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⥴ utterly whipped gojo finally convincing you to let him sleep over ⥴ 0.5k words ⥴ [ 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 ]
itâs been 5 minutes since heâs finished inside you and heâs been pressed into your body, face nuzzled into your shoulder, since. his dick that he lazily pulled back into his briefs lies along your stomach while he lazes on top of you.
âsatoru.â you mumble softly. well, as loud as you can with tufts of thick white hair half obstructing your mouth. he hums into your neck in acknowledgement. you push away his hair lying by your mouth. âiâve got work tomorrow. go.â
you nearly for bad for telling him to leave. itâs just past midnight and he hasnât even begged to say yet. yet.
âplease.â he whines into your neck. he clutches your closer in his toned arms that are snaked around you. âjust for tonight. i promise iâll leave in the morning. justâŚâ he trails off, whimpering muffledly below your ear.
heâs growing on you and you feel gross for admitting to itâto your friends. if you told him his egoâd skyrocket unbearably. youâre giving yourself a mental peptalk to not give into his stereotypical heartthrob charm and shoo him away like usual. thank god you donât have his pathetic little bug eyes staring up at you or else you wouldâve caved already.
âsatoru, you knowââ he cuts you off.
âitâs late.â he squeezes you even harder. he kisses up your jaw to try and convince you. âjust let me stay here tonight. iâll be good, wonât even notice me, baby.â
you know he will. heâll be as silent and in-obnoxious as he can be in hopes youâll let him stay over again some day. you nearly say something in retort but he pushes himself up and stares down at you while he speaks up again. his kicked puppy dog eyes bore into yours while he pleads shamelessly.
âplease.â he frowns. he looks pretty like this, still worn out from fucking you and even more pathetic than usual.
you dart your eyes away from him as you speak.
âtonight and tonight only.â he leans forward, near inches away from you like heâs expecting a kiss while he widely grins. his dimples pierce through the gush of his porcelain cheeks. he giggles stupidly. âshut up.â you try and push him off of you but to no avail.
he jolts his head forward and starts messily peppering kisses over your face, jaw and forehead. he makes annoying, exaggerated âmwahâ sounds as he does.
âthank youâthank you, baby.â he says as he finally pulls back. his eyes study you as he notices a slight curl of your lips. usually heâd yell out how this means you must love him but he promised to be on his best behavior. so heâll smugly realize you actually like him in his head until morning.
⥠sukuna realizes that he does get jealous after all. . .
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sukuna will say this very seriously, he does not get jealous. the emotion itself is beneath him.
that is until yuji coming home from school, jumping in place.
âi made a friend today!!â
âyou did?â you ask. âso what are they like?â
âhis nameâs megumi and he likes dogs and dinosaurs too and he traded me his pudding because i gave him my chocolate!â
yuji keeps talking without stopping.
âand heâs really quiet but he laughed when i scared a pigeon away and megumi said maybe we can go to the park together and can we please please pleaseââ
âjiâ okay, okay,â you laugh. âslow down.â
his eyes widen instantly. âreally?!â
âif megumiâs dad says yes, sure.â
yuji cheers.
later that week you end up exchanging numbers with megumiâs father after pickup.
toji fushiguro, he introduced himselfâ pretty tall, scar across his mouth, seems normal enough, though.
the playdate gets set for saturday afternoon, and sukuna seems pretty indifferent to it or at least he pretends to.
âyouâre taking yuji to the park?â he asks while scrolling through his phone.
âmhm.â
âso, whoâs the kidâ or more like, you know their parent?â
âwell.. a little?â you say thoughtfully. âtoji fushiguro.. i think?â
ââŚfushiguro?â
you blink. âhm? you know him?â
âused to run in similar circles.â sukuna looks deeply annoyed already. âguyâs a pain in the ass.â
âwell.. he seemed nice?â
âthatâs because the guy likes pretending.â
you snort. âyouâre dramatic, itâll be fiiine.â
âiâm serious.â
âbaby, iâm going to a playground. not a nightclub.â
sukuna looks at you for a long second, then sighs.
âfine, do what you want.â
which, surprisingly, he actually meansâ he fully intends to let you have your little park day in peace.
because really.. what could happen?
apparently a lot.
because now sukunaâs standing outside a convenience store a few minutes away while staring at his phone with growing irritation.
he just cannot stay at home while knowing youâre out with that damned black-haired man, so he lasts another three minutes before getting back in his car.
meanwhile, youâre sitting at the park bench while yuji and megumi run toward the playground together.
âbe careful!â you call after them.
toji sits beside you a second later holding two juice boxes and an iced coffee.
âkid asked me to bring extras,â he says, handing you the iced coffee.
âthanks!â
âdonât mention it.â
for a while itâs easy and comfortable, you talk while the boys play. mostly about schoolâ how both boys have been doing, how megumi apparently refuses to sleep without his stuffed wolf, how yuji always has endless energy no matter what.
âso.. that your kid, right?â toji asks eventually, nodding toward yuji.
you smile. âwell no.. but technically my nephew.â
âcouldâve fooled me.â
you shrug slightly. âhe does feel like my own, though.â
âclearly.â
talking to toji is surprisingly easy, the guys laid back, which is probably why the next thing out of his mouth makes you second guess.
âyou single?â
oh..
but before you can even answer, another voice cuts in.
âno, sheâs not.â
you look up immediately.
sukuna stands there behind both of you wearing all black with sunglasses pushed into his hair.
he looks weirdly calm, which means he definitely heard enough to annoy him.
toji glances between both of you once before leaning back slightly.
âoh! what are you doing here?â you say surprised.
âwas just getting something to drink.â
âfrom the park..?â
âeh, crazy coincidence.â
toji snorts quietly beside youâ big mistake, because sukunaâs eyes immediately slide toward him.
âfushiguro.â
âryomen.â
you can absolutely feel the tension in the air.
you look between them slowly. âoh my god.. you actually know each other.â
âunfortunately,â they say at the exact same time.
yuji spots sukuna from across the playground and immediately lights up.
âUNCLE KUNA!!â
he abandons megumi and runs across the grass at full speed before slamming directly into sukunaâs legs.
sukuna just rests a hand on yujiâs head. ânow get off me brat, youâre sweaty.â
âwe were racing!â
âthat so?â
âi won!â
megumi finally walks over, hands shoved into his little pockets.
âyuji cheated..â he says quietly.
âdid not!â
âyou pushed me!â
youâre trying not to laugh while yuji now clings to sukunaâs arm, and you get up to approach both.
toji watches the interaction for a second, then he looks back at you.
ââŚdamn my bad,â he says finally. âcute little family you got there.â
sukuna goes quiet for a second, then his arm hooks around your waist possessively.
âexactly,â he says. âknow where you stand, fushiguro.â
!Ryomen Sukuna; who falls in love with the concubine he hated the most
Every woman brought to his estate understood the rules of survival before they even crossed the threshold.
You bowed until your forehead touched the tatami. You spoke only when spoken to. You anticipated his moods, read the terrifying language of his four eyes, and offered flattery or tears depending on what type of amusement he was seeking that day.
To center your entire existence around Ryomen Sukuna was the only way to ensure your head remained attached to your shoulders.
Except you didn't.
You hadn't knelt when he first entered your quarters three months ago. You had been lying on your side, propped up on an elbow, reading a translated scroll from the northern provinces, and you had merely shifted your gaze to look at him, entirely unimpressed by the sudden, heavy drop in atmospheric pressure that usually accompanied his presence.
"Stand when I enter," he had commanded, his upper eyes narrowing into dangerous, ruby slits.
You had turned a page. "Then leave and enter again. Perhaps I will feel like it next time."
The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukunaâs jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.
You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.
If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.
He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.
And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.
"You are eating that wrong."
You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.
You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.
"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.
"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."
"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."
Sukunaâs lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.
He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.
He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.
It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.
"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."
You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."
Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.
"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."
You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.
The shift happened. In Sukunaâs dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.
But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.
The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rotâsomehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."
The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.
And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.
During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.
You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukunaâs attempts to make you try a cup of sake.
But Sukuna had heard it.
He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lordâs table, and dismantled the manâs entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.
Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.
Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.
Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.
"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."
"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.
His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.
"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.
"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."
You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.
He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.
You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.
"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.
A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.
"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.
olderbf!nanami who never rushes you, no matter how impatient you get. youâre standing in front of your closet, frustrated, pulling out dresses and tossing them onto the bed.
"i have nothing to wear," you groan. heâs sitting in the armchair by the window, his tie already loosened, watching you with that calm, steady gaze.
"we have forty-five minutes," he says, his voice low and even. "take your time."
you huff, turning to face him. "youâre always so patient. itâs annoying."
he smiles, small and fond. "iâve waited forty years to find you. i can wait forty-five minutes for you to pick a dress."
olderbf!nanami who always makes sure you eat before you leave the house. youâre running late, your heels clicking on the kitchen floor as you grab your purse.
