#gokuna

His office is high up.

It smells faintly of coffee and the expensive wood polish the staff insists on. The windows are clean enough that the city looks like a display model — glossy buildings, narrow streets, a river cutting through it all like something planned.

Satoru’s reflection sits in the glass when he leans back. White hair, bright eyes, a face that reads as calm if you don’t know what to look for.

His cheetah ears are half-hidden under his hair, but not enough. His tail drapes behind the chair, the tip twitching in small, irritated flicks that he keeps trying to stop.

He has a meeting in ten minutes.

He has had meetings every day this week.

He has slept, technically. He has eaten, technically. He has done the breathing exercises his therapist taught him, the grounding routines, the cold water on the wrists, the “name five things you can see” trick.

He knows all the tricks.

He can teach them.

None of them change the fact that his body is tired of being on display.

A knock comes at the door.

“Come in,” he calls, and he hates that his voice sounds too bright, too practiced.

Shoko steps in like she belongs to every room she enters. She isn’t family, not by blood, but she’s been close enough to see the machinery behind the Gojo name.

She holds a tablet, coffee in the other hand, her expression already saying she’s not here for small talk.

“You missed your check-in.” she says.

Satoru gives her a grin that he can feel stretching wrong across his face.

“I’m busy.”

“You’re spiraling.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, then leans forward and snatches his phone from the desk, as if holding it makes him look less like someone who has been staring at the same line in a report for twenty minutes without reading it.

“I’m fine.”

Shoko’s gaze drops, quick and precise, to his hands, to the way his knuckles have gone pale from gripping the phone too hard. Then it shifts to his tail. The tip is tapping the chair leg in a steady, anxious beat.

Satoru forces it still, curling it around the base of the chair.

“I’m fine.” he repeats, softer.

Shoko exhales through her nose.

“Your family called me.”

That lands like a physical thing.

His shoulders tighten, ears flicking back before he catches them.

He hates that, too — the way his body reacts before his brain can choose dignity.

“Which one?” he asks, trying for casual and landing somewhere brittle.

“Does it matter?” Shoko takes a seat without being invited. “They’re worried.”

“They’re embarrassed,” Satoru corrects.

Shoko doesn’t argue. That’s how he knows he’s close.

She scrolls on her tablet, then sets it down.

“The study is moving into the next phase.”

Satoru’s stomach drops a fraction. He already knows which study she means — he’s been hearing about it at dinners he tries to skip, in passing comments from relatives who pretend it’s philanthropy and not a private solution funded with public money.

“The dog thing.” he mutters.

“The ‘dog thing’.” Shoko echoes, unimpressed, “has peer-reviewed data behind it. And before you roll your eyes, yes, your family’s funding is a big part of why it’s moving so fast.”

He huffs a laugh, sharp and humorless.

“Imagine that.”

Shoko leans back in the chair.

“Satoru. Cheetahs are high-strung. You know that. You know what captivity does to them, even when captivity looks like a penthouse and a company and a clan that never stops watching.”

He hates the word captivity because it fits too well.

“I’m not a zoo animal.” he says, too quickly.

Shoko’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“No. You’re a person. And you’re a person whose body is doing what cheetah bodies do when they don’t feel safe.”

He looks away, jaw tight.

Shoko continues, calmer now.

“In zoos, cheetahs pair with dogs because dogs are steady. Because dogs don’t flinch at the world the same way cheetahs do. They anchor them. They give them something to track that isn’t fear. It helps with public exposure, stress levels, appetite. It helps them breathe like they’re not running all the time.”

Satoru’s fingers flex around his phone.

“So what. You want me to hire a golden retriever to follow me around and wag at strangers?”

“You wouldn’t qualify for a golden retriever,” Shoko says dryly. “You’d scare it.”

That gets a reluctant twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Then the humor fades as fast as it came.

Shoko taps the tablet again.

“They’re opening a pairing program for adult cheetah hybrids. Voluntary, officially. Structured like a companion placement. The companion is trained to handle environments that trigger cheetah stress responses. Crowds, cameras, sudden sound. The program monitors biomarkers and behavior. The companion’s presence is supposed to reduce baseline anxiety over time.”

Satoru stares at her.

“And I’m the poster child.”

“You’re the obvious candidate,” Shoko corrects. “Because you’re the one whose work is suffering, and because your family would rather fund a study than admit you’re burning out.”

That hits too close.

He feels it under his ribs, a hot, angry pulse.

“I don’t need—” he starts.

Shoko cuts him off, gentle but firm.

“You do need something. You can keep pretending you don’t, but your body is already asking for help. And if you don’t choose help, your family will choose it for you.”

Satoru’s ears flatten.

He forces them up.

“What does it look like?” he asks, voice quieter.

Shoko’s shoulders ease a fraction, like she’s been waiting for that.

“It starts with an evaluation. Then a match. The match isn’t based on breed, but on temperament. Calm, confident, socially stable. Someone who can handle you when you’re… you.”

Satoru’s laugh this time is small.

“That doesn’t exist.”

