satoru's dream girl ARI ・nineteen ・she / her strict sfw writer angst experimenting

NAVIGATION ˗ˋˏ ˎˊ˗ masterlist

rockstar!choso as your boyfie < 33 fluff stage kiss wc 1k

you and choso were highschool sweethearts, you had seen him grow from the awkward bassist who couldn't hold eye contact to the man who went on stages like it was natural instinct. now his guitar strap was covered in stickers you'd pressed onto it mid-set, your initials sharpied over the pickguard. “isn't it pretty?” you'd asked, dangling sharpie between your fingers. he'd just laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple before adjusting the strap. “whatever you want, baby.”

choso had always struggled with chasing his dreams, especially in high school when he'd drag you along to his garage band's makeshift concerts—just a few kids screaming into microphones while the neighbors called the cops. now, though, the crowd screamed back, a sea of hands reaching for him as he leaned over the edge of the stage, fingers flying over frets like he was born for it. you watched from the wings, grinning as he flicked a stray strand of hair out of his face mid-riff, sweat dripping down his neck. his eyes caught yours just for a second, and he winked before spinning back toward the mic.

after the set, you were already waiting with a towel and a bottle of water when choso stumbled offstage, breathless and grinning. “fuck, that was good,” he panted, pressing his forehead against yours as you dabbed at the sweat on his neck. the smell of stage lights and cheap beer clung to him, but you didn’t mind—not when he was like this, buzzing with adrenaline, fingers still twitching like he could play another hour straight. “you saw that last riff, right? baby, i thought my fingers were gonna fall off.”

to say you were the best girlfriend he could ask for was an understatement—when you sat on his lap while painting his nails black that had chipped during the set, he couldn't help but smile when you scolded him for moving too much. “hold still,” you muttered, tongue between your teeth in concentration. choso laughed, deep and warm, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “bossy,” he teased, but he stayed perfectly still after that, watching you work with something unbearably fond in his eyes.

you were always the first person to hear the new songs—because choso played them for you, but also because you’d wake up at 3am to the muffled sound of his electric guitar from the living room, the amp turned low so he wouldn’t wake you. (he always did. you never minded.) so did his band members, their adoration for you mirrored choso's.

most importantly, he loved talking about you publically. somehow, every question he got asked in an interview would end with a casual “yeah, my girlfriend actually—” followed by whatever sweet little story he'd been thinking about that week. his bandmates groaned whenever he got that look in his eye, already knowing where it was headed. “here we go again,” their drummer would mutter, but even he couldn't hide his smile when choso got like this—soft in a way that felt rare for someone who spent half his life snarling into a mic.

the lights were hot enough to make his skin prickle, but choso didn’t care—not when he could see you in the front row, grinning up at him like he’d hung the stars. the crowd was screaming, a mess of hands and voices tangled together, but his gaze stuck to you like a magnet. “this one’s for someone special,” he said into the mic, voice rough from singing, and the way your eyes lit up made his chest ache. he didn’t even have to say your name. everyone knew.

the opening riff of the song—your song—ripped through the venue, and choso swore he saw you mouth the lyrics before he’d even sung them. it was stupid, how much he loved that. halfway through the second verse, he crouched at the edge of the stage, signalling a security guard to lift you up onto it. you laughed, shaking your head, but the crowd was already parting for you, hands pushing you forward until strong arms hoisted you onto the platform. “c’mere,” choso murmured, grabbing your wrist to pull you close, his guitar slung low between you.

you were on stage, where thousands of people could see you, but choso only saw you—just you, laughing as he pulled you into his side with one arm, the other still playing the riff like muscle memory. his fingers didn’t miss a note, even when he ducked his head to press his lips against yours, warm and familiar, tasting like sweat and strawberry lip balm. the crowd screamed louder, phones flashing, but you barely heard them over the blood rushing in your ears.

the kiss was passionate but short-lived, because choso was still technically in the middle of a song—even if his fingers slowed against the strings, even if his voice dipped into something lower, rougher, just for you. you could feel the vibration of the guitar against your hip where it rested between you, the heat of his body pressed close despite the sweat-slick stage lights bearing down.

and yes, the next morning—twitter was on fire. screenshots of the kiss already circulating, tagged with the venue's name and choso's band's handle. but you were tucked against his chest while he slept, one arm slung heavy over your waist. he was still warm and soft like this, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks in that way you’d memorized years ago.

in choso's eyes, you were more than just his muse—you were the rhythm he couldn't shake, the melody that played on loop in his head even when the amps were off. you were his gorgeous girl curled up on the couch in his graphic t-shirt, and most importantly—you were his number one supporter, that no amount of fame could take away.

PAINT ME YOURS

painter!toji x rich!reader modern au fluff slow burn

synopsis: a broke toji is desperately in need of a job, when he gets assigned to paint your fancy house; he ends up with an odd feeling in his chest ＞ω＜ wc 3.4k

toji had been struggling with money for the past few months. after quitting his job at the docks, he'd been bouncing from one odd job to another—construction, moving furniture, even some sketchy night shifts at a warehouse that paid under the table. but none of it stuck long enough to keep the bills from piling up.

“giselle,” he muttered into his phone, pressing it between his ear and shoulder as he rolled a cigarette between his fingers. he was currently on the phone with his boss, a woman who ran a small contracting business and who he knew would give him work when she could. “i need somethin’. anything.” the line crackled for a second before she sighed.

“luck’s on your side today,” she said, sounding amused. “got a client with a big house in the hills—needs the whole exterior repainted. you ever held a brush before?” toji scoffed, flicking his lighter open and letting the flame catch the end of his cigarette. “obviously? who do you think i am?” he groaned into the speaker, “a dumbass who can’t keep a job if his life depended on it, obviously.” an annoyed giselle replied, and he resisted the urge to cuss her out.

and that is how he ended up at your doorstep at 7:30 in the morning, cigarette dangling from his lips, a dented ladder slung over one shoulder, and the distinct air of a man who had not slept enough. the house was—well, it was something. sprawling, white-walled, with manicured hedges framing the walkway like something out of a magazine. toji blinked at it, exhaling smoke through his nose. “rich people,” he muttered, then flicked the cigarette into the gravel before knocking.

the door swung open before his knuckles could make contact a second time, and—shit. he wasn’t expecting you. he had found many women pretty before, but none of them had ever made his brain stutter to a halt like this. your hair was mussed from sleep, your sweater slipping off one shoulder, and your eyes still heavy-lidded from waking up too early. toji’s mouth went dry.

“you’re the painter?” you asked, voice still rough with sleep, and he realized he’d been staring too long. he cleared his throat, adjusting the ladder on his shoulder like it could hide the way his pulse had kicked up. “yeah. toji. 's a pleasure to be workin' on your…” he gestured vaguely at the house behind you, “...mansion.”

you snorted, leaning against the doorframe. “it’s not a mansion. just a house.” he raised an eyebrow at the four-car garage peeking out from the side. “uh-huh.”

you rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, stepping aside to let him in. “come in! we can have some tea while i tell you my plan for the colors.” toji hesitated at the threshold, suddenly hyperaware of his scuffed boots against your pristine hardwood floors. “uh, i should probably keep ‘em off,” he muttered, nodding at his shoes. “don’t wanna track dirt.” you waved a hand dismissively, already padding toward the kitchen. “please, like i care. it’s just floors.”

toji blinked, then toed off his boots with a quiet thud, following you through the foyer. the inside of the house was just as intimidating—high ceilings, art that probably cost more than his entire life savings, and a kitchen that looked straight out of a home renovation show. he resisted the urge to whistle, shoving his hands into his pockets instead. “so,” he said, leaning against the marble countertop while you filled the kettle. “what’re we paintin’? pink? neon green? some artsy shit with triangles?”

you laughed, the sound warm and effortless, like you’d done it a thousand times before. “god, no. something pastel, but not too boring. maybe a soft sage green?” you turned to face him, hip resting against the counter as the kettle began to hum. “you think that’d look good?”

toji shrugged, but his eyes traced the curve of your fingers around the mug you handed him—chipped at the rim, clearly well-loved despite the rest of the house’s perfection. “sage green’s fine,” he said, the steam from the tea curling between them. “better than that beige shit rich people usually pick.”

you grinned, nudging the sugar bowl toward him. “bold of you to assume i’m rich.” he snorted, pushing it away with a shake of his head. “bold of you to assume i don’t got eyes.”

the banter came easy, surprisingly so. toji wasn’t used to clients who laughed at his jokes instead of stiffening at his rough edges, but you just sipped your tea like this was normal—like he wasn’t some underpaid laborer tracking sawdust onto your million-dollar tiles.

because of this, he was looking forward to the first day of painting, which was weird—normally, he hated painting. it was tedious, messy work that left his shoulders aching and his hands stiff. but something about the way you'd leaned against the counter, your socked foot nudging his boot under the table like you'd known him forever, made the idea of spending hours on a ladder outside your house feel... different.

the morning sun was already warm when toji unloaded his supplies from the back of his truck, the paint cans clanking together as he hauled them onto the driveway. he could hear the faint sound of music drifting through an open window—something jazzy and low, the kind of thing he’d never admit to liking but couldn’t help tapping his fingers along to.

you appeared at the front door, holding two mugs. “brought you coffee,” you said, handing one over. “figured you’d need the caffeine.” he took it, fingers brushing against yours just long enough to notice how warm they were. “you’re gonna spoil me,” he muttered before taking a sip—black, no sugar, exactly how he liked it. he blinked. "how’d you know?"

you shrugged, sipping your own drink—something creamy and sweet-smelling that made his nose wrinkle. “lucky guess.” he didn’t believe you, but he let it slide, opting to stretch his arms over his head instead. “alright, where do you want me to start?”

“the trim first, maybe?” you gestured toward the eaves, already pulling your hair into a messy bun. “i’ll help. i’ve got nothing better to do today.”

toji nearly choked on his coffee. “you’re helpin’?”

“yeah? it’s my house.” you grinned, already grabbing a brush from his toolbox like you hadn’t just upended his entire understanding of rich people. “unless you’re too proud to let me.”

he scoffed, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. “pride’s got nothin’ to do with it. just never met a client who wanted to get paint in their hair.”