"weâre going to be late," you say, already halfway to the door.
he steps in front of you, a plate in his handâtoast with avocado, a soft-boiled egg, sliced fruit arranged neatly. "eat first."
you stare at him. "nanami, we donât have timeâ"
"we have time," he interrupts gently, setting the plate on the counter. "youâre not leaving this house on an empty stomach. sit."
you sit. you always do. because when he looks at you like thatâlike taking care of you is the most important thing in the worldâyou canât say no.
olderbf!nanami who never raises his voice, even when youâre being difficult. youâre arguing about something stupidâwhere to go for dinner, maybe, or whether you should cancel plans to stay inâand your voice is getting louder, your hands gesturing wildly.
he just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you. "youâre not even listening!" you snap.
"i am," he says quietly. "iâm listening to every word. and when youâre done, weâll talk about it calmly. like adults."
you deflate, your anger fizzling out. "youâre too kind to me," you mutter.
he steps forward, his hands finding your waist. "youâre worth the kindness."
olderbf!nanami who takes his time undressing you, like every layer is a gift heâs unwrapping. youâre in his bedroom, the lights dimmed, and youâre already reaching for his belt, impatient, wanting him now.
"slow down," he murmurs, catching your hands. "we have all night."
you pout. "i donât want to wait."
he leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "i know, baby. i know. but iâm going to make you wait. because the longer i take, the better itâll feel when i finally touch you." he undresses you slowly, his fingers working each button, each zipper, until youâre standing in front of him in nothing but your underwear. he steps back, his eyes raking over you. "beautiful," he says. "now lay down."
olderbf!nanami who eats you out like itâs a meditation, like he could spend hours between your thighs and never get bored. youâre on your back, your legs over his shoulders, and heâs taking his time, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
"n-nanamiâpleaseâ" you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets. he looks up at you, his mouth glistening.
"patience," he says, his voice calm even as he slides two fingers inside you. "iâm going to make you cum. but iâm going to do it my way." he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, his tongue circling your clit with agonizing precision.
youâre moaning, your hips rolling, but he holds you down with one hand on your stomach. "stay still," he orders gently. "let me take care of you."
olderbf!nanami who fucks you slow and deep, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you seeing stars. youâre on your stomach, your face pressed into the pillow, and heâs behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his cock buried so deep you can barely breathe.
"nanamiâh-harder!!â" you beg, trying to push back against him. he stills, his hand sliding up your spine to grip the back of your neck.
"no," he says, his voice firm but kind. "you take what i give you." he starts moving again, each thrust deliberate, each roll of his hips dragging against your walls in a way that makes you sob. "you feel that?" he murmurs against your ear. "thatâs me. all of me. and youâre going to take every inch, just like this. until you canât think about anything but how full you are."
olderbf!nanami who makes you ask for what you want, his voice low and commanding. youâre straddling him, his cock inside you, but heâs not moving.
heâs just watching you, his hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin.
"p-please, i.... i can'tâ" you whimper, trying to roll your hips. he holds you still.
"use your words," he says. "tell me what you want."
"i-i want you to move," you gasp. "i want you to fuck me."
he smiles, small and satisfied. "good girl. now ask nicely."
you bite your lip, your face burning.
"please fuck me, nanami. please."
he rewards you with a slow thrust upward, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes you moan. "thatâs it," he praises. "that's my girl."
olderbf!nanami who holds you after, his arms wrapped around you like heâs afraid youâll slip away. youâre lying on his chest, your body still trembling, your mind fuzzy with pleasure.
heâs stroking your hair, his lips pressed to the top of your head. "you did so well," he murmurs. "so beautiful. so perfect." you nuzzle closer, your eyes already drifting shut.
"youâre too good to me," you whisper. he kisses your forehead.
"no such thing. you deserve everything. and iâm going to give it to you for as long as youâll let me."
olderbf!nanami who wakes you up in the morning with his mouth between your legs, because heâs not done taking care of you yet. youâre half-asleep, your body warm and heavy, when you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you open.
"nanamiâ" you start, but then his tongue is on you, and youâre gasping, your hands flying to his hair. he looks up at you, his eyes dark.
"good morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep. "lay back. let me love you." and you do. because when nanami wants to be patient, you let him. every single time.
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đ˛đť đđľđśđ°đľ â° sukuna spends six months confessing his love through flowers and their hidden meanings, only to realize youâd kept every single one without ever knowing why he gave them to you.
âż ââ) ryomen sukuna đ gn!reader
đŹđźđťđđ˛đťđ fluff, college!au, nerd flower!sukuna, yearning, acts of service as love language, friends to lovers, idiots in love, a lots of flower symbolism / hanakotoba, hand holding, kiss, sukuna is blushing!!, secretly romantic sukuna.
the campus greenhouse had always been sukuna's favorite place, which was something most people wouldn't expect if they only knew him from his reputation.
people only saw the sharp jawline, the permanent furrow between sukunaâs brows, the way his broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than any one person deserved. they heard his dry humor, his quick wit, the way he could cut someone down with nothing more than a glance and a few carefully chosen words. they didn't see him here, elbows braced against a worn wooden table, fingers gently tracing the petal of a peony like he was handling something sacred.
you watched him from across the table, chin propped in your palm, half-listening to the lecture he'd launched into about fifteen minutes ago; something about victorian flower language, about the way people used to say things they couldn't speak aloud through carefully arranged bouquets.
sukunaâs voice was lower than usual here, way softer, as if the greenhouse demanded a certain reverence that even ryomen sukuna couldn't ignore.
"âand the thing is," sukuna said, gesturing with the hand that wasn't currently cradling a potted orchid. "people think it's all just romantic bullshit, but it's not. it's practical, really. a way of communicating when the words won't come out right."
sukunaâs tattoos shifted when he moved, those dark lines that crawled up his forearms and disappeared beneath his sleeves. you'd always liked that about sukuna; the way the boy never bothered to hide them even when professors gave him pointed looks on the first day of classes.
he was all sharp edges and hard lines, but then he'd show up at your apartment with a sprig of lavender tucked behind his ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"you're not listening," sukuna said, but there was no accusation in it, just a statement of fact, accompanied by the faintest quirk of his lips.
"i am," you lied, sitting up straighter. "you were talking about... flowers saying things."
his eyes narrowed, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
"i was talking about specific meanings. symbolic language. there's a difference."
sukuna set down the orchid and reached for another pot, something small with delicate white blooms that you didn't recognize. his fingers were careful, deliberate, the same way they were when he rolled a cigarette or tied his shoelaces or did anything that required even the slightest bit of precision.
it was hard to reconcile this version of sukuna with the one who'd shoved his way through a crowd last week just to get to the front of the coffee shop line, all elbows and impatience and barely concealed irritation.
"this one," sukuna said, holding the pot up so you could see. "is stephanotis. it means marital happiness, but also a willingness to be led. which is stupid, honestly, because why the hell would anyone want to be led anywhere? but the victorians were weird about a lot of things."
you laughed, and something in his expression softened just enough that you almost missed it.
sukuna had been leaving you flowers for months now.
not in a romantic way, or at least you'd assumed it wasn't romantic because this was sukuna, and sukuna didn't do romance. he did late-night study sessions that turned into ordering pizza at two in the morning. he did stealing your clothes and pretending he hadn't noticed they were yours. he did showing up at your door with a single yellow tulip tucked behind his ear and then plucking it out to hand to you like it was nothing, like he hadn't just walked across campus with a flower in his hair and dared anyone to say something about it.
you'd kept all of them, pressed between the pages of textbooks you never opened anymore, tucked into the frame of your bathroom mirror, dried and hanging from string tacked to your bedroom wall. there was something about the way he gave them to you; casual and offhand, like he'd just happened to find them and thought of you.
but sukuna never said why, he never explained the meaning behind any of them.
well, until now.
"so then you've got your roses, obviously," sukuna continued, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
the movement pulled his t-shirt taut across his shoulders, and you looked away before he could catch you staring.
"red for love, white for purity, yellow for friendship. but that's way too simple. anyone knows that. the real interesting stuff is the obscure ones."
the afternoon light filtered through the greenhouse glass, casting everything in a warm, golden, and beautiful haze. dust motes drifted between the two of you, slow and lazy, and a bee hummed somewhere in the corner, drunk on something sweet and pink that you couldn't name.
sukuna's voice washed over you like honey, and you found yourself sinking into it despite your best efforts to stay alert.
"like gardenias," he said, and your heart did something strange in your chest because he'd given you gardenias. three weeks ago, tucked into a mason jar on your desk after a particularly brutal exam week. you'd thought they were just pretty. "they mean secret love. the kind that can't be spoken aloud. which is dramatic as hell, but victorians loved drama almost as much as they loved repressed emotions."
he said it like a joke, like he was mocking the very concept, but his fingers had gone still on the table with no fidgeting, no gesturing; just stillness, and the way his gaze darted away from yours for a fraction of a second before snapping back.
you thought about the gardenias, pressed between pages 87 and 88 of your ancient history textbook, still faintly fragrant when you opened them.
"and peonies," sukuna went on, reaching for the plant he'd been touching earlier. "they've got a few meanings. shame, anger, but also romance and prosperity. it depends on the context, really. the victorians loved context, too."
a little pause.
"mostly, though, they symbolize a happy marriage. or a wish for one, anyway."
sukuna had given you peonies on your birthday. a whole bouquet of them, pink and lush and ridiculous, shoved into your arms with a gruff 'happy birthday, idiot' before he'd disappeared into the kitchen to make you dinner. you'd cried a little, though you'd blamed it on allergies.
your throat felt tight now, but you weren't sure why.
