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what you know - ch6: intoxicated || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. implied injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 12.7k.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

Brushing the snow from his jacket, Sukuna flips his hood down and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. He’d gotten up early enough to work out before taking the kids to school, but in usual fashion, his overly-excitable little brother had been such a handful that Sukuna didn’t get a chance to finish getting ready. He opted for a shower and just threw on the first set of clothes he could find.

He blows a breath out through his nose, scanning the lunch hall. He hasn’t exactly worked out what the hell he’s planning on saying to you after last night, but a promise is a promise and he swore to join you for lunch. He’s failed you enough times.

He trudges up to your usual table with his hands in his pockets, his usual aloof expression plastered across his features, though it twists to confusion as he realizes you aren’t there.

Haibara’s the first to notice him as he pauses a small distance behind your blonde friend. Kento, Sukuna thinks?

“Hey, Sukuna!”

He grunts in reply, before inquiring about your whereabouts.

Shoko and Kento exchange a glance that Sukuna recognizes as cautionary. “She’s sick,” Shoko’s eyes twitch as she narrows her gaze on him suspiciously. “She is sick, right Sukuna?”

Although he doesn’t mind Shoko, he doesn’t like what she’s insinuating, even if she is right. Clenching his fists in his coat pockets, he scowls at her with a tense jaw. “How the hell should I know?”

Shoko’s gaze lingers a moment longer before she sighs, giving in. “She said she was studying at home today. She doesn’t want anyone getting sick before finals,” Shoko explains, swinging her fork around as she speaks.

“That’s nice of her,” Sukuna comments, shooting a pointed glance at Kento who won’t stop glaring at him, which only serves to piss him off further.

With a final nod of acknowledgement intended primarily for Shoko and Haibara, Sukuna turns on his heel and heads back out into the snow. He loathes the strange sensation lingering in the back of his mind that he’s retreating from Shoko and Kento’s scrutiny like a dog with its tail between its legs, but what other option does he have? He’s not about to fight with them. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he heads towards the library with the intention of sending you an email.

Once isolated in the cold again, he lets out a sigh as his breath billows into the freezing winter air. Contritefully, he watches as snowflakes fall slowly and dissolve on the sleeve of his coat.

Fuck.

Shoko had every right to drag him through the mud the way she had, he knows she’s right. You’re not sick. He would have believed it if you were still watching over his sick little brother, but that hasn’t been the case for a while. You’re avoiding him. Without classes, you chose to stay home and avoid the possibility of running into Sukuna.

Lightly kicking a rock as he steps through the snow, the burly man pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. He should be studying in the small amount of spare time he has. He should take extra shifts. He should go Christmas shopping for his brothers. He should meal prep. He should be doing anything other than skulking around campus thinking about the things going wrong in his life.

The worst part? Aside from one very large and glaring issue, you’re the source of all of his problems. Well, no, that’s not fair to you. You just happen to be at the center of all of them, but if he’s honest with himself, he knows there’s more to it than that.

You may be the source of all of his problems, but Sukuna is the cause of each and every one of them.

Taking a step towards the rock he kicked earlier, he sends it flying into the brick of the library with a satisfying thunk before ducking into the building.

Settling quietly in the corner of the library, Sukuna pulls out his laptop and opens his email, doing his best not to think too hard about what he’s typing.

sukuna.r@gmail.com - Friday, 12:11 PM heard youre sick. you okay?

After hitting send, he leans over the table, running his hands over his face to mentally reset himself before diving into his studies.

To Sukuna’s relief, you do reply to his email just over an hour into his studies. He knows he fucked up, but at least you’re still acknowledging him this time.

englishlitstudies@gmail.com - Friday, 1:34 PM Yeah, sorry. I forgot to tell you.

He frowns at the sight of your email. It’s an awfully dry response in comparison to your usual bright demeanor. His fingers rest idly over his keyboard as he contemplates his reply.

sukuna.r@gmail.com - Friday, 1:38 PM right. need anything

sukuna.r@gmail.com - Friday, 1:38 PM ?

englishlitstudies@gmail.com - Friday, 1:59 PM I’m not going to ask you for soup, Sukuna.

Okay, so you’re at least a little bit mad at him. He slumps back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

He could bring you soup.

He could. He remembers you liking the bowl from the cafe he took you to.

He clenches his hand into a fist while biting down hard enough on his lip to draw blood. What the fuck is he thinking? Finals are next week, he’s hardly studied, he has to pick up his brothers in an hour and he has work all weekend.

He doesn’t have time to chase after his frayed connection to you.

His eyes trail across the speckled library ceiling. There’s a water stain just to the left of where he sits. He remembers thinking those sorts of marks were coffee when he was a kid. In retrospect, that makes no sense.

Hell, it makes about as much sense as Sukuna’s obsession with you as of late. He doesn’t have the time, nor the mental capacity to be sitting here stewing over an email that he could be reading too much into.

Leaning forward over the table with a huff, his fingers run across the keys on his laptop as he formulates a reply that’s painfully him.

sukuna.r@gmail.com - Friday, 2:09 PM feel better

It doesn’t shock him that you don’t reply this time.

–

For the better part of the week, a feeling of unease seems to follow Sukuna like a fly he can’t seem to swat away. Even through finals, he finds himself wanting nothing more than to slam his head against his desk in hopes that thoughts of his fuck up might finally leave.

Yet the taste of you always remains on his tongue.

Bittersweet, like the sweetest memory tainted with the reminder that it never should have happened.

It was a mistake.

Throwing his hood up over his head, he leaves the school with one thing in mind.

Your fratboy friend is throwing his end of finals party tonight and Sukuna has every intention to drink to forget. To forget about the lawsuit, to forget about the ways he’s failed his little brothers, and most importantly: to forget about you.

He knows the feeling won’t last forever, but shit, it’ll be worth the way that he pleaded with Choso’s friend’s mother to take Yuji for the night too for a sleepover.

He just needs to escape for the night. He can worry about mentally resetting himself tomorrow morning when he wakes up with a killer hangover on some disgusting couch in Gojo’s ridiculous and over-decorated house.

Until then, he’ll continue on with his day as usual, picking up his brothers from school and cooking something to eat.

“Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna-”

“What?”

“- Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna-”

“Brat! What do you want?” He shoots a look of irritation at his little brother as the youngest Itadori bounds up to him with some sort of craft in his hand.

Sukuna sets his spatula down, leaning down to get a better view of the beaded creation in Yuji’s hand. There’s a yellow lizard dappled in black spots proudly seated atop his outstretched hand as though he’s a mad scientist showing off his greatest creation.

“It’s a lizard.”

“It’s a gecko,” the little boy proudly corrects him.

Sukuna’s nose wrinkles in exasperation. “Same thing.”

“No. They’re not.” This, of course, launches into a five minute explanation of the difference between lizards and geckos, which Sukuna hums along to as he rises back to his full height to continue cooking dinner.

“- so geckos are lizards but they’re not the same as lizards,” Yuji finishes his explanation, tugging at his older brother’s hoodie to hold out his gecko again. “This one’s a leopard gecko.”

“Didn’t know you liked lizards so much, Yu.” Sukuna’s tone is mild, a calm expression plastered on his face. Yuji’s interests change by the day, the only constant seeming to be pokemon and sports, though he’s gone from basketball to tennis to hockey over the course of the last year. Not that Sukuna can afford his interest in hockey, and cautiously pushed him back towards basketball.

Turns out when you’re five, all you need is for your cool older brother to install a basketball net on the back of your door and lift you up to do a slam dunk to be enthralled with the sport again. Sukuna thanks god for that.

“I love lizards!” He beams.

Sukuna hums, a rare smile pulling at his lips. “It’s a nice bead gecko.”

“Leopard gecko. Thanks Kuna! Guess who showed us how to make them?”

The corner of his lip twitches as he stares down at the spotted bead lizard. There’s no shock when Yuji says your name. The shock comes from the dreadful feeling that sits like a stone in the base of his stomach at just the sound of your name.

Fuck, he needs a drink.

“Can I show her?”

“No, Yu.”

“Please?”

“No-”

“Please? Pleeeeeeeaaaaaase?”

This has been a repeating situation practically all week. Yuji seemed to want to show every little thing to you and won’t relent until Sukuna sends an email. He would demand to know what you replied each and every time, and while there’s a part of Sukuna that’s grateful it gave him an excuse to reach out and hold onto your tense relationship, it equally caused him to relive his guilty conscience.

Sukuna sighs, giving in to the relentless pleading of his youngest brother.

“Fine. Let me finish dinner.”

With a cheer, Yuji runs off excitedly to inform Choso to prepare his best lizard to send a photo.

Sukuna’s shoulders rise and fall heavily as he lets out a breath. He stares down at the pan in front of him, the sizzling of gnocchi and tomato sauce offering little distraction from his wandering thoughts.

It seemed no matter what he did, you were so ingrained in his life that he couldn’t escape you.

To say that’s what he wanted in the first place would be a lie. No, he never wanted to escape. He still doesn’t. He just wants things to go back to the way they were before he let his dick do all the thinking and kissed you.

If he wanted to escape, he wouldn’t have searched for you in the crowds during finals. He wouldn’t have frustratedly tossed his textbook on his desk with a thump that made Choso jump and come check on him. Your words echoed in his mind as he feigned a smirk and sent the boy away.

He’s worried about you.

Choso’s too smart for his age. He should be playing games with his friends, begging to see a PG-13 rated movie, anything but worrying about his own guardian.

The pop of tomato sauce brings him back to the present, and he hisses at the feeling of the boiling liquid hitting his forearm. He sets the spatula aside, shutting off the stove and wiping the sauce off with his thumb, popping it into his mouth with a pop!

He needs to get his shit together.

He calls the kids into the dining area for dinner, and before long he’s sitting in front of his laptop, the screen pointed at his brothers, waiting for Choso and Yuji to position themselves in front of the camera with big smiles. In Yuji’s hand is the leopard gecko that he figures you must have told him about, proudly displayed with a toothy smile. Choso’s lizard is a dark purple with a white stripe, his smile more reserved but his eyes shine just as bright.

Sukuna snaps the photo, pulling his laptop back towards him. Yuji clambers onto Sukuna’s lap, met with a grunt and a mildly irritated “enough, Yu.” Choso peers at the laptop screen quietly, watching as Sukuna opens his email chain with you. The last few emails between you both are almost the same as this one, typing out that the kids wanted to show you their lizards.

Your replies to his brothers’ antics have been more positive than your replies to him. He wonders if you knew they were constantly asking about your responses or if the rift between you was healing, but he assumes the former. You’re good with his brothers. They adore you, and you seem to feel the same towards them.

“Tell her my new favorite lizard is um-” Yuji pauses to think, pulling Sukuna back to the present. It seems he’s lost in thought a lot lately. “A frilled lizard!”

“Mm.” He glances at Choso, urging the young boy to choose one as well.

“I like… iguanas.”

Sukuna nods, typing out the boys’ message to you before hitting send. “There. Now go get ready for your sleepover.”

He lets out a sigh as his brothers restlessly go bursting out the door back to their rooms to pack a bag, ensuring they bring just about every unnecessary toy and game and no toothbrush or toothpaste to be found. Exhausted from his finals, he drags himself along after them, packing jackets, gloves, extra socks and toiletries in their stead with a lazy scolding to be more careful.

He’s beyond burnt out and while he usually resents the mother of Choso’s friend for her obviously pitious comments towards Sukuna’s situation, for once he’s glad for her sympathy. If it means he gets just one full night to himself where he can fuck off and forget about all his problems, then he’ll take it. He’ll run with it and he won’t look back.

Once he’s loaded their backpacks into the lady’s car and provided his neighbor’s number in case of emergencies, he finds himself slumping back in his bed in relief. Despite his solace, the silence carries with it an eerie sense of foreboding. He doesn’t think he’s been alone in the comfort of his own home in almost three years now, and it should be a freeing feeling, yet he’s filled with trepidation in place of relaxation.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, dragging his hands down his face. He’s never been early to a party before but fuck it, he needs to dull the sharp edges of worry and doubt with alcohol. Grabbing his keys, he opens his locked bedside table drawer, violently shoving aside ripped legal papers to grab a few blunts and a shooter of Jack Daniels. His hand hovers over a small bottle of Everclear, but he opts to keep it for a later date, certain he’ll need the hard liquor another time.