“first time for everything,” you said, and then you were climbing the ladder beside him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo—something floral, but not overpowering, the kind of scent that lingered in the air after someone left a room.

the work was slow, methodical. toji usually rushed through jobs like this, but today, he found himself taking his time, making sure each stroke was even. you didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just the occasional hum along to the music, the scrape of brushes against wood, the way your elbow bumped his when you reached for the same spot.

at one point, you leaned back too far, wobbling on the ladder, and toji’s hand shot out to steady you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. “careful,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be.

you didn’t pull away. "thanks," you murmured, your pulse jumping under his thumb.

the afternoon heat settled heavy over the house, making the paint dry faster than toji liked. he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a faint smear of sage green across his temple. “you’re gonna ruin that sweater,” he muttered, nodding at the paint splatters creeping up the cuff of your sleeve. you shrugged, dipping your brush back into the tray. “it’s just a sweater.”

“so,” you said suddenly, breaking the quiet, “why painting?”

toji paused mid-stroke, brush hovering over the trim. “why painting?” he echoed, voice rough from disuse. he hadn’t expected the question—clients usually didn’t care about the why of him, just the how fast. he shrugged, dipping the brush again to hide the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “needed the cash. ain’t exactly picky these days.”

“needed the cash,” you repeated, voice softer than before, like you were turning the words over in your mouth. toji kept his eyes on the trim, but he could feel your gaze on him, warm and steady as the sunlight. “that’s it?”

he shrugged again, the motion tight. “what else is there?”

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you leaned back against the ladder, brush dangling from your fingers, and looked out over the yard—the hedges, the fountain bubbling quietly near the porch, the way the light filtered through the leaves of the oak tree shading the driveway. “i don’t know,” you said finally. “something that makes you happy, maybe.”

toji barked out a laugh, the sound rougher than he meant it to be. “happy’s a luxury.”

ironically, when he kept coming to your house to paint—he soon realised that happiness wasn’t a luxury.

it wasn’t something he could afford, not when rent was due next week and his fridge was empty save for a half-eaten pack of stale ramen. but there was you, handing him coffee at dawn like it was nothing, laughing at his stupid jokes like they were worth something, staining your expensive sweaters with paint because you couldn’t sit still long enough to let him do the job alone

toji didn’t know what to do with that.

he’d spent his whole life shouldering through shit jobs, through cold apartments and colder people, through the kind of exhaustion that seeped into his bones and never left. happiness wasn’t in the cards for guys like him. but then there was you, standing too close on the ladder, your socked foot nudging his boot under the table like you’d known him forever, like he wasn’t just some guy getting paid to repaint your rich-people house.

and maybe that was the worst part—you didn’t treat him like he was just anything.

“you ever think about doing something else?” you asked one afternoon, both of you taking a break under the shade of the oak tree. you were peeling an orange, the citrus scent sharp in the warm air, and handing him half without even looking. “like, not painting houses forever.”

toji took the fruit, fingers brushing against yours, sticky with juice. “nah,” he said, popping a wedge into his mouth. “what else would i do?” he meant it to sound dismissive, but it came out softer, almost curious.

you hummed, leaning back against the tree trunk. “i don’t know. something that doesn’t leave your hands all cracked.” you reached out, thumb grazing over the rough calluses on his knuckles before he could pull away. "

“you’ve got good hands. they should be holding something better than a paintbrush.”

“good hands?” he laughed, but it caught in his throat when your fingers lingered, tracing the ridge of his knuckles like they were something precious. toji swallowed hard, the orange suddenly too sweet on his tongue. “ain’t never heard that one before.”

you didn’t pull back. “well, now you have.” your voice was light, but your eyes were steady, holding his in a way that made his chest ache. the breeze rustled the leaves above you, dappling sunlight across your face, and for a wild second, he thought about kissing you—right there, with paint smudged on your cheek and his hands still sticky from the fruit.

the moment stretched, taut as a wire, until a car door slammed somewhere down the street, startling you both apart. you cleared your throat, brushing imaginary lint off your jeans. “we should—uh, finish the trim before it gets too dark.”

toji nodded, standing abruptly, his knees popping. “yeah. trim” he sounded stupid, even to himself.

the rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of half-finished sentences and stolen glances. every time your hands brushed his while reaching for the paint tray, every time you leaned too close to point out a missed spot, his pulse kicked up like a spooked horse. it was ridiculous. he was a grown man, not some teenager with his first crush.

by the time the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the lawn, the house was finally done. toji stepped back to survey their work, hands on his hips. “not bad,” he admitted. the sage green looked softer in the fading light, almost glowing against the white trim.

the thought that the job was over hit toji like a bucket of ice water. no more mornings with your coffee, no more shared lunches under the oak tree, no more excuses to linger in your orbit like some lovesick idiot. he wiped his hands on his jeans, the paint already drying into stubborn cracks across his knuckles. “guess that’s it,” he said, voice gruffer than he meant it to be.

you tilted your head, studying him with that look—the one that made him feel like you could see right through his bullshit. “guess so,” you agreed, but you didn’t move to go inside. instead, you leaned against the ladder still propped against the house, the metal creaking under your weight. “i mean—unless you don't want it to be. i could always find another room that needs painting.”

toji swallowed, the back of his neck prickling with something he couldn’t name. “that so?” he said, voice rough. he kicked at a loose pebble on the driveway, watching it skitter across the pavement. “thought rich people hired professionals for that kinda thing.”

you laughed, the sound curling around him like the evening breeze. “maybe i like amateur work.” your grin was crooked, teasing, and it did something stupid to his ribs—like they were too tight, like they might crack open if he breathed wrong. “besides, you’re not that bad.”

he scoffed, but his chest felt warm. “high praise.”

the silence stretched between you, toji could hear the distant hum of cicadas, the rustle of leaves overhead, the way your breath hitched just slightly when he stepped closer. your fingers twitched at your sides, like you wanted to reach for him but didn’t. he knew the feeling.

the ladder creaked when you shifted your weight, one foot slipping off the rung. toji’s hands shot out before he could think, fingers digging into your hips as he steadied you—your body pressed flush against his, your breath warm against his collarbone. neither of you moved. the paintbrush clattered to the ground, forgotten.

toji didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you, maybe it was the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go. all he knew was that one second, he was holding you steady on the ladder, and the next, your mouth was on his, warm and insistent, tasting of oranges and cheap coffee.

he froze for half a heartbeat, his brain short-circuiting—because you were kissing him, paint-smeared hands fisting in his shirt like he was something worth holding onto. then instinct took over, and he was kissing you back, rough and desperate, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, the other still gripping your hip like he might float away if he didn’t.

the ladder creaked dangerously beneath you, but neither of you cared. your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound low and hungry. you kissed like you’d been waiting for this, like you’d thought about it just as much as he had—all those stolen glances, the way his pulse jumped every time your fingers brushed his.

when you finally pulled back, breathless, his lips felt raw, like he’d been burned. your chest rose and fell rapidly, your cheeks flushed, your mouth still parted like you wanted to say something. toji’s thumb brushed your bottom lip, wiping away a smudge of paint he’d left there. “shit,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

you didn’t let him finish. your hands fisted in the front of his shirt, dragging him back down before he could overthink it—before he could remember that this wasn’t supposed to happen, that he was just the guy who painted your house, that he didn’t get things like this. but your mouth was insistent, your teeth grazing his lower lip, and toji forgot how to think altogether.

the ladder groaned under your combined weight, tilting dangerously to the side. toji barely had time to curse before it tipped, sending you both tumbling onto the soft grass below. he twisted mid-fall, taking the brunt of the impact, your body landing sprawled across his chest with a startled laugh. “fuck,” he wheezed, the air knocked out of him, but you were already pushing yourself up on your elbows, your hair falling into your face, grinning down at him like he’d hung the stars.

“you okay?” you asked, breathless, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

toji stared up at you, grass sticking to his back, paint smeared across your cheek, and something wild clawed its way up his throat. “never better, sweets.” he huffed, his voice rough.

“you damn dog,” giselle's voice crackled through the room, muffled slightly by the crumpled receipt toji was pinning between his ear and shoulder as he rifled through the supply closet. he'd been counting out brushes, half-distracted by the way his phone kept sliding down his cheek, when her words registered. “heh?”

“don't 'heh' me,” she snorted, the sound tinny through the speaker. “heard you got yourself a sugar mama with that last gig. paint her house real good, huh?” toji nearly dropped the bundle of rollers in his hands, heat crawling up the back of his neck as he fumbled to grab the phone properly. “the fuck—who told you that?”

“oh please,” giselle drawled, the smirk audible in her voice. “you think i don't hear things? whole crew's talkin' about how you came back from that job smelling like expensive perfume and grinning like a dumbass.”

toji clenched his jaw, shoving a paint-stained rag into his back pocket with more force than necessary. “ain't like that,” he muttered, “i actually like her.” the admission slipped out before he could stop it, rough around the edges but unmistakably sincere. the line went quiet for a beat too long—giselle never shut up unless she'd struck gold.

“oh-ho-ho," she crooned, dragging out each syllable like she was savoring the taste of his embarrassment. “so it's serious serious. tell me, does she make you use the good china when she feeds you caviar, or do you still eat takeout off paper plates like the plebeian you are?”

he could picture her leaning back in her office chair, boots propped on the desk, that shit-eating grin she got when she knew she'd won. toji exhaled through his nose, counting the ceiling tiles to keep from biting back too hard. “fuck off. can't you be happy for your employee gettin' some action?”

“oh, toji,” giselle sighed, the overdramatic pity in her voice making his eye twitch. “i'd be happier if you weren't whipped after one job. what's next, matching tattoos? picking out curtains?”

toji's thumb hovered over the call-end button. “i'm hangin' up now.”