"basil is hatred," sukuna said, ticking off on his fingers now, counting down some internal list. "which is funny because it's also a cooking herb, so who knows what that says about italian grandmothers. ivy means fidelity. rosemary is remembrance. lavender is devotion, but also distrust, because again, context matters."
lavender. he'd left a sprig of lavender on your pillow last month after you'd fallen asleep on his couch.
you'd woken up to the smell of it, and to sukuna making coffee in the kitchen, humming something tuneless under his breath. you'd kept it tucked behind your ear for the rest of the day, and he'd looked at you differently after that; softer, maybe. or maybe you'd imagined it.
"what about camellias?" you asked, and sukunaâs hand paused mid-gesture.
your voice sounded strange to your own ears, thin in a way that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with the way your heart was suddenly trying to escape your ribcage. because he'd given you camellias too. pink ones, tied with a bit of twine, left in your backpack after a study session two months ago. you'd found them while looking for a pen and spent the rest of the night trying not to overthink it.
sukuna's jaw tightened for just a fraction, just for a second, but you saw it because you were looking, because you were always looking, even when you told yourself not to.
"camellias," sukuna repeated, and the word came out rougher than the others. he cleared his throat. "they mean... longing. desire, mostly. but specifically the kind that's acknowledged and accepted. not secret like gardenias, not hopeful like peonies. just... wanted."
the silence that followed was heavy and thick with something unspoken. a bee buzzed, a leaf drifted down from one of the hanging plants, landing softly on the table between the two of you like a tiny green question mark.
you thought about all of it.
the tulips and the lavender, the gardenias and the peonies, the camellias and the stephanotis sukuna had given you just last week, white and fragile and tucked into your coat pocket. you thought about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the way he always, always made sure you ate even when you forgot, even when you were too tired or too stressed or too something to take care of yourself.
you thought about the yellow tulips he'd given you first, and what he'd just said about them meaning friendship, and how maybe that had been the beginning. maybe sukuna had started there on purpose, testing the waters, seeing if you'd accept something small and simple before moving on to gardenias and secrets and things left unsaid.
"why are you telling me this?" you asked, and your voice barely trembled at all.
sukuna's eyes met yours, and for once, there was nothing sharp in them. there was no challenge, no defense, no carefully constructed walls. there was just him, just ryomen sukuna, the biggest flower nerd you'd ever met with his flower meanings and his pressed specimens and his soft spot for things that grew from the dirt.
"because," sukuna said, and his ears were turning pink, actually pink, the color creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. "i've been leaving you flowers for six months, and you haven't said a single word about it. and i thought maybe you didn't know what they meant, and i couldn't decide if that was better or worse than you knowing and not saying anything anyway."
sukuna's hands were shaking slightly.
you'd never seen sukuna's hands shake before, not once in all the years you'd known him. he was always so steady, so sure, so infuriatingly composed, but now, his fingers were curled into loose fists on the table, and the faint tremor in them made something ache behind your sternum.
"so which is it?" sukuna asked, and his voice cracked on the last word. just a little. just enough. "did you know?"
you thought about the gardenias pressed in your textbook, the lavender behind your ear, the peonies on your birthday, the camellias in your backpack. you thought about the way you'd told yourself it didn't mean anything at all, that sukuna wasn't capable of meaning anything, that this was just something the boy did because he was strange like that and unpredictable and full of contradictions.
you thought about how badly you'd wanted to be wrong.
"i didn't know," you said, and something in sukuna's expression flickered, dimmed.
you reached across the table before he could pull away, before sukuna could retreat back behind whatever wall he was scrambling to rebuild. your fingers brushed his knuckles softly, and he went very, very still.
"i didn't know the meanings. but i kept all of them. every single one. they're in my apartment, sukuna. pressed into my textbooks and taped to my walls and stuffed into my jewelry box. i've been sleeping with lavender under my pillow for three weeks because i didn't want to lose the scent."
sukuna's breath caught; you heard it, the tiny hitch that he tried to disguise as a cough.
"that'sâ" sukuna started, but stopped, and then he swallowed. his throat worked around words that didn't seem to want to come out. "that's really fucking weird, actually. keeping flowers for months."
"you're one to talk," you said, and your lips curved into a smile that felt wobbly and fragile and too big for your face. "you're the one who gave them to me."
"yeah, well." his ears were still pink, spreading now to his cheekbones, and you'd never seen anything more beautiful in your entire life. "i'm in love with you, so it's different."
the words hung in the air between you, simple and devastating. there was no fanfare, and no dramatic pause, simply sukuna being sukuna, saying the thing he'd probably been trying to say for six months through petals and stems and carefully chosen blooms.
"you could have just told me," you said, and your voice was shaking now, but so were your hands, and so was he, so it didn't really matter.
"where's the fun in that?" he asked, but his voice was rough, and his eyes were bright, and when you squeezed his fingers, he squeezed back like he was afraid you'd disappear.
outside the greenhouse windows, the afternoon was fading into evening, gold bleeding into amber bleeding into the soft purple of early dusk. the bee had gone quiet, the leaves had stopped drifting, and the only sound was your breathing and his, mingling in the warm, humid air.
"i'm in love with you too," you said.
because it was true, because it had probably been true for longer than you wanted to admit, because sukuna was a nightmare and a softy and the biggest flower nerd you'd ever met, and you'd spent six months tucking his gifts between the pages of your life like pressed flowers of your own.
sukuna closed his eyes just for a moment, just long enough for you to see the way his shoulders dropped, the tension draining out of him like water from a cracked vase. when he opened them again, sukuna was smiling. a real smile, not the sharp-edged thing he showed the rest of the world, but something small and private and almost shy.
"good," sukuna said, and then, quieter; "i have more at my apartment. flowers, i mean. i was going to give them to you tomorrow, butâ" he shrugged, one shoulder lifting and falling. "seems like a waste to wait."
your heart turned over in your chest, sweet like honey.
"show me," you said, and when he stood up and offered you his hand, you took it without hesitation.
sukunaâs palm was warm against yours, calloused from god knows what, steady now that the worst part was over.
he led you out of the greenhouse and into the cooling evening, and neither of you let go, not even when the campus paths grew busy with other students, not even when someone whistled and sukuna flipped them off with his free hand, not even when you reached sukunaâs apartment and he had to fumble for his keys because he simply didn't want to release you long enough to find them.
his apartment smelled like him, like cedar and something floral you couldn't name.
there were flowers everywhere â on the kitchen counter, on the windowsill, in a vase on the coffee table that was definitely too small for the arrangement it held. you spotted roses and tulips and something dark purple you didn't recognize, and sukuna followed your gaze and went pink again.
"i might have gone overboard," sukuma admitted, finally letting go of your hand so he could gesture vaguely at the chaos. "i wasn't sure which ones you'd like best, so i just kind of... got all of them."
you walked over to the windowsill, running your finger along the edge of a potted plant you didn't recognize. it was green and leafy, unassuming, nothing like the showy blooms scattered around the room.
"what's this one?" you asked, turning back to look at him.
sukuna was standing in the middle of his own living room like he'd never seen it before, like he was seeing it through your eyes and finding it lacking. he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture you'd never seen him make, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur.
"basil," he said. "it means hatred, remember? i got it as a joke. thought it would be funny to have something that meant the opposite of everything else."
you laughed, and the sound seemed to break something loose in sukuna. he crossed the room in three long strides and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at his face.
"i meant it, you know," sukuna said, and his hands hovered near your waist like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch. "every flower. every single one. i meant all of it."
"i know," you said, and you reached up to cup his face in your hands, feeling the slight roughness of his jaw beneath your palms. "i know now."
he kissed you then, soft and careful, like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. his lips tasted like coffee and something sweet, and his hands finally settled on your hips, and the basil sat on the windowsill behind you, tiny and green and full of meaning.
when you pulled back, sukunaâs eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks. he looked sweeter like this, softer, like all the sharp edges had been sanded away by the simple fact of being wanted back.
"i'm still mad you didn't look up the meanings," he said without opening his eyes. "six months. i could have just told you in the first week and saved myself a lot of anxiety."
"but then i wouldn't have gotten the flowers," you pointed out, and sukuna snorted, and you felt the vibration of it all the way down to your bones.