“It does,” Shoko says. “They’ve been training dog hybrids for this. Therapy models, basically. Companion models. Some are labs, some are mutts, some are shepherds. They’re screened for aggression, anxiety, prey-drive issues—”

“Yeah,” Satoru says, because the thought of prey-drive being screened in relation to him makes his skin crawl.

It shouldn’t.

He’s not a rabbit.

He’s not helpless.

But instincts don’t care about pride.

Shoko watches him carefully.

“There’s a complication.”

Satoru’s spine tightens. “Of course there is.”

“The program took on probation cases,” Shoko says. “Community reintegration. Structured service placements. Some of them are dog hybrids who can’t get jobs because of their records. The idea is to give them a controlled environment and a clear role.”

Satoru’s stomach sinks further.

Shoko continues,

“Your family pushed for ‘success stories.’ And the department overseeing probation pushed for ‘high-value placements’ so they could claim the program actually does something.”

Satoru stares at her.

“You’re telling me they’re going to put a criminal in my house.”

Shoko raises a brow.

“I’m telling you your match is already flagged.”

He feels his heart start to kick, fast and sharp, like it’s trying to break out of his ribs. His tail tightens around the chair leg until it aches.

“What does ‘flagged’ mean?” he asks, and hates how thin his voice sounds.

“It means the algorithm matched you with someone the team didn’t expect,” Shoko says. “And your family wants you to try it anyway.”

Satoru presses his thumb into the edge of his phone.

“Who.”

Shoko looks at him for a long second, then finally says,

“Ryomen Sukuna.”

The name is known in circles Satoru pretends he doesn’t belong to.

Underground fight rings. Illegal hybrid pits. A dog hybrid with a reputation for violence, and not the clean kind people talk about in boardrooms.

Satoru’s mouth goes dry.

“He’s a rottweiler hybrid,” Shoko adds. “Ex fight-dog. Did time. On probation now. The program is part of his required service.”

Satoru’s ears flick back, then forward again.

“Absolutely not.”

Shoko doesn’t flinch.

“Satoru—”

“I said no.” he snaps, and the sound is sharp enough that even he hears the edge in it. “You want to put a rottweiler fighter with a cheetah who can’t even sit through a meeting without wanting to sprint through a wall? That’s not a study, that’s a headline.”

Shoko’s gaze hardens a little.

“He’s been screened. He’s not feral.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Shoko sighs.

“Your family thinks the ‘breed doesn’t matter’ part of the study applies here.”

Satoru’s laugh is sudden and ugly.

“Sure. Breed doesn’t matter. Put a wolf in my penthouse, it’s fine as long as he’s confident.”

Shoko’s eyes narrow.

“You’re not being fair.”

Satoru stands too fast, chair scraping. His tail lashes once behind him before he can stop it.

“I’m being realistic,” he says. “I don’t know him. I don’t trust him. And I don’t want someone in my space.”

Shoko’s voice stays even.

“You don’t want anyone in your space. That’s part of the problem.”

That stops him.

He stares at her, chest heaving slightly, and he hates that she’s right.

Shoko softens again.

“Just do the evaluation. Meet him in a controlled setting. If it’s bad, you can refuse. But if you refuse without meeting him, your family will still spin it into something. ‘Satoru isn’t cooperating.’ ‘Satoru is sabotaging the study.’ You know how they are.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens.

His family likes solutions that make them look benevolent.

They don’t like messy truths.

He turns back toward the window, staring down at the city. His reflection stares back, bright eyes and too-still posture.

“Fine,” he says finally, and the word feels like he swallowed something sharp. “Evaluation.”

Shoko nods once.

“Tomorrow morning. The facility is across town. I’ll go with you.”

Satoru exhales.

“I hate this.”

Shoko stands.

“I know.”

When she leaves, Satoru sits back down slowly, like his body forgot how to relax and is trying to remember. His tail curls around the chair leg again, not because he wants it to, but because it’s the only way he can keep it from twitching.

He looks at the calendar.

Tomorrow morning.

He closes his eyes.

His chest still feels too tight.

The facility doesn’t look like a zoo, which is almost disappointing.

Satoru expects something with cages, reinforced glass, handlers with tranquilizers hidden under their coats.

Instead, it’s clean, modern, clinical.

A research wing attached to a behavioral health center.

The entrance smells like disinfectant and someone’s citrus air freshener trying too hard.

Shoko walks beside him like she’s done this a thousand times. Satoru’s tail stays close to his legs, tucked in tighter than usual. His ears keep shifting, tracking every sound — footsteps on tile, a door clicking open, distant voices.

They sign in. They get visitor badges.

A staff member leads them down a hallway with framed posters about the study.

One shows a photo of a cheetah — an actual cheetah, not a hybrid — standing near a big, calm dog. The dog looks forward, relaxed. The cheetah is angled slightly toward it, close enough that its flank brushes the dog’s shoulder.

The caption underneath is cheerful and polished — Confidence Through Companionship.

Satoru’s throat tightens.

He wants to scoff, but the image does something primitive to him. The way the cheetah stands near the dog without looking ready to bolt. The way the dog’s body language says I’ve got you without fuss.

A door opens at the end of the hallway.

“Gojo Satoru?” a woman calls.

Satoru’s ears twitch, and he forces his expression into something controlled.

He steps forward.

