Thursdays, week Thirty One
tags: modern AU, Sukuna x f!Reader, graphic designer!Reader, tired girl x tired man, Sukuna's soft and quiet, reader's a bit of a yapper, reader exhaustion realism, quiet intimacy, slow burn, slice-of-life, minimal dialogue, subtle yearning, emotional restraint, angst
← Week Thirty · Week Thirty One Masterlist · ao3
Thursday, 9:00 p.m.
The week begins seemingly ordinary. You receive your first major assignment for an actual, real client, marking the end of the adjustment period. Although it’s more responsibility, there’s no real pressure because the deadline is actually reasonable. More importantly, it doesn’t give you the anxiety it might have once. You approach it calmly, break it into smaller, manageable tasks, take detailed notes, and start working. If anything, this proves that you made the right decision.
However, professional success doesn’t make daily life easier. Outside of work, days feel heavier.
Every night, the same single thought circles quietly in the background: maybe next Thursday. It’s there when you cook and when you sit on the couch mindlessly scrolling through your phone. It’s the reason you go to bed early, as staying awake feels pointless, like a waste of hours spent waiting for a day that could change everything. The emotional spirals are gone. You no longer cry, rage or feel that terrible, overwhelming sense of doom. You just… wait. And with each passing night without change, waiting itself becomes increasingly unbearable.
By Monday, that fragile hope feels thinner.
By Tuesday, you catch yourself actively resenting it.
By Wednesday, you’re tired of constantly convincing yourself that two weeks of coming back, waiting in your car, and forcing yourself into the store should mean something. You did everything you were ‘supposed’ to do. You were brave in quiet, humiliating ways that no one else ever saw. And still, he hasn’t shown up.
Thursday comes with that exhaustion already pressing down on your chest.
During the daily meeting, your manager announces that Fridays will now be a permanent home-office day for the whole team. It’s framed as a practical choice, meant to make everyone’s lives easier. You nod in agreement with your colleagues, politely thank her, but the news doesn't bring the relief or happiness you expected. Instead, it removes the last small obstacle—the final logistical excuse you could have used to delay or talk yourself out of going back completely. Now, there’s nothing left to hide behind.
When five comes, there is no familiar sense of urgency. You shut down your laptop slowly, as if stretching out the last moments of your workday might somehow alter the inevitable trajectory of the evening. You stay behind as your team leaves, staring at the dark screen of your monitor, realising that returning no longer brings the same anticipation as last week, when you still had hope. Now, it simply feels like a task to quell your wandering thoughts.
When you start the engine, the typical anxious rush to leave the parking lot is gone. You sit there, hands on the steering wheel, feeling already exhausted. Tonight isn't about searching for him anymore but about proving something to yourself, even if that proof is going to hurt.
Throughout the drive, you're fully aware of what tonight is. You’ve known waking up this morning and realised you were too tired of trying. The last two weeks have left a lasting mark—the waiting, the quiet disappointment, the humiliation of hoping for something that never appears.
Fortunately, the traffic on the main artery doesn’t give you space for a full spiral. It slows down, stops, then crawls forward again, and you somewhat accept the delays with a bleak outlook. Each red light buys you a few more seconds of pretending you’re not driving toward proof. Yet, deep down, you know better than to fool yourself into thinking this time will be different.
As you approach the familiar streets, your chest tightens, already bracing for the impact of a blow you already know is coming. When you pull into the parking lot, your eyes sweep towards the far end out of habit, but the absence of the familiar car doesn’t shock you anymore.
After carefully parking the car, you give yourself a moment with your hands resting uselessly in your lap. The clock reads 9:15. Though you’re late, it hardly feels like it matters now. A sense of dread settles in your stomach as you finally grasp the door handle and muster the courage to step out.
“This is the last try.” Your voice is dry when the words leave your mouth, because you know, with absolute certainty, that you won’t survive doing this again.
Inside, you start by not choosing a direction. You simply walk, drifting through aisles, with cart wheels spinning faintly against the tile floor, your hands lightly gripping the handle just to hold onto something.
There’s nothing specific you’re searching for.
You pass shelves that you know by heart, and the store feels both the same and entirely unfamiliar, like a place you’ve memorised but no longer belong to. Time seems to slow down as minutes slip away, and you let them because stopping would mean facing the reality of why you’re here.