“wait, wait—” she cackled, clearly enjoying herself too much. "bring her around sometime. i wanna see the woman who turned toji fushiguro into a blushing schoolboy.”

he hung up before she could finish, tossing the phone onto the counter with a clatter. the silence of the supply closet was suddenly suffocating. he scrubbed a hand over his face, the ghost of your laughter still echoing in his skull—how you'd rolled your eyes when he'd tried to pay for lunch, how your fingers had lingered on his wrist when you handed him the coffee that morning.

and yeah, that was your love story. even today, when he wakes up in your shared bed—still getting used to the absurdity that he isn't living in a shitty apartment anymore—he rolls over and stares at you like you're some impossible dream. he wouldn't trade your pretty eyes and soft hands for all the money in the world.

the first brushstroke was tentative—just a soft smudge of burgundy along the side of your neck, blending it out with careful circular motions until it looked vaguely like a fading bruise. then you got bolder, layering purples and reds in uneven patches, smudging the edges with your fingertips to mimic the haphazard urgency of teeth and lips. by the time you finished, your neck looked like you'd been mauled by a very enthusiastic vampire. you tilted your head, inspecting your work in the mirror. it definitely looked like a hickey.

you'd just finished when the door creaked open—toji's heavy footsteps announcing his arrival before his voice did. "yo, i'm home," he called out, followed by the rustle of grocery bags hitting the counter. your pulse jumped. you'd planned to meet him in the living room, casual as anything, but now your feet carried you toward the kitchen instead, drawn by the sound of his voice like a magnet.

he was rummaging through the fridge when you leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, neck perfectly angled to showcase your 'handiwork.' toji didn't even glance up at first, too busy shoving a carton of eggs onto a shelf. "got your favorite snacks," he mumbled, half-distracted. "those weird chip things you like—" then he straightened, turning toward you, and froze. his eyes locked onto your neck. "the fuck," he said, voice dropping an octave. "why do you have a goddamn hickey?"

you blinked innocently. "what?"

"don't ‘what’ me." he stepped closer, fingers twitching like he wanted to touch but thought better of it. his brow furrowed, confusion flickering before irritation settled in. "who the hell—"

"toji," you interrupted, widening your eyes. "you left me alone all day. i got bored."

his jaw tightened. "so you decided to hook up with some rando?" his voice was low, measured, but the way his fingers flexed at his sides gave him away.

"not a hook up! y'know i have needs, toji," you said, fighting the grin threatening to split your face when his nostrils flared. "you weren't here to take care of 'em."

his hand shot out, fingers curling around your wrist as he yanked you closer. the fridge door swung shut behind him with a thud, but he didn't seem to notice—too busy scanning your face like he could sniff out the lie. "cut the bullshit," he growled, thumb brushing the edge of your fake hickey. "who was it?"

you bit your lip, hard, to keep from laughing. "wouldn't you like to know."

toji's grip tightened, just shy of painful, and he crowded you back against the counter. his free hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head to expose the mess of red and purple smudges. his breath hitched when his thumb smeared the pigment slightly.

"fuck," he muttered, pulling back to stare at his stained fingertips. realization dawned slow, his scowl melting into something dangerously amused. "you little shit."

you finally cracked, giggling as he wiped his thumb across your cheekbone in revenge. "got you so good," you giggled, dodging when he went to grab you again.

toji's laughter rumbled through the kitchen, deep and uncontained, as he wiped his stained fingers on your shirt with a grin that promised retaliation. "real cute," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, but the way his eyes crinkled at the corners gave him away. "you think you're slick, huh?" his hands slid down to your waist, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your sweatpants like he was considering tossing you over his shoulder—and he totally would, if you didn't distract him fast. "i should just give you a real one. see how funny you think it is then."

you huffed, tiptoeing to keep your balance as he hoisted you onto the counter, his calloused palms warm against your thighs. "oh, so now you wanna kiss me?" he teased, tilting your chin up defiantly even as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. you didn't answer—just leaned in as your mouth found his in a clumsy, laughing collision.

his lips were softer than you remembered—still chapped from the winter air, but sweet with the taste of the mint gum he chewed when he drove. he hummed against your mouth, half-amused, half-something else entirely, his hands sliding up to cradle your face like you were something precious. "i love you," you muttered between kisses, because it was true and because you wanted to feel the way his breath hitched when you said it. "i'd never cheat on you."

"damn right you wouldn't," toji murmured back, but there was no bite left in it—just warm, rough affection as he nipped at your lower lip, pulling away just enough to watch your face when you whined at the loss. his thumbs traced idle circles over your cheekbones, "i'd like to see someone half as sexy as me tryin' to catch your attention anyway." you rolled your eyes, but the flush creeping up your neck wasn't just from the makeup anymore.

he caught it anyway, grinning like a shark spotting blood in the water. "aw, baby," he cooed, voice dropping into that stupid, exaggerated sweet tone he only used to mess with you. "you like when i talk shit, huh?" you shoved at his chest, but he didn't budge—just hooked a finger into the collar of your shirt and tugged, exposing more of your faux-hickey masterpiece. "real shame i gotta ruin your art project."

angst death of reader reader has a terminal illness Viewer Discretion is Advised

ryomen sukuna hadn't made many mistakes in his long, bloodstained life. but you—you were his greatest miscalculation. the way you laughed, breathless and bright, when he carried you through the palace gardens at dusk, your fingers tangled in the folds of his kimono like you weren't afraid to hold on. like he wouldn’t ruin you. “slower,” you'd chide, cheeks flushed from the evening chill, and he'd scoff but slow his steps anyway, just to feel the warmth of your back pressed against his chest a little longer.

it was almost cruel, how easily you fit into the spaces between his ribs. the first time you coughed into your sleeve—a wet, ragged sound—he'd pretended not to notice the flecks of red staining the fabric. but sukuna had survived centuries of war; he knew death when he smelled it. and now it lingered in the sweat-damp curve of your neck, in the way your hands trembled when you reached for him.

you never spoke of it. instead, you filled his silence with stories—foolish mortal things, about fireflies in summer and the way the river sounded when it froze over. once, half-asleep against his shoulder, you mumbled something about wanting to see the plum blossoms with him next spring. he didn’t have the heart to tell you that by then, you’d be gone.

sometimes, in the dead of night, he’d press his palm to your chest just to feel the unsteady flutter beneath your skin. it was wrong, how small you felt under his hands. like he could crush you by accident. like he already was.

the first time you collapsed, it was in the middle of threading a needle. sukuna had been lounging across the room, pretending not to watch you squint at your embroidery—some ridiculous pattern of cranes you insisted would bring him luck. then the needle clattered to the floor, and your knees buckled like cut strings. he caught you before you hit the tatami, your breath coming in shallow, awful gasps. “idiot,” he growled, but his voice cracked around the edges. he held you too tightly, fingers digging into your sides like he could keep you from unraveling if he just pressed hard enough.

you woke with his face hovering above yours, closer than you'd ever seen it. in the dim lamplight, the lines of his brow were softer, almost uncertain. “haven’t I told you not to scare me like that?” he muttered, but the hand cradling the back of your head was gentle. you tried to smile, but your lips felt stiff, like cracked parchment. “sorry,” you rasped, and his frown deepened. he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the low table where your abandoned embroidery lay—the crane’s wings half-finished, the needle still gleaming where it had fallen.

he didn’t set you down. instead, he settled you against his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist while the other reached for the teapot warming over the brazier. “drink,” he ordered, pressing the cup to your lips. the tea was bitter, laced with something earthy—medicine, you realized, as warmth spread sluggishly through your limbs. “you’re terrible at taking care of yourself,” he grumbled, but when you coughed, his fingers tightened around the cup. you wanted to tease him, to say something about the great king of curses playing nurse, but the words dissolved into another cough, wet and rattling.

later, when your breathing evened, he dragged his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away a smudge of tea. you caught his wrist before he could pull away, pressing his palm flat against your cheek. his skin was rough with old scars, but his touch was careful, like he was handling something fragile. “kuna,” you started, but he cut you off with a sharp click of his tongue. “don’t,” he said, voice low. “don’t say it like that.” like a goodbye. you swallowed, watching the way his throat worked as he stared past you, at the unfinished embroidery. “the cranes,” you murmured. “they’re supposed to—” “i know what they’re for,” he interrupted. longevity. a wish for a thousand years. his jaw clenched.

there was something obscene about the way he loved you. it felt like a wound that wouldn’t close, a fever that burned through his marrow long after the fire should have died. sukuna had spent lifetimes carving his name into history with violence, and yet—here he was, undone by the press of your fingertips against his pulse. you were mortal. fragile. temporary. and still, when you sighed against his shoulder in sleep, something in his chest twisted so sharply he had to bite back a sound.

he hated it. hated the way your laughter made his ribs ache, hated how your scent lingered on his clothes long after you’d left the room. most of all, he hated the way your sickness made him helpless. for all his strength, all his curses, he couldn’t tear this from you. couldn’t rewrite the rot in your lungs with his own hands. the realization sat like a stone in his throat, heavy and suffocating.

sometimes, when you slept, he’d trace the shadows under your eyes with his thumb and imagine ripping the illness from your body, even if it meant swallowing it himself. but that was the cruelest joke of all—he’d survive it. you wouldn’t. and so he stayed, pressing his lips to your clammy forehead while you trembled through another night, his arms a cage meant to keep you whole even as you splintered apart in them.

you asked him once, voice drowsy with exhaustion, why he stayed. “you’re trouble,” he’d lied, flicking your nose. but the truth tasted like blood in his mouth—he stayed because you were the first thing he’d ever had that was worth losing. and losing you would ruin him in ways no enemy ever could.

it was pathetic, really. the king of curses, reduced to counting your breaths like each one might be your last. he’d catch himself memorizing the slope of your shoulders, the way your fingers curled around his wrist when you dreamed, as if he could keep you with him through sheer force of will. but time slipped through his fingers like sand, and every morning, you woke a little paler, a little further away.

times where you'd chase him in the garden, panting with laughter, were long gone. now you could barely walk without sukuna's arm around your waist, your legs trembling like a newborn fawn's. he hated it—hated the way your knees buckled after three steps, hated how you'd bite your lip to keep from groaning when the pain flared up. but most of all, he hated the way you'd still smile up at him, like this was just another inconvenience and not the slow unraveling of your body. “rest,” he'd growl, lowering you onto the engawa when your breathing turned ragged. you'd protest weakly, “i wanna spend time with you,” and his chest would tighten like a vice.