Shutting and locking the drawer, he languidly begins getting ready, moving at a sluggish pace as he runs gel through his hair in order to get it spiked just how he prefers. He grabs a Danzig shirt, the sleeves chopped at the sides with arm holes deep enough that anyone could get a peek at his abs and chest. Topping it off with a black denim long sleeve and a pair of gray joggers, he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and throws on some cologne.

He pauses before heading out the door, his laptop seeming to loom over him like a ghost, begging him to check his email.

englishlitstudies@gmail.com - Friday, 7:51 PM Yuji!! Choso!! Those both look amazing!! You’re both so creative, it looks like it runs in the family :) Iguanas and frilled lizards are great choices. Maybe if you can steal your big brother’s laptop for a bit, you can find a bead frog tutorial. My favorite is the desert rain frog! They kind of remind me of your brother. ;)

It reminds you of him? A frog?

A quick google search has him scowling at his screen, an equally grumpy looking frog staring back at him.

Stupid. It’s stupid. He shouldn’t have looked.

Shutting the search window, his eyes train once more on your message to his brothers. Despite the fact that he wrote the email, you still seem to be upset with him, choosing to answer as though his brothers wrote it. At least you still teased him about looking like a frog.

Even if it’s stupid. It’s a stupid frog.

Slamming his laptop shut, he tosses his coat on, pockets his broken lighter in the side that isn’t singed, and makes his way out the door towards campus and Gojo’s frat house.

The weather has warmed up significantly over the past week to the point where he can’t see his breath anymore, although the ground is still coated in a thick layer of snow. Pulling out a blunt from his pocket between two deft fingers, he sets it between his lips, lighting the end and inhaling deeply.

Among the many poor decisions Sukuna has made throughout his life, he didn’t mind adding tonight to his list if it meant drinking to forget and smoking to feel calm.

Although he’s earlier than most of the crowd, the music is already pumping loudly through speakers, bass booming through the ground beneath his feet as he makes his way up the porch stairs. He doesn’t recognize the frat boy letting people in, but one disinterested glare from Sukuna is all it takes for him to step aside. After all, who wouldn’t recognize Sukuna?

Swapping his lighter to his joggers’ pocket, he tosses his jacket over a coat rack and heads further into the house in search of something hard to get him buzzed as soon as possible. He blows smoke over the heads of most of the crowd, one of the perks of being nearly seven feet tall, as he heads towards the back of the house where he knows he’ll find the kitchen.

The further he moves from the makeshift dance floor in the front living area, the more reasonable the music volume becomes. College students chatter amongst each other, speaking loudly over the pumping bass, when a familiar voice grabs his attention.

“You made it!”

“Hey, buddy.”

“Well, well, look who decided to show his face.”

Sharp crimson irises flit between Uraume and Atsuya, who greet him casually, landing lastly on none other than Toji Zenin. Always at odds with Sukuna with a shit-eating grin as he pushes the pink-haired man’s buttons just a little bit too far.

“Uraume. Atsuya. Toji.”

It’s a miracle he still considers Toji a friend. Well, maybe an acquaintance. He certainly won’t bring Toji into the fray that is his life any time soon.

And Atsuya, well… The Kusakabe family is known for wealth, so Sukuna likes to keep him at arms’ length as well. Still, he enjoys his company. Uraume is easily his closest friend and he won’t deny that seeing them seems to ease his tension, even if only a little bit.

“So, finally decided we’re worth your time again? Or did you mess shit up with your girl?” Toji barks out a laugh, as though anything he’s saying is humorous.

“She ain’t my girl,” Sukuna growls, making a point of blowing smoke towards him.

“Dunno, you two seemed pretty close at lunch last week.” The scar on the corner of his lip stretches as he grins, taking a sip of whatever concoction is in his solo cup.

“Fuck off, Zenin,” Sukuna grumbles with a roll of his eyes. Toji should consider himself lucky he isn’t about to be at the center of Sukuna’s anger, saved only by the cannabis circling Sukuna’s system and dulling his thoughts, his anger, his mind. With a huff, Sukuna heads towards the kitchen to grab a drink.

“I see he still enjoys getting on your nerves,” Uraume observes, falling into step with him.

“Mm. Dunno how ya tolerate that asshole so much,” he comments, coming to a stop in the kitchen where he stubs out his blunt in an ashtray and opens the first bottle of rum he can find, pouring himself a rum and coke.

That is, if you can consider something that’s sixty percent rum a ‘rum and coke’.

“Me too, please,” Uraume requests. Sukuna hums, pouring a much more reasonable split of alcohol for them. “You can complain as much as you would like about Toji, but I know you two used to be close. Even if he can be a pain, I can tell you aren’t as bothered as you wish for him to believe.”

It’s true. Back in high school, the two were inseparable. Toji didn’t even mind when Sukuna’s father asked the two to take young Choso along to a basketball court or movie, so long as it was appropriate. Their issues came when Sukuna’s father passed away in their first year of college and he refused to speak with his best friend about it, choosing instead to take on mountains of stress on his own. As usual, Sukuna was the cause of his own problems.

Moving out of the dorms and finding a place for his two kid brothers to stay with him, that was a whole other challenge. Learning to change diapers, figuring out a schedule that worked both for the kids’ school and his education, that was what nearly dragged Sukuna to an early grave when he got horribly sick.

That’s where Uraume stepped in, helping to alleviate some of his classwork by taking on additional project work for him. They always expected something in return, but that’s just the way Sukuna preferred to make deals. They helped him get into the swing of taking care of two young kids.

Somewhere along that path, he came to the realization that they’d also had a big piece in both his and Choso’s recovery from grief. Sukuna had grown angry and Choso hardly spoke a word. Although still irritable, Sukuna is generally more reasonable nowadays and although still quiet, Choso is more talkative than he has been in a long time.

In particular with you. He knows Choso adores you, although he’s not as loud as Yuji is about it. Yuji may as well scream it from the tops of buildings.

Taking an unreasonably large sip of his drink, he wills away thoughts of you, replacing what he gulped down with more rum.

Uraume’s brow raises. “Difficult day?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he grumbles, alcohol and cannabis running through his veins and sending his mind into a haze so that he just might be able to handle Toji. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m relieved finals are over,” Uraume takes a sip of their drink with a small smile. “And it’s good to see you around again.”

“I saw you two days ago,” Sukuna points out, arching a brow.

They hum. “Yes, but Toji has a point. You’ve been spending more time with your project partner than us, which is unusual for you.”

He sighs. “Shit, guess I have.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Sukuna. I know you’re busy, and I can see she means a lot to you, but-”

“She’s just a project partner.”

Uraume purses their lips as they side-eye him. “... Right. Remind me, when did your project end?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenches, shooting them a sharp look.

“As I was saying, I can see that she means a lot to you, so I don’t mind. I do wish you would get a new phone as I do miss texting, but our friendship won’t change.” They shoot him a reassuring smile, one that Sukuna lowers his defenses at the sight of.

“However Toji and Atsuya aren’t aware of your situation, which makes it appear as though you’re spending all of your time with her.” Uraume takes a sip of their drink, carding a hand through their snowy locks.

“Mm.” Sukuna runs his tongue over his lower lip as they approach the couch that Toji’s splayed himself over, manspreading with a bottle of beer held in one fist. He recognizes Toji’s cousin Naoya Zenin on the other end of the couch, surprised the two can even stand to be within five feet of one another. Toji may be an asshole, but somewhere buried beneath all that muscle is a fairly genuine person. Naoya, on the other hand, is the kind of person Sukuna wouldn’t mind socking in the face once or twice.

“So,” Toji starts, that infuriating grin returning. “Tell us ‘bout your girl.”

Sukuna chooses to stand between Atsuya and Uraume, his two friends who are decidedly less irritating. It’s a wonder him and Toji were ever close to begin with, though Sukuna supposes he was a lot different back when they hung out more.

The world had changed Sukuna, hardened him into a shell of what he once was.

“I told you, Zenin,” Sukuna hisses, “she’s not my girl.”

Toji scoffs, a wide grin across his face. “Yeah right. Ya got fuckin’ heart-eyes for her. Holdin’ her hand in the lunch hall n’ shit.”

Sukuna downs more of his rum, relishing in the burn as it slides down his throat. “We were studying, shithead. I owe her a favor, that’s all.”

“Yeah? You gonna bring her home n’ cuddle all cute-like?” The raven-headed man teases.

Atsuya sighs at Sukuna’s side, chewing idly on a toothpick. “Can you two shut up?” He grumbles, knuckles white as he grips his beer bottle tighter at the grating sound of their argument. “Giving me a damn headache.”

“C’mon Atsuya, I know ya saw it too,” Toji eggs both men on.

“Toji, enough,” Uraume scolds.

“Nah, I know Atsuya saw it.”

A muscle ticks in Sukuna’s jaw, his teeth grinding as he does what he can to push his frustrations aside. Turns out a full solo cup and blunt aren’t enough to dull Sukuna’s senses to the point where he can tolerate this conversation.

He’s supposed to be forgetting, yet here Toji is pushing the thought of you back in his face, infuriating him.

He downs the rest of his rum in two gulps, staring at the empty cup with a scowl, completely dazed as he tunes out the sound of his friends.

Heart-eyes. As-fucking-if. He scoffs to himself at the thought, staring back over the heads of the crowd towards the kitchen. He needs something harder after all. He should have brought the Everclear.

His relationship with you is similar to that of him and Uraume, he’s sure of it. It doesn’t go beyond that.

So why is he drinking to forget you?

Finally pulled from his thoughts, he turns on his heel to get something harder when he realizes where the conversation has turned in his absence.

Naoya questioningly tilts his head at Toji, a sleazy grin on his face as your name leaves his lips. Sukuna’s lip instinctively curls in disgust at the sound of your name leaving his lips. That’s not where it belongs, and Sukuna doesn’t dare imagine a world where this asshole so much as looks at you, because he thinks it just might give him an aneurysm.

Hell, he thinks an aneurysm would be kinder than the thought of Naoya Zenin ever looking your way.

“She’s fuckin’ hot, she’d look sexy as hell under-” Naoya’s gaze seems to search the crowd for you, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Toji interrupts with a distasteful snarl, but it’s Sukuna’s words that seem to cut the crowd, red hot rage boiling in his chest.

“Don’t you dare fucking finish that sentence,” Sukuna barks, his tone low as he takes a step towards the vile excuse for a human being.

Naoya hardly seems phased by Sukuna’s outburst, although the throng of the crowd has dimmed in the face of Sukuna’s fury. “Aw, is she claimed, Sukuna? Is she your little playth-”

Sukuna barrels forward, not offering Naoya the time of day to speak.

Naoya’s eyes widen as Sukuna’s fist raises, barely managing to cower out of the way in time as Sukuna’s knuckles narrowly miss the blonde’s face and collide with the back of the couch. His eyes swirl with a ferocity that his friends haven’t seen before as they all leap towards him. Atsuya and Toji grab either of his arms and with a harsh pull from Toji, Sukuna stumbles backwards. They’re lucky he’s tipsy and not as stable as usual.

“Woah buddy, I’m all for teaching him a lesson, but let’s not start shit right now.” Atsuya speaks from a place of reason, but Sukuna knows he simply doesn’t want their group to get thrown out by Gojo.

… Again.

At least last time, it was Toji who started shit with Naoya.

Sukuna’s teeth are gritted as his friends hold him back. Naoya’s face has twisted from barely disguised fear into a satisfied smirk. “Did I touch a nerve, big guy?”

Sukuna lunges forward, stumbling back into the wall behind him as Toji pulls him back harshly. He grunts as his back collides with the wall, venom dripping from each syllable as he speaks in a dangerous tone. “If I hear you talkin’ about anyone like that again, I won’t hesitate to throw you through the nearest fucking wall.” Sukuna stares down at his knuckles that collided with the wooden back of the couch. They’re not bleeding, but they’ll bruise.