You circle slowly, letting yourself wander the long way around, down aisles you don’t need, past products you don’t want, convincing yourself that as long as you're inside, it still counts as trying. Each lap feels like a silent test, as if every time you pass the front registers, it's another opportunity for the doors to open in front of you and for the night to finish differently than you've already expected.
But the longer you stay, the more crushing the reality becomes. This is what proof feels like.
The dread gradually builds and then suddenly erupts. It lodges in your chest as a tight, persistent knot that grows more intense with each passing minute. You knew this was coming. Still, knowing doesn’t blunt the impact when it actually happens.
Your eyes betray you, with your vision blurring slightly, forcing you to blink repeatedly and glance down at a random shelf, pretending to read a label when in reality you’re trying not to fall apart in the middle of the store.
Standing there empty-handed feels like giving up too soon, so you force yourself to grab a few things, anything at all. Snacks. They’re simple, comforting, and easy to justify without much thought. For your parents, the old, habitual lie forms in your mind automatically, even as your fingers tremble as you reach for the packaging.
Then the harsh, humourless clarity cuts through the pretence. Who are you kidding? This is for you, for later, for when the night completes its slow work of destroying you and leaves you alone with the wreckage.
By the time you reach the registers, your attempt to hold back has failed. Tears slip free, hot and uncontrollable. You keep your head down, concentrating only on the transaction, as you clutch the small plastic bag with movements that feel detached from you, like you’re watching yourself from outside your own body. You turn quickly towards the exit, determined to get out before anyone notices or you break down any further.
“You’re the Thursday girl, right?”
The gentle and entirely unexpected voice stops you mid-step. Frozen, your heart pounds so loudly and so hard it takes your breath. For a moment, turning around seems impossible, and you’re unsure whether you’re even still standing. When you finally force yourself to look, it’s at a clerk two stations away, who’s watching you with cautious recognition and a mix of carefulness and sympathy in their face.
“He left something,” he says softly, as if he’s worried about startling you, then walks over, extends his hand, and offers a plain white envelope.
Your mind seems unable to process what’s happening. You stare at the paper in his hand, as if it might disappear if you acknowledge it. The world narrows to just the gap between you and that outstretched hand. The clerk gently asks if you’re alright, and that’s what finally jolts you to move. You nod weakly, not very convincing, and grasp the envelope with shaking fingers, barely managing a muffled thank you.
Your eyes drop to the paper only when you’re already turned. Scrawled across the front, in clear handwriting:
To Red, if you ever come back. — Sukuna
You stop short once again.
“Sukuna,” you whisper instinctively, the unfamiliar sound feeling strangely natural in your mouth, as if it has always been part of you. The sudden realisation strikes you sharply and almost absurdly, and a broken laugh nearly escapes from your chest.
You have no idea if the clerk heard it, because you bolt for the exit, tears blurring everything as you rush through the doors, clutching the envelope tightly, afraid it might vanish if you loosen your grip. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you finally hold something that could change everything.
Reaching the car, you move quickly, unlock the door and drop into the seat before your brain has a chance to catch up. The small bag of snacks is tossed onto the passenger seat and forgotten the second it leaves your hand. You don’t even think about the trunk. You couldn’t put this any farther away from you if you tried.
You sit there with the envelope in your hands, elbows braced against your thighs, breathing shallowly as if too much air might tear something. The parking lot now feels painfully loud, with engines roaring, carts banging, and distant laughter, all of it too loud for this fragile moment.
A scorching, impatient urge pulses beneath your skin, demanding to rip it open and tear straight through the paper, consequences be damned. It's an instinct, but you resist it. Instead, your trembling fingers hesitate at the edge, then carefully slide underneath the flap, easing it open with a surprising gentleness you didn’t know you possessed.
Suddenly, everything centres on his handwriting. Even before you fully pull the paper free, his careful effort is clear. The envelope shows no signs of creasing or haste; the letters are evenly spaced and seem to be written slowly, as if he was afraid of making a mistake.
Inside, there’s only a single piece of paper, folded once. You take a deep breath and unfold it, staring down at the stark black ink. An address. That’s all. No explanation, no instructions, no signature, not even a single word of greeting—only a clearly written location.
