#theplaylist

He didn’t hang up—just stared at the black screen like he could will it to light up.

Meanwhile, Suguru slipped into the back. You were hunched over your sketchpad, Snickers in hand, music playing softly from your earbuds.

Honestly, you were hoping to ghost through the day undisturbed. No clients. No drama. Just ink and candy. But the moment Suguru burst in, you knew that peace was dead.

“Hey,” he said, too chipper. Too nervous. “I, uh, need a favor.”

You popped out an earbud. “No refunds, no walk-ins, no miracles,” you replied, biting into the Snickers. “Pick one.”

“It’s just one guy.” Suguru stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But he’s... not just any guy. He’s looking for Choso and, uh, he’s not taking ‘no’ well.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. Muscles, bad attitude, likes yelling into phones like that’ll solve anything?”

Suguru nodded.

You sighed and stood, dusting chocolate off your fingers. Silence hung in the air as you stared at Suguru.

“Still. No.”

But Suguru wouldn't take no for an answer either. His grip on your arm was firm as he pulled you from your chair and led you toward the front of the shop.

"Come on," he urged, "it's just one tattoo—you can handle it."

The moment you approached the counter, you saw the man. He was indeed hulking, with biceps that looked like they could crush rocks and a scowl that could make the sun hide behind a cloud. He looked carved out of fury and concrete. His phone was clenched so tight it might shatter.

Ancient tattoos coiled over his knuckles and disappeared up thick forearms. His expression said he wasn’t used to being kept waiting. Or denied anything.

He didn’t even look at you when you approached.

"I'm your artist today," you said, voice lazy, dry as dust.

He didn’t respond. Still redialing.

You walked past him and jerked your thumb toward the back. "Booth’s this way. Bring your tantrum with you."

Surprisingly, he followed, still furiously dialing Choso’s number.

You flopped into the chair beside the station and watched him huff and fume, leaving increasingly unhinged voicemails. It would’ve been funny if his aura didn’t feel like a forest fire with legs.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, but you didn't let it get to you. You've seen all sorts in your line of work, and an angry client was hardly anything new. You leaned back in your chair, kicking your feet up onto the counter.

The stencil in your hand was intricate, a design that had been etched into your brain after countless hours of practice.

It was a pattern that looked like it could have been pulled straight from the pages of an ancient Japanese scroll. But there was something different about it today, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You studied it closely, turning it over in your hands, and that's when you saw it: a perfect match for the angry man still huffing and puffing in your chair.

You wandered over and tapped the stencil against your palm. “You’re not going to magic Choso into existence by threatening his voicemail.”

His head snapped toward you, eyes flashing.

Before he could speak, you pressed a hand to his chest and shoved. Hard. He stumbled backward into the chair.

“Relax, Godzilla,” you muttered, unbuttoning his shirt like you were folding laundry. “I need the canvas.”

As you began to unbutton his shirt, straddling over him, he scrutinized you with skepticism, as if trying to figure out what game you were playing.

"You must be on something," he grunted, his voice thick with disbelief. "Only someone high out of their mind would do this to me."

You just smirked, continuing to expose his skin.

"I assure you, I'm as sober as a judge."

He watched you closely, eyes darting across your face, your hands. Something about your calm seemed to confuse him more than anger him.

"What’s your name, girl?"

You looked up from sterilizing his skin. “You can call me yours if that’ll help you sit still.”

Sukuna’s expression twitched. Whether from irritation or intrigue, you couldn’t tell. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, his eyebrow raising slightly. The room had tension, the air charged with the scent of ink and antiseptic.

He fully took off his shirt, revealing a landscape of intricate tattoos that sprawled across his chest and arms. They were a map of his life, each ink stroke telling a story of battles won and enemies vanquished.

You took a moment to appreciate the artistry before focusing on the patch of bare skin just below his sternum, free from ink.

You laid out the stencil with a gentle hand, aligning it with the existing tapestry of his body art. But as you leaned in to press it against his warm, firm flesh, he grabbed your wrist, halting your movement. His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way that suggested both annoyance and curiosity.

"This isn't what I want," he growled, his grip firm but not painful. "I wanted Choso's work, not some random girl playing artist."