“That’s me.”

She introduces herself as Dr. Yaga — no relation to his family, thankfully. She’s brisk but not cold, her voice practiced in the way of someone used to hybrids with too much pride and too much fear.

“We’ll start with baseline measures,” she says, guiding him into a room with soft lighting and comfortable chairs. “Heart rate, cortisol sample, questionnaire. Then we’ll introduce you to your proposed companion. Supervised interaction only. No commitments today.”

Satoru nods, jaw tight.

Shoko sits in the corner, arms crossed, watching him with the calm patience of someone who has already decided he’ll do this whether he likes it or not.

They take his vitals. The heart rate monitor beeps faster than Satoru wants to admit.

Dr. Yaga asks questions.

Sleep. Appetite. Panic symptoms. Work performance. Avoidance behaviors.

Satoru answers with clipped honesty.

There’s no point lying, they’ll see it in the numbers anyway.

When they finish, Dr. Yaga sets the clipboard down.

“Alright,” she says. “Let’s bring him in.”

Satoru’s stomach flips.

The door opens again.

And Ryomen Sukuna walks in like the whole room belongs to him.

He’s taller than Satoru expected — taller than most people, broad enough that the doorway looks narrower around him.

His shoulders fill out a plain black shirt, his arms are thick, muscle stacked in a way that reads as earned, not ornamental, his rottweiler ears sit high on his head, cropped short, and his tail is heavy, visible behind him, moving slow and controlled rather than wagging.

His face is the kind people call handsome like it’s a warning.

Sharp jaw, mouth set in a line that looks permanently unimpressed.

And then there’s his eye.

His left eye is gone. Not hidden, not softened.

The scar tissue is clean, healed over in a way that suggests it happened a long time ago.

The right eye — dark, reddish-brown — locks onto Satoru like a hand closing around his throat.

Satoru’s body reacts before his brain can catch up.

His ears pin back. His tail pulls tighter to his legs. His pulse spikes so fast the monitor clipped to his finger starts to complain.

Sukuna notices.

His lip curls slightly — not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.

“That’s him?” Sukuna asks, voice low and rough.

Dr. Yaga’s tone stays neutral.

“Yes. Gojo Satoru. Satoru, this is Ryomen Sukuna.”

Satoru forces himself to stand straighter, because he refuses to be small.

“Hi.”

Sukuna’s gaze drags over him, slow, assessing.

Satoru hates that it feels like being sized up, like prey.

Sukuna’s tail gives a single, heavy swing behind him. His ears flick once.

He looks at Dr. Yaga instead of Satoru.

“What he wants me to do.”

Dr. Yaga holds up a hand before Satoru can snap.

“This is a companion placement. Your role is to provide stable presence and support during stress exposure. You’ll be trained on specific techniques. You’ll have guidelines. You’ll live in his residence during the placement period if both parties agree.”

Sukuna’s brow lifts.

“Live with him.”

“Yes,” Dr. Yaga says, unflinching. “And you’ll be monitored. This is not a free arrangement. There are check-ins, rules, and accountability.”

Sukuna’s gaze finally returns to Satoru.

“And he’s paying for it.”

Satoru’s jaw clenches.

“My family is funding the study.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches, amused in a way that isn’t friendly.

“So yeah. Paying.”

Satoru’s nails bite into his palm.

“I didn’t ask for you.”

Sukuna steps closer.

Not aggressively, but with the kind of direct movement that makes Satoru’s instincts scream anyway.

Dr. Yaga’s voice stays calm but sharper.

“Sukuna, keep distance until we establish consent.”

Sukuna pauses. His gaze stays on Satoru.

He doesn’t look apologetic.

He looks like he’s tolerating the rules because someone is watching.

“Fine.” Sukuna says.

He sits in the chair across from Satoru with a heavy, controlled drop. The chair creaks under him. He leans back, legs spread, arms resting on his thighs, posture relaxed like he’s not the one with a record.

Satoru hates that his body registers Sukuna’s calm as something it wants.

Dr. Yaga addresses Satoru first.

“Satoru, you’re in control here. If you feel unsafe, we stop.”

Satoru nods, throat tight.

Dr. Yaga continues,

“This first session is simple. You’ll talk. You’ll sit in the same space. No touch unless you request it.”

Sukuna’s mouth curls faintly.

“Good. I don’t like touching strangers.”

Satoru snaps,

“Then why did you sign up.”

Sukuna’s gaze slides to him, slow.

“Because I had to.”

The bluntness catches Satoru off guard.

No excuses. No fake warmth. No performative therapy voice.

It should make Satoru feel worse.

Instead, it settles something small in his chest, because at least this is honest.

Dr. Yaga nods once, satisfied.

“Alright. Sukuna, you’ve been briefed on cheetah stress responses. What do you understand your role to be?”

Sukuna shrugs.

“Be steady. Don’t get spooked. Don’t chase him if he runs.”

Satoru bristles.

“I don’t run.”

Sukuna’s remaining eye flicks to his tail, still tucked tight, then back up to his face.

“Sure.”

Heat crawls up Satoru’s neck.

Dr. Yaga continues,

“And Satoru, what do you need from a companion.”

