₊✩✩✩‧

a drop of sweat inches at tortoise pace down from his tanned left temple by the power of newton’s gravity. and by the power of sheer self-control amongst other things, conveniencestoreworker!sukuna gulps louder than he has ever remembered doing so.

in his two decades of living, standing there as a 6 foot 5 man akin more to kratos the god of war, he has never felt so… watched? expected upon? what the fuck…?

there you sit, politely on a lonely bench a mere two and a half feet behind him, facing his broad back. he continues shuffling with the aluminium foiled bags, each filled (less than generously) with sickly sodium, syrupy sugars and radiant red-40 pornographically packaged in colours as seen on salvia.

takis, cheetos, doritos, pringles etcetera

your eager eyes can’t help themselves but follow the man in front of you’s hypotonic arm mechanisms like a moth to a flame. your attention is so focused on the small loads of diabetes, cancer and cardiac arrest, that you hardly notice the two dark bands circling his wrists in a tattoo.

it’s 12:30 am. sukuna wonders why his procrastinating ass didn’t stock up the empty metal vending machine, sat like a good dog outside the store, earlier. the summer heat sticks to the air from the day like a man’s first love and the sweaty beads of grease building up beneath your bare crossed legs.

nothing like a good convenience store rummage through after a mild night out. you’re not drunk out of your ass, actually you’re not very drunk at all but damn wouldn’t you like a free bag of chips. only to have all your cravings crushed like a bug under a giant’s foot when you peer through the closed sign and the tired man shakes his head no, do you sit down defeated. right outside the store in persevering protest.

he feels like he is hallucinating. the pile of chips do not get any smaller and it feels like he is stuck in a reoccurring dream. extend arm. pick up chip bag. retract arm. extend arm. place in machine. repeat.

why the fuck is she still there? are you passed out? no - he knows this feeling of being preyed upon in the dark, in alleys splattered with blood and missing teeth, though he’s never really felt like the prey. you are fully conscious, sentient and determined.

absentmindedly, admittedly feeling a shrill of awkwardness since you’ve been staring for a couple of minutes you start humming a song stuck in your head from your night. and then, even more absentmindedly. a whisper? no, a breath -

“…chips.” and again - sukuna strains his ears subconsciously, “wish i had a free bag of chippsss.” he immediately wishes he wasn’t paying attention.

he stills. straightening his posture, forcing his hefty shoulders back. sukuna was never one for charity, menacing and ruthless to anyone that encountered him. you would have to kick him in balls, tie him up successfully before you every laid your pretty manicured hands on a single packet.

he gives you the world’s nastiest side-eye, shifting microscopically, nearly popping a booming blood vessel as he blinks away the discomfort from straining his eye balls. he continues working. another eon (half a minute) goes by, each millisecond prodding at his mountain of a back like cupid was shooting spears wearing drunk goggles. you start making a stupid noise with your mouth. something like a tut but also like a ticking clock, like you’re fed up of waiting, like you’re his cute girlfriend who’s pouting cos she’s being bratty and not getting what she wants. sukuna stares blankly at the void shelf inches away from his face, he thinks and then he turns.

he swiftly lifts his left knee up to his corresponding pec, patting down and balling up a crumpled bag. he propels it in your general direction at the humble speed of light

was what he was imagining…

but in reality he simply PLOPS! a pretty purple pack of takis onto your lap like it belongs there. he gains your attention and you’re astounded. 20 seconds ago you had made your mind up, convincing yourself that pretty privilege doesn’t always work and that you have to start picking up the shattered pieces of your heart at the fact that you will indeed not get your free bag of chips.

you’re so caught off guard you don’t even know how to react. you instinctively shine the most natural smile at him like he just hung the entire solar system right in front of you. he turns away and resumes his work by the time you’re thanking him as if you’re a cat in the gobi desert and an earth worm has handed you a pail of glistening water. sukuna kisses his teeth, cranes his arm slightly backwards and waves his hand in your direction, still not facing you.