Naoya opens his mouth to retort, but his words die in his throat when Sukuna pushes off the wall, standing at his full height. Naoya’s tall, but Sukuna makes everyone look short. His usual smug expression falls as he chooses the cowardly option and slips away with an irritated grumble. The crowd that had gathered to watch the spat slowly begins to return to their conversations again, not daring to shoot a glance at the monstrous man spitting threats at the back of the room.

Sukuna huffs, flexing his hand as he moves past his friends to head back towards the kitchen, shoving his way through the crowd. He’s tipsy, but fuck, it’s not enough.

His brothers, his friends, even Naoya, why does everything constantly lead back to you? It’s like you’re some sort of succubus with your claws buried deep within the recesses of his mind that he can’t escape. Yet even as he spins the cap off of a bottle of Jack, he realizes it's his resentment of the way you’re so deeply ingrained in his life that’s causing him to think such a thing.

You’re not a succubus, you’re more like a fairy. Soft, sweet, and kind.

Sukuna pauses his motions, staring down at the bottle. His fingers drum lightly on the stem of the glass as something akin to distress stirs deep within him. He grips the bottle with white knuckles, his throat tight. Before he has time to consider what it is that you mean to him, Toji comes jogging over.

“Hey, everythin’ alright, man?”

The look on his face reminds Sukuna of a time long past. Of late nights at barely-lit skateparks as Sukuna learned the ropes of graffiti. Of long afternoons chatting as they passed a basketball back and forth in the late afternoon sun. It wasn’t so long ago but it feels like a lifetime after the battering Sukuna’s last few years have caused him.

“Why the hell is he even invited?” The pink-haired brute gruffs rather than offering a reply to Toji.

No, he’s not okay.

“Everyone’s invited, Ryo.”

Sukuna shoots him a glare. Everyone’s gotta have a nickname for him, don’t they? He sighs heavily, letting out a long breath before downing several gulps of Jack straight from the bottle. Just once, he wishes he was a lightweight.

He just wants his mind to go blank. He wants the racing thoughts to stop.

“Woah, let’s pace ourselves, yeah?” Toji reaches out to grab the bottle with a grimace, eyeing his long-time friend as he sets the Jack down and pours them both much more reasonable looking ratios of rum to coke. “Alright, so I guess you’re not okay. That’s fine,” he mumbles as he passes Sukuna a cup. “Let’s jus’ go have some drinks, forget about my cousin, yeah?”

With a barely veiled huff, Sukuna pushes off the counter as he follows after Toji.

Sitting alongside Toji and Uraume, a haze begins to settle over his mind that finally leaves him more comfortable. His anger dissipates and he eases more casually into conversation with his friends, something he’s needed more than ever before.

Finally, even if only for a night, he can forget.

–

“Shoko, this goes so low,” you whisper as though saying it any louder might proclaim it to the entire world.

“Yeah, that’s the point,” she retorts, grinning at you in the mirror.

“But it’s winter,” you whine, staring in the mirror at the black dress that, admittedly, does hug your curves just right, but god you feel exposed. It’s also not your usual style, and you know exactly what Shoko’s doing and why.

Ever since you mentioned being sick, she’s been on your ass about what Sukuna did, regardless of how adamant you are that he did nothing.

It’s a lie and you haven’t fooled a soul.

Sukuna did hurt you.

Again.

This time, though, there’s a certain trepidation that sits alongside the pang of hurt. Like you’re not quite sure that you’re allowed to feel hurt, so you hide it behind a smile and a lie that Sukuna did nothing wrong.

No amount of stewing over what happened in Sukuna’s bedroom has given you any answers. You’re stuck somewhere in between feeling guilty for ever expecting anything romantic from him and feeling hurt that his best attempt to reach out was a sad ‘feel better’.

Hours of wondering if all you are to him is another warm body in his bed, even though the rational part of you knows it doesn’t make sense when no one knows his reality except you. Hours of wondering if he feels anything towards you at all or if he simply doesn’t care.

Yet your mind clung to one thing, one thin string that seemed to tie to an impossible ideal. Still, you couldn’t push the thought away.

If you really mean nothing to Sukuna, why is he acting weird? Why won’t he reach out properly, hiding behind his brothers? Why hasn’t he completely pushed you away?

If you were nothing more than a babysitter, he wouldn’t bother reaching out, right?

But if you were nothing more than a warm body to him, why hasn’t he pushed you away?

Shoko scoffs, the sound grounding you to the present. “Girl, you know Gojo will let us use his closet for our jackets. That’s your worst excuse yet.” She rolls her eyes, tossing your winter coat at you. “No more complaining, we’re going.”

You cast one more glance at the frilly black dress that barely reaches your knees and follow after Shoko.

The air is warmer than you expect, making your argument even less valid the moment you’re outside. You don’t bother to refute Shoko’s triumphant teasing, even as she mentions all the people you’ll surely attract in that dress.

Your stomach stirs uneasily at the thought.

As the staple at Gojo’s parties that you two are, the frat boy at the entrance shoots you both a kind grin as he lets you through. Why they bother with a bouncer at a party everyone on campus received an invite for is beyond you, but you return the smile regardless.

The thrum of music and thick scent of liquor, weed, and perspiration suffocates your senses as you enter the house. It’s familiar, and you know exactly where Gojo and Geto will be tucked away. Nanami and Haibara headed home practically the moment finals ended.

Making your way past the kitchen and grabbing a cooler, you slip past a game of beer pong and peer out the patio to the backyard. Sure enough, the snow’s been cleared and a massive fire pit is raging in the corner. Geto and Gojo are sitting around the fire alongside a few other frat members you recognize and some women very obviously vying for a place on one of their arms.

“My two favorite ladies!” Satoru calls out as you carefully make your way over the packed snow, trying desperately not to slip in your heels. You wrap your arms around yourself, thankful for the raging fire as you and Shoko take your seats between Satoru and Suguru.

“Why do you wanna sit outside?” You mumble, holding your hands out to the fire.

Suguru chuckles beside you. “I tried to convince him otherwise, but he wouldn’t have it.”

“It’s warm tonight!” The snowy-haired man insists with an overdramatic pout.

“Just because it’s not freezing doesn’t make it warm, dumbass,” Shoko rolls her eyes, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. She offers them to the group, though only Suguru takes one. She leans over you to light it for him, smoke billowing in the air around you.

With a drink in your hand and your friends at your side, conversation comes easily and you all keep close to the fire, stoking it often to keep a steady flame. Eventually, the mix of the flame and the alcohol warms you up and with toasty cheeks, you’re staring at the fire with a steady buzz.

“How do you think your finals went?” Suguru inquires, leaning back in his camping chair.

“Killed it,” you reply confidently, eyes glazed with the thrill of vodka. “I even think I nailed history,” you proudly tell him, straightening your posture with a gleam in your eyes.

“Mmm, would a particular history major have to do with that?” He asks, a teasing lilt to his smooth voice. Your proud stance falters, your cheeks heating up further as you can only offer him a shy smile, too inebriated to defend yourself as your stomach jumps at the mere thought of him. Suguru chuckles. “I see. I’m just teasing, I won’t push like Shoko does.”

“Hey! I’m a great friend,” she narrows her eyes in a playful scowl, though Suguru just grins.

After the busy last month of the semester, not to mention finals, you’re relieved to share warm moments like these with your friends, reveling in the jokes and laughter filling the air around you.

Being able to indulge in partying is a relief too. Although Satoru does it every second or third day, you can’t partake in the same luxuries and still expect to pass. Life isn’t quite as kind to you as it seems to be for the blue-eyed campus royalty. Between your studies and looking after Choso and Yuji, you’ve had your time well-occupied for the past month.

That’s not even beginning to mention the resumes you’ve been editing for some quick cash, on top of your own.

Not that it’ll be enough extra cash to get you home for Christmas. You know your parents tried, but they’re already doing their best to pay for your apartment and day-to-day expenses. At the end of the day, you can’t sacrifice any of your savings for a trip home, as much as you would like to.

You just have to hold onto the fact that you’ll see them once you start working. Most of your friends will go home for Christmas, but that’s okay. Nanami even offered to pay your way home and have you join him and Haibara, but that just didn’t seem fair, as much as you wanted to take him up on his offer.

You’ll enjoy your time video chatting and maybe take some time to visit Satoru and Suguru’s families, who’ve kindly invited you along.

“Deep in thought?”

“Hm?”

Suguru smiles, amused. “Distracted, are we?”

Your cheeks heat up, embarrassed. “Sorry. What were you saying?” You offer him a kind smile.

“I was offering another drink, would you like me to grab you something?” He taps your empty can.

“Oh! Actually, I’ll come with you I think.”

Suguru hums, leading the way back towards Satoru’s kitchen with a much wider gait than your own. “What are you having?”

“Just whatever cooler is fine,” you shrug as he leans down into the fridge. He pulls out a couple of coolers to give you options, returning to the fridge with the can you choose not to take.

Your eyes scan the crowd from the kitchen with a mirthful, albeit dazed expression that falters when you come face-to-face with the one person who’s been a constant in your thoughts for the past week.

He’s hard to miss, towering over the crowd with a head of pink hair and sharp tattoos decorating his features. Your heart pounds in your chest at the mere sight of him. Clearly a week away from him has done your heart no favors.

Sukuna looks good. You’re so accustomed to seeing him exhausted in deep blue coveralls or a big hoodie with wet, disheveled hair and a frown that seeing him with a relaxed smirk, his hair pushed back out of his face and a chain sat around his neck, he looks handsome.

You bite your lip, tearing your gaze away from him to turn back to Suguru. A knowing smirk has found its way onto Suguru’s face and he chuckles. “Go talk to him.”

Of course, he doesn’t know about the strange fissure sitting soundly between you and Sukuna, but you appreciate his encouragement nonetheless. Even if his tone is teasing, he does have a much more genuine way of handling things than Satoru would have.

For a moment, you do consider Suguru’s encouragement, turning back to Sukuna in the corner of the house, but your heart drops as the crowd shifts.

Standing in front of Sukuna is a tall woman with long, blonde hair. You recognize her from the Volleyball team, she’s gorgeous and Sukuna’s leaning down, his lips close to her ear as he blatantly flirts with her. His eyes are lidded and tinged in red, likely both drunk and high, and he chuckles along to something the blonde says.

Blinking a couple of times, you feel your heart sinking, green with envy. You appreciate Suguru’s encouragement, but maybe you should resign yourself to a world where your feelings remain unrequited and you’re just friends with Sukuna. That is, if he even still wants to be around you. He’s so difficult and hard to read and that’s not to mention the fact he hasn’t even attempted to talk about the heated kiss- 

Sukuna’s eyes flicker upwards, meeting yours and stopping. His lidded expression falters, lips pursed. His brow furrows as the woman tugs on his shirt to get his attention and pull him closer, his gaze flickering between her and you.

You tear your gaze from him, turning back to Suguru. With a light touch to his bicep to get his attention as he pours himself something, you force a smile. “I think I’m gonna go find a quiet corner to get some air,” you tell him, slinking away before he can protest. With one final glance back at Sukuna, who’s returned his attention to the blonde, you slip into the crowd.

Pushing through sweaty bodies, the bass and crowd seems to box you in. Your heart is racing too fast, your mind too buzzed, your world too hazy to be trying to handle this many people.

Finding the stairs brings with it a sense of relief, no longer suffocated by the loud music and overwhelming smell of liquor. On the top floor, several of the rooms are shut, telltale signs of couples finding makeshift privacy and you don’t dare peek into any of them. You head straight for Satoru’s room, knowing well that it’ll be locked, and knowing equally well that you have the digital code to get in.

2-3-7-8.

B-E-S-T.

Cocky as ever.

Slipping inside, you shut the door behind you and take a breath as the ringing in your ears gradually begins to mute. Taking a seat on the edge of Gojo’s bed, you let out a long breath. You’ve spent hours on end in this exact spot, watching Satoru and Suguru compete in Super Smash Bros long after you and Shoko had been knocked out.