Satoru hesitates.

That question should be easy, yet it isn’t.

He stares at his hands.

“I need… I need my body to stop acting like everything is dangerous.”

Sukuna’s voice is low.

“Everything is dangerous.”

Satoru looks up sharply.

“That’s not helping.”

Sukuna tilts his head, ears flicking.

“It’s true. But you’re not in danger right now. That’s the difference.”

Satoru’s breath catches.

Dr. Yaga watches them both.

“That’s actually a good distinction.”

Sukuna’s gaze stays on Satoru.

“You want me to lie to you? Tell you the world is soft? It isn’t.”

Satoru’s voice tightens.

“So your plan is to scare me into being calm.”

Sukuna’s mouth quirks.

“My plan is to make you pay attention to what’s real.”

Satoru’s ears twitch forward despite himself.

“And what’s real.”

Sukuna leans forward slightly, forearms on his thighs. He doesn’t cross the distance, but his presence thickens anyway.

“Real is the chair under you. The floor. The air. Your feet. Your breath. The fact that you’re sitting in a bright room with a doctor and your friend and me, and nothing is trying to kill you.”

Satoru swallows.

Sukuna’s voice stays steady.

“Your body’s acting like you’re about to get jumped in an alley. It’s wrong. So we fix that.”

Dr. Yaga’s eyes flick to the monitor on Satoru’s finger, then back up.

“Satoru, how do you feel right now.”

Satoru wants to say fine. He hates that word now.

He forces honesty instead.

“Like my skin doesn’t fit.”

Sukuna’s gaze doesn’t soften, but something in his posture shifts — less casual, more attentive. Like a dog hearing a sound it doesn’t like.

“What do you do when it gets like that.” Sukuna asks.

Satoru’s mouth goes dry.

“I work.”

Sukuna snorts.

“That’s stupid.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow.

“Excuse me?”

Sukuna doesn’t look sorry.

“Working doesn’t fix your nerves. It just gives them somewhere to hide.”

Shoko makes a small sound from the corner that might be agreement.

Satoru glares at her. She shrugs, unapologetic.

Dr. Yaga holds up a hand.

“We’re not here to insult coping mechanisms. Sukuna, reframe.”

Sukuna exhales through his nose, irritated, but he tries.

“Fine. Working is what you do. But it’s not helping.”

Satoru’s chest tightens again, but not as sharp as before. He hates how right it is.

Dr. Yaga nods.

“Alright. We’ll do a brief grounding exercise. Sukuna, you can guide, but keep it neutral.”

Sukuna looks at Satoru.

“Feet on the floor.”

Satoru bristles at being told what to do, then does it anyway. His shoes press into the tile. The floor is cool through the soles.

Sukuna’s voice stays even.

“Press down. Hard.”

Satoru presses.

The sensation is immediate, concrete. His calf muscles tense. The chair steadies under him.

Sukuna continues,

“Name three things you can hear.”

Satoru swallows, ears twitching.

“The… air vent. The hallway. Someone typing.”

Sukuna nods once.

“Two things you can smell.”

Satoru’s nostrils flare.

He hates that he can smell Sukuna — warm skin, faint cologne, something like iron buried under it, old and ingrained. He chooses safer answers. “Disinfectant. Coffee.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches, like he knows what Satoru avoided naming.

“One thing you can touch.”

Satoru’s fingers curl around the edge of the chair.

“This.”

Sukuna’s gaze stays on him.

“Good. Breathe.”

Satoru breathes. Once. Twice. The tightness doesn’t vanish, but it stops climbing.

Dr. Yaga watches the monitors again, then nods.

“Better.”

Sukuna leans back in his chair, posture loosening.

“See. Not hard.”

Satoru’s voice is quiet, grudging.

“It’s not that simple.”

Sukuna’s gaze flicks to him again.

“Didn’t say it was simple. Said it wasn’t hard.”

Satoru exhales sharply, almost laughing, but it catches in his chest.

His ears lift a fraction.

Dr. Yaga looks between them.

“We’ll schedule three more supervised sessions this week. If those go well, we discuss placement.”

Satoru’s stomach flips again.

Sukuna stands.

“Whatever. Tell me when.”

He turns toward the door like he’s done, like none of this matters.

Then he pauses, glancing back at Satoru.

“You eat today?” Sukuna asks.

Satoru blinks.

“What?”

Sukuna’s brow lifts.

“You eat.”

Satoru bristles.

“Yes.”

Sukuna’s gaze drops, again, to Satoru’s hands. The faint tremor there, the way his fingers keep flexing like they can’t find rest. Sukuna looks back up.

“Sure.”

Then he leaves.

Satoru sits frozen for a moment, heart still too fast, but something else tangled in it now.

Irritation, yes.

Fear, yes.

And a strange, reluctant sense of being noticed.

By the second session, Satoru arrives with his defenses already sharpened.

He tells himself it’s smart.

It’s necessary.

Sukuna is a stranger with a violent history.

Sukuna is big and blunt and doesn’t speak like a therapist.

Sukuna is exactly the kind of presence Satoru’s body should reject.

And yet, when Sukuna walks into the room, Satoru’s eyes go to him automatically, tracking the way he moves, the way his shoulders roll like he’s always ready.