"i would have given you the flowers anyway," he said, finally opening his eyes. they were darker than usual, soft with something you were learning to recognize. "i probably would have given you flowers even if you'd laughed in my face. it's a problem, really. my therapist would have a field day."
you laughed again, and sukuna smiled again, and the evening stretched out before you both, full of possibility and pressed flowers and the quiet understanding that some things didn't need to be spoken aloud to be true.
but it didn't hurt, you thought, as sukuna pulled you toward his couch and wrapped his arms around you like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it.
jason todd who is gentle without even meaning to be.
he kisses the back of your hand while youâre walking side by side and smiles down at you when you startle. he stares like he canât believe that youâre his and doesnât hide it from you at all. instead heâll rub the back of your hand with his thumb and put your hand in his pocket when itâs cold out. in the winter, he watches you shiver even in your coat and heâll unzip his to hold you inside of it with him.
jason todd who is defensive on your behalf.
heâs attentive to what you like and what you donât. heâs the type to excuse the both of you from a situation if he sees youâre even remotely uncomfortable. when someone makes a backhanded comment, heâs the first one to call it out. he has a little smile on his face while he throws it back at the other person and a shit eating grin when they cower at his comments.
jason todd who is more mindful of your habits than you are.
heâll hold your hair back while you eat food to keep it from touching your plate and heâll kiss you with your mouth full cause he just canât resist it. after a long day at work he offers to rub your feet and often just gets on his knees to start working while you continue complaining about your boss. jason will talk to you about your cycle with genuine education and heâll suggest period underwear when you have cramps. he doesnât get grossed out. in fact, he embraces what would feel nasty or taboo and gets upset if you donât feel the same.
jason todd who canât stop spilling his guts out to you.
he follows you towards the bathroom and keeps the door open while you shower to keep talking. heâll even ask to stay in the bathroom while youâre peeing and youâll have to push him out only for him to continue his story through the door. if youâre exhausted, he just follows you into the shower and scrubs your back while he tells you all about something he witnessed today and turns around for you to do the same.
jason todd who has both a staring and a touching problem.
he doesnât look away when you catch him staring. instead, heâll tilt his head towards you and smile wider. if anything he just stares a little harder, leaning forward so his elbows are on his knees while he listens to you talk. maybe heâll even cup your head and kiss the side of your face with a really wet sloppy kiss. he laughs when you wipe his spit from your cheek. he replaces it with another one but this time to your lips. the kiss holds tight, deepening and then suddenly softening until youâre breathless and forget to be mad at him.
the day had felt endless, so full of meetings and expectations that every ticking minute weighed on your shoulders like a modern form of torture â you'd been running on pure anxiety, spite and the thought of coming back to your bed and husband. you had already slipped into the fine silk of your robes, the fabric brushing against your skin when you noticed the untouched sheets.
of course, you sighed.
soft light peeked from the office he had made out of the small room attached to your shared bedroom. the crimson curtains hung low in the doorway, separating the two rooms from one another.
your steps barely broke through the wind's late song.
at first, it was a rare sight, but as time went by, you missed the picture of him resting right beside you.
zuko was once more slumped over papers and worries. one arm securely tucked under his unscarred side while the other loosely held onto a bleeding brush, dark ink already leaving its traces on unfinished documents. calligraphic words were scattered all over the oak's smooth surface, a sea of empty teacups resting amongst them.
you couldn't help but stare for a moment; how his shoulders rose and fell with each soft breath he took, eyelashes brushing against his skin. hair had fallen from his usually neat bun, framing his face until you reached out to tuck it away. touch lingering on the roughness of his scar â a gesture he used to flinch away from, now he leaned closer.
the tiniest of groans escaped him, your name slipping from his lips, feeling your presence rather than recognizing the silhouette. "did I fall asleep?" his voice came out groggy and low, blinking slowly against the candlelight.
he shook his head like a newborn puppy, trying to shrug off any fatigue clinging onto him like sand on wet skin. you caught a glimpse of the boy you once knew before burdens weighed his shoulders, and he refused to set them down, even for a moment.
your fingers grazed over his, setting the brush aside. "again." you smiled, more fond and tinged with concern than anything else.
"i didnt mean to," focusing took him a second, golden eyes struggling to concentrate on the needs of his nation all laid out before him, yet uncompleted. "I still have toâ" he straightened up, or tried to.
his words caught in his throat, adam's apple bobbing in his throat as you draped your robe over his shoulders, stepping between his knees to cup his face in your hands.
"It's too late." you began, thumbs tracing every imperfection he had grown to hate until you showed him love differently, in ways he wasn't familiar with. "Come on. bed."
zuko didnât argue, not this time. he just pressed his face against your stomach like the world's worries couldn't quite reach him when he had his arms wrapped around you â shelter was in your fingertips as they threaded through his hair until he could only breathe freely again, steady, safe.
<đ .á husband-to-be!sukunas first look at your wedding dress!
âËâšá° sfw, fem!reader, still on my #letsukunacry agenda
neither of you believe in that âitâs bad luck for the groom to see the wedding dress before the ceremonyâ crap. mostly because itâs outdated, but also because sukuna was so eager to see you first on your big day, be the first to see you dressed so beautifully, to wed him of all people. he was such a lucky man, he reminded himself that everyday, thatâs why he gave you the ring.
youâre sitting alone in the bridal suite, hairstylist and makeup artist leaving the room after dolling you all up prettily to give you and sukuna privacy. you canât help but feel nervous. this is your big day, finally marrying the love of your life, but you feel jittery. your leg bounces up and down, your hands shake from the anticipation, and you can hear your heart pounding in your chest.
the pounding only gets louder when the sharp sound of knocks echoes through the suite, alerting you that sukuna was standing right outside. the nerves finally hit you, a drowning a feeling that suffocates you so intensely you forget to stand up and let him in, until you hear another set of louder knocks this time, disrupting you from the anxiety.
you stumble as you stand up, all clumsy and nervous. youâre trembling, a shaky hand laying unsteadily on the doorknob. this was it, you were going to see him, he was going to see you.
your unsteady hand is almost unable to twist the doorknob, but it finally does after the fourth time. behind the swinging door is your husband to be, your love, your life, your sukuna.
sukuna stands motionless, speechless, it worries you how still he stands, just staring at you. all of you. to your specially styled hair, to your professionally done makeup, to the dress. god, you are so beautiful. the dazzling dress compliments you so wonderfully, he cannot believe youâre his.
âkunaâŚ?â your soft voice comes out as barely a whisper, shaky as you try to gauge his emotions. his face is completely stoic. did he find you ugly? did he regret proposing? youâre about to cry from the nerves alone until you see him blinking away a tear.
âyouâreâŚâ
âwhatâs wrong?â you gasp, taking a step forward to thumb away the rolling down. the close proximity, your body molded against his so perfectly, your tender touch, it all reminds him why he chose you, why you are the one he wants to wed. the overwhelming emotions heâs feeling has him uncontrollably crying, fat tears streaming down his sculpted face, vision blurry as he tries to hold you.
heâs ashamed heâs crying, bending his body down to slot his face in the crook of your neck to hide his tears. youâre confused at first, this is the first time youâve ever seen sukuna cry. you assumed he wasnât capable of crying, that he pushed emotional acts past him, he usually got defensive if he was feeling emotional. but you were so wrong in your judgement, because here he was, sobbing into your neck as he hold you close, squeezed you against him so tightly you couldnât breathe.
âi canât believe,â heâs gasping out through sobs, clutching you close while being mindful to not ruin the expensive fabric of your dress, âyou chose me.â
âiâd always choose you,â you answer without hesitance, hand sliding down to find his and intertwining your fingers to squeeze. âiâll choose you in every life. thatâs why iâm marrying you.â
your heartfelt confession only has him breaking down harder, experiencing full body trembles, body wracked with such love. he loves you, and it is such an overwhelming feeling.
âi love you,â he cries, âi love you, i love you so much, my beautiful wife, youâre so gorgeous,â itâs like heâs reciting a mantra, âiâll always love you. i canât wait to marry you.â
you laughing through your own tears, trying your best to wipe away the stray tears without smudging your perfectly done makeup. itâs okay, your makeup artist already prepared to redo it knowing youâd be seeing sukuna before the ceremony.
heâs pulling away from, reluctantly so, and youâre both wiping away each others tears. heâs so tender, such a contrast from his rough persona.
đ˛đť đđľđśđ°đľ â° you spend three years convinced your academic rival sukuna hates you back, only to find out heâs been hopelessly in love with you the entire time.
âż ââ) ryomen sukuna đ gn!reader
đŹđźđťđđ˛đťđ fluff, college!au, secretly soft!sukuna, academic rivals to lovers, forced proximity (paired final project), sukuna wears glasses, miscommunication is the villain, competition as flirting, first kiss, oblivious idiots in love.
the thing about hating ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision.
you couldn't point to a specific day, a singular moment where you looked at him and thought, yes, this is it. this is the person i will dedicate a concerning amount of my emotional energy to despising. it just happened, the way moss creeps over stones or rust eats into metal â it happened slowly, quietly, and then all at once.
maybe it was because you were always neck-and-neck for the top of every class, your names sitting side by side on ranked assignment lists like they were married to each other against both of your wills. maybe it was because sukuna had this infuriating habit of leaning against your shared locker bank every morning, arms crossed, watching you approach with that half-lidded expression that managed to convey how utterly beneath him he found you without him having to say a single word. maybe it was because sukuna never let you win at anything â not group projects, not debate club, not even the stupid karaoke contest at utahime's birthday party last semester where he absolutely butchered a journey song and still somehow got a higher score than you.
whatever it was, the hatred was there. it lived in your chest like a second heartbeat, hot and familiar, something you could always count on when everything else felt uncertain.
you hated ryomen sukuna.
and you were pretty sure he hated you too.
this was simply the natural order of things, as stable and predictable as gravity â you walked into a room, sukuna was there, the air got thicker, you glared at each other, and the universe continued spinning.
it had been like this since freshman orientation when you accidentally took the last chocolate chip muffin from the dining hall cart and sukuna had been reaching for it at the exact same time; your fingers had brushed, and sukuna had looked at you like you'd personally insulted every single of his ancestors, and then he'd muttered something under his breath about how he 'should have known'.
from that day forward, you were locked in.
so when your professor announced the paired final project for advanced literary theory â a fifteen-page analysis of narrative unreliability that would make up forty percent of your grade â and then proceeded to assign partners alphabetically, you felt the universe's cosmic joke land squarely on your shoulders.