It doesn’t usually feel so lonely.

Pulling out your phone from within your bra, the only place you could store it, you find yourself doom-scrolling whatever social media has new content. It’s a poor effort to return to the happy state you’d found yourself in only a few minutes ago, and unsurprisingly it doesn’t return.

You’re not sure how long you sit in that spot, but with nothing left to scroll, you get to your feet and pad slowly towards the window, staring out towards the balcony that overlooks the backyard. Flipping the lock, you step out into the chill air, but it hardly seems to touch you, protected by the warmth of liquor in your veins.

You should probably get a coat given that the alcohol won’t really protect you and you’re not close enough to the fire to bask in its heat, but you don’t think you care enough. Not if it means seeing the one person whose presence suffocates you. The crowd is one thing, but Sukuna seems to outweigh every single one of them with just one glance. He crowds your world in a way a group of sweaty unknown college students can’t.

You wonder if maybe you had found him earlier in the night, if maybe you would have had the courage to ask about the kiss. Liquid courage maybe, but courage nonetheless.

You wonder if he would have told you it meant nothing and to move on from him. You wonder if he would have told you to fuck off. If you’re nothing to him.

Yet somehow those don’t seem to scratch the surface of the complicated canyon of emotions that holds you both at arms’ length. Each possibility is too simple.

With a sigh, you cross your arms over the balcony, letting the cold metal raise goosebumps along your skin as you rest your chin on them. Down below, your friends seem like they’re having a good time. Shoko’s attention is on another brunette you recognize from your history class while Satoru and Suguru joke alongside some other frat members.

You long to be a part of that, but you know you would be feigning a smile if you returned.

You shouldn’t be this drunk and this jealous when Sukuna isn’t yours and never has been. Hell, he hasn’t even spoken to you in-person since the kiss.

Maybe you’re this jealous because you’re this drunk.

“Need a jacket?”

You startle at the sound of Sukuna’s voice, a mix of dread, uncertainty, and jealousy raging in your system.

“You scared me,” you murmur, standing upright. Great, just who you want to see.

Sukuna hums. “My bad.” Shutting the balcony door behind him, he takes a couple of steps forward until he’s next to you, though he keeps an uneasy distance between you.

The drop-off between you is so evident it’s almost as though it’s real and physically repelling you from one another. Sukuna shuffles, the silence unbearable to his inebriated mind as he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I didn’t fuck her.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes as the shed in the corner of the yard suddenly becomes of great interest. “Don’t say it like that…” you mumble, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“I didn’t have sex with ‘er.”

You sigh again. The phrasing wasn’t really the point behind your words, but he’s either too drunk, too high, or too focused on the way you took a step away from him to notice. “It’s none of my business, Sukuna.”

He doesn’t know what to say to fix this. You’re talking to him, and that’s a start, but he’s way too far gone to soundly come up with an apology that makes sense, so his mouth just starts running.

“My apartment’s overrun with lizards.”

Even upset, you crack a smile. It’s hard not to at the thought of his little brothers absolutely littering his place in little bead lizards, all because you showed them the trick to the feet.

“The lil’ brat lectured me on the difference between lizards n’ geckos,” he pauses, a noticeable slur to his drunken speech. “Still think they’re pretty much th’same.”

“They’re a species and a subspecies,” you reply monotonously.

Sukuna doesn’t like your tone, devoid of any emotion. He shuffles slightly towards you. You look hot, but Sukuna knows better now than to blindly follow his desires, even in his completely intoxicated state. “Jus’ because you added ‘sub’ t’the word doesn’ make ‘em different.”

You let out a long sigh. “Are we not gonna talk about it, Sukuna?” You wrap your arms tighter around yourself as you turn to face him.

He straightens, pinned in place by your conflicted scowl. Your eyes are glazed, you’re drunk too, and you seem more upset than your emails lead him to believe. Maybe it’s just the alcohol clouding his ability to grasp your expressions.

“‘M sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” You echo his apology, a brow quirked.

“Yeah. It was a mistake.”

That hits you like a slap in the face and you purse your lips, staring at the ground as you take one, two steps back from him, with the intention of heading back inside. No, with the intention of going home. 

“Fuck, no, no. Wait.” Sukuna’s jaw hangs ajar as he follows your stride, walking two steps towards you. His tongue runs across his lower lip as he hesitates, brushing a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I meant.”

Your throat is tight as you fight back tears. You can’t help but wish you weren’t drunk while having this conversation, then maybe the tears wouldn’t be so quick.

“I-” Sukuna fights with himself, “- I was thinkin’ with the wrong head.”

Right. So he’s doubling down on it being a mistake. You nod slowly, turning away with a sharp intake of breath.

“Wait, shit. Wait. ‘M sorry, I’m way too fuckin’ drunk n’ high n’ shit to be doin’ this right now,” he scrambles with his words, taking another step after you. You stop again, giving him another chance to explain himself. You’ve always been too kind and patient with him.

Grappling with the thoughts running through his mind, he shuts his eyes for a moment with a deeply furrowed brow, red eyes dilating as the light of Gojo’s bedroom behind you illuminates your silhouette. Your dress suits you and frames your curves so well that it’s driving him insane, jumbling his thoughts even further. These thoughts are what got him into this situation to begin with.

“There was so much shit goin’ on n’ I wasn’t thinkin’ straight,” he slurs, red eyes flickering between yours. He can see the hurt in your eyes and he’s far too inebriated to even begin thinking about why it is that you’re so hurt he would refer to the kiss as a mistake. That’s a can of worms he can’t possibly begin to wrap his brain around in this state. “I was jus’... I dunno. I was chasin’ somethin’ I shoudn-” he pauses as his words slur, “- I shouldn’t have.”

You let out a scoff of disbelief. It doesn’t matter how many different ways he words it, at the end of the day it’s clear as mud. It was a mistake. His excuse, though? That’s just pitiful and insulting.

“Do you think I don’t have a lot going on? Do you think that somehow my problems aren’t worth as much just because I don’t have two jobs and kids?” Your words are sharp, and they take a moment to sink in.

“No. Fuck. I jus-” He pauses again, knuckles white as he balls his hands into fists at his sides, his jaw clenching in frustration. He could use a dictionary right about now. Maybe just a whole damn linguist. Hell, he needs someone to read his mind because everything is coming out jumbled and it’s pissing him the fuck off, when all he really wants to say is, “Fuck, I jus’… don’t wan’ the kids to lose ya.” He swallows hard. “I don’t wanna lose ya.”

Your shoulders fall, your defenses crumbling. What? “What?”

Now that he has your attention again, he turns back to the balcony, hunching over it. The cool metal railing lulls his heated skin. Soothes the burning anger with his own inability to process a single thought. Maybe drinking to forget wasn’t his brightest idea.

He says your name quietly. It sounds foreign, vulnerable, when it falls from his lips that way. “I’m losin’ the kids.”

You take a step towards him, tilting your head to get a better view of his face. His expression is solemn, but you’re not sure you understand where he’s going with this. They seemed pretty fond of him when you saw them last week. Choso surely wouldn’t be expressing his worries to you if he didn’t love Sukuna.

“What do you mean?”

“Their fuckin’ mother slapped me with court orders. She’s takin’ ‘em.”

Your blood runs cold, eyes widening. The legal documents. You’d always assumed it was some foolish run-in Sukuna must have had with someone with a bit too much power or money, but never once had you stopped to consider that it could be something like this.

“No, what? You’re gonna fight for them, aren’t you?” You ask, voice strained.

“The hell ‘m I supposed to do?” He barks, turning to face you with a snarl. The look on his face isn’t one of anger, however. It’s distress. “Pull money outta my ass to pay f’r a lawyer?”

You frown. “Maybe you can find a pro-bono attorney?”

Sukuna’s too drunk for this. “Free? That’s free, right?”

You nod.

“The fuck’s a shitty free attorney gonna do? Convince the court that the older brother with two jobs, school, n’ tattoos c’n take better care of two brats than the person who birthed ‘em?”

“Sukuna, come on-”

He doesn’t stop there. “No court’s stupid enough to say no when she pushed ‘em out-”

“Eugh, don’t say that.”

“- that’s not even mentionin’ the fact that she practically shits cash with how much she’s got-”

“Sukuna! Okay, I get it.” You set a hand on his bicep, grounding him as he stares at it. Your touch is searing. He’s not sure if it’s because of the cold, his anger, or something else entirely. He’s not in the state of mind to think about it. His chest heaves as your steady voice speaks so softly to him that it does manage to calm him, even if only a bit. “How much water have you had tonight?”

He huffs. “None.”

“That… makes sense,” you chuckle lightly, shooting him a tired smile. “Why don’t we start there?”

Had one of his friends asked a half hour ago, he would have rolled his eyes and downed the Jack Daniels in his pocket. After his beyond frustrating last few minutes where he couldn’t seem to get a single word out, it doesn’t sound nearly as bad.

“Fine,” he agrees, following after you as you turn to lead the way back to Gojo’s room, only to pause at the door.

“You didn’t lock the door behind you, did you?”

“What? No.” He peers over you, wrinkling his nose at the sight of a couple tangled in one another on Gojo’s bed.

You can only pray he didn’t notice you and Sukuna up on the balcony at all, he’d kill you if he knew what was going on.

“How convenient,” Sukuna deadpans, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he shields you from the couple with his body, ducking through the room as quickly as possible and shutting the door behind him. His grip on your shoulder doesn’t relent as he keeps you close to his body while heading down the stairs, through the crowd and towards the kitchen, shielding you from the sweaty dance floor.

You scramble to keep up with him, needing to move at almost double your walking pace just to keep up with him as he drags you along. Your cheeks are burning and whether that’s from the alcohol or his touch, you’re not sure.

Once you’re in the kitchen, he loosens his grip on your shoulder and watches silently as you move around the cabinets and fridges, filling a glass of water for him.

He hums in acknowledgement, leaning back against the counter. You hop up on the marble beside him, watching as he slowly sips on the water, staring down at the liquid that vibrates with the thump of the bass.

“So,” you begin, pulling his attention back to you. “You don’t wanna lose me, huh?”

Sukuna’s sharp eyes narrow into a glare, but it dissipates as he realizes you aren’t teasing. You’re lucky he’s drunk, because there’s no other circumstance where you would get such a direct answer from him. “No.”

“Is that why you didn’t reach out to talk about it?”

He returns his gaze to the water in his hand, rippling in the glass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what t’ say. I overstepped boundaries.”

You sigh, glad he’s found a more eloquent way of putting how he really feels rather than just labelling the whole thing as ‘a mistake’. You wish he started with that, but obviously drunk, high, and in a panic to keep you from walking away, his words failed him. You can accept that he doesn’t see you romantically but values your friendship.

“It’s okay, Sukuna. We… both… overstepped boundaries,” you offer with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It’s clear that what Sukuna needs right now is a friend, someone to support him and look out for him when he needs it most. You’ll be that for him, even if it means leaving your feelings for him at the door.

His eyes narrow again as he looks at you, irises flickering between your pupils as though he’s trying to make sense of something, but he lets it go to down some water, turning to the sink to refill his glass.

You don’t bring up the kids with people flooding the kitchen around you, keeping the conversation casual. Sukuna points out his friends in the corner at one point, telling you he’ll introduce you when Toji’s not drunk because apparently ‘he’s a prick’. You recognize Uraume’s name from a while ago when they had watched the kids so that Sukuna could be there to get your grade for your project. Sukuna tells you that he thinks you’ll get along well.

It’s gradual, but his speech eventually stops slurring and he joins you on the counter, though his head and shoulder hit the cabinet behind him and he hardly fits.

“Wait- that was today?”

“Mhm. I probably woulda been kicked out if Toji and Atsuya didn’t hold me back.” He flashes you his knuckles that are, as he expected, beginning to bruise.

“Something tells me you say that from experience,” you giggle.

“Somethin’ like that. Last time, it was Toji’s fault, though,” he shrugs, downing more water. You’re both now just comfortably buzzed and Sukuna doesn’t seem nearly as tense as when you were up on the balcony.

