta pick up shoko.” you text her that you’re on your way. sukuna looks back at his phone as he starts his car up, you do the same. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”
and the second sukuna gives an affirmative hum, you hang up.
as the days pass. neither one of you found your stress levels steady. instead, you were tested again and again, more rejection emails coming in for writing and producing programs you applied too for the summer. and as was sukuna with his brother’s attitude, especially with this weird phase that’s caught his attention with yuuji.
“I thought you were seeing megumi tomorrow?” sukuna glances up from his spot behind the bar, stopping mid-wipe down to see yuuji slinging his backpack on.
“we’re going to the beach today to see them set up before the festival tomorrow,” yuuji mutters, pushing his overgrown hair off his forehead in quiet annoyance.
sukuna’s brows pinch tight, “thought we were gonna do that?”
yuuji shrugs already walking to the back of the bar, large open windows lining the back that overlooks the beach. megumi and nobara wait outside, chatting. “s’fine,” yuuji stops by the door, “choso doesn’t talk to you, and you’re always busy—so whatever.”
sukuna tenses, grip curling around the dirty rag as his little brother turns and leaves. what the fuck?? since when has yuuji been cut and dry with him!?
just as sukuna stresses about his younger siblings, you’re wondering how much longer you have to hold yourself back until you tear your eyes out. another rejection email, that could’ve been the reason why your sudden stress skyrockets and then it immediately crashes after higuruma finally texts you after not hearing anything from him since you first got his number.
[12:34PM] hiromi higuruma: hey this is hiromi
[12:34PM] hiromi higuruma: sorry it’s been awhile but my uncle finally got back to me, he’s free thursday or friday around the afternoon to chat
[12:35PM] hiromi higuruma: lmk which day works so he can put it in his calendar before he gets booked
your lips part, standing outside a patient room staring at your phone. shit. your heart pounds rapidly against your ribs. you work until five everyday. your jaw tenses…just ask if he can do anything after—he can’t. unlike you, people can’t just move things around for you. your fingers quickly tap your screen.
[12:40PM] you: hii
[12:40PM] you: yea friday works for me, would this be a zoom call or phone call?
you see the bubbles appear, then disappear. you shift your weight, stomach churning.
[12:42PM] hiromi higuruma: shit
your stomach drops.
[12:42PM] hiromi higuruma: I forgot—you’re not based in the city?
[12:42PM] you: no, I’m back home for the summer
[12:43PM] you: would it be a problem doing it on zoom?
your back leans against the wall, stomach aching as you wait for his response. seriously, can one thing not work out in your favor?
[12:44PM] hiromi hirguruma: I’ll talk to him, but I think it’s better to wait until you’re back in the city and do it in person
[12:44PM] hiromi higuruma: only saying this bc he forgets everyone he talks too on zoom but he’ll be much more helpful if he meets you face to face, plus you’re a good conversationalist (js from my perspective) so you’d leave a good impression
a beat passes.
[12:45PM] hiromi higuruma: your call tho, i can still talk to him if u want
[12:45PM] hiromi higuruma: he's here all summer, so whenever you're back js Imk and I can set up a meeting
fuck!! your jaw aches, clenching down hard enough to break your teeth. hot tears sting behind your eyes, threatening to spill. you inhale sharply. grinding down harder on your teeth as you squeeze your phone.
what’s the fucking point in meeting with him now if he’ll just forget about you?
[12:47PM] you: oh okay, yeah I think it’s better in person then
[12:47PM] you: I’ll be in the city in august, is that okay?
your heart twists unbelievably tight, nails digging into your palm.
[12:48PM] hiromi higuruma: yeah for sure! and dw I’ll set a meeting up with u and him
almost like he can sense your disappointment through your hesitant texts. he sends another message.
[12:49PM] hiromi higuruma: how’s your summer?
wrong question…
[12:49PM] you: 😀 so good!
the bubbles appear then disappear, then:
[12:50PM] hiromi higuruma: that’s a sarcastic emoji right?
you can’t control the quiet chuckle that slips out.
[12:50PM] you: loll yeah
[12:50PM] you: its fine…working here…with my dad…yayy
higuruma seems to understand your tone as he responds.
[12:51PM] hiromi higuruma: u losing ur mind?
[12:51PM] you: nope
[12:51PM] you: y would u say that (I wanna kms)
[12:51PM] hiromi higuruma: (rip) just a hunch, guess I was wrong
a smile threatens your face.
[12:52PM] hiromi higuruma: don’t stress tho, my uncle has some rlly good connects so he’ll help u out
you bite your cheek, pushing down the anxious twists that’s been eating at you for months. you’re still waiting on another possible opportunity for the second half of summer, but now you’re scared if that falls through, all you’ll have is nanami’s friend’s uncle as a connection..
[12:52PM] you: thanks🥹🙏
[12:53PM] hiromi higuruma: how long is ur program?
[12:53PM] you: till the last week of july so js two-ish more weeksss
[12:54PM] hiromi higuruma: homestretch
[12:54PM] hiromi higuruma: u need a vacation after
[12:54PM] you: TRUSTT
[12:54PM] you: it is in the works🫡 my friends r planning it
[12:55PM] hiromi higuruma: where r u guys going?
you pause, lips parting.
[12:56PM] you: oh….i forgot
[12:56PM] hiromi higuruma: fr?
[12:56PM] you: no frrr shoko just told me to block off the dates but i actually forgot where we’re going bc they were planning it for awhile and i was too busy to pay attention
you cringe, trying to remember where shoko said satoru’s infamous mediterranean summer house is. either way higuruma responds with a cool message, unbothered by your lack of remembrance.
[12:57] hiromi higuruma: well it’s clear u need that vacation then
[12:57PM] you: 😪✊
you don’t realize you’ve basically been standing on your phone for awhile until a resident passes by, eyes flicking down.
“put the phone away before I tell your dad,” he mutters, and though the “joke” has been tossed around multiple times by the residents who know exactly what your relationship is with the chief of surgery, it doesn’t make it any funnier when you heard it the first time or the hundredth time —
your jaw tenses, glancing at your phone to see higuruma’s text.
[12:58PM] hiromi higuruma: make sure to stop in the city after tho and text me ahead of time
[12:58PM] you: i willlll
you shut your phone off, exhaling sharply as your head tips back. at this point…the only thing you’re looking forward to now is this trip. considering the second half of your summer is delayed after pushing this meeting back. and from the looks of it…you highly doubt you’re getting accepted into those writing programs.
“great,” you mutter to yourself.
your feet finally drag you away from the wall, and down the hall. unfortunately the pressure on your chest doesn’t leave, instead your mind quietly moves in circles as you continue the day’s work. unable to remove yourself completely from the stress of your future.
you smile at patients when they greet you. you laugh when shoko mutters something inappropriate under her breath. you still finish your notes, answer questions, make coffee runs, and remember to ask people how their weekends were. nothing is wrong enough for anyone to pull you aside and ask if you’re okay because you’re not falling apart. you’re just…tired. there’s a heaviness that sits beneath your ribs and makes everything feel harder than it should.
even when you check your phone during lunch. your conversation with higuruma sitting near the top of your messages. another month of waiting. another month of this feeling. you lock your phone just as someone calls your name, answering immediately.
it all keeps moving, dragging you along. the routine sucking you in. driving home as shoko talks from the passenger seat about the residents. about a movie she wants to watch. about a patient that yelled at her. about her not fully confident about her mcat studying methods. you nod and laugh, chiming in.
that’s how it goes in the mornings. driving at six am, music playing softly through the speakers. your eyes randomly burning behind your sunglasses, making you blink, unable to stop the tears from gathering for no apparent reason other than you can shake this heaviness on your chest. but it’s easy to wipe beneath your eyes during the red light. shoko doesn’t notice.
even at home, your sister asks how your day is, if you ate, how dad is, and you answer shortly without much thought. jennie watches you for a moment longer. her eyes lingering, opening her mouth like she’s going to say something before deciding against it. especially when you quietly play with yazzy now. playing with her barbie’s clothes in silence, clearly not fully present, but still able to pull a smile for your niece.
“fix her hair now!” yazzy shoves another barbie in your hand, the gum stuck to the ends making you scowl.
“why is there candy all over them?” you lightly scold, making yazzy cover her face with a doll, bashful and guilty.
“it was an accident!” she giggles, making you tsk lightly, giving her a faux disappointed look which earns you another loud giggle from her.
jennie quietly watches from the living room, eyes softening. she’s been gone for some time, but her concerns are present, so when shoko walks into the kitchen, her attention shifts momentarily.
“question,” jennie glances at the brunette. shoko hums, looking over her shoulder from the fridge. “how upset is she? because she’s working with our dad?”
shoko glances at you in the living room, the tv playing masking the conversation in the kitchen. “she hates it.”
jennie hums, looking down at her nails. “she said that?”
shoko nods, “she takes it on the chin though, but yeah…she hates it. she usually complains then feels guilty for complaining.”
that seems to twist something inside jennie, her jaw clenching. “yeah…she’s an idiot.” she mutters, hand rubbing her face. “there’s only so much you can tell her and she still won’t listen.” jennie stands straight. “it’s her life.”
shoko doesn’t respond. instead watching as jennie calls her daughter to head back to the hotel, and once they leave the house quiets, and you’re left alone with yourself.
you brush your teeth while staring into the bathroom mirror, foam gathering at the corners of your mouth as your reflection stares back. the faucet runs as you tilt your head. you look the same…same face, eyes, person — there’s no visible proof that anything is changing beneath your skin. but…you wonder if everyone else feels this way. is everyone secretly mourning versions of themselves they haven’t even become yet. are they walking around pretending everything is okay too? do they also hate where the direction of their lives are heading? can they even see what path they’ve taken—
you spit into the sink, washing your face.
once you crawl into bed, your room finally settles, feeling the darkness press close. and once again, your chest tightens. you think about the mcats. about the future. about all the people your age collecting internships and recommendations and certainty. you think about your father’s anxieties of your future. your mother’s concern. jennie’s harsh words—
you turn onto your side…then your back…then your other side. then…your eyes sting.
the tears build on their own, as they always do. your throat drying as you feel the warm liquid slide onto the pillow. you’re not sobbing. you don’t even know what you’re crying over. nothings happened. but eventually, sleep takes you.
“are you excited for college?” “what are you majoring in?” “you’re going to be a doctor, right?” “isn’t your dad a really good surgeon? my dad wants me to go into med school, but i don’t think i have the patience.”
the high school girls are packed into the locker room before gym, voices bouncing off metal lockers and tiled floors. someone’s trying to braid their ponytail in the mirror. another girl is complaining about wanting to get out of this gym period.
“wait, did they release decisions yet?”
“can your dad help me out when i’m looking for an internship?”
“yeah, you always work for your dad, so it’s not fair.”
“i’m jealous.”
your seventeen year old brain can only laugh, “it’s not like that,” you say automatically. but your friends only seem to double down. marking all your “wins” on one person who isn’t you.
“must be nice having your whole life figured out.”
the pressure in your chest tightens. you blink. you’ve heard these conversations a hundred times, so you should be used to them by now. but something tight twists in your chest. your fingers fumble with the combination lock on your gym locker. the metal slipping beneath your hands.
“you okay?”
“yeah,” your voice comes out too fast. you try again. however, it becomes harder to breathe, your vision blurring around the edges.
“shit!” your friend moves back just as you hit the lockers, falling to your knees as you grab your chest. is this a heart attack? people have heart attacks. can a high schooler have one? your dad would know—
“i can’t breathe.” the words tear out of your throat. your heart pounds harder, your fingers feel tingly and your head lightheaded.
“i can’t breathe.” you try again. nothing is coming out. air won’t come in. your hands shake violently, chest twisting.
“someone get the nurse!”
“she’s crying—”
you don’t feel the tears spill down your face before you even realize you’re crying. your chest hurts, your head spins, and the girls crowd around you.
—
the week leading up to the trip moved strangely, it was slow. the days blurred together as each individual hour stretched.
sukuna picked up more shifts at the bar, the smell of beer and musk clinging to his clothes long after he got home. when he wasn’t working, he was on the field by the beach, shirt sticking to his back beneath the summer sun as he played against whoever was willing to challenge him. usually it was gojo and geto. sometimes yuuji joined him, always laughing, but sukuna could feel the subtle shift. the kid lingered less…asked fewer questions, and as close as he is with gramps, even he wasn’t telling wasuke the full answer. and that was starting to make sukuna a little on edge.
then there was choso. it was inevitable after their argument. choso went out of his way to avoid his older brother and buried himself in rehearsals for the upcoming semifinals, spending more nights at ino’s, then with yuuji or gramps.
meanwhile, you’ve settled deeper into a routine. the hospital shifts, and early mornings that made you want to claw your eyes out. the drives with shoko that always eased you a bit. but then there was the wedding that jennie came for. and every aunt and family friend had something to ask. was there anyone special? were you talking to someone? how is it going into your senior year of undergrad? had you started studying for the mcat? have you taken the mcat yet?
your mother brushed them off, while your sister laughed because dating felt like the last thing on your mind. you smiled through it all, even as your stomach twisted tighter with every question you couldn’t answer honestly.
and then there was your father. he’d become quieter after the incident in the staircase, polite but distant in a way that unsettled you more. is he disappointed you aren’t taking the mcat yet? did one of the residents say something about your performance? you don’t ask. you just keep the questions with you, swirling in your mind whenever you see him.
none of the stress eases. not even when you quietly see sukuna in gojo’s ig stories. not even when yazzy tries to teach you and shoko a new dance move she’s learning. not even when your sister finally heads to the airport. none of it seemed to scratch that itch that kept your mind loud and irritating.
“did you get any sleep?” shoko pulls her shirt off, slipping into her scrubs. you stifle a yawn, shaking your head as you pull your scrub pants up. shoko yawns along with you, but exhales loudly afterwards. shaking her hands as she gives you smile. “last day though!”
your lips part, eyes widening, “oh snap.” and maybe that was what you needed because you’re suddenly smiling with shoko, laughing as you look at your phone. “last day!”
shoko hums, smiling wider as you both start dancing. and that definitely could be considered the longest, and best day of your week. and before you can blink, you’ve packed your suitcases and kissed your mom goodbye as she drops you and shoko off at the airport.
and with full unbridled honesty, you knew the best part of this trip was the excuse of being away from everything and everyone, and that’s what you’ve convinced yourself is what you need.
even after hours trapped in a middle seat, struggling to fall asleep, awkwardly folding yourself away from the men occupying both armrests beside you, you endure it. by the time the plane lands, your eyes burn with exhaustion and dark circles sit beneath them. the warm air greets you outside carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen.
you and shoko collect your luggage in a daze, exchanging tired glances until your attention catches on a sharply dressed man near the exit, holding a sign with both your names.
and that’s when your oasis begins.
the drive stretches along the coastline, blue water glittering beneath the afternoon sun. the mediterranean houses blur past the windows. shoko rests her cheek against her fist while you stare outside, feeling something inside your chest tighten again. what’re you even taking a vacation for?
you turn the corner into the neighborhood and your jaw drops. a villa sits at the end of the hillside like something straight out of a movie, and beyond the property is the ocean stretching endlessly, waves crashing.
“…you’re kidding,” you breathe.
shoko lets out a low whistle, stepping out of the car, “i forgot how disgustingly rich he is.”
the front doors slide open before either of you can fully process the sight, grabbing your suitcases.
“well, well, well!”
of course, the first thing you see is satoru gojo. he stands at the entrance wearing nothing but black swim shorts and a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his white hair, arms spread wide like he’s welcoming royalty into his kingdom. his skin is slightly tanned, abs glistening, and veins crawling up his forearms.
“took you guys long enough,” he announces obnoxiously. “i’ve been suffering all alone.”
“you’ve been posting pool pictures for three days with everyone,” shoko deadpans.
“but we’re still missing people,” gojo rebuts.
shoko laughs despite herself, stepping forward to wrap him in a quick hug. gojo squeezes her dramatically before turning his full attention toward you, who’s still dragging your suitcase across the polished floors, gaze darting between the towering ceilings, the sweeping staircase, and the ocean visible through the open living room.
“…what the hell,” you murmur. “this is insane.”
gojo’s grin somehow widens, “i know.”
you finally look at him properly, “thanks for letting me join,” you say, sincerity slipping into your voice before you can stop it. “seriously.”
for a brief moment, he looks genuinely touched, then— “well, it’s the least i can do,” he says, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “i’ll just need significantly more praise from you and sho for being such a generous, handsome host—”
“sure,” you cut him off easily, making him pout. but you finally step closer, wrapping your arms around him in a greeting hug anyway. “thank you, satoru.”
the complaint dies in his throat. “you’re welcome,” he says quickly but sounding almost suspicious of your sincerity before recovering instantly. “see? this is why you’re my favorite guest.”
“sure,” you sarcastically hum. “I’m just guessing you say that to everyone.”
“i do not.”
“you literally called utahime your favorite yesterday on facetime,” shoko points out.
“that was an obvious lie,” gojo shrugs.
“you definitely told geto he was your favorite,” shoko adds quickly.
gojo points, “he’s my favorite best friend.”
you glance between them, exhausted laughter bubbling out of you despite the lingering ache behind your eyes. sunlight pouring through the windows.
your suitcase stands forgotten by the doorway. somewhere outside, waves crash against the shore. and as gojo continues arguing with shoko about favoritism while leading you deeper into the villa. more people start coming into view.
“ahhh!! finally!!” a familiar voice booms, suddenly seeing a blur before you’re being engulfed in a hug by utahime. “it’s been hell with just these guys!”
gojo snorts, rolling his eyes, “why don’t you go ogle yuno, you perv—“
the harsh slap to his bare arm shuts him up, utahime glaring at him as she looks over her shoulder. luckily, yuno was still chatting loudly with nanami and some other guy you weren’t familiar with.
geto takes the attention as he steps in from the front door, sunglasses on and hair tied in bun. a smile immediately comes to his face when he spots more people. “it’s finally starting to feel like a vacation.”
you and shoko are taken upstairs. your suitcases bump softly against the polished tile floors as gojo launches into an overly detailed tour that neither of you retain, and something shoko’s already heard before.
but what you do manage to take in is how the villa becomes even more breathtaking the more you see of it. the arched doorways connecting the rooms, the patterned tiles lining the hallways, and carved wooden accents softening the stone walls. the villa held about eight bedrooms, and you and shoko barely process the number before finding yourselves in your room—or rather, your suite.
utahime’s presence is immediately obvious. her clothes are draped over the armchair near the balcony doors, makeup bag open across one of the dressers, bikinis and dresses laying on two of the beds, and several pairs of shoes already claimed near the closet.
“she really made herself at home,” shoko mutters.
you hum softly, too distracted by the room itself. two queen-sized beds sit beneath the exposed wooden beams, white linen curtains swaying every time the wind passes through the open balcony doors. the adjoining layout gives the three of you more than enough space, and the balcony utahime had apparently secured for the girls stretches across the back of the villa.
you wander to the open balcony before you can stop yourself, curious as to what the view is. warm air brushes against your dampened skin from the journey, but you’re immediately welcomed by the scent of salt and blooming flowers. below, you see the large pool, and then past the trees that circle the property, are terracotta rooftops of other villas, then the coastline in the distance. you can see the ocean glittering invitingly.
eventually, you peel yourself away making your way to the shower, washing away the hours of sticky travel air. the warm water loosens the knots in your shoulders, the steam clouding the mirror. by the time you emerge in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, toweling your hair dry, your body feels impossibly heavy.
the room is empty. you can hear shoko and the rest of the group outside from the open balcony. but all you can manage to do is walk across the tiled floor, barely managing to crawl onto the bed to turn of your phone alarm. your eyes struggling to stay open as you uncap your bottled water and swallow your scheduled pill. and once it goes down your throat, you toss the birth control pills back in your bag, and hit the warm sheets. you sink into the mattress with a relieved sigh.
the balcony doors remain open. the breeze filtering through the curtains. setting sun painting soft patterns across the tiled floor. and somewhere between one blink and the next, lulled by the sound of the ocean just beyond the villa walls, the exhaustion from everything finally catches up to you.
your eyes eventually drift shut.
unaware of what’s taking you so long, shoko and utahime go upstairs after an hour, freezing once they see you passed out.
“what the—“ utahime frowns. “we’re gonna go out to eat, wake up—“
utahime’s words die feeling shoko tug her out of the room.
“just let her sleep,” shoko cuts. “she’s been stressed for weeks, and i feel bad.” shoko’s voice is much softer, eyes down as utahime glances at her expression, then at the closed door.
“did something happen?” utahime’s brows are pinched.
shoko steps away from the door, shrugging, “I dunno,” a beat passes. “her sister just told me she doesn’t sleep well when she’s stressed, so just to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t drink too much if she’s still, like,” shoko tries to find the right words. “funky, I guess. so like…this is a good chance for her to catch up on her sleep and relax a bit.”
utahime nods, immediately. “for sure. I’ll keep an eye on her too then— and we can help her destress in these next two weeks!—“ utahime suddenly slaps a hand over her mouth after she basically shouted.
shoko chuckles, but hums along.
the two had the right idea leaving you to sleep. you knocked out for the rest of the day, and by the time you wake up, the sun is only a few minutes from rising. you were slightly confused, having slept for so long. groggy, you sit up and blink around the unfamiliar room. the pale morning light filters through the open balcony doors, the curtains shifting softly with the breeze. and once you see the two other people sleeping in the room, you realize where you are.
utahime is asleep beside you, laying on her side hugging her pillow. shoko is sprawled across the other queen bed like a starfish, blanket tangled around her legs.
and you simply sit there, still waking up, until your stomach starts growling. you rub your eye, reaching for your phone, happy someone had put it in the charger.
6:02 a.m.
“…damn” you mutter to yourself, you hadn’t eaten since the shitty airplane food. careful not to wake either of them, you slide out of bed and slip out of the room.
the villa is quiet in that way when everyone’s still asleep. it’s peaceful and calming. you notice a few abandoned glasses still sitting on the kitchen island from the night before. some half-finished bags of chips on the counter and couches. through the open doors, the warm morning air drifts inside carrying the scent of the ocean.
gojo’s pretty rich to not care that all the back doors are wide open, you think.
you rummage through the mediterranean style kitchen until you find bread, cold cuts, cheese, and enough ingredients to throw together a decent sandwich. then with a plate in hand, phone tucked beneath your arm, you wander outside. the backyard overlooking the hillside below, terracotta rooftops spilling toward the ocean in the distance. the pool reflects the pale pinks and oranges beginning to stretch across the sky. and you settle onto one of the lounge chairs by the pool. your legs curl beneath you as you scroll mindlessly through your phone between bites of your sandwich.
it’s nice and quiet, and your shoulders sink further into the chair, slowly beginning to force yourself into a vacation mindset. and because of that, you don’t hear the front door open, or the footsteps crossing the brown tiled floors.
what you suddenly hear, mid-scroll, is a heavy unexpectedly loud thud of a duffle bag hitting the ground startling the living hell out of you. your heart hitting your ribs.
“…what the fuck?!”
you yelp entire body jerking, nearly tumbling off the chair as your heart launches straight into your throat. you’re still holding your sandwich, immediately whipping around to see the perpetrator.
and standing in the middle of the living room. black soccer shorts hanging low on his hips, a loose black t-shirt stretching across his shoulders. a cap resting in one hand, headphones around his neck. suitcase standing beside him, and a worn-in duffle bag abandoned at his feet….is sukuna.
he looks like he just got off a flight, slightly sweaty, slightly irritated, slightly exhausted, and unbelievably attractive. his scowl is already in place from being startled by the scream, but then he pauses once he sees you.
his eyes drag over your messy sleep-tangled hair, oversized shirt, bare legs tucked awkwardly beneath you on the lounge chair, and the bite of your sandwich still sitting in your mouth as you slowly chew. the edge of his expression shifts, not quite a smile, but something softer than his scowl.
“…the fuck are you screaming for?” he asks.
you stare at him, chewing the rest of your sandwich that flew out when your screamed. he stares back.
“…you look a mess,” you finally say through your bite.
his gaze flickers over you once more. “i think you’re looking in a mirror,” he replies flatly.
and just like that, sitting barefoot beside the pool at six in the morning with food in your mouth and your heart still hammering against your ribs, you can’t explain the way your shoulders ease a bit.
“asshole,” you reply with no bite. sukuna hums, sliding his backpack off and dropping his cap, headphones, and phone on top of his duffle before walking towards you. you swallow the bite you’d been chewing just for sukuna to kneel on the ground beside you, inspecting your sandwich.
“what is that?”
you glance at it, then down at him, your cheeks warming in seconds. he’s so close. “turkey, cheese, olives—“
“olives?” his large hand wraps around your hand, holding the sandwich.
you raise a brow, “yeah, it’s good—wha!” your eyes blow wide when he suddenly takes an obnoxiously large bite out of your sandwich. “what the hell!” you shove his shoulder back, making him loose his balance and catch himself on his annoyingly big arm, but it was too late. he’s chewing your sandwich, as you frown. “you didn’t even ask.”
“y’ didn’t look like you’d give me a bite if I asked,” sukuna speaks with his mouth full.
you scowl, “obviously, it’s mine. you can make your own, tch.”
sukuna continues chewing, still sitting back on his arm, eyes heavy as he stares up at you from your spot on the lounge chair.
you frown right back at him. even half-awake, with travel exhaustion weighing down your limbs, your expression pinches in annoyance. your brows pull together, nose wrinkling slightly, and your grip tightens around your sandwich.
his gaze lingers, “your eyes are bloodshot,” he finally says. you blink at him. “did y’ get any sleep?”
you take another pointed bite before answering, glaring at him over the edge of your sandwich, “yeah, actually. i slept the second i got here and missed dinner,” you narrow your eyes. “which means the first thing i’ve eaten since yesterday is the sandwich you freaking stole.”
sukuna scoffs, “dramatic.”
“you took half of it!” you screech lowly.
“that’s not half.”
“you have no idea what half means.”
his eyes drift downward before returning to your face. you’re sitting cross-legged on the lounge chair, turning slightly away from him now as you continue eating, subtly trying to finish it before he tries to take another bite. which he probably would do, just seeing the way he’s eyeing it.
sukuna feels a quiet tug beneath his ribs. the morning sun finally stretches over the horizon, painting gold across the pool water and catching against your soft skin. you’re still grumbling under your breath as you chew.
“you’re unbelievable,” you mutter.
he pushes himself up a little straighter beside your chair, his calloused palm rests on your bare thigh. “one more bite?” he asks.
you let out a humorless laugh, “yeah, as if.”
he lifts a brow, squeezing your thigh, “c’mon I’m starving. the plane’s breakfast was ass.”
“make your own then,” you say through another mouthful, keeping your free hand against his shoulder to keep him at arm’s length. he glances down at it, then back up at you.
annoyance flickering across his face. “seriously?”
you glance between his eyes, swallowing and taking another bite, “yeah.”
“one more bite.”
“there’s barely any left though,” you whine, keeping his shoulder back as he tries to get closer. but he clicks his tongue before wrapping his hand loosely around your wrist, pulling your palm away from his shoulder with little effort.
“selfish,” he mutters.
you nearly choke. “selfish?” you repeat, staring at him in disbelief. “you’re tryna steal my breakfast.”
“whatever,” he scowls, still holding your wrist. “I’m hungry.”
“ryomen.”
“what?”
“make your own sandwich.”
he stares at you. you stare back. then, without warning, he reaches for your wrist that holds your sandwich, making you gasp loudly, using your legs now to keep your bodies apart. “don’t—“
your free hand wiggles in his grip while he leans over, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as your horrified complaints echo through the otherwise peaceful sunrise. your body struggles as he takes control, easily manuring himself onto the lounge chair, your knee keeping him away, as the other squirms to move between your body, but hanging loosely around his torso.
“ryo pleasee,” your whine rings so clearly, he can’t contain the flip in his stomach. he stops.
your chest is rising and falling from the struggle, anxiously glancing at him, brows pinched expecting him to pull your wrist to his mouth, but he remains still. staring down at you. then at your lips. then back at your eyes.
and suddenly, your legs are loosening, heart beating against your ribs, and letting sukuna fit himself comfortably between your legs. his hand holding your free hand, carefully brushes beneath your jaw before settling against the side of your neck. it’s warm and familiar. the morning breeze lifts strands of your hair across your face, and for a second, neither of you move.
waves crash in the distance. birds calling out in the pale sky. sunlight spilling over the terrace, painting soft lines across the sharp planes of sukuna’s face. his eyes don’t leave yours, and you can feel his breath against your lips, warming a deep spot in your tummy.
“you good?” you whisper eventually, voice smaller than you intend.
his gaze flickers down again. your mouth, then back to your eyes. then groggy, and voice much deeper then before, he mutters… “been a minute.”
your stomach flips. wetting your lips unconsciously, and sukuna’s eyes sharpen at the movement, barely blinking before you feel his firm lips against yours.
the breath leaves his lungs in a quiet rush. there’s a desperation hidden beneath the steadiness he tries so hard to maintain. but his hand tightens ever so slightly where it rests against you.
your lips move in sync like muscle memory. it’s familiar and instinctive. your fingers drift upward, threading through the soft strands at the nape of his neck before settling against his scalp. he releases a gentle exhale against your mouth at the contact, making your pulse stumble. sukuna leans closer without realizing it, his broad shoulders block out the morning sun as he deepens the kiss. your lips part on instinct, welcoming his tongue.
you can’t explain the urge that grows inside you the longer you kiss. the make out feels unbelievably calming, his grip tight around the lounge chair above your head, his knees digging into the seat, and his tongue swallowing your moans that have his pulse stuttering. your nails scratch at his scalp, threading through the pink locks digging gently.
“you taste like my sandwich,” you murmur with a clipped tone, tongue kissing his as he hums.
“yeah, fuck if I care,” he so easily brushes off the attitude to kiss you again. there were only two bites of your sandwich left, but you still held on to it, even as sukuna skillfully traced your bottom lip with his tongue. his hips lowering just to press his semi-bulge right against your clothed cunt, and that was enough to note the way your breath catches.
he can’t put into words how much his body needed you. just seeing you when he first walked in after his shit flight had his chest twisting, and now, kissing you…he feels every second relieving the weight on his shoulders.
your nails scratch at his scalp, tugging gently just to have him pull away, his eyes watching the way you catch your breath. lips all pretty and wet from him. eyes slightly dazed as you stare up at him, face lit softly with a healthy glow that has him leaning down again. he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your bottom lip, caressing your tongue as it meets again.
“you didn’t send me any more pics,” he mutters.
your cheeks flush, nails caressing his nape. “you didn’t ask for more.”
“it should be unspoken.”
you snort, leaning closer when he pulls away, “it’s not now.”
sukuna grumbles, jaw ticking for a moment until your lips find each other again, your legs wrap around his torso, letting him put his weight on top of you, unbothered by the plane’s air that still clings to him. “give me a bite of the sandwich,” he mutters, trailing his lips down to your neck. and even if it’s been weeks, he still finds your sweet spot in seconds, nipping at it. your breath catches in your pretty throat, whining shyly when he licks the spot again with his warm tongue.
“no,” you say, managing to take another bite, doing your best to chew it as fast as you can, even with the bread being so thick, sukuna catches your wrist again. your eyes widen, watching him move your hand to his open mouth, taking the last bite.
you groan with a mouth full, eyes harsh as they glare up at him. the two of you chewing all the while his hand finds its way to your waist, slipping under your shirt to caress your bare skin.
“is it too hard for you to make a sandwich?” you speak with your mouth full, swallowing bites but still chewing.
“yeah, it is,” he replies coolly.
your brow twitches in irritation. but you still can’t help the way your gaze lingers. it’s been almost two months, and somehow he looks exactly the same. however, his salmon hair has grown out just enough to brush against the nape of his neck, it’s slightly damp from the warm weather. his shoulders seem broader than you remember, his t-shirt stretching across his frame. his veins stand out beneath his sun-bronzed forearms, hands rough and familiar where they rest against the lounge chair and your bare waist.
even sitting there, lazy and half-awake from travel, there is something unfairly imposing about him. it’s all familiar, but it could be the distance apart that has you pointing out the sharp tattoos again, the intimidating size difference, and the quiet confidence of him, painfully aware of what his body does to you.
your eyes drift over the dark tattoos peeking beneath his sleeves and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. his beefy thighs crowding the edge of the chair when he shifts, solid beneath his worn soccer shorts. he’s inconveniently attractive, stealing your sandwich like a jerk, familiar arrogance seeping with each glance your way, and his typical scowl…but still, your fingers almost ache with the remembered habit of tracing his inked skin beneath your fingertips, wanting to hear the low huff he’d give you in response.
you don’t miss him…but you do miss this pull of wanting someone who always feels just out of reach, but still appears right in front of you when you need him most.
“good-fuckin’-sandwich,” he finally swallows, licking his lips. he leans down with little effort, and high confidence, pressing his lips to yours again. body moving on top of you, rolling his hips down just to hear your little hiccup, your hand suddenly presses against his shoulder, pushing. he barely moves, but he does pause, pulling away enough to keep his face hovering close. “what? you mad I took the last bite?”
you roll your eyes, ready to respond when your stomach suddenly pierces the air with a loud grumble.
the sound has the frat boy freezing, glancing down. your lips part, cheeks flaring, glancing away as sukuna sits up just a little. “you seriously didn’t eat anything?”
“I told you I haven’t eaten,” you tsk, cheeks inflamed from the sound, desperately trying to ignore the caresses of sukuna’s hand under your shirt, thumb brushing your torso, suddenly pushing the material of t-shirt higher revealing more of your torso.
the air grows awkwardly uncomfortable, neither of you saying a word, and him not responding has you growing slightly more aware of the position he has you in. you don’t want to address it, you seriously, strongly, want to ignore how he’d just made himself comfortable with touching you after being apart for weeks. but that sudden thought as you pushing yourself up.
your hand climbs up his chest, curling your fist around his collar. and with little resistance, you tug him towards you.
“I’ll make another sandwich,” you mutter, your pretty chest rising with each breath. “you can keep kissing me…” his eyes flick between yours, they’re heavy with either exhaustion, lust, or both, but then you whisper the precious words he’s been dreaming of hearing this close, with your warmth wrapping around him, and your scent making his head spin… “please, ryo.”
his lips twitch up, arm wrapping around your waist, holding you close from under your shirt. then your heart skips a beat. his head tucks down to your shoulder, burying his face there, pulling you to his chest.
your lips part, cheeks burning hot as he hugs you closer. his fingers dig possessively around your waist, bicep flexing around.
the summer breeze wraps around you. heart beating aggressively against your chest. fingers twitching trapped between your bodies, his hot breath fans against your neck. seagulls fly above you, the sky clear as day. but none of it can be fully processed, not when sukuna is hugging you like it’s been years since you’ve seen each other.
“r—“ you stop yourself when a warm kiss is pressed against your neck. then another. his hand brushes up and down your warm torso, making you always aware of his presence. slowly trailing kisses up your neck, subtly inhaling more of your flowery scent.
his cheeks sting, and he feels the heat crawl up his neck as his bulge grows harder. but he doesn’t stop peppering your burning skin with wet kisses. he pays a certain spot with more attention, sucking just a bit harder, smiling subtly when he hears your cute hiccup-like-moan.
“y’know,” he mutters against your skin, sucking another light hickey on your pretty neck, barely noticeable. he doesn’t wait for you to respond, your fingers twitching at his waist, holding his shirt. “I’ve been thinking’ bout how you got naked in your car,” your cheeks sting as the memory resurfaces quickly. “and how you fingered this pussy ‘cause I asked ya too,” you don’t have to look at him to hear the devilish smile he’s sporting. “then you fucking knocked over the phone when you came.”
your lips part in a quiet gasp, “it was an accident—“
he tsks, “still.” you blush. “I wanted to see it.” his hand brushes higher, unbothered by how he’s pushing your shirt up, revealing your lower back to the warm air. your skin is just so soft under his rough palm, and you fit perfectly against him. “you’ve been teasing me.”
your eyes go wide, “me?!—haah—“
the moan has your face bursting into flames, his teeth sink into your neck. your hand finding its way to his bicep, nails digging in, as he licks the mark he leaves. his lips skim up your neck, warm breath fanning gently until your lips are parting to inhale the same air.
“yeah, you,” his eyes flick over your lips. “with that call, and the one before that, and your photo.” he wets his bottom lip, a sinister smirk exposing his sharp canines. and in that moment you feel like he’d swallow you whole any second. “and now you’re lounged out here waiting for me.”
that’s when a a loud scoff leaves your lips. cheeks aflame. “as if. I didn’t even know when you were coming. it’s a coincidence.”
a disbelieving hum resounds from his throat. “so you were camped out here in these little shorts,” he tugs the hem of your shorts. “and this shirt wearing nothing underneath, for who then?”
you raise a brow, amused by him, forearm casually resting on his shoulder as you look back at him. “would you believe me if I said it was for me?”
he clicks his tongue.
you hum, glancing away for entertainment, free hand coming up to your chin. sukuna sits still, surprisingly patient, almost like you both have all the time in the world. it was unnervingly attractive. but you still decide to tease him, amused by the thought so you say it.
“then it was for satoru.”
and the moment that name leaves your lips, the reaction is far from what you’ were expecting. sukuna’s once calm features shift into a sudden disgusted scowl. the expression catches you so off guard that you suddenly burst out laughing, right in his face.
“fuck outta my face,” he spits.
you laugh even louder, hand coming up to your mouth trying to control yourself. “what? you don’t believe me?”
your push has sukuna rolling his eyes to the back of his skull. “playin’ in my face.”
“pleaseeee,” you cackle, adjusting yourself higher, waving a hand in front of him. “I was—I meant to say it’s for suguru.”
you visibly see the twitch in his eye, and that has you laughing louder hitting his chest as your head falls back. “I’m DEAD, you’re actually killing me!!” your laughing is so loud it irks him how much you’re getting a kick out of his reaction. he also ignores how cute your stupid laugh is after not hearing for so long. “cmon, it’s no biggy, wearing this skimpy little thing for my suguru.”
“your suguru,” sukuna spits back, disgust laced in every word.
you nod, bitting your top lip as you hold in your laughter, even if your eyes are laughing. “it makes sense, since me and him are sharing a room.”
his body suddenly goes dead still. “you’re fucking with me.”
his tone has you laughing louder, unaware how much that bothered the footballer. “you don’t believe me?”
sukuna rolls his eyes, loosening his jaw as he exhales through his nose. “daamn, relax ryo.” you coo, hand coming up to squish his cheeks. “tough month? you can’t take my little jokes anymore?” your faux pout has him scowling immediately, but his cock jumps at the expression.
“ragebait,” he mutters. you softly snort, smile lighting up your face, then your pretty head tilts for him. so fucking pretty.
“aww, that wasn’t my intention,” you coo.
the lie has sukuna scoffing, eyes flickering between your insincere doe eyes, and it tickles an itch deep in his core. “I was just playing with you,” you playfully squish his cheeks again, watching the way his lips purse together. he’s so cute.
his hands rest on your waist, staring straight into your eyes, and he unknowingly allows you to mess with him. enough that a string tugs at his chest.
“you mad?” your lips part slightly when he doesn’t respond, your eyes still holding a playful spark in them.
“yeah.”
it was a detectable lie that has your pretty lips pulling into a smile you can’t control. “yeah?” you’ve seriously grown confident in your time apart, and it’s unbelievably attractive. “but I thought it was pretty funny. you can’t be mad about that, can you?”
your thumb brushes the morning shadow on his chin, the stubble beyond attractive. but sukuna is too busy clicking his tongue at you to notice the way you’re checking him out whilst pushing his buttons. “I can. do you see me laughing with ya?”
you purse your lips, smile spilling out wide. you shake your head, then you push yourself up. your pretty legs are loose around his hips, your fingers gently curling under his chin, wetting your bottom lip with a soft hum.
“I don’t,” your voice is low, sweet. his jaw tenses slightly, waiting for you to act, and surprisingly you catch it. and you start smiling again. “you’re so patient, ryo.”
his breath catches, covering it with a loud, offended scoff. “maybe finish your sentences,” he snaps. “y’ keep fucking trailing off.”
you smile, leaning close to his face. breath warm against his lips. “I just answered you though,” you trail off again, purposefully. your lips hover over his, slowing your breath, lashes fluttering like a subtle seductress. and it works. he leans closer, wanting your warmth to encompass him even more. his cheeks a stained dark pink as you exhale softly. “you just like listening to me…don’t you?”
your smile is unbelievably beautiful, but his remains still, glaring at you through his dark lashes. his thick brow quirks. “i don’t remember ya being this cocky,” he mutters and there isn’t much heat behind the insult.
your smile only widens, “I didn’t realize how easy you make it,” you coo softly.
his brow twitches, “don’t flatter yourself.”
“mm.” your fingers drift along the collar of his shirt, eyeing the tattoos that peak, then meeting his crimson gaze again. “too late.”
the morning breeze curls around the two of you, the scent of salt and sunscreen drifts through the quiet villa. the pool glitters behind him and still, neither of you moves away.
his eyes drag over your expression, lingering on the curve of your smile and the amusement brightening your face. he’d spent weeks listening to your voice through a phone speaker, catching glimpses of you through photos and stories, and now that you’re here, he finds himself unable to take his hands off you.
you tilt your head. “what?” you ask, trying and failing to sound innocent.
“you’re annoying,” he cuts.
“but…” you lean closer, your lips brushing his, and he barely reacts. “you haven’t asked me to stop.”
something shifts behind his eyes. the confidence in your expression flickers for half a second, replaced by something softer, and something he sure as shit brushes away. but the teasing quiets just enough for his stomach to twist.
“tell me ryo,” you murmur quietly, voice just above a whisper. the sweetness drips into his ear like honey. his cock straining in his shorts, unable to control his body’s reaction to you. “you like being teased…right?”
his mouth twitches. “you fucking with me again?”
you slowly shake your head, staring into his eyes, twirling his hair around your finger. “you can tell me,” you tug at his hair lightly. “I don’t judge.”
he’s leaking for sure. the clear outline of his cock would be embarrassing if he wasn’t packing. and even with how obviously turned on he is, how flushed his ears are, and how blown his pupils have gotten. he still manages to hold his composure, and bite back a shit eating grin.
“cute,” his arm tightens around your waist, the other dragging up your thigh, pushing up your shorts. his bulge is pressing directly onto your shorts, and his sharp canines almost make him look animalistic. “I don’t think you realize what you’re doing.”
you hum, dragging the sound in faux innocence, lashes batting up at him, almost making him release a pathetic noise. “what am doing? I thought I was creating a safe space for you,” you coo.
“don’t play dumb.”
you shrug, face still close, and fingers still playing with the ends of his hair, the other squeezing his bicep. “I’m not.“
and once your eyes glance over the scowl that flickers across his face, your unable to control your reaction. you laugh softly against the small space separating you, and the sound seems to snap whatever fragile thread of restraint he’d been clinging to.
you make a startled sound against him, one that quickly melts into something softer when he kisses you harder than before. his brows knit together, expression caught between irritation and want.
he completely steals the breath from your lungs. all the teasing from the last several minutes dissolves into something far less careful. the laughter lingering on your lips disappears beneath the press of his mouth, your fingers tangling tighter in the ends of his hair as he forces his tongue to meet yours. and the moment your tongues make contact, a guttural groan comes from the back of his throat. the sound is muffled against your lips, but the way you feel the warmth pool between your legs is immediate.
he doesn’t care anymore. his mind has wrapped itself around you, the familiarity of your lips, the warmth of your body, and the soft edges of your aura, it all has him melting. and it doesn’t take long for him to press his fully erect cock right against your shorts. rutting.
a squeak escapes your pretty lips at the first roll of his hips. jaw falling agape at the stimulation. the sunrise paints everything gold around you, warm light spilling across the pool deck while the rest of the villa remains asleep. and as exhausted as sukuna is from his flight, he physically can’t stop his body from rutting into you like a dog in heat.
his tongue is thick and hot, slowly stroking your lips passionately until you’re meeting the wet muscle with your own. your whine is muffled, arms latched around his shoulders, as he hooks your leg over his arm, humping your clothed pussy.
“we should fuck,” he mutters between kisses, grinding even harder, stimulating his cock. “yeah?” his hand squeezes the flesh of your thigh, kissing your bottom lip with haste. “everyone’s sleeping, I got a condom in my bag—“
a choked groan slips out of his throat when you tug his hair, his pupils twice their normal size. cheeks flushed a dark red, and his body unable to pull away from you. he doesn’t want to address how quickly you turn him on, or how much he craved your touch after being away from you for so long—no, none of it crosses the front of his mind when you’re under him, hands caressing his nape, lips glossy and swollen from kissing, and dark lashes batting up at him like you know everything. “you haven’t showered.”
he kisses down your neck, grinding slower, reminding you what he’s asking for. “I don’t smell that bad.” he unintentionally presses his face against your nape, inhaling. “fuck, but you smell so fucking good.”
your lips part momentarily, cheeks flushed. you feel him kiss the warm skin of your neck. he trails back to your lips, hand wrapping gently around your neck, tilting your chin up with a thumb, kissing you deeper, if possible.
it was a scene. and it was one that gojo was waking up to. his blue eyes are still heavy with sleep, white hair sticking in every direction, as he wanders down the staircase in nothing but a pair of shorts hanging dangerously low on his hips. one hand disappears beneath the hem of his shirt as he scratches absentmindedly at his chest, the other reaching automatically for the carton of orange juice waiting in the fridge.
the villa is quiet. the open screens let the morning breeze drift through the house, sunlight spilling across the floors and stretched toward the living room, where a duffle bag and suitcase had been abandoned carelessly near the entrance. gojo blinks, his gaze moves from the luggage to the open patio doors, then stops. “…oh.”
outside, beneath the morning blue sky, was a certain someone hidden behind one of the lounge chairs overlooking the pool, and sukuna was right on top of her. the two of you were obviously making out, his head bent toward yours, your hand buried somewhere near the ends of his pink hair, his broad shoulders blocking part of your frame from view, and his lower body was rocking against yours.
gojo stared, lifting the orange juice to his mouth, then lowering it. “…they’re still not dating,” he murmured to absolutely no one.
“what are you doing?” nanami’s voice breaks through the silence making gojo glance over briefly. fresh out of bed himself, nanami is halfway through pulling a shirt over his head, pajama pants slung low against his waist, catching a brief sight of his dark blonde happy trail, as he walks into the kitchen, following gojo’s line of sight. his steps slowed. “oh.”
gojo points toward the patio, “they’re not dating.”
nanami yawns, moving toward the fridge anyway.“i went to bed early,” he said. “did he get here last night?”
gojo shakes his head immediately, finally twisting the cap off the orange juice. “nope. he literally just got here. i got the notification from the security.” nanami pauses, glancing over his shoulder again, then toward the abandoned bags in the living room, then back outside.