A sharp, unfamiliar sensation tightens your chest. It’s not disappointment, as that would be too simple. Relief doesn’t quite fit, and neither does fear. It’s the realisation that he didn’t leave words because words could be misunderstood. This, however, is precise and intentional.
You lower the paper into your lap and only then notice how badly your hands are shaking, the tremor completely out of proportion to the thin sheet. You pull out your phone, enter the address into the maps app, and watch the route appear. Twenty minutes. Close enough to feel unreal, yet far enough to give your already frayed nerves time to spiral.
There’s no point in sitting and overthinking, so you start the engine and pull out of the parking lot with the store shrinking in your rearview mirror as the road opens up ahead of you. The drive is a blur of speed and light, streetlights streaking past, and your thoughts catch themselves in a frustrating, useless loop: What if you misread this? What if you’ve fundamentally misunderstood his intention? What if you’re already too late again?
The GPS leads you to a peaceful residential street filled with modest houses. Porch lights emit a soft yellow glow, creating a calm, homely atmosphere that contrasts with the fluttering in your chest. You slow down, then carefully brake, pulling over to the side of the road. You check the address on the paper, then double-check the house number, even a third time, just to be sure. This is it. This must be the place.
As you turn off the engine, the silence presses in immediately. The house is ordinary, and nothing about it stands out. To your dismay, no light shines through the windows, no shadow moves behind the curtains, and the most damning observation of all: there is no Jeep in the driveway. There’s no sign of him waiting just on the other side of the door. Of course he isn’t.
You sit there for a moment longer, your heart still pounding quickly and irregularly, out of sync with the quiet street around you. This was never going to be easy. Whatever happens next was never going to meet you halfway.
Eventually, you gather the courage to get out of the car with the envelope clutched in your hand. You turn to face the house and, without looking back, lock the car, then immediately lock it two more times as doubt creeps in about whether you actually did it.
You try to calculate the distance in your head, in a desperate attempt to make the walk manageable, because your feet feel glued to the ground beside the car. How many steps? Sixteen, you decide. Choosing this small, arbitrary number to meet makes everything less overwhelming, and with that, you start moving.
The first step is a lurch, a sudden, awkward release of tension in your body. The second step is slightly smoother, forcing a mechanical rhythm to take over. You’re trying to walk normally, but every muscle feels foreign and resistant.
On the third step, you instinctively wipe your palms on the rough denim of your jeans before realising they are damp and slick with cold sweat. Your jaw is clenched so tightly that it aches.
On the seventh step, your hand lifts towards your shoulder to adjust the strap of your bag, and you abruptly stop with a quick, sharp jolt of panic when your fingers can’t feel one.
On the tenth step, your anxiety shifts its focus. You pause briefly to frantically smooth the dark wool of your coat, even though there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it—no creases or flaws that require fixing.
On the twelfth step, a petty wave of doubt washes over you. You realise your initial sixteen step count was off, as the door suddenly looks closer than it should. You hesitate, your left foot suspended mid-air, uncertain whether to take smaller, more cautious steps to stretch the distance and reach your planned count, or to allow yourself to be wrong. Ultimately, you choose the latter, pushing the small internal failure aside.
On the fourteenth step, you find yourself directly in front of the door, and the proximity is startling. You stop completely, taking shallow breaths, your chest feeling tight and constrained.
The house is unnervingly quiet, dark except for the faint glow of streetlight across the front steps. Up close, it looks even smaller than it did from the car, unremarkable in every way. The envelope, which is your reason for being here, is damp at its edges from being squeezed so tightly, but it stays in your hand because you don’t know what else to do with it. Letting go feels impossible, like dropping the only proof you have that this isn’t a mistake.
You lift your hand towards the door, but halt halfway with fingers hovering centimetres from the wood. The position feels awkward, your arm hanging in the air and your shoulder tightening as seconds seem to stretch endlessly, making the moment feel like eternity. A minute drags by, possibly more, and then your own thoughts erupt loudly, breaking the silence. This is ridiculous. This is exactly how you end up humiliated.