You leaned back, sitting on his torso, the weight of your body pressing him into the chair.

"Well, tough luck," you said, your voice as smooth as silk. "Choso's not here, and you're getting a taste of what the rest of the world has to deal with when they don't get their way."

Sukuna's eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He didn't like this, not one bit. But there was something about your confidence, the way you held the tattoo gun like it was a part of you, that kept his complaints at bay.

With a sigh that could've deflated a hot air balloon, he gave in. "Fine," he grunted. "But if you mess this up, you're going to regret ever laying eyes on me."

You just smiled, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, I'm shaking in my boots," you said, the sarcasm thick enough to cut with a knife.

You knew exactly what you were doing, and you had no intention of letting this man-mountain intimidate you.

The tattoo gun buzzed to life. You started the outline without ceremony, dragging the needle along his skin with confident precision.

Sukuna grunted, jaw tight. “You’re not gentle.”

You shrugged. “I’m not here to hold your hand.”

His gaze wandered, watching your hands more than the art. His fingers began to brush against your thighs. Testing boundaries.

“You nervous or just handsy?” you asked without looking up.

He smirked, low and rough. “Just admiring the view.”

“Focus on the ceiling,” you said, tone bored. “This isn’t that kind of shop.”

Still, his touches grew bolder. Up your hips. Until your waist. His voice dropped into your ear. “You’re good at this.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. “I know.”

His hand slid up to the small of your back, the gesture more possessive than complimentary. The tension in the room thickened, the air charged with something you couldn't quite name. You knew you had to put a stop to it before it went too far.

And then—swift as a snap—you climbed off his lap, the chair screeching beneath you. You set the gun down with a final click.

“That’s enough,” you said coolly. “I’m not here to play house.”

He looked up, startled. “No. Don’t stop. This—this isn’t what it looks like.”

You crossed your arms. “It looks like a man trying to cross a line.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you were already wiping down the ink. “Session’s over.”

“What the hell do you mean it’s over?” His voice cracked the air like thunder.

You met his fury with all the emotion of a bored cat. "Just what I said," you replied coolly. "Your session's over. If you want more, you'll have to come back."

For a long moment, silence stretched. Then—laughter. Low, thunderous, involuntary. It spilled from him like water from a cracked dam. He grabbed the towel from your hand and wiped himself down, chuckling.

“You’ve got fire,” he said, eyes glittering.

You arched a brow. “That a compliment or a warning?”

He looked at the mirror, inspected the work. “It’s perfect.”

You shrugged. “I know.”

Suguru peeked in then, wide-eyed. “Oh. You’re... done?”

Suguru bustled in then, his usual cheerful self. "How'd it go?" he chirped, not noticing the tension hanging in the air like a heavy fog. You tossed Suguru the aftercare instructions without looking up from cleaning your work station.

"He’s all yours," you said, your voice as cool and professional as ever.

Sukuna stood, rolled his shoulders, and glanced at you one last time. “Guess I’ll be seeing more of you.”

You nodded curtly and turned to leave, back into the comfort of the office you were dragged out of. You took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying to shake off the encounter. You had done your job, and done it well. That's all that mattered.

But as you left, you felt the weight of Sukuna's gaze on your back. You knew he was watching, no doubt grilling Suguru about you. A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—it wasn't every day you managed to throw someone like him off balance.

“No, Sukuna. I, in fact, cannot tell you where she lives.”

And with that, something in him shifted.

He’d always believed he knew what it meant to want, to desire. But this—this quiet ache to be good to someone, to offer more than charm and heat—caught him off guard. He wasn’t used to wanting to be needed.

Not like this.

Beside him, you drove with the kind of finesse that made even traffic look choreographed. The sun streamed through the windshield, highlighting the curve of your cheekbone, the furrow in your brow as you changed lanes.

His fingers hovered near your lap, uncertain. He didn’t touch—just watched the space between your bodies, aware of it in a way that felt new.

Your voice broke the moment. Dry, amused. Curious.

"What are you doing?"

He didn’t reply, not with words. Just a lazy grin and a slight shrug that said, I want to touch you, but I’m not sure how to ask anymore.