It’s instinct.

Awareness.

The same part of Satoru that scans exits in every restaurant now also scans Sukuna, measuring.

Sukuna sits without being told this time, legs spread, gaze steady.

Dr. Yaga runs them through exposure drills.

Recorded crowd noise. Bright camera flashes. Sudden bursts of sound.

Satoru’s body reacts every time.

His ears pin. His tail lashes. His breath goes shallow.

Sukuna doesn’t move much.

That’s the point, apparently.

When Satoru flinches at a sharp sound, Sukuna’s gaze locks on him — not sympathetic, not soft, just there.

Present. Unmoved.

The first time it happens, Satoru snaps,

“Stop staring at me.”

Sukuna’s brow lifts.

“Why.”

“Because it’s weird.”

Sukuna’s mouth twists.

“You’re the one having a meltdown. I’m watching in case you bolt.”

Satoru’s teeth clench.

“I don’t bolt.”

Sukuna’s eye flicks to the door, then back.

“Sure.”

Dr. Yaga interrupts before Satoru can escalate.

“Sukuna, your job is not to anticipate him running. It’s to model calm.”

Sukuna looks unimpressed.

“He’s calm.”

Satoru’s voice is tight.

“I’m not.”

Sukuna’s gaze slides to him again.

“You’re sitting. You’re breathing. You’re not screaming. That’s calm enough.”

Satoru’s chest tightens, but the words settle differently than he expects.

Not dismissal. Not mockery.

A blunt redefinition.

It shifts the goalposts from perfect calm to functional calm.

Satoru also hates that it helps.

Over the next week, the sessions continue. Sukuna doesn’t coddle. He doesn’t soothe with soft words. He doesn’t offer praise like treats.

He does two things, consistently.

He stays.

And he calls out what’s real.

When Satoru’s leg starts bouncing, Sukuna says,

“Plant your feet.”

When Satoru’s breathing turns sharp, Sukuna says,

“Slow down.”

When Satoru’s tail lashes, Sukuna says,

“Stop fighting it. Let it move. You’re not hurting anyone.”

Dr. Yaga tracks Satoru’s vitals and looks surprised, more and more often.

Shoko watches with arms crossed and an expression that says told you.

Satoru tells himself it’s temporary — it’s controlled. It’s a study.

Then Dr. Yaga sits with him after the fourth session and says,

“Your baseline dropped.”

Satoru blinks.

“What.”

“Heart rate,” she clarifies. “Not by a miracle amount, but it’s lower when he’s in the room. Your cortisol sample is slightly improved. Your self-report is still angry,” she adds, dry, “but your body is responding.”

Satoru’s mouth goes dry again.

Dr. Yaga continues,

“If you agree, we start placement next week. Sukuna will stay in your residence. There will be rules. Curfew checks. Twice-weekly monitoring. Sukuna’s probation officer will be involved. You can end the placement at any time.”

Satoru’s stomach twists.

He thinks of his apartment. His quiet. The one place he can take the mask off.

He thinks of Sukuna in that space.

His ears flick back.

And then he thinks, unwanted, of how his chest loosened by a fraction when Sukuna told him, flatly, that he wasn’t in danger right now.

Satoru swallows.

“Fine.”

Dr. Yaga nods, satisfied.

“Good. We’ll finalize paperwork.”

Satoru leaves the facility with Shoko beside him.

He doesn’t speak until they’re in the car.

“This is a bad idea,” Satoru says.

Shoko starts the engine.

“You’ve had plenty of bad ideas. Most of them involved caffeine and martyrdom.”

Satoru huffs, then rubs his face.

“He’s… not what I expected.”

Shoko glances at him.

“What did you expect.”

“A labrador,” Satoru mutters.

Shoko snorts.

“Your family tried. The labrador refused.” she lies.

Satoru shoots her a look.

“That’s not funny.”

Shoko’s gaze stays calm.

“It’s a little funny.”

Satoru leans back in the seat, staring out the window as the city slides by. His tail curls around the base of the seat, still restless.

He feels like he’s walking into something he can’t control.

And, to his own irritation, part of him wonders what it will feel like to have Sukuna’s steady weight in the same space when the nights get loud again.

Sukuna arrives on Monday with one duffel bag and a file folder full of rules.

He’s escorted by a probation officer with a careful smile and a posture that keeps distance.

The officer explains boundaries, responsibilities, emergency contacts.

Satoru signs paperwork with a pen that nearly snaps in his grip.

Sukuna stands behind the officer, silent, gaze scanning Satoru’s apartment like he’s mapping it.

When the officer finally leaves, the silence is immediate.

Satoru stands near the kitchen island, arms crossed.

His tail is wrapped around his leg, tight.

Sukuna sets his duffel down by the door, then looks at Satoru.

“This is your place,” Sukuna says, voice flat. “So give me rules.”

Satoru blinks. He expected resistance. Not this.

“My rules,” Satoru repeats, suspicious.

Sukuna’s mouth twitches.

“Yeah. Unless you want me making them.”

Satoru’s ears flick forward despite himself.

“Fine. Rule one — don’t touch my stuff.”