"aizawa is with burnham, carlson is with davis... nakamura is with park, and (l/n) is with sukuna."
the room didn't go silent, but you wouldn't have heard it if it had. all you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears as you turned your head, slow and dreadful, like a defendant watching the jury file back in.
sukuna was already looking at you.
he sat two rows over, sprawled in his chair like he'd been poured into it, all sharp angles and lazy menace. his pink hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that made you want to push it out of his face just so you could see him scowl more clearly. his jaw was set, his mouth a flat line, and his eyes â those stupid, arresting eyes that shifted color depending on the light, red one moment and almost brown the next â were fixed on you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
you glared at him.
sukuna raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to be annoyed with you.
"great," you muttered, slumping in your seat. "just great."
the thing you didn't know â the thing you couldn't know, because nobody tells you these things, because love doesn't announce itself with trumpets and flashing signs â was that ryomen sukuna had been in love with you for three years, two months, and approximately eleven days.
it had started with the muffin.
not because of the muffin, exactly, but because of the way you'd looked at him when your fingers touched. everyone else in the dining hall flinched away from sukuna â he knew how he came across, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the kind of person who looked like they'd bite if you got too close. but you hadn't flinched. you'd looked at him, and there had been something in your expression that wasn't fear or deference or any of the other things he was used to seeing.
you'd simply looked at him like⌠he was just some guy who wanted a muffin.
and then you'd taken it anyway, which was either deeply stupid or deeply brave, and sukuna hadn't been able to decide which, but he'd known, suddenly and completely, that he needed to figure it out.
so he'd started showing up at your locker, not because he wanted to intimidate you but because sukuna wanted to see if you'd look at him like that again. he'd started competing with you for grades not because he wanted to beat you but because sukuna wanted you to notice how hard he was willing to try, how he sharpened himself against you like a blade against a whetstone. he'd challenged you to the karaoke contest because you'd laughed at something utahime said â a real laugh, the kind that crinkled your nose â and sukuna had wanted to be the reason you made that sound, even if it was because he was singing badly on purpose.
none of it had worked the way he wanted.
somewhere along the way, the wires had gotten crossed so completely that sukuna didn't even know how the hell to untangle them anymore; his attention had curdled into something you perceived as hostility. his proximity had become a threat instead of a hope.
and ryomen sukuna, who had never been good at explaining himself, who had spent his whole life building walls instead of bridges, had no idea how to tell you that every time you glared at him, he felt like he was swallowing glass.
so he didn't tell you.
sukuna just kept showing up, he just kept competing, he just kept finding reasons to be near you, and let you believe whatever you wanted to believe.
it was easier that way. really, it was easier than admitting that he thought about you constantly, that he had a folder on his phone full of screenshots of your discussion board posts because he liked the way you structured arguments, that he'd memorized your coffee order from watching you get it so many times (oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top, which was objectively an incorrect way to drink coffee but he loved that about you anyway).
it was easier than saying; i don't hate you. i never have. i think i would burn the world down if you asked me to, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.
so when professor okamoto announced your pairing, sukuna's heart did something violent in his chest, and he had to physically stop himself from smiling. he raised one eyebrow instead, giving you his most unreadable look, and watched your face crumple with displeasure.
god, you were beautiful when you were annoyed.
yeah⌠sukuna was so, so fucked.
you agreed to meet in the library on tuesday afternoon, mostly because you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. the sooner you started, the sooner you'd be done, and the sooner you could go back to pretending ryomen sukuna didn't exist at all.
he was already there when you arrived.
this was infuriating because you were fifteen minutes early, specifically to avoid this exact scenario â walking in to find him already settled, already comfortable, already looking like he belonged in a way that made you feel like an intruder in your own study space.
sukuna had claimed the corner table by the window, the good one with the natural light and the extra outlets, and he was bent over a laptop with his reading glasses on.
you stopped dead.
sukuna wore glasses.
you had never seen this before, you had no idea sukuna even needed them, and the sight of them â wire frames, simple and unexpectedly kind against the boyâs sharp face â made something in your chest do a strange little flip.
he looked way softer like this, less intimidating, and you hated that you noticed. you hated that you noticed that the sleeves of sukunaâs sweater were pushed up to his elbows, exposing the lean lines of his forearms. you hated that you noticed the way his hair fell when he was concentrating, how he kept pushing it back with an absent hand.
you hated that you noticed anything about him at all.
"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up.
you bristled.
"i'm not staring. i'm assessing the enemy's territory."
now sukuna looked up, and the glasses made him seem almost approachable for half a second before his expression settled into its usual mask of mild disdain.
"the library is not enemy territory. it's simply a library. with books. which we both really need for this project we're both required to complete."
"don't sound so excited about it."
"i'm not excited about anything involving you."
that stung more than you wanted it to.
you told yourself it was because you were proud, because you hated being dismissed, because sukuna's opinion shouldn't matter to you but it did, it always had, in the same way a splinter mattered â small and sharp and impossible to ignore.
you dropped your bag on the table with more force than necessary and sat down across from him, pulling out your laptop and notebook and pens with aggressive efficiency.
"let's just get this over with."
"eager to escape my company?"
"desperately."
something flickered across his face, there and gone so fast you couldn't name it. he looked back at his screen.
"okamoto wants us to focus on unreliable narration in gothic literature. i've pulled some secondary sources. there's a reading list in the shared document i started."
"you started a shared document already?"
"i'm not an idiot."
"i never said you were."
"you were thinking it."
you opened your mouth to argue, then closed it because he wasn't wrong, and also because there was something in his tone that didn't sound like his usual condescension. it sounded almost... tired. like he was exhausted by this dance you two did, even though he was the one who kept leading.
the silence stretched between you, strange and unfamiliar.
you'd never spent this much time alone with sukuna before; your interactions were always in crowded hallways or full classrooms, always brief and barbed, always with an audience. now it was just the two of you and the soft sounds of the library â pages turning, keyboards clicking, someone's phone buzzing somewhere in the stacks.
you could smell his cologne; something woodsy and warm, nothing like the sharp, cold scent you'd imagined he'd wear. it made him seem closer than he actually was.
"so," you said, because you had to say something, "gothic literature. fun."
sukuna looked at you over the top of his glasses.
"is that a genuine statement or are you being sarcastic?"
"do i ever not sound sarcastic?"
"no," sukuna said, and then, quieter, "i know."
you didn't know what that meant, and you didn't ask.
the first week of working together was exactly as miserable as you'd expected.
you disagreed about everything â thesis statements, source selection, whether or not to use first-person in the analysis, the correct way to cite a multi-volume work.
sukuna was methodical to the point of obsession, wanting to outline every paragraph before writing a single word, while you preferred to write freely and shape the chaos into something structured later. he thought your approach was inefficient. you thought his approach was suffocating.
"you can't just write without knowing where you're going," he said on thursday, staring at your laptop screen like it had personally offended him. "that's how you end up with a directionless argument."
"it's not directionless, it's exploratory. there's a difference."
"there isn't."
"there is if you have any imagination at all."
sukunaâs jaw tightened. "i have imagination."
"huh. could've fooled me."
the words came out sharper than you intended, and you saw something shutter behind sukunaâs eyes. he looked away first, which he never did, and when he spoke again his voice was carefully, deliberately flat.
"just write the outline. we can argue about methodology later."
you wanted to push. you wanted to know why he looked like you'd actually hurt his feelings, which was ridiculous because ryomen sukuna didn't have feelings, not ones that could be hurt by the likes of you. but something about the set of his shoulders stopped you, something about the way he'd gone very still, like he was bracing for impact.
so you wrote the outline.
and sukuna was right, which made it worse.
by the end of the second week, something had shifted.
you couldn't point to exactly when the hell it happened, but somewhere between arguing about the reliability of jane eyre's narration and debating whether rochester was a gothic hero or just a guy with too many secrets, the edges of your interactions had started to soften.
you still bickered constantly, but it felt less like warfare and more like... a game. a familiar rhythm you'd both fallen into without meaning to.
sukuna started bringing you coffee.
not every day, and not in an obvious way either; he'd just show up to your library sessions with two cups from the campus cafe, one black for himself and one that smelled like cinnamon and oat milk, and he'd set yours on your side of the table without a single comment.
the first time it happened, you stared at the cup like it might explode at any moment;
"what is this?"
"coffee. it's a beverage. people drink it to stay awake when they're doing academic work."