each time someone dared ask him why he didn’t just discard you—some simpering courtier or wary servant—he’d crush their windpipe before they finished the sentence. their blood would splatter the shoji screens, their bodies tossed into the courtyard like discarded rags. no one questioned him after the third one. it was easier that way. less to clean up. less to explain to you when you woke from your feverish naps, blinking up at him with those tired, trusting eyes. “what happened?” you'd murmur, nodding at the fresh bloodstains on his sleeves. “hunting,” he'd lie, and you'd hum like you didn’t know better, like he wasn’t drowning in the weight of your faith.

he stopped leaving the palace altogether. the world outside could burn for all he cared. instead, he spent his days hauling you from one sunlit spot to another, chasing the weak warmth like it could stitch you back together. today, it was the engawa overlooking the koi pond, where you sat propped against his side, your fingers trailing absently over the embroidery in your lap. the cranes were nearly finished now, their wings arcing toward each other in an imperfect symmetry. “see?” you said, voice thin but triumphant. “told you i’d finish it.” sukuna stared at the way your knuckles whitened around the needle, the tremor in your wrist as you pulled the thread taut. “stupid,” he muttered, but his hand came up to cradle yours, steadying the shake. “should’ve just let me buy you one.” you laughed, a sound like dry leaves. “where’s the fun in that?”

it happened on a morning so ordinary it felt like a betrayal. the air was thick with the scent of plum blossoms, their petals drifting lazily onto the engawa where sukuna had propped you against his side, your head lolling against his shoulder. you'd been quieter than usual, your fingers limp around the half-finished embroidery—one crane’s wing still missing its final stitches. “kuna,” you'd murmured, voice so faint he almost didn’t catch it. when he turned his head, your eyes were already glazing over, your breath shallow as a wounded bird’s. he knew before your chest stilled. before the needle slipped from your fingers for the last time.

he didn’t scream. didn’t roar. sukuna simply pressed his lips to your temple and held you there, your body cooling in his arms as the plum blossoms kept falling, indifferent. it wasn’t until the servants found him hours later—your corpse cradled against his chest, his fingers tangled in your hair—that they realized he hadn’t blinked. hadn’t moved. “my lord,” one dared whisper, and his head snapped up, eyes hollow. they fled before he could gut them.

sukuna couldn't physically cry, so the plum blossoms wept for him instead. petals fell like wet ink drops onto your still-warm cheeks as he pressed his forehead against yours, your lashes casting spiderweb shadows he'd never see flutter again. someone had left the shoji screens open—stupid, careless—and the morning light painted stripes across your collarbones like prison bars. he wanted to hate it, the way the sun dared touch you now, when it had done nothing to keep you here. but his throat was too full of your name to speak.

“i've never been more sorry,” he rasped against your temple, his voice breaking in ways it never had—not in battle, not in fury, not in the centuries of carnage that had shaped him. his lips moved against your skin like he was trying to press the words into you, to make them stick where breath no longer could. "i love you." the admission came out mangled, a confession wrung from the hollows of his ribs. he'd fought gods and men, but this—this stillness beneath his hands—was the only thing that had ever brought him to his knees.

he didn't know how long he sat there, your weight limp in his arms, before his fingers found the half-finished embroidery still tangled in your lap. the crane's lone wing stared back at him, thread dangling like a snapped noose. sukuna didn't believe in prayers, but his thumb brushed over those clumsy stitches anyway, as if he could will them into flight. “stupid,” he choked out.

he didn't burn your flesh—which was one of the greatest mercies sukuna had ever allowed himself. instead, he dressed your body in layers of silk the color of dawn, fingers lingering over the embroidery at your collar where your cranes would never fly completed. he tucked the half-finished piece beneath your folded hands, thread still clinging to the needle like a final plea. when they lowered you into the earth, he didn't throw himself after you, though the weight in his chest begged him to. the hollow where you'd lived between his ribs ached like a missing limb.

days bled together without the rhythm of your breathing to mark them. servants stopped announcing themselves at his chambers, leaving trays of untouched food outside the shoji where your scent still clung to the tatami. sometimes he'd find himself turning to speak to you, the words dying on his tongue when his eyes caught the empty space where you used to curl against the low table, squinting at your needlework. the palace felt like a tomb, every corridor echoing with the ghost of your laughter, every garden path haunted by the memory of your fingers brushing petals he now crushed underfoot.

he would grow older, yet never wiser—just angrier, at himself and the world for allowing such a thing to happen. sukuna had once laughed at the concept of graves, yet now he found himself kneeling before yours every morning, pressing his forehead to the cold stone marker as if it could bridge the impossible distance between flesh and memory.

jjk smau fluff tension-filled friendship (?)

enemies to friends to lovers with wrestler!sukuna modern au fluff

you always wondered why anybody would take a hard class just to end up being late every fucking tuesday and thursday. but there he was—again—sliding into the lecture hall twenty minutes late with the grace of a drunk giraffe, his gym bag smelling like old protein shakes and the faintest hint of whatever cologne he'd clearly sprayed on in a hurry. sukuna, according to the professor’s exhausted sigh as he pointedly ignored the interruption, was somehow still passing this class.

ryomen sukuna, star athlete of the university's wrestling team, had the kind of reputation that followed him like a cheap cologne—unmistakable, lingering, and impossible to ignore. he wasn't just some jock; he was the jock, the one whose name got screamed from the stands during matches, the one who left a trail of whispered rumors and half-broken hearts wherever he went. his fanclub—yes, an actual, organized fanclub. you'd seen the way girls (and some guys) practically tripped over themselves to get his attention, shoving handwritten notes into his locker or “accidentally” dropping their pens in front of him like some bad rom-com. sukuna, to his credit, seemed mostly amused by it all, brushing off admirers with a lazy smirk and a shrug that only made them swoon harder.

so when he plopped down on the seat next to you—again—his knee bumping into yours with all the subtlety of a freight train, you didn’t even bother hiding your glare. “seriously?” you hissed under your breath, shoving your notes further away from him as if proximity alone could infect them with his bad habits. “do you even know what chapter we’re on?”

you wanted to strangle him. you really did. especially when he had the audacity to wink, like this was some cute little game instead of your gpa on the line. but then the professor cleared his throat pointedly, and you had no choice but to slide the notebook halfway between you with a sigh that could’ve wilted flowers. sukuna’s grin widened—asshole!

and so, he kept showing up to the one lecture you had together—sometimes late, sometimes (miraculously) on time, always with that same shit-eating grin. sukuna wasn’t stupid; he knew you thought he was an idiot, a walking disaster wrapped in too-tight athletic wear and ego. but that was half the fun. the other half? well. you were the first person in years who didn’t look at him like he was some kind of trophy to be won. you looked at him like he was a nuisance, and god, wasn’t that refreshing?

sukuna had enough yes-men in his life. what he didn’t have was someone who’d shove him with their foot when he sprawled into their space, or snap at him to shut up when he whispered dumb jokes during the professor’s slides. you were, in his privately amused opinion, kind of fucking great.

it started small. he’d “accidentally” leave his protein shaker on your desk after class, just to see if you’d bring it to him at the gym. (you did, with all the enthusiasm of someone handing over a bomb.) then he’d “forget” his textbook and ask to borrow yours, flipping through the pages like he gave a single shit about marginal utility. (he didn’t. but he liked the way your eyebrows knit together when he doodled dicks in the margins.)

the real turning point came when he caught you mid-eyeroll during a group project pairing. “oh, come on,” he’d groaned, slinging an arm around your shoulders like you were old pals instead of reluctant acquaintances. “we’ll be the dream team. you do the brains, i’ll do the—”

“the what, exactly?” you’d deadpanned.

“the charm,” he said, and then laughed when you fake-gagged.

it shouldn’t have worked. but somehow, by the time midterms rolled around, you were the one texting him reminders to study, and he was the one showing up at your dorm with shitty takeout—sometimes your favourite malatang and a willingness to be bullied into flashcards.

and if sukuna maybe, sort of, looked forward to those nights more than wrestling practice? well. that was nobody’s business but his.

ironically, you enjoyed his presence more than you cared to admit—as time passed, sukuna became less of an inconvenience and more like a persistent stray dog who refused to leave your porch. except this stray dog had biceps that could crack walnuts and a habit of stealing flicking your forehead when you weren’t looking. although you had to admit—he was one of the most thoughtful assholes you’d ever met.

like when he noticed you shivering in the lecture hall’s overzealous AC, and the next day he tossed his hoodie at your face without explanation. it smelled like laundry detergent and something faintly musky, clinging to his skin. you pretended to hate it, but wore it anyway.

or when you’d mentioned offhand that you hated group projects because everyone else slacked off—and sukuna, who barely remembered his own schedule, suddenly turned into a borderline control freak, hounding everyone in your shared assignment to pull their weight. “you got this,” he’d said when you looked at him like he’d grown a second head:

so, despite you not naming it—you two became friends. spending time together outside of lectures was inevitable, and sukuna was annoyingly good at inserting himself into your routine. he’d show up at the library when you were studying and sprawl across the table like a territorial cat, his feet knocking into yours under the table until you kicked him away. he’d drag you to wrestling matches you didn’t care about, and you’d pretend not to notice how his eyes flicked to the stands mid-match to check if you were still there.

“oh, come on,” gojo groaned, draping himself dramatically over sukuna's shoulders like a human-sized scarf. “ you two are practically married already. just admit it and save us all the suffering.” his grin was sharp, knowing, as he flicked a glance between you and sukuna—who, for once, looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

it stopped being casual when sukuna broke his nose. not in some grand, romantic gesture—no, this was pure, uncoordinated disaster. he'd tripped over his own gym bag rushing to catch you before you left campus, and the resulting face-plant into the concrete steps was spectacular! you'd heard the crack from ten feet away.

“oh my god,” you'd hissed, dropping your books to kneel beside him as blood poured down his chin. his grin was lopsided, already swelling, like this was just another tuesday. “you fucker—what were you even doing?”