“…they’re that comfortable with each other?” the question slips out before he can stop it.
gojo snorts, “or they’re just ridiculously attracted to each other,” he shrugs. “but they’re definitely not dating.”
nanami raises a brow thoughtfully. “did they not have sex with anyone else if they’re jumping each other like that now?” gojo tilts his head in genuine surprise. nanami’s eyes linger on the scene outside.
maybe it’s instinct or it the unmistakable feeling of being watched, because outside, sukuna’s gaze lifts. his sharp crimson eyes slide toward the villa without warning and land directly on the blue and honey-colored pair staring back at him from the kitchen. the silence stretches, until gojo slowly raises his carton of orange juice in greeting.
your brows quirk seeing sukuna’s suddenly pulling away and scowling over your shoulder. that’s when you decide to stick your head out, brows quirking at gojo and nanami both standing in the kitchen.
“didn’t mean to interrupt the streamy sesh,” gojo calls out casually, nanami glancing at him in annoyance. “you guys can continue.”
you snort, pressing a hand to sukuna’s chest, just for the hot head to sit back on his knees, glaring at his friends. “damn, but you kinda made me loose my appetite though,” you say stepping away from sukuna to stand up. his eyes follow you, jaw tightening as gojo cackles loudly from the house.
“whaaaat—but don’t you guys miss each other? I didn’t wanna ruin the reunion,” gojo lightly teases, unknowingly hitting a nerve as sukuna tsks, and you surprisingly raise a brow.
“you’re not ruining anything,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at sukuna who’s still sat on the lounge chair, hand over his bulge. “we were jus’ talking.”
gojo smirks, nodding sarcastically, “yeah, for sure. must’ve been the wind then.”
you sarcastically cringe, shrugging. “ah, must’ve been.” you don’t break a sweat as you walk further into the house passing by the boys as you make your way up the stairs, leaving them behind. and even with your heart beating erratically, and your face sweltering. you keep your composure until you’re out of sight.
as for sukuna…he remains seated, quiet, and unbelievably pissed off. nanami finds it slightly amusing, while gojo is snorting loudly. “that’s how much you wanna get in her pants—I just got the notification that you walked in and you’re already tryna fuck her—jeez.”
sukuna scowls, standing up. the irritation dripping from his being as he slips a hand into his shorts, tucking his erection up. “since when do you fucking cockblock me?” he snaps, walking into the house.
gojo’s hands fly up in defense, “you’re the ones that stopped. I was just drinkin’ my juice here.”
“he was watching,” nanami casually corrects, earning another shrug from gojo. sukuna clicks his tongue, and it prompts nanami to follow up with the only question swimming in his head. “are you guys dat—“
“no.”
the room falls silent.
sukuna picks up his duffle bag. his sharp eyes find the two men, and he utters his next words, with little thought, only wanting to end any further discussion on a subject he has little care to address with outsiders.
“we fuck. and I’m gonna fuck her again. and that’s my deal with her.”
his harsh tone is followed by a low whistle from the white haired man. and though sukuna walks away from them fully believing he put an end to whatever assumptions they insisted on making. because whatever existed between you and him has always been simple, physical, and convenient. except…
later that week, the simplicity shakes just a bit. when your arms lock around his torso, fingers twisting desperately into the back of his soaked shirt, refusing to let go. face pressed against his chest, eyes rimmed raw, breaths breaking apart into uneven pieces as your entire body trembles against him. the rain coming down harshly, drenching the quiet street and soaking through your skin and fabric.
and sukuna can only stare over your head into the empty street. his arms tighten around you without fully realizing what he’s doing it. his veins straining beneath his skin because you won’t stop shaking. your nails digging into him.
“don’t…” your voice is strained, the softness still shining through even in the state you’re in. “don’t push me away yet.”
his jaw clenches.
“please.”
a/n: watch you guys burn me alive after this. no joke, this shit was gonna be longer but I reached the line count limit on tumblr so I had to cut the scene short and add a sneak peak into next chapter.
chp 9 will have more yummy smut and angst. and I don’t wanna spoil, but *wink *wink, reader has been taking those birth control pills for a little over a month now 😛
You only go because Maki refuses to waste the ticket.
That is the embarrassing truth of it, and she repeats it three times while you stand in your bedroom deciding whether an outdoor motorsport event deserves the good boots or the pair you do not mind ruining.
“They’re not cheap,” she says from your bed, stretched across the duvet with her phone held above her face. “And Mai was supposed to come, but she decided getting back together with the same woman she blocked last week is somehow more important.”
“She’ll block her again tomorrow,” you comment, raising a brow.
Mai is not really the best when it comes to choosing girlfriends. The one before Nobara tried to stab her. Twice. And they got back together after that but it didn't last. She got the audacity to wonder why.
“Exactly. Which is why you’re coming with me.”
You hold two tops against yourself and look at her through the mirror.
“Do people dress up for motocross events?”
“Some people barely dress at all,” she offers but that really doesn't help you.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It means nobody cares, come onnnnn.”
You care.
Not about fitting into the crowd, precisely. You have never needed the safety of looking like everyone else. But walking into a place you know nothing about while dressed as if you belong there feels easier than walking in uncertain. You choose dark jeans, a fitted black top, and a jacket that sits neatly over your shoulders. The boots lose in the end. You wear something sturdier, though the compromise annoys you until Maki points out that the event grounds are largely composed of dirt.
You have heard of motocross through Maki and Mai. You know motorcycles go fast, riders jump them, people crash with alarming regularity, and there are several companies whose logos seem to appear on half the clothing teenage boys wear. That is where your knowledge ends. You don't see how that appeals to anyone, but you're giving it a chance. It's free, you got nothing better to do.
Maki spends the drive attempting to educate you, but she is a poor teacher because she keeps skipping through songs and shouting at traffic.
“It’s not technically just motocross,” she tells you after changing lanes with unnecessary aggression. “There are different competitions today. Qualifying, races, demonstrations. They’ve got a freestyle presentation between classes. Sukuna is doing that too.”
The name means nothing to you.
“Who?”
Maki nearly misses the exit.
Her head turns so quickly you reach for the dashboard.
“Do you live under a rock?”
“I have a mortgage worth of useless information in my head. Forgive me for not knowing every athlete from a sport I don’t even watch.”
“He’s not every athlete.”
You give her a look because you know she’s about to start.
“He has pink hair,” she says, as though that should clarify everything. “Factory-backed. Four-fifty class. Multiple championships. Completely insane.”
“That sounds promising,” you say, not really interested in that many words you don't quite understand, but she goes on.
“He’s an asshole too.”
“Even better,” you deadpan, looking at your reflection on the little mirror in the sun blocker.
“I’m serious. He hates interviews. He fought with a reporter last year.”
“Physically?” Now she grabs your attention.
“No. I think his manager stopped it from becoming physical.”
You settle back in your seat.
“So you’ve brought me to watch an angry man with unusual hair throw a heavy machine through the air. There’s dirt and loud noise and overpriced food.”
“Yeah.”
“Fine. Great program. Loving it already.”
“You’ll understand when you see him.”
You don’t expect to.
The venue is already crowded when you arrive. Cars line the dry grass beyond the parking area, and people move toward the gates in groups wearing branded jerseys, caps, boots, sunglasses. Children carry miniature number plates. Men who look old enough to have grandchildren argue over tire compounds beside a food truck. The air smells of sun-warmed dirt, sunscreen, fried food and exhaust before you are anywhere near the track.
Maki has more than ordinary tickets. Mai had bought a package that includes afternoon access to the paddock, and this is apparently enough to improve her mood despite Mai’s romantic relapse.
A staff member scans your passes and loops laminated credentials around your necks.
The sound changes the farther you walk.
At first it is distant, a low mechanical agitation beneath the crowd. Then an engine fires somewhere beyond the transporters and the noise travels through your ribs before it fully reaches your ears. Another answers. A third rises abruptly into a high, violent note that makes several people turn.
The paddock is larger than you imagined. Team transporters form polished walls along temporary lanes. Beneath branded awnings, motorcycles rest on stands with both wheels lifted off the ground while mechanics move around them. There are spare tires stacked in racks, tool cabinets, fans, coolers and cables laid with the neatness of an operating room. Everything looks expensive, controlled and strangely clean despite the dirt coating the surrounding world.
Riders pass in partial gear, boots striking heavily against the ground. Some stop for pictures. Others keep their heads down and follow team staff through the crowd.
Maki walks with purpose and you follow because you have no better plan.
“You’re taking this very seriously,” you observe.
“I want to see him before practice.”
“Your charming asshole?” You coo at her with a grin.
“He’s not my anything. I just admire his work and his temper.”
“Your parasocially cherished asshole, then.”
She elbows you without slowing.
The line of people becomes denser near one of the largest team setups.
Black, bone-white and dark red dominate the awning. A stylized emblem stretches across the transporter, something between a shrine and an open jaw, though it is abstract enough to avoid being either. Merchandise hangs on temporary walls.
The number on almost every shirt around you matches the one printed across the motorcycle beyond the barrier.
49.
A mechanic leans over the bike, checking something near the handlebars. Another crouches by the rear wheel. The machine itself looks smaller than it did in clips Maki showed you while waiting to enter, although that impression vanishes when a team member rolls it off the stand and the seat reaches nearly to his waist.
Then you see the man beside it.
You know immediately which one he is.
He stands behind the metal barrier with one boot planted on a low case and the other on the ground, tall enough that everyone around him appears reduced. His jersey is fitted across his shoulders, sleeves pulled close over thick arms. The dark design of his gear follows the same severe palette as the team, broken by sponsor logos and the hard angular shape of his number — 49.
Protective pants sit heavy at his hips. A knee brace changes the line of one leg beneath the fabric. His hair is pink but not very soft-looking. It is unruly from sweat and the helmet he must have already worn, pushed back from a face built around sharp bones and a deep expression of boredom.
There is tape around both wrists.
A member of the crew tightens one strap while a mechanic speaks close to him, using short gestures toward the bike. Sukuna gives no sign that he is listening. His attention moves over the crowd instead.
Not searching.
Assessing.
He signs a jersey held over the barrier. Then a poster. A child offers him a small plastic number plate and receives it back with a rough pat to the head that seems almost impatient, although the child beams as if he has been blessed. Sukuna does not smile for photographs. He does not bend toward the fans or ask their names. His public performance appears to consist of standing there and allowing the public to be near him.
People seem to love him anyway.
Perhaps because of it.
Maki says something at your side.
You do not hear her.
Sukuna’s profile has caught your attention. There is a slit through one eyebrow, too straight to be natural. Small scars interrupt the skin near his mouth and one ear, faint marks suggesting piercings that were torn free or removed after injuries. His irises are darker than you expect when he glances toward the open side of the tent.
Crimson.
Not bright red — a deep, warm shade that looks almost brown until sunlight catches it.
The person at the barrier steps away.
For no reason you can identify, his gaze shifts again and lands on you.
It stops.
Not long enough to become an interaction. Perhaps no more than a second. Two at most.
But it is not the passing look he has given everyone else.
His eyes move over your face. Lower, briefly. Back up.
Your skin warms beneath your clothes.
Then the mechanic touches his elbow and Sukuna looks away, turning toward the motorcycle as if nothing happened.
“What?” Maki asks.
You realize you have gone still.
“Nothing.”
She follows the direction of your stare and makes a noise of sudden understanding.
“So you liked him, huh?”
“I’m merely observing the… whole preparation. Trying to learn something.”
“You’re observing something alright. Learning how to grab someone’s attention.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
Maki grins.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m hot.”
“You were complaining about the wind five minutes ago.”
You move away before she can continue, though not far enough that you lose sight of him.
It should be easy to dismiss the moment. He is an athlete at a public event and you are standing among his fans. Looking at people is unavoidable.
That explanation lasts until he swings onto the motorcycle.
The shift in him is immediate.
The boredom disappears before the engine starts.
One moment he is seated with a hand resting loosely over the grip, listening to his mechanic say something near his shoulder. The next he presses the starter, and the motorcycle comes alive beneath him with a hard, concussive sound that cuts across every conversation nearby. Several children cover their ears. You feel it against the front of your body.
Sukuna lowers his goggles.
The man vanishes.
What remains is posture, calculation, purpose.
He rolls away from the team area standing lightly on the foot pegs, hips lifted from the seat. The bike moves under him rather than carrying him. His elbows rise. His knees hold the narrow frame. Even at walking speed there is something controlled in the way he balances it, each small movement precise.
Maki hooks her hand around your arm.
“Come on. Practice is starting.”
You let her pull you toward the track.
The circuit is built across a broad stretch of shaped earth. Natural slopes have been cut and reinforced into banks, jump faces and descents. Temporary grandstands rise along one side, while spectators crowd fences and higher ground elsewhere. Watering has darkened parts of the dirt. Other sections are already drying pale beneath the sun.
You find a place near a fenced corner with a clear view of the rhythm section and a long tabletop beyond it.
Riders begin moving onto the track.
You recognize Sukuna before you see the number 49 of the motorcycle’s plaque.
His riding is different.
You do not have the vocabulary for it yet, but your body understands the distinction before your mind does. Some riders seem to react to the track as it reaches them, motorcycles bucking beneath their weight. Sukuna appears ahead of everything. He is already shifting before the front wheel reaches the next rut. He stands through rough sections, legs absorbing the movement. At the entrance of the corner nearest you, he brakes later than the rider in front and drops into a deep inside groove with his body forward, one boot briefly extended before returning to the peg.
The rear wheel bites.
Dirt erupts behind him.
He is gone before it strikes the fence.
You turn your head quickly enough to follow him into the rhythm lane.
He crosses it in a sequence that looks impossible until another rider attempts the same combination and lands shorter, losing speed. Sukuna clears the next jump low.
Not merely low — sideways.
For one suspended instant, the motorcycle lies almost flat beneath him.
His body remains connected to it at the hands, knees and boots. The rear wheel hangs out across the line of the track. The handlebars turn slightly. It looks wrong, like the beginning of a crash occurring several meters above the ground.
Then he brings the bike back beneath himself and lands on the downslope with both wheels aligned.
The suspension compresses hard.
He accelerates away.
You forget to breathe.
“What was that?”
“A scrub,” Maki says, smug because she knows something you do not. “Keeps him low. Less airtime.”
“That is supposed to make him faster?”
“Yeah.”
“He put the bike sideways,” you know you sound a bit scandalized.
“I told you.”
You stare at the far corner where he disappears behind a rise.
“That thing weighs more than I do.”
“Probably twice as much. Three times, you gotta eat better.”
“And he just—”
“Yeah.”
The engine note rises again before he returns to view.
This time you watch him rather than the motorcycle.
You watch the pressure through his legs. The angle of his shoulders. How he adjusts in the air with movements that are smaller than the result they produce. He lands into the approach of a turn, brakes, lets the rear move just enough, then catches it under power. Dirt and noise and speed surround him, but there is no panic in his riding.
Not even when the bike kicks sideways over a rough patch.
His left leg comes off the peg. The handlebars twitch. For a fraction of a second the machine threatens to turn against him.
He saves it.
Not dramatically — there is no pause for relief. He puts his foot back, straightens and takes the next jump as if the mistake belongs to someone else.
You look at Maki.
She is watching the track with rapt attention, smiling.
“You were right,” you tell her.
She does not even ask about what.
“I always am.”
By the time practice ends, you understand the beginning of an obsession.
Not a romantic obsession, it’s technical.
You need to know how he does it.
On the drive home you search his name. Maki laughs when you begin reading race reports aloud, but she answers every question she can. When she cannot, you find interviews, breakdowns, track maps and slow-motion clips.
You learn that the motorcycle is a 450cc four-stroke, built from a production platform but altered around him.
You learn about suspension settings, gate choice, braking bumps, ruts and whoops.
You learn that the move you cannot stop replaying is indeed a scrub and that Sukuna is known for carrying it lower than most riders.
The clip you find has been edited from three angles.
You watch all three.
Then again.
At home, you tell yourself it is curiosity.
The next event is two weeks later.
Maki does not have to persuade you.
You buy the tickets before she finishes asking.
This time you know where to stand.
You choose a fitted red top under a dark jacket, not because of the team colors, you insist, but because it looks good against your skin. You do your hair differently. You take more care with your makeup than the dust and heat deserve. Maki notices and says nothing for nearly thirty minutes, which is worse than teasing.
When she finally does speak, you are entering the paddock.
“You know he wears a helmet for most of this, right?”
“I’m not dressed for him,” Not even you believe in that.
“Of course not,” she croons.
“I dress well when I go out!”
“You wore a sweatshirt to my birthday dinner.”
“It was cold,” you dismiss her with a vague gesture of your hand.
“It was indoors, fuckass.”
You ignore her.
Sukuna is not signing anything when you reach the factory area. He sits on a folding chair while a trainer wraps his wrist. One boot is off, and the heavy sock beneath his riding pants has been rolled down. There is a red mark circling his ankle where the boot pressed. His mechanic crouches beside him, speaking while pointing at a tablet.
He looks tired.
Not generally tired. Specifically worn at the edges, as if he did not sleep enough and has been carrying the deficit for days. There are shadows under his eyes. His hair falls over his forehead instead of standing away from it.
His attention lifts before yours reaches him fully.
Recognition happens in his face.
It is slight. A pause, then the smallest narrowing of his eyes.
You stop near the barrier.
Maki looks between you both.
Sukuna says something to the trainer without looking away. The man follows his gaze, glances at you, then returns to taping.
You should wave.
Should you wave?
No, that would be weird, you do not know him. So you don’t.
It feels too ordinary for whatever is happening.
So you hold his stare until the corner of his mouth curls up. An acknowledgment of the game.
The trainer finishes and Sukuna flexes his hand. His forearm tightens under the skin, veins pressing into view. He says something to his mechanic, rises and picks up his helmet.
A sponsor representative appears before he can move toward the barrier.
You know she is a sponsor representative because of the branded polo shirt, the headset and the expression of a woman paid to make difficult men stand in designated places. She catches Sukuna by the upper arm and points toward a temporary backdrop where cameras are waiting.
His jaw tightens, eyes narrow, and he goes.
You watch him stand beside two executives, one hand holding his helmet while they smile on his behalf. A photographer directs him to move closer. Sukuna does not. The executives adjust instead.
His eyes find you once more between flashes.
The look holds long enough that the representative notices.
Her head turns.
You lift your chin, refusing to appear embarrassed.
Then someone calls Sukuna’s name, the photograph ends, and the chance is gone.
It happens again at the next race.
And the next.
A pattern forms.
You appear. He sees you.
Sometimes you are close enough to notice the exact moment recognition settles over his features. Other times the track separates you, and the evidence comes through the way his helmet turns after a race while he rolls past the front row. Once, during an indoor Supercross exhibition, you sit close to the landing of a large triple and feel certain he cannot possibly identify anyone beneath the stadium lights.
He does.
After the finish, he takes the final jump with a whip intended entirely for the crowd. The motorcycle rotates sideways, his body loose and controlled over the frame. He holds it there longer than necessary, straightens at the last possible instant and lands cleanly.
The audience surges to its feet.
He rides past the barrier.
His helmet turns toward you.
Not the whole section.
You.
Your stomach drops with the same frightening speed as the motorcycle, the moment lasts a second at most but it plays out in slow motion in your head, repeating again and again days after.
You become shameless about attending.
At first Maki comes with you. Then her schedule conflicts and you go alone, purchasing better seats each time.
You learn how to access presales, which venues offer paddock passes and where riders move between team areas and media obligations.
You learn to recognize Sukuna’s mechanic, a broad man named Choso who rarely smiles but speaks to him without fear.
You identify the trainer who works on his wrists and shoulder after races, blonde tall man who looks too composed for that job.
You know the woman in the sponsor polo is called Mei Mei and that she can make a group of grown men rearrange an entire hospitality tent with a single look.
You learn the details of Sukuna’s riding until admiration becomes information.
He is hard on the bike, but not careless.
Aggressive.
He brakes later than most riders and keeps weight over the front entering corners. He trusts the tire to hold. When the track becomes deeply rutted, he commits to lines other riders hesitate over. In whoops he keeps the front light and drives across the tops until the rear begins to step sideways, then corrects without losing much speed.
When conditions turn muddy, he grows more dangerous.
You watch him race through rain with his jersey plastered to his body and mud covering everything but the narrow clean strip behind his goggles. Other riders lose visibility, tear-offs disappearing one after another. Sukuna takes the holeshot, reaches the first turn ahead of the field and stays in clean air for most of the race.
Late in the moto, the track deteriorates. Ruts deepen. Jump faces become scarred and slick.
His pit board shows a comfortable lead.
He does not slow.
The commentators call it unnecessary.
You understand by then that necessity has very little to do with him.
Afterward, he stands on the podium soaked in mud and rain, a sponsor cap pulled over wet hair. He answers questions with short phrases while the interviewer tries to drag celebration out of him. His left hand opens and closes at his side, forearm visibly swollen.
He is in pain.
You see it because you are looking for it.
His shoulder does not lift fully when he raises the trophy.
You remain near the exit from the podium area while staff and photographers move around you. For one impossible moment, he walks directly toward where you stand.
Your heart becomes painful.
He is close enough for you to see mud dried in the fine lines beside his eyes.
Then Choso intercepts him, one hand coming to the back of his neck while he says something urgent. Sukuna’s expression changes. Not fear, just attention. He turns, and the team closes around him, leading him toward the medical area.
You watch him disappear.
He does not look back.
You tell yourself you are disappointed because you wanted to know whether he was injured or not.
That is only partly true.
The tension grows from all the moments that fail.
A glance through a barrier.
His hand lifting as if he might call you closer before a reporter pushes a microphone toward him.
Your body turning instinctively when his engine starts inside the paddock.
The way he sometimes looks for you after landing, scanning the front rows until he finds the dress, jacket or color you chose specifically to make the task easier.
You know how to be noticed.
This is not vanity.
It is a skill and you excel at it.
You understand lines, fabrics, contrast. You know when a neckline becomes memorable rather than excessive, when a coat shapes your body instead of hiding it, when a flash of gold at your throat catches stadium light. You know how to stand without fidgeting and meet a man’s eyes as if you have every right to hold them.
Sukuna notices everything, that much you can tell.
The more often you appear, the less he bothers pretending otherwise.
Once, he is being interviewed beside the track after winning a heat race. His helmet is off. Sweat has darkened his pink hair at the roots, and his chest rises hard beneath the jersey. The interviewer asks about a pass in the rhythm section. Sukuna answers while looking past the man’s shoulder toward your seat.
You smile at him.
His next sentence stops halfway through.
The interviewer glances back, trying to locate the distraction.
Sukuna drags his attention away and finishes the answer with irritation sharp enough that the man immediately changes topics.
Another time, you are at the paddock barrier when a woman holds out her phone and asks for a photograph. She leans too close. Sukuna signs the case instead of posing. When she protests, he hands it back and looks over her head at you.
You should not feel pleased with that, it’s petty, you know.
However, you do.
Months pass like this.
A period long enough for the people near his team area to begin recognizing you.
Choso gives you an assessing look the fourth time he sees you. By the sixth, he nods. Mei Mei watches with open calculation, gaze moving from you to Sukuna and back. One of the younger mechanics smiles whenever you arrive, as if you are part of an ongoing joke no one has explained.
Sukuna remains unreachable.
Until the night he decides otherwise.
It happens after a stadium event late in the season.
The main race is over. Sukuna wins after a poor start and a violent charge through the field, taking the lead with four minutes remaining. His final pass is made through the whoops, rear wheel skipping hard enough that the bike kicks sideways twice before settling. He crosses the finish and throws one arm up.
The roar inside the stadium becomes physical.
You are close to the floor, standing near the barrier with your hands gripping the rail. He takes the victory lap slowly, helmet turned toward the stands. When he reaches your section, he stops accelerating.
The bike rolls.
His head tilts.
The dark lens of his goggles points directly at you and for you, the time freezes.
Then he revs once and continues.
Your legs remain weak for several minutes. You live in that moment for a whole hour.
The freestyle presentation follows later, after interviews and another class race. Sukuna appears on a separate bike beneath moving lights and smoke, introduced not only as the night’s winner but as the reigning 450 champion.
The announcer builds the crowd with old footage of his biggest saves and most aggressive passes.
He performs two enormous whips, one in each direction, then a no-hander that makes you forget how dangerous confidence can be when attached to skill.
His final jump is lower, faster and more controlled than the others.
Not the most spectacular.
The most like him.
When the show ends, people begin moving toward the exits. You wait because leaving immediately means spending an hour trapped in traffic and because part of you is not ready to let the night finish.
Maki is not with you. You came alone, wearing a short dark coat over a fitted dress and boots chosen for appearance rather than comfort. Your feet ache. Your throat is dry from cheering. Your ears ring despite the plugs you wore through most of the program.
You wander toward the outer concourse, then down a route marked for hospitality access because your upgraded ticket allows it, considering lighting a cigarette just to spend time.
Staff are clearing equipment. Music still plays through the stadium at a lower volume. People with team credentials move between service corridors.
You nearly miss him.
The sound catches you first.
A motorcycle engine at idle, unmistakable for you after obsessing over them for so long.
You turn.
Sukuna is seated on the bike near a gated service lane, one boot planted on the concrete. He is still wearing his gear, though the helmet is off and rests against the bars. His hair is damp and disordered, face flushed from exertion. The top of his jersey has been pulled loose at the throat.
There is no crowd around him.
No barrier either.
Just a security guard farther down the corridor and a team member speaking into a radio near the gate.
Sukuna looks as if he has been waiting.
The thought is too arrogant to trust until he speaks,
“You planning to walk past me?”
You stop.
His voice is deeper than it sounds through interviews.
Rougher too.
Your mouth goes dry for a second time and your eyes widen a fraction.
“I didn’t know I was allowed to stop,” you reply, then beat yourself up for it for the next seconds.
“Hasn’t stopped you from staring.”
You recover enough to smile.
“You stare back.”
He looks you over slowly, with no attempt at politeness. Heat gathers beneath your coat despite the cold draft moving through the service entrance.
“Do I?”
“You’re not subtle, champion.”
“Never needed to be.”
The engine vibrates low and steady beneath him. He keeps one hand on the clutch and shifts his weight on the seat. The movement looks casual until you notice what it does — opens his body toward you, brings one knee slightly wider, allows him to lean closer without standing.
You take a few steps nearer.
The security guard glances over. Sukuna does not acknowledge him.
Up close, the aftermath of the race is visible. Sweat tracks from his temple to his jaw. A faint scrape crosses the skin beneath one eye. His forearms are pumped beneath the sleeves, veins pronounced from grip and exertion. The tape at his right wrist has begun peeling.
“You nearly lost it in the whoops,” you comment, casual, as if you are someone that can comment on an athlete's decision.
His eyebrows lift.
You can see it is not the opening he expected.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Your rear kicked twice.”
“I felt it.”
“You looked like you were about to get thrown over the bars.”
“If I were about to get thrown, I would’ve been thrown.”
“That sounds like something people say after surviving a really bad decision.”
His mouth curves.
Not the false, impatient expression he uses when sponsors expect friendliness.
A real grin.
It shows the edge of one sharp canine and changes him enough that the immediate effect reaches you , low, hot.
“You think it was a bad decision?”
He drawls and the arrogance is there.
“I think passing there was unnecessarily dangerous.”
“I won.”
“That does not improve the logic behind the bad decision,” you raise one eyebrow as you point out.
“It improves everything. I look amazing.”
You laugh despite yourself.
His gaze stays on your face while you do. Something in him seems to ease, though his shoulders remain held with the rigid tension of someone whose body has not yet accepted that the race is over.
“So. How long?” he asks.
You frown.
“How long what?”
“How long have you known enough about motocross to criticize my line choice?”
“A little while,” you offer, feigning innocence.
“That supposed to be an answer?”
“You’ve seen me enough times to know I don’t come only for the fireworks, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you.”
The words are quiet.
Certain.
They strip the teasing out of the exchange for a moment.
The engine idles between you, filling the silence with a dense mechanical pulse. Sukuna leans forward, resting one forearm across the handlebars. The posture brings his face closer. His eyes are still vivid despite exhaustion.
“You were at Foxborough,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Mud race before that.”
“Mhm.”
“Exhibition in Osaka.”
You had not been sure he saw you there.
Your chest tightens.
“You keep count?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You just listed them in order, though.”
He studies you for a long second, then looks at your mouth.
The shift is slight.
You feel it everywhere.
A team member approaches from the gate.
“Sukuna, Mei Mei wants—”
“Later.”
“She said now.”
“She says a lot of things.”
The man hesitates, glances at you and seems to understand something.
“Five minutes.”
Sukuna’s expression hardens, still his eyes don’t leave you.
“Ten. Maybe. I'll see her when I see her.”
The team member leaves without arguing.
You look after him.
“You seem easy to work with,” you smirk, looking at the poor staff that will probably be in the receiving end of the woman's fury.
“I’m excellent to work with.”
“Everyone appears terrified of you.”
“Efficient, isn’t it?”
He turns off the motorcycle.
The sudden absence of vibration makes the corridor feel strangely intimate. Your ears adjust to distant music and the rolling wheels of equipment cases.
Sukuna swings one leg over the bike and stands.
You know he is tall.
Knowing does not prepare you for him unfolding to his full height directly in front of you.
The motocross boots add even more. His shoulders are wider than they appeared across the barrier. The gear exaggerates him in some places and constrains him in others. He takes one step closer and the space between you becomes too small for indifference.
“You got somewhere to be?” he asks.
“No.”
“Someone waiting?”
“Nope.”
His eyes flick down to your event pass, then back up.
“Come with me.”
You should ask where. You follow him instead.
He rolls the bike beside him through the service gate, walking with the slight stiffness of someone locked inside heavy boots and protective equipment. The security guard watches but says nothing. A staff member opens another door after seeing Sukuna’s credentials.
You enter a restricted corridor lined with temporary signs, cables and stacked cases. The noise of the public areas fades behind concrete. Sukuna hands the motorcycle to a crew member without explanation.
“Team’s loading it,” the man says. “Choso wants feedback on the rear.”
“Too soft after the heat.”
“He thought you’d say that.”
“He should’ve fixed it before the main, then.”
The crew member rolls the bike away.
You look at Sukuna.
“Was that why it kicked?”
“No. That was me being faster than the section.”
The confidence is unbearable.
His dressing room is not glamorous. You expected something built around celebrity, but it resembles a functional locker room with better furniture. There is a couch, a padded table, a small refrigerator and a rack holding casual clothes. Bottles of water and electrolyte drinks crowd the counter. Fresh towels sit beside a medical kit.
Sukuna closes the door behind you.
Not locks, that would’ve been alarming, — though you doubt you'd try to run — simply closes.
Without the engine and the public space, you become sharply aware of his breathing. It is not as controlled as his voice suggests. His chest still rises more deeply than normal. Fine tremors pass through the muscles of one forearm when he flexes his hand.
He catches you watching.
“What?”
“Your hands.”
He looks down as if they belong to someone else.
“Arm pump.”
“Bad?”
“Had worse.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“You always interrogate people you’ve just met?”
“Only the ones who nearly launch themselves into stadium seating before asking me to follow them into private rooms, why you ask?”
His grin returns.
He reaches for the zipper at his throat.
“Private bothering you now?”
The question lands heavily.
You hold his gaze and trust he can't hear your heart thundering inside your chest.
“No.”
“Good.”
He draws the zipper down while maintaining eye contact.
The sound is small, metallic and obscene in the quiet room.
You look away on instinct.
That lasts approximately two seconds.
The riding suit opens over the jersey, peeling away from the breadth of his chest and shoulders. He works one arm free, then the other, pausing when the right shoulder catches. His jaw tightens. He rolls it carefully before tugging the sleeve down.
“You hurt it tonight?”
“Old.”
“Unstable?”
His eyes narrow.
“You a doctor?”
“No.”
“Then stop diagnosing me.”
“You’re the one wincing over there.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
He lowers the suit to his waist and turns partly away to remove his gloves. The jersey clings between his shoulder blades, soaked darker with sweat. You can see the movement of every muscle beneath the fabric. The shirt pulls when he reaches behind his neck, exposing a strip of tan skin above the waistband.
Your attention stays too long.
“You came in here to talk, hm?” he says without looking at you.
“I am… talking.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He drags the jersey over his head.
Thought becomes way more difficult after that.
He is not merely muscular in the way attractive men who visit gyms are muscular. His body is built by repeated violence against motion. Thick shoulders, large arms, a chest carved by strength and breath. His waist narrows sharply beneath his ribs, deep V line vanishing under his lowered suit. Dark tattoos cross his skin in bands and angles, following the planes of muscle rather than hiding them.
Scars interrupt the ink.
A pale line near his collarbone. Small marks along one shoulder. A larger scar low across his side. Bruising darkens both hips where gear or impact pressed during the race. Red lines cross his ribs and back from protective equipment. The pressure marks at his waist look almost painful.
He turns.
You fail to look away, enthralled by his image.
His crimson eyes settle on your face, then drift lower as if checking where your attention has landed.
“Like what you’re seeing?”
The heat in the room changes.
It is probably your imagination. The dressing room is warm from the building systems, and you are still wearing a coat intended for the cold outside. That must be it.
That does not explain the dampness at the base of your spine and between your legs, though.
You take off the coat because doing something with your hands seems necessary.
Sukuna watches the movement.
“You asked me in here and started undressing,” you say. “Feels unfair to mock me for looking.”
“Not mocking.”
“No?”
“Enjoying.”
His gaze moves over the dress you chose specifically because it shapes your waist and leaves just enough skin visible at the chest and thighs to be remembered.
Recognition glints in his eyes.
“You always dress like this for races?”
“Only the good ones.”
“Lying already?”
You smile despite the pounding in your chest.
“You think you know me, superstar?”
“I know you choose where you stand in every race.”
His voice lowers.
“Know you wear things I can see from the track.”
You go still and hold your breath.
He steps out of the suit, lowering it over his hips and thighs. The base layer beneath is fitted close, leaving no question about the strength in his legs, nor the... well, you lower your eyes. One knee is enclosed in a brace with articulated supports. He unfastens it methodically while holding your gaze.
“You noticed me, then,” you aim on sounding smug, but your voice comes out too low for that.
“I notice everything on track.”
“That isn’t exactly track, is it?”
“No. Still worth noticing.”
The answer is immediate.
Your pulse becomes almost painful.
Sukuna sits on the edge of the padded table to remove his boots. He has to pull hard at each one, forearms flexing with the effort. When the first comes free, he exhales through his nose and stretches his ankle. A vivid red pressure mark circles the skin. The second boot reveals a scraped shin and another deep line where the protective shell pressed.
You stop trying to hide your concern.
“How much of you is bruised?”
“Enough.”
“That seems unsustainable.”
“So is racing. Hasn’t stopped me.”
He tosses the boot aside and looks up.
The shiver moves through him then.
Quick. Nearly invisible.
His shoulders tighten once, skin lifting with gooseflesh despite the warmth.
Adrenaline leaving.
You recognize it from what you read.
Without thinking, you take one of the clean towels from the counter and hold it out.
Sukuna looks at it.
Then at you.
Something unreadable passes through his face.
“You planning to dry me yourself?”
“You’re shivering,” you comment as if it’s not obvious to him.
“I’m not cold.”
“I know.”
For the first time that night, he has no immediate answer.
He takes the towel eventually, fingers brushing yours. His hands are big, veiny, rougher than you imagined. Calluses sit thick at the base of each finger, skin worn by grips, gloves and years of holding a machine that tries constantly to leave him behind.
He rubs the towel over his hair.
The gesture leaves it more disordered. Charming, nonetheless.
“What was your favorite part?” he asks casually.
You need a moment to follow the change.
“In tonight’s race?”
“Unless you’ve got something else in mind.”
There is enough innuendo in the sentence to make you look at him sharply.
He lifts one slit eyebrow.
You decide not to reward him yet.
“The pass through the whoops.”
“Thought it was a bad decision,” he jeers.
“It was. Still impressive.”
“What else?”
“The left whip during the presentation,” you offer, tilting your head, remembering the maneuver.
“Why?”
“You held the bike flatter.”
“Opposite direction’s harder.”
“I know.”
His towel stills for a moment and you see the doubt flashing behind carmine eyes that narrow as they find yours.
“You know?”
“You drop your right shoulder more on your natural side. Going left, you keep your upper body tighter and pull the bike farther under you before landing,” you nerd out without thinking much about how you’ve really studied him and the sport he excels at.
You're explaining his maneuvers and methods to himself. You may have gotten to the point of looking like a weirdo or a stalker.
Silence.
Not empty silence.
Sukuna looks at you with a focus more intense than any glance across a crowd.
You feel seen down to the choices that brought you here.
“You really did your homework,” he says. "Good girl."
“I wanted to understand what I was watching,” you pretend you didn't hear the praise for your own good and the well being of your heart.
“Most people just want a crash or a backflip,” he deadpans.
“I wanted to know why you look different from everyone else,” you say in a sheepish tone, but really honest.
His expression shifts.
You have complimented him before, indirectly, through your attendance and attention. But this reaches him in a place applause does not. You can see it in the way his grip loosens around the towel. In the brief movement of his throat when he swallows. In how he looks away for the first time since you entered.
“What makes me different, then?” he asks.
The question is quieter than you expect from him.
You lean back against the counter.
“You don’t look like you’re fighting the bike out there.”
“That’s because I’m not.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“Making it do what I want.”
You open a warm smile.
“That.”
He gives you a look that suggests the answer pleases him more than he intends to show.
Then he stands, crossing the room toward the clothing rack.
He is close when he passes.
Too close for accident.
The heat of his bare skin reaches you. His shoulder nearly touches yours. The towel hangs around his neck, and one end brushes your arm. You catch the scent of sandalwood, sweat, leather, the mineral bite of dried dirt and the faint medicinal smell of athletic tape.
He stops beside you instead of continuing.
Your breath catches and you go still like a deer in headlights.
Sukuna reaches slowly past your shoulder for a bottle of water on the counter — his chest inches from yours.
He twists the cap open and drinks while watching you over the rim. Water moves down his throat. A small drop escapes near his mouth and tracks along his jaw.
You look, because how the fuck could you not?
He notices.
Impossible not to at this distance.
“You’re sweating,” he comments.
“Because you’re standing on top of me?” You try your best not to let your voice crack.
“Could move.”
He does not.
Neither do you.
“You invited me to talk, right?” you remind him.
“Talking.”
“Could've fooled me." you deadpan and the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I guess it's your turn to undress then.”
He is teasing you, you know it, and he’s so fucking infuriating you just blink at him.
It should ease the tension.
Instead, the familiarity makes it a bit worse.
Sukuna finally steps away, turning to pull on dark jeans. He dresses without modesty and without making a performance of it, which somehow turns every ordinary movement into one. He adds a black shirt, fitted enough that the shape of his body remains obvious. A thin silver chain follows, the dog tag resting against his sternum. Heavy leather boots replace the motocross ones. He shrugs into a leather jacket last.
The transformation is startling.
The athlete disappears again, but not into the hostile public figure from behind the barrier. This version looks as though he belongs in dark bars after midnight, one hand around a glass and the other resting somewhere perhaps dangerous.
He catches you staring at the jacket.
“Disappointed?”
“That you put clothes on?” You glare at him, but you kinda are.
Your lips curve up slightly.
His grin sharpens.
“Honest, aren’t we?”
“Almost always. Trying my best here,” you shrug.
“You’re really bad at it,” he tilts his head slightly.
“Then why do you look this pleased?”
“Because you’re bad at hiding everything else too.”
He approaches again.
This time he stops far enough away to give you a choice, though his eyes make the distance feel meaningless.
“I’m getting a drink,” he says. “Come with me.”
Your answer is a nod that is more enthusiastic than you wish it was.
The expression that crosses his face is too satisfied for such a small victory.
Champion, champion
I'm calling you from the future
To let you know we've made a mistake
There's a fog from the past that's giving me
Giving me such a headache
And I'm back with a madness
I'm a champion of the people
Who don't believe in champions
I got nothing but dreams inside
I got nothing but dreams
I'm just young enough to still believe, still believe
But young enough not to know what to believe in
Young enough not to know what to believe in, yeah
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything
Champion, champion
Champion, champion
I got rage every day, on the inside
The only thing I do is sit around and kill time
I'm trying to blow out the pilot light
I'm trying to blow out the light
I'm just young enough to still believe, still believe
But young enough not to know what to believe in
Young enough not to know what to believe
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything
Champion, champion
I can do anything
Champion, champion
And I can do anything
Champion, champion
And I can do anything
Champion, champion
I can do anything!
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
And I can do anything
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this, I can do anything
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
If I can live through this
I can do anything
I can do anything
I can do anything
I can do anything!
sum: you get sent into a mission with Sukuna once again, because Yaga is a son of a bitch. Things go as they usually do, but when you both leave the battle grounds, something has changed. Not something, someone. Sukuna is acting even weirder than his usual unbearable self.
tags: fluff, true form sukuna, everyone is alive and teaching on jujutsu high, yeah sukuna too, you and sukuna are worse than sukuna and gojo in the bickering, this curse is a damn parasitic piece of shit, some yearning happening right there if you pay attention.
Part One: Tainted Love | Part two: Fake Out. | Part Three: Heartbreak Feels So Good
art by: @lacquerheadd
You are starting to think Yaga actively enjoys making your life harder.
There is no other explanation for why, out of every capable sorcerer on staff, he keeps pairing you with Sukuna.
Not Gojo, who would at least turn the whole thing into a joke and buy you coffee after. Not Nanami, who would be quiet and efficient and get the job done with minimal nonsense. Not Shoko, who would smoke through the paperwork and call the whole thing stupid with enough honesty to make it tolerable. Not even Suguru, who has the patience to stand there looking disappointed until people correct themselves.
No. It is always you and Sukuna.
You and the strongest sorcerer in history.
You and the most insufferable bastard currently breathing.
You and the man who looks like a calamity given shape — two meters of muscle and old violence, four arms, four eyes, black markings cutting over his skin like deliberate blasphemy, a mouth in his stomach, arrogance in every movement like the world itself should be grateful he has not split it open.
You hate how he talks to people. You hate the way he looks at colleagues like they are barely worth acknowledging. You hate how he acts like being right excuses being unbearable. You hate how he can do almost anything better than anyone else and never lets anybody forget it.
Most of all, you hate that Yaga keeps looking at both of you like this arrangement is somehow useful.
“He responds to you,” Yaga had said once, standing in his office with his hands folded behind his back while you stared at him in disbelief.
“He responds to me because I tell him to go fuck himself.”
“Yes,” Yaga had answered, completely serious. “That.”
You had looked at him for a long moment, then pointed towards the window, towards the rest of the school grounds as if the answer might be outside.
“There are students here. Children. Young people trying to learn. Why would you keep sending me as if I’m his goddamn handler?”
“Because,” Yaga had said, calm as stone, “when Sukuna gets excited in the field, collateral damage rises.”
“And that’s my problem...?”
“It becomes everyone’s problem.”
You had wanted to strangle him.
Instead you had left with your mission file and a headache already forming, knowing exactly how the day would go. Sukuna would be waiting somewhere he had no business standing, probably with that bored look that made it seem like he found all of this beneath him. He would say something cutting within the first thirty seconds. You would snap back. He would smirk, because apparently pissing you off counts as entertainment. Then you would head out, do the job, and try not to kill each other before the curse did.
That is exactly how it goes.
The abandoned lot lies on the edge of the city, boxed in by half-demolished warehouses and rusting chain-link fences. Wild grass pushes through broken concrete. There are whole stretches where the ground has caved in, exposing older foundations below, damp and black and threaded with cursed residue so thick it prickles over your skin before you even step past the police tape.
The reports say several missing persons over the last three weeks. Homeless people mostly. Two thrill-seeking teenagers. One contractor who ignored every warning and came in after dark because he thought urban legends were good fun until one of them bit him in half.
You stand with your hands in your pockets while the veil settles over the property and mutter,
“This place smells like shit.”
Beside you, Sukuna tilts his head slightly, scenting the air with that infuriatingly calm expression.
“Special-grade adjacent.”
“Glad the mighty king of curses can identify the obvious.”
His upper right hand flexes once, like he considers swatting the comment away and decides against it.
“You should be grateful I am here at all.”
You snort.
“I was doing fine before you decided to become faculty.”
His gaze cuts to you, all four eyes narrowing just enough to say he has noticed the wording.
“Doing fine.”
“Mm.”
“You sound unconvinced by your own lie.”
“And you sound exactly like why I hate staff meetings.”
One of the corners of his mouth lifts. It is the expression of someone amused in a way that promises trouble.
“Stay out of my way,” he says.
“You first.”
Then the ground ahead bursts open.
Concrete erupts in a spray of dust and jagged chunks. A shape drags itself up from the collapsed trench beneath the lot, huge and slick and wrong, all fused mouths and jointed limbs, too many eyes opening across its torso as though a dozen separate curses have been forced together and told to breathe with the same lungs.
It lets out a wet howl that vibrates through the air and into your teeth.
Sukuna steps forward like he has just been offered dessert.
You grab the back of his uniform before he can launch fully into it.
“Hey.”
He glances back over one shoulder.
“Remember,” you say flatly, “the job is exorcism. Not redecorating half the district.”
His sneer deepens.
“You insult me.”
“I babysit you.”
That earns you a low, ugly chuckle, and then he moves.
Watching Sukuna fight is always an ugly kind of miracle.
You hate admitting it, even in the privacy of your own mind, but the truth of him in battle is impossible to deny.
He does not simply engage a curse. He dominates space around it. The entire field shifts to him, bends around his presence, becomes his terrain. It’s mesmerizing to watch how mercurial he becomes as he fights.
The thing lunges and he slips aside with contemptuous ease, lower right hand catching one limb, upper left hand tearing another off at the joint.
Black blood sprays.
The curse shrieks.
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
You swear under your breath and move in before he can get too carried away, cursed technique flaring hot and bright along your arms as you carve through the mass splitting away from the main body. Smaller appendages skitter over the broken concrete, each with snapping teeth, trying to circle behind him and burrow into the blind spots he barely has.
You destroy three in quick succession, pivot under another, and shout,
“Left!”
“I have eyes,” Sukuna says, but one of his hands snaps out anyway and crushes the crawler before it reaches him.
“Use all of them, then.”
You hate him a little more every time you have to watch him enjoy himself.
“Are you done fucking around yet?” you shout, voice carrying over the crash of rubble.
All four of his eyes cut up toward you for a second. The upper pair narrows. The lower pair looks almost amused.
“Come down and do it yourself, then.”
You grit your teeth so hard your jaw pops.
The central body of the curse rears back. One of the mouths in its chest stretches open far wider than anatomy should allow, cursed energy building at its core.
You feel the surge a heartbeat before it fires.
“Sukuna!”
He does not dodge.
Of course he does not dodge.