"i know what coffee is. i meantâwhy did you get me one?"
sukuna shrugged, not meeting your eyes. "you always look like you haven't slept. figured you needed it."
it was such a strangely considerate thing to say, so unlike the person you thought you knew, that you didn't know how to respond. you just wrapped your hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into your palms, watching sukuna over the rim as he settled into his chair and opened his laptop like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
the coffee was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
you didn't think about what that meant.
you definitely didn't think about how sukuna would have had to pay attention to know your order, how sukuna would have had to remember, how sukuna would have had to deliberately choose to get it for you even though you'd never asked and never thanked him properly.
you just drank the coffee and tried to ignore the way your heart was beating.
on the third week, you caught sukuna staring at you.
not the usual staring â the kind where he was waiting for you to finish a thought or watching your face for a reaction during an argument. this was different; this was soft, this was the way people looked at things they wanted to keep.
you'd been reading a passage from wuthering heights aloud, doing the voices for the different characters because you were a huge nerd and because it made sukuna's lip twitch in a way that was almost â almost â a smile. you were in the middle of heathcliff's "i cannot live without my soul" speech, and you'd gotten dramatic with it, leaning forward with your hand pressed to your chest, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, sukuna was just... looking at you.
not at the book, not at the table, but at you.
sukunaâs expression was naked in a way you'd never seen before. all the usual armor was completely gone â the sneer, the boredom, the casual cruelty he wielded like a shield.
instead he looked almost... awed. like you'd done something miraculous just by existing in his general vicinity.
your voice caught in your throat.
"sukuna?"
he blinked, and the mask slammed back into place so fast you almost believed you'd imagined the moment before.
"what?"
"you were staring."
"no, i was just listening."
"you lookedâ"
you stopped, not sure what you'd been about to say. you looked like you loved me, maybe, but that couldn't be right because ryomen sukuna didn't love anything, certainly not you, certainly not like that.
"you looked weird."
"i always look weird."
"you don't," you said, before you could stop yourself. "you look, you know, normal? i mean, not weird. usually."
sukuna's eyebrows went up.
for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the library's heating system kicked on with a low rumble, and somewhere across the room, someone laughed quietly, and you were acutely aware of every single inch of space between you, of how easy it would be to reach across the table and touch sukunaâs hand, of how badly you wanted to.
you didn't. of course you didn't. but you wanted to, and that was new, and that was terrifying.
"finish the passage," sukuna said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "you were at 'i cannot live without my soul'."
you looked down at the book, at heathcliff's desperate words, and felt heat rise to your cheeks.
"right. yeah. okay."
you finished the passage, but you couldn't look at sukuna while you did it.
the confession happened on a thursday, and it happened because of a paper cut.
you were both hunched over a stack of printouts, cross-referencing quotes, and you were tired â the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from too many late nights and too much caffeine and the slow, creeping realization that you didn't actually hate the person sitting across from you, that maybe you'd never hated him at all, that maybe you'd been wrong about everything for three entire years.
you reached for a page at the same time sukuna did, your fingers brushing against his, and you both froze.
his hands were warm.
you'd expected them to be cold, because everything about sukuna seemed cold, but no, they weren't. his hands were warm and broad and surprisingly gentle when he pulled back like you'd burned him.
"sorry," you said, and meant it.
"don't be sorry for touching me," sukuna said, and his voice was strange, tight, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "i don'tâi don't mind."
you looked at him.
really looked, the way you hadn't let yourself look in years; his hair was messy from running his hands through it, his glasses were slightly crooked, and there was a tension in his jaw that you'd always read as anger but now seemed like something else entirely. something held back, something waiting.
"you always mind," you said quietly. "you always mind when i'm near you."
sukuna's breath caught, and you saw it, the way his chest stopped moving for just a second, the way his fingers curled into fists on the table.
"is that what you think?" he asked. "that i mind?"
"you act like you do. you've always acted likeâ"
"i know how i act." sukuna cut you off, and there was something raw in his voice now, something that made your stomach drop. "i know exactly how i act. do you think i don't know? do you think i haven't noticed that you flinch every time i walk into a room, that you tense up when i stand too close, that you look at me like i'm something you stepped in?"
you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
"i know," he continued, and now he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking at the table, at his hands, at anything but your face. "i know you hate me. i've known for years. and i don'tâi don't blame you. i'm not good at this. i'm not good at people. i don't know how to be anything other than what i am, and what i am is someone who makes you uncomfortable, apparently, which was neverâ"
his voice actually cracked, and you felt something splinter inside your chest.
"that was never what i wanted."
"sukunaâ"
"just let me finish."
sukuna pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was muffled.
"i need to say this. i've been trying to say this for three whole years, and i just keep messing it up, and i don't care if you hate me after, i just really need you to know so i can stopâso i can stop pretendingâ"
he dropped his hands and looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bright, and all the air left your lungs.
"i don't hate you," sukuna said. "i have never hated you. not once. not even when you took the last muffin at orientation, which was a crime against humanity and i'm still not over it. not when you argued with me about romantic poetry in sophomore lit. not when you told professor tanaka that my interpretation of frankenstein was 'reductive and borderline misogynistic', which, for the record, it wasn't. i don't hate you. i've never hated you. iâ"
sukuna stopped, swallowed, and looked at you like you were the scariest thing he'd ever seen.
"i love you," he said, and the words came out small, almost bewildered, like he was discovering the truth of them in real time. "i love you so much it's embarrassing. i love your laugh and the way you argue and how you do the voices when you read out loud even though you think nobody notices. i love that you're competitive and stubborn and terrible at asking for help and you always push your hair behind your ear when you're thinking. i love that you took that muffin even though you knew i wanted it because you don't back down from anything, including me, especially me, and iâ"
his voice broke again, and he laughed, a short, helpless sound.
"i've been in love with you since freshman orientation. i've been in love with you for three years, and i've been so busy trying to get your attention that i didn't notice i was just making you hate me. and that'sâthat's on me. that's entirely on me. but i needed you to know. before we finish this project and you never have to talk to me again. i needed you to know that none of it was hate. not on my side. it was never hate."
the library was silent.
you could hear your own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your hands, every part of you that had suddenly come alive.
sukuna was looking at you like a man awaiting execution, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands shaking slightly where they rested on the table.
you thought about three years of mornings at your locker. three years of competitive grading. three years of him finding reasons to be in your orbit, even when you made it clear he wasn't welcome at all.
you thought about the coffee, the glasses, the way he knew your reading voice and your coffee order and the fact that you pushed your hair behind your ear when you were thinking.
you thought about how you'd actually never hated him either; at least, not the way real hatred felt cold and dead. your feelings for sukuna had always been hot, always been alive, always been demanding your attention when you wanted to focus on anything else.
you thought about the muffin.
"you're an idiot," you said.
sukuna blinked. "what?"
"you're an idiot," you repeated, and your voice was shaking, and you couldn't stop the smile that was spreading across your face, wide and disbelieving and probably ridiculous. "three years. three years of fighting over grades and arguing about literature and competing in karaoke contests, and the whole time you were just trying to get me to look at you?"
"to be fair, it worked. you looked at me constantly. justânot in the way i wanted."
"because i thought you hated me!"
"yeah, i know! i realize that! i'm aware that my communication skills areâ"
"abysmal?"
"i was going to say 'deeply flawed', but yes, abysmal works."
you laughed.
you couldn't help it; it bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been wound too tight for too long, and suddenly you were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down your face, and sukuna was staring at you like you'd lost your mind, which honestly you might have.
"i don't hate you either," you managed, between gasps. "i never hated you. i thought i did, but i don't think i know what hatred feels like anymore because every time i tried to hate you, i justâi just kept noticing things. like the way you tap your fingers when you're reading. and how you always hold the door for people even though you pretend not to. and you helped that freshman find their classroom last week even though you were late to your own class. and you look at me likeâ"
you stopped, swallowed, and looked at him.
"you look at me like i matter," you said softly. "and i didn't know what to do with that, so i called it hatred. because it was easier than admitting that maybe i wanted you to look at me forever."
sukuna made a sound, something wounded and hopeful all at once, and then he was moving â not dramatically, not the way they do in movies, but slowly, carefully, like the boy was approaching something that might spook.
he reached across the table and took your hand, his fingers sliding between yours, and you both looked down at where you were connected like it was the most incredible thing either of you had ever seen.
"so," sukuna said, and his voice was unsteady, "just to be clear. we both wasted three years being convinced the other person hated them, when actuallyâ"
"when actually you have the emotional intelligence of a brick and i'm apparently blind."
"i was going to say we're both complete idiots, but yes, that's also very accurate."
you squeezed sukunaâs hand, and he squeezed back, and the smile he gave you was nothing like the ones you'd seen before; this one was real, this one reached his eyes, softened all his sharp edges, and made him look so sweet and so hopeful and so terrifyingly beautiful.
"what now?" you asked.
sukuna looked at your joined hands, then at your face, then back at your hands.
"well. i have a fifteen-page paper due in two weeks, and my partner is very distracting."
"your partner is sitting right here."
"i know." sukuna lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, feather-light, his eyes never leaving yours. "trust me. i know."
you spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, but you didn't get any work done.
you talked instead â really talked, for the first time in three years. you told him about the muffin, how you'd only taken it because you'd seen him reach for it and wanted an excuse to touch his hand, how you'd spent the rest of the day convinced you'd imagined the whole thing. he told you about the karaoke contest, how he'd picked journey specifically because he'd overheard you say it was your guilty pleasure, how he'd sung badly on purpose because he wanted to see you smile.