The fear strikes suddenly, constricting your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you instinctively step back, taking two steps towards the relative safety of the car. Your heart pounds as if retreating could still shield you from whatever comes next.
That backward movement snaps a critical part loose inside you. A fierce, almost purely angry thought cuts through the rising panic before it can fully take over. Don’t be a coward. You didn’t come this far just to run. The words are harsh, free of self-pity, and necessary, leaving no room for negotiation. Before your brain can come up with another argument, you pivot, approach the door swiftly and knock.
The sound is far louder than you expected, and it echoes sharply in the quiet of the neighbourhood. A searing wave of regret flashes through you at the force you used, leaving you frozen, listening. Nothing happens. The silence stretches, long and empty, causing your shoulders to tense and your chest to cave in with a familiar feeling of disappointment. As time drags on, your mind rushes to fill the gap with every negative conclusion it knows how to reach: he’s not here, you misjudged, this was never meant for tonight.
The waiting continues well past what feels reasonable, until hope becomes brittle and painful. Your breath shortens as the crushing sense of failure creeps back. You swallow, your throat dry and tight with anxiety, and knock again—this time with less force but more determination, driven by sheer desperation. Please just let this be over. The plea sits heavy in your mind as your hand drops back to your side in resignation.
A faint light flickers somewhere deeper inside the house, off to the side rather than near the door, casting a warm glow in the darkness. You go completely still, barely daring to breathe. Unhurried footsteps follow, growing closer with each second. They come to a stop just on the other side of the door, close enough that you can sense rather than see someone’s presence. Your heart, already an unruly thing, begins to pound with such force it feels completely unmanageable, threatening to burst from your chest.
A metallic click echoes as a key turns in the lock, followed by a heavier thunk as the deadbolt slides open, and then the door swings open.
For a disorienting moment, nothing makes sense. Sukuna stands barefoot on the threshold, framed by the house’s dim interior, dressed plainly in a black tee and loose grey sweatpants. His faded pink hair is wildly dishevelled, sticking out in all directions as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly and then simply forgotten to tame it.
It takes your brain a second too long to match the image with the version of him you’ve been holding onto for weeks, the Sukuna who only ever existed in parking lots, half-lit grocery aisles, and the charged quiet between carefully chosen sentences.
This version is solid and painfully real in a way memory never manages to be. He’s so close that even the tiniest details register in flashes, like the subtle shadow of stubble on his jaw or how his broad shoulders are held just a bit too stiff, as if he paused only because the door was in the way.
Neither of you speaks. You just stare at each other, both clearly stuck in the same moment, trapped in the effort of confirming that what you’re seeing is real and not something your minds invented in a particularly cruel joke.
Sukuna’s brows briefly furrow as recognition dawns, creating a sharp, reflexive crease between them, and your attention snaps to the tattoo at the centre of his forehead. You don’t remember it this detailed and alive… your memory had blurred the lines on his face, softening them to make him survivable from a distance. Up close, everything is like it should be. The markings sit exactly where they should, sharp against his skin, moving as he breathes. They’re undeniably real.
His gaze, fixed on your eyes this whole time, drops to the envelope clenched in your hand. You watch his eyes linger there before a subtle change passes across his face as recognition dawns. It’s a sudden, sharp intake of emotion, immediately followed by the breaking loose of something vital. When he finally meets your gaze again, the look in his eyes is completely different.
He steps forward cautiously, genuinely afraid you'll run away if he moves too fast or startles you. Now, he’s close enough that you can feel his warmth, a tangible heat cutting through the cool night air. His hands rise towards your face, hovering in the space between you for a suspended half second, as if offering you one final chance to stop him, even now.
When you don’t move away, his fingertips brush along the edge of your jaw first, sending a slight shiver straight down your spine. Then his calloused hands lift higher, cupping your cheeks fully and gently tilting your head up, sweeping up his thumbs to rest just below your eyes with more tenderness than you were prepared for. The texture of his skin is rough against yours, his touch warm, and the contact alone is enough to make your entire body ache as the weeks of self-imposed restraint and distance break down entirely, all at once.
For a long moment, he just holds you like that, studying your face in complete silence, and his crimson eyes roam hungrily from the curve of your mouth to your lashes, and then to the gentle curve of your brows. You feel the slight tremor he’s trying to hide when his breath hitches once, then again, as if he still doesn’t quite trust that you’re truly there, real, within reach.