“saving you from missing the bus,” he mumbled through the blood, wincing when you pressed a wad of napkins to his face. “priorities.”

you called him an idiot. you called him worse, actually—a reckless, brainless, self-sacrificing idiot—but he just laughed, which made more blood drip onto his stupid letterman jacket. “it's fine,” he slurred, waving you off. “i’ve had worse.”

the arena lights were blinding, the crowd roaring like a living thing, but sukuna didn’t hear any of it. his focus was a laser, his body moving on pure muscle memory as he pinned his opponent’s shoulders to the mat. the ref’s hand slapped down—once, twice, three times—and then the buzzer screamed, and just like that, it was over. champion. again.

for the first time, you didn't come to a match because he dragged you—you came because you wanted to. sukuna didn’t know that yet. you hadn’t told him. instead, you’d tucked yourself into the stands like always, pretending you weren’t scanning the mat for his broad shoulders, his stupid dyed undercut, the way he cracked his neck before a match like some kind of action movie hero.

the arena was deafening, packed to the rafters with screaming fans, but your heartbeat was louder. sukuna stood in the center of the mat, chest heaving, sweat glistening under the harsh lights as the ref raised his arm. his grin was feral, victorious, the kind that made his fans lose their fucking minds—but his eyes were already scanning the stands, searching for you before the announcer even finished bellowing his name.

you didn’t realize you were standing until your knees hit the seat in front of you. your hands were clenched tight around the railing, knuckles white, breath caught somewhere between your ribs. sukuna’s gaze locked onto yours like a homing beacon, and then—

he moved.

not toward the locker rooms, not toward his teammates rushing the mat to celebrate. no, sukuna shoved past them like they were nothing, vaulting over the barrier separating the stands from the floor with the kind of effortless athleticism that made your stomach flip. the crowd’s cheers pitched higher, confused, ecstatic, as he took the steps two at a time, hissing when someone’s sign clipped his shoulder.

you didn’t have time to react. one second, you were frozen, wide-eyed; the next, sukuna’s hands were cupping your face, his breath warm against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours like he needed the anchor. “told you we’d win,” he murmured, voice rough with exertion, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like you were something precious.

then he kissed you.

it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t sweet. it was all heat and teeth and the salt-tang of sweat, sukuna’s mouth crashing into yours like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment. your fingers twisted in the fabric of his singlet, clinging, as the crowd’s noise turned into a wordless roar around you. someone—probably gojo—whistled so loud it pierced through the chaos, but you barely heard it.

when sukuna finally pulled back, his nose was still crooked from where it hadn’t healed right, his bottom lip split from the match, his cheeks flushed with something that wasn’t just adrenaline. he looked wrecked. he looked proud. “fucking finally,” he breathed, forehead resting against yours again like he couldn’t bear to put space between you.

you were going to kill him. you were going to kiss him again. “you’re such an asshole,” you managed, voice shaky, fingers still fisted in his gear. “you couldn’t have done this not in front of five thousand people?”

sukuna laughed, bright and unguarded, the sound lost in the noise of the crowd still losing their minds around you. “where’s the fun in that?” he said, and then, softer, just for you: "knew you’d be here”

workplace romance fast ish burn LOL confession

if there was one thing everyone was certain of—it was that satoru gojo adored his wife beyond comprehension. not that you ever doubted it, of course. but the lengths he went to just to see you in soft pink cashmere or draped in delicate silver jewelry bordered on obsessive. “it suits you.” he’d murmur, pressing another velvet box into your hands while you rolled your eyes, already half-convinced you didn’t need another pair of earrings.

you were independent—stubbornly so—and that was part of why he loved you. your refusal to be coddled only made him more determined to spoil you rotten.

the latest offense came in the form of a sleek black credit card slid across the breakfast table like a poker chip. you froze mid-bite, toast hovering near your lips as satoru grinned over his coffee cup, steam curling around his stupidly perfect cheekbones. “no,” you said immediately, pushing it back with your pinky like it was contaminated. “absolutely not.”

“s’not even for anything crazy!” he protested, leaning forward with that exaggerated pout you’d grown immune to over the years. “just—y’know. lunch with your friends. those makeup palettes you keep eyeing. that one bakery downtown that makes the stupidly expensive croissants you pretend you don’t like.” you narrowed your eyes as he ticked each item off on his fingers, the motion effortless, like he’d been rehearsing this speech in his head.

the thing was—he wasn’t wrong. the croissants were stupidly good, and you had been sighing over that limited-edition eyeshadow set for weeks. but admitting that felt like surrendering, and you’d spent too many years building a life that didn’t rely on anyone’s wallet, let alone his. “i have my own money,” you reminded him, tapping the edge of your phone where your banking app sat untouched. "i don’t need you to—to feed into my little luxuries like some sugar daddy."

satoru choked on his coffee, coughing into his sleeve before bursting into laughter so loud it startled the cat off the windowsill. ”jeez!” he snorted, wiping at his eyes. “that’s not the dynamic here and you know it.” he reached across the table, catching your wrist before you could retreat, thumb brushing over the pulse point there. “i just like seeing you happy. sue me.”

you huffed, but didn’t pull away. his fingers were warm, his grip loose enough that you could escape if you wanted—but you didn’t. “it’s not about the money,” you muttered, glancing down at where his hand dwarfed yours. “it’s the principle.”

“principle, schminciple,” he sing-songed, grinning when you groaned at his terrible impression of your voice. “c’mon. let me be the guy who buys his pretty girl stupid shit sometimes. it’s not gonna unresentful your independence, i promise.” he said it like a joke, but the way his thumb stilled against your skin told you he meant it.

you caved. not because he wore you down—though his relentless puppy-dog eyes certainly helped—but because the boutique’s midnight sale notification popped up at exactly the moment your willpower crumbled. “fine,” you muttered to your empty apartment, thumb hovering over his card details already saved in your browser. “one dress. just one.”

three hours later, the living room looked like a pastel bomb had detonated. silk and chiffon draped over the couch, a heap of discarded tags littering the coffee table. you were halfway through zipping up the fifth dress—a blush-pink number with sleeves that fluttered like butterfly wings—when the front door clicked open. “honey, i’m—” satoru’s voice cut off with an audible thud , followed by the sound of his keys hitting the floor.

the silence stretched just long enough for you to turn, still half-tangled in chiffon, and catch satoru staring like you'd hung the moon in his living room. his sunglasses had slipped down his nose, revealing those stupidly blue eyes gone wide and soft. “oh,” he breathed, and it wasn’t the oh of surprise—it was the oh of a man who’d just walked into his own personal renaissance painting. “you’re—fuck.”

you barely had time to process the way his gaze dragged over you—hot and slow, like honey dripping down the curve of a spoon—before he was crossing the room in three long strides. “no, no, no,” you protested, laughing as he caught you by the waist, fingers digging into the delicate fabric. “satoru, i haven’t even—” but he was already spinning you, the dress flaring around your knees as he crowded you against the armrest of the couch. “you’re such a sap,” you gasped, but the insult lost all its bite when his mouth found the hinge of your jaw, pressing a kiss there that felt more like a brand.

“guilty as charged, baby!” he murmured against your skin, voice gone rough at the edges. his hands slid up your sides, tracing the seams of the dress like he was memorizing the way it clung to you. “christ, look at you. like you were made to wear pretty things.” the compliment curled around you, warm as his palms skating over your hips. “should’ve bought you this months ago. years ago. should’ve emptied every boutique in tokyo just to watch you try them all on.”

he peppered your face with kisses—soft, fluttery things that made you giggle despite yourself. “my pretty girl,” he murmured between each press of his lips, “my gorgeous, stubborn, perfect girl.” you swatted at his chest, but he caught your wrist, turning your palm up to kiss the delicate skin there too. “satoru,” you whined, but it came out breathless, half-laughing as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. “you’re so cheesy!”

“mmm.” he sighed dramatically, leaning back just enough to cup your face in his hands. his thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, slow and reverent, like you were something precious. “look at you. all wrapped up in pink like a present.” his grin turned wicked. “can i unwrap you?” you groaned, shoving at his shoulders, but he just laughed, catching you around the waist and pulling you flush against him. “kidding, kidding. mostly.”

his hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the dip of your spine through the thin material. “this one’s my favorite,” he decided aloud, though you were pretty sure he’d said the same thing about the last four dresses. “you’re like—ugh.” he squeezed you tighter, burying his face in your hair. “why are you so cute? it’s unfair.”

so what if he was accused of spoiling his wife? there was no such thing as too much when it came to you—especially when you were standing there, all pink and ruffled, looking at him like he was the ridiculous one. he would empty the last cents he had for his pretty girl.

✶ satoru gojo

・friends to lover with frat!jo

・weekends with boyfriend!gojo

・streamer!jo introduces you to his chat

・ gojo loves spoiling his pretty wife

・texts with frat!jo as bestfriends who like eachother

✶ ryomen sukuna

・picking flowers with husband!sukuna

・biting boyfriend!fratkuna 's bicep

・fratkuna is inlove with you pt 1

・ fratkuna's shy confession pt 2

・ heian era sukuna and his feelings for you

・enemies to friends to lovers with wrestler!sukuna

・the king of curses' biggest curse is falling inlove with a human

ANGST

✶ hiromi higuruma

・husband!higuruma takes care of his overworked wife

・ making you and husband!higuruma in tomodachi life

・ smau with higuruma as his law assistant

✶ nanami kento

・ husband!nanami takes care of you during your period

✶ toji fushiguro

・hickey prank on bf!toji

✶ choso kamo

wip

true form sukuna fluff head over heels unaware reader

the first time sukuna notices it, he’s peeling an apple with one of his lower hands, the blade of his nail splitting the skin in a perfect spiral. you’re kneeling beside him, quiet as always, waiting for his next command—but there’s something about the way the candlelight catches the curve of your neck, the way your lashes brush your cheeks when you blink. it’s infuriating. he crushes the apple in his palm without thinking, juice dripping between his fingers like blood.

he doesn’t speak for a long moment, just stares at the ruined fruit in his grip, sticky sweetness clinging to his skin. “my lord…?” your voice is soft, hesitant—like you’re afraid to disturb whatever storm is brewing behind his four eyes. sukuna’s jaw tightens. why does the sound of your concern make his chest feel so unsteady? he should laugh it off, toss the pulp aside, demand you fetch him another. but instead, he finds himself wiping his hand on the hem of your robe, watching the way your breath hitches at the contact. “clean this up,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it, no usual growl that sends servants scrambling.

you nod, quick to obey, but your fingers tremble slightly as you gather the broken pieces into a silk cloth. sukuna watches, irritation simmering beneath his skin. since when did he care about the trembling of a human’s hands? since when did he notice the way your lower lip catches between your teeth when you’re concentrating? “you’re slow today,” he grumbles, just to fill the silence. you glance up, cheeks flushing—not with fear, but something else. something that makes his pulse thud strangely in his temples. “forgive me, my lord. i’ll be quicker.”

he scoffs, turning away, but the image of your flushed face lingers in his mind like a pesky aftertaste. ”waste of breath”, he mutters under his breath, though he's not sure who he's chastising—himself or you. the silence stretches again, thick with something he refuses to name. sukuna’s upper arms cross over his chest, the motion sharp, defensive. his lower hands flex, restless. he should be bored. he should be irritated. so why is he counting the seconds until you speak again?

the silence between you stretches like the taut string of a bow, trembling with unspoken tension. sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, his upper arms still folded tight across his chest as if to cage the restless drumming beneath his ribs. what is this? he thinks, scowling at the flickering shadows on the tatami. he’s ripped through armies without a second thought, carved curses into the earth with his bare hands—yet here he is, undone by the way your sleeves rustle against the floor as you kneel. it’s absurd. it’s intolerable.