Outside, Shibuya unfurled around you both—vivid and alive, full of people who didn’t know that the world was quietly shifting inside a luxury sports car.

Pedestrians glanced sideways, drawn by the purr of the engine and the man lounging in the passenger seat like he owned the skyline. Satoru didn’t care for their attention—not today. His gaze remained fixed on you.

You flicked the mirror once, fixing a stray strand of hair. The gesture was routine, unthinking. But something about it made his chest tighten. You always looked good, but now... now he saw something more.

Not beauty, exactly. Not the kind of perfection that came from makeup or mirrors. It was the ease. The confidence. The aura in the way you existed.

He barely noticed when the car stopped.

You stepped out, and the city responded like it always did—heads turned, necks craned, whispers passed from stranger to stranger. Satoru, usually proud of the spectacle, felt a different urge stir this time.

His hand slipped around your waist with a gentle yet possessive touch that spoke volumes. There was no dramatic gesture, no showy display - just the quiet intensity of his grasp settling naturally at your hip, fingers pressing ever so slightly into the fabric.

A soft, appreciative sound rumbled in his throat, barely audible above the city's buzz, as he drew you closer against his side.

Then, with deliberate tenderness, he tilted his head and brushed his lips against your cheek in a kiss that lingered just long enough to make his intentions clear.

The gesture wasn't meant to draw attention or make headlines - it was purely selfish, a private moment of claiming what he considered precious. His eyes remained half-lidded, savoring the closeness, completely unconcerned with who might be watching.

The way your body leaned into his without pause told him everything.

Still, the attention gnawed at him.

You didn't need to ask what was bothering him - his body language spoke volumes. The subtle twitch that kept appearing in his jaw, the way his eyes darted protectively toward every passing stranger who dared to look your way for too long, the tension visible in his shoulders - it all painted a clear picture of his anxiety.

You couldn't help but smile, finding his protective nature both cute and slightly entertaining. As you continued walking, he matched your pace but positioned himself just a half-step closer than necessary, his movements careful and deliberate.

The way he walked - quick strides that kept him near enough to shield you from curious onlookers - made it obvious he was trying to create a barrier between you and the rest of the world, as if his presence alone could keep you safely tucked away from prying eyes.

You laughed then - a bright, uninhibited sound that rang through the crowded street like crystal bells caught in a summer storm. The sound was pure and unrestrained, cutting through the urban cacophony of car horns and conversations with remarkable clarity.

He found himself mesmerized by the melody of your giggles, drinking in every note like a man who had wandered too long in a desert without water.

In that brief, precious moment, all his possessive thoughts and nagging jealousy dissolved, replaced by the simple joy of hearing your happiness echo against the city walls.

He could feel the vibrations of your laughter in his chest where your bodies touched, and it made him forget why he had been worried in the first place.

But then the doubt returned.

He imagined someone bold enough to approach you - someone with crafted charm and sophistication that could rival his own.

Maybe they'd have that mix of confidence and mystery, speaking with carefully chosen words that could make anyone feel special. The kind of person who'd know exactly what to say, how to carry themselves with that effortless cool that even he sometimes had to work at.

The mere thought sent an unfamiliar twist through his stomach, a sensation that reminded him of his younger days.

You stopped abruptly and turned to face him, sensing the waves of discomfort rolling off his tense frame. His grip on you had grown tighter with each passing moment, those brilliant eyes darting around the crowded street with the sharp vigilance of a personal security detail. The muscles in his jaw worked silently, betraying the protective instinct warring with his usual cockiness.

When your gaze met his, your expression settled somewhere between tender amusement and loving exasperation at his antics. Without needing to voice the words aloud, your eyes conveyed the simple truth that seemed to escape him in these moments of doubt: I chose you, and I keep choosing you, every single day.

And it clicked again.

Still, Gojo was Gojo. His next move was predictably dramatic—arms draped back around your waist, pulling you in a little too tightly, like he could keep the world out with sheer force of will.

You didn't resist his protectiveness, his possessive touches, his constant need to be near. You never pushed back against the way he hovered or questioned his occasional bouts of jealousy. Your acceptance was unconditional, unwavering, complete.