He plants his feet and meets the blast with a grin that makes your stomach drop, as though the worst thing about him is not his strength but the way he enjoys using it. The impact tears a trench through the lot, pulverizing a warehouse wall behind him, and smoke blooms upward in a thick black cloud.
When it clears, he is still standing there.
Mostly.
His uniform hangs in scorched strips off one shoulder. Burned skin peels back along his side, already knitting itself together under reversed cursed technique, steam curling off him in ghostly streams. One of his eyes blinks through blood. His stomach mouth stretches in something like delight.
You stare for half a second too long.
Then he launches himself into the curse’s open chest.
The lot becomes carnage.
You do not know how many minutes pass, only that your lungs burn by the end of it, your forearms ache with the recoil of your technique, and the entire property looks like a bomb testing site.
The giant curse lies in sections. One piece still twitches. Sukuna stamps his heel through it with almost lazy finality.
Silence comes back in ragged pieces.
Dust drifts through the low evening light. The veil trembles and begins to dissolve. Somewhere beyond the lot, traffic resumes its distant hum, indifferent as ever.
You push sweaty hair out of your face and glare at the destruction.
“Yaga is going to have an aneurysm.”
Sukuna rolls one shoulder. Fresh skin has already replaced the worst of the burns. His eyes remain on the remains of the curse like he is still listening for another round.
“Then he should have sent me alone.”
You give him a look.
“So you could level the entire neighborhood?”
“It would have been faster.”
“It is always ‘faster’ with you. Then someone has to explain to the authorities why half the block vanished.”
He says nothing to that. He only stands there, breathing slow, steam fading from his skin.
That is when you notice something is off.
Not because he is quiet. Sukuna can be quiet, but it's the sort of quiet that makes people nervous because it is never truly absence, only restraint.
This is different.
The fight is over. He should either be needling you or insulting the curse for not being worth the trouble or looking half a second from demanding another hunt just to work the restlessness out of his system.
Instead he is staring.
Not at the remains.
At you.
You frown.
“What.”
His gaze does not move.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
His upper hands flex once at his sides, and for a strange, disjointed second he looks like a man listening to a conversation happening very far away. Then he clicks his tongue and turns from you.
You stare after him.
“What,” you repeat, more to yourself this time.
He does not answer. He only starts walking toward the exit gate.
You tell yourself it is nothing.
You tell yourself he is always odd. That trying to parse Sukuna’s moods is a guaranteed way to ruin an evening. That you are tired, sweaty, and already late getting back to campus, and the last thing you need is to start inventing new ways the king of curses can be bizarre.
By the time you both return to Jujutsu High, night has settled properly.
The school buildings sit under warm exterior lights, calm and orderly in a way that feels almost insulting after the wreck you just left behind. Students move through the corridors in pairs and clusters, some heading back from training, others from evening study. There is the usual mix of chatter and half-suppressed teenage chaos that clings to a boarding school no matter how many cursed objects or monsters exist around it.
You want one shower, one hot drink, and several hours where no one says the name Sukuna anywhere near you.
Instead, you stop by one of the halls because Suguru catches sight of you through an open classroom door and waves you in.
You lean on the frame, arms crossed.
“You look too relaxed. That means either your class went well or Gojo is somebody else’s problem tonight.”
Suguru smiles in that infuriatingly composed way of his.
“Both, actually.”
“Disgusting.”
Three of his students snicker. He ignores them.
“How was the mission?”
“Awful. Filthy lot, ugly curse, Sukuna in a fantastic mood which, as you know, is the worst possible mood for him.”
Suguru’s mouth tilts.
“And yet you are intact.”
“Barely.”
You start to step in fully, already reaching for the back of a chair, when the room shifts.
No. Not the room.
Your awareness of it.
Like someone large has entered your orbit without making a sound.
You turn.
Sukuna stands in the corridor behind you.
Not speaking. Not moving. Just there.
Weirdo.
Four eyes fixed on you.
You stare at him.
“Can I help you.”
“No.”
“Then why are you looming.”
“I am standing.”
“You are being weird.”
One of Suguru’s students abruptly remembers they have somewhere else to be and bolts. Another follows. Suguru watches the exchange with the kind of calm interest usually reserved for storms visible through safe windows.
Sukuna says nothing.
You wait.
He keeps looking at you.
A slow crease forms between your brows.
“What the fuck do you want.”
His expression shifts, faintly, like annoyance at the question itself.
“Nothing.”
“Then leave?” you feel yourself almost snapping from how infuriating this man is.
He does not.
Suguru coughs into one hand, definitely hiding amusement.
“Maybe,” he offers mildly, “he has something to discuss.”
“Then he can discuss it like a person and not like a haunted wardrobe.”
Sukuna’s gaze flicks to Suguru, then back to you.
“You speak too much.”
“You are welcome to fix that by walking away.”
He still does not leave.
You end up standing there another ten seconds just staring at him before you realize this will go nowhere. You ignore him, then, and keep talking to Suguru. Sukuna is still there, not speaking, not leaving, just occupying the space at your side like some huge, unsettling piece of furniture that breathes.
You turn again, already irritated.
“What, Sukuna?”
He looks at you in that same strange way he did at the lot. Intent and still. All four eyes fixed on your face and he seems to be fighting an internal battle you don't wanna know about.
Suguru shifts beside you.
Sukuna’s mouth curls just slightly, not quite a smile.
“Nothing.”
The answer lands wrong once again and you want to rip his face off for it. Instead, you stare at him.
“Then fuck off.”
He stays there another few seconds, then opens the door to the building when you move toward it.
Holds it. Actually holds it.
You stop short.
He lifts his chin, impatient now, as if you are the one making this weird.
You go through because standing there arguing about a door would somehow be even more humiliating. Suguru follows behind you, and you hear him exhale through his nose in quiet disbelief.
Later, when you pass the teachers’ lounge, there is a cup of coffee on the desk you usually steal from.
Black, no sugar. Exactly how you take it.
You look around the room.
Nanami looks up from grading. Shoko is half-asleep in a chair. Gojo is sprawled across the couch in a way that should not be physically possible.
“Did one of you—”
“Not me,” Shoko says without opening her eyes.
Gojo grins, too quick, too wide.
“You’ve got an admirer.”
“Shut up.”
Nanami adjusts his glasses.
“It was Sukuna.”
You stare at the coffee like it might be poisonous.
“He sneered the whole time,” Gojo adds helpfully. “Which somehow made it worse and funnier.”
You do not drink it immediately. You spend almost a full minute glaring at it first, eyebrows pinched so tight your forehead hurts. Then you drink it anyway because you are tired and the coffee smells good and you refuse to let him ruin caffeine for you too.
That evening in the cafeteria he corners you near the drinks machine.
There is no better word for it.
He does not touch you, he is simply too large, too close, too solidly there.
One second you are reaching for a canned tea, the next he is in front of you, broad shoulders blocking the aisle.
Students scatter without being told.
You keep your expression flat through effort and sigh.
“What.” you ask again, flat, thinking of how many times you're gonna have to ask him what the fuck is he doing in a single day.
He tilts his head, studying you.
“Come with me tonight on a date.”
You bark a laugh before you can stop it because what the actual everloving fuck.
“No.”
His upper right eyes narrow.
“You declined too quickly.”
“I’d rather eat a brick than going out with you.”
There is a beat of silence. Then, incredibly, he tries again.
“Tomorrow, then.”
You actually look behind you, just to check if Gojo is hiding somewhere filming this for blackmail.
When you turn back, Sukuna is exactly where he was, waiting.
You feel your eyebrows drawing together again, and now you are actually feeling yourself worry a bit.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He does not answer that either. He only watches you, gaze tracking every tiny shift in your face like he is memorizing it.
You step around him and leave.
It gets harder after that.
Every hallway seems to have him in it. Every room. Every conversation.
You are talking to Shoko in the infirmary and he appears in the doorway, says nothing, leaves only when you do. You are reviewing lesson plans with Nanami and he passes by three times in ten minutes despite having no reason to be in that wing at all.
By the time you find Gojo leaning against the training field fence after class, you are already keyed up and meaner than usual.
“There’s something wrong with him,” you say.
Gojo, for once, does not joke immediately. He watches Sukuna across the field, where he is standing utterly still while first-years pretend not to stare.
“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”
“He keeps following me.”
“Mhm.”
“He asked me out, Gojo.”
Gojo’s grin flashes, then fades when he sees your face.
“Okay, yeah. That part’s new.”
You fold your arms hard over your chest.
“Whatever happened in that lot, it didn’t end there.”
Gojo grows a little more serious then, eyes hidden behind his blindfold but attention unmistakably sharp.
“Suguru thought so too.”
“Is it possession?”
“Maybe.” He tips his head. “He’s less murderous than usual.”
“That’s not really comforting.”
“No, I know.” He pauses. “He’s focused, though. Weirdly focused.”
“On me,” you say flatly.
“On you,” he agrees.
Your stomach sinks a little at hearing it aloud.
The day keeps going. You teach. Or try to.
The students are restless, the evening humid, the classroom too warm. Chalk dust clings to your fingers. You are in the middle of explaining the structure of a barrier technique when the door slams open hard enough to hit the wall.
Suguru stands there, breathing a little fast.
Every head in the room turns.
“Come with me,” he says.
You blink and stare at him, wide eyed.
“What?”
“Now.”
Something in his face empties your lungs.
You hand the chalk to the nearest student without even looking.
“Read the next section. Quietly.”
No one argues. Suguru is already crossing the room, already grabbing your arm, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that it is clear you are moving whether you agree or not.
The corridor outside is too loud.
Banging. Splintering wood. The sharp, ugly sound of impact from somewhere deeper in the building. Another crash follows, heavier this time, and the floor trembles under your shoes.
You wrench your arm back just enough to keep pace beside Suguru instead of behind him.
“What happened?”
He keeps moving.
“Don’t stop.”
“What happened, Suguru?” you try again, hating the suspense.
Another impact. Closer.
Students are being herded the opposite way by other teachers, pale and wide-eyed. The fluorescent lights overhead shiver.
Suguru finally answers, voice clipped.
“Sukuna lost his mind. He thinks we want to keep him from his wife.”
Your blood runs cold.
A roar of ruined plaster tears through the hall ahead. Then a body comes through the wall to your left in a burst of dust and broken concrete.
You jerk back so hard your shoulder smacks the lockers.
Gojo rolls with it, hits the ground, comes up on one knee already grinning like a lunatic even with blood at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, that’s fun,” he says, wiping his lip with the back of his hand.
You stare at the ragged hole in the wall, heart pounding high in your throat.
Heavy footsteps.
Not hurried. Not wild.
Heavy and deliberate, each one shaking dust from the ceiling.
Suguru moves half a step in front of you without seeming to.
“Satoru,” you call, because your voice is the only thing you can hear clearly.
He stands, brushing concrete grit off his shoulder.
“We think something latched onto him during the mission.”
Your head whips toward him.
“What kind of something?”
“The annoying kind.”
Another step.
The outline filling the ruined classroom beyond is too big to be anyone else.
Four arms. Too many eyes reflecting in the powdery light.
Tattoos cutting dark over skin and bared muscle where his uniform top has torn at the shoulder.
He looks at no one else.
Only you.
Your mouth goes dry.
Suguru answers the question you have not yet managed to ask.
“It seems to have rooted itself in a fixation. And that would be his wife.”
You hear your own voice, thin with disbelief.
“What wife?”
Sukuna steps through the broken wall.
Concrete snaps beneath his feet. Dust clings to his shoulders and hair. There is a shallow cut across one cheek that is already closing.
Suguru responds with something you refuse to believe,
“You.”
“What?” You laugh once, breathless. “What the fuck do you mean, me?”
Gojo cracks his neck to one side.
“We think the curse hit the first person he properly focused on after the fight.”
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
Sukuna keeps walking.
His face is wrong in a way you cannot fully explain.
Controlled, but stretched over something feverish and absolute, like a man having a dream with his eyes open.
The hallway suddenly feels too narrow, too bright, too full of dust.
Gojo lowers his voice a fraction.
“We need time.”
You tear your eyes off Sukuna long enough to glare at him.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
“How much time?”
Another step. Closer now. Sukuna’s gaze does not waver.
Suguru says,
“Not much.”
You hate both of them for making you understand before they say anything else.
Your tongue feels thick.
“So I’m bait.”
“No,” Gojo says, "I mean..."
“Yes, I am.”
Neither of them answers.
That is answer enough.
You inhale once, too sharp, lungs burning with plaster dust and adrenaline. Your whole body is telling you to run, but that would be worse. You know it. They know it. Sukuna would tear through half the school to catch up, and then you would still end up here except with more blood in the hall.
So you step around Suguru.
Behind you, both men tense.
Ahead of you, Sukuna stops.
The silence that falls is almost worse than the noise.
You have to tilt your head back, craning your neck to look at him fully.
Up close he is ridiculous, monstrous in scale and presence, all brutal strength and heat. Your pulse is beating so hard you can feel it in your gums. He smells like dust, sweat, iron, the sharp ozone tang of cursed energy.
His eyes drag over your face like he is checking for injuries.
When he speaks, his voice is low and rough and terribly certain.
“Will you stop avoiding me now?”
Your eye twitches.
Of all the possible things he could have said, that one nearly makes you laugh from sheer disbelief.
“You are destroying a school hallway,” you say. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “And throwing teachers through walls.”
His expression does not change.
You force yourself to keep going.
“If you want me anywhere near you, you stop doing that first.”
For a second you think it works. He goes stiller, somehow. Listening.
Then you add, because someone has to try,
“You are cursed, Sukuna. There is something wrong with you.”
He scoffs.
Then, something happens so fast your body does not understand it at first.
One moment you are standing in front of him, furious and shaking and holding your ground on principle alone.
The next the floor is gone.
His hands are on you, one pair lifting, another securing, and suddenly your stomach drops as your body is hauled clean off the ground.
You hit his shoulder with a hard jolt that knocks the air out of you.
“What the fu— put me down!”
The world swings sickeningly. One of his arms braces the backs of your thighs to keep you from slipping while another settles heavy across your back. You can feel the heat of him through your uniform, the impossible solidity of muscle under skin.
You twist enough to glare back over his broad shoulder.
Gojo and Suguru are both staring.
Dust drifts lazily through the hall between all of you.
You do not dare say don’t fight him.
Do not dare say wait.
Do not dare say I am fine, because you are very much not.
So you settle for a look sharp enough to cut with.
Hurry the fuck up.
Suguru’s face hardens in understanding. Gojo’s grin is gone now, replaced by something colder.
Sukuna turns and starts walking.
You slam a palm against his back once, more insult than actual resistance.
“This is kidnapping, you know?”
“You were leaving.”
“I was not.”
“You were going to.”
“I teach here, asshole!”
“So do I.”
The absurdity of it all almost makes you choke.
The half-destroyed hallway lurches past beneath you as he carries you through it like your protesting means nothing at all. Broken plaster crunches under his feet. Teachers and students vanish from doorways the second he looks their way.
Night air spills in from somewhere ahead, cooler now, carrying the smell of rain and pine from the grounds.
You hate how helpless this feels.
You hate how your body is learning the shape of being carried by him against your will, cataloguing every hard line and shift of motion because it has no choice.
Hate the helpless bounce of each step.
Hate the strain in your stomach from trying not to panic.
Hate that you cannot tell if the shaking in your hands is fear or anger.
Probably both.
By the time he crosses the threshold out of the school building, the sky has deepened to indigo.
Campus lights are beginning to flicker on, pale and sterile against the trees.
You look back once over his shoulder.
The ruined corridor is now only a bright wound in the darkened building. You cannot see Gojo or Suguru anymore. You can only trust they are moving, searching, doing something useful while you are hauled farther and farther from where anyone can intervene quickly.
Sukuna does not head toward the staff wing. He does not head toward the road either.
He takes the stone path that leads toward his place.
Your mouth goes dry all over again.
He adjusts his grip on you, not gentle, not cruel either, just certain, and keeps walking as if this was always going to end with you in his arms and the whole school behind you.
The night feels suddenly huge.
You stare at the dark line of rooftops ahead, pulse hammering, every possible outcome crowding your head at once, and realize with a fresh stab of dread that whatever happens next, you are going to have to face it alone with him before anyone finds a way to stop this.
And Sukuna, maddened and resolute and carrying you like something already his, does not slow down once. You can’t do much, so you start thinking.
Thinking in that situation, unfortunately, is not helping much.
You had assumed the worst. Some locked room. Some insane display of territoriality. Maybe chains. Maybe Sukuna sitting outside a door like a living threat. Maybe a version of his fixation that becomes monstrous the moment there are no witnesses.
His home is large in the way that makes modern luxury seem almost embarrassed by itself. Not ostentatious, not cluttered, but it is expansive, high-ceilinged, clean-lined, expensive enough that you can tell every object in it was chosen and nothing was accidental.
Dark wood. Stone. Low lighting. Wide windows now reflecting the last of evening back at the room.
He still does not put you down until the front door has closed behind him.
When your feet finally hit the floor, you stagger. He steadies you at the waist automatically.
You slap both his wrists away.
“Hands off.”
Every one of his eyes fixes on your face.
Then, unexpectedly, he lifts all four hands and steps back half a pace.
The gesture should make you feel safer.
Instead it makes the room somehow stranger.
Because he is looking at you like restraint itself is painful.
His expression still carries its usual contempt at the edges, the natural sharpness of his face, the habitual sneer of someone made to rule through force. Yet underneath it there is something else working hard to surface. An almost restless pull in his body. His hands twitch once at his sides. Twice. Like he wants to reach and is stopping himself.
You swallow the lump in your throat.
The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable.
So you ask the first thing that comes out, voice low and somehow with real curiosity.
“What the hell is wrong with you.”
He stares.
“You are being impossible.”
“You abducted me from work.”
“They tried to keep me from you.”
“What,” you say, voice hoarse with secondhand embarrassment, “is wrong with your fucking brain.”
His mouth hardens.
“You are being difficult,” he goes on, voice low and rough with that peculiar certainty that only makes this worse. “Skittish. Avoidant. For no reason I can see. It is tiresome.”
You fold your arms, partly defensive, partly because you do not know what else to do with them.
“No reason?”
“You are my wife.” He says it like it is the simplest truth in the world. “You should let me embrace you. You should let me have you beside me as I wish.”
Half of you dies on the spot.
The other half goes up in flames so hot you swear your face could light the room.
You stare at him, unable to decide whether you want to laugh, scream, or throw something. The problem is that none of those responses would help. Not with the curse. Not with the school. Not with Satoru and Suguru buying time back there, trusting you to keep this disaster contained.
So you swallow the first ten things you want to say and force something else out instead.
“I am tired after the mission,” you say carefully, because this is still a game you are playing to keep him contained. “That’s all.”
His eyes hold yours for one long second.
Then he decides, with the ruthless simplicity that is very much still Sukuna, that this has a solution.
You know what he is doing a beat too late.
One moment you are standing.
The next you are in his arms.
Not hauled over his shoulder this time — scooped cleanly up, one set of arms under your knees, another at your back, as if carrying you like this is self-evident.
Your hands fly to his chest on instinct.
“Sukuna.”
“You are tired,” he says.
“That does not mean you can just keep picking me up.”
He looks down at you like the objection itself is irrelevant.
“I can.”
You open your mouth.
Close it again.
Because there is no point, and because he is already walking deeper into the house, and because some traitorous part of your body has noticed how warm he is.
Not warm. Hot.
He carries heat the way furnaces do, deep and constant, a living banked blaze under skin and muscle. It rolls into you through every point of contact.
You hate that you notice. You hate more that it feels good after the tension of the day.
He takes you to his bedroom.
Of course he does.
It is larger than your entire apartment had been in graduate housing.
Wide low bed. Dark sheets. Minimal furniture. Everything precise. The room of a man who does not need excess to prove anything. The curtains are half open, letting in city light in smeared bands.
You tense the moment he lowers you, but he does not trap you against the mattress.
He lies back first.
Then he settles you on top of him.
You freeze.
Completely, absurdly freeze.
Your cheek is pressed against the broad plane of his chest before you can decide where else it should go. One of his upper hands spreads over the middle of your back, heavy and steady. Another rests at your waist. The third braces lightly at your hip, not gripping, just holding your balance. The fourth lifts, pauses near your face, and then tucks a strand of hair carefully behind your ear.
The tenderness of it startles you harder than the kidnapping itself.
You do not know what to do with your face, your hands, your breathing, any of it. Your cheek grows hotter by the second where it is pressed to him, and you are suddenly grateful he cannot see all of it from this angle because if he does you might actually pass out.
He sounds almost practical when he speaks.
“Rest.”
That is all.
Just that.
Rest.
You stay rigid for nearly a minute, every muscle waiting for the catch.
There is none.
His hand on your back begins tracing idle shapes, broad slow passes that do not ask anything from you. The one at your waist only keeps you from sliding when his breathing shifts. Beneath your ear, his heart beats strong and even. No hurry to it. No escalation. No hidden demand.
You stare at the dark fold of his robe and think, in a stunned detached way, that you did not know this existed in him.
Not kindness exactly. Sukuna would spit on the word if someone used it about him.
But care, perhaps. Possessive care. Practical care.
The kind of thing that might surface only under very particular circumstances and then pretend afterward it had never been there at all.
You are so tired.
You do not know whether this tenderness belongs entirely to the curse or if it is only dragging something real out into the open and warping it beyond reason. The thought itself is dangerous. You shove it away.
You should not be wondering what Sukuna would be like with feelings. You should not be wondering whether there was ever a version of reality where he would touch someone like this without madness involved.
That is the problem.
Or maybe it is not the problem at all. Maybe the problem is that you have spent enough time around him over the last years to know the angles of his temper, the cadence of his contempt, the way he stands in a room and dares the world to be worth his effort.
Maybe the problem is that your relationship with him has always existed in clean familiar lines — professional, adversarial, sharp — and now every one of those lines is blurring because he has laid you on his chest like something precious and told you to sleep.
Your phone vibrates against your pocket.
You jolt like you have been caught.
Sukuna’s hand on your back stills.
“Ignore it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“It might be important.”
“It is not more important than your state.”
A pause.
Then, to your surprise, he does not stop you. He only grunts and lets you squirm one arm free enough to fish your phone out. The angle is awkward. You keep your cheek where it is because lifting your whole face feels impossible somehow.
The message is from Gojo.
managed to figure things out w shoko. curse should burn out on its own. keep him contained.
You squint at the screen, then type one-handed with ferocious irritation.
how long
There is a stretch where only Sukuna’s breathing and the faint city noise beyond the glass fill the room. He notices the device again after a minute and makes a dissatisfied sound.
“It distracts you from resting.”
“It is communication.”
“It is annoying.”
“You are annoying.”
That earns the smallest low chuckle, felt more than heard through his chest.
Then the reply comes.
around two days. yaga says do NOT bring him back unless u want the rest of the campus remodeled. sorry <3
You close your eyes.
Two days.
Two whole fucking days.
A fresh message follows before you can even process the first.
seriously though, are u okay?
You stare at it.
Then type back: no
delete it.
Type again: alive
Send.
The phone vanishes from your hand a second later.
You make a startled sound and lift your head just enough to glare. Sukuna has taken it with one of his upper hands and set it on the nightstand far beyond your reach.
“It was keeping you awake.”
You stare at him.
“You cannot just confiscate my phone.”
“I just did.”
“You are a twat.”
His thumb, the one resting between your shoulder blades, resumes its slow path.
“Sleep.”
And maybe it is the day finally catching up to you. Maybe it is the heat of him under you, the steady weight, the way his body is impossibly firm and yet more comfortable than any mattress has a right to be. Maybe it is the bone-deep exhaustion of adrenaline wearing off all at once.
Sukuna makes a quiet sound of satisfaction at your silence. His hand resumes its slow path along your back, tracing idle shapes that have no purpose except to soothe. The effect is immediate and humiliating. You can feel sleep creeping in through the cracks of your exhaustion no matter how hard you try to resist it.
After a while, one of his free hands finds one of yours. His fingers curl around it, big and callused and terribly warm, and that is what nearly undoes you.
You feel it happening and resent it instantly because this is absurd, because you should not be able to drift off draped over the most dangerous man alive, because some part of your mind is still screaming about every level on which this is wrong—
But his hand keeps moving. Slow. Measured. Thoughtless.
Your own body, traitorous bastard that it is, takes that as permission.
You fall asleep.
When you wake, the room is darker.
Not full night-dark. More the strange almost-blue hour before dawn or after it, where shapes exist in softness and the city outside has not fully committed itself yet. For a few hazy seconds you do not remember where you are.
Then you realize you are in a bed that is not yours, wrapped in warmth that is definitely not blankets alone. It takes you a moment to understand that you are no longer on top of Sukuna.
You are on the bed, curled toward him instead, one arm trapped between your chest and the mattress, your face almost buried in the broad wall of his chest. Sukuna is wrapped around you from both sides, his arms forming an inescapable cage.
His body is at your front, at your back, everywhere. You are boxed in by heat and muscle and the steady rise and fall of him breathing.
One arm heavy over your waist. Another tucked beneath the pillows behind your shoulders. A third resting over your thighs to keep you close. The fourth somewhere beneath your head, bent in a way that has caged you in without discomfort.
You lie there and breathe once.
Twice.
The peace of it is almost unbearable.
It feels nice.
That is the part that hurts, because for one dangerous second, you forget.
You forget the curse. The school. The fact that this is not normal, cannot be normal, should not make your chest feel this unbearably full.
All you know in that second is peace. Warmth. The strange, heavy comfort of being held like your place is meant to be exactly there.
If you let yourself stay in this feeling too long, if you let yourself believe the quiet and the warmth and the impossible steadiness of him mean something you are allowed to keep, you will be an idiot. Worse than an idiot.
You will be someone building softness out of a curse.
Out of a mistake lodged in a monster’s head.
Then you move.
Only a little. Just enough to test if you can untangle yourself.
His arms tighten at once.
“Stop wiggling, woman.” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
You go still on instinct, then scowl at yourself for it.
“I need to get up.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You do not.”
You angle your head back enough to glare at the underside of his jaw.
“I need to go home. I need a shower. I need clean clothes. I’m not spending the whole night covered in dust and sweat.”
That gets one eye to peel open. Then another. And another. Then all of them are on you again.
His face, when he finally looks down at you properly, is rumpled with sleep in a way you did not know he could be. It lasts only a second before that familiar disdainful look settles back into place.
“You can shower here.”
You close your eyes.
Sometimes you truly believe he is a moron.
“What would I wear, genius?”
He scoffs, offended by the question itself.
“I have infinite options for you.”
You drag a hand down your face.
At this point, what are your options? You are here. The curse needs time. Yaga wants him contained. Satoru and Shoko need these forty-eight hours to pass without bloodshed. You can either keep fighting every step of it and risk setting him off again, or you can endure it.
So you exhale and sit up at last, helped rather than hindered by the fact that Sukuna immediately releases you the moment he realizes you are not trying to leave the room entirely.
His bathroom is larger than your whole apartment kitchen.
Hot water pounds down over your shoulders and back, washing away the grime of the mission in long, steaming streams. Dust lifts. Sweat goes with it. The ache in your muscles sharpens first under the heat, then loosens bit by bit until you can finally breathe without feeling every bruise and strain from the day.
You stay in there too long on purpose.
Partly because you need it. Partly because you are delaying whatever awkwardness waits outside.
By the time you step out with damp hair and flushed skin, wrapped in a towel, Sukuna is waiting in the bedroom with a folded bundle in one of his hands.
He hands it over without ceremony.
It is one of his kimonos. Light fabric, soft, expensive in a quiet way, and much too large. You put it on anyway because there is nothing else to do. The hem drags. The sleeves swallow your hands. The collar slips wide enough at the neck that you have to tug it back into place.
When you emerge from behind the divider, he looks up.
And grins.
That wicked, knowing grin that makes you instantly suspicious.
“What?”
He looks you over once, slowly.
“It suits you.”
The compliment strikes clean through your guard.
You feel it happen. That awful, helpless rush of heat from throat to cheeks.
Sukuna’s grin widens.
You consider throwing something at his head. Instead you just glare and look away, which only gets you a low chuckle in response, deep and pleased and so uncharacteristically unguarded that you almost trip over your own thoughts.
He takes you to the kitchen next.
You expect arrogance there too, maybe uselessness, maybe the kind of man who has a beautiful kitchen he never touches because someone else does it for him.
Instead he cooks.
Quickly, efficiently, with the ease of someone who knows where everything is and uses it often.
Steam curls up from the pan. Oil hisses softly. Aromatics hit the heat and bloom into something that fills the whole room and makes your stomach tighten painfully with sudden hunger. He moves with the same economy he uses in battle, no wasted gestures, no hesitation, just one precise action flowing into the next.
You sit at the counter and watch despite yourself.
“You cook?”
He cuts you a glance.
“Do you believe I live on air?”
“I believed you lived on spite.”
That earns a low scoff that might almost be amusement.
When he sets the bowl in front of you, it looks simple. It tastes anything but.
The first bite makes a helpless little sound leave your throat before you can stop it.
He notices immediately.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“Good?”
You hate how easy honesty is when the food is this good.
“Annoyingly.”
He hums, satisfied with that.
You eat. You keep eating because it tastes incredible and because your body is still trying to catch up with the fact that you are clean and warm and no longer actively panicking.
By the time you finish, your limbs feel heavier in a different way. Rested, but only partly. The kind of tired that comes after a deep sleep taken too early, when the body has been tricked into thinking it is healed more than it is.
A yawn catches you by surprise.
You cover it with the back of your sleeve and stare down into the empty bowl, weighing what is left of the day. Or night. Time feels oddly meaningless in here.
The light outside the kitchen windows is pale and uncertain, somewhere between dawn and a cloudy morning.
You consider your options.
You could ask for your things from home. Message Shoko to bring clothes. Ask Yaga how classes are being covered. Try to impose some kind of schedule on this madness so you do not lose your mind first.
You could also admit, at least to yourself, that another hour of sleep would not be the worst thing in the world.
Sukuna watches you from across the counter, having finished his own portion long ago. He has that look again, attentive in a way that feels nearly predatory if not for the strange care threaded through it.
“You are still tired,” he says.
It is not a question.
You rub at one temple.
“That tends to happen after a mission, a kidnapping, a cursed delusion, and several identity crises in the span of one day.”
His expression does not change.
“Then sleep more.”
You let out a dry laugh.
“You know,” you mutter, “most people would ask what I want to do.”
“You are deciding,” he says, almost dismissive. “I am only stating the correct answer.”
There he is.
That pedantic, unbearable certainty settles over you so neatly that, absurdly, it is reassuring.
You lean your elbows on the counter and look at him through damp lashes and the remnants of your exhaustion.
“If I stay awake, you hover. If I sleep, you turn into a weighted blanket. If I leave the room, you follow me like an overgrown guard dog. So really my options are terrible.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, his mouth twitches.
“Correct.”
You snort despite yourself.
The sound surprises both of you.
Something loosens in the room after that, not fully, not safely, but enough for the tension to shift shape. Still dangerous. Still bizarre. But no longer poised right at the edge of breaking.
You know, instantly and viscerally, that the decision has been made without you.
“Do not,” you say, pointing your chopsticks at him in warning. “Do not pick me up again.”
His gaze drops to the chopsticks, then lifts back to your face.
And sure enough, a minute later you are back in his room.
This time at least you walk there on your own.
A victory. A tiny, humiliating victory.
The borrowed kimono brushes your ankles as you sit, then sink, then let yourself lean back into the bedding with a slow exhale. The fabric smells faintly like him too, which is not helping. Neither is the way he watches you do it, standing at the edge of the bed for only a heartbeat before climbing up after you.
And then he is over you.
For a second your thoughts blank entirely.
The movement is smooth, controlled, almost lazy in its certainty, yet the sight of it sends a sharp nervous thrill all the way through you.
Four arms bracket you in an instant, two planted beside your head, another pair settling lower near your sides and hips, his whole body a towering wall of heat and weight above you. He does not crush you. He only hems you in so completely that the rest of the room seems to vanish around the edges.
Your breath catches.
You try to keep your face composed, you really do, but the strain of it breaks all at once when his head dips and his nose brushes the long column of your neck.
A small, bright, utterly traitorous giggle bubbles up and bursts out of you.
It surprises you so badly your eyes widen right after, but it is too late to swallow back. It leaves you in a breathless little rush, nervous and euphoric all at once, and the second it is gone you feel every hair on your body stand on end.
Sukuna stills.
Not much. Just enough for you to feel it.
The tip of his nose drifts once more against your throat, slower this time, as if he is testing the reaction again. Your whole body shivers beneath him. Not from fear. Not from tension. From something warmer and far more humiliating.
That is when the truth hits you in a way you cannot sidestep.
Maybe you do feel something for him.
Maybe you have for longer than you let yourself think about, and all the irritation, the bickering, the professional distance, the snapping at each other in hallways and training grounds has been covering something else. Something softer. Something much more dangerous because it would have required honesty, and honesty with Sukuna has never once felt safe.
Your body gives you away before your mind can catch up.
It does not tense under his. It eases.
It yields to his warmth like it was waiting for a reason.
You realize, dimly, that your hands have closed around the front of his kimono at some point. You do not remember doing it. You only know that your fingers are twisted in the fabric near his chest, holding on like you might drift away if you let go.
The knowledge makes your face burn hotter.
Sukuna says nothing about it.
He lowers his mouth to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, where the collar of his borrowed kimono has slipped wide enough to bare skin, and presses a kiss there. You feel like the touch, tender as it is, scorches your skin. Then he presses another. Then another, each one unhurried and gentle in a way that does not suit him at all and yet somehow suits him perfectly in this terrible, secret place inside your chest you have not wanted to name.
There is no greed in it, no taking, no forceful urgency. Only a kind of reverence that seems impossible on him, as though he has found something he wants to handle carefully even if he does not quite understand why.
Your thoughts scatter for a moment.
You feel ridiculous.
You feel warm all over.
You feel like your bones have gone loose under your skin.
Why are you melting into this?
Why are you sinking into his touch like something half-starved finally given warmth?
Are you really this touch deprived? This affection-starved? This vulnerable to one man pressing his mouth to your shoulder like you are something precious instead of the colleague he bickers with until both of you are ready to bite?
The answer comes easy enough that you almost laugh at yourself.
Probably yes.
And what is worse, if someone offered you another version of this moment — cleaner, saner, not born from a curse and a crisis and two exhausted days trapped in the same house — you suspect you would choose it too.
Because now you know.
Not about the curse. Not about whatever is rotting sweetly through his mind and telling him wife and mine and come here.
You know something about yourself.
About why bickering with him has always come too easily. About why his attention burns in ways other people’s never do. About why even at your angriest with him there is still some fierce bright wire of awareness underneath. About why being held by him, absurd as it is, feels less like revulsion and more like the world narrowing into something dangerously simple.
You like him.
God help you, you like him.
Maybe you have for a while.
Maybe all that friction had been hiding sparks you never let yourself name because naming them would have been stupid, and risky, and deeply inconvenient.
Maybe the realization should come later, in saner circumstances, under any sky other than this one.
That thought only survives a second before his hands slide down and close around your hips.
The breath leaves you in a quiet rush as he shifts forward and lets more of his weight settle over you. The mattress dips deeper. His body presses you into it, broad and hot and so heavy it wrings a helpless groan right out of you.
Your arms move on instinct, lifting from where they had fisted his clothes and winding around his neck instead.
He exhales against your skin at the feel of it.
His face lowers, rests, nuzzles almost absently against the upper swell of your chest where the borrowed kimono has fallen a little farther open under the pressure. The sensation is so unexpectedly intimate that your mouth curves before you can help it, not quite into a smile, not quite into anything you have worn before.
It feels strange on your face. Soft. Open. A little dazed.
He breathes you in.
Deeply.
Like he is memorizing you through scent alone.
The heat of it against your skin turns your stomach over in the gentlest possible way. You do not know what to do with the feeling it gives you.
It is too mixed up, too warm and embarrassing and oddly tender to sort through quickly. So you do the only thing your body seems capable of doing.
Your fingers slip into his hair.
At first it is cautious. Just the pads of your fingers easing into those unruly pink strands, feeling how thick and slightly coarse they are beneath your hand, the warmth of his scalp underneath. Then it becomes a slow caress, your hand moving on its own, combing back through the mess of his hair with careful strokes.
Sukuna goes still again.
A low sound leaves him, almost too quiet to hear, more vibration than voice where his cheek is pressed to your skin.
You feel it everywhere.
For one long second you are acutely aware of everything at once. The solid drag of his weight over your body. The stretch in your shoulders from the way your arms hold around his neck. The soft whisper of the kimono fabric open at your chest. The warmth of his breath as he turns his face a fraction and brushes another kiss there, just below your collarbone this time. The callus of one thumb moving in a slow circle against your hip through the fabric.
Your pulse beats so hard you think he has to feel it.
You stare at the ceiling because looking down at him would probably finish you off in some new and mortifying way.
“This is insane,” you whisper.
His mouth shifts against your skin, not quite a smile, not quite not.
“Hm.”
You let out a breath that almost turns into another laugh.
“You are infuriating even now.”
“And yet,” he murmurs.
And yet.
The words settle heavily between your ribs.
You tug lightly at his hair before you can think better of it, just enough to make him lift his head. His face rises from your chest, and you finally look at him properly from this distance, close enough to count every line of ink on his skin, every lash shadowing those too-watchful eyes, every small shift in the hard shape of his mouth.
He looks different like this.
Not softer — Sukuna does not become soft. But there is less distance in him. Less iron. Less of that endless guarded contempt he wears around everyone and everything.
Beneath it, you catch something intent and raw and almost boyishly stubborn, something that makes your heart hurt in a way you do not appreciate.
Hunger dressed in gentleness.
He studies your face like he does not understand why you are letting him stay there.
The thought lands harder than it should.
Because maybe he does not understand. Maybe neither of you does.
You are the first one to look away.
Your pulse is far too loud in your ears. The room smells like soap from your shower, like warm rice and broth from the food he made, like clean linen and the faint iron scent that always seems to cling to him under everything else. His heat cages you in. So does the bed. So do his arms.
This should be impossible to enjoy.
It is not.
That realization makes you feel a little sick and a little giddy in equal measure.
You clear your throat and aim for dry, unimpressed, normal.
“You’re staring.”
“I am looking at my wife.”
Your whole body jolts with mortification so abrupt it nearly turns into a laugh.
“That is still... odd.”
“So are you,” he says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “You keep insulting me while touching me like this.”
You open your mouth, close it, open it again.
There is no argument available to you that does not sound pathetic.
Because he is right in the most infuriating way possible. You are touching him like this.
Worse, you do not want to stop.
You settle on glaring at the side of his face, which would probably be more effective if your hand were not still buried in his hair.
He looks maddeningly satisfied.
“Don’t smirk,” you say.
“It displeases you?”
“Yes.”
He smirks more.
You hate him. You really, truly do.
You hate how easy he makes it look to pin you here with four arms and a single look. You hate how his voice drops into that low register whenever he speaks to you like this and your stupid body listens to it. You hate that he cooks well and runs hot and apparently has a hidden talent for being unbearably attentive.
You hate that under this curse, with his mind bent sideways and all his edges turned toward you, he is showing you a shape of himself you had never been allowed to know existed.
You hate, most of all, how badly some soft and neglected part of you wants this to mean something after it ends.
He lowers his head again, slower this time, until his forehead rests near your shoulder. One of the hands at your hips slides to your side, spanning your ribs. Another remains firm at your waist. The upper pair shifts only enough to ease some of his weight from his arms and let it settle more fully across you.
You should feel trapped.
Instead you feel held.
Your fingers resume their slow pass through his hair, no longer even pretending it is accidental. The strands slip between your fingers as you smooth them back, over and over, until his breathing changes.
It deepens. Slows.
A tension you had not even fully registered in him starts to ease little by little under your touch.
The realization makes something in you ache.
So much of him is made of resistance. Teeth. Pride. Violence held on a short, vicious leash.
To feel him quiet under your hand like this, even a little, feels like being trusted with something you should not have access to.
You swallow against a throat that suddenly feels tight.
His hand on your side spreads wider, fingertips grazing the bare strip of skin where the kimono has slipped apart. The contact is light, almost absentminded, yet it sends another tremor through you.
Not because it is too much. Because it is not. Because he is touching you like he already knows the exact line where your body will welcome it rather than flinch.
Maybe the curse helps with that.
Maybe the curse has nothing to do with it.
That thought is too large to face right now, so you turn your head slightly and press your cheek against his hair instead.
He gives a low hum of approval.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The room holds around you, quiet and warm, the outside world reduced to faint sounds beyond the walls. Your body loosens by degrees beneath his. The hand in his hair slows, then lingers, your fingers idly combing the same path again and again. His thumb keeps tracing small circles against your side as if he has forgotten to stop.
Sleep starts circling the edges of you again, soft and inevitable.
You are not ready to examine what it means that you feel safest with four arms caging you in.
You are not ready to decide whether this softness is yours, his, or something the curse merely dragged into the light before either of you could stop it.
Right now all you know is sensation.
The press of him over you.
The heat.
The impossible comfort.
The way your chest feels too full to contain itself.
And the awful, tender fact that when he buries his face closer and your fingers sink a little deeper into his hair, you do not want him to move at all.
chapter nine || Wildflowers & Witnesses - R. Sukuna
ryomen sukuna x f!reader
❝You grew up behind locked doors—kept “safe” until safety started to look like a cage.
One night, something inside you snapped, and the world answered with sirens, courtrooms, and an iron-lit ward that promised treatment but fed on fear. That’s where you met him.
Sukuna—another monster on paper, another lifer with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He watched you like he recognized the shape of your loneliness. Like he’d been waiting. And when the ward turned bloody, when the gates cracked open for a moment too long, he took your hand and didn’t let go.
Now living in the aftermath—moving country to country, carrying secrets like loaded guns.
Because what escaped with them wasn’t just love.
It was something darker.❞
Two weeks passed the way a wound scabbed over—slow, careful, tender to the touch.
You didn’t leave.
And Sukuna, for once, did what he said he would.
The next morning after that fight—after his knees on the floor, after his tears soaking your sweater—he took the doorbell camera down with his own hands. No dramatic speech. No excuses. Just a ladder, a screwdriver, and the quiet acceptance that you had seen him clearly, and that if he wanted to keep you, he had to change more than his tone.
He left the pamphlet on the table, not thrown this time—placed. He slid cash beside it, neat bills like an offering, and told you, voice rough but steady, “If I’m at work, you take a taxi. You don’t wait for me. You don’t ask permission.”
Your fingers trembled when you picked the pamphlet up.
You still kept your location on.
He kept his on too.
Two pins on a map—two heartbeats trying to learn the shape of trust.
The next day, he went to a doctor.
He came home from the pharmacy with a white bag and a bottle that rattled when he set it down. You watched him open it. You watched the pill in his palm. You watched his throat work as he swallowed it.
He took it like it was a vow.
Like it was a rope tossed across a gap he’d nearly pushed you into.
And when you told him you wanted your medication too—quietly, carefully, as if asking for help was still something you feared he might punish—he didn’t argue.
He took you to Dr. Lin.
He sat in the chair, stiff, jaw tight, but he stayed quiet while you spoke. While you admitted, cheeks hot, that you didn’t want your mind to get sharp again. That you wanted stability. That you wanted to be a mother without the world inside your skull turning violent or loud.
Dr. Lin nodded, kind and clinical and steady.
And Sukuna—Sukuna listened.
Two weeks in, you noticed the changes the way you noticed sunlight returning after a long winter.
He was softer.
Not gentle in the way your mother was gentle—not naturally warm, not easy—but softer like something had stopped scraping against his bones.
He snapped less.
His gaze didn’t feel as sharp.
His hands held you with less urgency, less hunger for control.
Still, his anxiety didn’t vanish.
It lived in the small things.
The way his eyes flicked toward the bedroom when he first walked in, searching.
The way his shoulders stayed tight until he saw you—until he saw you still there.
Then, every time, like clockwork: a loosening. A breath released. A quiet exhale that sounded like relief he didn’t want to admit.
And you… you kept space.
Not as punishment.
As caution.
You spoke in small pieces.
“How was work?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Do you want tea?”
Sometimes you laughed softly at something the television did. Sometimes he watched your mouth when you smiled like he was learning the shape of happiness again.
But there was distance.
A quietness between you that wasn’t peace so much as aftermath.
Today, two weeks later, he came home earlier than usual.
You were on the couch with your legs tucked under you, a blanket over your lap, palm resting on your belly the way it always drifted there now—unthinking, protective, tender.
The front door clicked.
You looked up.
Sukuna stood in the doorway holding flowers.
An assortment—wildflower-looking, imperfect, beautiful in a way that didn’t feel purchased for show. Like he’d picked them with his eyes instead of his pride. Soft purples and pale whites and small yellow blooms that looked like they had no business surviving, but did anyway.
Your breath caught.
He walked toward you slowly, like he didn’t want to startle something.
Like he didn’t want you to flinch.
“I saw them outside a shop,” he said, voice low. Awkward. Honest. “They… looked better than the stupid roses.”
You smiled gently, warmth blooming in your chest. “They’re beautiful.”
Sukuna’s eyes flicked over your face like he was searching for proof you meant it.
You leaned up—careful with your belly, careful with your soreness that still came and went—and he leaned down so you didn’t have to stretch. His lips brushed yours in a soft, quick kiss that didn’t demand anything. Just contact. Just a quiet I’m here.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
His throat bobbed. “Yeah.”
You took the flowers to the sink, found the vase, rinsed it out, filled it with water. Your hands moved gently, almost reverently, arranging them until they looked like they belonged in your home.
When you set them on the table, the room changed a little—like color had returned to a place that had been washed out by fear.
You turned back to him.
Sukuna stood behind you, hands in his pockets, posture too rigid, like he’d come home carrying something heavier than flowers.
You swallowed.
And then you said, softly, “Can we sit down and talk? About… two weeks ago.”
Sukuna didn’t answer immediately.
His jaw tightened once. His eyes flicked away like he wanted to pretend the memory didn’t exist, like if he didn’t look at it, it wouldn’t look back.
Then he nodded.
A small movement.
But real.
You both sat on the couch—space between you at first, the cushion holding its own breath. Sukuna’s hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing once, then stilling. He looked straight ahead, not at you.
You watched him a moment.
Then you spoke carefully, like you were handling glass.
“I didn’t bring it up because I wanted to punish you,” you said quietly. “I brought it up because… I don’t want us to pretend it didn’t happen.”
Sukuna’s eyes shut for a second.
A breath in.
A breath out.
“I know,” he muttered.
You nodded slowly. “I was scared.” Your voice trembled, but you kept it steady. “I still get scared sometimes. Not because I want to be. My body just… remembers.”
His fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his pants.
“I don’t want you scared of me,” he said, voice rough. “I know,” you whispered. “And… I see you trying. I see you taking your medicine. I see you letting me have air. I see you taking the camera down. I see you giving me the pamphlet and the cash and telling me to go if I want to go.”