Sukuna nods once.

“Fine.”

Satoru continues,

“Rule two: don’t bring anyone here.”

Sukuna’s brow lifts slightly.

“You think I have friends.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens.

“It’s still a rule.”

Sukuna shrugs.

“Fine.”

Satoru points toward the hallway.

“That room is yours. The door locks. Use it if you want.”

Sukuna glances down the hallway.

“You worried I’ll eat you.”

Satoru’s breath catches, sharp.

Sukuna watches him for a beat, then continues, blunt as ever,

“Relax. If I wanted to hurt you, a study wouldn’t stop me.”

Satoru’s ears flatten hard.

“What the hell is wrong with you.”

Sukuna’s tail sways once behind him, slow.

“You want lies. I don’t do lies.”

Satoru’s chest tightens.

His instincts scream at him to run, to create space.

But Sukuna isn’t moving. He isn’t looming. He isn’t smiling.

He’s just… there.

Satoru forces air into his lungs.

“Get your things settled.”

Sukuna nods and walks down the hallway, boots quiet against the floor.

He disappears into the guest room without another word.

Satoru stands frozen for a moment longer, listening.

He hears the soft thud of Sukuna’s duffel hitting the bed. The rustle of fabric. A drawer sliding open, then shut.

Satoru’s ears twitch, tracking every sound.

He hates that he’s doing it.

He hates that part of him is already calibrating to Sukuna’s presence like it’s something his nervous system has been waiting for.

The first night is worse than Satoru wants to admit.

Not because Sukuna does anything.

Because Satoru can’t stop waiting for something to happen.

He eats dinner alone at the kitchen counter, appetite thin.

He hears Sukuna in the guest room, moving around.

A shower running. The low hum of a voice on the phone for a brief moment, too muffled to make out words.

At midnight, Satoru tries to sleep.

He lies in bed with the lights off and the city noise seeping through the windows. His mind runs in circles. His body stays tense.

His ears keep flicking at every creak in the apartment.

At some point, he hears a soft sound in the hallway — footsteps.

Satoru’s eyes fly open.

His heart slams hard enough that his chest aches.

The door to his room doesn’t open.

A pause.

Then Sukuna’s voice, low, through the door.

“You awake.”

Satoru swallows.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“You breathing like you’re about to die.”

Satoru’s jaw clenches.

“Go back to bed.”

Sukuna doesn’t move.

Satoru can picture him standing there, broad shoulders filling the hall, one eye focused on a door he’s not opening.

Sukuna speaks again, voice steady.

“Open it.”

Satoru’s stomach flips.

“No.”

Sukuna’s voice doesn’t change.

“Open it or I’m breaking the lock.”

“That’s insane,” Satoru hisses.

Sukuna’s tone stays flat.

“Then open it.”

Satoru’s hands shake when he throws the blanket off and walks to the door.

His tail lashes once behind him, angry and scared at the same time.

He unlocks it and pulls it open.

Sukuna stands there barefoot, hair damp from the shower, wearing a plain shirt and sweatpants. His rottweiler ears are relaxed. His tail hangs low.

He doesn’t step in.

He just looks at Satoru, then at Satoru’s chest, rising too fast.

“Sit,” Sukuna says.

Satoru’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t—”

“Sit,” Sukuna repeats, sharper.

Something in Satoru reacts to the tone.

Not submission.

Not obedience.

Relief, cruelly, because it’s a command that cuts through the spinning.

Satoru sits on the edge of the bed.

Sukuna stays in the doorway. He plants his feet on the floor, solid. Present.

“Breathe.” Sukuna says.

Satoru’s breath catches, then shakes out.

“I am breathing.”

“You’re sipping air,” Sukuna counters. “Fill your lungs.”

Satoru wants to argue. Instead, he inhales deeper, because it’s easier than fighting.

The air stretches his chest, uncomfortable and needed.

Sukuna watches.

“Again.”

Satoru inhales again. His shoulders drop a fraction.

Sukuna’s voice stays steady.

“Good. Now listen. You’re not dying. You’re not being hunted. Your door is locked. Your windows are locked. I’m here.”

Satoru’s throat tightens.

“That’s not comforting.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches, faint.

“It should be.”

Satoru’s ears flick forward despite himself.

“Why.”

Sukuna’s gaze holds his.

“Because if something comes through that door, it has to get through me first.”

Silence.

Satoru’s pulse is still too fast, but it stumbles, slows by a fraction, like it heard the logic and decided to try believing it.

Sukuna continues,

“You don’t have to like me. You just have to use me.”

Satoru’s mouth goes dry.

“That’s… not a great sentence.”

Sukuna’s expression remains unimpressed.

“You know what I mean.”

Satoru swallows. His hands are still shaking, but less.

Sukuna’s voice lowers.

“Try sleeping again.”

Satoru stares at him.

“Are you going to stand there all night.”

Sukuna shrugs.

“If you need me to.”

Satoru’s chest tightens, not with panic this time, but with something else.

Something he doesn’t have a clean word for.

He hates it.

He looks away.

“Fine. Stay.”

Sukuna nods once, like it’s just another task.

He leans against the wall outside the door, arms crossed, posture heavy and steady.