“Sounds like I should be glad I’ve never met this Naoya guy.”

“Tch. If you even see that slimebag look at you, head the other way. Guy’s a walking red flag.”

“Noted.” You kick your feet, staring down at your black heels dangling from them. “Oh, by the way, have you ever tried that diner near your place?”

“What diner?” He’s staring down at your feet as well, watching the movement as they gently sway.

“The one like a block over from your apartment, with the blue and pink logo?”

Sukuna stifles a laugh, but it still bubbles up in his chest and he snorts. “That’s a fuckin’ strip club, princess.”

“No it isn’t!” You insist with certainty.

“It’s literally called Strip Joint.” He points out with a smug grin.

“Kuna. They make chicken strips. It’s a joke, they’re a chicken strip joint.”

His lips part in disbelief as he tilts his head to look at you. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m dead serious,” you giggle. “How did you not know?”

“What do you mean ‘how did I not know’? How did you know?” He waves his hand out in the air like it isn’t quite as obvious as it seems. He’s got a point, it absolutely looks the part of a strip club with a dark outside and bright neon sign, but that only makes you laugh harder.

“You know what, now that I think about it, I actually think I know that because Satoru took us there for his birthday and thought it was a strip club,” you ponder the time you first visited, but can’t place if that was your first visit for sure.

“See!” He’s grinning, his cheeks dusted in a shade of red that suits him, just as well as his smirk does. Another one of those rare moments where you think you’re seeing the real Sukuna, even in the midst of everything bogging him down. It’s a good look on him, one that sends your heart soaring. “I’m sure the frat boy loved that.”

“You know, he wasn’t as upset as you would think he’d be,” you giggle, shaking your head.

Sukuna hums, glancing around momentarily. “Can’t believe I live right next to a chicken finger place and the boys don’t know. They’d love that shit.”

Your heart falls, but you do what you can to mask it at the mention of his little brothers. “Let’s check it out.”

“We can do that sometime,” he agrees, yawning.

“No, I mean why don’t we go now?”

Sukuna’s brow arches. “You wanna take my drunk and high ass to a chicken finger shop?”

“I think that makes it funnier, honestly,” you grin, hopping down off the counter. Sukuna contemplates your request for a moment, before dropping down to his feet with a thump.

“Fine,” he huffs, shoving his hands into his jogger pockets as he follows after you. You both pull your jackets from the front coat rack and closet and step back out into the cold. Considerably less drunk than last time you were outside, it’s markedly colder.

Thank god Sukuna’s apartment isn’t too far from campus, unlike yours. You’d had every intention of crashing at Shoko’s overnight, so you’d likely just head back to her place when the night ends if you can get a hold of her.

Heels probably weren’t your greatest call with all the snow, but you manage to keep yourself from slipping by walking slower. It’s a snail’s pace for Sukuna, but as much as he grumbles and gripes about it, he’ll be more than okay.

Jogging up to the door, you pull it open with a shiver and thank every god you can think of that it’s open at one in the morning.

Just as you had said, it’s a diner that specialises in chicken strips, classically decorated in reds to go with the otherwise grayscale diner colors. Off to one side lies a row of red leather booths, while there’s a faded red counter with patches of bare oak where forearms and plates have worn the color from the wood. The lights are dim, with one at the back of the diner flickering softly.

The restaurant is empty aside from one employee and an older man drinking coffee at the counter before her.

“Have a seat wherever, dears.” The kind old employee smiles softly at you, gesturing to the booths. You return her smile, leading Sukuna to a booth in the center of the diner, a couple away from the flickering light.

Sukuna shuffles into the booth, shrugging off his coat and leaning against his bent elbow. He yawns, grunting in thanks when the employee leaves menus before you. He doesn’t look as disinterested as usual, but tired hardly cuts the dark circles lining his eyes.

You peruse the menu for a moment, glancing up at Sukuna. His eyes are skimming the menu, his fingers drumming lightly on the white table lined in metallic silver.

“What do you think you’re gonna get?”

Sukuna’s brow arches. “Chicken.”

“Alright, smartass,” you giggle. “I’m thinking of having ice cream.”

Sukuna’s gaze narrows. “You complained about it being cold the whole way here.”

“Yeah, but doesn’t that sound good?”

“Chicken sounds good,” he mumbles.

“You’re just high.”

“You’re just drunk,” he counters, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. He shuts the menu after a moment, setting it at the side of the table to get the waitress’ attention. The kind woman rounds the bar and pulls out a small notepad and pen.

“What can I get you?”

“I’ll have the six piece meal,” Sukuna starts, holding his hand out for you to go next.

“I’ll have the chocolate ice cream.”

“You were serious?” Disbelief drips from Sukuna’s tone as he shoots you a look like you’ve gone mad before the waitress can even confirm your orders. You kick his shin lightly under the table and he shuts his mouth with a grimace, muttering a ‘thanks’ when the waitress confirms your orders and heads back to the bar. “You were serious?” He repeats once she’s gone.

“Of course! Doesn’t that sound good?”

“Not really,” he chuckles, still leaning against his palm.

“Well, I think it sounds great.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever the princess wants, she gets.”

You grin at him as your stomach flutters at the nickname, following his gaze outside. The street lamps cast an eerie yellow light over the otherwise still roads, your fresh footprints the only sign of life out there. No cars pass by the side road at such early hours of the morning, the hustle and bustle of city life momentarily paused as most people settle in the warmth of their homes for rest.

“What are you gonna do, Sukuna?”

He yawns, wiping tears from his eyes. “‘Bout what?”

“The kids.”

“Mm.” He sighs, leaning back in the booth. It’s a bit short for him and he has to slump down for any amount of back support. “Dunno. Not sure I can do much.”

“What about the pro-bono idea?”

“Maybe,” he hums, a little more level-headed as you inquire this time around. “I don’t think some free attorney off the streets is gonna do many favors against whatever expensive asshole their mom’s payin’ for, though.”

“Maybe, but you never know. It’s better than self-defense,” you shrug.

“Unless I find Daredevil on the streets, I get the feelin’ it won’t really matter.” The defeat hanging around him like a spectre seems to weigh heavily on him as he stares out the window.

“You can’t just give up.”

He throws his hands up in frustration, though he’s too tired to back it up with words. He supposes you can take that however you’d like, he’s not about to fight with you about this, not when this lawsuit almost cost your friendship all because his dumbass step-mother chose to deliver the legal papers at the most inconvenient time.

“They need you, Kuna. Where’s their mom been all this time, anyway?” Your brow furrows at the thought. Why does Sukuna have his brothers if their mom’s still around?

“Dunno. Overseas or some shit. She took a high-paying position and our dad refused to move us with her. When he passed, I tried to get a hold of anyone on her side of the family. Not a single word. Even the lawyers couldn’t reach any of ‘em.” He shrugs, reaching up to scratch his jaw as his gaze remains fixed out the window.

“Huh. What about your mom?”

Either Sukuna’s feeling kind today, or he’s too tired to fight your nosiness. Whatever it is, he shrugs again in reply. “Dunno about her either. I was an accident. My dad was nineteen when they had me, she signed me away the moment I was born.”

You suppose his statement from the other night about his father ‘knowing how to pick them’ makes more sense with this context. It seemed neither woman had done any of his sons any favors.

“I’m sorry, Sukuna.” “It’s whatever,” he mutters through a yawn.

“Hey, what about the law students or professors?”

He tilts his head, leaning over the table on both of his forearms. “What about them?”

“Have you spoken to them?”

“No. I dunno any of ‘em and I’m not about to get anyone involved.”

“Don’t you think it’s worth it? For Yuji and Choso?”

Sukuna parts his lips to reply, pausing momentarily when your ice cream and his chicken arrive. You both quietly thank the waitress before he continues. “‘Course, but I’m not gettin’ my hopes up.”

You frown, spooning some ice cream into your mouth. After your first bite, you chew on your lip in thought. “Would you consider talking to a law student? I know you would need to tell them what’s going on and that isn’t what you want, but…” You trail off, not really sure there’s a sound ‘but’ behind your insistence on helping him.

He sighs, finishing a chicken strip in only a couple of bites. “You think it’s worth it?”

You nod, swallowing another bite of ice cream. “I just know if I were in your position, I would be trying everything. I couldn’t possibly let go of them.”

Sukuna’s heart twists and he runs a hand through his hair. There it is again, that uncomfortable sensation of being outside of his own body as panic grips him. It’s the same feeling from when you mentioned him being their hero. It’s like you’ve dropped something on him that he doesn’t quite know how to handle.

He stares down at his plates, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

“Sukuna?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, strained. He subconsciously slides his foot out until he finds yours, as though he’s seeking your presence for comfort again like the night spent in his room. You set your spoon down, watching as he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.

You open your mouth to voice your concern, but he interrupts before you can.

“You know one? A law student?”

You chew on your lip briefly, taking in his distant expression. As though being high, buzzed on alcohol, tired, and mildly hungover isn’t all enough for one person, now he also hardly seems present.

“I don’t, but one of Kento’s friends is in the program.”

“Great,” Sukuna mutters, rolling his eyes as he jabs his chicken a little bit too harshly in plum sauce. “My biggest fan.” You knock his foot beside you, which seems to bring him back to the present somewhat.

“You know, I think if you explain to him what’s going on, he might not be so cold to you.”

The pink-haired man makes a show out of his disdain for including Kento with a dramatic groan. “If it makes it easier with the law student, then sure, but,” he pauses, shooting you a glance, “I choose what I share.”

You pick up your spoon again, shoveling more ice cream into your mouth. “I wouldn’t share any of your secrets. Kento doesn’t know about your brothers.”

He doesn’t doubt that’s true, otherwise he thinks he may have garnered just a little bit more sympathy from the blonde. He’s fairly sure the only reason he’s still just barely on Shoko’s good side is the fact that she knows he’s taking care of two snot-nosed brats.

He mutters out a barely audible thanks before focusing on his food. Even as he eats, he’s running out of steam, just barely managing to stay awake as comfortable silence hangs between you. It’s a stark contrast from a few hours ago, the rift patched and stitched with a nice little bow to top it all off and for that he’s beyond grateful.

“Do you wanna try some?” You hold out your spoon as he sets his plate aside, wiped clean.

He reaches out, taking the spoon and popping it in his mouth. “That’s pretty good. I thought it was just Breyers or some shit.”

You shake your head, staring down at the couple of remaining scoops. “I think it’s made in-house.”

He hums in agreement, leaning over the table with a yawn and you get the feeling it’s time to go home. Waving the waitress over, you request the bills with a polite smile.

“Together or separate?” She inquires with a kind smile in return.

“Together.”

“Separate.”

“Together,” Sukuna doubles down, pulling out his wallet.

“Are you sure?”

He scoffs at the question. “You got one ice cream, I think I’ll manage.”

Giving in, you nod at the waitress.

“Thank you, Kuna.”

“Mm,” he hums as he pulls out his credit card, paying quickly before sliding out of the booth and throwing his coat on. You follow suit, thanking the waitress and heading back out into the cold.

“You promise you’re okay with me reaching out to Kento about this? It probably won’t be until after Christmas, he’s back in our hometown with family,” you explain.

“It’s fine. Worth a shot, right?”

You smile at his willingness to work with you. He’s shown you an awful lot of vulnerability all night, and you appreciate his honesty, even if there’s still a pang of disappointment that your feelings for him aren’t mutual.

“You need me to walk you back to the frat house?”

Your nose wrinkles at the thought. You really don’t want to stay there if you don’t have to, and your buzz has completely faded. You have no desire to return to the party, which you would need to do if you wanted to crash with Shoko. “That’s alright, I think I’ll head home.”

Sukuna rolls his shoulders backwards, fighting a yawn. “Uber? Busses aren’t running this late.”

“Yeah, I’ll get one now.”

“I’m comin’ with you.”

“Sukuna, you’ve been yawning for the better part of the last two hours. You look like you’re ready to pass out,” you point out, reaching forward to poke him in a similar fashion to back when you first met his brothers and teasingly shoved him to prove a point.