Sukuna finally turned his head enough to look at you.
His eyes were tired.
Not sleepy—tired like a man who’d been fighting himself every day.
You continued, gentle but clear. “I’m not leaving you,” you said. “I don’t want to.”
His breath caught.
You reached over slowly—giving him time, watching his face for any sign he couldn’t handle touch—and rested your hand on his knee.
“I meant what I said two weeks ago,” you murmured. “I don’t want to be a prisoner. And I won’t be. Not again. Not ever.”
Sukuna swallowed hard, gaze flicking down to your hand like it was something fragile and holy.
“And if that ever starts to happen again,” you said softly, “I will leave. Not because I don’t love you. But because I have to protect myself. And the baby.”
His shoulders tensed at the word leave—like his nervous system still panicked at it—but you held steady, thumb rubbing gently over his knee.
Then you offered him what he’d been starving for—not control, not surrender, but reassurance with boundaries.
“But as long as you keep your promise,” you whispered, eyes shining, “I won’t leave.” Sukuna’s throat worked. “My promise,” he repeated, like he needed to hear it out loud.
You nodded. “Taking your medication. Working on yourself. Letting me be a person. Letting me have choices. Letting me… breathe.”
His jaw clenched, and for a second you thought anger might rise—but it didn’t. Instead, his face tightened with something that looked like shame.
“I didn’t know how,” he admitted, voice low. “I didn’t—” He stopped, nostrils flaring as he fought for words he wasn’t used to needing. “When you’re not where I can see you, my head—” His fingers twitched. “It goes loud.”
You watched him, heart aching.
“I know,” you whispered.
Sukuna looked at you then—really looked—eyes dark and wet at the edges without spilling.
“I don’t want to be like that,” he said, voice hoarse. “I don’t want to… ruin this.” You nodded, tears gathering again but softer now, not sharp.
“You won’t ruin it,” you whispered. “Not if you keep choosing to do better.”
Sukuna’s shoulders shook once, barely. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head dropping like the weight of himself was exhausting.
Your hand slid up to his forearm.
“You’re not a monster for being sick,” you said gently. “But you are responsible for what you do when you’re sick.”
He flinched at the truth, but he didn’t deny it.
You leaned closer, voice quieter, almost intimate.
“I’m staying,” you murmured. “I’m here. I love you. I love you even when you’re scared. But you have to love me in a way that doesn’t hurt me.”
Sukuna turned his head, eyes locking on yours, and something in his face softened—something raw and sincere.
“I do,” he whispered. “I do love you.” You nodded, lips trembling into a small smile. “Then keep your promise,” you said.
He reached for your hand slowly, like he was asking permission, and when your fingers didn’t pull away, he laced them with his.
“Okay,” he said, voice quiet. “I will.”
You squeezed his hand once.
Not as obedience.
As agreement.
As a small, brave start.
The next day felt like stepping outside without armor.
Not because the air was colder, not because the street was unfamiliar—because you were alone.
Not alone in the world, not truly, but alone in the way that mattered: no Sukuna at your side, no heavy hand guiding you, no shadow leaning over your shoulder.
Just you.
A taxi idled at the curb, and you climbed in carefully, one hand drifting to your belly as if you could remind yourself—you’re not just you anymore.
You gave the driver the address from the pamphlet, voice soft and polite, and watched the city slide past the window in a blur of storefronts and scooters and morning light.
Your phone sat warm in your pocket.
Location on.
A pin on a map.
A tether you couldn’t quite call a leash anymore, but still felt around your ankle when you walked too far.
When you arrived, the building was modest—clean, bright, the kind of place that smelled like lavender hand soap and paper. The room for the prenatal group was upstairs. The door was open, and soft laughter drifted out like an invitation.
You hovered in the doorway for a second.
Your palms were damp.
Your heart thudded hard in your ribs.
You can do this, you told yourself.
And then you stepped inside.
There were a few women, all rounded in the same tender way, all glowing with that strange mix of exhaustion and excitement. Most looked around your age—mid-twenties, maybe early thirties at most. They sat on yoga mats and chairs, some cross-legged, some rubbing their backs, some sipping water from big bottles.
A woman at the front—warm smile, hair clipped back—looked up and brightened. “You must be new! Come in, come in.” Your cheeks warmed. “Hi,” you said, voice small. “I’m… I’m Y/n.”
A chorus of greetings met you immediately, gentle and welcoming.
“I’m Mei,” said one, scooting over to make room. “I’m Nari,” another offered, waving with two fingers. “Jia,” said a woman with a rounder belly who looked like she was further along, grinning. “Don’t be scared. We’re all a mess.”
They laughed, and the sound loosened something in your chest.
You smiled—timid, but real—and sat where they made space for you. Your hands fidgeted in your lap until the instructor handed you a booklet and said softly, “You’re safe here.”
Safe.
The word hit different when it wasn’t a command.
The class started gently—breathing, stretching, discussion about aches and cravings and how the body changed like it was building a new universe. The instructor asked each of you to share a little: how far along, how you were feeling, what you were struggling with.
When it was your turn, your throat tightened.
“I’m eighteen weeks,” you said softly. “And… I’m nervous a lot.” Mei nodded immediately, like you’d spoken a language she knew. “Same. I cry when my toast burns.”
The group chuckled.
You blinked, surprised by how quickly the room made you feel human.
Nari leaned closer. “What are you craving? Everyone’s craving something.” You hesitated. “Ice cream,” you admitted. “And… salty noodles.” Jia grinned. “Oh, you’re one of us.”
Someone else—Asha, with short hair and bright eyes—laughed. “I ate pickles with honey last week and my husband just stared at me like I was a different species.”
“Mine too,” Mei groaned. “He offered to Google whether I was okay.”
The room erupted into soft laughter.
You found yourself laughing too—quiet at first, like your voice didn’t remember how to take up space, then a little louder when someone made a joke about pregnancy brain and forgetting why you walked into a room.
As the class went on, the conversation became warmer, more personal. They talked about fear of labor, their moms, their partners, their worries about changing relationships.
Asha tilted her head, studying you kindly. “Do you have a partner?” You swallowed. You felt your cheeks warm. “Yes,” you said. “My husband.” The word tasted strange and comforting at the same time—like a lie that also felt like protection. “Oh!” Nari’s eyes lit up. “What’s he like?” Your fingers twisted together. You could feel the habitual instinct to keep your life private. To keep Sukuna private.
But you were here for air.
For friendships.
For something that belonged to you.
“He’s…” You hesitated. Then, quietly, you said, “He’s protective.” Asha smirked. “That’s code for ‘intense.’”
The room giggled.
You couldn’t help it—you smiled shyly. “Yes.”Mei leaned forward. “Show us!” Your eyes widened. “Show—?”
“A picture,” Jia said. “Come on, we’re pregnant, not saints.”
Your hands shook slightly as you pulled out your phone. You scrolled past your grocery list, past a photo of the wildflowers in their vase, past a blurry picture of your belly taken too early in the morning when you couldn’t stop staring at it.
Then you found it.
The mirror photo.
Your bare belly, round and soft, your face half-hidden by the phone—Sukuna behind you, taller than you, his head bent down, lips pressed to your skin like he was praying over the life inside you. His hand spread wide over your stomach, possessive but gentle in the captured moment.
You held the screen out.
The reaction was immediate.
Asha’s eyes went huge. “Oh my God.” Mei made a sound that was half laugh, half gasp. “Your husband is—” Nari slapped a hand over her mouth, blushing. “He’s… hot.” Jia leaned closer, squinting. “That’s not a husband, that’s a sin.” You felt heat climb up your neck so fast you thought you might melt into the mat. “Stop,” you whispered, laughing softly, embarrassed.
Asha fanned herself dramatically. “You’re telling me that man kissed your belly like that and then went to work?” You nodded, cheeks burning. “That’s not fair,” Mei groaned. “Mine kisses my forehead and then asks if we have enough paper towels.”
“Mine too!” Nari laughed. “He’s an engineer. He can build a bridge but can’t open a jar.”
They started pulling out their phones, showing pictures like a playful parade—men with kind eyes and soft bellies, men in polos and button-ups, men holding coffee mugs that said #1 Dad even though the baby wasn’t here yet. Suburban smiles. Practical shoes. The kind of men who already told dad jokes without realizing it.
They were right.
They looked like fathers-in-training.
Normal.
Safe.
You nodded along, smiling gently at each photo, praising their husbands the way you always praised people—sweetly, sincerely.
“He looks kind,” you said about one. “He looks like he’d make a good dad,” you said about another.
And you meant it.
Then Asha elbowed you lightly. “Show another one. I know you have more.”
Your stomach fluttered with nerves, but you scrolled and found the second picture.
Sukuna in the kitchen.
Shirtless.
Buff.
Forearms taut as he stirred something in a pan, jaw set in concentration. Tattoos visible where the light hit him. He looked like he belonged in a movie, the kind where the danger was part of the seduction.
You held the phone out again.
The room nearly combusted.
Mei actually squealed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God—” Nari’s face went scarlet. “That’s your husband?” Jia laughed so hard she snorted. “Girl. You are blessed.”
Asha stared at the screen like she was witnessing a religious event. “Your husband looks like a sexy boxer,” she said, dead serious. Then she glanced up at you with a grin. “Or an ex-convict that I’d go on the run for.”
The words hit you like a spark in dry grass.
You froze for half a second.
Because your mind—your real mind, the one that carried truth like a bruise—immediately flashed the image:
Sukuna in the ward.
The gun.
The blood.
The way he’d walked out like rules were made of paper.
Ex-convict.
On the run.
Your cheeks burned hotter—not just from embarrassment, but from the strange, private irony of it. The fact that their joke was so close to the truth it almost hurt.
You laughed anyway—soft and breathy, a little too high. “Don’t say that,” you murmured, trying to sound playful. Asha grinned wider. “I’m just saying. If he told me to pack a bag, I’d be gone in ten minutes.” Mei sighed dramatically. “My husband would ask where we’re going and whether the car has enough gas.”
The group erupted into laughter again.
And you laughed with them—genuine, warm, a sound you hadn’t heard from yourself in too long.
But beneath it, under the lightness, something quietly pulsed:
The sweet ache of being seen as normal.
The strange safety of a room where no one knew the truth of your life—no wards, no trials, no blood, no locked doors.
Just you, a first-time mom among first-time moms, blushing over pictures like your world hadn’t once been built out of cages.
When the class ended, they gathered their bags and water bottles, chattering like birds.
Asha slung her tote over her shoulder and looked at you. “We’re going to lunch,” she said. “Come with us.” You blinked. “Lunch?”
Mei nodded eagerly. “There’s a little place down the street—nothing fancy, just noodles and dumplings. It’s like our thing now.”
Nari smiled warmly. “You should come. It’ll be fun.” Your hands tightened around your phone.
Your instinct was to say no.
To go home.
To keep your world small, so Sukuna didn’t have to feel it expand.
But you remembered the pamphlet. The cash. The promise. The wildflowers.
And you remembered your own words:
I won’t be a prisoner anymore.
You swallowed.
Then you nodded, shy but brave.
“Okay,” you whispered, and your smile returned, small and bright. “I’d like that.” And as you walked out with them—into sunlight, into chatter, into the simple miracle of being included—you felt something inside you loosen.
Not the location pin.
Not the fear entirely.
But the belief that you were allowed to have a life.
Even if it started with dumplings and laughter and strangers who didn’t know they were holding a runaway girl gently in their hands.
The little restaurant was tucked between a laundromat and a dim corner shop, its windows fogged from steam and warmth. Inside, the air smelled like broth and scallions and chili oil—comforting in a way that made your shoulders finally drop.
You slid into the booth with the other women, hands folding neatly in your lap while you tried to remember how to exist in a group without shrinking.
Asha nudged a menu toward you. “Okay, first rule—get dumplings. Second rule—if you cry, we pretend it’s the soup.” Mei laughed. “No, if you cry, we cry. It’s a package deal.” You smiled softly, eyes flicking down the menu, pretending you weren’t a little dazzled by how easy they were with you. How they spoke to you like you belonged here.
Then your phone buzzed in your pocket.
You didn’t even have to look to know.
Your stomach fluttered—equal parts fondness and nerves—as you pulled it out and saw his name.
Sukuna.
You answered quickly, keeping your voice gentle. “Hi.” His voice came through low and immediate, like he’d been holding his breath. “Where are you.”
Not a question.
Not quite an accusation.
A check. A pulse. An anchor.
You glanced at the women—Asha already smirking, like she could hear his tone through the screen—and you smiled anyway, softer, warmer.
“I’m okay,” you said. “The other pregnant ladies wanted to go to lunch after class. I decided to join. I’ll be home after.” There was a pause on the line, the kind where you could hear his thoughts grinding—habit and worry, control and promise wrestling in his throat.
Then his voice eased, just slightly. “I’m about to get off. I’ll pick you up. Don’t spend money on a taxi.” You blinked, surprised by how normal it sounded. Like a husband. Like a partner. Like a life. “Okay,” you murmured.
Another pause.
Then, quieter—rougher, like it cost him something—“I love you.” You held the phone a little tighter. For half a second, you froze—not because you didn’t feel it, but because the word still carried weight, still felt like a door that could lock behind you if you weren’t careful.
But you also remembered wildflowers.
You remembered medication bottles on the counter.
You remembered him kneeling, sobbing like a child who didn’t want to be left.
You smiled gently, voice soft as a blanket. “I love you too.” The exhale on the other end sounded like relief. “Text me when you’re done,” he said, and the call ended.
You set your phone down on the table, face warm.
Asha leaned forward immediately, eyes gleaming. “Oh, he’s protective protective.” You laughed quietly, embarrassed. “He just… worries.” Mei grinned. “Mine worries too, but mostly about whether the baby can hear him burp.” Nari giggled, sipping her water. “So—your husband. What’s his name?”
“Sukuna,” you said, almost shyly.
Asha made a sound like she approved of the syllables. “That’s a hot name.” Your cheeks burned. “Stop.”
“No,” Jia said, wagging a finger like an auntie. “Let her have it. If she’s carrying a baby and married to a man who looks like that, she deserves to blush.”
The server came by, and the table became a flurry of gentle chaos—everyone ordering dumplings, noodle bowls, broth, extra pickled vegetables. They asked you what you wanted, and you hesitated like you were afraid of choosing wrong, until Mei leaned close and whispered, “Pick what you crave. That’s literally the whole point.”
You ended up ordering soup dumplings and noodles with a broth that smelled like home you’d never had.
While you waited, conversation flowed in bright, ordinary rivers.
They asked how you were feeling, and you admitted you got tired easily. They nodded like they understood. They shared little aches and strange cravings and the weirdness of dreaming in third person. They laughed about baby names and argued over whether strollers were worth the money.
At one point, Asha leaned back and said, “Okay, we need your number. We have a mom chat.” You blinked. “A… chat?”
“Group chat,” Mei clarified, already pulling out her phone. “We send each other appointment reminders, cravings, memes, and emotional breakdowns.” Nari smiled warmly. “Mostly memes.”
You swallowed, something tender tightening in your throat, and you gave them your number with hands that trembled just slightly.
They added you immediately—your phone chiming with new notifications like little taps on the shoulder.
Mom Chat 💗
Asha: NEW FRIEND ALERT
Mei: WELCOME Y/N!!!
Nari: we’re getting dumplings again next week
Jia: your husband still single? asking for science
You laughed—soft and real—and when you looked up, the women were smiling at you like they liked seeing you smile.
Food arrived in steaming bowls and baskets. The first bite of soup dumpling made you close your eyes, a quiet sound leaving you like a prayer.
Asha pointed her chopsticks at you. “Oh she’s happy. Look at her. She’s in love with dumplings.” You nodded shyly, cheeks full. “I am.”
They laughed, and you laughed too, and for a moment you forgot the feeling of walls.
Then, as you were halfway through your noodles, your phone buzzed again.
A text.
Sukuna: Outside.
Your stomach flipped.
You wiped your mouth carefully, heart thudding—not with fear, exactly, but with the awareness of him entering your new little pocket of freedom.
“I think my husband is here,” you said softly.
Asha’s eyes lit up like she’d been waiting. “Bring him in. I want to see if he’s real.” You stood slowly, one hand instinctively going to your belly.
Before you could even slide out of the booth fully, the door opened.
Sukuna walked in like he owned the air.
Tall—too tall for the doorway. Broad shoulders. Black shirt clinging to muscle. Pink buzzed hair catching the warm restaurant light. Crimson eyes sweeping the room with that sharpness that always made you feel seen and watched at the same time.
But when his gaze found you—
It softened.
Not completely.
Sukuna didn’t soften completely.
But it eased, the way a fist eased when it realized it wasn’t about to lose what it was holding. He walked straight to you, ignoring curious glances, ignoring the way the women at the booth suddenly went very still. He didn’t touch you immediately—like he’d learned that sometimes touch should be asked for, not taken.
Instead, he tipped his head down toward you, voice low. “You okay?” You nodded. “Yes.” He hummed, satisfied, and then his hand hovered at your lower back—not pushing, just there, present.
You turned to the table, cheeks warm. “This is… Sukuna. My husband.” The word made something in him flicker—pride, possession, something tender he’d never admit.
He gave them a short nod that wasn’t quite polite but wasn’t rude either. “Hi.” Asha looked like she’d been struck by lightning. Mei’s mouth fell open for a second. Nari blushed so hard you thought she might evaporate. Jia stared openly, no shame at all.
“Hello,” Mei managed, voice suddenly too high.
Sukuna’s eyes flicked over their faces, unimpressed, then back to you—always back to you.
He reached down, fingers brushing your hand. “You ready?” You nodded again. Asha cleared her throat, trying to sound casual and failing. “We were just—uh—adding her to the mom chat.” Sukuna blinked once. “Good.” Then, after a beat, gruffly: “Keep her busy.”
The way he said it wasn’t controlling.
It was… reluctant approval.
Like letting you have friends was a new skill he was learning with clenched teeth.
The server came by with the check, and Sukuna didn’t even look at it. He took it calmly, as if it belonged to him, and stood.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
Asha’s eyes widened. “Oh no, you don’t—”
“Yes,” Sukuna said, flat.
Mei stammered, “We can split—” Sukuna gave a small, humorless huff. “No.” You reached for his arm softly. “Sukuna—” He glanced down at you, and his expression softened again, just for you. “It’s fine.”
He paid for everything. All of it. No debate.
When he came back, you were already shifting carefully to stand, but your knees felt wobbly—pregnancy, exhaustion, the long morning, the emotional weight of being around people.
Sukuna noticed immediately.
He stepped close, hand settling at your waist with a firm gentleness, helping you rise like you were precious and not fragile.
You steadied yourself against him.
He leaned down and kissed your temple—slow, familiar, grounding. “Good?” he murmured, only for you.
You nodded, and the soft smile you gave him felt like sunlight.
Behind you, the women looked like they’d just watched something indecently intimate in public.
Asha’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh my God.” Mei whispered, “That was… unfair.” Jia fanned herself again. “I’m pregnant and still jealous.” You laughed under your breath, cheeks burning, and Sukuna’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, brief and private. He guided you toward the door, palm warm at your back, and as you stepped outside, the air hit your face cool and clean.
Your phone buzzed again—new messages from the mom chat already popping in like fireflies.
And for the first time in a long time, you felt something you didn’t recognize at first.
Not fear.
Not control.
Not even the sharp edge of hope.
Just… a small, steady sense of life unfolding—messy and real—while Sukuna stood beside you like a shadow that had learned how to be gentle in daylight.
The apartment was quiet when you stepped inside. Not the heavy quiet that came before storms—just the ordinary hush of a space waiting to be filled. Sukuna locked the door behind you with a soft click, and you slipped your shoes off carefully, one hand drifting to the wall for balance.
Your belly had grown enough now that bending felt different. Deliberate. Like your body was reminding you constantly: You're carrying something precious. Move carefully. You straightened and turned—
And found Sukuna standing in the middle of the living room, hands flexing at his sides.
He wasn't looking at you.
Not directly.
His gaze was somewhere lower—fixed, unblinking—and his chest rose and fell too fast, like he'd been running even though you'd only walked from the car.
Your stomach fluttered.
"Sukuna?" you said softly.
His eyes snapped up to yours, and the look in them made your breath catch.
Not anger.
Not control.
Something rawer.
Hungrier.
He swallowed hard, throat working visibly, and his hands curled into fists before releasing again—slow, deliberate, like he was trying to keep them from reaching for you without permission.
"I'm fine," he said, voice rough.
But he wasn't.
You could see it in the way his shoulders stayed tight. In the way his jaw clenched. In the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other like standing still was unbearable.
He started pacing.
Three steps toward the kitchen. Stop. Turn. Three steps back.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
You watched him, heart thudding softly, and then you asked again—gentler this time, careful.
"Are you alright?" Sukuna stopped mid-step.
His back was to you for a second, shoulders rising with a deep inhale that didn't seem to help. Then he turned, and his eyes locked onto you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
Not your face.
Your belly.
The soft swell of it beneath your sweater, round and full and undeniable now at nearly twenty weeks. His gaze dragged over you like touch—slow, heavy, possessive in a way that didn't feel like control so much as need.
And then you noticed.
The way his pants fit differently. The visible strain at the front, the hard line of his cock pressing against the fabric, thick and swollen and impossible to ignore.
Your cheeks burned instantly.
Sukuna's throat bobbed again as he swallowed, and his hands flexed once more—open, close, open—like he was fighting himself. "I—" His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I haven't touched you."
It wasn't an accusation.
It was an admission.
A confession that sounded like it had been clawing at him for two weeks.
You stood very still, pulse fluttering in your throat. "No," you whispered. "You haven't." His jaw clenched. "I didn't want to—" He stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose. "I didn't want you to think I was… taking." The word hung in the air between you.
Taking.
Like he'd finally learned the difference. Your heart ached and warmed at the same time, a strange, contradictory pull that made your chest tight. "I know," you said softly.
Sukuna's eyes flicked back to your belly, and something in his expression shifted—darkened, softened, became almost reverent.
"You're…" He trailed off, then tried again, voice lower. "You're carrying my child." The way he said it—rough, possessive, awed—made heat coil low in your stomach.
You nodded slowly. "Yes." His hands twitched again. "I want—" He stopped himself, jaw working. Then, quieter, almost shy in a way you'd never heard from him: "Can I touch you?"
Your breath hitched.
He was asking.
Not demanding. Not assuming.
Asking.
You looked at him—really looked—and saw the tension in every line of his body. The way he held himself back like it was killing him. The way his cock strained visibly against his pants, the way his breathing stayed uneven, the way his eyes kept dropping to your belly like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And beneath your own caution, beneath the careful walls you'd built to protect yourself, you felt it:
Want.
You wanted him too.
You wanted his hands on you.
You wanted to feel close to him again.
You wanted to remember what it felt like when his touch was gentle instead of desperate.
So you nodded.
Slowly.
Carefully.
"Yes," you whispered.
Sukuna moved immediately—but not fast.
Not the way he used to, all urgency and hunger that didn't wait for you to catch up. He crossed the space between you in three measured steps, and when he reached you, his hands hovered first—just above your hips, waiting, like he needed one more confirmation.
You didn't pull away.
His palms settled on your waist, warm and broad, and the touch sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with cold. He exhaled—shaky, relieved—and his thumbs brushed over the fabric of your sweater, tracing the curve of your belly with something close to worship.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so…"
He didn't finish.
He just leaned down slowly, carefully, and pressed his forehead to yours. His breath was warm against your lips. His hands stayed gentle, holding you like you were something fragile and holy at the same time.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured.
You nodded, throat tight.
"I will," you whispered.
His eyes searched yours for a long moment—looking for fear, for hesitation, for any sign that you were only saying yes because you thought you had to.
But you weren't.
You were saying yes because you wanted this.
Because you wanted him, even though wanting him was complicated and messy and sometimes felt like standing too close to a fire.
Sukuna's mouth brushed yours—soft, testing, like he was relearning the shape of you. You kissed him back, slow and careful, and his hands tightened slightly on your waist before loosening again, like he was reminding himself to be gentle.
When he pulled back, his eyes were darker, pupils blown wide, and his voice came out rough and low.
"Bedroom?" You nodded.
He took your hand—not pulling, just holding—and led you down the hall.
The bedroom smelled like clean sheets and the faint trace of his cologne. Sukuna closed the door behind you, and the soft click of the latch made your pulse jump—not with fear, but with anticipation.
He turned to face you, and for a second he just stood there, hands at his sides, watching you like he didn't know where to start.
Like he was afraid of doing it wrong.
You reached for the hem of your sweater slowly, fingers trembling slightly, and his eyes tracked the movement immediately. "Can I?" he asked, voice rough.
You nodded.
He stepped closer and took over, hands sliding under the fabric, lifting it carefully over your belly, over your breasts, over your head. He set it aside like it mattered, like everything about you mattered, and then his gaze dropped.
Your body had changed.
Your breasts were fuller, heavier, sensitive in a way they hadn't been before. Your belly was round and soft, the skin stretched taut over the life growing inside you. You felt exposed—not in a bad way, but in a way that made you hyperaware of every inch of yourself.
Sukuna's throat worked as he swallowed.
"Fuck," he breathed again, and the word sounded like prayer.
His hands hovered over your belly, and you took them gently, guiding them down until his palms pressed flat against your skin.
Warm.
Rough.
Reverent.
He exhaled shakily, thumbs brushing over the curve of you, and then he dropped to his knees.
Your breath caught.
Sukuna knelt in front of you, eye-level with your belly, and his hands stayed on your hips—steady, grounding.
Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your skin.
Soft.
Slow.
A kiss that felt like worship.
"Mine," he murmured against you, voice muffled and rough. "Both of you." Your fingers slid into his hair, and he made a low sound in his throat—something between a groan and a sigh. His mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down the swell of your belly, and his hands slid to the waistband of your leggings.
He paused.
Looked up at you.
"Can I take these off?" You nodded, cheeks burning. "Yes."
He peeled them down carefully, taking your underwear with them, and helped you step out of them one leg at a time. Then his hands were back on your hips, and he was staring at you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"Sit on the bed," he said softly.
You did, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress, and Sukuna stayed on his knees in front of you. His hands slid up your thighs—slow, deliberate—and he pressed them apart gently.
Your breath hitched.
"Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, eyes flicking up to yours.
You nodded, heart pounding.
And then his mouth was on you.
Soft.
Warm.
Gentle.
His tongue dragged over you in one slow, deliberate stroke, and your hips jerked involuntarily, a gasp spilling from your lips. Sukuna groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and his hands tightened on your thighs—not hard, just enough to keep you steady. He worked you slowly, carefully, like he was savoring every taste, every sound you made. His tongue circled your clit in soft, teasing strokes, and when you whimpered, he did it again—firmer this time, more deliberate.
"Sukuna—"
"Tell me what feels good," he murmured against you, breath hot and damp. "That—" Your voice broke. "That feels good." He hummed in approval and kept going, tongue flicking over you in steady, rhythmic strokes that made your thighs tremble. Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he groaned again, the sound rough and desperate.
"Fuck, you taste so good," he muttered, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in, mouth sealing over your clit and sucking gently.
You cried out, hips bucking, and his hands slid up to hold your belly—steadying you, grounding you, reminding you that he had you. The pleasure built slowly, a warm, heavy coil low in your stomach that tightened with every stroke of his tongue. Your breathing came faster, shallower, and your thighs started to shake.
"Sukuna—I'm—"
"Let go," he murmured against you. "I've got you."
And you did.
The orgasm rolled through you in slow, shuddering waves, your body clenching and releasing as you gasped his name. Sukuna didn't stop—didn't pull away—just kept his mouth on you, tongue working you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive and pulling at his hair weakly.
He pulled back then, lips wet and swollen, and looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes.
"Good?" he asked, voice rough.
You nodded, breathless. "Yes."
He rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and then he was leaning over you, one hand braced beside your hip, the other cupping your face.
"I want to be inside you," he murmured, thumb brushing over your cheek. "But only if you want it." Your heart thudded hard. You looked up at him—at the tension in his jaw, the restraint in every line of his body, the way he was waiting for you to decide.
And you realized:
He meant it.
If you said no, he would stop.
He would walk away.
He would let you have the choice.
So you nodded, voice soft but sure. "I want it." Sukuna's eyes fluttered shut for a second, relief and hunger warring on his face. Then he straightened, hands going to his belt.
He undressed quickly—shirt pulled over his head, pants shoved down and kicked aside—and then he was bare in front of you, cock thick and hard and flushed dark at the tip.
He climbed onto the bed carefully, settling between your thighs, and his hands slid under your knees, lifting them gently.
"Tell me if it hurts," he murmured, eyes locked on yours.
You nodded.
He lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against you, and then he pushed in—slow, careful, giving you time to adjust.
You gasped at the stretch, at the fullness, and Sukuna froze immediately.
"Okay?" he asked, voice strained. "Yes," you breathed. "Keep going." He did, sinking into you inch by inch until he was fully seated, and then he stopped, forehead dropping to yours, breathing hard. "Fuck," he groaned. "You feel so good."
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he started to move—slow, deep thrusts that made you gasp and cling to him.
His hands stayed gentle, one braced beside your head, the other sliding down to cradle your belly as he moved.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he muttered, voice rough and awed. "Carrying my baby. Mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should have scared you.
But it didn't.
It made you feel wanted.
Cherished.
His.
You moaned softly, hips rolling to meet his thrusts, and Sukuna groaned, pace quickening slightly. "Is this okay?" he asked, breathless. "Am I hurting you?"
"No," you gasped. "It's good. Don't stop." He didn't.
He kept moving, kept filling you, kept murmuring praise and possession against your skin until you were trembling beneath him, pleasure building again in slow, inevitable waves. When you came the second time, it was quieter—softer—a gentle unraveling that left you breathless and clinging to him.
Sukuna followed moments later, groaning your name as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering, hands tightening on your body before loosening again. He collapsed beside you carefully, pulling you into his arms, and for a long moment neither of you spoke.
Just breathed.
Just held each other.
His hand settled on your belly, fingers splayed wide, and you covered it with yours.
"I love you," he murmured, voice rough and quiet.
You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
"I love you too."
And for the first time in two weeks, the space between you felt less like a gap and more like a bridge.
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synopsis: It's not often that you go into kitchen when Caleb is around, but as his birthday approaches, you're determined step into the kitchen to try and bake him a cake. Key word: try.
Content. mdni afab + f! reader, oral (f! receiving) fingering, caleb has a dream abt reader but it doesn't go in depth, piv, unprotected sex + caleb finishes inside, reader bites caleb's tiddy, they fuck in the kitchen bc they're trying to bake a cake. idk they're pretty soft in this one
a/n: HE CAME HOME IN ONE 10 PULL so this is his reward :)
Cake in the oven? Check.
Perfect birthday weather? Check.
Caleb still sleeping in bed? Check.
Now, all that's left to do is whip up frosting, decorate the cake, and surprise Caleb with the perfect cake in bed to kickstart his birthday.
Reading over the recipe carefully, you pad quietly around in the kitchen, almost instinctive from all the years of observing Caleb. It reminds you of how much he's cemented himself into your life, in both subtle and not-so-subtle ways; in the end, it's only right that you spoil him on his birthday.
So, with determination set in your actions, you reach for the cream cheese—
—only to have it snatched away from your reach and held high above the messy head of the man who's supposed to be sleeping soundly.
"Caleb!" You exclaim, surprise and sudden embarrassment seeping into your voice. You hope he doesn't hear it, but you know he does. Caleb always does. "What're you doing? You're supposed to be sleeping!"
He hums then. A low, sleep-littered rumble from his chest, full of amusement and affection that makes your knees weak.
"Am I?" He chuckles warmly, "I couldn't help but wake up when I heard a little busy bee in my kitchen. What's got you up so early, pipsqueak?"
You clear your throat suddenly, playing off with a nonchalant roll of your shoulders, "Why can't I? Is it so surprising that I can wake up before you?"
Caleb smiles teasingly, eyes glinting with mirth. And you can't possibly find it in yourself to be bitter when you suddenly notice how perfect he looks.
Sunlight filters through his kitchen windows and spills over the counters and walls, a rare break in Skyhaven's cloudy weather, but perfect for his summery birthday. The golden light blankets the mahogany strands of his hair, still mussed from sleep, and washes his shirtless form in its warm amber effect—effortlessly handsome that it would almost make you mad if it wasn't the sight you woke up to. It's like the sun itself has made its utmost effort to be part of the day of Caleb's birth.
For him, it’s fitting.
“Gonna tell me what this is all about?” Caleb leans in close; you can smell the mint on his tongue; you remember tasting it last night too.
“This is… nothing.” You say quickly, too quickly. “It’s not for you.”
But Caleb only smiles, setting the cream cheese down and glancing at the recipe with an amused glint in his eye.
“I think I can figure it out.” He reaches for the recipe on the counter before you can get to it, holding it high above your heads to read it out of your reach. “Let’s see here… caramel apple crumble cake? Sounds pretty fancy, since when did you become such a baker?”
You sigh, crossing your arms before grumbling, “It’s just a hobby.” Internally, you know it’s over.
“‘Use Asiatic apples, Caleb’s favorite type.’” The man laughs a bit, soft and gentle and so loving, setting the paper down now. He leans in, mouth finding the shell of your ear, voice husky and low when he speaks, “Not for me, huh? I’m gettin' a different impression.”
The gentle tremor of his words shivers through your body, and you find yourself tensing against the counter he’s cornered you against. But then you sigh in defeat, a pout tugging at your lips as you roll your eyes at him. “Can’t you play along? I wanted to surprise you, but you woke up…”
Caleb only shakes his head affectionately, wrapping his arms around you, cocooning you into his tender embrace that seems to melt all your defenses. He’s always been good at that—too good.
“Sorry, pipsqueak,” his voice is anything but apologetic, pressing a tender kiss to your burning ears, “guess I was too focused on the fact that you left me in bed. Bit rude to leave the birthday boy alone, don’t you think?”
You don't follow with a retort when large hands cup your cheeks, turning your face to him—like a flower unfurling itself to the sun's bright embrace. And his eyes meet yours—soft indigo, accented with flecks of gold—it's easy to lose yourself in him. It always has been. Caleb always makes it easy to let go.
"But you know…" He trails off, tenderly trailing his lips from your ear to the apples of your cheeks, "I think I can forgive you if we bake this cake together. It's my birthday after all; we should spend all day with one another."
"Is… is that what you want?" Your words tremble when his lips ghost against yours, a lingering phantom touch as he pulls away with a cheeky grin, reading over the recipe again.
"Of course. I always want to be with you." And he sounds so sure about it. Confident like it's the most obvious thing in the world. As positive in his answer as if he's telling you the sun will rise tomorrow, and he will be by your side. You believe it. Because it's Caleb who has never broken a promise to you, as true to his words as his love is to you. "Now then, let's get started on this cream cheese frosting, chef."
Soon enough, Caleb’s shirtless form is right behind you again. On the outside looking in, you assume it's a picturesque scene. A vision with ambient light filling the crevices of your bodies, synced silhouettes stretched across the kitchen floors, seeping in love and careful devotion—it's perfect. But it serves to mostly distract you instead.
His chest is broad, bracketing you with a single hand on your waist and the other hand curling around yours, assisting you in beating the cream cheese and butter together. An act you could do alone, but Caleb, as always, insists. Pressed close like the slightest space between your bodies will decimate him completely. And he smells good too—dark honey and warm apples, even the lingering scent of leather from his constant wear of uniforms—you get lost in the cadence of domesticity. In him.
"Yeah, cream it together, just like that…" Your face burns at his words; he has no right to sound that good this early in the morning, or maybe your mind just meanders into the gutters. Mainly, his warm body that would be even warmer if it was inside you, how you can feel the muscles and ridges of his torso against your back. His hands, gentle around yours, were just pistoning in you a few weeks ago as he worshiped you with his tongue too. But now, he's efficient in his movements, voice soft, body comforting and anchored to you like a shadow thats taken its own form—and you can't help the heat pulsing through you.
"—now powered sugar."
A quick swipe on your cheek is what brings you out of your stupor, blinking back to Caleb's charming, entertained grin.
"Wha—Caleb! Did you wipe something on my face again!" With an annoyed glare his way, or as annoyed as you can muster, you reach up to your cheek where his fingers had just been, feeling wisps of something powdery. And when you pull your hands back, the pads of your fingers are dusted white—powdered sugar.
"Caleb! You—"
"You're so distracted, pips." He leans in suddenly, nose brushing against your cheek in a playful nuzzle, not caring that he dirties himself in the act, and his voice drops dangerously into that tone that makes your heart flutter and stumble over its own beat, "Careful with what you're thinking about, I'll get jealous if you don't pay attention to me, you know?"
Caleb presses closer to you, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, smearing more sugar onto the soft flesh. And he watches you closely with the same devotion he has always dedicated solely to you. Caleb looks at you like he can read your mind or measure the hammering paces of your heart—you know that he could—he's everything to you, after all, like you are to him. It never fails to make you warm inside—feels like he coddles you with the weight of his affection.
"Stupid Caleb," You mutter then, dipping your own hands into the sugar and then flinging it his way. The white specks land in his hair when he doesn't bother to dodge the flurried attack, laughing instead—bright and clear, so very Caleb.
Of course, he retaliates. Soon enough, the kitchen is doused in sweet ivory snow, and the dusty fight that ensues brings you back to the distant past when you both were just mere children who had one another. From school's draining days, catching bugs and playing at the park, or picking apples in the height of summer's sun—it was always you and Caleb.
And now, on the day of Caleb's birth—it is still just you and Caleb.
"Okay, okay!" You exclaim, laughing as you cover your face from the power, "I give up! You win, birthday boy!"
Beside you, Caleb happily relents too, bringing you into his arms. Your ear presses against his bare chest, and you can feel the strong beat of his heart pounding—not erratic, but low and happy. And as messy as everything is now—you don't think you've ever felt your heart so full either.
"Naturally, I won." He teases, curling a hand to your back.
"Don't get cocky, I let you win."
Caleb only smiles, pressing a kiss to your cheek, "Will you tell me what you're thinking about? You looked dazed earlier."
"Does it bother you that much?" You hum. In all honesty, you're a little anxious to tell him that you were daydreaming about him—Caleb's warm body, strong hands, gentle guidance. And the other part of you is sure he knows what you were thinking about too.
"It does." He cups your cheeks, bringing your eyes to his—a piqued glint in his eye. He just wants to hear you say it. "I won't be able to focus on anything else until you tell me."
It doesn't take much time for you to give in this time, sighing as you bury your face into his chest so your voice comes out muffled, "I was just thinking about you, so don't get jealous."
"Me?" Caleb muses, "What about me?"
This time, you hesitate, blinking owlishly at him.
"You won't tell me?" It's quite the opposite, there's no point in telling him if he already knows the thoughts in your heart. After all, you both are two apples of the same tree, lotuses of the same stem—what you think, he thinks. Bending down, he ghosts his lips against your temple, grinning impishly. "Even if it's my birthday? What if I say please?"
"It's embarrassing," you mumble, walking back until your back finds the counter. Caleb follows you, hands around yours.
"Would it help if I told you something embarrassing about me then?"
"Don't I already know everything about you?" You question, drawing little shapes into the powder on his chest.
And Caleb only laughs—neither agreeing nor disagreeing—taking your wrist into his fingers before he leans down, meeting your eyes with a sultry look that you know well. His words are soft but a quiet, strained tremor: "I woke up because I had a dream about you."
That makes you blink in surprise, raising a brow. Caleb has many dreams—some, he'll tell you about in the middle of the night when he wakes in cold sweat and curls around you in grounding presence. And the others you know he keeps from you because he doesn't want you to worry. It is a little surprising that he tells you about this one now.
"What kind of dream?"
Caleb only smiles, but it's different now as he crowds you against the counter, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat, causing little vibrations when he answers.
"A nice one, I almost didn't want to wake up." You shiver beneath him, instinctively tilting your head to give him more space; he takes it eagerly, mapping his lips across your pulse, kissing along your veins. "Can you guess what it was about?"
You gulp, Caleb feels the bobbing against his throat. You, in fact, can take a very good guess about what his dream was about. But instead of speaking, you curl your arms around his shoulder, drawing his face back in front of yours.
His breath is warm against your mouth, inching closer before you speak, "I was thinking about you… fucking me." Your blood rushes through you, and you can hear your heart thrumming in your ears. No matter how many times you've been intimate with Caleb, voicing your desire is embarrassing, always brings anticipation because you know Caleb. You know he'll always make you feel good after you say your filthy words—a promise he never fails to keep, "You're so warm, Caleb… and I want you. All the time."
Caleb's eyes seem to dilate, a little huff escaping his lungs into the small space between your lips.
"We really are alike, aren't we?"
You only nod, anticipation boiling in your veins.
"Should I show you what I was dreaming about then?"
You nod again.
Caleb smiles, and in a single breath, he wanes the gap between you two and presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is sweet—quite so. The sugar dissolves on your taste buds, mingling with Caleb's taste as his tongue breaches into your mouth, curling with knowing touch and want. He presses you against the counter, hands grasping the back of your thighs and pushing you up until you're perched pretty on the cool countertops. Still kissing insistently like you need it more than oxygen.
Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he steps into the space, hands already curling demandingly around his shirt.
"Caleb…" You whine against his mouth.
"You said my name like that in my dream too, so pretty." He breaks the kiss, licking up the powder sugar on your body. Laving his tongue along the sweetness as he makes his way down your jaw and neck before sliding your shirt off and discarding it onto the floor, then moving down to the valley of your breasts, open-mouthed kisses littered along the way. "So messy…"
His words are cooed but so, so affectionate. The tone that makes you whine and flush hot with anticipation, slick tackiness building in your panties with every kiss upon you.
When you call him name again, Caleb grants you mercy and takes a pert nipple into his mouth, groping and teasing the other with his powdered, deft fingers.
You arch into his touch when he suckles on your breasts, aching with the wave of fresh bruises. His other hand glides down your body to find the already damp fabric of your panties, smiling when he feels it against his palm.
Always just as eager as him, Caleb thinks.
“It's messy down here too,” he grins as he cups the wetness, palming you through the slick-laden cotton. Your cunt is hot and ready beneath his hand, heel of his palm just barely brushing your sensitive clit, and he presses a kiss against your temple when you cry his name, “I know, I know, I hear you, pretty girl. Don’t worry, I’ll clean you up.”
True to his word, Caleb kisses down your body. Kisses and slides his tongue down and down and down until he’s onto his knees in front of you, making space for himself between your thighs when you part way for him. Your easy compliance makes him smile, leaning in until his breath flares hot on your puffy cunt.
You shiver, unsure if it’s because of his breath, the eagerness pumping through you, or maybe it’s just Caleb. Maybe it’s just the way Caleb stares so ardently at you, lavender eyes half-lidded and hungry—like a hound eager for its call to hunt. Maybe it’s the reverent voracity in his gaze when he turns his head, mouth latching to the fat of your inner thigh to suck sloppy love bites into one before printing more on the other.
There’s always something about Caleb when he gets like this—feverish with want that makes the apples of his cheeks and tips of his ears a stark crimson against alabaster skin. But it's a nice view he gives you. It's never a bad view with him like this—never a bad time when Caleb gets on his knees because you he'll make you feel good.
And then, Caleb presses his nose deep against your clothed core, and just breathes.
Inhales the scent of you at your most intimate place. Nosing into your flesh to etch your scent into his body before his tongue finally laves a wet stripe up your pussy.
He groans at the taste, eyes flickering as his lips suction around your puffy clit, sucking the wetness from your panties with vigor like a bee to nectar, an instinctive action that comes naturally to him. You buck helplessly into the touch, anchoring yourself by tugging at his hair when the tip of his tongue teases and drools, hot and wet globs of saliva ruining the fabric even further as Caleb takes what his dream provided.
Your panties stick to you, soaked and ruined when he rolls them down, tossing them to the floor. Then his hands come to your folds, thumb parting your lips to reveal tender flesh to his gaze. You twitch under the attention, clit pulsing as he draws closer, devoted in his touch and gaze.
Then he takes you into his mouth. And it sparks white-hot pleasure through your veins.
He starts slowly at first, a simple taste and savoring. Drags the flat of his tongue along the gooey entrance of your hole, licks and licks, suckles and teases between your dripping hole and sensitive clit until you’re greeted with the familiar warmth pooling in your belly, and it feels as if it melts you from the inside out. Like sugar simmering into sweet caramel or ambrosia blooming on Caleb's tongue that he swallows persistently.
In the hazy mist of lewd slurps and feverish bodies, Caleb moves his left arm from around your thigh, bringing it to join where his mouth is suctioned. For a bit, he just runs his fingers through the mess of slick and spit, toying the blunt pressure of his fingers at your entrance—barely there then gone, and it makes you whine in anticipation.
"Caleb, don't tease, please." Your voice is unrecognizable to yourself, hoarse and riddled with want. "'M so close… just hurry…"
He only smiles pitifully at your words, nuzzling into your thigh as you try and buck into his fingers, chasing the delicious pressure that'll come with it. But he holds you down, hands splaying across your belly like a kitten held by the scruff of its neck. Pins you down and keeps you spread open for him.
"I've spoiled you too much," is all he says before easing a single finger into your fluttering hole.
Caleb's finger is long. Long and thick and tender when it fills you up, and an even more pleasurable squeeze comes with it when he adds another that eases in just as smoothly with a wet sound that embarrasses you.
You're so wet. So wet and aroused and warm when he gets his fingers knuckle-deep, silky and squelching with every little movement that it makes him feel a flicker of pride kindling in his chest because he's the one to reduce you to this state. It's a tender feeling in his heart—one that even the toring chip couldn't rewire in his mind.
And then he begins to arch his fingers. Gliding along your walls and easily finding that velvety spot that makes you keen and cant against his palm.
“Feel good?” He murmurs against your clit, laving it tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves while he works you open.
You can’t find any notion of a response besides a broken moan. It doesn’t matter though, really. Caleb knows it feels good. He knows more than anyone else what feels good and what doesn’t feel good for you. He’s dedicated himself to it with vigor and ardor—the bone-red kind of devotion one could only find in someone who has loved so deeply and dedicatedly.
Just as Caleb has done for you.
He knows from the way you twitch. The way you whine, every pitch in your broken moans and spasm of your thighs closing around his head. How you draw him in closer with every fiber of your being like you want to reach into him and merge as one.
It’d be nice, he thinks. If it was like that, he could be everything to you, for you, with you.
And even though it’s his birthday, there are some things that Caleb won’t get to have. But he’ll settle with this for now. Settle with your hands weeding through his hair and his name quivering on your lips. It's a blessing enough that he gets to be on his knees for you, watch you from below as you grow closer and closer to the the edge.
“Ff-fuck, ‘m close.” Your voice wavers, fingers weeding tighter into his hair. Every synapse shoots with pleasure into the next, hot indulgence that grows molten with heat, melting into the euphoric bliss swirling through you.