Satoru lies back down.

His body doesn’t relax completely.

It doesn’t know how.

But his breathing slows. His tail stops lashing and settles along the mattress.

And when his eyes finally close, the last thing he registers is the quiet, solid fact of Sukuna’s presence in the hall — like a wall built for a reason.

Days turn into a routine Satoru never would have chosen.

Sukuna wakes early. He moves through the kitchen with minimal noise, making coffee like he’s done it in this space forever.

He doesn’t ask permission.

He also doesn’t touch Satoru’s things beyond what he needs.

Satoru pretends it doesn’t matter. He drinks the coffee anyway.

Sukuna insists on walks.

Not gentle strolls — actual movement. Around the neighborhood, through quieter streets, sometimes into a park early enough that there aren’t many people around.

“You need to burn the static off,” Sukuna says one morning when Satoru tries to refuse.

“I have work,” Satoru snaps.

“You have nerves,” Sukuna counters. “Move.”

Satoru glares, ears pinned.

“You’re not my trainer.”

Sukuna’s gaze is steady.

“No. I’m your anchor. Anchors are heavy. Come on.”

He hates that it makes sense.

He goes.

The first walk is tense.

Satoru’s eyes scan constantly. His body stays ready to bolt. His tail flicks sharp behind him.

Sukuna walks beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush but not touching.

His pace is steady. His gaze tracks the environment without the frantic edge Satoru carries.

A dog hybrid who has survived worse than city sidewalks.

Halfway through, a motorcycle backfires nearby.

The sound is sharp, sudden.

Satoru flinches hard, breath catching, body going rigid.

Sukuna stops instantly.

Not in front of him — beside him. Solid.

Sukuna’s hand comes up, not touching, just hovering near Satoru’s elbow like he’s offering contact without forcing it.

Satoru’s breath shakes.

Sukuna’s voice is low.

“Feet.”

Satoru forces his feet into the ground.

Sukuna’s voice stays steady.

“Eyes on me.”

Satoru doesn’t want to. He does anyway.

Sukuna’s one eye is steady, direct. No pity. No panic. Just presence.

“Nothing happened,” Sukuna says. “Noise is noise. You’re fine.”

Satoru swallows hard. His tail flicks once, then stills.

Sukuna drops his hand back to his side.

“Keep walking.”

Satoru walks.

The rest of the walk is quieter. Not because the world changed, but because Satoru’s body had an example to track.

Sukuna doesn’t celebrate, doesn’t praise, just keeps going, like calm is a thing you practice through repetition rather than earn through bravery.

At work, things shift too.

Sukuna comes with him for the first time after Dr. Yaga approves public exposure.

Satoru hates the idea. He hates the optics. He hates the way people stare when they see a rottweiler hybrid in the lobby with a probation ankle monitor hidden under his pant leg.

But he hates even more how his body loosens when Sukuna stands at his side in the elevator.

It’s subtle.

A fraction of space in his lungs.

A drop in the tightness behind his ribs.

Sukuna doesn’t look at the people who stare.

He looks at the doors. The corners. The exits.

Like he’s built for watching threats and doesn’t waste energy on judgments.

When Satoru steps into a meeting room full of executives and advisors and family representatives, he usually feels the familiar tightening: eyes on him, expectations, the pressure of being Gojo.

This time, Sukuna takes a seat behind him, slightly off to the side. Not looming. Not performative.

Just present.

Satoru starts the meeting.

His voice steadies faster than usual.

Halfway through, someone challenges him on a budget detail, voice sharp.

Satoru feels the usual spike of panic, the instinctive flare of run, fight, prove, survive.

Sukuna clears his throat once.

Quiet.

Grounding.

Satoru’s ears twitch back, registering the sound like a tether.

He answers calmly.

When the meeting ends, Satoru walks back to his office and closes the door behind them.

He leans against it, breath shaky.

Sukuna watches him.

“You did fine.”

Satoru scoffs.

“That’s your idea of comfort.”

Sukuna shrugs.

“It’s true.”

Satoru swallows, jaw tight.

“Why are you… good at this.”

Sukuna’s mouth twists, something like bitterness passing through his expression.

“Because I know what it looks like when your body thinks it’s back in a cage.”

Satoru freezes.

He hadn’t thought of it that way. Not like that.

Sukuna’s gaze stays steady, but his voice lowers.

“You’re not the only one with instincts that don’t match the room.”

Satoru’s chest tightens, not with panic, with recognition.

He looks away, ears flicking back, then forward.

“I didn’t ask to know that.”

Sukuna huffs once.

“Too bad.”

And yet, he doesn’t push further. He doesn’t fill the silence with explanations or vulnerability.

He just stays, like he always does.

The first time Satoru purrs, it happens by accident.

It’s late.

The city is loud outside. Satoru had a long day, too many people, too many eyes.

He got through it, technically. He held himself together.

Now his body wants repayment.

He sits on the couch with his laptop open and realizes he’s been staring at the same email for ten minutes without reading it.

His tail is flicking against the cushion, sharp and restless.

His ears keep pinning back, picking up every distant siren, every shout from the street.

Sukuna is in the kitchen, making food.