“get a move on already,” he begrudgingly grumbles out, but you don’t miss it - even under the faint moonlight and scarcely littered dim street lights

the tinge of rose red

that blossoms up his mid helix

to the tips of his ears,

silent conversations. stolen glances. sneaking touches.

satoru trails his dress shoe covered foot up from your bare ankles up your shin. slowly. dragging. teasing.

you shoot him a glare across the laid out table. ocean blue eyes glint back mischievously, reflecting the sparkling diamond chandelier what seems to be miles above your heads.

you look around inconspicuously, trying to gauge if anyone else at the table has caught onto his ridiculous motions.

if anyone had noticed the way your posture straightened itself, like a puppeteer hiding in the chandelier had pulled on your string, when you felt his italian leather invade your warm leg.

if anyone of your family members had observed the way you haven’t touched your already rotting appetizer.

“hey, you listen’n?” the scheming bastard.

you gulp down any venomous curses from escaping your glossed lips.

you should answer. shouldn’t be too quiet, letting your parents worry. not that anyone is paying particular attention. but then again, everyone’s secretly wanting to listen in.

you try to speak but your voice is hoarse, drained of any moisture. taking a sip out of the champagne flute, gripping onto it for your own sanity as you wonder how on earth you ended up here.

“hurry, up! we’re gonna leave without you, you know,” your brother’s voice bellowed from down the stairs.

easy for you to say, you think to yourself, nipping on a new pair of diamonds onto your already well decorated ears. looking at yourself, this time for the actual final time, you smooth down your rhinestoned icy-black animal print dress snatching your purse to bolt downstairs.

once you’re seated and buckled in the suv, your mother starts, “you guys, please don’t argue tonight. be civil, this is a very important dinner for your father.” the car pulls up at a building - one that screams elite. you feel a little underdressed but push down your absurd thoughts. you looked perfect. boots click and clack against the regally decorated cement frontier, a doorman holds open the doors like you are monarchy arriving at the coronation ball.

father leads the way, greeting and exchanging a hug with a taller, older, silver haired man. you recognise him. he spots you. his crows feet crinkle in on themselves like clockwork, holding out his arms encapsulating you in a paternal embrace. “so nice to see you darling. brilliant girl this one…” mr gojo compliments your work at his firm. your internship that satoru helped secure when you were at your wits end trying to land a placement. the least he could’ve done.

“mr gojo, i didn’t expect to see you tonight,” you explain your slight surprise which he brushes off. ever the laidback businessman. in the corner of your eye you see two specks of well manicured designer suits darting towards your group.

one of them takes your hand, leaving a soft kiss on top. his head is down but you already know. already know the familiar milky mop of hair. already know your cuticles will leave bleeding more than the rare steak on your plate. already know this dinner is over before it’s begun.

speechless. because what is he doing here? why did he not tell you? what will your parents think? you barely recognise that he’s speaking before he moves to flatter your mother. ever the charmer.

“what an idiot,” suguru enunciates, materializing beside you. you cast him a look, open mouthed.

“you could’ve at least warned me,” you spit. accusing.

he holds out his arms in self defence, “hey, i didn’t even know, we just got here like two hours ago. he just called me and said we’re getting on a flight… said he wanted to surprise you.”

you hate surprises. especially if it’s 6 feet 3 inches, with an attitude that could leave the food in your mouth tasting sour, sheathed in a musk that smelt of god himself.

he places his own untouched flute next to yours, “to calm your nerves,” sickly smile coats his menace.

“im good,” you retort.

“ —and satoru make yourself useful and show her around the place. you guys are friends after all,” the older gojo resumes his conversation about the current shocking state of the market.

the man across you raises his eyebrows, getting up offering you a hand. you ignore his gesture with poise, standing to your height independently. you follow his lead out the open glass behind you.

he trails ahead. you linger behind. the couple feet separating you two feels like a schism you’re carefully avoiding not falling down into. you look back - wondering if your brother had been sent out by one of your parents to make sure you didn’t get too comfortable in the presence of the likes of satoru gojo. the troublesome womanizer - as he was known and loved by the extended conglomerate. coast is clear, you face forward.

he makes a sharp left, diverging from the brick path, heading off into the garden. you walk into an opening, to a swinging ivory bench, with firefly-like fairy lights wrapped around mirroring grape vines around the arch. it was breathtaking - you almost wanted to ask for a picture. the night breeze occasioned the warm air lulling you both towards the creaking seat. he sits down first, and you follow suit.

he breaks the silence first.