You’re sweeter on his tongue when you cum. Cunt spasming around his fingers as you crash and fall apart like a comet breaking through a galaxy’s orbit. But Caleb doesn’t stop. In tandem, his fingers and mouth continue their assault on you, wringing out every wet gush of sweetness until you collapse limply on the counter.
Even when ruined, Caleb knows you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
“This is better than my dream,” you hear Caleb mumble against your pussy, “was this a surprise for me too?”
You nod before you can even process his words, though you didn’t truly plan this, it’s a surprise for you, too. A very welcome surprise as you tug him back up by his hair, and your voice is breathless when you speak,
“Mhm… f’you.” Your fingers fidget into the hem of his sweats, drawing him between your legs. “I was thinking about you, cause I wanted you… wanted you to fuck me…”
Caleb’s breath hitches at your words—so open with want and desire. A shiver, akin to static glitching through a system wrecks him when you nuzzle into his neck, pressing sloppy but soft kisses against the pale, hollow curve of his throat. For you, he tilts his head to offer more—like a prey to predator, welcoming demise. If it’s from you, Caleb will take it without complaint.
He hisses when your hand glides over his body, warm and steady beneath your palms. Your kisses are redirected to his chest, peppering gentle touches to his collarbone then down to where his heart beats steadily, lips pecked across his chiseled muscles—deceptively gentle before you sink your teeth dangerously close to the dusky pink of his nipples.
It makes him gasp first, then smile in what feels like satisfaction that he’s your target for such vicious love, affection unfurling in his chest despite it all. The sting lingers, but it’s quickly soothed when your tongue, wet and smooth, lathers over it. An apology of sorts that's not needed at all to him—if anything, he feels like he should thank you for claiming him so thoroughly, loving him in whole.
“Fuck me, Caleb… please? Wanna make you feel good too.” Your words are mumbled into his chest, eyes blinking owlishly up at him with need, and your legs curl around his hips, moving him closer until the warm bulge in his pants bleeds into the mess between your legs. It soaks him, but neither of you seem to care much, not when there's so much more to consider.
It’s cute, Caleb thinks to himself. He thinks you’re always cute when you need him so badly. And luckily for you, he’s well accustomed to granting your wishes.
“You want me?” He says lowly, almost teasing. “Well, it is my birthday, and I always feel generous when it comes to you.”
With that, Caleb makes quick work of his sweats, tugging the fabric down just enough for his cock to bob free.
The sight, no matter how many times you've seen it, makes your mouth go dry and your head spin. Caleb's cock is thick, burly. Pretty in color and intimidating in size. Your breath catches as he presses close to you, simply rubbing the thick length of him up and down your cunt, catching the strings of wetness as pearls of pre mix together with your slick. It makes a lewd noise, obscene with your cunt spread around him, and makes embarrassment burn through you.
"Caleb…"
Your voice stumbles as the blunt head notches against you, your heart jumps to your throat, anticipation tears through you completely. And is immediately overpowered by the pressure as Caleb sinks in inch by inch.
Your entire body reacts to the intrusion with a filthy squelch, and Caleb is no better off. His face burns red, buried in the crook of your neck as he whines your name—needy syllables rolling off his tongue, dripped with want. His hands grab at the fat of your thighs, holding you open, and slowly, he gives a single, thorough roll of his hips.
"O-oh, fuck," The shallow thrust makes you keen around him immediately. Feels like it punches the air from your lungs as he fucks you, softly at first. Just letting the length of his cock drag along your walls, mapping out the space it knows so intimately, heavy and thick but gentle in its motion.
And Caleb isn’t any better. His eyes stay trained—hypnotized—on the way your cunt swallows his cock, clit twitching, and puffy folds stretched wide around the girth, coating it in slick and cum as he fucks and fuck and fucks you until you’re clinging helplessly onto him like you need him. Snaps his hips into you until the space floods with nothing but breathless whispers of names and skin and skin.
And the sound.
God, the sound echoes throughout his kitchen, sex reverberating through the walls. It’s a filthy, slick, wet sound—vulgar and carnal. Perfectly mirrors the want in his actions. Matches the way your pussy flutters and squeezes him just right.
His voice sounds as wrecked as you when he talks, “Y-you—ngh, fuck—pussy’s so greedy,” he almost laughs, a strained sound above the squelching noises, “wh-who taught you to be so greedy, hm?”
His words make you moan, maybe frustration or pure pleasure scoring its way through your veins. It's him. Of course it's him. Caleb, the man who has been by your side for years, through childhood and into the future. The man whose back you've always seen as a steady wall, present and unyielding—it's no wonder that no one has ever measured up to him.
It's his fault. This greed that eats you alive is because of Caleb. Because he's the one encouraging your greed, throwing gasoline into the consuming fire you have because there's nothing in this world that Caleb wouldn't give to you—it's only right that he takes responsibility for what he's taught you.
And you, in turn, have always taken what Caleb has given. His lust. His desires. His want. What Caleb gives, you take. It's always been like that, this push and pull you both have fallen into throughout your entire lives.
So you lay limp, pliant under the pleasure he generously gives, and let him fuck you. Fast and hard and steady through the fog of pleasure clouding your thoughts. You let his fingers roll on your clit, threading you closer to the feather-thin precipice of cumming.
It hits you in powerful waves, convulsing muscles as you choke on a moan that comes out as Caleb's name. Pulls you under the utopia of bliss, and you barely register the stuttering motions of Caleb's hips or the way he moans your name in whiny pitch.
“Sh-shit, feels s'good," Caleb chokes on groans, burying his head into the space where your shoulder meets your neck. It really does feel good. It feels loving—pure, unadulterated love. You make Caleb feel loved. And you do it so thoroughly. In a way where all doubts of who he is or where he'll be in the future fade away because all that matters is that he's with you and you're with him in this moment.
It’s that love, that devotion, the redamancy of it all that has him pulling you impossibly closer until he can’t tell where you end and he starts. The pleasure of your fluttering walls that makes his hips break in its rhythm and his cock throb and pulse inside of you.
“I love you,” Caleb utters, says it over and over against your lips in fervent promise, groans your name brokenly—desperate—before he trembles, cumming suddenly. It’s thick and warm, ivory ribbons spillling inside you. He cums so much that you shudder.
And like everything else in your life, you take what Caleb gives you, and he takes what you give.
It’s a full feeling; everywhere feels filled. Satisfied. The sun still beams through the blinds, frosting and cake forgotten; the kitchen is a mess but lived in, and Caleb is here—with you.
It’s another year of his life flickering through the endless circle of time. Another sunrise that will rise from the east and a sunset that will fall on the west, and when it casts shadows upon you both, yours will be right there alongside Caleb’s.
“Caleb,” your voice comes out no more than a little whisper, but he hums anyway, pressing his lips to your sweaty temple, “Happy birthday. I love you.”
Against you, Caleb stills, then he pulls back to look at you, bringing his hands to cup your face before kissing you. Tender, patient.
“I love you.” He answers in kind, “This is a perfect start to the day.”
You smile at that, tugging him down for another kiss. Caleb is right—anywhere is perfect as long as the two of you are together.
Distantly, outside the quiet intimacy of your bubble, the oven dings.
chapter eight || A Doorway Full of Ghosts - R. Sukuna
Ryomen sukuna x f!reader
❝You grew up behind locked doors—kept “safe” until safety started to look like a cage.
One night, something inside you snapped, and the world answered with sirens, courtrooms, and an iron-lit ward that promised treatment but fed on fear. That’s where you met him.
Sukuna—another monster on paper, another lifer with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He watched you like he recognized the shape of your loneliness. Like he’d been waiting. And when the ward turned bloody, when the gates cracked open for a moment too long, he took your hand and didn’t let go.
Now living in the aftermath—moving country to country, carrying secrets like loaded guns.
Because what escaped with them wasn’t just love.
It was something darker.❞
By the time your parents’ flight finally landed, your apartment no longer smelled like new.
It smelled like you.
Like simmering broth that clung to the curtains. Like laundry soap and cheap incense Sumire insisted “kept bad energy out.” Like the faint sweetness of the lotion Sukuna rubbed into your hands when your skin got dry from washing dishes too often.
It smelled like something lived-in.
Something survived.
You had been counting down the days in a way that felt childish—marking them in your head, waking with a little burst of nervous excitement that made your stomach flutter even when nausea tried to swallow it. You told yourself it was just because you missed them. Because you wanted your mother’s arms around you and your father’s voice in the room again, steady as a metronome.
But deeper than that, there was another wanting.
A wanting to prove you were real.
A wanting to prove you weren’t the monster they’d whispered about in careful tones. A wanting to show them you were still their daughter—and not just a story the world had written in court ink and locked behind steel doors.
Sukuna had been clear, the way he always was when something mattered to him.
“If they bring authorities,” he’d said one night, voice low as he watched you fold baby clothes Kaori had handed down, “they won’t come back in this apartment. Ever. Understand?”
You’d nodded, throat tight. “They promised they wouldn’t.”
“And if they lied,” he’d murmured, stepping close, thumb pressing beneath your chin to tilt your face up, “I won’t be gentle.”
You’d swallowed, heart hammering.
Because you knew he meant it.
And because a small, shameful part of you—buried under fear—had felt relieved he would protect you, even if his protection tasted like a blade.
When the knock finally came, your whole body lit up.
You stood so fast the room tilted. “I’ll get it,” you blurted, already moving.
But Sukuna was quicker.
He was always quicker when it came to doors.
His arm slid in front of you—not rough, just absolute—and he stepped past you as if he’d been waiting to place his body between you and the world. “I’ll answer,” he said.
You didn’t argue. You hovered a step behind him, hands twisting together, palms damp.
Sukuna opened the door.
For a second, everything froze in the doorway like a photograph.
Your mother stood there first—eyes glossy, smile trembling like it was struggling not to fall apart. Your father beside her, shoulders squared, face calm but tight around the mouth. And Hiro—
Hiro looked different.
Not older, exactly, but… harder. Like grief had carved new lines into him. Like guilt had grown into something sharper than sadness.
Your mother tried to smile at Sukuna as much as she could, like politeness was a fragile offering that might keep the air safe. Your father did the same, chin dipping in a small respectful nod.
Hiro didn’t.
His gaze locked on Sukuna and stayed there, unblinking, like a challenge he didn’t know how to put into words.
Sukuna stood tall in the doorway, filling it. Broad shoulders. Crimson eyes. That pale pink buzzed hair that looked almost soft until you remembered the man beneath it.
He didn’t step aside immediately.
He stared at them for a long moment, measuring.
Then he said, flat and controlled, “Come in.”
Your mother moved first.
The second she crossed the threshold and saw you fully—standing there in your soft clothes, hair pulled back, belly just beginning to show in that tender early way—she made a small sound, like something in her chest finally cracked.
“Oh, sweetheart…” You barely got a breath before she was on you, arms wrapping around you tight, tight, tight—like she was trying to make sure you were solid. Like she was trying to convince herself you weren’t a dream.
You clung back, face pressed into her shoulder, smelling her perfume—familiar, floral, safe—and tears sprang to your eyes so fast you didn’t have time to stop them.
“I missed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I know,” she murmured into your hair. “I know, baby. I know.”
Your father came next.
He hugged you firm, careful around your belly, one hand pressing to your back and the other coming up to cup your cheek for half a second, thumb brushing softly like you were still small enough to be soothed by touch alone.
“You look…” he swallowed, voice quiet, “…you look well.” You nodded, tears slipping down your face. “I’m okay.”
Then Hiro stepped forward.
For a heartbeat, you didn’t know what he would do.
You remembered him in court, jaw clenched, eyes raw with guilt he never learned how to set down. You remembered him visiting the ward every week, trying to smile through glass, trying to pretend you weren’t locked away because of something that happened when he brought pain home.
Hiro hugged you like a big brother who had missed his little sister.
It wasn’t gentle like your mother.
It wasn’t careful like your father.
It was tight and shaking, arms wrapping around you like he had been holding his breath for years and didn’t realize it until now.
You clung back, small against him.
He murmured, barely audible, “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” you whispered.
When you pulled away, your mother’s hands immediately came to your face again, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes, smoothing away tears like she could smooth away the years too.
Then she looked down at your belly and made a soft sound—half laugh, half sob.
“Sit,” she urged quickly, the way mothers did when love turned into instruction. “You need rest. The baby needs rest.”
You started to protest—I’m fine—but something shifted in the room.
Sukuna, who had been standing near the doorway like a guard, visibly loosened.
Just a fraction.
Because for the first time since they’d arrived, your mother had said something he agreed with.
You watched his shoulders drop a hair.
It was strange—how your mother didn’t even know she’d pleased him, how she didn’t realize she’d accidentally spoken his language: protect the baby, protect you.
You sat on the couch like she wanted, and your mother settled close beside you, thigh touching yours, hand resting lightly on your knee.
Your father and Hiro took the loveseat across from you.
Hiro kept his posture stiff, gaze flicking around the apartment like he was searching for traps in the corners—like he didn’t trust soft places anymore.
Sukuna stood for a moment, watching all of you like he was memorizing the geometry of the room: where they sat, where you sat, how close they were allowed to be.
Then he said, “I’ll start lunch.” You looked up at him, heart fluttering at the fact he was offering—hosting, in his own way. “Thank you,” you said gently.
Sukuna’s ears went faintly red, as if tenderness embarrassed him more than violence ever could. He looked away quickly, jaw working like he’d swallowed something sharp, then nodded once and disappeared into the kitchen.
The moment he left the immediate space, your mother exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since the door opened.
She leaned closer, voice soft. “Sweetheart… you’re really okay?” You nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Your father’s gaze stayed steady on you, calm but searching. “You look healthy,” he said. “You’re eating?”
“Yes,” you whispered. “I eat. I take vitamins.”
Your mother’s eyes brightened with fragile joy. “And the baby? How are you feeling? Are you sick a lot?”
“Some days,” you admitted, fingers drifting unconsciously to your belly. “But it’s okay. It’s—” your voice cracked, smiling through it, “it’s my baby.”
Your mother’s hand covered yours, warm and trembling. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes it is.”
Across from you, Hiro finally spoke again.
“You look good,” he said, voice rougher than your father’s. “Healthier than… before.”
Your chest tightened.
Because you knew what before meant.
Before the ward. Before the glass. Before the way they’d started looking at you like you might break the room if you breathed too hard.
You swallowed. “How are you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light. “Did you… did you get married?” Hiro’s mouth twitched, humorless. “No.” Your breath halted. “Oh— I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “Don’t be. Me and Aiko broke up.”
Your mother’s face flickered—relief and sorrow tangled together.
Your father stayed quiet, gaze dropping briefly to the floor.
You stared at Hiro, stunned. “Why?” Hiro shrugged, but his eyes were tired. “It was never right,” he said. “She wasn’t… the girl.”
The words hung in the air like a curtain you didn’t know how to pull aside.
Aiko had been the spark that day. The screaming, the slapping. The betrayal that made your mind crack open at the worst possible seam.
You didn’t know if Hiro was saying she wasn’t the girl because she didn’t love him enough… or because she could never live beside the shadow of what happened.
You didn’t ask.
Your mother asked softer questions instead—where you lived exactly, you kept it vague, if the neighborhood felt safe, you said yes, if you had friends, you said Kaori and Sumire, and you watched your mother’s eyes ease at the fact you weren’t alone.
Your father listened, hands folded, posture composed. Then, gently, like a professor guiding a student toward a difficult truth, he asked:
“And your medication, love?”
Your stomach tightened instantly.
Your mother’s hand squeezed your knee.
Your father’s voice stayed soft. “Are you doing okay without it?”
You opened your mouth.
The words didn’t come fast.
Because you knew what your father meant: Are you safe? Are you stable? Are you about to fall apart again?
Because you also knew what Sukuna believed: You don’t need it. There’s nothing wrong with you. They made you weak.
You were caught between those worlds, balancing on the thin line of peace.
Before you could answer, Sukuna’s voice cut in from the kitchen—close enough that he’d clearly been listening. “You don’t need it,” he said flatly.
He stepped into the doorway with a bowl in his hands, eyes sharp. He didn’t smile. He didn’t soften. He simply stated it like fact.
Your mother’s posture went still.
Your father’s expression stayed calm, but his eyes tightened.
Hiro’s jaw flexed as if he’d bitten down on rage.
Sukuna crossed the room and set the bowl down, then looked at your father with that cold arrogance that always seemed to dare people to challenge him.
“She’s fine,” Sukuna said. “Better than fine.”
Your father didn’t rise to it. He breathed in slowly, voice still gentle. “I’m glad she’s doing well,” he said. “Medication isn’t weakness. It can be support.”
Sukuna scoffed—small, sharp.
You felt the air tighten.
You felt it in your mother’s hand on your knee, the way her fingers pressed like a silent warning: be careful.
You looked up at Sukuna then—at the way he stood too straight, at the way he watched your family like they were potential threats disguised as love.
And you did what you had learned to do to keep storms from breaking.
You smiled gently.
“I’m okay,” you said softly, voice calm, almost sweet. “Sukuna takes good care of me.”
The words pleased him.
You saw it immediately—the barely-there shift, the way his shoulders eased, the way his eyes flicked down to you like you’d given him something.
Your mother’s smile trembled again, but she kept it.
Your father nodded, slow.
Hiro looked away, staring at the floor like he couldn’t stand to watch you become agreeable to survive.
Sukuna returned to the kitchen without another word, as if the matter was settled.
But your father’s gaze stayed on you—quiet, steady, aching.
And in the space between your gentle smile and your brother’s silence, you felt it:
This visit wasn’t just about seeing you.
It was about learning who you belonged to now.
And whether there was any part of you left that still belonged to yourself.
Your mother’s hand stayed on your knee for a long moment after you’d said it—Sukuna takes good care of me—as if she were anchoring you to the couch, to the room, to reality.
Then she shifted, smoothing her skirt with trembling fingers, and reached into her bag.
“I brought something,” she said softly, like the words were a peace offering.
You blinked. “For… me?”
“For you,” she murmured, eyes shining. “And for the baby.”
She pulled out a small bundle wrapped in tissue paper first—neat, careful, chosen with love. When she unfolded it, you saw a tiny onesie—soft fabric, neutral colors, a little pattern of tiny moons and stars. Not pink. Not blue. Just gentle. Just safe.
“It’s early,” your mother said, voice thick with emotion, “and we don’t know the gender yet, but I couldn’t come empty-handed. So… something neutral.”
Your breath caught.
Your chest filled so fast it hurt.
You reached for it with shaking hands, as if you were afraid it would vanish if you moved too quickly. Your fingers brushed the soft fabric, and something inside you gave way.
You started crying immediately.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just tears spilling like they’d been waiting behind your ribs for permission.
“Oh,” you whispered, smiling through it. “Mama…”
Your mother’s eyes filled too, and she reached out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle hands that had once tucked your hair behind your ear when you were sick as a child. “You’re going to be a mother,” she whispered, and the wonder in her voice broke you open even more.
You nodded, crying harder, pressing the onesie to your chest like it could hear your heartbeat. “It’s so… little,” you choked out. “It’s so little.” Your mother laughed softly through tears. “They’re always little at first.”
Then she reached into the bag again and pulled out a second gift—this one for you. A soft cardigan in a warm, neutral shade, plush and gentle against the skin, the kind of thing meant to drape around your shoulders when your body felt fragile. Tucked into the fold was a small paperback journal with a simple cover—no loud design, just a quiet invitation—and a pen clipped neatly to the side.
“For you,” your mother said, voice careful. “For your thoughts. For your days. For the things you might not know how to say out loud.”
You stared.
Tears slid down your cheeks and dropped onto your hands.
“I—” your voice cracked, and you had to swallow hard. “Thank you.”
You couldn’t stop crying. You couldn’t stop smiling either. It felt like your face didn’t know which emotion to belong to, so it tried to hold both.
Across the room, Sukuna’s footsteps approached.
He had been pretending he wasn’t listening from the kitchen, but you knew better—Sukuna listened to everything that involved you the way a wolf listened to the woods.
He came to your side and looked down at what you were holding.
His gaze lingered on the onesie, then on the cardigan, then on your tear-streaked face.
“Do you like it?” he asked, voice rough, almost cautious—as if he didn’t know how to enter a moment that didn’t involve power.
You nodded fast, crying harder. “Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “It’s… it’s perfect.”
Something in Sukuna’s expression softened—just a hair. Not enough to make him safe, but enough to make him human for a second.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple.
A slow, possessive kind of tenderness.
Then he straightened and handed you a glass of water like it was an instruction disguised as care.
“Drink,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been crying all the time.” Your cheeks warmed. You sniffled. “I’m… hormonal.”
Sukuna scoffed quietly like he hated the word, like he’d prefer a simpler reason, but his thumb brushed your shoulder in a small, grounding motion.
“Hormonal or not, you need to hydrate,” he muttered.
You took the glass with trembling fingers and sipped obediently, still crying softly. Sukuna watched you swallow like it mattered more than the conversation itself.
Your mother noticed.
You saw it in the way her eyes flicked between you and him, cataloging the dynamics like a florist cataloged stems—gentle, dangerous, delicate, sharp.
Your father cleared his throat.
The sound was quiet, polite, but it cut through the room like a careful blade.
Sukuna’s head turned immediately.
Your father offered a small, respectful smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Sukuna,” he said calmly, “may I ask you a few questions?”
Sukuna didn’t sit. He stood there, looming slightly, like he wanted the height advantage without admitting he wanted it.
“What,” Sukuna said.
Your father kept his tone even. “What do you do for work?” Sukuna’s jaw flexed once, then he answered, blunt. “Welding company. Labor. I’m good at it.”
Your father nodded slowly. “And you’ve been able to support…” his gaze flicked to you, softened there, “…her? And the baby?”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, the protective edge sharpening. “Yes.”
The air tightened around that single syllable.
Your father’s hands stayed folded in his lap. He asked another question anyway, voice still polite, still mild.
“How long have you been working there?”
Sukuna answered. Your father listened. He asked about hours, about stability, about whether Sukuna intended to stay in the area. Each question sounded harmless on the surface, but you could feel the shape of what your father was doing beneath it:
Learning the cage.
Measuring the lock.
Trying to find where the hinge might be.
Your mother stayed quiet beside you, smiling softly whenever Sukuna glanced her way, offering him warmth like it was strategy.
Because it was.
Hiro, across from you, didn’t participate.
He didn’t look at Sukuna.
Not once.
His gaze stayed on you, like if he looked at Sukuna he might say something that would light the room on fire.
Hiro leaned forward slightly, voice gentler than you expected. “How’s the pregnancy been?” he asked.
You blinked, grateful for a question that wasn’t about control.
“It’s… strange,” you admitted quietly. “I get sick sometimes.” Hiro nodded. “What are you craving?” You wiped your cheeks, embarrassed. “Ice cream,” you whispered, then added quickly, “and sometimes salty things. Like noodles.”
Hiro’s mouth twitched—the faintest hint of a smile. “That sounds like you.”
Your chest tightened.
Because it did. Because it reminded you that before everything—before courtrooms and wards and Sukuna—you had been you.
Hiro watched you a long moment, then asked softly, “Do you feel okay?”
You hesitated.
Not because you didn’t understand the question.
Because you understood it too well.
You answered the safest way. “Yes,” you said gently, fingers slipping to your belly again. “I do.”
Hiro swallowed hard and nodded, gaze dropping to your hands like he couldn’t bear to look at your face too long.
Your mother cleared her throat then, voice careful—sweet in the way she’d always been when she wanted to keep peace.
“If…” she began, then paused, eyes flicking to Sukuna like she was approaching a wild animal slowly. “If we were to move to China…”
Your heart skipped.
Your father’s posture went still.
Hiro’s eyes widened slightly, surprise flashing across his face.
Your mother continued, voice trembling but steady. “Would that be alright? I mean—close by, not here necessarily—just… near. So that when Sukuna is working and Y/n is alone, I could come help. With her. With the baby.”
She smiled, gentle, deliberate.
“I know Sukuna will already be such a great father,” she added, voice warm, “and very protective. But I also know he has to work. And a mother… a mother just wants to help.”
You felt your throat close.
Because the offer was love.
Because the offer was also an escape route disguised as tenderness.
Sukuna’s eyes sharpened instantly.
He knew it too.
For a heartbeat, you thought he would snap.
But then—something surprising.
His shoulders eased slightly.
His ego liked the praise. He liked being named as a good father before he’d even had to prove it. He liked being acknowledged as the center of your safety.
Your mother’s buttering worked.
Sukuna’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but not a snarl either.
He looked at you first—like your opinion was the deciding factor even if he pretended otherwise.
Then he looked back at your mother.
“As long as it doesn’t stress her out,” he said slowly, measured. “Or the baby.” Your mother nodded quickly. “Of course.”
Your father’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he kept his expression calm.
Hiro’s hands balled on his knees, knuckles whitening, but he said nothing—still refusing to look at Sukuna, as if eye contact would make him complicit.
You sat there, holding the tiny onesie and the cardigan and the journal like evidence that you were loved.
And in the quiet after your mother’s offer, you felt the room rearrange itself:
Your parents weren’t here just to visit.
They were here to negotiate.
And Sukuna—standing over you with that glass of water, that kiss still warm on your temple—was already deciding what parts of you they were allowed to keep.
Time moved strangely after that—like the apartment itself had learned to hold its breath.
Lunch simmered in the kitchen. The air filled with the comforting smell of broth and rice and something warm enough to trick your nervous system into believing this was normal. Your mother asked small questions while she folded the baby onesie back into tissue paper as if she were tucking away a prayer. Your father’s gaze kept returning to the window, then to the door, as if he wanted to map every exit. Hiro stayed close to you without touching too much, like he was afraid his affection might break you.
And Sukuna—Sukuna watched everything.
Not overtly. Not like a guard pacing.
But like a storm cloud lingering at the edge of a sunny day, always present, always capable.
When the conversation finally softened into quieter tones and the daylight started to lean toward evening, your mother glanced at your father, then cleared her throat.
“Well,” she said gently, smiling as if she could charm the air itself, “we’re staying at a hotel just down the street.”
Your heart lifted—relief and excitement blooming together. “Down the street?”
“Yes,” your mother said, nodding. “Close. So we can see you again tomorrow if that’s okay.”
Your father leaned forward slightly, voice calm. “We’d like to take you to lunch,” he added, careful, polite. “Just for a little while. Somewhere quiet.” Hiro nodded once, eyes on you. “If you feel up to it.”
You opened your mouth to say yes so fast it almost slipped out as a squeak.
But Sukuna spoke first.
“No.”
The word snapped through the room like a match struck.
Your smile faltered.
Your mother’s face didn’t change—not much—but her eyes tightened, just a fraction, like she’d felt the heat of it.
Sukuna stood near the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, posture rigid. His gaze slid to you—possessive, protective, controlling all in one breath.
“She needs to stay home when I’m working,” he said flatly.
The air turned dense.
Your father’s expression stayed neutral, but you saw it—the flicker of anger he swallowed down for your sake. Your mother, ever the florist, ever the woman who knew how to handle thorns without bleeding, nodded slowly.
“Of course,” she said softly. “We understand. Truly.” Then she tilted her head with careful gentleness, offering a compromise like a ribbon laid over a blade.
“Would it be alright,” she asked, voice warm, “if we picked up food and brought it here instead? We could eat together in the apartment. That way she doesn’t have to go out, and it’s still… lunch.”
Hiro’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.
Your father watched Sukuna closely, like he was studying a difficult subject—like he was trying to understand what kind of man said no so easily to something so simple.
Sukuna’s nostrils flared.
He took a slow breath through his nose, like he was forcing himself to consider the idea rather than crush it on instinct. His eyes flicked to you again, sharp and assessing, as if checking whether you’d protest—whether you’d betray him by wanting something outside of his reach.
You sat very still, hands folded over your belly, heart beating too fast.
Finally, Sukuna exhaled.
A heavy sigh, like giving permission cost him something.
“That’s fine,” he said, clipped. “But no taking her out.” Your mother nodded immediately. “Of course.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed further, voice dropping lower, more final.
“She’s fragile right now.”
The word fragile landed in your chest like a weight.
It sounded like concern when he said it.
It also sounded like a leash.
You swallowed and forced a small smile, trying to keep the peace, trying to keep the air sweet and safe. Your mother’s hand found your knee again, squeezing gently—comfort and quiet strategy in one touch.
Hiro stared at the floor, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek.
Your father nodded slowly, polite enough to pass, careful enough not to ignite Sukuna. “We understand,” he said calmly. “We’ll bring food here tomorrow.”
Sukuna didn’t thank them.
He simply nodded once, as if he’d granted them a privilege they should be grateful for.
And you sat between them all—belly warm with new life, hands trembling under your calm smile—feeling how easily love turned into permission, how quickly your world shrank to the size of what Sukuna allowed.
The next day came in soft gray light, the kind that made the city look washed clean—quiet streets, pale sky, the world holding still for a moment before it remembered how to move.
You woke with that gentle, nervous excitement buzzing under your skin.
Your parents were coming back.
You cleaned even though the apartment was already clean. You smoothed the couch pillows, wiped the counter twice, checked the sink, checked it again. Your hands needed something to do so your thoughts wouldn’t run too far ahead of you.
Sukuna left for work earlier than usual.
He didn’t kiss you goodbye the way he sometimes did when he was in a good mood. He only pressed a hand to the back of your neck, firm, grounding, and said, “Don’t open the door for anyone you don’t know.” You nodded quickly. “I won’t.”
His eyes lingered on you—sharp, possessive—then he left.
The apartment fell quiet.
And when the knock finally came hours later, your heart jumped like you’d been waiting with your ear pressed to the world.
You hurried toward the door, smiling before you even turned the knob.
But as your hand reached for it, you noticed something new.
A small camera mounted beside the frame.
A doorbell camera.
It hadn’t been there yesterday.
Your smile froze for half a second.
Then you heard your father’s voice faintly through the door, and the warmth returned—your body choosing comfort over dread.
You opened it.
Your parents stood there holding bags of food, smelling like warm rice and broth and something fried and comforting. Hiro was beside them, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tense.
Your mother’s face lit up when she saw you.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathed, smiling wide. “Hi.”
You grinned back, bright and genuine, and stepped forward into her arms. She hugged you carefully, like she was hugging both you and the baby.
Your father hugged you next, palm warm on your shoulder, and you felt him glance past you toward the inside of the apartment.
Then his eyes slid to the camera again.
You felt the moment he understood.
He didn’t say anything, but you saw it in the small tightening around his mouth—the professor’s mind filing the detail away.
He’s watching.
He’s tracking.
He’s prepared.
Hiro glanced at the camera too, and his jaw clenched.
You stepped back, forcing lightness into your voice. “Come in,” you said softly. “I’m glad you’re here.”
They entered, bags rustling, shoes slipping off near the door. Your mother’s eyes swept the apartment with careful appreciation—she made a point of saying, “It’s cozy today,” even if she didn’t like the feeling of it. Even if she could sense, the way mothers did, that the walls might be soft but the rules were not.
Your father set the food down on the table with quiet competence. Hiro helped without speaking much, unfolding containers, setting out chopsticks, opening drinks. No one mentioned Sukuna at first.
It was almost tender, the way they avoided his name like it might poison the air.
You all sat together—just you and your family, the kitchen table crowded with takeout, the apartment filled with the gentle noise of people trying to pretend everything was normal.
Your mother watched you eat like it was proof of life. “Are you keeping food down?” she asked softly.
You nodded, chewing carefully. “Most of the time. It comes and goes.”
Your father asked about your vitamins. Your mother asked if you were sleeping. They asked about your cravings today, and you admitted—blushing—that ice cream still sounded like heaven.
It was warm for a moment.
Then Hiro’s gaze flicked toward the door.
Toward the camera.
Toward the invisible presence of Sukuna even when he wasn’t there.
Hiro’s fork tapped against his container too hard.
Your mother shot him a look.
A quiet warning.
Not too loud.
Not too harsh.
Don’t upset her.
Hiro exhaled through his nose, trying to swallow his anger the way your father had learned to, the way your mother had learned to—slow, careful, strategic.
But it didn’t fully fit in his throat.
He looked at you, voice low. “You know this isn’t okay, right?” Your stomach tightened.
Your mother’s hand stilled mid-motion.
Your father’s gaze sharpened, but he stayed calm.
You swallowed. “What—” Hiro started ranting lightly, like he was trying to hold himself back with both hands.
“He took you,” Hiro said, voice shaking with restraint. “Out of a locked facility. Out of the country. Without consent—don’t look at me like that, you know what I mean—without legal consent. You didn’t sign anything, you didn’t—” He broke off, jaw clenched, then forced his tone softer. “I’m trying not to stress you out.” Your mother murmured, “Hiro…”
But he kept going, gaze bright with a protective fury that had nowhere to go for years.
“We can hire another lawyer,” he said, leaning forward. “A better one. One who actually understands international law, mental health law—everything. We can fight this. We can say you were kidnapped. Technically, you were.”
Your breath caught.
“K-kidnapped?” you repeated, the word sounding too sharp in your mouth, too ugly for the quiet table.
Your father spoke carefully, voice calm. “Hiro—”
“No,” Hiro cut in, then softened immediately, like he remembered you were fragile, remembered you were holding new life inside you. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to help.” He swallowed hard. “You’re pregnant. You’re doing better. You’re not hurting yourself. You’re not in solitary. Maybe… maybe they won’t send you back.”
Your mother’s lips parted, eyes glossy. She looked like she wanted to believe it so badly it hurt.
Hiro continued, quieter now. “Maybe they can make an exception because… because you’re technically a victim here too. If he took you and you didn’t understand—if you weren’t in a place to consent—then—”
Your vision blurred.
Not from tears yet, but from the way your mind tried to protect itself by going foggy, like it had learned long ago how to survive bad conversations.
Your hands drifted to your belly.
A steadying touch.
Your mother leaned closer, voice soft as petals. “Sweetheart,” she murmured, “we’re not saying you’re doing anything wrong. We’re just… we’re worried.”
Your father nodded, gentle. “We want you safe. That’s all.”
Hiro’s eyes were wide, intense. “You can be safe with us,” he whispered. “You can come home. Or—if not home—somewhere else. Somewhere that isn’t… him.”
Your throat tightened.
And there it was.
Sukuna’s name without being spoken.
Sukuna’s shadow laid across your table like a hand.
You stared at your family—at your mother trying to look calm, at your father measuring every word, at Hiro vibrating with anger and fear—and your chest filled with a strange, aching conflict.
Because you wanted them.
Because you missed them.
Because the idea of being “rescued” sounded like being locked up again.
And because, even if it frightened you to admit it, there was a part of you that didn’t want to be taken from Sukuna.
Not when you were finally feeling wanted.
Not when your baby’s future felt tangled with his presence.
You swallowed hard, voice soft. “If I go back,” you whispered, “they’ll put me in the ward again.” Your mother’s eyes filled. “Not necessarily—” Hiro shook his head. “Not if we do this right.”
Your father leaned forward, voice careful. “We need to think logically. Slowly. There are options.”
Options.
The word made you dizzy.
Because options meant choices and you’d never been allowed to make those.
Your breath came shallow.
You forced yourself to speak gently, like you were soothing everyone at once—including yourself.
“I’m… okay right now,” you whispered. “Please don’t… please don’t make it loud.” Your mother’s face softened instantly, nodding. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart.”
Hiro’s shoulders sagged, frustration still burning behind his eyes. He looked like he wanted to grab your hand and pull you out the door anyway.
But he didn’t.
Because he loved you.
Because he was trying.
Your father reached across the table and covered your hand briefly, warm and steady.
“We won’t push,” he promised softly. “We just want you to know you’re not trapped. Not if you don’t want to be.”
Your heart thudded.
Outside, the city kept moving.
Inside, the little camera by the door waited—silent and unblinking— And somewhere in the distance, beyond this table, Sukuna existed like a returning storm.
After they left, the apartment didn’t feel bigger.
It felt hollow.
The air still carried the smell of takeout—ginger, broth, oil—like the ghost of a normal family lunch clung stubbornly to the walls. The table was cleared, the containers rinsed and stacked, the last paper napkins folded and thrown away. Your mother had hugged you twice at the door, your father once, and Hiro—Hiro had lingered, staring at you like he wanted to memorize your face in case it was the last time he was allowed to.
Then they were gone.
And the door shut.
And the quiet returned, thick as wool.
You wandered the apartment with no real reason to move, touching the back of the couch, the edge of the counter, the baby onesie your mother had brought—folded carefully in a drawer like it was too sacred for sunlight. You found yourself standing by the front door for a moment, staring at it, thinking of the camera outside.
The little unblinking eye.
The reminder that even when you were alone, you weren’t fully unseen.
When the lock finally clicked hours later and Sukuna stepped inside, the sound of him entering filled every corner. He brought the outside with him—cold air, street noise, the faint metal-and-sweat scent of work. He shut the door behind him with that same firm finality he did everything with, and his gaze immediately found you.
As if he’d been tugging an invisible string all day and had only just reeled you back in.
You moved toward him automatically.
Habit. Relief. Fear. Love. It was hard to tell where one ended and the next began.
You rose on your toes and kissed his cheek. “Hi,” you whispered, soft. “How was your day?”
Sukuna’s hand slid to your waist. He didn’t answer right away—he just pulled you closer, kissed you back, mouth lingering like he needed to taste proof you were still here. Then he guided you to the couch and sat, tugging you down onto his lap as if the act of holding you was the only thing that made the room make sense.
His lips found yours again, slow and claiming.
“I was worried,” he murmured against your mouth. “All day.” You let out a small laugh, nervous, trying to keep the mood light. “I was fine.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. He kissed your cheek again, then your jaw, then murmured, “Were you.” You swallowed and tried to smile.
And then it slipped out—because it had been sitting in your chest like a pebble you couldn’t stop turning over.
“Well,” you said quietly, “you should know I was fine… since you decided to put a camera outside the front door.”
Sukuna went still beneath you.
Not fully—he never froze completely—but something in his posture tightened like a wire pulled taut. His mouth flattened into a line, and you felt the temperature in the room shift.
He scoffed. “So you noticed.” You nodded once, heart thumping. “It wasn’t there yesterday.”
His hand on your waist tightened slightly—not painful, but possessive.
“I put it up,” he said, voice flat. “So I know you’re safe.” Your laugh died in your throat. “Safe,” you repeated softly.
Sukuna’s eyes sharpened. “Don’t start.” You swallowed. The kindness-voice in your head tried to soothe you—just agree, just keep him calm, it’s easier—but something else rose beneath it, something thin and trembling that had been growing since the day you saw that camera.
Something that wanted air.
You forced yourself to speak anyway. “You didn’t put it up for safety,” you whispered.
Sukuna’s jaw clenched. “Yes, I did.” You shook your head slowly. “You put it up so you’d know if I left.”
His eyes narrowed further, irritation flickering. “If you leave the house, I want to know. That’s normal.”
“Normal,” you echoed, the word tasting strange.
He shifted as if to stand, and you slid off his lap automatically, stepping back. Your hands were shaking. You hated that they always shook when you tried to speak like a person instead of a doll.
Sukuna stood too, towering, shoulders broad, the room suddenly feeling smaller with him upright.
“I’m making sure you’re safe,” he said again, harsher now. “In case you leave. In case something happens.”
You blinked fast.
Tears rose before you could stop them, hot and humiliating, gathering at your lash line like they’d been waiting for permission.
“You don’t trust me,” you whispered.
His eyes snapped to yours. “I don’t trust your family.” You shook your head harder, tears spilling now. “No,” you said, voice breaking. “No. You don’t trust me.” His nostrils flared. “Don’t twist it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” you sobbed softly, the words coming out in pieces. “I’ve been… I’ve been obedient. I do everything you ask. I stay here. I cook. I clean. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t—” your breath hitched, and your palm pressed to your belly like it could keep you from falling apart. “And you still watch me like I’m… like I’m waiting to betray you.”
Sukuna’s gaze cut through you, sharp as glass.
You wiped at your cheeks, but the tears kept coming. “You took me from the ward,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I didn’t ask you to. I didn’t—” your throat clenched, words catching on pain. “I don’t even know what I did wrong to be treated like I’m conspiring against you.”
Sukuna took a step forward.
Your body reacted before your mind could reason.
When he reached for you, you flinched.
It wasn’t dramatic. It was instinct.
A recoil so small you could have pretended it didn’t happen—if his eyes hadn’t seen everything.
You shook your head, backing up a half step, tears dripping off your chin. “No,” you whispered. “No, please. I don’t want you hurting me again.”
The sentence fell into the room like a dropped glass.
Shattering.
For a second, Sukuna’s face changed.
His eyes widened—brief, sharp surprise—like you’d slapped him with a truth he didn’t want reflected back. Then the surprise curdled into something darker.
A snarl.
“Hurting you,” he repeated low, dangerous, as if the words offended him.
You trembled, hands lifting in a weak, defensive motion that made you feel even smaller.
Sukuna stormed forward.
The space between you disappeared too quickly—his hands were on you, lifting you up off the ground with brutal ease. Your feet left the floor, your gasp catching in your throat.
“Sukuna—!” you cried, panic flaring so fast it made your vision blur.
You began pounding at his back, fists weak against muscle, tears spilling as you writhed in his grip. “Stop—please—please—”
He didn’t listen.
He carried you to the bedroom like you weighed nothing, like your fear was just noise, like your pleading was wind. The door slid open, and he set you on the bed—not gently, not violently enough to bruise, but with a force that said stay.
You scrambled backward instinctively, heart racing.
Sukuna stepped back from the bed, chest rising and falling, eyes burning.
Then he pointed at you.
A sharp, cutting gesture, like you were being scolded. Like you were being sentenced.
“You’re staying in here,” he said, voice tight with anger. “I don’t want to speak to you right now.” You stared at him, breathing hard, cheeks wet, body trembling.
Sukuna’s jaw flexed as if he was biting down on restraint. “You’re worked up,” he continued, gaze cold, authoritative—like he was the doctor and you were the patient again. “You’re being delusional.”
The word struck deep.
Delusional.
A label.
A weapon.
You shook your head, tears slipping silently as your throat tightened so hard you could barely breathe. “I’m not—” you whispered, but your voice was thin, fragile, easy to ignore.
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed like he didn’t want to hear it.
“Stay,” he snapped again, then turned toward the door like the conversation was finished, like your tears were just evidence of your illness and not evidence of his cruelty.
And as the bedroom door slid toward closing, you sat frozen on the bed, hands shaking over your belly, listening to your own heartbeat thunder in your ears—trying to remember what it felt like to be trusted, trying to remember what it felt like to be safe without permission.
Morning came like a bruise.
Gray light seeped through the curtains, dull and quiet, and for a few seconds you didn’t remember why your chest felt tight—why your body stayed rigid even in bed, why the air tasted like fear.
Then you heard him move.
The soft scrape of fabric. The weight of footsteps.
And your nerves snapped awake before your mind did.
Sukuna leaned over the futon, shadow falling across you. “Get up,” he said, voice low, controlled. “Doctor’s appointment.”
Your eyes opened.
Your body flinched.
Not because he’d touched you—he hadn’t yet—but because your skin remembered the last time he’d lifted you like you were an object he could relocate at will. Your heart started hammering immediately, hot and panicked.
Sukuna’s gaze flicked over your face, catching the reaction.
His jaw flexed once. “Don’t,” he muttered, like your fear offended him.
You sat up slowly, keeping your movements small, careful. Your palms were damp. Your throat felt swollen, like it did when you’d cried too much the night before.
He usually helped you dress—usually hovered, tugged, chose, corrected—like your body was a project he managed.
This time, you grabbed your clothes yourself.
“I’m fine,” you said quietly.
Sukuna’s brow twitched. “I didn’t ask.”
You didn’t look at him when you stood. You focused on the small things—the fabric in your hands, the way your sweater fell over your belly, the rhythm of breathing in and out. You moved toward the bathroom.
Sukuna followed to the doorway, leaning there like a locked gate.
“I can—” he started. “No,” you said softly, not loud, not defiant—just final.
You heard the sharp exhale he forced through his nose.
A scoff. Irritated. Dismissive. Too calm to be safe. “Do whatever you want,” he muttered.
But the words didn’t sound like permission.
They sounded like a warning with a pretty mask.
By the time you came out, he had his shoes on already, posture tight, restless energy snapping under his skin. He didn’t speak much as you both left. He walked close enough that you could feel his heat, but he didn’t touch you.
Not yet.
Outside, the city looked bright and indifferent. People passed with coffee cups, chatter, grocery bags—life moving like it didn’t know what a cage felt like.
A taxi pulled up. Sukuna opened the door and guided you in with a hand hovering near your back, not quite touching, like he didn’t know what to do with the fact that you didn’t want him to.
The ride to the clinic was quiet.
You stared out the window.
Sukuna sat beside you, knee bouncing, fingers tapping once on his thigh, then stopping, then starting again. His gaze never stopped checking you—your hands, your face, the way your mouth stayed closed.
At a red light, he reached for your hand.
His fingers brushed your knuckles.
Your body reacted before your mind could talk you into politeness.
You pulled your hand away.
Sukuna went very still.
Then—slowly—his hand curled into a fist on his own knee.
His jaw tightened.
You kept your eyes forward, pretending you hadn’t seen the way his irritation rose like a tide.
The clinic smelled like disinfectant and soft soap. The waiting room was full of quiet—pregnant women in loose sweaters, couples leaning together, hands on bellies, gentle murmurs. A kind of normal you almost couldn’t bear to look at.
When your name was called, Sukuna stood immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. As if he’d been waiting to seize control of motion.
You followed the nurse back.
Dr. Lin greeted you with a smile that felt genuinely warm—gentle eyes, calm voice, the kind of doctor who didn’t rush, who made room for nervousness.
“Fifteen weeks,” she said as she checked your chart. “How are we feeling?” You opened your mouth, but the answer tangled up inside you.
You were tired. You were nauseous sometimes. You were scared. You were… everything.
The nurse wrapped the cuff around your arm. It tightened, squeezed, released.
Dr. Lin glanced at the numbers.
Then her expression changed—subtle, but serious.
“Your blood pressure is high today,” she said gently. “Higher than I’d like.” Sukuna’s head snapped up. “What?” Dr. Lin remained calm. “High blood pressure can happen, but stress plays a big role too. And your body looks… tense.”
You swallowed. Your throat felt raw.
Dr. Lin sat down across from you, voice softening further. “I want to ask a few questions, okay? Is there something going on that’s been causing you stress lately? Is the pregnancy feeling overwhelming? Are you sleeping?”
You felt Sukuna’s presence beside you like a wall.
You could feel his stare on your face.
The air between you all was thick, waiting.
You tried to answer carefully—tried to keep it safe.
But something cracked.