Marginally more awake than your first encounter with his brothers, Sukuna grabs your wrist before you can poke him. “Nice try, princess. It’s two in the morning, I just wanna make sure you make it home. I’ll walk back after.”

Your heart should not be soaring like it is right now given the fact that he openly admitted to you that he overstepped boundaries, but you can’t help the way it races. “Okay,” you smile meekly, waiting alongside him for the car you hailed to pull up.

The ride is an odd one as Sukuna struggles to stay awake while the driver recounts his night, but his presence is comforting in what would otherwise be an awkward ride.

Arriving back at your apartment, you open the app and add a secondary destination, keying in Sukuna’s apartment. He sluggishly goes to get out but you dash around the car as best as you can in your heels to block him.

“Thanks for getting me home, now I’m getting you home.”

He’s too drained to start something with you for being too kind when he could just walk home, returning to his seat with resignation and a mildly contemptful expression.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, though he’s internally much more grateful than he’d have you believe.

“Text- uh- email me when you get home.”

He blows air from his nose, amused. “Yeah. Night, princess.”

“Goodnight, Kuna.”

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❦ a/n ; i hope you guys enjoyed the chicken strip conversation as much as i did, maybe i'm just tired but i though it was toooo cute something about writing sukuna fumbling through his day-to-day life is so enjoyable, this poor poor man. i love him sm 😭 as always, thank you for reading and a huge shoutout to each and every one of you who's interacted with my posts, you guys seriously make my day and are a big part of the reason i'm having so much fun sharing this story with you all. thank you all <33

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writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

[gojodickbig]

gojo reminds me of 2010 justin bieber

they’re literally the same person HELP

[gojodickbig]

sub!choso x dom!female reader.

(i just know that choso loves having his ass fucked!!)

anywoooo, get the strappppp😝😝

conts: nsfw!! MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI!!!

wc: 2,3k.

Choso sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with his fingers, his dark hair framing his flushed face as he avoided your gaze. His cheeks were burning red, his entire body tense with nerves, though the way he shifted slightly in his seat told you he was more than just nervous—he was eager. His hands gripped the sheets tightly, trying to calm the flood of anticipation coursing through him.

"You don't have to be so tense, baby," you said softly, your voice soothing but laced with playful amusement as you stepped closer. The strap slung around your hips made his eyes dart toward it, widening slightly before he quickly looked away. You tilted his chin up with your fingers, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"I—I'm not tense," he muttered, though the way his knuckles tightened in the sheets said otherwise.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Choso," you murmured, your lips brushing against his with teasing softness, "you trust me, don't you?"

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, nodding. "Yeah. I do. just... I've never done anything like this before."

You kissed him fully this time, your lips soft but insistent, coaxing him to relax as his hands slid up to your waist, gripping you like you were his anchor. When you pulled back, his lips were slightly parted, his breath coming quicker.

"It's just me and you," you reassured him, your tone softer now. "You're going to be fine, baby. If it's too much, all you have to do is tell me, and I'll immediately stop, okay?"

"Okay," he whispered, his voice shaky but resoluted

"Good boy." You kissed him again, this time a little deeper, your fingers tangling in his hair before gently guiding him to all fours.

He obeyed, his shoulders trembling slightly as he shifted into position. You ran your hands down his back, your lips brushing over the nape of his neck. His breath hitched when he heard the snap of the lube bottle, and you caught the way his toes curled against the sheets.

"Relax for me," you murmured, rubbing small circles over his hips. "You're gonna feel so good. I'll make sure of it."

Choso nodded quickly, his forehead pressing into the pillow as you slicked up your fingers and gently spread him open. The first cool touch of lube against him made him jolt, and when your finger pressed into his asshole, he gasped loudly. his body going rigid.

"Shhh," you cooed, pressing a kiss to his spine. "You're doing so well, baby. Let me take care of you."

"It feels... weird," he admitted, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"That's normal," you said, slowly working your finger deeper. "It's just because you're not used to it yet. I'll go slow, promise."

You took your time, stretching him with patient, deliberate movements, until he started to relax into the pressure. By the time you added a second finger, his hips twitched, and his cock hardened, a soft moan escaping his lips. "Fuck," he whimpered, his voice trembling. "It's... a lot, but it's n-not bad.”

"You like it," you teased, curling your fingers slightly and grinning when his moan turned sharper, his hips rolling back instinctively. "See? You're already opening up so nicely for me."

Choso's breath stuttered, his hands fisting the sheets even harder now. "I—I didn't think it'd feel like this," he admitted, his voice breaking into a whimper.

"You've barely felt anything yet," you said, withdrawing your fingers and grabbing the toy. "Are you ready, baby? You want me to fill you up?"

"Yes," he gasped, desperation creeping into his tone. “Please…”

You pressed the tip of the strap to his entrance, teasing him by pressing it against his clenching hole, making circles against it. When you put it in, he whimpered. You started with shallow thrusts, letting him adjust to the stretch. His body trembled as you eased in slowly, inch by inch.

"Fuck," he choked out, his head dropping forward onto the pillow.

"Breathe, baby," you cooed, your hands gripping his hips. "You're taking me so well. Just relax and let me in."

When you finally bottomed out, you paused, letting him adjust as you leaned over to kiss his back. "How does it feel?"

He turned his head slightly, his voice muffled but needy. "It's so much... you're so deep," he whimpered. "But it's so good. I didn't think it'd feel this... full. You're—fuck. Stretching me so good."

"That's because you were made for this, Cho," you purred, pulling back before sinking in again, your hips rolling with slow, deliberate thrusts. "Made to take it. Look at you, baby, moaning like a whore for this cock."

His moan was loud and shameless, his back arching as he pushed back against you. "F—fuck," he gasped, his voice breaking into a whine. "It's... it's so good. You're— ah!—ugh! Stretching me so good. I feel you everywhere—Fuck!”

You smirked, gripping his hips tighter as you picked up your pace, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. "That's right," you murmured, your voice dripping with satisfaction. "You love it, don't you? Getting fucked like this, stretched out by this cock. Such a good boy for me, you're so perfect, baby."

"Yes," he cried out, his voice cracking with pleasure. "I love it—fuck!—I love it so much. I love you so much."

"I love the way your body reacts, Cho. You're so sensitive." His moans grew louder as you shifted your angle, hitting his sweet spot with every thrust. His body trembled beneath you, his thighs shaking as he clawed at the sheets.

"Please—please don't stop. I—I don't care how sensitive I am, just keep—ah!—keep going, please." Choso begged, his voice breaking into a desperate whimper. He pushed himself back against you, seeking more. Every nerve overstimulated, his thighs shook as he buried his face in the pillow, muffling the moans spilling uncontrollably from his lips.

You laughed softly, your nails grazing his hips as you picked up your pace. "So greedy, baby. You want me to ruin you?”

"Yes," he whimpered, the word spilling from his lips before he could think. "I want you to fuck me as hard as you want. I'll take it—I'll take anything from you."

"You're such a good boy," you praised, reaching around to wrap your hand around his aching cock. He let out a scream, his hips bucking into your hand as you started stroking him faster. "So hard for me, baby. You're gonna come for me, aren't you? You've been holding back this whole time."

"I—I can't, he whimpered, his voice desperate and high-pitched. "I'm gonna... ah!, I—I can't hold it." He shook his head, his breath coming in ragged pants. "I'm sorry—hgh—fuck!, it feels too good! I can't help it! I need to cum, please!"

"You don't need to hold it, baby," you purred, stroking him in time with your thrusts. "Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart on this cock."

With a broken cry, Choso's body tensed, his cock twitching in your hand as he came hard, spilling over your fingers and the sheets below. His entire frame trembled as he moaned loudly, his head dropping forward onto the pillow.

"Yes, baby, let it all out." you murmured, slowing your movements as he rode out his orgasm. His body went limp beneath you, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You leaned down to press a soft kiss to his shoulder, carefully pulling out and tossing the strap aside before laying down beside him. Choso turned his head, his eyes dazed but full of warmth as he gazed at you. "You did so well, Cho."

"T-Thank you... it... felt really nice.." he whispered, his voice hoarse.

You smirked, brushing the hair from his sweat-dampened face. "Mmh, I told you you'd like it, baby," you murmured, leaning in to kiss him deeply.

Once he pulls away from the kiss, he looks at you, his cheeks flushed and his eyes half-closed.

…

"Can you sit on my face now, pretty please?" he asks, his voice low. "I miss eating your pussy."

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[gojodickbig]

symptoms and causes | ch. 16

pairing — professor gojo x med student reader

summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

word count — 11.5 k

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance and alcohol abuse, dark and themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, trauma, medical content and mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood. full trigger warnings available on the masterlist. reader discretion is advised.

previously — unable to watch satoru turn to his abusive family for help with naoya's massive lawsuit, you're heading to his party against satoru's wishes, hoping to find something, anything, that might help his situation. but what happens when satoru decides to crash the party? and what will you find in that locked room?

author's note — hello lovelies, welcome back !! this chapter picks up right where we left off, but through satoru's eyes this time. also important note: this chapter contains a brief mention of SA concerning a background event not related to any of our main characters. as always, please mind all trigger warnings. and now enjoy the chaos <3

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

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I saw her the moment I stepped into that goddamn party, and everything inside me went still. 

Like that moment right before you drown, when the water first fills your lungs and the world goes quiet. Terrifying and so still.

She stood there under those cheap neon lights, looking scared and yet so beautiful—beautiful in that terrible way that makes you want to destroy something, that makes you want to tear it apart just to prove it's real.

Every fiber of my being screamed to go to her, to grab her and get her the hell out of here. Away from this place, away from him, away from all of it. 

But I couldn't move. Couldn't let the mask slip, not here, not with all these eyes on me. So I plastered on that easy smile and played the part of the mildly annoyed professor who just happened to crash a student party.

As if my skin wasn't crawling with the need to use again, veins begging for something—anything—to take the edge off. As if the mere sight of her didn't make me feel like someone had reached into my chest and ripped my fucking heart out, her next breath away from something I might regret.

She looked up at me with those pretty eyes of hers, and I saw the guilt there, swimming just beneath the surface. And for one horrible moment I thought, Good. Let it pull her under like it's pulling me. Let it fill her lungs the way fear is filling mine.

I almost hated her then — for lying to me again and again, for doing stupid things behind my back again and again, for making me feel this goddamn helpless again and again and again and fucking again.

But what lay beneath was worse. Because I knew why she was here. Always trying to save me, even if it meant throwing herself into the deep end, drowning right alongside me. And that's the worst kind of torture, isn't it? 

Watching the person you love cut themselves open on all your broken pieces, bleeding themselves dry, yet still reaching for more. And that thought made me want to scream.

"We'll talk about this later," I said, forcing that easy smile back onto my face though everything inside me was screaming to get her out of this goddamn house before she got herself into more trouble. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I need a drink."

I pushed past her, shoulder grazing hers, and I had to clench my fists to keep from turning back. Had to bite my tongue until I tasted blood to keep from saying something I couldn't take back. She had no idea what she did to me. Or maybe she did, and that was even worse.

Love and hate tangled together in my chest until I couldn't breathe. Because that's what she does to me — makes me feel everything at once, until I can't tell what's real anymore. Until I can't tell if I want to love her or ruin her. Until I can't remember which one would hurt more. Who I was before her. If I was anyone at all.

And it hit me then, as I left her standing there, all defiance and reckless stupidity and so unbearably precious it physically hurt—this must be what they mean when they say love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Because I loved her so much it felt like hatred. Hated her so deeply it could only be love.

Always on the razor's edge. One wrong step, and we'd both bleed out. Maybe we already were.

When was the last time I even went to a party like this anyway? Years ago, probably. Back when I could still pretend I had my shit together. Before I understood what it meant to love someone so consuming that self-destruction became a form of worship.

I needed a drink. Maybe ten. Maybe something stronger. 

Bass thundered through the floorboards as I shouldered my way deeper into the house, some shitty pop track slamming in my skull. Or maybe that was just the rage still burning in my bloodstream.