"i can't believe you can actually sing," you said, propping your chin on your hand. "and all this time i thought you were just terrible at music."
"i have many hidden talents."
"like secretly being in love with me for three years?"
sukunaâs ears went pink.
"that's not a talent. that's a crisis."
you reached across the table and touched his face, just because you could now, just because he was yours to touch. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, and he closed his eyes when you traced the line of his jaw, leaning into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.
"i'm sorry," you said quietly. "for all the times i was mean to you. for assuming the worst."
"don't be." sukuna turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "you gave as good as you got. it's one of the things i like about you."
"one of the things?"
sukuna slowly opened his eyes, and the look in them made your chest ache.
"i could give you a long list. it would take a while. we might need to order dinner."
"we're still in the library."
"the library has a cafe."
you laughed, and he smiled, and when he kissed you for the first time â soft and slow and a little awkward, both of you smiling too much to do it properly â you tasted coffee and cinnamon and something that felt like coming home.
the thing about loving ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision either.
it just happened â it happened the way spring follows winter, the way flowers naturally turn toward the sun, the way your hand found his under the library table and held on like you'd been doing it your whole life.
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thinking about boxer yuji teaching his little son how to make a proper fist and hit the boxing bag.
not in a scary way, not in a âmy son has to be toughâ way, but in that warm, careful, almost unbearably sweet way yuji does everything when it comes to him.
your son is standing in front of the bag with his tiny feet planted on the mat, little brows furrowed in deep concentration, looking so serious that you almost laugh. his boxing gloves are too big for him, bright and padded, swallowing his hands whole. he keeps lifting them up and dropping them again because theyâre heavy, and yuji is crouched in front of him, smiling like this is the most important training session of his entire career.
âokay, champ,â yuji says softly, holding out his own hand. âshow me your fist.â
your son immediately balls his hand up wrong inside the glove, thumb tucked in, and yujiâs eyes widen dramatically.
âwhoa, whoa, whoa, no, no, no,â he says, gently catching his little wrist. ânot like that. youâll hurt your thumb, buddy.â
your son blinks at him, all big eyes and serious little mouth. âhurt?â
âyeah,â yuji nods, voice warm and patient. âand we donât wanna hurt ourselves. boxing isnât just hitting. itâs being smart with your body, okay?â
youâre leaning by the doorway, arms crossed, watching them with the softest ache in your chest.
yuji takes his sonâs little hand in both of his, careful even through the glove, showing him how the fingers curl. âfingers in. thumb outside. wrist straight. like this.â then he lifts his own fist, demonstrating slowly. âsee? strong, but safe.â
your son copies him with fierce concentration, tongue poking out a little at the corner of his mouth, and yuji looks like he might melt right onto the gym floor.
âyeah,â he breathes, grinning. âyeah, thatâs it. thatâs my boy.â
then he stands behind him, big hands gently settling over tiny shoulders, adjusting his stance like heâs handling something precious. âfeet apart. knees soft. donât just swing with your arms, okay? use your whole body.â
your son nods like he understands every word, even though half of it probably goes right over his head.
yuji taps the bag lightly. âokay. hit it.â
your son throws the smallest punch youâve ever seen.
the bag barely moves.
yuji gasps like he just witnessed a knockout.
âwoah!â he cheers, stumbling back with a hand over his chest. âdid you see that? baby, did you see that?â
your son beams, immediately looking over at you. âmama! i punch!â
âyou did,â you laugh, pressing a hand to your mouth because your heart is doing something stupid and tender behind your ribs. âyou punched so good, baby.â
and yuji is glowing; sweaty from his own training, hair messy, shirt clinging to him, but his whole face is soft with pride. he crouches again and holds his hand out for a glove bump.
âagain?â he asks.
your son nods fiercely. âagain!â
and yuji laughs, bright and full, the sound filling the gym like sunlight. âalright, champ. again.â
âĄă ×ă PATCHWORKăâď¸ă ŰŤ ăâ
your daughter â helping â you patchÂ
up satoru after shinjuku ŕťę°ŕžŕ˝˛ âş â¸â¸ ŕ¸ęąŕžŕ˝˛ŕ§§
âpapa, donât move . . .â your daughter huffed as she pressed a pink sticker over satoruâs cheek. her tiny brows furrowed in utter and absolute concentration.
âsorry doc,â satoru hummed, âwonât do it again,â immediately surrendering to the demands of your tiny daughter who was ever so determined to âfix papa.â
you watched the quiet chaos unfold, the living room covered in the plastic sheets of discarded stickers, fake medical tools scattered across the wooden floors.
somewhere along the way, what was meant to be a simple task turned into your daughter decorating her father like an arts and crafts project.
not that satoru minded, of course.
if anything, he was more than pleased.
he sat shirtless at the foot of the couch, revealing the fresh bandages wrapped around his torso and arms, white fabric stark against his skin. faint remnants of dried blood still lingered near his collarbone despite your attempts to clean him up earlier. and yet, right in the middle of it all, sat a tiny sticker of a smiling strawberry.
another one resting on the bridge of his nose.
âyou missed a spot,â you hummed teasingly to your daughter, knees pressed to your chest as you sat across from them.
she quickly scrambled into his lap from the floor, tangling herself in his unreasonably long limbs as she reached for another âmy melodyâ bandaid from the colorful box beside him, tongue poking out slightly in concentration â a habit painfully inherited from her father.
just hours ago, you werenât even sure if heâd make it home.
the memory alone made your stomach twist: the exhaustion of his usually vibrant eyes, the way he could hardly stand the minute he walked through the door.
and now?
he sat on the floor letting your daughter cover his once fatal injuries with glitter stars and sanrio characters.
you should yell at him. you should be angry, ask him: what the hell he was thinking? coming home half-dead with a stupid grin on his face. it was ridiculous, but yet you knew he did it for your sake. he didnât want to scare you, though he had done it anyway.
but instead, the words died in your throat the minute your daughter proudly pressed another bandaid onto his skin, injured, yes, but full of life all the same.
âdone!â she announced proudly, squeezing satoruâs cheeks together, making him chuckle. he pulled down her tiny wrists from his face before he looked at you, a somber smile resting on your lips.
without saying a word, he reached over, dragging you to his side by your wrist, making you gasp, sliding you across the floor effortlessly. âsatoru?? whatâs wrong withââ
âah.â he pressed a finger to your lips, letting it sit there.
warm.
alive.
âi think mama needs a sticker,â he hummed softly, blue eyes never once leaving yours, his large hand cradling your face as his thumb brushed against your cheek.
of course he didnât really mean a sticker. it was code for please donât cry.
you bit down on your lip as you tucked yourself against his sideâholding back tears of frustration and fragile reliefâcherishing the familiar warmth that had almost been ripped away from you.
your daughter â blissfully unaware of what was really going on â gasped, âyea! mama needs a sticker!â before aggressively peeling off a glittery pink star and slapping it between your eyes, making your husband laugh.
âdonât you feel better mama?â satoru asked lightly, voice softer than the smile he held on his face.
you let out an amused scoff, rolling your eyes as you quickly wiped away a stray tear. âi supposeâŚâ
âthere!â she spoke proudly. ânow everybodyâs fixed.â
and for a moment, with him beside you and her beaming at the both of you, it almost felt true.
perhaps because it was true.
ok so this was supposed to be cute and funny but now im sick
ryomen sukuna was no less than a god at jujutsu tech high. star athlete, top of his class, effortlessly charismaticâeveryone knew his name, and everyone wanted a piece of him. and obviously, his huge frat house was something you couldn't comprehendâhow can a man hooking up every single day of the week still have time for academics?
"you know, youâre kinda like a plasticizer," sukuna said, leaning against your locker. "softens me up or whatever. makes me flexible." you didnât dignify that with a response, just shoved past him to grab your physics textbook. he laughed, loud enough that heads turned down the hallwayâalways 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 moreâuntil 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, atleastâ
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 werenât even looking his way, holding a red solo cup with too much disdain for someone at a frat house, laughing at something your friend whisperedâbut he noticed how your smile didn't quite reach your eyes.
so, sukuna did something nobody would expect him to doâand 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 didnât 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 didnât 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 thenâsomething happened. sukunaâs smirk faltered, just for a second, because the dim, shitty party lights caught your face just right, and suddenly he was noticing things he shouldnât. everybody knew you were gorgeous, that much was obvious, but heâd spent so much time pretending he didnât care that now, standing too close, he had no fucking clue what to do with the way your eyelashes cast shadows on your cheeks.
sukunaâs throat went dry. he couldâve cracked another joke, couldâve leaned in with some stupid line about how you looked better when you werenât scowlingâbut 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. heâd 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 awayâexcept 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 hypnotizedâ by you.
"come outside," sukuna said abruptly, jerking his chin toward the back door. it wasnât a requestânever was with himâbut 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 partyâs shit," he said, shrugging like it was obvious. like everyone didnât 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, andâfine. maybe fresh air wouldnât 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."
sukunaâs grin was all teeth as he tossed the cup onto some unsuspecting pledgeâs head. "knew youâd see it my way."
the backyard was quieter, just the distant hum of crickets and the occasional shout from inside. sukuna didnât stop at the porchâhe 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 didnât agree to a kidnapping."