Maybe it was the way Dr. Lin’s voice didn’t sound like a judge. Maybe it was the way she said stress like it wasn’t a moral failure. Maybe it was the way your body had been holding fear for too long and needed somewhere to set it down.
You blurted, quietly but clearly, “Sukuna is stressful.”
Silence.
Sukuna froze so hard it looked like his muscles turned to stone.
Dr. Lin blinked once, then—very gently—let out a small chuckle, like she was trying to soften the sharpness of what you’d said without dismissing it.
“Ah,” she said kindly, nodding. “Sometimes spouses—especially first-time fathers—can be intense. Overprotective. It can come from love, but it can still create stress for the mother.”
Sukuna’s eyes were on you now, unwavering.
You stared at your hands, fingers twisting together.
Dr. Lin turned her gaze toward Sukuna with professional warmth. “Pregnancy is a beautiful experience for many women,” she said, still gentle but firm. “And it can help when partners allow room for her to breathe, to feel in control of her own body, her own choices. Support is important, but so is flow.”
Sukuna’s jaw worked like he was grinding the words into dust.
Dr. Lin continued, “Since your blood pressure is elevated, I’d like to recommend something. There’s a prenatal class nearby—just other pregnant women. A supportive group. It can lower stress, help with anxiety, help you build community.”
Your chest lifted.
The idea of other women—other voices, other softness, something not measured by Sukuna’s mood—felt like light through a crack in a door.
You nodded quickly. “I would like that.”
Sukuna made a sound in the back of his throat—not quite a scoff, not quite agreement.
Dr. Lin smiled at you. “Good.”
Then she looked at Sukuna again, calm and unwavering. “I can give you the information.”
Sukuna’s mouth tightened. His eyes stayed on Dr. Lin, but his anger looked like it had nowhere safe to go. “Give it to me,” he said flatly.
Dr. Lin didn’t flinch. She nodded, reaching for a pamphlet and a small card with details.
As she wrote something down, her voice stayed warm but clear. “This is for her health,” she reminded him. “And for the baby.”
Sukuna’s hand took the paper.
His grip was too tight.
You watched the pamphlet bend slightly between his fingers, like even paper had to survive him.
And while Dr. Lin moved on to the rest of the appointment—listening to the baby, checking your belly, speaking in calm instructions—you sat there with your heart still racing, thinking:
I said it out loud.
I named it.
And somewhere behind that thought, another one rose, quiet and dangerous in its hope:
Maybe I can have a life outside him.
Even if it was only a class.
Even if it was only one hour in a room where no one called you fragile like it was a chain.
The taxi ride home felt longer than it should’ve.
Not because the streets were tangled, not because the city dragged its feet—because Sukuna’s silence weighed too much. It sat between you like a third body, heavy and breathing, and every time you shifted, you felt it watching you.
He didn’t speak when you stepped out onto the sidewalk. He didn’t speak when you climbed the stairs. He didn’t speak when he unlocked the door.
The apartment swallowed you both in that familiar hush—tatami scent, clean soap, the faint sweetness of your laundry—like it didn’t know a storm had just walked through the threshold.
Sukuna shut the door harder than necessary.
The lock clicked.
Then his hand moved—sharp, impatient—and he threw the pamphlet and the little card onto the table beside the front door like they’d offended him simply by existing.
Paper slapped wood.
The sound made you flinch.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked.
It wasn’t loud at first.
It was worse than loud.
It was controlled.
The kind of voice that promised he had already decided you were guilty and now he was simply choosing which knife to use.
You touched your belly without thinking—palm smoothing the curve as if you could calm your body from the inside. Your throat tightened. Your eyes burned. You didn’t want to cry again. You were tired of tears. Tired of being an open wound in your own home.
You looked away from him.
And you started walking toward the bedroom.
Behind you, his footsteps hit the floor faster—he hated being ignored the way a fire hated water. “Don’t walk away from me,” Sukuna snapped.
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t trust your voice to come out gentle.
And you were so tired of gentle.
His hand caught your arm.
Not enough to break it—enough to claim it.
He yanked you back to face him.
The motion rocked your body, and fear flashed hot and sharp, but something else flared too—something furious and desperate, something that had been gagged for years.
You ripped your arm out of his grip so hard it stung. “Don’t touch me!” you cried, voice cracking.
His eyes narrowed, and his hand twitched like he wanted to grab you again.
You stepped back.
Your breath came in ragged bursts.
And then it happened—like a door inside you kicked open.
You screamed, raw and shaking, “Fuck you!”
The words hit him like a gunshot.
Sukuna’s whole face changed.
He stared at you, stunned—like he couldn’t believe the sweetness he’d collected could grow teeth.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Then your tears spilled anyway, hot and relentless, but your voice didn’t soften with them. If anything, it sharpened—because the truth was finally falling out of you, and you couldn’t catch it fast enough.
“You don’t love me!” you sobbed. “You never loved me—” Sukuna’s jaw clenched. “Stop—”
“No!” you shouted over him, voice breaking at the edges. “You’re mentally ill and you’re obsessed with me because I’m a fucking freak!”
His expression flickered—anger, disbelief, something wounded beneath it.
You kept going, the words spilling like blood you didn’t know you’d been carrying.
“I was just a young girl,” you cried, shaking hard, “who went into solitary at twenty-one for ripping a woman’s eyes out—” Your throat tightened, your voice shredding, but you forced it out anyway. “And you saw me and you thought I was interesting. You thought I was some… some puzzle you could pick up and turn over in your hands—redo, put together, mold into what you wanted!”
Sukuna took a step toward you.
You took a step back, eyes wild, tears streaming.
“You think I’m weak!” you choked. “Fragile. Like I’m glass. Like I’m something you have to keep locked away so you can call it protection instead of what it really is!”
His nostrils flared. “I protected you—”
“You controlled me!” you screamed, voice echoing off the walls. “You control me because you’re terrified—because your mother left you and your father beat you and now you’re projecting your pain onto me!”
The room went deathly still.
Sukuna’s eyes widened, just slightly.
You watched the words hit something deep in him—something he kept buried under arrogance and violence and pride.
But you weren’t done.
Your chest heaved. You pressed your hand to your belly again, like the baby could hold you upright. Your voice dropped lower, shaking with hurt.
“You think I’ll leave you too,” you whispered, crying so hard your face ached. “You think if you loosen your grip for one second, I’ll disappear.”
Sukuna’s mouth parted like he wanted to deny it.
No sound came.
You sobbed and wiped your face with the back of your hand, voice rising again, breaking open with the cruelest honesty.
“But I didn’t want to leave you,” you said, voice trembling. “Even when my brother told me to. Even when he looked at me and begged me to come back—” Your breath hitched. “I told them I didn’t want to. I told them I wanted to stay right here.”
You stared at him through tears, chest heaving.
“I love you,” you whispered, and it sounded like a confession and a curse. “So why do you treat me like I’m plotting against you? Why do you watch me like I’m a criminal in my own home? Why do you—”
Your voice cracked.
You swallowed the sob that tried to swallow you first.
Sukuna stood there like he’d been carved out of stone.
But stone didn’t tremble.
His shoulders tightened, then loosened—like something inside him shifted, like his body didn’t know whether to strike or break. His eyes stayed locked on yours, and in that crimson glare, you saw it:
Not just rage.
Not just pride.
Something small.
Something terrified.
His eyes welled with tears so quietly he didn’t notice them at first—like his body betrayed him before his mind could clamp down.
A single tear gathered at the edge of his lash line.
He blinked.
It slid down anyway.
And in that moment—just a breath, just a crack in the armor—you saw the boy he’d been before he learned cruelty was safer than need.
Abandoned.
Beaten.
Left behind.
Sukuna’s lips parted, and his voice came out rough, almost broken with the effort of holding himself together. “…Don’t,” he muttered, like the word could undo what you’d said.
But your truth was already in the room.
It had nowhere to go.
It hung between you like smoke after a fire—stinging, undeniable, impossible to pretend you hadn’t breathed it in.
Sukuna stepped toward you.
You stepped back.
Again.
Your body kept choosing distance the way lungs chose air—instinctive, necessary, not up for debate. Your back met the edge of the hallway wall, and for a second you felt trapped by the geometry of the apartment—how quickly a room could turn into a corner. “Don’t,” you whispered, voice shaking.
Sukuna’s hand lifted slightly, like he wanted to touch you and didn’t know where. Like he wanted to fix something with force because that was the only language he’d ever been fluent in.
You shook your head harder, tears still clinging to your lashes. “No,” you said. “No, Sukuna. I can’t do this.” His eyes widened.
You pressed your palm to your belly like you needed a boundary, a shield, a reminder of why you had to be brave right now.
“I will go back to Japan,” you said, voice cracking on the words. “I will leave you alone. I’ll do it. I’ll go back, and I’ll… I’ll take whatever they give me. I refuse to live in a home where I’m not loved—only controlled.”
Something in Sukuna’s face broke.
Not cracked—broke.
His breath hitched, harsh and uneven. His chest rose and fell too fast, as if the air had become too thin to breathe properly. His eyes fluttered shut like he could stop the scene from happening if he didn’t look at it, then snapped open again—blurred now, wet, frantic.
“No,” he said, hoarse.
Then again, louder, like repetition could rewrite reality.
“No—no.” He stumbled forward a half step, then stopped as if he’d remembered your flinch, as if the memory of you recoiling had finally reached him like an arrow.
And then his knees hit the floor.
The sound was dull, heavy.
A man like him shouldn’t have looked like that—too big, too sharp, too proud—yet there he was, dropping to the ground like his bones had turned to water.
He wrapped his arms around your waist.
Not hard. Not to restrain you.
To hold on.
His forehead pressed to your belly, his breath hot against your sweater, and the way his shoulders shook startled you more than his anger ever did.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped.
The words sounded wrong in his mouth—like they didn’t belong there, like they’d been stolen from someone kinder.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice cracking. “I won’t do it again. I won’t—” You stood rigid, trembling, hands hovering at your sides, uncertain. Fear still flickered in your chest like a trapped bird.
Sukuna clutched you like you were the only stable thing left in the world.
“I’ll do something,” he choked, breath stuttering. “I’ll take it off. The camera— I’ll take it off. I’ll take it off today.” His words came faster now, tumbling over each other. “I’ll let you leave the house when you want. When you want—when you ask—when you don’t even ask—”
He stopped mid-sentence, swallowing hard.
His grip tightened for a second like he could feel himself losing you already.
Then his voice dropped, raw with something that sounded like desperation stripped bare.
“I’ll take medicine,” he said, like a confession. Like a vow. “I will. I will take it. Just—” His throat worked. “Just please don’t leave me.”
Your heart thudded painfully.
Sukuna’s face was buried against you, but you could feel it—his tears dampening fabric, his breath shaking, his hands trembling around your waist.
“I love you,” he whispered, like he was saying it into your skin because he didn’t trust the air not to steal it. “I love you medicated and not medicated. I love you when you’re sweet and when you’re screaming. I love you when you’re scared of me—” His voice broke. “Please. Don’t leave me.”
He didn’t seem to realize he was sobbing.
He didn’t seem to notice the way his whole body shook with it, violent and helpless, the way his pride lay somewhere on the floor beside him like a discarded coat.
It wasn’t Sukuna the predator kneeling there.
It was Sukuna the child—knees bruised, stomach hollow, begging a mother-shaped absence not to happen again.
You stared down at him, shaking so hard your teeth almost chattered.
The kinder voice in your head whispered something soft—he’s hurting, he’s afraid, he’s human—and the truth-voice whispered back—hurt people still hurt people.
Your hands lifted slowly.
Carefully.
Like approaching a wounded animal.
You placed one hand on his cheek.
His skin was hot, flushed. Tears clung to his lashes. He looked up just enough for you to see his eyes—crimson gone glassy, frantic, searching.
You wiped his tears with your thumb.
He shuddered like the touch broke him further.
Your own tears fell again, but quieter now, heavy and tired. “I’m so scared,” you whispered.
His grip tightened—pleading.
You swallowed, voice trembling, and pressed your palm gently to his cheek again, grounding him the way he always claimed he grounded you.
“I don’t want to be a prisoner anymore,” you said, the words coming out like a prayer you’d been afraid to speak. “And… I know you don’t either.”
Sukuna’s face crumpled.
He nodded against you, choking on a sob, holding on like if he let go you’d vanish—like if he loosened his hands, the whole world would leave him the way it always had.
And you stood there, shaking, one hand on his cheek, the other hovering protectively over your belly, caught between mercy and survival—trying to decide whether love could ever be something that didn’t require permission.
i wanted to fight myself when writing this chapter
“A terrifying perfectionist engineer at work, Sukuna becomes a completely lovesick husband the second he comes home to his sweet, curly-haired, six-month-pregnant wife. Between foot rubs, cake crimes, dramatic baby-belly greetings, and his firm belief that his beloved is always right, their little life is soft, silly, and hopelessly devoted.”
Ryomen Sukuna was a nightmare at work.
That was not gossip. That was not exaggeration. That was not something whispered bitterly by people who simply did not understand him. It was a fact accepted by every single employee at Itadori Structural Design. Sukuna was rude, strict, painfully direct, and allergic to mess in a way that made grown adults straighten their desks when he passed by. He hated clutter. He hated sloppy calculations. He hated excuses dressed up as explanations. If a file was mislabeled, he noticed. If a number was off by half a decimal, he noticed. If someone said, “I think this should work,” he looked at them like they had personally insulted the concept of engineering.
And the worst part was that he was always right.
He was the best engineer the company had ever had, which meant everyone simply had to suffer through him. Clients requested him by name. Project managers feared him like bad weather. Junior engineers avoided eye contact unless spoken to. His office was spotless, his coffee was black, his emails were sharp enough to cut glass, and his work was so precise that no one could argue with him, even when they desperately wanted to.
That Thursday morning, he stood at the front of a conference room with a red marker in his hand and the expression of a man being forced to witness a crime. On the screen behind him was a structural model that had taken two weeks to prepare. He had found the problem in four minutes.
“No,” Sukuna said flatly.
The poor junior engineer standing near the projector swallowed. “No?”
“No.”
The room went silent in the way rooms always went silent when Sukuna’s voice lowered instead of rose. Rising meant irritation. Lowering meant someone was about to be professionally dismantled.
Sukuna tapped the marker against one section of the design. “Your load path is wrong. Your support system is inefficient. Your file organization is disgusting. There are six folders labeled final. Six. That is not a revision system. That is a cry for help.”
One of the project managers stared down at her notebook like if she looked too alive, Sukuna might turn on her next. The junior engineer nodded quickly, his face burning. “I’ll fix it.”
“You’ll fix it today,” Sukuna said, already turning back toward the screen. “And if I open that drive tomorrow and see anything labeled final-final-actual-final, I’m deleting the entire folder and possibly you with it.”
No one laughed, because no one was fully certain he was joking.
By five o’clock, he had corrected two models, terrified three people, rejected a proposal, and written one email so cold it probably lowered the office temperature. Then his phone lit up on his desk.
Your name glowed on the screen.
Everything about him changed.
His shoulders loosened first. Then his jaw. Then his eyes, which had been sharp enough to make steel confess, softened into something almost human. He answered immediately, ignoring the senior manager who had been waiting outside his office with paperwork in hand.
“Hi, baby,” he said, voice low.
The manager froze in the doorway.
No one at work ever heard Sukuna speak that way. It sounded impossible coming from him, like watching a blade turn into silk.
Your voice came through the phone, bright and sweet. “Are you leaving soon?”
“I’m leaving now.”
“You say that, but sometimes ‘now’ means twenty minutes.”
“Not today.”
There was a pause, and then you laughed. Sukuna closed his eyes for half a second, like he needed to let the sound settle somewhere inside him. Your laugh always did that to him. It always had. Ever since freshman year of college, when you had rushed late into a literature class with your curls wind-tossed, your arms full of books, and your notebook upside down, Sukuna had been done for. He had watched you drop three pens, apologize to a chair after bumping into it, and then smile at him like chaos was a perfectly respectable way to enter a room. You had asked him if being messy made you memorable.
It had.
By junior year, he married you.
People said you were both too young. Sukuna told them love did not become smarter just because people waited longer to recognize it. You wore flowers in your curls and cried through your vows. Sukuna did not cry until you slipped the ring on his finger and whispered, “Hi, husband,” so softly only he could hear. Then his eyes went glossy, and he glared at the officiant like it was somehow his fault.
Now, years later, you were six months pregnant with his daughter, living in the warm house he had bought for you, writing stories in the sunlit room he had built for you, and Sukuna was still as violently in love with you as he had been the day you dropped those pens.
“Did you eat lunch?” you asked through the phone.
He paused.
“Sukuna.”
“I had coffee.”
“That is not lunch.”
“It was large.”
“Sukuna.”
He sighed, but there was no bite in it. Not with you. Never with you. “I’ll eat when I get home.”
“You better. Also, I moved the little basket of baby clothes from the couch to the nursery, and before you start, it was not heavy.”
His eyes narrowed instantly. “Y/n.”
“It was tiny.”
“You’re six months pregnant.”
“And still capable of moving a basket.”
“You are capable of many things. That doesn’t mean I want you doing them while I’m not there.”
“You are dramatic.”
“I am correct.”
“You are dramatic and correct.”
“Fine,” he said, already standing and gathering his things. “I’m coming home.”
The manager still stood in the doorway, staring. Sukuna looked up, his softness vanishing like a curtain dropping over a window.
“What?”
The manager held out the paperwork quickly. “Signature.”
Sukuna took it, signed without reading, and handed it back. “Don’t stand there like furniture.”
The manager disappeared.
On the phone, you laughed again. “Were you mean to someone?”
“No.”
“Sukuna.”
“He was standing like furniture.”
“You cannot say that to people.”
“I just did.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You married me.”
“I did,” you said warmly. “Very lucky for you.”
His mouth curved faintly as he stepped into the elevator. “Very lucky for me.”
And he meant it.
Sukuna drove home through soft evening traffic with one focus only: you. He could spend an entire day cutting down weak designs and snapping at people for being careless, but the second he left work, everything in him turned toward home. Toward your smile. Toward your voice. Toward the little life growing beneath your heart. He ignored emails. He ignored calls. He ignored anything that dared exist between him and the front door of the house where you waited.
You always waited by the door.
He told you not to. Especially now. Your back hurt more often. Your feet swelled sometimes. You got tired faster, even when you pretended you didn’t. But every evening, when he unlocked the door, there you were, barefoot and glowing, curls loose around your face, one hand resting on the curve of your belly, smiling like the sun had decided to live in his hallway.
That evening was no different.
The moment he opened the door, you were there in a soft dress, your eyes bright and your lips already curving. Sukuna dropped his work bag by the wall, an act he would have considered disgusting if anyone else had done it, and stepped toward you. He cupped your face in both hands and kissed you like the whole day had been nothing but distance.
You melted into him, laughing softly against his mouth. “Hi, husband.”
His heart did the same stupid thing it always did.
“Hi, wife,” he murmured, kissing you again, then your cheek, then the other one, then your forehead. He kissed you until you were giggling and trying to push at his chest.
“Sukuna, you’re still in the doorway.”
“Don’t care.”
“You’re getting rain on me.”
“I’ll buy you another dress.”
“That is not the point.”
“You’re the point.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile softened in that way that made him feel like his ribs were too tight around his heart. He lowered himself carefully, first pressing his cheek to your chest for one ridiculous, affectionate second before sinking fully to his knees in front of you. His large hands settled at your hips, gentle despite their size, and then he bowed his head to your belly like he was greeting something holy.
“Hi, little one,” he whispered.
Your hand slid into his hair. “She kicked today.”
His head lifted immediately. “When?”
“After lunch. And while I was reading.”
“You didn’t call me?”
“I was going to tell you when you got home.”
“I would have answered.”
“You were working.”
“I would have answered,” he repeated, offended.
You smiled. “I know.”
He kissed your belly through the fabric of your dress, then rested his forehead there, his eyes closing. At work, Sukuna was all steel and precision, but here, kneeling in front of you, he looked undone. Devoted. Soft in a way the world would never believe.
“I missed you both all day,” he murmured. “You’re the light of my life. Both of you. I’d walk through fire to come home to you.”
You looked down at him, your thumb brushing through his hair. “You don’t have to walk through fire. You just have to drive safely and eat lunch.”
He sighed against your belly. “Cruel woman.”
“Responsible woman.”
“Same thing.”
You laughed, and he smiled against you.
That was his favorite sound in the world. Not music. Not praise. Not the clean satisfaction of a perfect design. Your laugh. It had been the first thing about you that haunted him and the last thing he wanted to hear before he slept. He would do anything for that laugh. Truly anything. Drive across town for a pastry you mentioned once. Rub your feet every night without complaint. Wake up at two in the morning because you wanted cold fruit. Build shelves because you said your books deserved a pretty place to live. Tell you to quit the job that made you miserable and mean it.
You had been a book editor for two years after college, and Sukuna had watched you slowly lose your light. At first, you tried to pretend you were fine. You said work was just work. You said everyone got tired. You said it was normal to come home quiet. But Sukuna knew you. He knew the difference between sleepy silence and wounded silence. He knew the way your shoulders folded when you were carrying too much. He knew your love for stories had started to feel like a burden instead of a blessing.
One night, he found you at the kitchen table surrounded by manuscript pages, crying quietly into your hands.
“Quit,” he said.
You looked up, startled. “What?”
“Quit.”
“Sukuna, I can’t just quit.”
“Yes, you can.”
“We have bills.”
“I pay them.”
“I don’t want to depend on you for everything.”
He crouched in front of you, because that was what he always did with you. To everyone else, he stood tall. With you, he lowered himself. He took your hands and looked at you like the answer was simple because, to him, it was. “You are my wife, not a burden. If you want to write, write. If you hate this job, leave it. I didn’t marry you so you could suffer politely.”
You had cried harder then, but differently. Softer. Like relief had cracked something open.
So you quit. Sukuna brought home flowers and said freedom deserved flowers. Then he turned the spare room into your writing room with custom shelves, a wide desk, warm lights, and curtains that caught the morning sun because you once said natural light made you feel creative. He paid for everything without ever making you feel small. He bought the ridiculous fountain pens you said were too expensive. He drove you to bookstores and cafés and antique shops, even though antique shops made him look like he was enduring a slow spiritual death.
He loved you like it was his second profession and his first religion.
Now he stood, took your hand, and guided you toward the couch.
“I can walk,” you said.
“I know.”
“I can also sit by myself.”
“I know.”
“And yet?”
“I enjoy doing things for you.”
“You enjoy being bossy.”
“That too.”
You sat with a dramatic sigh, and he immediately lifted your feet into his lap. His thumbs pressed into the arches with familiar care, firm and slow. You melted into the cushions, your hand resting over your belly.
“Oh, that feels good.”
“I know.”
“You’re smug.”
“I’m skilled.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re repetitive.”
You opened one eye. “Rude.”
His mouth twitched. “Accurate.”
You tried to nudge him with your foot. He caught it easily and continued massaging like nothing had happened.
The house was warm around you, full of little signs of the life you had built together. Your notebook lay open on the coffee table, filled with half-written dialogue and messy arrows. A stack of baby books leaned beside one of Sukuna’s engineering journals. A basket of tiny clothes sat near the nursery hallway. There were books on surfaces where Sukuna would normally never allow books, but they were your books, so somehow they had become acceptable. He hated mess until the mess belonged to you. Then it became evidence of home.
“I wrote three pages today,” you said.
His eyes flicked up. “That’s good.”
“It felt bad.”
“Feeling bad doesn’t mean the work is bad.”
“I think chapter seven hates me.”
“Then destroy it.”
You blinked. “That is your writing advice?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not romantic.”
He considered this seriously while rubbing your heel. “Fine. Chapter seven is an unworthy enemy. Destroy it beautifully.”
You burst out laughing, and he looked deeply pleased with himself.
“There. Romantic.”
“That was violent.”
“Same thing.”
“Not to normal people.”
“I don’t like normal people.”
“You like me.”
“You’re not normal. You married me.”
You laughed again, warm and bright, and his hands slowed for a moment as he watched you. There were literal hearts in his eyes when he looked at you. You teased him about it all the time, but it was true. He could be mid-argument, mid-sentence, mid-bad mood, and then you would smile at him, and every thought in his head would simply lie down and surrender.
The baby kicked beneath your hand.
You froze. “Oh.”
Sukuna immediately stopped. “What?”
“She moved.”
He stared at your belly like it had just spoken. “Again?”
“Maybe. Come here.”
He moved so fast you almost laughed, shifting carefully closer and placing his large hand where yours had been. For a moment, nothing happened. His face was stern with concentration, as if he could intimidate his daughter into performing.
“Sukuna,” you whispered, amused. “Stop glaring at my stomach.”
“I’m not glaring.”
“You are.”
“I’m focused.”
“You’re scaring her.”
“She’s not scared of me.”
“She is probably wondering why her father is so dramatic.”
Then she kicked.
Right against his palm.
The change in him was immediate. His whole face softened, his lips parting slightly, his eyes going quiet and wonderstruck. He looked down at your belly like the universe had placed a secret directly into his hand.
“She kicked me,” he said softly.
You smiled, your throat tightening. “She knows you’re home.”
He lowered his head and kissed your belly again, lingering there. “I’m home,” he murmured. “I missed you all day. Be nice to your mother. She’s stubborn and thinks baskets are worth risking my sanity over.”
You laughed through the tenderness in your chest. “It was a light basket.”
“No basket is light when you’re carrying my daughter.”
“You are so dramatic.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
He looked up at you, his cheek still resting against your belly. “You’re wrong.”
You raised a brow.
He kissed your stomach once more. “But I agree.”
That made you laugh again, and he smiled like he had won something.
Later, after he made you eat dinner before cake because he claimed your daughter needed nutrients and you claimed she had spiritually requested lemon cake, the two of you ended up in bed with soft rain tapping against the windows. Sukuna sat behind you, rubbing your lower back while you leaned against him, sleepy and warm. His work phone buzzed on the nightstand. Once. Twice. He ignored it.
“You can check that,” you said.
“No.”
“It could be important.”
“I’m home.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Yes, it does.”
You smiled and closed your eyes as his hands moved carefully along the sore places in your back. He knew exactly where to press. He always knew. He had been rubbing your feet and back long before you were pregnant, long before there was a nursery down the hall and tiny socks folded in drawers. Loving you had always looked like service to him. Not because you asked. Because he wanted to. Because your comfort mattered to him in a way that made the rest of the world feel secondary.
“Do you ever think we got married too young?” you asked softly.
“No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I’ve thought about it. Everyone who said it was stupid was wrong.”
You laughed. “Simple as that?”
“Yes.”
“We were young.”
“We were right.”
You turned slightly to look at him. His red eyes were steady on yours, softer than anyone at work would believe. “You really knew?”
“The first day,” he said.
“You did not know you wanted to marry me the first day.”
“I knew I wanted to keep hearing you laugh.”
Your heart folded in on itself. “Sukuna.”
“You dropped three pens, apologized to a chair, and asked if being messy made you memorable.”
“I apologized to a chair?”
“You bumped into it.”
“And that made you fall in love?”
“No,” he said, brushing one curl back from your face. “Your laugh did.”
The room went quiet, warm and golden in the dark. You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet, and he kissed you back like he still could not believe he got to. Like every ordinary night with you was something sacred.
When you pulled away, he kept his forehead against yours.
“I’m scared sometimes,” he admitted quietly.
That surprised you. Sukuna did not confess fear easily. You touched his cheek. “Of what?”
“Failing you. Failing her. I can handle work. Money. The house. Practical things. But I don’t know how to make sure you never hurt. I don’t know how to protect you from everything.”
Your heart ached. You held his face between your hands and made him look at you. “You don’t have to protect me from everything. You just have to come home. Listen to me. Love me. Be her father. Be my husband.”
His jaw tightened. “I should be perfect for you.”
“No,” you whispered. “You should be here.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, turning his face to kiss your palm. “You’re always right.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I once put dish soap in the dishwasher and flooded the kitchen with bubbles.”
“The dishwasher attacked you.”
“Sukuna.”
“The floor was poorly designed.”
You laughed so hard you had to lean into him, and there it was again: that look on his face, hopeless and adoring and completely ruined. He pulled you carefully down against the pillows, adjusted them until you were comfortable, and settled beside you with his hand resting protectively over your belly.
Outside, the rain softened the world. Inside, your house glowed with the quiet mess of love: books, baby clothes, cake plates in the sink, his abandoned work bag by the door. Tomorrow, Sukuna would return to the office and become sharp again. He would correct calculations, reject sloppy work, terrify another conference room, and probably complain about file names at least twice.
But at five o’clock, he would come home.
To you.
To your curls and your laughter and your soft voice. To the tiny life kicking beneath his hand. To the only place in the world where he did not have to be terrifying to be understood.
You were half asleep when he kissed your shoulder.
“I’d walk through fire, you know,” he murmured.
Your lips curved faintly. “I know.”
His hand tightened gently over yours.
“But I’d rather you just come home,” you whispered.
Sukuna went still for a moment, then pressed a kiss to the back of your hand.
apocalypse - one
undergroundboxer!kuna x reader [soulmate au]
warnings [mdni] - angst | implied trauma | mean sukuna
wc - 7.3k
series masterlist
∞
ryomen sukuna knew three things about his soulmate.
she drank too much caffeine, she slept curled on her side whenever anxiety crawled beneath her skin and whenever she read for hours on end or colored, the noise in his head quieted enough to let him breathe.
it was fucking irritating.
the first time she got under his skin, it was in the middle of his first match.
he’d nearly put his fist through the guy, rage sitting ugly beneath his ribs as blood pooled in his mouth and sweat dripped down his spine.
then suddenly, he was overcome with serenity he’d never experienced before.
a calmness that wasn’t his own, never his own.
something soft slipped beneath his skin then, warm and quiet in a way he wasn’t used to. like somebody had pressed cold hands against the back of his neck after years of burning where he stood.
he’d won that match.
“again?” toji muttered from across the gym, cigarette balanced lazily between scarred fingers.
sukuna rolled his jaw once before slamming another punch into the heavy bag hard enough for the chains overhead to rattle violently.
“fuck off.”
toji smirked, tongue peaking out to lick at the scar against his lip.
the gym smelled like rust, sweat and the metallic ting of blood that both men were used to. it was a shitty set up buried beneath the city in the lower levels of an abandoned parking structure. it barely looked legal from the outside and the inside wasn't much better.
the concrete floors, flickering lights and men all too violent to exist comfortably above ground.
and it was the place ryomen sukuna felt alive.
sukuna had been fighting since he was fifteen and filled with a rage even he couldn’t understand.
toji found him bloody outside a convenience store after some older guys tried jumping him for gambling money.
it was clear they didn’t get the money but sukuna took that fire in his gaze out on them.
sukuna still recalled the way toji looked down at him, droplets cascading down his sharp features and dark hair, damp cigarette hanging from his mouth while blood dripped steadily from sukuna’s split brow.
“you fight like an animal,” toji began, taking a drag of his fading cig before tilting his head at the salmon haired boy, “what if i told you that you could beat the shit out of guys every day and get paid for it?”
a fucking dream is what that was. he gets to utilize his anger and he could finally get out of his father’s house.
how could sukuna even say no?
somehow, it turned into this.
years later, ryomen sukuna had become the name whispered through underground rings across the city. not because he was the biggest or the strongest, but because he was cruel.
there was something deeply unsettling about the way sukuna fought.
controlled, almost lazy sometimes. like violence came so naturally to him that he didn’t even need to think about it.
people feared men who fought emotionally.
they feared ryomen sukuna more because he never did.
most nights, he fought beneath screaming neon lights while crowds chanted his name loud enough to shake the walls.
they bet on him like he was a sure thing and fuck, did he get a shitload of money from it.
he’d leave each night, beaten and bruised with a duffel of cash hanging off his shoulder.
he was living the dream.
that was until he arrived home, in his apartment downtown, and sat in silence while somebody else’s emotions bled quietly into his chest.
a girl he’d never met yet somehow knew like the back of his hand, all too intimately.
he knew she liked coffee because of the bursts of energy he’d feel during mornings where he usually slept in because his fights usually carried into the night.
he knew she did yoga often because his muscles weren’t as sore as they would get when he was younger and god knows it wasn’t his doing. he didn’t stretch nearly as much as toji nagged at him to.
he also knew that she despised him.
that one was obvious.
their bond always sharpened after his fights. her irritation sat bright and hot beneath his ribs every time he came home bruised and bloody.
sometimes he couldn’t differentiate between his own rage and hers.
maybe they were more alike than he thought.
truthfully, sukuna didn’t know how to do things any differently and frankly, he didn’t care enough to.
he hated this whole soulmates shit. why would the universe ever pair two people together with the utmost certainty that they were perfect for each other?
and what fucking masacre did this girl commit to be bonded with him of all people?
violence was the only thing sukuna had ever been good at and he wouldn’t change that for anyone, especially some girl who was almost a mere figment of his imagination.
he did that sometimes. pretended that he was a non-existent and that he was merely hallucinating her.
non-existents made up a very small part of the population and they were essentially humans who didn’t have soulmates. like toji was.
lucky bastard.
sometimes sukuna believed toji was lying because he’d get this distant look on his face some days, kind of like himself when he felt his own soulmate torment him.
so maybe he was a late bloomer?
either way, he was in a better situation than sukuna was.
“your girl’s pissed again?” toji commented dryly from where he leaned against the boxing ring ropes, head tilted with a knowingness sukuna hated.
toji was the one sukuna had to confide in because who else did he have?
when he was overwhelmed as a young teenager about his soulmate, toji would be the one he would reluctantly go to. the older man had taken him under his wing, so yes, he did trust him more than anyone.
he also knew that toji cared about him in his own fucked up way.
sukuna’s knuckles ached tonight, phantom annoyance curling beneath his skin that didn’t belong to him. it was her.
probably studying somewhere in the city while silently wishing death upon him.
the thought almost made him grin.
throughout the years, pissing her off became a hobby of some sort, though he knew she didn’t find it nearly as amusing as he did.
“at least you know she’s got personality.” toji stated once more as sukuna finally stopped punching and turned to shoot the man a glare.
“shut the fuck up.”
toji huffed out a laugh, “god help you both when you finally meet.”
the thought made sukuna freeze momentarily.
it was almost sad.
usually, at least from what sukuna knew, people usually couldn’t wait to meet their soulmates.
then there was sukuna, filled with dread at the mere idea.
sukuna hated even talking about the bond.
he hated how aware he was of her.
because despite everything, the distance and never seeing her to begin with, she felt woven into him already, like a haunting.
some nights, when his insomnia clawed violently at his nerves after fights, he’d feel her wrap her arms around herself beneath warm blankets god knows where.
and sleep came easier those nights.
he couldn’t explain it and truthfully, he didn’t like to think about it.
he hated talking about her because the truth was ugly.
that he didn’t particularly hate her. which is exactly why he knew meeting her would ruin everything.
naturally, his solution was to sabotage everything which is why he started to sleep around with non-existents whenever he got the chance.
and he knew what it did to her.
good. he hoped it made her despise him enough to never want anything to do with him, whether they meet now or twenty years down the line.
sukuna didn’t want anything to do with her.
∞
you hated downtown on friday nights.
it was always too loud and all too crowded.
neon signs bled into rain-slick streets while bass-heavy music spilled from every open doorway along the block.
girls stumbled across sidewalks in tiny dresses and tall heels, drunken laughter cutting through the humid summer night air while taxis lined the streets endlessly.
the city looked beautiful after dark, but you still wanted to be everywhere but here.
“stop looking at people with that judgy look of yours.” shoko muttered beside you, nudging your shoulder lightly as the three of you crossed the street.
“i’m not judging, i’m just looking around…” you defended with a huff as you hugged yourself protectively, little kitten heels clicking against the pavement.
“you are judging,” utahime confirmed, “it’s your classic disgusted and glare-ey look.”
“well excuse me, you’re the ones who brought me to crackhead-ville.” you glared at the two girls as shoko rolled her eeys before hooking her arm through yours anyway.
she pulled you towards the entrance of yet another overcrowded building downtown.
apparently, tonight’s party was being held somewhere above an abandoned old bar. or beneath it.
either way, something you found entirely too ominous but you were too distracted when shoko was explaining to actually disagree.
your soulmate had spent the entire evening restless beneath your skin. not angry but worse.
aware.
you felt him constantly tonight.
a steady pulse of adrenaline humming through your bloodstream that didn’t belong to you.
your chest had felt tight since leaving the penthouse, some strange tension settling low in your stomach like your body was anticipating something before your mind could catch up.
it was unsettling.
you blamed the lack of sleep, or rather, you blamed him. you blamed him for it all.
“ew, ew…” you muttered as shoko pulled you through the door into what you could only describe as chaos.
warmth and noise hit you instantly.
bodies crowded wall to wall beneath flashing lights while music shook violently through the floorboards.
cigarette smoke lingered in the air despite the open windows somewhere deeper inside the space.
you physically recoiled.
“oh my god,” utahime muttered beside you, laughing softly at the expression painting your features, “you look horrified.”
“i am horrified!”
shoko snorted, “rich kids.”
you threw her a glare before the three of you squeezed through the crowd until you reached a quieter section tucked near the back of the room.
a curved leather couch sat half-empty beneath dim red lights, thankfully far enough from the speakers that your skull stopped vibrating the second you sat down.
you exhaled deeply, chest deflating as you blinked up at your friends who were looking at you with amusement.
“drinks?” utahime questioned as shoko nodded eagerly while you merely hummed, shoulders tense as you gazed around the sea of bodies.
utahime disappeared toward the bar while shoko took a seat beside you, the leather beneath you sticky in a way that had you shuddering, sitting at the very edge of the couch.
fuck, you hated this and you couldn’t explain why.
yes, you hated parties in general but you just felt wrong.
“you’re being weird tonight.” shoko observed, eyes narrowed on your tense figure.
you frowned faintly, “i know…i feel weird.”
your skin felt like it was buzzing, chest vibrating in a way it usually wasn’t.
it wasn’t necessarily bad, but simply off.
you felt your soulmate more than ever tonight, you were almost hyperaware.
he felt electric.
every emotion coming from him felt sharper somehow, close enough that you could almost mistake them for your own.
your pulse kept jumping for no reason.
fuck, you hated this.
“is it devils dick?” shoko casually asked as your eyes closed momentarily.
how would you explain that it was both yes and no.
yes, the bond felt different tonight.
but no, it wasn’t muscle aches or phantom pain you were feeling on his end, though you didn't want to speak too soon.
it was a friday after all. friday nights usually meant bruised ribs by saturday morning.
“oh my god, guys!” hime stood before you, handing shoko her drink before placing a water bottle in your hand, “everyone’s saying gojo and his crew are gonna be here!”
your eyes rolled gently, very much aware of utahime’s obsession with those random illegitimate fighters.
underground fights happened constantly throughout the city.
illegal betting rings buried beneath clubs and abandoned buildings, violent enough that respectable people pretended they didn’t exist despite everyone secretly knowing otherwise.
your father even told you how known politicians and well known figures even placed bets they hid from the public.
and lately, there was one name that everyone kept talking about-
“do you think sukuna would show up?” shoko questioned, eyes wide with excitement, taking a sip of her cherry vodka as you looked between the two girls.
ryomen sukuna.
you’d heard it constantly from utahime the past few months.
uathime, shoko, sora and percy often went on double dates to these underground fights you had zero interest in.
you were very much used to fifth wheeling alongside your friends, that wasn’t the issue. the issue was rooted in the prospect of spending the night in a filthy underground boxing ring riddled with people and violence alike. yuck.
still, amongst all the fighters utahime gushed about, ryomen sukuna seemed to be the most known.
the undefeated underground fighter with pink hair and a snake tattoo across his shoulders and collarbones.
people were terrified of him just as equally as they were obsessed with him.
“percy says sukuna knocked his opponent unconscious in under thirty seconds last week!” shoko stated, taking another sip as utahime nodded frantically.
“he’s insane!” utahime gushed, “like, gojo is obviously a show off and just cares about the clout he gets but sukuna? he’s terrifying…”
utahime continued, you were sure. you could see her mouth moving but you didn’t-couldn’t register the words she'd uttered.
the world around you turned hazy, just enough to feel like everything slowed in a way that definitely wasn’t normal.
your heartbeat stopped, not metaphorically, but physically.
a sharp wave of adrenaline crashed violently into your chest hard enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs.
you went still, every muscle in your body tightening instinctively.
you could see both of the girls leaning towards you, brows furrowed in concern, mouths moving and uttering words you knew were dipped in concern. you couldn’t hear any of it.
you swallowed hard, eyes darting up and around you, as if a siren was luring you towards the crowd, come to me, come, come.
fuck, were you drugged or something?
your heartbeat stuttered painfully beneath your ribs, once, twice then again.
you felt like you’d been dropped underwater while everyone else remained above the surface.
the bond felt raw and entirely too overwhelming.
it felt like standing at the edge of something life-altering, like your soul had recognized something before your mind could catch up to it.
for the first time since you’d first felt your soulmate, he didn’t feel far away.
you had grown used to the idea of him, something intangible and not truly real.
merely a ghost haunting the edges of your nervous system, phantom bruises in the middle of lectures and an adrenaline rush at three in the morning.
he was the deep-seated exhaustion that riddled your body but didn’t belong to you.
but this felt real. close enough to touch.
the sensation crawled slowly beneath your skin, winding around your ribs like invisible string being pulled tighter and tighter and tighter until you thought you might choke on it.
the realization hit your bloodstream like a drug.
he was here, you knew it. you could feel it in your bones.
your eyes darted towards the door that had swung open, summer air rushing inside alongside four figures dressed almost entirely in black.
the first thing you noticed was height.
they all carried themselves with the same dangerous sort of confidence, the kind that came from men who had never truly feared consequences before.
one of them had snowy white locks, the tallest of the bunch, bright enough to catch beneath the flashing lights, sunglasses balanced lazily across his nose despite the fact that it was nearly midnight.
another stood beside him, quieter with shoulder length black locks with stretched gauges in his ears and sharp eyes that swept across the room once before settling into bored indifference.
the third one was shorter than the rest but still tall, black locks in two spiked buns with a joint resting between plump pink lips, eyes hooded in a way that exposed that joint not being his first of the night.
they were all attractive in a way that felt almost unfair and dangerous.
people moved out of their path without being asked.
your eyes turned to the one trailing just a step behind them and your breath caught so violently, it hurt.
the salmon colored locks gave him away.
ryomen sukuna.
tattoos curled dark against tan skin disappearing beneath the collar of a black shirt that stretched across broad shoulders.
even from where you stood, you could see the dried blood and bruises across his knuckles.
he looked nothing like what you’d imagined from shoko’s descriptions.
and simultaneously, exactly like it too.
something deep inside you snapped taut, your stomach dropping.
you could tell he was dazed too, jaw locked and eyes blinking at a slow pace, eyes looking around the sea of bodies.
the soulmate bond surged so hard beneath your ribs, you physically recoiled, fingers gripping the edge of the leather couch.
oh god. no, no, no.
oh my god…
“oh my god,” utahime whispered beside you, though unlike you, she sounded impressed rather than horrified.
shoko looked moments away from passing out entirely.
“that’s him!” she breathed out quietly.
you couldn’t answer, breath stilling and hands trembling.
because sukuna had stopped walking.
fuck, the realization came slowly enough to feel cruel.
maroon eyes met your own and the room around you dissolved entirely. the music became muffled noise, lights blurring and the crowd disappeared.
all you could see was him. him. him. him.
he was all you could see, feel and you knew all he could see was you.
sukuna felt it the second he stepped through the doorway.
you.
the bond snapped violently alive beneath his skin hard enough that his entire body locked for half a second mid-step.
he almost thought someone had drugged him until he remembered he hadn’t even drank anything yet.
then what was this feeling?
his eyes locked on yours and he felt the most alive he’d felt in his life.
something even the ring and the violence couldn't offer.
there you were, all too pretty and wide eyed.
he barely heard gojo speak beside him anymore, the lanky man rambling on about some idiot from last week’s fight who apparently called him out on twitter after.
sukuna ignored him completely because across the room sat a girl staring at him like she’d seen a ghost.
and in some ways, he was your ghost.
he haunted you and lived under your skin in ways he was sure you didn’t appreciate in the slightest.
his soulmate.
years of phantom feelings crashed together all at once so violently, it almost made him sick.
because the realization hit him harder than he’d anticipated and yes, he had anticipated this.
the moment he’d meet his soulmate.
well, he dreaded more than anticipated it.
it hit him hard because he realized that he knew this girl.
sukuna had never met you, yet, he bet he knew you more than the two girls hovering over you. more than fucking anyone.
you were the girl whose stress bled into his bones during finals week, the girl who wrapped her arms around herself at night and somehow lulled him to sleep from miles away.
you were real.
and you looked soft.
that was the first thing he took note of.
soft skin, soft wide eyes, soft pink shimmery gloss coating your plush lips he recognized only through phantom warmth he’d felt against his own skin before.
his soulmate was a pretty little thing, so pretty it almost made his chest ache. in your tiny skirt and halter top.
far too fucking pretty to belong anywhere near him.
“sukuna?”
choso’s voice cut through the haze faintly and sukuna snapped out of it, gaze finally leaving hers to glance at his friend who tilted his head towards the other side of the room.
sukuna resisted the urge to glance at you as he made his way across the room.
fuck, fuck, fuck!
this couldn’t be happening, this was a fucking nightmare.
just as he made it across the room, he felt it.
warm fingertips brushing his own skin despite his hands at his sides.
his pulse stuttered once.
his gaze snapped to yours once more and your eyes widened instantly when you noticed his hand drift to his neck where your own hand was resting.
slowly and carefully, sukuna lifted his own hand.
his fingers brushed lightly against the side of his jaw, a barely there touch.
yet, across the room, your breath hitched sharply as warmth bloomed against your own jawline seconds later.
not imagined or coincidence. it was all real, so so real.
your stomach twisted violently.
oh no. no no no no.
shoko was gazing at you, “what’s wrong?!”
you couldn’t answer, eyes stuck on a pair of crimson that held you hostage.
her eyes narrowed as both her and utahime followed your gaze before catching sukuna’s eyes on you.
then they both looked between you both a total of five times before realization hit.
“wait,” shoko whispered harshly, hand shooting out to grip your arm, “WAIT.”
utahime’s jaw physically fell open, “holy shit…”
your heartbeat pounded so violently, you thought you might faint right then and there beneath the flashing red lights.
what you despised most is that it made sense.
of course it was him. a violent and dangerous underground fighter, fuck, that explained everything so perfectly.
if fate was a person, you’d have her by the neck right now.
because sukuna was still staring at you, as if he knew you already and perhaps, he did.
then horrifyingly, he smirked.
and suddenly, you understood exactly why the entire city feared ryomen sukuna.
sukuna moved before he could really think about it, jaw clenched but determined.
one second he stood on the other side of the room and the next, his body was already weaving through the crowd toward you like the bond itself had wrapped invisible fingers around his spine and dragged him to you. you. his soulmate.
people moved instantly to let him pass.
you took note of that immediately.
you noticed the way conversations died around him, the way bodies shifted out of his path and nobody dared touch him, even accidentally.
it was fear, you realized. people feared him.
the recognition made your stomach twist.