Sweaty bodies pressed in on all sides, but I barely noticed, lost in the chaos raging in my head. Lost in the desperate need scratching at my throat to turn back, to find her, to make sure she hadn't slipped away like every other good thing in my life.

I ordered vodka. First sip burned, but not enough. Never enough to wash away the fear, to forget that she was here, in this house, with him. The same bastard who'd tried to—My grip tightened on the glass. Yeah. Definitely needed something stronger. Here's hoping these kids still remember how to party.

"Professor Gojo! No way!"

A group of my students appeared beside me at the bar, their faces flushed with alcohol. Aoi, of course—that kid was everywhere. And Miwa, looking starstruck as always. Just my fucking luck.

"Is this what you all do instead of studying for my exams?" I asked, letting that easy smile slide into place.

"Come on, Prof, we've been killing ourselves over your damned hard exams," Miwa chimed in, all bright eyes and alcohol courage. "We deserve a break."

I let myself slip into the familiar role. The cool professor. The guy everyone wants to hang with. It was easier than I expected, letting their drunken energy wash over me, cracking jokes, making them laugh. Almost enough to wash out the withdrawal that made it nearly impossible to think straight. Almost enough to forget why I was really here. Almost.

Aoi was rambling about something, but I wasn't listening. Instead, I turned slightly, catching her gaze across the room. She looked at me like she wanted to kill me. Funny, how we wanted the same thing sometimes.

My woman. My stubborn, reckless, absolutely infuriating woman. Even now, with me watching her from across the room, I could see that defiance bright in her eyes. Even now, even here, in defiance of everything I'd asked of her, she stood her ground. 

It was admirable, really. And sometimes, that very defiance made me want to break her. Perhaps only to prove I could. To prove she wasn't in control. Perhaps because I was terrified that I wasn't. That I never was.

It's terrifying how thin that line is.

"See? Fucking legend!" Aoi raised his beer, at something I said, I think. I can't remember. Something clever, probably. Something that fits the role. "To the coolest professor on campus!" 

I raised my glass, I think. I can't remember. And that's when I caught sight of them by the front entrance. Suguru walked up to her, still standing where I'd left her, and cradled her face in his hands, tilting it up to meet his gaze. My god, could he be any more obvious about it?

I knew that look in his eyes. Had seen it countless times before, during all those long hours in the lab when he thought I wasn't paying attention. The way he'd lean in close to check her work, his hand lingering on her shoulder a moment too long. The way his eyes would follow her every move.

My best friend, in love with the love of my life. What a sick fucking joke.

He was examining her face now, probably making sure she was alright, being the good, caring friend he always was. His thumb brushed across her cheek, and something violent stirred in my gut. Because she didn't pull away. Of course she didn't. She never did, not with him.

They looked good together, standing there in the dim light. The brilliant researcher and his gifted student. No addiction between them. No sharp edges that sliced you open if you got too close. And I hated that.

I watched as she placed her hand over his, the gesture unbearably tender. Watched as he smiled down at her, that gentle smile he reserved only for her.

And just for a moment — one single, agonizing moment — I let myself picture a world where I hadn't reached her first. Where she'd chosen him instead. The better man. The one who'd never drag her down into his own personal hell.

The thoughts spiraled darker, louder, until I could barely breathe through the noise. Glass creaked under my grip. I needed a fucking pill. Needed something, anything, to make this stop. To make everything just fucking stop.

"Professor?" Miwa’s voice. "You okay?"

More students crowded the bar, blocking my view of them. One of them—what was his name? Third-year, not a complete idiot—shoved another beer into my hand. I chugged it in one long pull, their chatter fading to background noise.

"Well." That voice. That fucking voice. "Look who decided to crash my party after all."

I turned, meeting Naoya's scarred face with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "Zenin. Quite the gathering you've got here."

"Indeed." He signaled the bartender. "I gotta say though, I'm surprised to see you here, Professor. Don't tell me you're playing chaperone tonight?"

His words stripped away any pretense. He knew. Of course he fucking knew why I was really here. Not that I'd been particularly subtle about it.

"Just felt like reliving my youth," I said, taking the drink he offered. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep myself from finishing what I'd started with his face.

Zenin's smirk widened, the scars pulling his flesh into something even uglier. "Ah yes, the good old days. Back when teachers knew their place and didn't go around screwing their students."

The fake smile slid off my face, the glass creaking in my grip as I pictured how easily his windpipe would crumple under my hands. How satisfying it would be to watch that smirk disappear for good.

"Careful, Zenin. Your face is already fucked up enough as is. Would be a damn shame if something happened to what's left of it."

He laughed, the sound grating on my last nerve like nails on a chalkboard. "Always so protective. But tell me, Professor, does she know the real reason you're here? Does she know about the—"

"Enough," I bit out.

"Oh, did I hit a nerve?" His eyes flicked across the room, landing on her. The way he looked at her made my vision bleed red around the edges. "She really is something else, isn't she? Too bad I didn't get a chance to get her alone that night—"

My hand lashed out before I could think, fisting in his collar. The fabric bunched in my grip as I hauled him close enough to see my own fury reflected in his eyes. "You fucking—"

Then Suguru was there, his hand slamming down on the bar between us. Silent, steady—a wall between me and a one-way ticket to unemployment. He didn't say a word, just fixed me with that look. The one I'd explicitly asked for earlier. Stop me before I do something I'll regret.

Fuck, I was really starting to regret that request right about now.

Then I felt her—her touch impossibly gentle as she laid her hand on my bicep, the heat of her skin seeping through my shirt. She leaned in close, "Satoru, can we talk for a minute?"

Her soft plea sliced through the haze, and suddenly I became acutely aware of the deafening silence that had fallen over the room, of the countless eyes boring into us.

I uncurled my fingers from Naoya's collar one by one, even though everything in me screamed to finish what I'd started. To paint the walls with whatever was left of his face. But I couldn't. We both knew. So I stepped back and followed her.

─── ·✧· ───

She led me through the crowd, her fingers still wrapped so gently around my arm. We pushed our way past the prying eyes, down a hallway, until she found what looked like an empty office. Probably belonged to Naoya's father, judging by the dark wood and that rich people smell.

For a moment, we just stood there, neither of us willing to shatter the fragile silence. Moonlight sliced through the blinds, turning everything silver and strange, like we were underwater. Maybe we were. I wasn't sure anymore. Her hand slipped from my arm, and suddenly I felt cold.

I collapsed into the chair behind the desk, the leather groaning under my weight. She stood silhouetted at the window, arms wrapped tight around herself, and I had to look away. Had to focus on something else, because I knew one glance at those eyes and I'd break.

My fingers found the pill on their own. Out of habit, really. Without thinking, I snatched up the silver letter opener next to me and crushed the pill beneath it, watching the powder scatter across the polished wood like fresh snow. I bent down and let the burn fill my nose, sear through my brain, numbing everything in an instant. 

When I looked up, she was staring. Always fucking staring, with eyes that flayed me to the bone. And she did it so effortlessly. Saw through everyone around her with that unnerving precision. Or maybe she saw through everything so clearly because she looked for the very things she wanted to hide from others.

"That's new," she said. Not an accusation. I was glad it wasn't.

"It's faster."

I averted my gaze and sank deeper into the chair, letting my head fall back against the headrest as warmth flooded my veins and the ceiling blurred and shifted above me. And then everything went soft around the edges, like looking through frosted glass.

A long exhale escaped my lips. Finally—fucking finally—the constant noise in my head, all that shit I can't shut up—the love, the hate, the fucking terror of it all—it faded to a whisper. The world got a little quieter, a little less sharp. A little more bearable.

For one perfect moment, I could actually breathe. Could almost convince myself I was in control. That this wasn't killing me. That I could walk away if I had to. That I wasn't fucking terrified of losing her. Of becoming him. Of everything.

I groaned, fingers raking through my hair, pulling, needing the pain. My hands were shaking again. Or maybe they never stopped. I couldn't tell anymore.

"You're angry," she said.

"No shit. What gave it away?" I scrubbed my hands over my face. "You showing up here after I specifically fucking told you not to? Or me nearly rearranging Zenin's face again?"

"Satoru—"

"Don't." I squeezed my eyes shut, fingers yanking at my hair again, trembling worse now. From the drugs, the rage, the fear, who the fuck knew. It all bled together these days. "You have no idea what he'd do. If something happened—" I stopped. Couldn’t continue.

"I'm not alone," she said, like that made a difference. "Maki, Yuta, Toge—they're all with me. We're being careful."

"Careful?" I sat upright, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "There's nothing fucking careful about this! It's reckless! You shouldn't even be—"

"I'm doing this for you—"

"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't make this about me."

"But it is!" She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "What, you expect me to just stand by and watch? While you fall apart?"

"This isn't your problem to fix—"

"Like hell it isn't!" Another step. Her eyes seared into mine. "I can't fucking take it anymore. You're in this mess because of me. Because you protected me that night. So don't you dare tell me this isn't my problem to fix."

I stared at her, something in my chest fracturing. "You think that's why I'm doing this? Because I feel obligated?"

"I think you're trying to protect me, like you always do."

"Then don't make me protect you all the goddamn time!" I shoved up from the chair and braced my hands on the desk. "I beat him within an inch of his life that night. I would've killed him if—" My throat closed around the words. "And I'd do it again. In a fucking heartbeat. That's what scares the shit out of me. What I become when it comes to you."

She went still.

"And if he hurt you again," the words scraped out of me, "I—I don't know what I'd do. So please. Just please don't make me find out."

I said the words I'd been turning over in my head for what felt like eternity. Don't make me find out, don't put yourself in danger, don't break my fucking heart. Which really meant break me all you want, just don't leave. I wouldn't survive it.

Her gaze dropped briefly to my hands, and she said, "You done?" 

Her question threw me. Done? God, this infuriating woman. But then I followed her line of sight and saw my hands clenched into white-knuckled fists around the desk’s edge. I slowly released them, my knuckles cracking in the sudden stillness.

I slumped back into the chair, exhausted, defeated, throwing an arm over my eyes. "God, I fucking hate you." The way she stood there, unflinching, unafraid—it made me insane. "I hate that you make me feel like this—so fucking terrified all the time."

"You don't hate me," she said.

"Sometimes I'm not so sure anymore," I answered.

How does it never get easier, I wondered. Loving her. Needing her. It just cuts deeper, spreads further, until I'm drowning in the ache. Until I can't breathe without feeling it in my lungs. And yeah, I hate her for that sometimes.

I couldn't look at her. I knew she'd be there, unyielding, waiting, enduring everything I threw at her, as she always did. Never breaking. Maybe that's what I hated most.

"You're so fucking stupid," I breathed, but it came out wrong. Too soft. Too much like 'I love you'. Too much like 'Please don't leave.' 

"I think that's mutual." She crossed the room then and leaned against the desk, arms folded over her chest. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

I lowered my arm and looked at her. "No, you're not."

"I am sorry for worrying you," she tried again, and I almost believed her, wishing desperately that she'd never have to worry about anything the way I worry about her. "Go ahead, say it. Tell me how stupid I was to come here. I know you're dying to."

"Why would you think that?"

She kept her eyes fixed on the floor. "Because it's true. I make the wrong choice every fucking time."

I watched her, this brilliant, stubborn woman that I love so much, beating herself up over choices that weren't really choices at all—just impossible situations with no right answers. Like there was ever a right answer. And sometimes she reminded me so much of myself. As if I hadn't spent years doing the same thing, and probably still do.

But seeing her do it—it was like staring into a mirror and seeing not just my reflection, but the reflection of everything I hated about myself.

"I think that's mutual," I echoed her words back to her.

With a heavy sigh, I pushed up from the chair, gripping the edge of the desk for a second. Then I reached for her, hands landing on her hips, tugging her close, needing her close. My lips ghosted over hers. Hesitant. Unsure. When she didn't pull away, I kissed her. My hand came up to cradle her face, thumb skimming her cheekbone as I deepened the kiss.

"Alright, what's the plan?" I murmured against her mouth.