Not asking — just doing.

Satoru hears the knife against the cutting board. The sizzle of something in a pan. The quiet clink of a plate.

The domestic sounds should be comforting. They mostly make him tense, because domesticity is not something Satoru ever trusted. Domesticity is where families pretend they’re safe while everyone watches each other for weakness.

Sukuna walks into the living room with a plate and sets it on the coffee table.

“Eat.” Sukuna says.

Satoru stares at it. Rice, vegetables, meat. Balanced. Simple.

“I’m not hungry.” Satoru lies.

Sukuna doesn’t argue.

He sits on the other end of the couch, posture relaxed.

His tail drapes along the cushion.

He doesn’t eat either.

He just sits.

Satoru’s ears flick toward him.

“Why aren’t you eating.”

Sukuna’s voice is flat.

“Because you’re not.”

Satoru glares.

“That’s stupid.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches.

“So is starving yourself.”

Satoru exhales sharply, frustrated.

His chest feels tight.

His skin feels wrong.

He wants to get up, pace, run.

Instead, he reaches for the plate with shaking hands and takes a bite.

The food is warm. Real. Grounding in the simplest way.

It’s tasty, too.

He takes another bite.

His shoulders drop a fraction without him noticing.

Sukuna watches, then finally reaches for his own plate — apparently satisfied that Satoru won’t collapse on the couch from sheer stubbornness.

They eat in silence.

When they finish, Sukuna stands to take the plates.

Satoru stays on the couch, staring at nothing.

His tail has stopped flicking.

His ears are still half-pinned, but less rigid.

Sukuna returns and sits again, closer this time — not touching, just occupying the same space more firmly.

Satoru’s voice is quiet, almost unwilling.

“Why do you do that.”

Sukuna glances at him.

“Do what.”

“Stay.” Satoru says, and the word feels too honest once it leaves his mouth.

Sukuna’s gaze holds his for a moment.

“Because leaving makes you worse.”

Satoru’s throat tightens.

“You don’t know that.”

Sukuna’s voice stays low.

“I’ve watched you.”

Satoru’s ears flick forward, then back.

“That sounds creepy.”

Sukuna snorts.

“It’s my job.”

Silence again.

Satoru swallows.

His eyes burn a little, tired more than sad.

Sukuna shifts, then reaches out slowly, giving Satoru time to pull away.

His hand lands on the back of Satoru’s couch, not on him.

A barrier.

A presence.

Satoru’s body reacts anyway.

His shoulders sink, not from defeat, but from release.

The tension in his chest loosens, a fraction at first, then more.

His breathing deepens.

And then, without warning, a low vibration starts in his throat.

Satoru freezes.

The sound is soft, almost inaudible, but it’s there — an unmistakable purr, a cheetah response that happens when his nervous system finally, briefly, decides it’s safe enough to rest.

Satoru’s eyes go wide.

His cheeks heat in humiliation.

He clamps his mouth shut, horrified.

Sukuna doesn’t laugh.

Sukuna doesn’t tease.

Sukuna’s gaze flicks to him, then away again, like he’s pretending he didn’t notice to spare Satoru’s pride.

But his tail gives one slow, heavy thump against the cushion.

Satisfied.

Satoru’s throat tightens.

He hates that his eyes sting.

He forces his voice steady.

“If you ever mention that—”

Sukuna cuts him off, calm.

“Eat your pride too, cheetah.”

Satoru makes a sound that’s halfway between a scoff and a broken laugh.

Sukuna’s hand stays on the back of the couch, close enough that if Satoru leaned, he’d be leaning into something solid.

Satoru doesn’t lean.

Not yet.

But he doesn’t move away, either.

He sits there, breathing, letting the quiet settle into his bones.

And he realizes, with reluctant clarity, that whatever this is — study, placement, probation service — it’s working in the one place Satoru can’t lie.

His body.

A week later, Dr. Yaga shows Satoru the updated data.

His baseline anxiety markers are lower. His sleep has improved. His self-report is still irritated, still defensive, but the numbers don’t care about pride.

Satoru stares at the graphs and feels something complicated twist in his chest.

“Do you want to continue the placement?” Dr. Yaga asks.

Satoru thinks of his apartment at night, quieter now.

Of Sukuna in the hallway, steady.

Of the way his body purrs once and then doesn’t panic about it afterward, because Sukuna didn’t make it a joke.

He thinks of the meeting room where his breath didn’t fracture.

He thinks of the way Sukuna never once pretended to be gentle, but still managed to be safe.

Satoru exhales.

“Yes,” he says, and the word feels like stepping onto ground he hasn’t tested yet.

Dr. Yaga nods.

“And Sukuna?”

Sukuna sits beside Satoru in the office chair like he belongs there. He looks bored, but his ears are angled slightly toward Satoru, listening.

Sukuna shrugs.

“He’s tolerable.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow.

“You’re infuriating.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches faintly, almost a smile, and something in the air eases — small, private, theirs.

Dr. Yaga watches them, thoughtful.

“That’s more progress than most pairs show this early.”

Satoru’s tail flicks once, then settles.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but the truth is there anyway:

It’s an unlikely match.

And somehow, it works.