“oh my god,” shoko whispered harshly beside you, nails digging into your arm, “he’s coming over here!”
“i can see that.” you hissed back faintly, though your voice barely sounded like your own.
fuck, you should leave. you should absolutely leave.
except, you couldn’t move, body drilled to where you sat, frozen in place while ryomen fucking sukuna rossed the room toward you like some predator chasing prey.
closer and closer and closer.
until suddenly, all his 6’4 glory was towering above you.
your breath caught embarrassingly hard.
up close, he was worse.
taller than you’d imagined and broader too.
there were faint bruises scattered along his jawline beneath the dim lights, on the very spot that you woke up feeling sore. fresh cuts healed across his knuckles.
and his eyes, god, they looked at you with the same recognition burning through your own chest.
sukuna looked down at you for a moment too long.
fuck, you were even more ethereal up close.
that thought hit him first and annoyingly hardest.
his pretty little soulmate sitting curled into the edge of a leather couch looking at him with wide doe eyes, almost expectantly with a mix of fear and restraint.
“hey.”
his voice slid down your spine like smoke.
low, dangerous and rough in a way even your mind couldn’t conjure up.
fuck, was this really happening?
your throat tightened instantly, “hi.”
the word left you horrifyingly softer than you’d intended and sukuna’s lips twitched at the sound.
your voice was his favorite sound, instantly.
“um,” shoko hummed, eyes wide as she shared a glance with utahime, “we’ll give you two a second.”
you almost wanted to yell in protest, but the two girls were already shuffling away, shooting you encouraging looks.
as you glanced up at the dangerous man once more, you felt your heart still in a way you hadn’t ever felt before.
not in fear or apprehension but calm.
he made you feel calm, your body stilling and quieting in a way you hadn’t expected.
regretfully, fuck, you despised it, but when that gentleness overcame you and you looked up at him…
his disheveled pink locks, his handsome rugged features and his dark eyes, all of it was him.
and you felt stupid for trying to deny that this man was your soulmate.
who else would it be?
“i’m sukuna,” he stated lowly, moving to take a seat beside you, leaving an appreciative distance between you, “ryomen sukuna.”
your name left you softly with a nod.
as you gazed at each other, the same realization overcame you both.
even with barely an introduction, you knew each other.
while sukuna had only fond memories of what you’d done for him, your mind was riddled with poisonous ones.
this was the man who often trained in the middle of the night, filling you with soreness and a rush of adrenaline that left you sleepless most nights.
he was the one who fucked other girls knowing what that put you through.
your heart clenched.
beyond all those things, he was the one who hugged himself to sleep after that one night of utter hell.
he was the one who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps left you nauseated and pained in bed.
as much as you wanted to forget those things, to snap yourself out of the sad patheticness that riddled you, how could you?
how could you when those were the only memories that kept your hope that he wasn’t a total monster alive?
your eyes travelled along his bloodied knuckles, “you get those a lot.”
sukuna’s fists instinctively clenched at the attention.
“and you burn yourself with whatever you do your hair with at least twice a week.”
your eyes widened instantly.
“and you get punched like every other day!”
sukuna’s mouth twitched and you hated how your eyes drifted towards the movement and your heart stuttered.
“barely.” sukuna stated cooly, a small smirk painting his features.
your eyes drifted toward him again before you could stop yourself.
and then you remembered.
every phantom feeling, every sleepless night and every ache.
all attached to him.
the violence, the pain, the girls.
your jaw tightened, "you’re not exactly the best person to be connected to, you know.”
sukuna’s expression didn’t shift much, still cool, but you felt it.
the hollow drop in your stomach that wasn’t yours. guilt.
real and immediate, it almost made you laugh in disbelief.
of course he felt guilty, he had to know he was a fucking nightmare.
sukuna leaned back slightly, jaw working once as his gaze flickered away from yours for half a second, “yeah, i bet.”
your brows lifted, “that’s it?”
his eyes returned to yours, low and indifferent.
you scoffed, anger bubbling up so quickly, it nearly startled you, “that’s all you have to say?”
sukuna let out a breath through his nose, “what do you want me to say?”
“oh, i don’t know,” you let out a sharp little laugh that held not an ounce of humor, “maybe sorry would be a good place to start?!”
sukuna’s head tilted, “sorry.”
you stared at him in utter disbelief before a laugh left you once more, this time softer and dripped in something worse than anger, “wow…”
sukuna’s eyes borrowed, “what?”
“you’re unbelievable is what!”
“you asked for sorry.”
“not like that!” you nsapped, voice rising just enough to have your cheeks flushing, “not like you’re apologizing for stepping on my shoe!”
his expression hardened slightly and you felt it immediately, the irritation beginning to curl beneath his skin.
ugh, you hated how the closeness made both your emotions so heightened.
“you have no idea what you put me through,” you continued, voice trembling despite you rbest efforts, “none.”
sukuna’s gaze darkened, “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“act like i wasn’t there too.”
you blinked at him, something hot and ugly twisting in your chest.
was he for real?
“you were there?” you repeated quietly, “you were there?”
his jaw clenched, “don’t-”
“no, please,” you leaned forward slightly, anger sharpening every word, “explain it to me. because to my knowledge, you were the one making my life miserable while i was the one trying to keep us both sane!”
sukuna looked at you for a long moment, jaw clenching and unclenching.
the lights washed over his face in flashes of red, making him look even more unreal than he already did.
“you think i wanted this?” he stated more than asked and your heart clenched.
hurt shot through you, your eyes growing glassy against your will because you knew he wasn’t referring to the pain he’d put you through.
he meant the soulmate thing in general, fate as a whole.
he didn’t want you.
you bit the inside of your cheek, willing your tears to stay in your eyes before breathing out, “no. but neither did i.”
silence settled between you then, not peaceful but loaded.
sukuna could physically feel your hurt and his eyes dropped briefly to your hands where they trembled in your lap.
your fingers curled instantly, too proud as you hid the movement.
it was too late. he’d seen it.
even worse, he’d felt it.
“i didn’t know.” he stated lowly and you froze.
your eyes flickered up, “what?”
his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, expression unreadable.
“at first,” he clarified, “i didn’t know what it did to you.”
your chest tightening, knowing what he was referring to and his words didn’t soothe you in the slightest.
“and after?”
in fact, it made it all worse.
especially as he said nothing.
your face fell slightly, all the anger in you cooling into something quieter and melancholic.
“after, you knew.”
his gaze remained on you as his fingers flexed once against his thigh, “yeah, i knew.”
your eyes burned and you hated yourself for it.
you hated that it still hurt despite knowing already, you hated that hearing him say it aloud made it real in a way the bond never had.
“why?” you asked, the one word absolutely humiliating as much as it was devastating.
sukuna looked away first and somehow, that hurt too, “because it was easier.”
your lips parted faintly, “easier?”
he lout out a grunt, “if you hated me, you wouldn’t look for me.”
the words settled between you like something deadly.
for a second, you genuinely couldn’t speak.
then you did, “that is the stupidest, shittiest thing i’ve ever heard.”
hsi eyes snapped back to yours, scowling, “careful.”
“oh, fuck you!” you hissed lowly, “you don’t get to do that! you don’t get to hurt me on purpose and then act like it was some noble sacrifice.”
his jaw tightened, “it wasn’t noble.”
“yeah, no shit.”
“it was necessary.”
you laughed once, incredulous, “necessary? well, congrats, you got what you wanted, i absolutely fucking despise you.”
sukuna’s jaw clenched, eyes glaring at you, “good. because you don’t know shit about me, this saves us both the hassle.”
“i don’t know you?” you shot back, “i know you more than anyone, probably. i know your body hurts more often than they don’t. i know you clench your jaw when you’re mad. i know you can’t sleep because of your nightmares and unless somebody practcially forces your nervous system to shut down, you could go days without it. i know you’re so angry at the fucking world, it makes you so hateful.”
sukuna went still, too still.
you swallowed hard, eyes burning once more, “and i know that for years, i was the one cleaning up the damage you left behind.”
his eyes darkened, “cleaning up?”
“yes,” your voice cracked despite yourself, “me. i was the one hugging myself to sleep because you wouldn’t. i was the one stretching every morning because your body always felt like fucking concrete. i was the one coloring like a goddamn toddler at three in the morning because it was the only thing that made your anger stop choking me!”
sukuna said nothing and you hated that even more.
you wanted him to argue back, to answer, to fucking care.
“do you know how pathetic that feels?” you whispered, “taking care of someone who kept hurting me?”
his expression shifted, barely, but you felt it again.
the guilt, even deeper this time.
sukuna looked at you like he wanted to say something cruel and couldn’t quite manage it, settling with, “you didn’t have to do all that.”
your laugh came out watery, tears now trickling down your heated cheeks.
fuck, you felt nauseous, you felt so fucking sick.
“yeah, i know that now.”
something passed across his face then, a flicker of pain so quick, you almost missed it.
but the bond didn’t allow you to miss anything. you felt it bloom in your own chest, sharp and unwanted. his.
for one terrible second, you almost let it soften you.
almost.
because there it was again.
that tiny, stupid sliver of hope you’d spend years nurturing because it was the only thing that kept you mildly sane.
the one that whispered that maybe he wasn't all cruelty. maybe there was something beneath all that violence and pain.
maybe the boy who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps got bad had to exist somewhere inside the man sitting in front of you.
you looked at him then, through your blurry vision, really and truly looked.
the hard line of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes and the casual arrogance sitting across his shoulders like armor.
and that hope crumbled quietly inside your chest.
not dramatically or all at once, but piece by piece, like something old finally accepting it had been dead for a long time.
utter disappointment filled you then. you should have known better.
this shouldn't be surprising.
sukuna had spent years telling you exactly who he was, painting you the worst image of himself and you had hoped it was just that.
the worst of himself.
except the worst was all of him.
sukuna was cruel. not because he didn’t know better but because he did.
because he’d known what hurt you and decided hurting you was easier than wanting you.
you swallowed around the ache in your throat, suddenly exhausted in a way a thousand years of sleep couldn’t fix.
all you wanted was to be home now, cuddled up with ani in your room alone.
“right,” you whispered, nodding once to yourself.
sukuna’s brows pulled together slightly, “right what?”
you pushed yourself to your feet, smoothing trembling hands over the front of your skirt because you needed something to do. anything that didn’t involve looking at him.
“this was enlightening.”
his eyes narrowed, “sit down.”
the command sparked something sharp beneath your ribs, the thorn twisting in your heart.
you let out a hollow laugh, “fuck you.”
his jaw flexed, “don’t make a scene.”
your name left him then and you hated the way your stomach fluttered at the melody of it in his voice.
fuck, your heart hurt.
because he was your soulmate. yours.
because some sick, twisted part of you had expected the universe to redeem itself when you finally found him.
you expected the first moment to feel like every story you’d grown up hearing, witnessed amongst your friends.
warmth, recognition and relief.
instead, you were standing in front of the man who had turned your body into a battlefield and your heart into collateral damage.
“i hope i never see you again.”
something flickered across his face then and you didn’t stay long enough to decipher it.
you turned around, the crowd swallowing you almost immediately as you walked away.
music slammed back into your skull, bodies pressing close as you pushed through them with shaking hands and blurred vision.
your chest felt too tight, lungs too small for the oxygen your body ached for.
behind you, you felt sukuna rise before you saw it. the immediate pull.
his presence growing closer and your heart stuttered stupidly.
some miserable, pathetic part of you sparked alive at the thought before you could kill it.
maybe he did care.
maybe he was going to take back all the words he regretted, that he would stop you and apologize properly this time.
he would say what you’ve been waiting years to feel.
the thought was so humiliating, it almost made you sick.
“fuck are you lookin’ at?!”
you heard his voice aimed at the crowd of people that were watching you both, probably since your conversation on the couch.
you shoved through the door and stepped into the narrow hallway outside the main room, the music muffling instantly behind you.
the air was cooler here, damp with rain and cigarette smoke, blue neon bleeding through the cracked windows at the end of the corridor.
you took in a breath like you hadn’t breathed in days, eyes shutting as your heart hammered against your chest, trying to simply process everything that had taken place.
“hey.” his voice followed you out and you froze, heart stilling.
stupid, traitorous thing.
you turned slowly, eyes fluttering open.
sukuna stood a few feet away, tall and shadowed beneath the hallway light.
away from the party, he seemed even more dangerous. less like a person and more like a warning your body had spent seven years failing to understand.
he was an enigma.
for one breath, neither of you spoke.
your hope stood there too, fragile and shaking, fucking pitiful.
waiting.
sukuna’s gaze dragged over your face once, catching on the wetness beneath your eyes and his expression tightened faintly.
say it, you thought bitterly.
say sorry! say you didn’t mean it!
say something!
his jaw worked once, “no one can know.”
your brows furrowed, the hope dying cleanly.
“excuse me?”
sukuna stepped closer, voice lower now.
his mouth opened to clarify when his gaze met your own once more.
your wide glassy eyes. your pretty face that was streaked with tears, your plump bitten lips.
the little sniffles that left you, making his ribs ache.
and suddenly, he froze, the words stuck in his throat.
fuck, he had to get it together.
“about this.”
your lips parted faintly, “about us?”
the word us felt absolutely pathetic in your mouth.
all too soft and hopeful. undeserved, even.
something in his eyes shifted at the sound of it but it was gone before you could hold onto it.
“there is no us.”
oh. you actually felt that one.
not through the bond, nor as some phantom ache borrowed from him.
the pain was yours, all yours.
you laughed once, quiet and disbelieving as you took a small step back, “wow…”
sukuna followed you, taking one step forward as his jaw clenched, “listen to me-”
“no,” you shook your head slowly, voice trembling, “no, i think i understand perfectly.”
sukuna’s eyes darkened, “you really don’t.”
“oh my god,” you shook your head, “i can’t believe i thought-”
you stopped, humiliation burning up your throat.
sukuna stared, taking a step closer, his chest now brushing your chin, “thought what?”
his voice was almost desperate and you swallowed, blinking hard, “nothing.”
his face tightened and he felt it anyway, of course he did.
the hope and hurt.
the fact that some tiny, unbearable part of you had wanted him to come after you because he simply couldn’t let you leave.
sukuna looked away first as you took a step back. fucking coward.
“it’s dangerous.” he stated as you stared at the side of his face.
“dangerous?”
“yes.”
“for who?”
his gaze cut back to yours, “for you.”
you almost laugh but he continued before you could.
“people know me and if they know about you, they’ll use you. you make me weak.”
the words landed colder than you'd expected.
sukuna watched you closely, as if waiting for the fear to register and maybe it did.
somewhere deep, deep down, but anger got there first.
“so that’s what this is?” you whispered, tears leaving you without you noticing, “damage control?”
his silence was answer enough and you nodded faintly, tears burning hot once more.
“right.”
“you need to keep your mouth shut about it.”
you flinched before you could stop yourself and sukuna paused, regret flashing through instantly.
“don’t talk to me like that.” you stated lowly and his jaw clenched.
“i’m trying to keep you safe.”
“oh, how big of you.”
the hallway seemed to shrink around you both.
outside, rain tapped gently against the glass.
inside, bass thudded like a second heartbeat through the walls.
you looked at him then, this man that fate had tied to you with an invisible string and cruelty dressed up as destiny. and for the first time since you’d felt him at sixteen, you stopped wondering what it would be like to find him.
because now you knew and god, you wish you didn’t.
it felt like losing something you’d never even had.
“is that all?” you questioned lowly, clearing your throat once.
sukuna stared at you, nose flaring and throat bobbing once, “yeah.”
another piece of you gave out as you nodded, “okay.”
the word was so calm, it made his eyes sharpen.
you turned away, walking past him but his hand caught your wirst before you could take full step.
skin met skin and the bond went silent, completely and utterly silent.
no buzzing or aching or distance.
just him, all warm and real. terribly real.
your breath hitched at his touch. it was the first time he’d ever touched you.
sukuna froze too, fingers wrapped around your wrist like he’d touched fire and couldn’t make himself pull away.
for one second, just one, all the cruelty fell quiet.
and you felt him beneath it, scared and lonely, wanting and waiting.
you felt it and you hated him for letting you feel it now.
slowly, you looked down at his hand then back up at him, “let go.”
his grip tightened by a fraction, “this is the best thing for the both of us.”
your face crumpled before you could stop it.
you pulled your wrist free and this time, he let you.
“oh, trust me, not having to be stuck with you? i couldn’t agree more.” venom laced your words as sukuna’s expression changed, tightened and you felt the hurt then.
sharp and immediate and you were glad for it.
you turned and walked away then, tears streaming down your cheeks and a sob left you as soon as you were out of his vicinity.
for the first time, the bond didn't feel like a thread pulling you closer…
it felt like noose.
∞
an | was so late with this but had the worst past few days so SORRY! anyways PLSSS lmk what u think cuz i'm iffy abt the direction of this BUT this is lowk my fav thing i've written omg! this is kinda like a prologue pt2, next chapters will deffo be longer! i cannot wait to write more of these two and sukuna's a dick but bear w him ! also each chapter in the masterlist will be titled a song and i recommend listening to it while reading for the vibes 🫡
also lowk need toji BAD i wanna give him some lore so lmk if u want a one-shot of him in this au!
౨ৎ experienced!sukuna x virgin f!reader
[adult boutique au] - ongoing series
❝ chasing your dreams isn't all it's cracked up to be. your apartment shakes when the train passes and eating a scoop of peanut butter and calling it girl dinner is getting depressing. when you finally manage to land a job at a store that sells sex toys, it's possibly the biggest relief of your life. there's just one issue:
you're a virgin.
you don't know the first thing about toys and you don't want your cute and flirty white-haired co-worker to know. against your better judgement, you find yourself turning to your other co-worker for lessons and learn the hard way he's just as much of an asshole in bed as he is at work. ❞
౨ৎ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. fwb but you aren't friends. slow burn romance/fast burn smut. sukuna is 23ish, reader is 24/25ish. reader is sexually reserved but confident, nerdy, and a band geek. arrogant!sukuna. mild love triangle with gojo. dom!sukuna. mild corruption. size difference. sex toys & explorations of safety in kinks. smut & piv. virginity loss. see masterlist for full cw.
౨ৎ wc ; 9.4k.
౨ৎ art ; ackshuallyvalerie
main masterlist || series masterlist || next ⪢
There comes a point where you have to wonder if you just aren’t meant to be applying for jobs. The amount of rejection emails and calls you’ve gotten is staggering, and that doesn’t even begin to touch on the amount of applications that simply haven’t gotten a reply.
‘We regret to inform you’ feels like a personal attack at this point.
Sitting outside this particular store, however, has you questioning if maybe you just aren’t cut out for work at all.
It’s not like you expected a paying gig right out the gate when you moved to the big city to chase your dream of becoming a musician, but you at least figured you would be able to get something that pays in the meantime.
At this point, every rejection is a shot straight to the heart.
You applied to every store you could find with a hiring ad. Both online and in-person, skipping over the occasional store that you felt you weren’t cut out for. Now, it’s come to the point where you don’t have the luxury to be picky.
Still, the shoe store that wouldn’t hire you? At least you have shoes, even if they’re worn-in Vans and Converse for the most part.
The reception job at the law firm? It’s not like you have a degree or can cite any, but you know general laws.
This? You sigh as your gaze traces the letters across the failing light box, deep red letters spelling out Adult Boutique.
It’s not that you have anything against it.
It’s that you’ve never used a sex toy.
Hell, you don’t know the first thing about them.
You’ve never even had sex before.
Sighing, you throw your head back against the headrest of your old rusting sedan and take a moment to breathe in the harsh disappointment of chasing your dreams. Your hands settle in your lap as you set aside any reservations you have, snatching your resumé from the passenger’s seat and shutting the door behind you. You walk with as much confidence as you can muster into the shop, but it’s almost humiliating how far out of your wheelhouse you are when you’re met with the interior. For as confident as you are, it drains from you in an instant.
Humiliation is a kink though, right?
“ID?” You pause in the doorway before you can get much of a look at the store, staring at a man with piercing blue eyes and white hair. He’s handsome, maybe a year younger than you, and his friendly smile is horribly infectious.
You stand like a deer in the headlights, your lips caught in an embarrassing ‘o’ before your mind catches up. ID. You’re in an age-restricted store. Right.
“Shoot–” Your hands fly down to your pockets, reaching for the wallet…
… That you left in the car.
Your jaw hangs ajar at the realization, warmth climbing from the back of your neck to the tips of your ears as the handsome clerk’s startlingly blue eyes pin you in place.
You shut your eyes, biting down on your lower lip. “I’ll be right back.”
In the midst of your walk of shame back to your car across the street, every thought reminds you that you could just leave. You could forget this ever happened and simply accept you aren’t getting the job. The fact that your wallet is so empty that you left it in your unlocked car in a shady part of town serves as a reminder that, again, you don’t exactly have the luxury of being picky.
With a forlorn sigh and a drag of your hands down your face, you put on your best confident smile and make your way back inside. The clerk grins as you hand over your ID, leaning over the counter on forearms that you swear you’re not staring at.
They’re just veiny.
And incredibly hot.
“Sorry,” you sigh as you pocket your ID again.
“Don’t worry about it,” there’s a small wave of his hand to brush you off, and when you look up to meet his eyes, there’s a particularly sultry look to his gaze. It’s enough to warm your cheeks again, and you can only pray he doesn’t notice how much you’ve been staring. “Looking for anything in particular?” He bears a lopsided tilt to his grin that sets your nerves further alight as your stomach ties in knots under the handsome stranger’s gaze.
It’s gotta be a bad combination to be clueless on everything around you and thinking about the hot man in front of you rather than the job you’re applying for.
Shaking your head to center yourself, you put on your best smile. “Yeah, actually.” The man’s expression changes to intrigue as you hand over your resumé. His eyes skim it, brows raising.
He gives you a once-over, setting the paper down with a more genuine grin. “We could use the help,” he admits. “The owner’ll be in tomorrow morning, I’ll have her give you a call.”
That’s the most positive response you’ve received to an application thus far. Although you find yourself nervously eyeing a bottle of G-Spot Stimulating Gel on the counter that you don’t know the first thing about, you’re honestly relieved that things could be looking up. You can handle this job with a bit of research, surely.
“That would be great,” you offer a smile. “Thank you.”
–
So, the good news is that you have a job. The bad news is that you still don’t know the first thing about what you’re selling. Admittedly, you probably should have done some research or looked over the product offerings on the store’s site, but somewhere between preparation for a new job and trying to sleep through the train shaking your apartment every few minutes, you forgot.
The kind woman who interviewed you over the phone and the store’s owner– Jillian– greets you at the door as you push into the store. Her graying hair is curled tightly at her roots, her eyes wrinkled at the corner and kind. She wears a pale pink wool sweater that compliments her lip gloss, standing at about the same height as you. She’s old enough to retire and still gorgeous all-the-same.
“Welcome, dear,” she smiles brilliantly at the sight of you, ushering you towards the front counter with a hand on your shoulder. “I appreciate the help, it’ll be nice to step back from the counter and keep my job behind-the-scenes.”
“I’m happy to help,” you reply with a kind grin, keeping up your best customer service attitude. As she leads you behind the counter, your eyes flick to the two tall men standing behind the counter. You recognize the first as the hot white-haired man who accepted your resumé. Cheery, charming, and strikingly handsome with toned muscles visible from under his white t-shirt.
The man beside doesn’t bear the same welcoming nature. In fact, they’re the definition of polar opposites.
Standing a couple of inches taller than the one you recognize, he has black hair that must be dyed, pink roots standing out like a rose among thorns. His ears are pierced in a multitude of ways with matching brow and lip piercings and tattoos that travel up the back of his neck, reaching his jaw. He’s in far darker and more casual clothes, arms crossed over his broad and built chest with his hip leaned on the counter, and a look of mild disinterest that does no favors for your nerves.
Where the white-haired man bears a friendly smile and a button-up that makes him look ready for a job in a cubicle, his black-haired colleague is very clearly assessing your every move, and looks like he could be on-stage at a dingy bar.
She introduces you to the men, earning a grin from the one you recognize and… nothing from the man with black-dyed hair.
“I’ll be in every couple of days to do the cash deposit,” she explains. “I’ll also drop by to check on the office and put together paperwork, but Satoru–” she points to the white-haired man who casually salutes in greeting, “and Ryomen–” her hand waves towards the frowning man who doesn’t react save for a glance at the older woman, “will train you. Satoru usually does the opening shift and Ryomen does the closing shift. We’re closed Mondays and Tuesdays, but you’ll work the rest of the week.” You’re grateful for the consistency, if nothing else. “You’ll take the midday Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, you’ll be alone for a bit while the boys are in classes, and you’ll take the closing shifts on weekends to help Ryomen during busy hours.”
His gaze, a crimson so striking you have half a mind to wonder if they’re contacts, flicks to you, indiscernible, then back to Jillian.
“You won’t be alone while you train of course though, the boys and I will cover until you’re comfortable being alone.” She pats you once on the shoulder. “Does that work for you, dear?”
“Not a problem at all,” you nod. You clasp your hands together politely.
“Perfect!” She claps once in glee, clearly happy to step away from serving customers. You can understand that sentiment. “I’ll grab your paperwork.”
Satoru’s gaze follows her as she heads for the back room, then turns cheerily to you. “Hey, newbie!” He steps forward from the counter, outstretching his hand. “Nice to meet you.” Shaking his hand, you match his grin. “Well, by name anyway.”
You turn your expectations to Ryomen, who doesn’t move from the spot he’s standing in. His weight shifts to the other hip, still leaning against the counter when he juts his chin out in less of a greeting and more of an acknowledgement. “Hey.”
“Nice to meet you, Ryomen.” You give him a little wave.
“Sukuna,” he corrects you. His words aren’t sharp per se, but they carry a blunt edge. “Only the old lady can call me Ryomen.” His voice is as gruff as his style and stature, fitting of the brutish impression he gives off. His slightly narrowed eyes give off the notion that he’s evaluating you. Reading you.
With a tight-lipped smile, Satoru scratches at the back of his head. He shoots you an apologetic glance as you uncomfortably gather that this isn’t unusual for Sukuna.
“Got it, sorry.” You offer an apologetic smile, which he accepts with a nod.
Satoru steps forward to save you from the interaction, motioning with his head out to the store’s floor. “Why don’t I show you around?”
You nod gratefully, letting him lead you away from the counter. Sukuna’s gaze is quick to drop to the counter as he leans over a book of some sort, his chin resting atop his hand. You turn your attention back to Satoru as he leads you through the long back area of the store
A colorful assortment of dildos and vibrators line the walls of the first aisle, anything from glass to silicone in different shapes and size varieties. The light in the far corner flickers when you step into the aisle, faux wood creaking under-foot. The store has that sort of old strip mall feel where, although well-maintained, its age is evident in the old fixtures and failing lights.
“Sorry about him,” Satoru’s voice is a near-whisper as he shakes his head. His hair falls in front of those striking blue eyes as he leads the way down each aisle. You’re not sure you’d really call it showing you around, but you’re certainly walking the floor. “He’s uhhh–” he waves his hand through the air as he searches for the right term. “Moody, or something.” He chuckles. “I don’t know, you get used to it. Don’t take it personally.”
“He doesn’t seem like a customer service person,” you admit sheepishly, keeping your voice down.
Satoru does no favors keeping his own down as he barks a laugh. “No, not really, hey? He’s Jillian’s friend’s son, so–” he shrugs as you mentally connect the dots that landed him this job. “It’s an easy enough gig and honestly business is slow.”
“That’s a shame,” you offer, mostly for Jillian’s sake, although you don’t mind it being slow.
“I said it was slow, not bad,” he grins, eyes narrowing to that sultry gaze he shot you when you dropped off your resumé last week. “We have a lot of regulars. People who spend a lot. You’ll recognize them in time.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’ll be nice to have some company for the end of my shifts,” he adds, tilting his head to eye you. He crosses his arms over his chest, catching your attention as you glance at his muscles just long enough to consider yourself caught. He takes the opportunity and swings with it. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you.” His voice drops a tone, the flirty lilt warming the tips of your ears.
“Yeah, it’ll be nice to get to know you too.”
Jillian returns with paperwork before Satoru can take the opportunity to flirt any further– but you get the feeling he will. It seems to go hand-in-hand with his personality. Once everything is signed and Satoru has headed off for class, Jillian leaves training in Sukuna’s hands as she retreats to the back to file your paperwork.
Sukuna’s gaze is a slow drag down your form as he evaluates the dark blouse and nice jeans you chose to wear. Admittedly, you now feel a little overdressed given his relative comfort and ripped jeans, but in spite of the judgement clear as day in his eyes, he keeps it to himself. At least, as long as you don’t count the frown he bears. You can’t really tell if that’s meant for you or if that’s his neutral expression.
With a sigh, he shuts whatever book is on the counter behind him and gives you a rundown in short, clipped sentences. “Floor work first, cash after. You worked cash before?”
You nod, though the register looks fairly old here.
He gives a hum of approval. “Good. The floor's pretty self-explanatory. Everything is ordered by brand, then color. Shipments Mondays and Thursdays. Back room for any overstock.” He points over his shoulder to where Jillian disappeared as he lays out instructions like facts. “No clock system. Just work when you work. Pay is every second Friday. You’ll get a check.”
Again, you nod.
His gaze travels the length of your figure, but it doesn’t feel as though he’s checking you out. It’s an evaluation. And you’re pretty sure you’re failing before you’ve had the chance to start. “I don’t care what you do when customers aren’t around. Study, read, go on your phone. I don’t give a shit.”
“Oh, okay. That’s kinda nice.”
His tone is apathetic as he hums in agreement. “I didn’t have time last night and I know Satoru’s lazy ass didn’t clean this morning, so I’ll get you to organize the shibari while I put some shit away.”
You nod, slipping away from the counter onto the floor. His gaze tracks you as you very unconfidently thread through the rows in search of shibari. To your horror, nothing is well-labeled, which means there isn’t a distinct section with some big flashy sign to point you in the direction of a kink you don’t know the name of.
“It’s at the back,” Sukuna’s low voice calls out. Biting down on your lip, you move towards the back of the store, your gaze trailing along the wall. There are a number of bondage devices you can’t name, ropes that you assume go with bondage, and chains and whips that all feel bondage-adjacent.
So, more or less, you’re still at a loss.
Really failing that evaluation now.
Behind you, Sukuna is replacing products that were atop the counter at the front, but his movements stop when he fixes you with his narrowed gaze. “The ropes,” he points them out on the wall with displeasure prickling around the edge of his sandpaper-scraped voice. Now that you look at them, it feels obvious given how out of order they are.
“I know!” Heat flares beneath your skin in all the wrong places. Still, you won’t let him get to you. “I was just looking.”
He doesn’t reply, his crimson gaze boring into your expression so hard that you’re pretty sure he can see right through you.
At least you can’t fuck up the organization of the ropes.
Quietly sucking in a breath, you turn to the wall, pulling down the plastic-covered rope bundles that are out of place.
“So,” you turn your gaze over your shoulder. “You’re in school?”
“Mhm.”
“What are you taking?”
“Business.”
He’s difficult, too. Great.
Once the ropes are in a more sound order, you spin on your heel to face him. He’s already turning away, moving to a different area to put away a vibrator.
“Can I–”
“Here.” He tosses a bottle of lube at you, caught clumsily in unexpecting fingers. “Put that away, too.”
Pressing your lips into a tight line, you nod, more to yourself than him. At least you know what lube is.
You search the store for the spot where it belongs, twisting it on the shelf so the label faces out, then make your way to the counter where Sukuna’s already standing over his book again. Before you have the opportunity to speak, the bell over the door rings as a customer walks through the door. She’s around your age, and quickly flashes ID towards Sukuna, who nods.
A regular, you suppose.
The tattooed clerk’s eyes trail to you, jutting his chin out expectantly towards the customer.
Making your way up to the woman with cute blonde hair cut short, you fall into your customer service voice. “Can I help you find anything?”
“Hi!” She beams at you, her smile putting your first day nerves at ease. “Thank you, but I know where most things are,” she waves you off politely. “I appreciate it, though!” She moves past you towards the back of the store, whirling around suddenly as her gaze shifts between you and Sukuna. “Oh, actually, did you get any more of the cherry stimulants in?”
You turn your attention to Sukuna, who fixes you with a lazy unsure expression. “She can check for you.” He leans his hip on the counter again, arms crossed over his chest as he faces you. “It’ll be in the back. They come in a box with a cherry logo on them.”
Worrying your lip between your teeth, you nod as you make your way to the back.
Truthfully, the cramped room is a bit of a relief from the uncomfortable tension Sukuna just seems to naturally exude. Him and Satoru are big personalities in the most opposite way you can possibly imagine, but at least Satoru is willing to chat.
Jillian glances over her shoulder from an old computer at the back of the room. “Everything going well, dear?”
“Yeah,” you grin, though truthfully this already feels like a disaster where you’re being scornfully judged by your colleague and accidentally making enemies on day one. With one of the only people you work with. So that’s great. “There’s just someone looking for stimulants.”
She shifts in her chair, doing a once-over of the boxes. “Not back here. There’s an inventory list on this computer that you can usually use, but I don’t want to lose progress on your files. Can you ask Ryomen to check the holds drawer? Satoru might have put some on hold if he knew they were looking.”
“Sure, thank you!”
With a grateful smile, you head back to the front and relay the information to Sukuna.
“Holds drawer’s there.” He points to a handle on the lower inside of the counter. Within are a number of boxes and small sachet packs. “Mm, there they are.”
Clearly one of the sachet packs is what she’s looking for. Unfortunately, they all fail to say exactly what they are on the front with bright and bold brands rather than descriptors or even a damn cherry logo, which means you haven’t the faintest clue what you’re looking at.
“The orange one,” Sukuna adds when you’re still paused staring at the drawer. There’s an unimpressed lilt to his tone that has you wincing before you pull the sachet pack from the drawer. You do what you can to keep your expression neutral and feign confidence when you stand upright again.
The whole situation is tense and embarrassing. It might at least be tolerable with Satoru, but Sukuna either enjoys your suffering or he’s an asshole.
The unfortunate third possible option is both.
His grimace as you set the pack in his hand isn’t lost on you, although you choose to head towards the register in hopes that he can at least teach you how it works and you can get on with this day. He chooses not to say a word to you as the customer finishes looking around, returning to the front with a rose-shaped vibrator.
“Ooh, thank you!” She grins as she spots the packet at the register.
Sukuna nods, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re paying attention. “Just type the amounts into the register,” he explains, putting both prices from the stickers into the old machine. Once he hits the equals button, the cash drawer pops open as he gets the total and it calculates tax for him. The customer flashes a card, so Sukuna shuts the drawer and types the amount into the machine to his right. “While she pays, get the serials on each tag and write them here,” he explains, pulling the number from each barcode and writing them on a pad of paper left of the register. Once her payment is processed, a receipt prints, which he hands to her, keeping the second copy under the till. Finally, he bags the items.
She thanks him, giving you a polite little wave and retreating out the door.
You let out a breath, nodding. “The register seems easy enough,” you try more friendly commentary in spite of his half-assed teaching, but you suppose by now you shouldn’t expect Sukuna to be receptive. He hums, a judgemental flash in his eyes as he pins you in place with a narrowed gaze like he can see something you can’t.
He works his jaw in a slow grind of teeth like he wants to say something but thinks better of it, dropping your gaze. “I’ve got to study. There’s not much else to the job besides that, so keep yourself busy.”
Thankfully the rest of the day passes without much of a hitch and you’re able to leave as evening hits, with Sukuna staying to close the store.
He doesn’t give you another word for the remainder of the day. He doesn’t expect you to handle customers. He handles the till. He doesn’t even look at you as you let him know your shift is over. You aren’t sure whether to be grateful or dread the rest of your shifts with him, but thankfully you’re able to spend more time with Satoru tomorrow.
Given that you’re off a couple of hours before close, you use the opportunity to stake out local bars with stages and take note of a small pub tucked away in a little corner. The outside has a sign that doesn’t light up in the night’s cover, but within it’s rather warm, with string lights hung over a stage in the back. While you work on your online presence, it’s the perfect spot to get your stage skills up.
The thick metal of the door is cool on your hand, creaking on its hinge as you press through to the interior warmth. There’s a small two-man group on-stage performing low-energy grunge that seem to be garnering decent attention from onlookers and groups you would be willing to bet are regulars based on the way they move around the small scene.
Adjusting your jacket over your shoulder, you make your way to the bar. The bartender looks to be a couple of years senior to you, with short brown hair kept neat aside from a couple of stray strands that fall over his forehead. He has a prominent nose and sunken eyes that give him an overall air of tiredness.
The apron he wears over a clean-cut button-up pulls taut across his chest as he reaches overhead to set a bottle of whiskey along the back wall before turning his attention to you with a polite smile. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, um, actually,” you begin with a polite smile, “I was wondering who I need to impress to be up there.” You point to the grunge band at the back as his gaze follows you.
He hums, his calm demeanor shifting from the routine of bartending to something more friendly. “I can give you the owner’s email. If you fit in with the crowd, he’ll work with your schedule.”
Casting another glance at the two men on-stage, you nod, chewing on your lip in an effort to hide your giddy smile. “That’d be great. So… what– a little moody, kind of chill? Maybe some minor chords in there?”
The bartender chuckles, picking up a glass like routine simply fills his subconscious. “Sounds to me like you’ve already got the gig.”
Leaving behind the smell of drowned sorrows and shared laughter, you can hold onto the fact that while your day took a turn for the worst, it’s just a job. Once you leave the building, you don’t have to think about it and can focus on music. Sukuna isn’t the end of the world and if you can manage to stay out of his hair, surely you can find some sort of common ground with him.
–
Wind whips too fast across the street when you lock your car behind you. Your unzipped coat flails in the wind, leaving you with a flustered expression as the shop door slams shut behind you.
“Hey newbie,” Satoru greets you with an amused grin. You flash him a smile as you smooth down your outfit, far more casual than the previous one with jeans and a band shirt. “How was yesterday?” He asks, wiping down the counter and tossing the wipe in a garbage as he claps his hands together to brush them off.
The chuckle that parts your lips is half-hearted as you drop your laptop bag atop the front counter. “Kind of a disaster?” You wince, shaking your head. “Is he seriously always like that?”
Satoru stands upright, running a hand through white locks. “He gets better when you get to know him, but yeah he’s kind of an asshole,” he laughs brightly, unbothered. “I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips.”
“Sure, if the chips are sour,” you mutter.
Satoru snickers, nodding. “What happened anyway?”
“I didn’t immediately know where everything is without being shown,” you wave a hand through the air, letting it hang there for a moment in disbelief.
Satoru, unphased, grins. “Oh, yeah. Sounds like a classic case of not running on Sukuna’s schedule. You should really get on that.”
You throw your head back with a sigh, giving a dismissive wave of your hands. “Whatever, it’s a new day, right? Maybe it won’t be so bad today.”
Satoru teasingly sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Sorry newbie, but my sources are telling me today’s weather is looking cloudy in Sukuna-land.”
Satoru’s unseriousness helps settle a modicum of your nerves as you find yourself laughing at his charm.
“But hey, you’ve got me for a couple of hours first.” He grins, settling the balls of his palms atop the counter as he leans his weight back. One of his sleeves, rolled to the elbow, slides down his forearm to his wrist. “What did he go over with you, anyway?”
You laugh loosely. “Like, nothing. He gave me a thirty second run-down of the till and told me I don’t need to clock in or out.”
“That’s gold,” Satoru shakes his head in an effort to get hair from falling into his line of sight. “I thought he’d be nicer to a pretty girl like you.” His face lights up as you avert your eyes, smiling at the scuffed floor underfoot. He keeps the conversation flowing like it’s second nature. “Tell you what, I’ll actually try to show you around before he gets here, and you can tell me what brought you to the city.”
Recovering quickly, you fix him with a humbled expression at the callout. “Is it that obvious that I’m not from here?”
Satoru barks a laugh. “Yeah. You’ve got small town energy.”
“Small town energy? What does that even mean?” You follow him out from behind the counter as he leads the way to the back room first.
“Just vibes,” he shrugs. “It’s good. Cute,” he grins. You get the feeling he’s a bit of a flirt through and through, but truthfully you enjoy the attention.
Plus, he’s hot.
“Thanks,” you murmur with a bashful smile, chewing on your lip. “I uh– I wanted to give my dream a shot before tying myself down in a career I hate.”
His eyes light up as he turns to you with a palm on the door handle for the back room. “Oh yeah? What’s your dream?”
“Singing. Music,” you admit, feeling just shy enough that you avert your gaze in spite of your giddiness.
“No way.” He’s grinning widely now, his hand leaving the door handle as he chooses to lean against it instead, arms crossed tantalizingly over his chest. “I feel like I’m obligated to be the annoying guy who asks you to sing for me now.”
You laugh heartily. “At least you know it would make you that guy.”
With a chuckle, he finally turns around to lead the way into the back room. He peppers actual explanations of the job’s inner workings between personal questions.
After explaining the inventory system on the back computer and how boxes are organized, he leads the way back through the aisles, pointing out different sections as you walk. “So, do you take gigs between shifts?”
“When I can,” you nod. “I’m trying to put together the money to get some studio time soon. I have some self-recorded stuff, but I don’t think I’m much of a producer.”
“Will you at least tell me what genre?”
“Um,” you shrug thoughtfully, “I guess like punk or indie rock?”
“Oooh, so you’re a moody guitar girl. I like it, I like it.” He nods his approval with a wide grin. The faintest of dimples forms at the corners of his lips, giving him a charmingly boyish smile.
Your genuine shared laughter sends flutters to the pit of your stomach, warm and welcome, as you finish threading through aisles and head back to the front counter. Satoru pushes up on forearms that flex under his weight as he settles atop the counter. You follow suit on the opposite counter, head tilting as you inquire about him.
“Jillian mentioned you’re in school, what are you taking?”
“Business,” he replies with a lopsided smile.
“Oh, like Sukuna?”
“Damn, you got an answer out of him?” Satoru chuckles. “Yeah, he’s a year ahead of me but we’re in the same program. I think he wants to do the whole company startup thing though, I’m looking to kinda take over for Jillian and eventually buy this place if things work out. She’s holding out until I finish.”
Your brow raises as you fix him with an inquisitive look. “You wanna take over here?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he chides, gaze lidded with an almost-cocky attitude. “Don’t get me wrong, I know it doesn’t seem busy even with online orders, but I actually think there’s a huge untapped market here.” He straightens and you can see the passion and drive gleaming in his eager gaze. “I think the way sex toys are sold both online and in-stores is outdated and makes a lot of people feel uncomfortable and I want to try to do something new to help people feel more comfortable and open in terms of sex.”
You blink, nodding at the insightful way that he goes on to explain the ins and outs of his opinion on the industry and how, although he loves Jillian, he can see a lot of ways to use his knowledge to improve the business and hopes to change the way kinks are viewed.
It’s not like it hasn’t occurred to you just how inexperienced you are, but as you nod along to his passionate explanation, it occurs to you just how experienced he is. He doesn’t say it outright, but he talks about the way condoms are made and how bad they can be for some people, how he hopes to bring in products for people who struggle with medication killing their sex drive, and even the intricacies of what products work well and which don’t and how he would love to stop stocking them altogether.
It shouldn’t come as a shock– it doesn’t– after all, he’s hot and flirty, but it certainly gives the butterflies in your stomach an edge that you aren’t sure what to make of. It’s not uncomfortable– Satoru’s still kind and has a welcoming personality– it’s closer to inadequacy. Like you should know more, and not just for job purposes. It doesn’t sit well.
But you shouldn’t be thinking about your coworker like that anyway, right?
Thankfully, before you can think too hard about the subject, Sukuna walks through the door with a heavy step to his boots.
Maybe ‘thankfully’ doesn’t suit his arrival, though. His gaze flits briefly between each of you before he heads straight to the back, giving you both a noncommittal wave as you greet him.
When the door shuts behind the brute, Satoru turns to you. He grimaces, faux empathy shining in cerulean seas. “The weather report was right.”
The day passes so quickly with Satoru even without a single customer entering the store that the rest of the day feels like a slog without him. Or maybe it just feels like a slog because Sukuna makes it clear he wants nothing to do with you. He even stayed in the back until Satoru had to leave in spite of the changes in their regular schedules just to train you.
He’s not even that unfriendly with Satoru either from what the kinder of the two told you. He tried to reason that your tattooed co-worker simply isn’t fond of new people, but you’re pretty sure your inexperience grates on his nerves.
And unfortunately, every little slip up seems to tack on. Your shifts with Satoru are a breeze that leaves you grinning bashfully over your new crush while your shifts with Sukuna have you questioning every life choice you’ve ever made.
Your first weekend closing shift with Sukuna, you’re pretty sure you confirm your suspicions that he simply doesn’t like you.
The bell rings overhead as a tall man with dark hair walks through the door. You greet him and offer a hand, but his gait is purposeful as he heads into the back after flashing ID. Passing the time by fiddling with a pen as Sukuna stares blankly at the door with a hand lazily strewn over his textbook page, your gaze lifts when the man returns.
“Excuse me. Do you know the difference between this–” he shows you a bullet vibrator, “and this?” He holds up a hitachi wand next, “aside from size?”
Your jaw hangs open stupidly as you try to formulate a response but find yourself at a loss when size seems like the reasonable answer. Feeling your face flush, you glance sidelong at the business major.
If looks could kill.
The worst part? It’s not even glare.
It’s the most unfiltered and raw disappointment you’ve ever seen.
He huffs, pushing up from the counter. “The bullet is discreet but weak. It takes batteries and they usually only last for five hours overall. It’s still a good amount of use, but they might be watch batteries, which can be a pain.” He shoots you a pointed stare that makes you wonder if you would rather have just embarrassed yourself in front of Satoru in spite of your crush. “The wand is rechargeable, way stronger, lasts about fifteen hours, and has a lot more vibration modes,” he explains confidently.
The man nods, setting the bullet aside as he brings the wand to the counter. Over the course of the past few days, Sukuna’s taken most of the floor-related duties away from you in spite of the fact that you have tried to do some research and are getting to know the sections and general genres of toys. That question simply didn’t come up. Yet for all of the times he’s made a motion for you to take over cash, he doesn’t even offer it this time.
You get the feeling this goes beyond his usual irritation.
You can practically feel it radiating off of him in waves of negative energy.
The moment the customer walks out the door, Sukuna’s palm splays across the counter as he turns with frustrating evenness to face you. Somehow his ability to keep his actions level while being visibly affronted is worse than if he would have just yelled.