“my lord,” you say again, softer this time, and sukuna’s head snaps toward you before he can stop himself. your fingers are still curled around the silk cloth, knuckles pale with the effort of holding it steady. there’s a smudge of apple juice near your wrist, glistening faintly in the candlelight. he wants to lick it off. the thought hits him like a stray arrow, sudden and piercing. his mouth goes dry. since when do i hunger for anything so petty? he nearly laughs at himself—nearly—but the sound catches in his throat when your eyes meet his, wide and searching.

“are you… unwell?” you ask, and the concern in your voice is so genuine it makes his teeth ache. sukuna’s lower hands twitch, claws digging into his own thighs. unwell? he’s the king of curses, a being carved from the raw fury of the world itself—he doesn’t get unwell. and yet. and yet. the way your brow furrows, the way your breath hitches when he leans closer—it’s all too much. “silence, brat.” he growls, but it lacks its usual venom.

you laugh—soft, startled, like the first ripple of a stream breaking through winter’s ice—and sukuna’s entire world tilts on its axis. he made you laugh? him? the sound is too bright for the dimness of the room, too warm for the cold fury he’s wrapped himself in for centuries. “my lord,” you say, still breathless with it, “you’re staring.” and he is. he’s staring like a starving man who’s just glimpsed sunlight after a lifetime in the dark.

his claws flex against his thighs, the sharp points pricking through fabric. he should tear that laughter from your throat, should remind you who kneels before whom—but the words that spill from his lips are nothing like the ones in his head. “of course i am. is your own beauty so unfamiliar to you, girl?” his voice is rough, too low, the syllables scraping against each other like river stones. he doesn’t recognize himself.

you freeze, fingers tightening around the silk cloth. the candlelight catches the flush spreading from your cheeks down to your collarbones, painting your skin in gold and hesitation. “my lord jests,” you murmur, but your voice wavers. sukuna watches the way your throat moves when you swallow.

he scoffs, leaning forward until his shadow swallows yours whole. “since when do i jest?” his breath fans across your temple, warm enough to make you shiver. one of his lower hands lifts, almost against his will, and his thumb brushes the apple juice from your wrist. the touch lingers—too long, too soft. “you’re gorgeous.” the admission is gruff, awkward in its honesty, like a blade forced into a sheath too small for it.

your breath hitches. “my lord—”

“quite.” his claws dig into the tatami beside your knee, splintering the reed. “that is a fact, woman. nothing more.” but even as he says it, his thumb traces another sticky trail from your wrist to the delicate bones of your fingers, slower this time, deliberate. the candlelight catches the wet shine of your skin where he touches you, and sukuna’s mouth waters like a beast scenting blood. ridiculous. he should devour you whole—not savor the salt-sweet of your pulse beneath his tongue.

this is the one thing ryomen sukuna hadn't planned out. hadn't even considered. hadn't thought possible—until now. until you. spending decades as the king of curses tends to leave little room for such trivialities, but now, with your pulse fluttering beneath his thumb, he finds himself at a loss.

clingy husband!higuruma , kisses , fluff

the thing about higuruma is that he never looks at his phone first thing in the morning. he’ll stretch, run a hand through his disastrous bedhead, and immediately turn toward you like you’re the only notification that matters. it’s disgustingly sweet, and you’re still not used to it even after all this time.

his fingers trace idle patterns against your hip as you both lounge in that hazy post-wakeup stillness, the kind where neither of you has fully committed to being awake yet. you can feel him smiling against the top of your head before he even speaks. "mm. what’s today’s agenda, then?" he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.

you wiggle just enough to fish your 3ds out from under the pillow where it’s been charging overnight, flipping it open with a satisfying click. "gonna make you fall in love with me," you announce, tapping through menus with exaggerated seriousness.

his laugh vibrates through you, warm and drowsy. "am i not already inlove with you?"

you squint at the pixelated version of him on your tiny screen, tilting it so he can see. "not this you. this you’s still got his heart locked up tight. look at him. stone cold." you zoom in on your mii higuruma’s deadpan expression, complete with the slightly-too-serious eyebrows you painstakingly recreated last night.

he presses his forehead against your shoulder, chuckling into the fabric of your sleep shirt. "you need to get a life," he says, but there’s no bite to it—just that fond exasperation that makes your chest ache. his breath ghosts over your collarbone as he peers at the screen, watching your mii self toddle around the virtual apartment in aggressively cheerful circles. "my wife is arranging our marriage in a nintendo game. i never thought this would come."

"correction," you say, tapping furiously at the touch screen to make pixel-higuruma do something, "your future wife. this guy’s still playing hard to get." you glance sideways at him, catching the way his sleep-softened features crinkle with amusement. real higuruma smells like warm sheets and the faintest trace of toothpaste, and you have to physically resist the urge to drop the 3ds and climb into his lap like a clingy cat. priorities.

"oh my god," you whisper, fingers freezing mid-tap when the notification pops up—I think I have a crush on [y/n]—in a speech bubble. your entire body jerks with the force of your excitement, knee accidentally bumping against higuruma's thigh. "oh my god oh my god he likes me—"

higuruma snorts, rolling onto his side to prop himself up on one elbow, watching you vibrate with glee. "congratulations," he deadpans, but his mouth is already twitching at the corners, fighting a losing battle against the grin threatening to break through. you shove the screen in his face, nearly smacking him with the 3ds in your enthusiasm. "look! he has feelings for me! you witnessed this!"

"i have feelings for you too," higuruma murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear as you're still mid-celebration over the pixelated confession. his voice is low, honey-thick with sleep and something unbearably tender, the kind of tone that makes your stomach swoop like you've missed a step on the stairs. you freeze, the 3ds nearly slipping from your fingers, because real higuruma isn't supposed to say things like that unprompted—not without at least three layers of sarcasm as armor. but when you turn your head, his expression is unbearably open, eyes soft at the edges like he's letting you see something usually kept tucked away.

"cheater," you accuse, voice cracking halfway through the word. you jab a finger against his chest, but there's no force behind it—your hand just ends up splayed over his heartbeat, warm and steady under your palm. "you can't just—steal the narrative like that. this was my victory lap."

he catches your wrist, thumb tracing the delicate bones there, and oh, that's unfair. "mm. sorry." he doesn't sound sorry at all, the bastard. "got carried away watching you be cute." his free hand reaches over to tap the screen where pixel-higuruma is frozen mid-confession, the speech bubble still hovering. "but you know this guy's just catching up, right? i've been ahead of the curve for..." he pretends to think, nose scrunching adorably. "...a while now. he must be jealous that i'm already married to the love of his life—love of mine, too."

you make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a wheeze, pressing your face into his collarbone to muffle the embarrassing sound, but it’s too late—he’s already grinning, that stupid, smug, infuriatingly perfect grin, and you can feel it against your temple. "cheesy," you mutter, but your voice is all wobbly, betraying you entirely. higuruma hums, low and satisfied, fingertips skating up your spine like he’s mapping out every delighted shiver. "i love you."

you don’t let go of him when he tries to sit up, fingers curled stubbornly into the fabric of his shirt. higuruma makes a show of sighing, but the way his hand comes to rest over yours—ruins the act entirely. “you’re going to make me late,” he murmurs, but he’s already leaning back down, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like punctuation.

“good,” you mumble into his chest, and you can feel him roll his eyes. “call in sick. tell them you’ve been corrupted by love. it’s terminal.”

he barks out a laugh, sudden and bright, and the sound does something dangerous to your ribcage. “tempting,” he admits, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “but i think the legal system would collapse without me.”

“delusional,” you inform him, but you finally relent, loosening your grip just enough for him to slip away. he doesn’t go far—just to the edge of the bed, where he stretches with a groan that’s unfairly attractive for this hour. you watch, chin propped on your hands, as he buttons his shirt with practiced efficiency, the early morning light catching on the curve of his jaw. "yeah, my mii could never."

Love your works btw💕

PART 2 to this

"dude," sukuna says, slamming his palm flat against the sticky bar counter like he's trying to kill a fly that isn’t there. "i don’t do this. i don’t— i don’t do this. you know i don’t do this."

gojo leans back on the barstool, swirling his drink with an infuriatingly knowing smirk. "you don't do what, exactly?" he asks, stretching the syllables like he's savoring the taste of sukuna's discomfort. "exist? breathe? stop being a little freak about her?"

sukuna groans, dragging both hands down his face hard enough to leave red streaks on his cheeks. "i don't—" he starts, then stops, glares at the neon beer sign like it personally insulted him. "i don't date or catch feelings, man. that's not how this works." the words come out strained, like he's trying to convince himself more than gojo.

"uh-huh," gojo says, tilting his head. "so when you made her laugh so hard she snorted her drink last week, and you looked like you just won the lottery—that was you not catching feelings?" he snaps his fingers. "oh! or when you ditched karaoke night because she mentioned she was studying alone in the library?"