"youâre 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 newâlike he was nervous. which was impossible. sukuna didnât 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 cologneâsomething 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. "whatâs next, you gonna start obeying speed limits?"
sukunaâs fingers flexed around the wheel. "shut up."
"make me."
he shot you a lookâhalf glare, half something elseâbefore 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 heâd ever been denied anything in his life. wondered what itâd look like if he was.
"so," you drawled, kicking your feet up on the dash just to see his eye twitch. "whatâs the grand plan here? kidnap me, drive in circles, then what?"
"drop your ass home," he muttered, swerving to avoid a pothole. "unless youâd rather walk."
"youâre really bad at this whole âcharming your hostageâ thing."
"who said i was trying to charm you?" sukuna flicked the blinker onâshocking, honestlyâbefore turning onto your street. the car rolled to a stop outside your apartment, engine idling like he wasnât sure whether to cut it or bolt. his fingers drummed against the wheel, restless. "weâre 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."
sukunaâs hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist before you could bolt. his grip wasnât tightâjust enough to pause you, his thumb brushing the delicate bones there like an afterthought. "thatâs it?" he asked, voice rougher than the purr of his engine. "no âgoodnight, sukunaâ? no âwow, youâre such a gentlemanâ?"
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 tightenâbut he didnât 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. youâre such a gentleman."
his head thumped back against the seat with a groan, but you didnât wait to see the rest of his reaction. you slipped inside, letting the door click shut behind youâbut not before catching the way his fingers clenched around the steering wheel, white-knuckled.
the second your apartment door closed, sukuna exhaled like heâd been holding his breath. what the fuck was that? heâd driven girls home beforeâplenty of themâbut 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 youâd do next.
he scrubbed a hand over his face, gripping the wheel again with the other. the leather creaked under his grip. this wasnât supposed to happen. you werenât supposed toâfuck.
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 heâd 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 yetâ
the memory of your wrist under his fingers seared like a brand. small, but not fragile. he couldâve crushed it without trying, but instead heâd 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 didnât know where he was goingâjust away. away from your apartment, away from the way your wrist had felt like a fucking revelation under his fingers.
heâd always known he wanted things. that was the problem, wasnât it? sukuna took what he wanted without asking, without thinking, because the world had never told him no. but thisâthis wasnât something he could grab by the throat and claim. this wasnât 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 hadnât 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 streetlightsâhe realised one thing.
he was fucked. royally, utterly, irreversibly fucked for you.
âyou donât even notice anything about me anymoreâ
youâre currently sitting on his lap, facing the brute and twirling a strand of your hair around your manicured finger.
sukuna licks his bottom lip, his hands suddenly clammy on their resting spot.
âyou dyed one strand of your hair a shade darkerâ he notes, tapping a steady rhythm on your waist.
âso you did notice,â you narrow your eyes at him.
sukuna already knows that look.
itâs the same look you had before accusing him of âemotionally unfollowingâ you because he used a period at the end of a text.
he should stop this now.
instead, stupidly, he hums âyup, noticed it this morningâ he actually didnât notice anything, but he couldnât lose.
you go quiet for a second. silently, you rub his shoulder noting the sheer amount of muscle under your grip while deep in thought.
âhmm, interestingâ
there it is.
sukunaâs grip on your waist tightens instinctively,âwhatâs interesting?â
you study him carefully like youâre piecing together evidence in a case.
ânothing,â you say softly.
âjust weird that you noticed that when it was a complete lieâ your boyfriendâs jaw drops open, âbut not the other thingâ you pout.
his eye twitches, âwhat other thingâ
you look away, âforget itâ
âno. say itâ
another pause. oh you were so evil.
then, quietly you whisper for dramatic flair, âmy accentâ
ââŚyour whatâ
âmy accentâ you blink at him innocently, âitâs gotten noticeably thicker over the past few weeksâ
sukuna stares at you in complete silence.
âyou donât hear it?â you ask, suddenly insecure âeveryone else doesâ you shrug.
his eyes bore down on you âwhat accentâ
âexactlyâ your voice turns wounded, âyou donât even listen when i talk anymoreâ
âyou were born twenty minutes away from meââ
not letting him finish, you grasp his collar and pull his stupid handsome face closer to you, âtell me who she is sukuna, who is this other woman you are so focused on that you wonât pay attention to me?â
you pronounce each word heavily, emphasizing your previous point of your accent thickening ofcourse.
he actually feels a headache forming.
you sigh and start tracing invisible patterns into his hoodie.
âitâs okay,â you murmur sadly, âi kinda noticed the emotional distance alreadyâ
âthere is no other girl and no emotional distanceâ
âmhmâ
he tucks a strand a strand of hair behind your ear before gently holding the side of your face, âthere isnât.â
âsukunaâŚâ you say gently, like youâre explaining something difficult to a child, âthree days ago i used british slang and you didnât react at allâ
he blinks, âwhat british slangâ
âi said mentalâ
ââŚthatâs your evidence?â
âif you cared about me and loved me you wouldâve noticed iâm gradually becoming britishâ
sukuna has to physically look away from you for a second.
because this is how it always happens.
you say something so insane that his brain stalls long enough for you to build an entire false narrative around it.
last month you convinced him you could feel when he was about to annoy you âthrough vibrations in the airâ
before that, you accused him of making you âfeel geometrically unsafeâ
he still doesnât know what that means.
another day, you claimed couples start biologically syncing after enough time together and therefore if you were tired, technically he had no right to be energetic.
and somehow the conversation ended with him apologizing.
he still doesnât know how you did that.
âyou know what i think?â you continue quietly.
he already hates where this is going.
âI think youâve gotten too comfortable.â
âtoo comfortableâ he indulges you, for the time being.
you nod sadly, âlike you think iâll always just be hereâ
you gesture vaguely to yourself, âmeanwhile iâm literally changing as a person right in front of youâ
sukuna raises a brow, âbecause you said âmentalâ once?â
âtwice, actuallyâ
he laughs before he can stop himself.
you immediately narrow your eyes again, âwow, oh my god, iâm being vulnerable and youâre laughing!â
his chest shakes under your palm trying to hold in his chuckle âbecause you sound insane babyâ
you cross your arms over your chest not before swatting his grip away from your waist, âthatâs really hurtful considering what iâm going through culturallyâ
âCULTURALLY?â
âyou wouldnât get it,â you mutter âyouâve always been close-mindedâ you wave a dismissive hand at him.
sukuna drops his head against your shoulder, shoulders shaking once again with restrained laughter.
and the worst part is you perk up instantly at that.
because now you know youâre winning.
and fuck he loves you so much, he wants you to win.
âthere,â you say smugly, petting his crimson hair, âthatâs the most affection youâve shown me all week. see how i have to manipulate you into caring?â
you both grin at each other.
firefly; hi guys iâm back who else cheered (medschool got too serious ><)
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zukos babygirl kissing his scar like how she sees her mother, you, always do. eyes wide, finger in her mouth as she stares at the affection before doing it herself. small gummy mouth pressed to her daddyâs left cheek.
she squeals.
arms wave and legs kick as if pleased with the attempt at giving dad a kiss. a wet kiss, but nonetheless a kiss. she smiles against zuko. and he mirrors her action as he himself smiles wide. pulling her away from his cheekâ a line of drool followingâ he holds her out in his arms and stares lovingly. her eyes, same as dads, look back.
her finger is in her mouth again, wet, just like the spot on dads face. she smiles wider. and leans in one more time. zuko brings her back to his chest. her gummy mouth pressing onto the right side of his face this time. his other cheek now matching with his left. a lil âmuahâ escaping from her as she pulls back.
cw: pregnancy, water breaking, suggestive language
toji helping you when you're pregnant with megumi.
belly all big and round, it's unfairly difficult to get up off the couch, and your feet are sore after standing for too long. but, toji makes it all okay.
he rubs your feet and carries you around the house, all without complaint. he makes your cravings (even if that is tacos three nights in a row), and is happy to drive at 1am to get you the ice cream you need.
whenever you're in public, one of his hands is always on your arm or your belly, calmly protecting you. he does all the heavy lifting, kissing you gently. at no time during your pregnancy does he ever make you feel annoying or unwanted. you're horny but don't want to risk hurting the baby? no worries, you know how much he loves eating you out.
one night, you and toji are sitting together on the couch watching a movie. your snuggled up against him comfortably, and his arm wraps around you. everything seems fine until, oh no.
"t-toji, toji i think, i think my water just broke." you say, voice panicked as you sit up. sure enough, there's a wet patch on the couch and still more water coming out. toji stands immediately, eyes wide for a second.
"d-don't worry, i'll go get the bag." he rushes off quickly, returning with the hospital bag he had packed several weeks ago.
"do you need anything? wait, i'll get you a jacket." he moves again, pausing when you call out to him.
"toji!"
"yeah? you okay?"
"i-i, j-just hurry." your voice is wobbly, revealing your fear because it's happening now. this life-changing event is no longer nine months away, but instead a few hours.
toji nods, determined look on his face. he quickly puts everything in the car before helping you into the towel-covered passenger seat. he quickly gets in his side, backing out the car with efficient and careful speed.
his hand reaches over to caress your arm, before he gently kisses your hand.
"don't worry baby, i'm right here. it's all gonna be alright."