“Do you think you’re cute for making my job harder or did you just apply for the wrong fucking job?”
Okay. Fuck this guy.
“You can’t be serious right now.”
He lifts his hands in a loose shrug. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” He replies, dry and even with venomous fangs.
You scoff, but relent nonetheless given that he is close to the store’s owner and you can not afford to lose this job.
Literally.
You can’t call a scoop of peanut butter dinner again.
“Look, I’m sorry, this is just–” you hesitate, your mind muddled as you search for an explanation. Sighing in exasperation, you throw your hands up, letting them fall to your sides with a plop against your jeans. You settle on the truth before you take too long to reply. “Sex toys are new to me.”
His jaw ticks as he leans his hip back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. Somehow, he makes Satoru look small– not thin or short, but small– given how much bulkier he is. He’s hot too, but his personality stands as a bit of a wall between you. His jaw works, eyes narrowed as he takes in your words.
At last, he chuckles. Dry and devoid of any amusement. “Why the fuck did you apply here if you don’t know anything about the shit we sell?”
“Because I need a job?” You reply incredulously.
He huffs a sigh. “Just my fucking luck.” He turns back to the register, haphazardly tossing the receipt into a small bin under the counter before he grabs the bullet vibrator and heads out onto the floor. “Figure that shit out,” he calls sourly without looking back at you. “Watch porn or buy something, I don’t give a shit. Just don’t make my job harder.”
Leaning back against the counter where it meets the wall, you let your head fall back in disbelief.
Asshole.
–
You wish you could say your first month passes seamlessly, but Sukuna makes the seams painfully obvious.
With Satoru, they’re subtle but you still feel them.
They both present separate problems.
Sukuna is an outright asshole and you want to get things right if only to not hear his virulent voice. The silence is somehow better.
Satoru is kind, open, and caring, but leagues ahead of you in experience and you have a massive crush. There aren’t enough customers in the morning to embarrass yourself in front of him, but you do find yourself wanting to impress him and against your better judgement, you’re pretty sure you’ve given him the impression you know what you’re doing from what little research you’ve done and what you’ve picked up over the month.
At least you’re trained enough that you get a couple of hours to yourself between Satoru’s departure and Sukuna’s arrival now that their hours aren’t extended in order to train you.
“You gonna be okay on your own?” Satoru asks, shrugging his jacket over his shoulder.
“I’ll be fine,” you brush him off with a smile.
He nudges your arm, unknowingly sending goosebumps in a trail up your skin. “Good. Text me if you need something. Or, I dunno. If you’re bored.”
Your heart does a little flip. “Yeah. Okay, thanks.”
You watch bashfully as he leaves, offering a little wave. Once he’s out of sight, you lean on your forearms over the counter. With a forlorn sigh, you drop your chin to the vinyl below, staring blankly out the window. Truthfully, it’s nice to have a breather between each man. You need the time to prepare yourself to handle Sukuna.
Your mind’s distraction comes in the form of your phone buzzing a few minutes later.
1:36 PM Satoru || not bored yet? ;)
A distraction to be sure. Whether it’s fortunate or not– yet to be determined.
The door seems to be opening more and more with him these days and as giddy as that makes you, nerves are beginning to show more and more at the seams. It’s foolish really, and you know that, but you find yourself constantly coming back to your lack of experience.
1:37 PM You || Give me like 5 more minutes and then I will be
You can practically hear the laugh he barks, having grown fond of his company.
You’re still casually texting back and forth when Sukuna’s shoulder presses on the door. He moves confidently through the shop, casting a single glance at you before dropping his bag off in the back room.
He’s still a pain in the ass, but Satoru was right that you do get used to it. You’re not sure that you’d call that a win, but at least you’ve come to some sort of silent agreement with him out of sheer necessity.
He didn’t leave you with many options after realizing just how little you know about the industry. When he got in the following day and returned your greeting with a painfully mild ‘don’t bother’, you had to figure out some sort of system that would prevent him from interacting with you altogether if it means his attitude is milder.
That’s how you landed here. He handles the floor and questions, you handle cash. You can tell he hates the arrangement given that he’s not a chatty guy, but at least you aren’t pinned in place by his vile appraisal every time you interact.
He’s civil.
Civil enough.
Most of the time.
For him, anyway.
He’s less judgemental, at least, and when you are able to help on the floor, he tends to leave you be more often than not. It’s like the loosest form of appreciation you can think of.
You’re pretty sure ‘tolerates’ is a fitting word for how he sees you. Like some sort of intrusive insect that sits just out of reach.
When he re-emerges from the back with his coat shrugged off, you’re surprised to see him in a black button-up and slacks, carrying his usual aloof expression as he makes his way to the counter. Admittedly, it’s a good look for him.
It’s unfair that he gets to be hot and an asshole.
“Is there a reason you’re staring?”
Thank god you don’t find him intimidating anymore. He’s a dick. Even to customers from time to time, but you don’t find yourself feeling small under his judgement. Maybe you should, but your ability to quickly bounce back could easily be placed at fault.
Blinking, you avert your gaze. “Sorry. I’m just not used to seeing you so dressed up.”
He examines your expression as though he suspects a lie in your words. “I had a presentation,” he explains, surprisingly open as he offers the explanation willingly.
Holy shit. It’s the first sunny day in the Sukuna forecast.
“What sort of presentation?”
“A marketing pitch.”
“Oh, nice.” You nod, trying to keep the peace. “How’d it go?”
He nods, turning to the counter to open his laptop. “Good. We’re gonna workshop it a bit, but I’m hoping to pitch to investors soon.” There’s pride within the evenness of his voice that has you tilting your head, intrigued to get something genuine from him.
Leaning in, you push to see how much you can get from him. “Like, a startup idea?” You recall Satoru mentioning something of the sort.
His gaze fixes you from over his shoulder. You get the feeling with him that he’s always trying to read you. “Yeah. A platform where people can pitch their businesses to customers within a certain distance without needing social media.”
“Oh,” you blink, mildly surprised. “That’s a really good idea.”
He hums, turning back to his laptop.
“You don’t really strike me as the CEO type, if I’m being honest.”
“I’m not,” he agrees, surprisingly unbothered by the observation. You consider yourself lucky he doesn’t take it as an insult. “I’d be looking for a co-founder to handle the personal, financial, and sales bullshit. I’d run strategy and go-to-market.”
Admittedly, yeah. That suits him. He’s sharp and straightforward, he seems like the type to be more inclined to work on strategy and run everything without the constant need for approval and help from others.
“That sounds more your style. What made you think of the platform idea?”
He doesn’t look back as he replies. “Just seemed like something that would make money.”
You recognize that as Sukuna being polite. He’s shutting you down without a look that makes your skin crawl for once. You suppose it’s as good of a time as any to return to your texts. Your friend from back home has been religiously sending memes during your shifts to get you through the Sukuna days and today is no exception. You laugh at a few of them under your breath.
The day is as uneventful as usual. Sukuna even casts an approving glance in your direction when you correctly answer a customer’s question. He’s not so bad when he isn’t glaring every couple of minutes.
You pray the weather stays sunny in Sukunaland.
Shutting the register as a customer leaves, you turn back inside the store to find Sukuna back to work, hunched over his textbook and regurgitating the information into notes. You opt not to bother him, turning your attention instead to a flickering bulb in the back of the floor. Much like both men have chosen not to mention or fix it, you have too.
Turning your attention back to your phone, you cast a smile at your latest text from Satoru.
5:53 PM You || The weather's looking surprisingly sunny today!!
5:54 PM Satoru || be on the lookout for rain. the weather can change on a dime
5:54 PM You || I can handle a bit of rain
5:55 PM Satoru || i’ll bet you can ;)
There your stomach goes doing flips again. Your thumbs fiddle with the edges of your phone case, pulling at the plastic as you stare at the message with that horrible mix of nerves and your stomach tying in knots. You get so caught up in your own self-doubt, you don’t realize you’re staring at Sukuna, busy with his own phone.
“What?” He gruffs, retaining that hint of annoyance.
“Hm?” You blink, brought back to the present. Before you, Sukuna is leaning against the counter, phone in-hand as his jaw shifts left and right. His lip ring noticeably catches like he’s fiddling with it. “Oh. Sorry.” With a shake of your head, you stare back down at your screen. Your gaze catches on the winky face. The underlying meaning behind it and his text. The impression you’ve probably given off working at a sex toy boutique.
The goddamn butterflies, though. The same ones causing the wave of self-consciousness that you know is foolish. But fuck is it hard not to feel that way when Satoru is undeniably the kind of guy that has people hanging off his shoulder with little to no effort. Your experience shouldn’t matter, but society has taught you to think otherwise.
“Hey,” you speak up on impulse before your mind can catch up to the move your mouth is already making. You can’t be certain whether it’s bravery or stupidity. “You know a lot about what we sell, right?”
His eyes narrow, minute. Just enough to catch your attention. “Yeah. I’m good at my job.”
The dig at your knowledge has you pressing your lips together. God, he’s frustrating. “Asshole.” His brow raises slightly, like something he once deemed uninteresting or unuseful has caught his attention and he’s appraising the situation to find if you’re deserving of it. “Is there, like… a way to improve without watching porn?” You query, worrying your lip between your teeth.
No longer engrossed in his laptop upon noticing your stare, Sukuna’s gaze bores into you. He doesn’t particularly make you uneasy now like he did when you first started, but it is sharp in spite of the evenness behind it. “I told you. Buy toys.”
You suppose you could have been a bit more specific. “No, I know that. A lot of them need a partner, though.”
He waves his hand in disinterest through the air like you’ve already answered your own question and he’s done entertaining any more. “Find one, then.” He’s already looking away as he replies.
You suck in a breath. “I’m from a small town. I just moved here, I don’t really know anyone.”
Sukuna just stares at you again like he expects you to figure it out yourself. His arms cross over his chest, his hip leaned against the counter. It’s not until the air turns stifling, your words hanging a hair too long as you meet his gaze that he cuts the tension with a disbelieving laugh.
“You’re asking me?” You can’t make heads or tails of his expression when it sits somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. It’s akin to the look you got upon calling him an asshole.
“No! Or– maybe? I don’t know.” The wince you shoot him is humiliating as you try to navigate the stormy seas you’ve set yourself sailing through.
“Why don’t you go ask Satoru?” He queries, pushing a hand back through his black-dyed locks like this question was never meant for him. Still, his tone doesn’t give off the impression that he’s irritated by you, so much as something more curious in nature.
Your gaze averts as your jaw hangs open in a frustrating moment of hesitation. Briefly glancing at the texts sitting in your hand is the only tell Sukuna needs, unfortunately able to read you like a book for some god forsaken reason.
“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” he chuckles, airy and amused. He pushes up off the counter, taking a step towards you like he’s laying out a challenge. “You don’t give a shit about the job. You’re trying to impress that fucker.” He rakes his tongue over his teeth, standing over you like he owns this damn conversation.
You cross your arms over your chest, fixing him with your own judgement. “You don’t have to make a big deal out of it.”
He pushes a condescending breath through his nose, smiling with nothing but mockery. “I don’t, but I’m gonna. You two would hit it off.”
Frowning, you opt to not give him the reaction he wants. Your nails dig into the skin of your arm. “I think I liked you better when you didn’t talk as much.”
“Most people do,” he smirks. He steps forward, hands in his pockets as he leans over you. “You still want me to teach you a thing or two, sweetheart?” His tone drips with condescension now that the person he once saw as little more than a pain in his ass has become something he can toy with.
You roll your eyes. You hadn’t expected your quiet co-worker to be this kind of an asshole. Why couldn’t he just say no and move on? Where did all the theatrics come from? “Why are you such a dick?”
“Answer the question,” he deflects, unbothered and painfully egotistical.
You huff, staring at the lemon-shaped vibrator sitting atop the counter that you’ve been contemplating buying for the last hour. “Fine. Yeah, I do.”
He blows a breath through his nose, standing upright again once he’s gotten your admission in his hands. “What’s in it for me?” The way he stands over you, chin tilted, and eyes narrowed, makes you huff.
You hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead. Hell, you didn’t expect to even voice your thoughts out loud. You barely even know enough about him to offer him anything. “I took business as a minor,” you suggest. “I could tutor you.”
“Nah, I’m set.”
You shrug, exasperated. Your hands wave uselessly through the air before plopping back down at your sides. “What do you want, then?”
He regards you with a thoughtful expression. “I’ll train you to close. Doesn’t matter what you’re doing, if I ask you to take my shift, you drop whatever you’re doing and take it.”
You shift your jaw to the left, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You expected worse.
“And you don’t tell Jillian or Satoru you took my shift. I keep the money.”
Ah. There’s the ‘worse’ you expected.
Frowning, you give the nerves in the pit of your stomach a moment to settle over making a deal with the devil. You want to say figuratively but you aren’t so sure. “Fine.” You extend your hand, but the man shakes his head, frowning.
“Rules first, then we shake.” He holds up his pointer. “Don’t tell a soul. Not even your friends back home.” Another finger. “No kissing. No making out. No sex.” He holds up a third finger. “This isn’t a little romantic fantasy thing. This isn’t a relationship. Don’t call this shit friends with benefits or fuck buddies, either. We’re not friends. Don’t expect anything cute from me. Got that?”
You don’t bother holding back a scoff. “I wasn’t going to, trust me.”
He smirks, unbothered. “Good.” His hand extends first this time.
For a long moment, you stare. You contemplate your life choices. You debate just ignoring your fears with Satoru and praying you can play the role of having experience. You equally contemplate just telling him you have no experience and that you’re nervous.
But somehow, the way nerves churn your stomach makes the butterflies worse. You want to squash them. You want to impress Satoru.
And you know. You know it’s stupid. You know you shouldn’t have to impress him, but the heart and mind don’t always connect, do they?
Against your better judgement, you clasp hands with him. You go to do the actual motion of a handshake but he keeps your hand in place. When your gaze raises to meet his in a silent question, he’s scrutinizing every little movement in your features.
His expression doesn’t hold the condescension you expect. His gaze is devoid of amusement, fixated on the frown you bear. “You really sure about this?”
You don’t hesitate to nod.
His eyes narrow a sliver. “Well, aren't you full of surprises?” There’s that hint of assholery. “One more rule.” His hand remains unmoving, still clasped with yours as he holds your gaze. “Either of us can shut this down at any time. It still never gets mentioned.”
You nod. “Agreed.”
Finally, he goes through with shaking your hand. “When are you looking to start?”
Your nose wrinkles at the way he makes it sound. “Do you have to say it like it’s a– I don’t know, job or something?”
“Oh, my bad,” he sneers, his grin too proud. “When do you wanna get fucked?”
You shouldn’t have asked.
Pulling your hand away from him, you rub your temples. You’re definitely not about to prod any further, lest he get more vulgar. “I’m free ton–”
“Not tonight,” he interrupts. “I got someone coming over to study.”
Scheduling ahead doesn’t sit right with you either. “Can we just decide during shifts? See how we’re feeling?”
“Whatever suits you,” he shrugs. The mild arrogance to his tone is… another can of worms to unpack, but as your colleague turns back to his studies, you only have one question for yourself.
What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
main masterlist || series masterlist || next ⪢
౨ৎ a/n ; i hope you enjoyed the first chapter of what will be a VERY kinky series LOLOL. i'm having a lot of fun with these two so far and i hope you are too <3
as a note, i'm trying moving tags to another blog which some of you may have seen due to changes in how tumblr's bot detection system is working, so please bear with me while i figure out how to not get my account flagged while doing taglists 🙃 edit; it's not working. if you weren't tagged, bear with me while i try to figure it out :')
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The Painter and the King of Curses || Ryomen Sukuna
ryomen sukuna x f!reader (one shot... for now?)
"In the Heian era, you are the sharp-tongued queen of Ryomen Sukuna, the feared King of Curses. Trapped in an arranged marriage you pretend to despise, all you want is peace, paint, and solitude. But between Sukuna’s stolen kisses, endles devotion, and irritating affection, you begin to realize the monster you call useless may be the only one who truly understands you."
Ryomen Sukuna had conquered villages with less effort than it took to coax his wife out of her chambers.
He had crushed clans beneath his feet, taken tribute from trembling lords, turned proud sorcerers into bloodied warnings, and made kings kneel with a single glance.
And yet his queen—
his infuriating, sharp-tongued, paint-splattered, impossible queen—
had once looked him dead in all four eyes and told him he was blocking the sunlight and ruining the angle of her lilies.
Sukuna had fallen more deeply in love with her on the spot.
The marriage had been arranged years ago, a political offering from a quiet village tucked between misty hills and rice fields. You had not come to him willingly, not with blushing cheeks and lowered lashes like the nobles had expected. No, you had arrived with your chin lifted, your eyes full of stormlight, and your hands stained with paint instead of prayer.
You were no sorcerer. No noblewoman trained to bow prettily and obey. You had been a painter’s daughter, a village girl with a gift for turning blank silk into dreamscapes and paper screens into gardens that never wilted.
And somehow, after all the negotiations, offerings, threats, and trembling agreements, you had become the wife of the King of Curses.
His queen.
His greatest treasure.
His greatest headache.
You could not stand him.
At least, that was what you told anyone foolish enough to ask.
You could not stand how large he was, how heavily his presence filled every room, how his footsteps made servants stiffen and candles tremble. You could not stand the way he always found you, no matter where you hid. You could not stand how he leaned over your shoulder while you painted, how he tried to kiss your cheek while you mixed pigments, how one of his hands would always find your waist as if your body belonged there beneath his palm.
Most of all, you could not stand how much he enjoyed irritating you.
“You are frowning again,” Sukuna once murmured, his mouth near your temple.
You were sitting by the open lattice doors of your private chamber, sleeves tied back, hair loosely pinned, a brush between your fingers. Before you stretched a silk canvas washed with pale blue—morning mist over distant mountains, almost finished before his shadow fell over it.
You stopped mid-stroke.
Slowly, you turned your head and glared up at him.
“And you are breathing again,” you said. “Yet I suffer in silence.”
One of his mouths curled.
The other smiled outright.
“You call this silence?”
“I call this restraint.”
Sukuna lowered himself behind you with terrible ease for a creature of his size, all broad shoulders, inked skin, sharp teeth, and royal arrogance. Four arms folded around nothing, though you could tell he was resisting the urge to touch you. He was always resisting the urge to touch you.
Barely.
“You have ignored me all morning,” he said.
“I was happy all morning.”
“You wound me.”
“You will heal.”
He laughed under his breath.
It was a low, dark sound, one that made lesser beings turn pale and pray. To you, it was only an annoyance—warm and too close against the side of your neck.
You dabbed your brush into a dish of watered ink.
“Move.”
“No.”
“You are in my light.”
“The sun is there.”
“You are enormous. You are in all light.”
That made him grin, pleased in the most irritating way.
“You flatter me, wife.”
“I insult you, husband. Your skull must be full of pebbles if you cannot tell the difference.”
A deep, fond rumble moved through his chest.
Then, predictably, Sukuna leaned down and pressed his mouth to your shoulder.
You groaned so dramatically that one of the servant girls outside the door startled.
“Sukuna.”
“Hm?”
“You are far too affectionate for a four-armed monster.”
His lips lingered against your skin.
“And yet you married me.”
“I was traded like a decorative vase.”
“A very loud vase.”
You twisted around and jabbed the wooden end of your brush against his chest. It left a small smear of blue pigment over one of his black markings.
“Do not mock me in my own chambers.”
“These chambers are in my estate.”
“Everything is always yours, yes, yes, the estate, the throne, the tribute, the roads, the mountains, the moon.” You turned back to your painting with a huff. “How exhausting it must be to own everything and still have no manners.”
Sukuna was quiet for a moment.
Then one of his hands reached, his fingers brushing a loose curl from your shoulder.
“You are mine too.”
Your brush paused.
It was always like that with him. Arrogant, possessive, unbearable—and then soft in a way that made your ribs ache. He said things like that with all the certainty of a god who had carved the world open and chosen you from the ruins.
You hated how your face warmed.
So you scoffed.
“Unfortunately.”
He chuckled again and leaned closer, clearly intending to kiss your cheek.
You lifted your hand without looking and pressed two paint-stained fingers over his mouth.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed, amused.
“No?”
“You are bothering me.”
“I am admiring you.”
“You breathe too loudly to admire quietly.”
“You used to be more frightened of me.”
“You used to be less clingy.”
That made him pause.
Only slightly.
Then Sukuna straightened, all four arms shifting as he stood. His expression flattened into something grumbling and wounded, though only you would ever have dared call it that.
“Fine,” he said. “I will leave you to your little mountains and your misery.”
He turned.
You watched him take exactly three steps toward the door.
The chamber suddenly felt too empty.
Not lonely.
Of course not.
You were not lonely. You loved being left alone. You desired solitude the way flowers desired rain. You were peaceful without him looming over you like a smug thundercloud.
Still.
Your brush hovered uselessly over the silk.
You sighed, loud and irritated.
“Fine.”
Sukuna stopped.
You could see the grin beginning before he even turned around.
“You may stay,” you said sharply. “But you are not to breathe down my neck. You are not to kiss me. You are not to touch anything. You are not to make suggestions. You are not to ask what I am painting before I am done. You may sit over there and watch quietly like a civilized beast.”
He turned back to face you, satisfaction gleaming in his red eyes.
“A civilized beast.”
“Barely.”
“And if I disobey?”
“I will paint your face while you sleep.”
“I do not sleep deeply enough for that.”
“I will find a way.”
Sukuna returned without hesitation and sat near the wall, folding himself down with the grand patience of a predator pretending not to hunt. His robes pooled darkly around him. His lower pair of arms rested across his lap, while the upper pair folded over his chest.
He watched you.
Silent.
Still.
Utterly enthralled.
And though you refused to admit it, your brush moved more easily when he was there.
Not because you liked him.
No.
Absolutely not.
It was simply easier to paint when the most dangerous creature in the world sat at your feet as if your smallest sigh could command him.
That was all.
Nothing more.
Certainly nothing tender.
Certainly nothing dangerously close to love.
⸻
The estate learned very quickly that the queen was not delicate.
Beautiful, yes. Beloved by their lord, terrifyingly so. Draped in fine robes and jewels, given every luxury the treasury could provide, seated beside the King of Curses as though she had been born from moonlight and command.
But delicate?
No.
The queen had once chased a courtier out of the eastern hall with a wet brush because he had called one of her paintings “pleasant.”
Pleasant, apparently, was an insult worthy of violence.
Another time, she had ordered three servants to rearrange the same vase of plum branches eleven times before declaring the original position had been correct and everyone involved lacked vision.
Sukuna had watched the entire ordeal with his chin in one hand, smiling dreamily.
Uraume had not smiled once.
Uraume had served Lord Sukuna long enough to withstand bloodshed, curses, war, dismemberment, executions, storms, sorcerers, poison, betrayal, and the occasional body being thrown through a wall.
But the Lady of the estate in a creative mood was another matter entirely.
One afternoon, Uraume approached Sukuna in the main hall while he lounged upon his great seat, listening with half-interest as two trembling men argued over tribute rights.
“My lord,” Uraume said, kneeling.
Sukuna lifted one hand.
The arguing men went silent at once.
“What is it?”
Uraume’s pale expression remained perfectly controlled.
“The Lady is in quite the mood today.”
Sukuna’s attention sharpened immediately.
His upper eyes narrowed. His lower eyes brightened with interest.
“What kind of mood?”
“The dangerous kind.”
“The interesting kind, then.”
Uraume paused.
“She threw paint on a servant.”
The hall went still.
The trembling men looked as if they wished to vanish into the polished floor.
Sukuna blinked.
Then leaned forward slightly.
“Why?”
“They interrupted her when she was, according to the Lady, ‘inspired.’”
A slow, delighted smile spread across Sukuna’s face.
“She was inspired?”
Uraume’s mouth tightened.
“The servant is now blue.”
A deep laugh rumbled out of him.
The men before the throne flinched as if it were thunder. Sukuna looked almost proud, his sharp teeth flashing, one elbow resting on his knee.
“What did the fool expect, interrupting inspiration?”
“My lord,” Uraume said carefully, “the servant was bringing her tea.”
“Then they should have brought it less stupidly.”
Before Uraume could respond, another servant hurried into the hall, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.
“Lord Sukuna,” he said, voice shaking, “forgive me, but the Lady is going crazy.”
The temperature in the hall dropped.
Not because of Uraume.
Because Sukuna’s smile vanished.
The servant froze.
Sukuna slowly turned his head.
“What did you say?”
The servant began to tremble violently.
“I—I only meant—”
“Everyone in this estate is going crazy,” Sukuna said, voice low and lethal. “My queen is the only normal perfection under this roof.”
Silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
Then Sukuna waved one hand as if the matter bored him.
“Leave.”
The servant nearly tripped over himself escaping.
The two men who had come to argue tribute looked pale enough to be ghosts.
Uraume stayed where they were, head bowed, expression unreadable.
Sukuna rose from his seat.
“I will handle her.”
Uraume said nothing, though the faintest glimmer of doubt crossed their face.
Sukuna noticed.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“My lord,” Uraume said calmly, “forgive me, but the Lady rarely allows herself to be handled.”
Sukuna’s expression shifted.
Not anger.
Something worse.
Fondness.
“She allows me.”
Uraume lowered their gaze.
Barely.
The servants watched him leave the hall with the unmistakable, terrible realization that their Lord Ryomen Sukuna—the King of Curses, the beast of legend, the monster to whom clans offered daughters and gold and prayers for mercy—
had hearts in his eyes for his deranged wife.
And worse.
He seemed entirely pleased about it.
⸻
You were furious when Sukuna entered your chambers.
That was not unusual.
You were often furious when Sukuna entered your chambers.
Sometimes because he had interrupted you. Sometimes because he had not visited soon enough, though you would rather have swallowed glass than admit that. Sometimes because he spoke. Sometimes because he remained silent in a way that made you aware of him.
Today, you were standing before a long stretch of silk pinned against the wall, your sleeves rolled, your hair falling out of its pins, your cheek smeared with red pigment.
At your feet lay bowls of crushed minerals, flower dyes, soot, powdered shells, and several discarded brushes.
The floor looked like a battlefield.
Sukuna stepped inside and surveyed the damage with open admiration.
“My queen.”
You jerked around and groaned.
Loudly.
With your entire soul.
“No.”
Sukuna stopped.
“I have said one thing.”
“You have ruined everything.”
“I opened the door.”
“You opened the door with the aura of a walking execution and made me lose my inspiration.”
His brows lifted.
“Did I?”
“Yes.” You threw your brush onto a cloth. “Now I may as well use my blood to paint, because no one in this cursed estate can give me a decent red color.”
Sukuna’s gaze moved to the red on your cheek.
Then your hands.
Then the half-finished painting.
It was not mountains today. Not flowers. Not the soft village scenes you sometimes painted when you thought he was not looking.
It was him.
Not plainly. Never plainly.
It was a storm given shape, a shrine shadowed beneath a red sky, four dark arms emerging from smoke and silk, eyes like open wounds in the heavens. Beautiful and violent. Sacred and damned.
Sukuna stared.
Something in his expression softened so quickly that you had to look away.
“Do not look at it.”
“It is me.”
“It is a storm.”
“It is me.”
“You are very arrogant.”
“You painted me with four arms.”
“I paint many hideous things.”
“And red eyes.”
“Many hideous things have red eyes.”
“And my markings.”
“I was unfortunate enough to remember them.”
His mouth twitched.
He stepped closer.
You pointed a stained finger at him.
“If you touch me, I will scream.”
“You scream often.”
“I will scream differently.”
“You promise?”
“Sukuna.”
He laughed, low and pleased, but stopped close enough that his warmth reached you. He smelled faintly of smoke, iron, and expensive incense. You hated that you knew that. You hated that some traitorous part of you relaxed when he was near.
You crossed your arms.
“I told Uraume not to send anyone in.”
“They told me.”
“And yet here you are.”
“I am not anyone.”
“No. You are worse.”
“Worse?”
“You require more space.”
His grin sharpened.
“I have heard no complaints.”
“Then your hearing is as poor as your manners.”
Sukuna bent slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. Even after years of marriage, his size should have frightened you. It did, sometimes, in a distant and sensible part of your mind. But fear had long ago become tangled with familiarity, and familiarity had become tangled with something warmer.
Something dangerous.
Something with teeth.
“You are in a foul mood,” he murmured.
“I am in an artistic mood.”
“You threw paint at a servant.”
“They walked into my inspiration.”
“With tea.”
“They should have known better.”
“They should have,” Sukuna agreed immediately.
Your eyes narrowed.
“Do not agree with me just because you think I am pretty.”
“I think you are more than pretty.”
“Do not.”
“You are unbearable.”
“That is better.”
“Difficult.”
“Yes.”
“Violent.”
“Only when provoked.”
“Brilliant.”
Your mouth closed.
Sukuna watched you, amusement softening around the edges.
“My impossible wife,” he said.
Your face warmed.
How dare he.
You turned away at once and snatched up another brush.
“I am busy.”
“You are blushing.”
“I am overheated because this estate is full of fools.”
“It is winter.”
“Then I am angry.”
“You are always angry.”
“And yet you continue speaking.”
He moved behind you, but this time, he did not touch. He stood close, though, close enough that one of his shadows fell beside yours across the painted silk.
You tried to ignore him.
You truly did.
But Sukuna was impossible to ignore. He occupied a room the way fire occupied dry wood. Even standing silently, he was too much—too large, too warm, too alive, too focused on you.
Your brush hovered over the painting.
His voice came quieter.
“The red is wrong.”
You stiffened.
Slowly, murderously, you turned your head.
“What did I say about suggestions?”
“That I was not to make them.”
“And yet?”
“That was an observation.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, entirely unrepentant.
Then he lifted one hand, palm upward. Resting there was a small lacquered container.
You glanced at it.
“What is that?”
“A pigment from the southern merchants.”
Your suspicion sharpened.
“When did you get that?”
“When I heard you complaining three days ago.”
“I complain often.”
“I listen often.”
That silenced you more effectively than any threat ever could have.
Sukuna opened the container.
Inside was red.
Not the dull rust-red the servants had brought. Not the too-bright flower dye that dried pink. This was rich, deep, terrible red—the color of pomegranate flesh, temple gates at sunset, fresh blood on white snow.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Sukuna noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He always noticed.
You reached for the container, but he lifted it just out of your grasp.
Your eyes snapped up.
“Sukuna.”
He smiled.
“Ask nicely.”
“I will bite you.”
“You do that when pleased too.”
You gasped.
“Sukuna.”
He laughed and lowered the pigment into your hands.
You clutched it close, scowling down at it as if it had personally offended you by making you happy.
“This is acceptable,” you muttered.
“Only acceptable?”
“It may keep me from opening my wrist for color.”
His eyes darkened.
“Do not joke about spilling your blood.”
The command in his voice made your spine straighten.
There he was.
The king.
The monster.
The husband who let you insult him endlessly but turned cold at the thought of your pain.
You looked up at him.
For once, your voice softened.
“I was not going to.”
“I know.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you will burn the world because I made a dramatic comment.”
“I have burned more for less.”
Your chest tightened.
How absurd he was. How terrifying. How devoted in a way that made no sense at all.
You clicked your tongue and turned back to your painting.
“Sit down.”
His expression shifted.
“Sit?”
“Yes. You are brooding too loudly.”
“You want me to stay?”
“I want you to stop hovering.”
“That is not the same.”
“It is the offer you are getting.”
Sukuna sat.
Victorious.
You pretended not to see it.
For the next hour, he watched you paint. You added the red carefully, letting it bleed into the sky behind the shrine, into the eyes hidden in smoke, into the thin lines that made the whole piece breathe. Sukuna said nothing. He only sat there, all four arms relaxed, eyes fixed on you as if watching a miracle unfold.
It made your hands steadier.
It made your heart stupid.
Eventually, you said, “Stop staring at me.”
“I am staring at the painting.”
“You are staring at my face.”
“It is the better view.”
You nearly dropped the brush.
“You are nauseating.”
“You married me.”
“You keep saying that as though I chose it.”
His smile faded, just a little.
You felt it before you saw it.
The air shifted.
Quietly, he said, “No. You did not.”
Your fingers tightened around the brush.
There were things between you that neither of you stepped on carelessly.
The arrangement. The village. The bargain. The day you arrived dressed in wedding silk with fury in your eyes and grief tucked beneath your ribs.
You had not chosen him then.
But years had passed.
And choice, you had learned, was not always a door opened once. Sometimes it was a thousand small doors. A thousand moments where you could tell him to leave and did not. A thousand times he reached for you and stopped when you glared. A thousand evenings where he brought you pigments, fruit, rare paper, silence.
A thousand mornings where you woke in his estate and no longer dreamed of running.
You dipped the brush into the red.
“I choose to let you stay,” you said, not looking at him.
Sukuna said nothing.
But the room warmed.
⸻
By late afternoon, you demanded air.
Not requested.
Demanded.
The servants, still nervous after the paint incident, scrambled to open the garden pathways and bring cushions beneath the persimmon trees. Sukuna walked beside you through the estate grounds, wearing his dark robes and a look of deep satisfaction, as though he had personally invented the sun because you wished to sit under it.
The garden was one of the few places in the estate you genuinely adored.
It had been made after your arrival.
Sukuna claimed it had existed before, but you knew better. The first year of your marriage, you had complained endlessly that the estate was all stone and shadow and blood-colored banners, and that if you had to live among monsters, you should at least have flowers.
Three weeks later, workers arrived.
Now the garden stretched beyond the eastern wing in careful layers of beauty—ponds filled with pale koi, winding stone paths, plum trees, irises, mossy lanterns, and a small pavilion where you often hid with your sketchbooks.
Sukuna thought you did not know it had been built for you.
You did.
You simply enjoyed pretending not to.
You sat beneath a tree while Sukuna lowered himself beside you, massive and regal and absurdly attentive. A tray of fruit rested between you: peeled persimmons, sliced pears, sugared plums, pomegranate seeds gleaming like little jewels.
You picked up a pear slice.
Sukuna took it from your fingers.
You glared.
He lifted it to your mouth.
“I am not a child.”
“You forgot to eat.”
“I was busy.”
“You were threatening to use your blood as pigment.”
“As an artistic possibility.”
“As stupidity.”
Your eyes widened.
“Did you just call me stupid?”
“No. I called the idea stupid.”
“I am full of ideas.”
“Painfully aware.”
You opened your mouth to argue, and he placed the pear slice against your lips.
You bit it from his fingers with unnecessary aggression.
Sukuna smiled.
The fool actually smiled.
You chewed angrily, then pointed toward the estate.
“Your household is incompetent.”
“My household?”
“Yes, yours. I refuse ownership.”
“You are the queen.”
“Not of them.”
“Of everything here.”
“I decline.”
“You cannot decline.”
“I just did.”
Sukuna fed you another piece of fruit, his expression serene.
You accepted it because you were hungry, not because you enjoyed being fussed over.
Obviously.
“The servant this morning,” you continued, “walked in without rhythm.”
Sukuna’s brows lifted.
“Without rhythm.”
“Yes. There is a rhythm to interruption. A soft knock. A pause. A respectful fear. Then entry.”
“A respectful fear.”
“Exactly.”
“I will have Uraume teach a course.”
“You should. And the tea was cold.”
“It was freshly made.”
“It became cold when it offended me.”
“Ah.”
“And the red pigments were embarrassing. Embarrassing, Sukuna. I am married to the King of Curses, and I cannot get a red that does not dry like old clay? What is the point of tyranny if not access to good materials?”
He nodded gravely.
“You are right.”
“I know I am right.” You took a pomegranate seed from his palm. “And the western hall smells like damp wood.”
“I will have it fixed.”
“And one of the maids moved my brushes.”
“I will have her executed.”
You paused.
“Sukuna.”
He smirked.
“Dismissed?”
“Do not be dramatic.”
“You threatened your own veins over paint.”
“That was art.”
“My mistake.”
You huffed and leaned back against the tree, your robes pooling around you in soft layers. Sunlight slipped through the leaves, dappling your skin and the curve of your cheek. Sukuna watched the light touch you with quiet reverence.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
“Stop looking at me like I am some holy thing.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
“You are to me.”
You stared at him.
Your annoyance faltered.
Sukuna held another piece of fruit near your mouth, but his expression had gone softer again. Not weak. Never weak. But open in a way reserved only for you.
It was terribly inconvenient, being loved by a monster.
Especially one who meant it.
You leaned forward and took the fruit, slower this time.
Then you looked away.
“I need to paint outside more.”
Sukuna blinked.
You sat upright suddenly, struck by the thought as if lightning had landed in your lap.
“I need to paint outside more,” you repeated. “Why have I been painting indoors like some miserable old widow?”
Sukuna’s mouth opened.
You turned on him.
“Why did you not give me that idea?”
He stared.
“I was unaware I controlled your inspiration.”
“You should have suggested it.”
“You told me never to make suggestions.”
“That was inside.”
“How foolish of me.”
“You are useless.”
“Yes,” he said immediately.
Your brows pulled together.
“Do not agree so quickly.”
“You said I am useless.”
“You are supposed to argue.”
“You dislike when I argue.”
“I dislike when you do anything incorrectly.”
“And breathing?”
“Frequently incorrect.”
His grin returned, slow and sharp.
You pouted.
Genuinely pouted.
It was ridiculous and soft and devastating, and Sukuna looked at you as though you had just handed him the moon.
“You are laughing at me,” you accused.
“I would not dare.”
“You are doing it with your eyes.”
“I have four. Hard to control all of them.”
You narrowed your gaze.
Then, before he could make another smug remark, you leaned forward and kissed him.
It was brief.
A press of your mouth to his.
Warm. Sudden. Sweet enough to ruin him.
Sukuna went completely still.
Every servant within sight immediately found something else to look at.
You pulled back as if nothing had happened and picked up a plum.
“Anyway,” you said, “the garden is acceptable, but there are not enough red flowers.”
Sukuna remained frozen for half a breath longer.
Then his hand slowly lifted to his mouth, touching where you had kissed him.
His eyes had gone molten.
Utterly ruined.
You ignored it.
“There should be more,” you continued, warming to your rant. “Not roses. Everyone chooses roses because they lack imagination. I want spider lilies. And camellias. And perhaps poppies, though I do not trust the gardeners to understand the shade I mean. They will bring me something orange and call it red, and then I will be forced to become cruel.”
“You are already cruel,” Sukuna murmured.
You gasped.
He leaned closer, smiling.
“To everyone but me.”
“I am cruel to you constantly.”
“No.” His voice lowered. “You are gentle with me in your own terrible way.”
You looked at him.
The garden rustled around you, leaves whispering overhead, koi shifting beneath the pond’s glassy surface. For a moment, you did not know what to say.
So naturally, you scowled.
“You are becoming sentimental. I hate that.”
“I know.”
“It makes you look foolish.”
“I know.”
“You should be embarrassed.”
“I am not.”
“You should be.”
“I am loved by my queen,” he said, gaze fixed on you. “Why would I be embarrassed?”
Your lips parted.
The nerve of him.
The sheer, towering, monstrous nerve.
“I did not say I love you.”
“You kissed me.”
“I was silencing you.”
“You kissed me.”
“You were being smug.”
“You kissed me.”
You grabbed a pomegranate seed and threw it at his chest.
It bounced harmlessly off him.
Sukuna looked down at it, then back at you.
“Violent little thing.”
“Clingy monster.”
“Brat.”
“Beast.”
“Wife.”
The word slipped between you like a hand at the small of your back.
Your glare softened before you could stop it.
Sukuna reached out—not quickly, not assuming. He touched your chin with two fingers, giving you every chance to pull away.
You did not.
He tilted your face toward him.
“You may paint outside tomorrow,” he said. “I will have the servants bring screens, silk, pigments, water, and fruit.”
“I did not ask permission.”
“I did not give permission. I gave resources.”
You considered this.
Acceptable.
“And you will not hover.”
“I will sit nearby.”
“Far nearby.”
“Nearby.”
“Sukuna.”
“Y/n.”
You hated when he said your name like that.
Like a vow.
Like a prayer.
Like even the gods would have to fight him for it.
You sighed dramatically and leaned back against the tree.
“Fine. You may sit nearby. But if you interrupt my inspiration, I will paint you green.”
His eyes glinted.
“Would I still be handsome?”
You rolled your eyes.
“You are impossible.”
“Would I?”
“You are fishing for compliments like a pathetic river man.”
“Answer.”
“No.”
His grin widened.
You lasted three seconds.
Then, with a mutter full of suffering, you said, “You would still be handsome.”
Sukuna looked entirely too pleased.
“Say it again.”
“I will not.”
“Once more.”
“I would rather swallow paint.”
He leaned down, one hand braced beside your hip, another resting behind you against the tree, caging you in without truly trapping you.
“You think I am handsome.”
“You are large. That is different.”
“And handsome.”
“And loud.”
“And handsome.”
“And annoying.”
“And handsome.”
“And handsome,” you snapped, cheeks hot. “There. Are you pleased now?”
His smile was wicked.
“Yes.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You adore me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“You kiss me.”
“To shut you up.”
“Do it again. I am speaking.”
You stared at him.
Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It startled you more than it startled him—a real laugh, bright and unwilling, slipping out before you could bury it. Sukuna’s face changed when he heard it. Softened. Opened. As if your laughter had struck him in some ancient, unarmored place.
You hated that too.
Or you wanted to hate it.
Instead, you reached up, grabbed the front of his robes, and pulled him down.
This kiss was not as brief.
Sukuna was careful with you, always careful in the moments that mattered. For all his arrogance, for all his monstrous strength, his mouth moved over yours with a patience that made your chest ache. One hand cupped the back of your head. Another settled at your waist. The others remained braced, holding himself back, as if loving you required restraint more than conquest.
When you pulled away, he followed slightly.
You pressed a hand to his chest.
“No more. I am still irritated.”
“Of course.”
“And I still need better flowers.”
“You will have them.”
“And an outdoor painting pavilion.”
“You will have it.”
“And no one is allowed to interrupt me unless there is fire, war, or you have died.”
“If I die, I will return before interrupting you.”
“Good.”
He looked at you with that hopeless, smitten expression again.
You frowned.
“What now?”
“Nothing.”
“You look stupid.”
“I am happy.”
“Same thing.”
Sukuna laughed softly and settled beside you once more, feeding you another piece of fruit while you began ranting again—about pigments, servants, flowers, light, damp halls, boring court ladies, and how if one more person called your work pleasant, you would personally haunt their bloodline.
He listened to every word.
Nodded at all the right places.
Agreed when you insulted him.
Disagreed only when you called yourself unreasonable.
And when the sun sank lower, turning the garden gold, you leaned against his side as if it were an accident. As if your body had simply forgotten its own defiance.
Sukuna did not mention it.
He only adjusted one arm around you, quiet and careful, letting you pretend.
Because he knew you.
He knew your sharp edges were only doors with difficult locks. He knew your temper hid tenderness. He knew your solitude was sacred, not empty. He knew you loved in mutters, in insults, in sighs that became invitations, in kisses thrown like accusations.
And you knew him too.
You knew the King of Curses could level cities, but sat still for hours just to watch you paint.
You knew his hands had ended bloodlines, but peeled fruit for you in the garden.
You knew he was a monster.
Your monster.
Your husband.
Your ridiculous, affectionate, four-armed nuisance of a husband.
So when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, you groaned as if deeply burdened.
“Sukuna.”
“Hm?”
“You are bothering me again.”
His thumb stroked once over your waist.
“Do you want me to stop?”
You stared out at the garden, lips pursed, trying very hard not to smile.
A moment passed.
Then another.
Finally, you sighed.
“No.”
Sukuna’s smile curved against your hair.
You pointed toward the far side of the garden.
“But tomorrow, I want spider lilies planted there.”
“It will be done.”
“And if they are the wrong red, I will blame you.”
“Of course.”
“And if you hover while I paint, I will throw something.”
“I look forward to it.”
You turned your head and glared at him.
He looked back at you like you had hung the stars.
Disgusting.
Wonderful.
Impossible.
You settled more comfortably against him.
“Useless beast,” you muttered.
Sukuna held you closer.
“My perfect queen,” he murmured.
And for once, beneath the persimmon tree, with fruit sweet on your tongue and his warmth at your side, you did not argue.
what do you do when you think a werewolf is stalking you? have sex with him, of course!
synopsis: you tried to live a normal life on your family's farm. until a werewolf bit you as a child and no one seems to believe you when the same one starts to follow you for years. branded an outsider and browbeaten towards an arranged marriage, you start to think that maybe you are going mad - until a certain werewolf shows up to wreak havoc again!
pairing: werewolf!sukuna x f!reader
wc: 8.0k
content: mdni, angst + smut, porn with plot, werewolf sex, he's hairy and has fuzzy ears + tail for it, unprotected piv sex, knotting, breeding kink, creampie, marking, biting, bonds, sukuna is lowk a yandere and VERY obsessed with reader, reader is an awkward loser, toxic family/environment, a sprinkle of violence against an asshole, kissing, oral sex (f!receiving), scratching, feral lovemaking, happy ending
a/n: the sukuna art is by @winterrbluess ! this was a super fun commission for the lovely @martianzmars <333
There were beasts in the woods.
Creatures the townsfolk whispered about in hushed tones out in the market, a tight hand on their children’s wrists to keep them tugged close as they ushered them back to the safety of their cottages. Monsters made into bedtime stories your mother warned you about before tucking you into sleep at night.
Stay on the trail. Never go out by yourself.
But hunger makes people do stupid things.
And you were no exception.
Just a clumsy child yourself, tumbling over roots and avoiding breaking any twigs as you snuck through the brush, going to check a trap you carefully crafted yourself after listening to your parents complain about not having any meat to preserve for the coming cold days. Not when all your livestock were going missing lately. Stolen or slaughtered by the predators lurking unseen.
They wouldn’t approve of you sneaking out in the woods, but if you brought back any animal, you were sure they’d forgive you for it. You were tired of being just another mouth to feed, something fragile to keep an eye on who’d yet to contribute much to the farm.
So you just huffed and held your tears in rather than start to bawl when you hit the rough forest floor and scraped your knees up, messing up the patched-together trousers your mother just mended last week, a hand-me-down that probably wouldn’t last to make it to another kid.
Biting your tongue as you made it past a familiar trove of trees, steeling your nerves with the thought that at least your trap was close – and then you heard it.
The whine of an animal.
Your hand reflexively reached for the battered hunting knife sheathed tucked in your pocket. You had to steal it from your father’s drawer this morning, but he should be too busy tending to the crops to notice your little theft.
Had it truly worked?
Did you really snag yourself an animal to bring home and brag about?
You swallowed hard, barely containing your anticipation as you struggled to stay silent the rest of the way. Too distracted in your own excitement to realize all the bugs and birds had gone quiet too.
Of course, even if you had, you still never would have considered the cause being what you caught. Who you caught.
Peeking beneath a branch to get a glimpse of your prize only to discover a pup.
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.