Sukuna leans down, breathing unevenly, his forehead nearly touching yours, but his eyes still search your face with a frantic desperation, memorising every detail all over again or needing proof you won't disappear. Your body freezes, overwhelmed by the closeness and the certainty in his grip.
When instinct takes over, and you lean into his touch, he finally closes the last gap between you, pressing his lips into yours, and the intensity of the kiss steals the air right out of your lungs. It's not rushed or hesitant, but his mouth covers yours with such raw, unrestrained need that your knees feel dangerously weak. Your hands jump slightly, like your entire body needs to catch up with the reality of what’s happening.
He doesn’t have to pull you closer as you instinctively step into him. One hand rises to grip his bicep for support, while the other curls around the base of his neck, fingers sinking into the soft hair.
The moment your fingers touch his skin, a low, guttural groan vibrates deep in his chest and spills into your mouth. He presses his lips more firmly against yours, deepening the kiss as tongues brush cautiously at first and then meet with a fierce hunger he has been holding back for months. It’s more intense than anything you imagined, fueled by months of restraint, deep longing, and held-back desire.
He finally pulls back slightly, his forehead resting heavily against yours, with warm, uneven breath against your lips. His hands remain firm on your jaw, as if he still hasn’t fully convinced himself that you are really here.
“Don’t leave again,” Sukuna says, and his voice is nothing more than a rasp—low, deep, and thick with emotions he clearly no longer hides.
The sound of it hits you harder than the kiss did. You’d forgotten how his voice sounds when it’s stripped down to its bare register, when he hasn’t spoken much that day or at all. It sinks deep in your chest, spreading warmth outward, causing your hands to reflexively curl against him.
Three simple words, and your body reacts instantly before your mind can keep up. You lean in and kiss him again, slower this time, softer, your lips moving against his with confidence that’s both frightening, fresh, and absolutely right all at once. It doesn’t last long, and you pull back slightly to catch your breath.
“I don’t plan to.” Your voice is softer than his as you speak, the decision already made deep inside you before you even fully recognise it. You are fully aware of the cost of your words, and you’re saying them anyway.
A hint of relief softens his expression as a visible wave passes over his features, as if he’s been holding his breath for weeks and just now realises he can finally breathe again. As he reaches for you once more, his touch is different, carrying a clear purpose.
Sukuna doesn’t just kiss you; his hand presses confidently at the small of your back, pulling you inside while keeping his lips on yours. He guides you over the threshold into the warmth of his home, never breaking contact.
His hands slide up your body again, one moving to the back of your neck, fitting the curve of your jaw, and the other slipping into your hair to hold you steady as the kiss gets hungrier. You feel his chest muscles flex against yours with every staggered breath, his shoulders instinctively box you in, and his body wraps around you as if this, and you, was exactly where he'd been dying to be.
You lift your chin confidently, and he accepts the invitation immediately. His tongue brushes against yours, and this time, your knees nearly buckle with the intensity of it and the sensation sinking deep into your stomach and igniting like fire. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left between your bodies, beside the heat, quick breaths, and the absolute need. Everything shrinks down to the taste of him, the smell of the familiar mix of tobacco, vanilla, and oil, and your heart pounding against his chest.
The moment shatters when something warm and impossibly soft presses insistently against your legs, weaving a distracting pattern around your ankles. It’s a small, demanding presence that makes you pull away from the kiss, and both of you glance down at the same time.
A fluffy tuxedo cat stands there, lazily flicking its tail from side to side, with emerald eyes that regard both of you with a proud, entitled expression. It first nuzzles against Sukuna’s legs, then turns to rub its soft, velvety head against your shins, purring loudly, as if this sudden, affectionate interruption was an entirely normal part of your reunion.
Sukuna lets out a quiet chuckle, a low, resonant rumble that resonates between you, so familiar, missed, and so deeply longed for that it makes your chest ache with an almost painful warmth.
“That’s Haru,” he says as the lingering tension from the kiss eases into a gentler expression on his face, and the name leaves his mouth like a soft, amused exhale that eases the hard edges of his voice.