And that unquestioning trust, that perfect faith in him despite knowing all his flaws - that was what truly terrified him. He wasn't used to being believed in so completely, trusted so deeply. The weight of your devotion both excited and frightened him.

When you finally arrived at the designated meeting spot, Suguru was already there waiting, his posture relaxed yet observant as he leaned against the wall. His arms were folded across his chest in a casual stance, but his eyes held a knowing glint as he watched you approach.

The way he studied the pair of you suggested he had anticipated this scene long before it unfolded - your arrival, Satoru's protective stance, the subtle dynamics at play. When he offered a greeting, Satoru barely managed a distracted acknowledgment, too preoccupied with maintaining his presence next to you.

"Took you long enough," Suguru said, the words light but knowing.

Satoru offered no explanation for their tardiness, maintaining his tight grip on your waist like an emotional anchor point. The pressure of his fingers spoke volumes about his state of mind - not quite possessive, but definitely present and unwavering.

There was nothing subtle about the gesture; it was a clear statement of attachment that drew Suguru's knowing attention. His friend caught the meaning immediately - how could anyone miss it? - but chose to acknowledge it with nothing more than an understanding smirk, letting the moment pass without comment.

You and Suguru exchanged light-hearted conversation, the words flowing naturally between you like an easy melody shared among old friends. Their familiar rapport filled the air with warmth, punctuated by genuine laughter and knowing glances.

Meanwhile, Satoru remained uncharacteristically quiet, his usual witty remarks conspicuously absent. The silence that surrounded him spoke volumes, weighted with unspoken thoughts and carefully contained emotions.

His grip on you tightened imperceptibly, fingers pressing just firmly enough to betray his inner state. When Suguru's admiring gaze swept over the sleek lines of the car before settling appreciatively on you, offering words of praise for both, Satoru's response was subtle but unmistakable.

His body angled forward with deliberate precision, shifting closer to create a physical presence between you and his friend. The movement could have been unconscious, a primal instinct to protect what he considered precious, or perhaps it was a calculated gesture - a wordless reminder of boundaries, a gentle but firm assertion of his place in your life.

Suguru raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.

Eventually, Satoru couldn't resist interjecting himself back into the conversation. With the practiced ease of someone so used to commanding attention, he smoothly redirected the discussion away from its current path. His interruption was swift yet calculated, like someone snatching the last coveted dessert from a shared plate - deliberate in its timing and execution.

The way he reclaimed your focus was unmistakably possessive, accompanied by that characteristic smile of his that managed to be both hypnotizing and slightly smug, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was being intentionally territorial. His expression practically broadcasted that he was well aware of his pettiness and had absolutely no shame about it.

And then you were walking again.

As the three of you ventured deeper into the pulsing heart of the city, letting its steady rhythm wash over you, Satoru found his thoughts drifting like leaves caught in a gentle breeze.

His gaze kept returning to you, drawn not by any shadow of doubt, but by a sense of wonder that refused to fade. He marveled at the way your words danced through conversations, how your entire being seemed to radiate with an inner light that brightened the space around you, and most captivating of all, how naturally you fit into his world - as if you had always been meant to occupy this space beside him.

He felt it again—that quiet, simmering sense of purpose. The need to protect, to offer, to stay soft when the world turned hard.

At some point, you leaned closer. He didn’t notice until your shoulder brushed his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said simply, without needing to be prompted.

Satoru stopped walking.

The crowd didn’t.

The sun poured over you both, warm and golden, cascading down like liquid light through the afternoon haze. Its rays caught in your hair, creating a soft halo effect that made each strand shimmer with an ethereal glow.

The sight of you bathed in that perfect natural spotlight, combined with the gentle contentment radiating from your presence, made him feel, absurdly but undeniably, like the luckiest man in Tokyo.

His breath hitched in his chest at the realization - not in any dramatic fashion, but in that subtle, unconscious way that happens when a moment becomes unexpectedly perfect. Just enough of a catch to feel it, to mark the significance of this simple slice of time.

His hand found yours. No theatrics. No grin. Just a squeeze.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’d be so upset. Like, sick to my stomach upset.”

You smiled, and he kissed you again—this time on the lips. Soft. Lingering. The world blurred around you, and Satoru, for once in his life, didn’t need to be the center of it.