"shut the fuck up," sukuna mutters, but there's no heat in it, just the shaky desperation of a guy who knows he's been cornered. his knee bounces under the counter, rattling the loose change in his pockets.

gojo leans in, the neon lights catching the ridiculous sparkle of his sunglasses even in this dim-ass bar. "listen," he says, voice dropping into something almost serious, which is how you know it’s bad. "you’re gonna walk out of here, find her, and say something that isn’t stupid for once. or i swear to god, i’ll tell her myself."

sukuna chokes on his drink. "you wouldn’t."

"i would," gojo says, delighted by the sheer horror on sukuna’s face. "imagine it. ‘hey, [y/n], sukuna’s been—’"

"okay! okay, fuck," sukuna hisses, slamming his glass down hard enough that the bartender side-eyes him. he runs a hand through his hair—messy, like he’s been tugging at it all night. "but what if she—"

"what if she what?" gojo presses, kicking sukuna's ankle under the bar—not hard, just enough to jolt him out of spiraling. "what if she laughs? what if she says yes? what if she throws her drink in your face and calls you a loser?" he shrugs, sipping his cocktail with a grin. "worst case, you get a funny story. best case, you get her."

sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, fingers drumming against the glass sweating in his grip. "you make it sound easy," he mutters, and it's weird hearing him sound small, like someone sanded down all his sharp edges.

"it is easy," gojo says, like it's obvious. "you walk up, say 'hey, i like you,' and then don't fuck it up by overthinking." he flicks sukuna's forehead, ignoring the growl it earns him. "she's not some puzzle to solve, man. she's just a girl who already puts up with your shit. that's basically a love confession in itself."

sukuna's fingers twitch around his glass, the ice long melted into tepid water. "fuck," he says again, softer this time, like it's been punched out of him. the bar noise fuzzes into static around the edges—some frat bros chanting chug-chug-chug, the screech of a stool dragging against sticky floors—but none of it sticks. all he can think about is the way you'd rolled your eyes at him last week when he'd "accidentally" stolen your favorite pen, and how your laughter had sounded like something he wanted to bottle and keep.

"go," gojo says, nudging him with an elbow. "before i change my mind and tell her you cried during titanic."

"i did not—" sukuna starts, then stops when gojo's grin widens. bastard. he shoves off the stool so hard it nearly topples, ignoring gojo's cackling behind him as he shoulders through the crowd. the night air hits him like a slap, crisp and sharp, and he inhales so deep his ribs ache.

he finds you by the campus gym, of all places, the yellow glow of the security light turning your face gold. you look up when his shadow falls over you, blinking like you’re not sure he’s real. "you’re not drunk, are you?" you ask, voice flat, and sukuna nearly chokes on his own spit because—fuck, of course that’s the first thing you say.

"no," he says, too quick, too loud. his hands are sweating. he shoves them in his pockets. "no, i just—" he stops. starts again. "what are you doing here?"

you shrug, tapping your sneaker against the concrete step. "needed air." a pause. then, suspiciously: "what are you doing here?"

sukuna swallows. his throat clicks. gojo’s voice rings in his head—say something that isn’t stupid for once—but all he can think is that your eyelashes look longer in this light, and that you’ve got a smudge of ink on your wrist he wants to thumb away. "i," he says intelligently.

"i," sukuna repeats, like his vocabulary's been reduced to a single, malfunctioning syllable. his fingers twitch in his pockets, restless. "i wanted to see you." the admission comes out raw, stripped of his usual bravado, and he watches your eyebrows lift just slightly, your lips parting like you're about to call him out on his bullshit. but then you don't. you just tilt your head, waiting, and sukuna feels his pulse thudding in his throat like it's trying to escape.

he exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders tensing. "look, i—" he starts, then stops when you shift on the step, your knee brushing against his. the contact is accidental, fleeting, but it sends a jolt through him anyway. "fuck," he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. "i need to talk to you."

you blink up at him, unimpressed. "so talk," you say, like it’s that simple, like sukuna’s entire nervous system isn’t short-circuiting right now. he stares at you—really stares—at the way your fingers fiddle with the loose thread on your shirt, at the way your lips press together when you’re trying not to laugh at him. it’s infuriating. it’s adorable. he wants to bite something.

"i," sukuna tries again, then groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes hard enough to see stars. "fuck. i don’t know how to say this."

"try words," you suggest dryly, and sukuna wants to both strangle you and kiss you senseless.

he drops his hands, exhaling sharply. "you’re the worst," he informs you, but there’s no bite to it, just this weird, warm ache in his chest. "i— fuck. i like you. like, like you. not in a ‘haha let’s hook up’ way. in a ‘i think about you when i wake up and i can't get you out of my head’ way."

your breath hitches, just slightly, fingers freezing around the loose thread you’d been picking at. sukuna watches the way your throat moves when you swallow, the way your eyes flicker over his face like you’re searching for the punchline. but there isn’t one. just him, standing there like an idiot, heart hammering so loud he’s half-convinced you can hear it.

"oh," you say finally, voice softer than he’s ever heard it. "that’s—" you stop, lips quirking. "really stupid."

sukuna’s stomach drops. "what?"

"you," you clarify, tugging at the thread until it snaps. "you’re really stupid." and then—before he can process the insult—you’re leaning forward, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, dragging him down until your mouth crashes into his. it’s messy, off-center, your nose bumping against his cheekbone, but sukuna doesn’t care because holy shit you’re kissing him.

sukuna freezes, brain short-circuiting for a solid three seconds before his hands fly up to cradle your face, his fingers trembling against your jaw. he kisses you back clumsily, all teeth and too much pressure, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before you come to your senses and shove him away. but you don’t. instead, you nip at his bottom lip, just hard enough to make him gasp, and sukuna makes a noise in the back of his throat that’s embarrassingly close to a whimper.

when you finally pull back, his cheeks are flushed, his pupils blown wide. "what the fuck," he breathes, dazed, his thumbs still stroking absentminded circles along your cheekbones. "you— you just—"

"yeah," you say, breath warm against his lips, your fingers still tangled in his shirt. "figured i'd save you the trouble of fumbling through another three paragraphs of word vomit." your grin is all teeth, sharp enough to draw blood, and sukuna's heart stutters in his chest like a broken engine.

he blinks. swallows. tries to form a coherent sentence. fails spectacularly. "you—" he starts, then stops when you press your thumb against his bottom lip, smearing the spit-slick shine of it. his brain whites out for a solid second. "you knew?"

"of course i knew," you say, rolling your eyes like it's the most obvious thing in the world. your thumb is still pressed against his lip, and sukuna's pretty sure he's going to spontaneously combust if you don't move it soon. "you're not subtle, sukuna. you stare at me like a kicked puppy. who thought the campus frat god would be into me?"

sukuna's mouth opens, then shuts with an audible click. "i don't stare like a—" he starts, then cuts himself off when you raise an eyebrow. "fuck," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "okay. maybe. but you—" he gestures vaguely at you, fingers twitching like he wants to touch you again but isn't sure if he's allowed. "you never said anything."

you shrug, dropping your hand from his shirt to poke him square in the chest. "neither did you," you point out, and sukuna scowls, batting your finger away—except he doesn’t let go of your hand afterward, just laces his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his palm is sweaty. it’s kind of gross. you don’t pull away.

"so what now?" sukuna asks, voice rough. he’s staring at your joined hands like he can’t believe they’re real. "we just— what, hold hands and shit? go on dates?" he says the word like it’s some foreign concept, like he’s never actually considered the logistics of dating someone instead of just hooking up with them.

you snort, squeezing his fingers just hard enough to make him wince. "yeah, sukuna. we hold hands and shit. revolutionary concept, i know." your voice is dripping with sarcasm, but there's a warmth underneath it that makes his chest tighten. he scowls, tugging you closer until your knees bump together, the concrete step digging into his thighs.

"shut up," he mutters, but there's no real bite to it—just this weird, breathless fondness he doesn't know what to do with. his free hand comes up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your cheekbone. he's touching you like he's afraid you'll vanish if he presses too hard. "so you— you want that? dates and shit?"

"oh my god," you groan, tipping your forehead against his shoulder. "yes, you moron. that's why i kissed you." you can feel the rumble of his laugh against your cheek, the way his grip tightens around your hand like he's afraid you'll slip away.

sukuna’s breath hitches when your forehead presses against his shoulder, the warmth of you seeping through his stupidly thin shirt. he doesn’t know what to do with his hands—one tangled with yours, the other hovering awkwardly near your waist like he’s afraid touching you there will make the whole thing dissolve into smoke. "so," he says, voice cracking on the syllable. "does this mean you’re my girlfriend now, or—"

you lift your head just enough to glare at him. "do you want me to be your girlfriend?" you ask, and sukuna’s ears burn at the way the word girlfriend sounds in your mouth—like it’s something mundane and earth-shattering all at once.

"yes," he blurts, too fast, too loud, and then immediately wants to throw himself into traffic. but you just smile, slow and satisfied, like you’ve been waiting for him to admit it all along. sukuna swallows hard. "i mean. if you— yeah."

you hum, leaning back just enough to study his face. the security light catches the curve of your lips, the way your eyelashes cast shadows on your cheeks. sukuna’s never felt so exposed in his life. "good," you say finally, and then you’re tugging him down again, your mouth hot against his. this kiss is slower, less frantic, and sukuna melts into it like he’s been starving for it. his free hand finds your waist, fingers pressing into the dip of it like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

sukuna’s fingers tighten on your waist when you pull back, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts like he’s just run a marathon. his lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed, and he looks so utterly wrecked that you have to bite back a laugh. "you good?" you ask, thumb brushing over his knuckles where they’re still tangled with yours.