You quickly shrug off your coat and fold it over one arm before crouching, unable to resist the cat’s irresistible but adorable presence. Your fingers glide through its soft, dense fur as it leans heavily into your touch and puts its front paws on your thigh, already kneading it with tiny, sharp claws.
“Hi, Haru,” you murmur, scratching him behind the ears. “I’ve heard about you, you know?”
The comfort of being with Sukuna, this small, domestic absurdity unexpectedly cutting through the tension, makes you let out a genuine, shaky laugh. You introduce yourself to the cat, telling it your name, and then look up at the man with a wide smile.
As you straighten, the levity drains from the moment. Sukuna is watching you intensely, making your throat tighten all over again. He doesn’t smile, but the darkness in his eyes is softened by something calmer and more serious.
He carefully repeats your name aloud, keeping your eyes fixed on yours, and the sound feels oddly perfect on his lips as he tests the syllables. You nod, unable to hide your smile, feeling a surge of warmth in your chest as you hear your name spoken by him.
“I missed you, Sukuna.” Your voice is gentle and tender as you’re testing his too, now that he’s actually standing before you.
Hearing his own name leave your lips for the first time, spoken with such warmth, makes him close his eyes briefly and take a deep breath. When they open again, the softness is gone, replaced by a darker, more intense gaze.
The need in him is back all at once, and he kisses you again so hard you gasp into his mouth. One hand gently cups your cheek, thumb pressing warmly and steadily against your cheekbone, while the other reaches back without looking, finds the door's edge, and closes it with a final, decisive thud.
With the weight of his body still pressed to yours, the truth sinks in with a clarity that makes your vision blur with happy tears. You realise you weren’t the only one waiting. You never were.
And something in your chest finally releases; the waiting, the trying, the effort, the quiet humiliation of hoping all melt away in an instant.
notes: thank you all for following the journey of two idiots, their routine and their stupid unspoken rules. and especially thank you to those of you who stayed even when thursdays got heavy and angsty. i know the change wasn’t easy, so it means a lot that you didn’t give up on them. i hope you enjoyed the ending.
worry not: this is not the end.
i actually wrote one additional chapter that wasn’t part of the original plan. i finished writing thursdays over two months ago, but after reading your reactions to the angsty chapters and seeing how much they hurt, i wanted to add something more. it’s a small extra piece that i wrote recently, and it’s there because of you. The link to it is below and in the masterlist, named postscript.
and there will be a series written from sukuna’s pov, because i want to show you why he acted the way he did, why he said what he said, and what was going on on his side of the story. i built his entire backstory when i was writing thursdays, so it’s all there—it just needs to be shaped into a story of its own. i've been working on it for some time now, but i want to take my time with it and do it properly, so it might need a little polishing before it sees the light of day. and i think you’re going to like what’s waiting there.
i’m also considering an “after thursdays” series to explore what happens after the reader shows up at sukuna’s door, but that one isn’t set in stone yet. it’s something i’m thinking about, not a promise.
please let me know if you'd like to be tagged for either.
anyway. here's the important part:
this fic started as a way to deal with my own overwhelming work situation, which is why the reader’s work problems and stress mirrored mine so closely. and no, i didn’t get a new job or a sudden offer, unfortunately.
thank you for being with me through weeks of absolute exhaustion and burnout, when i didn’t really have the energy to explain how bad it was anymore, and when i honestly didn't have much left except this story. i'm not magically better now, and i still feel empty, but writing this fic helped more than i can put into words.
and all of you did too. every message, every comment, every note saying this fic felt comforting, soft, slow, or peaceful helped more than you probably realise. each one healed my heart a little bit, and i’m incredibly grateful for that. so, thank you.
and to anyone who saw themselves in the reader because of work, overload, stress, or exhaustion, i’m keeping my fingers crossed for you. i really hope it gets better for you like it did for her.
this series is dedicated to everyone whose work makes them utterly miserable.
tags: @5seos @nerdjoenjoyer @nakiich @sspiralma @plaguecxlt @puttyly @chiaramartyna @shamelessdancer @qq-cup1d @man1cslut @spookyeomgoose @starmapz @sukunash0e @ssoapyyy @ita606 @dianhani @i-luv-mangos @ninani-nanina @alexa4040
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