"shut up," he mutters, but there’s no heat in it—just this dazed, breathless wonder that makes your stomach flip. he tugs you closer until your knees slot between his, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck like you’re something precious. "i always thought i had to jump between one girl to another to feel—something, fuck if i know." his fingers flex against your skin, uncertain. "turns out i didn't need sex every week, i just needed you. i've felt more fulfilled by a kiss from you than anything in my life."

you blink. that might be the most vulnerable thing sukuna’s ever said sober. you can see the exact moment he realizes it too—his ears go pink, his grip tightening like he’s considering bolting. so you kiss him again, slow and deliberate, until his shoulders relax under your palms. "gross," you murmur against his mouth, but you’re grinning too wide to sell it. "although its a bummer im like your—167th kiss."

"no," sukuna says, so vehemently that you actually lean back a little. his hands fly up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a tenderness that makes your breath stutter. "no, you're—" he stops, swallows, and you watch his adam's apple bob like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. "you're the first one that counted."

req @rhaewinsdaughter

HEADLINE: ryomen sukuna found yearning !? PART 2

ryomen sukuna was no less than a god at jujutsu tech high. star athlete, top of his class, effortlessly charismatic—everyone knew his name, and everyone wanted a piece of him. and obviously, his huge frat house was something you couldn't comprehend—how can a man hooking up every single day of the week still have time for academics?

"you know, you’re kinda like a plasticizer," sukuna said, leaning against your locker. "softens me up or whatever. makes me flexible." you didn’t dignify that with a response, just shoved past him to grab your physics textbook. he laughed, loud enough that heads turned down the hallway—always performing, even when the audience was just you.

it started as a joke, his attention. you were the girl who cursed when he smirked your way, who rolled her eyes at his stupid frat parties. that pissed him off, which amused you, which pissed him off more—until his laughter sounded genuine, not performative. until his arm around your shoulders felt less like ownership and more like...something else.

that night it changed, for sukuna, atleast—

it was one of those stupid frat parties where the beer tasted like piss and the speakers vibrated the floorboards. he was halfway through some bullshit drinking game with his boys when he spotted you in the corner, wedged between a sticky pong table and a freshman who kept leaning too close. you weren’t even looking his way, holding a red solo cup with too much disdain for someone at a frat house, laughing at something your friend whispered—but he noticed how your smile didn't quite reach your eyes.

so, sukuna did something nobody would expect him to do—and abandoned his drinking game mid-shot. "yo, i'm out," he said, tossing his cards onto the table. his boys groaned, and one of them threw a crumpled beer can at his retreating back. he didn’t give a shit. he wove through the crowd, all shoulders and sharp elbows, until he was looming over your little corner.

"the fuck are you doing all the way over here?" he asked, though his voice wasn't as loud as usual. quieter, like he didn’t want the rest of the party to hear. the freshman next to you flinched, muttered something about needing another drink, and bolted. sukuna smirked at that, satisfied, before turning back to you. you shrugged, swirling the questionable liquid in your cup. "avoiding your fan club," you said, deadpan.

he snorted. "yeah? well, you're failing. i'm here, aren't i?"

"congrats. you caught me." you tilted your head up at him, unimpressed. but then—something happened. sukuna’s smirk faltered, just for a second, because the dim, shitty party lights caught your face just right, and suddenly he was noticing things he shouldn’t. everybody knew you were gorgeous, that much was obvious, but he’d spent so much time pretending he didn’t care that now, standing too close, he had no fucking clue what to do with the way your eyelashes cast shadows on your cheeks.

sukuna’s throat went dry. he could’ve cracked another joke, could’ve leaned in with some stupid line about how you looked better when you weren’t scowling—but his brain short-circuited. because you were scowling, and somehow that made it worse. the way your brows knit together, the impatient tap of your fingers against the cup, the sharp cut of your collarbone where your shirt slipped just a fraction. fuck. he’d seen you a thousand times before, so why was his pulse rabbiting now?

"what," you said, arching a brow when his silence stretched too long. "do you have nothing better to do instead of staring me down? its not very charismatic."

sukuna blinked, snapping back into himself. "charisma is wasted on you," he muttered, but it lacked his usual bite. his fingers twitched at his sides, restless. he should walk away. he would walk away—except then you rolled your eyes, and the motion made your earring catch the light, and suddenly he was cataloging the way it swung, hypnotic. yes, he was hypnotized— by you.

"come outside," sukuna said abruptly, jerking his chin toward the back door. it wasn’t a request—never was with him—but his voice was lower than usual, rough around the edges in a way that made your fingers tighten around your cup. you frowned up at him. "why the hell would i do that?"

"because this party’s shit," he said, shrugging like it was obvious. like everyone didn’t know he was the reason half these people showed up in the first place. his gaze flicked over your shoulder, where the freshman was slinking back with two drinks in hand, and his mouth twisted. "and because i said so."

you snorted. "real convincing." but the bass was thumping too loud in your ribs, and the air smelled like sweat and stale beer, and—fine. maybe fresh air wouldn’t kill you. you downed the rest of your drink in one grimacing gulp and shoved the cup at him. "lead the way, then, your highness."

sukuna’s grin was all teeth as he tossed the cup onto some unsuspecting pledge’s head. "knew you’d see it my way."

the backyard was quieter, just the distant hum of crickets and the occasional shout from inside. sukuna didn’t stop at the porch—he kept walking, past the keg stands and the couple making out against the fence, straight to his stupidly expensive car parked haphazardly on the lawn. he yanked the passenger door open with a creak. "get in."

you crossed your arms. "i didn’t agree to a kidnapping."

"you’re walking home, then?" he leaned against the hood, all broad shoulders and lazy confidence. "in those shoes?"

you glanced down at your strappy heels, already regretting them. "...fuck you."

"nah. get in." his smirk was infuriating, but the way his fingers tapped impatiently against the car door was new—like he was nervous. which was impossible. sukuna didn’t do nervous.

with a sigh, you slid into the passenger seat. the leather was warm from the summer heat, and the air smelled faintly of his cologne—something expensive and stupidly good. you hated that you noticed.

he slammed your door shut a little too hard before rounding the hood. the engine roared to life, vibrating under your thighs as he peeled out onto the road without checking his mirrors. typical.

"seatbelt," he grunted.

"wow. suddenly concerned for my safety?" you clicked it in place just to spite him. "what’s next, you gonna start obeying speed limits?"

sukuna’s fingers flexed around the wheel. "shut up."

"make me."

he shot you a look—half glare, half something else—before accelerating just to watch your fingers dig into the seat. you refused to give him the satisfaction of flinching.

the streetlights blurred past, casting his sharp jaw in gold and shadow by turns. he drove like he did everything else: reckless, all confidence, like the world owed him the right of way. you wondered if he’d ever been denied anything in his life. wondered what it’d look like if he was.

"so," you drawled, kicking your feet up on the dash just to see his eye twitch. "what’s the grand plan here? kidnap me, drive in circles, then what?"

"drop your ass home," he muttered, swerving to avoid a pothole. "unless you’d rather walk."

"you’re really bad at this whole ‘charming your hostage’ thing."

"who said i was trying to charm you?" sukuna flicked the blinker on—shocking, honestly—before turning onto your street. the car rolled to a stop outside your apartment, engine idling like he wasn’t sure whether to cut it or bolt. his fingers drummed against the wheel, restless. "we’re here."

you unbuckled your seatbelt with more force than necessary, just to hear the metallic click echo in the sudden silence of the car. "thanks for the ride," you said, flat as a pancake, already reaching for the door handle. "try not to kill anyone on your way back."

sukuna’s hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist before you could bolt. his grip wasn’t tight—just enough to pause you, his thumb brushing the delicate bones there like an afterthought. "that’s it?" he asked, voice rougher than the purr of his engine. "no ‘goodnight, sukuna’? no ‘wow, you’re such a gentleman’?"

you stared at his fingers, then up at him, unimpressed. "do you want me to curtsy too?"

he scoffed, but his fingers lingered a second too long before dropping away. "whatever. get out of my car."

you did, slamming the door hard enough to make the frame shudder. through the window, you saw his jaw tighten—but he didn’t drive off. just sat there, engine idling, watching as you stomped up the front steps. you could feel his gaze like a physical weight between your shoulder blades.

at the door, you hesitated. then, with deliberate slowness, turned back. "goodnight, sukuna," you called, sweet as poison. "wow. you’re such a gentleman."

his head thumped back against the seat with a groan, but you didn’t wait to see the rest of his reaction. you slipped inside, letting the door click shut behind you—but not before catching the way his fingers clenched around the steering wheel, white-knuckled.

the second your apartment door closed, sukuna exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. what the fuck was that? he’d driven girls home before—plenty of them—but never with his pulse hammering in his throat, never with his skin too tight, never with the irrational urge to follow you inside just to see what you’d do next.

he scrubbed a hand over his face, gripping the wheel again with the other. the leather creaked under his grip. this wasn’t supposed to happen. you weren’t supposed to—fuck.

sukuna had spent years cultivating the kind of reputation that meant he never had to chase anyone. girls came to him, fell over themselves for him, and he’d always taken what he wanted without a second thought. but you? you laughed at him. shoved him. rolled your eyes so hard he half-expected them to get stuck. and yet—

the memory of your wrist under his fingers seared like a brand. small, but not fragile. he could’ve crushed it without trying, but instead he’d lingered like some pathetic fucking teenager with a crush. what the hell was wrong with him?

he punched the gas, tires screeching as he peeled away from the curb. the wind whipped through the open windows, but it did nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck.

sukuna drove until the streetlights blurred into streaks of gold against the black sky, until the roar of the engine drowned out the too-loud rhythm of his own pulse. he didn’t know where he was going—just away. away from your apartment, away from the way your wrist had felt like a fucking revelation under his fingers.

he’d always known he wanted things. that was the problem, wasn’t it? sukuna took what he wanted without asking, without thinking, because the world had never told him no. but this—this wasn’t something he could grab by the throat and claim. this wasn’t a party hookup or a trophy to shove on a shelf. this was you, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the one person who looked at him and saw right through the act.

and god, he hated it. hated how your laugh stuck in his ribs like a knife. hated how your eyes rolled like he was nothing special. hated how you made him feel like he was seventeen again, all clumsy hands and too-big feelings, like he hadn’t spent years perfecting the art of not giving a shit.

as the darkness engulfed the road before him, save for the golden hue of the streetlights—he realised one thing.

he was fucked. royally, utterly, irreversibly fucked for you.