She told me about the locked room upstairs and her plan to get it. So calm. She told it so calm. Like it was that simple. Like this wasn't the most insane thing I'd ever heard. But I knew she'd go through with it no matter what I said.

"You seriously think I'm gonna let you anywhere near him with alcohol involved?"

"No," she said. "I think you're going to help me."

"Times like this, I'm really feeling that age difference between us," I said, but we both heard the resignation in my voice. The moment I'd already lost this fight.

"So you'll help?" she asked, ignoring my comment.

Before she could celebrate her victory, I yanked her closer, fingers twisting in her hair. With a sharp tug, I forced her head back until she had no choice but to meet my gaze, her throat bared. Our eyes locked, and I saw the instant her breath hitched.

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

"When we get home, you're gonna make it up to me for all the stress you've caused. Got it?"

"Is that really how you want to play this?"

"Oh, love, I think we're way past propriety at this point."

A shiver ran through her — one that made me almost smile. I could feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips, could feel the way she melted into me despite herself. It almost made this whole mess worth it.

"Now then." I pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. "let's have some fun, shall we?"

─── ·✧· ───

So, here's the fun story about how I ended up playing beer pong with my arch-nemesis (besides Sukuna, that is) against my future lovely wife and some chemistry nerd who wouldn't shut up about covalent bonds. Not exactly the Saturday night I had in mind.

I mean, here I was, standing next to Naoya — yeah, the same guy whose face I'd rearranged a few months back — trying to aim at red plastic cups while you were absolutely wiping the floor with us. Turns out that whole '10 years of grief training in alcoholism over your dead father' wasn't just a cute phrase you threw around. Who would've thought?

But really, trying to out-drink an opioid addict? That's like challenging a fish to a swimming contest. Except the fish is in heavy withdrawal. So like, with no fin. Not my finest analogy. I blame the alcohol. What was my point again?

Anyway. Most annoying part? This chemistry department kid with these wide, bright eyes wouldn't stop talking to you about molecular structures. And you were actually entertaining him. At a party. About electron transfers. Of all the insufferable things.

"So if you consider the aromatic compounds—" he was saying, and I swear on my medical license, I didn't mean for the ball to hit him. And I definitely didn't mean for it to hit him that hard. Pure accident, really. 

The ball bounced off his shoulder, effectively shutting him up. They both turned to look at me. "Molecular restructuring in organic compounds? Really?" I shrugged. "At a party?"

She shot me that look. You know the one. The classic 'I-can't-believe-I'm-sleeping-with-this-idiot' glare. It's become quite familiar these days.

"Trouble in paradise?" Naoya said beside me, and I briefly considered rearranging his face again. For symmetry's sake, of course.

But then she bent over to pick up the ball, and suddenly organic chemistry was the furthest thing from my mind. I definitely shouldn't have let her leave the house in that skirt. Though knowing her, she probably wore it just to torture me. 

"Getting distracted, Professor?" she said, straightening up with that little smile that never fails to make me want to do wildly inappropriate things to her in very public places. She leaned across the table, deliberately tapping one of our cups with her finger, giving me her most innocent eyes. Because apparently, driving me insane was her new favorite pastime.

"Me?" I lifted the red cup she'd tapped to my lips, taking my sweet time with the drink, my eyes never leaving hers. "Never."

And somewhere in the haze of beer and the way she was looking at me, I tried to remember why the hell we were even here. Oh right—something about stealing keys. Real professional operation we've got going here. The medical board would be so proud. Their star surgeon, reduced to playing beer pong as a distraction tactic. 

Naoya's keys were right there on the table, practically screaming to be grabbed. But between her legs in that skirt and the way she kept biting her lip every time she lined up a shot, I found myself giving fewer and fewer shits about saving my career and more about how quickly I could get her alone. Priorities. I clearly had them. Alcohol might have scrambled them a bit, I guess.

I caught a glimpse of Suguru standing off to the side of the beer pong table. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes darting back and forth between me and her like he was watching the world's most stressful tennis match. I really owed him one for putting up with this shit.

Near the chemistry kid, a girl approached who looked a bit like Higurama's intern—though I wasn't entirely sure. She looked different, wearing makeup and dressed up. But that couldn't be her. She'd avoid places with flashing lights because of her epilepsy. I must be seeing things.

Then Naoya, because clearly this shitshow wasn't enough of a disaster already, decided to "level up the process." He snapped his fingers at a passing bartender, and before I could process what the fuck was happening, there was a tray of perfectly lined up tequila shots on the table. Complete with cinnamon and orange slices, because apparently, we're keeping it classy while trying to get my future wife drunk.

"New rule," Naoya announced, his scarred face pulling into what I can only assume was meant to be a grin. "Next shot I sink, you drink both. Beer and tequila."

I glanced over at her, my gut churning. Not from the alcohol—it'd take a hell of a lot more than this to get me there—but from the way she met Naoya's challenge with a nod. That stubborn tilt of her chin that always meant trouble. My palms started to sweat.

Of course, Naoya's ball dropped perfectly into her cup. Because the universe really does have a sick sense of humor.

Watching her reach for both drinks, I found myself wondering what the medical board would be more pissed about — me playing drinking games with students, screwing one of my students, or the fact that I was seriously considering murder. Again.

Then, by some physics-defying miracle or sheer dumb luck, the chemistry kid actually landed a shot. He looked as shocked as the rest of us when the ball plopped into Naoya's cup. But it was her next shot that really got my attention — perfect arc, clean landing, like she'd been doing this her whole damn life.

"Drink up, Professor," she said, but there was something different in her voice.

She reached for the tequila, and then—fuck me—propped one leg up on a nearby beer crate, the motion making her skirt ride up just enough to flash a strip of skin above her tights. Wait. Those weren't tights. Those were fucking stockings.

My brain short-circuited as I realized she'd been walking around all night in stockings. Actual stockings, with what I knew had to be a garter belt hidden under that criminally short skirt. The same spot where she was now deliberately sprinkling cinnamon.

The sight of that exposed sliver of skin between stocking and skirt made my blood boil. When the hell had she even bought those? Had she worn them just for tonight, knowing they'd make me lose my goddamn mind? Was she trying to get herself killed?

Because right now, watching her purposely dust cinnamon on that band of exposed skin, I wasn't sure if I wanted to murder her or fuck her. Probably both. My mouth went dry, and it had fuck-all to do with the alcohol.

"Well?" She tilted her head, all innocence except for that knowing look in her eyes. "Coming to get your tequila?" 

Like she had to ask twice. Yet I hesitated. With all these people watching? What was she playing at? It was reckless, careless, like she was deliberately trying to expose us. It was power play, a challenge. And I knew, that she knew, that I couldn't resist.

A slow smile spread across my face as I sank to one knee before her, the crowd fading into a blur of noise. All that mattered was her—the way her breath hitched as I gripped her calf, the way she tensed as she realized that I made a whole show for her (poor girl didn’t expect that now, did she?)—the feel of her skin on my tongue.

I took my sweet time with the cinnamon, letting my tongue glide over the exposed strip of flesh, feeling her shiver. My teeth grazed her skin, just enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips. If she wanted a show, I'd give her a show. And part of me wanted to shove that skirt higher, to chase that taste of salt and cinnamon further up her thigh until—

Focus. Fucking focus.

I straightened, stepping into her space. She held an orange slice in one hand, the shot glass in the other, and I couldn't help but notice how her pupils had blown wide, how her chest rose and fell just a little faster than normal.

I plucked the orange from her fingers with my teeth, my lips brushing her skin, then took the shot glass, using the movement to press closer, my mouth right by her ear, "What exactly is your plan here?"

"Create distraction," she breathed back.

God help me, but it was working. I was definitely distracted. Whole damn crowd was distracted. And watching her play this game—watching her play me—was probably the hottest and most infuriating thing I'd ever experienced. And I'm pretty sure everyone could see I was hard too.

"You're distracting the wrong audience," I whispered before knocking back the shot.

In the midst of trying to control my homicidal urges over those goddamn stockings, she caught my eye and subtly jerked her head. I turned, making it look like I was just checking something, and spotted them—Zenin, Okkotsu, and Inumaki hovering on the other side of the table behind Naoya, waiting for their chance. 

Right. The keys. The whole reason we were here. I almost forgot.

The game continued, the tension building with each shot. We were down to the last round — winner takes all. That's when she decided to really test my patience.

"Let's make this more interesting," she announced, her voice carrying over the crowd. "Losers jump in the pool." A pause, then because apparently she was hell-bent on giving me a coronary. "No clothes."

"You wouldn’t dare," Naoya scoffed.

"Try me," she replied. 

I shot her a warning look. She subtly chewed on her bottom lip, meeting my gaze with an unnerving calm, perhaps her way of saying everything's gonna be okay. It did little to ease the knot in my stomach.

One shot left. If she made this, Naoya and I would be stripping down for a midnight dip. If she missed—

I tried not to think about her in that pool. Tried not to think about those stockings getting soaked. Tried not to think about murdering every sorry bastard who might lay eyes on her. Either way, this woman was going to be the death of me. If I didn't kill her first.

Naoya landed his shot, fucking prick. I missed mine for obvious reasons. Chemistry kid missed too, leaving everything on her shoulders. The ball left her hand, arcing through the air in what felt like slow motion. It circled the rim, then rolled away.

The crowd went wild. Naoya's victory smirk made me want to punch his face in. I glanced over at her, wondering for a second if she'd missed on purpose. But there was no time for that.

"Well?" Naoya's voice. "I believe the losers owe us a show."

"The game wasn't exactly fair—" I started, but she cut me off.

"Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, Naoya?" She turned to him, her words sharp. "To see me undress without having to drug me first?"

The crowd went dead silent. Naoya's scarred face contorted into something ugly. "Watch your mouth, little girl. You're not as untouchable as you think."

"And you're pathetic," she spat back, then turned away from him. "At least I get to choose when I undress, right?”

She started walking toward the pool, each step deliberate, commanding. I followed, caught between pride and sheer terror at what she was about to do. At the edge, she turned back to me.

"Don't," I pleaded, but she was already reaching for the hem of her skirt. It fell, revealing the dark lace of her stockings. Then her top followed, and I stepped closer, trying to shield her from the leering eyes.

"This is insane." But my protest died as she stood there in only black lace, and then I saw them—the bruises from the fire still painted across her waist and ribs. Dark purple and yellow marks that hadn't yet faded, cruel reminder of how close I'd come to losing her.

The sight sobered me instantly. Something twisted in my chest, sharp and painful. The bruises I'd carefully tended to, the ones that still made her wince when I changed her bandages—on full display for this crowd of drunk idiots, turned into a spectacle.

"Please," I begged, my voice barely audible. "Don't do this."

She met my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I’d reached her. But then that smile—the one that sealed my fate—touched her lips. "Sorry, Professor," she whispered, and then she was gone, falling backward into the pool, taking a piece of me with her.

The splash echoed in my ears like a gunshot, and I was already shrugging off my jacket, ready to either dive in after her or use it to cover her when she surfaced. A cold, hard fury settled in my gut. Naoya was going to pay for this.

The crowd roared as she surfaced, her hair plastered to her face, water tracing the curves of her body beneath the soaked lace. Our eyes met across the distance, me standing at the pool's edge, and I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. Something flickered across her face—regret maybe, or shame—before she looked away.

Hell broke loose. Bodies crashed into the water, sending waves across the pool. Even Naoya stripped off his shirt and dove in, reveling in the attention. The whole party seemed to shift to the pool in a matter of seconds — clothes flying, drinks splashing, the pristine water turning into a churning mess. 

Perfect distraction.

But I barely registered any of it, my world had narrowed to her. I watched as she climbed out, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the concrete, practically sprinting past me, her gaze fixed on the floor, while water dripped from her hair, her skin, the dark lace clinging to her form.

Behind her, the pool had turned into chaos — exactly what she'd planned, I realized. 

I gathered her clothes from where they'd fallen and followed her inside. I caught a glimpse of Okkotsu's quick movements near the discarded clothes by the pool. 

Well played.

─── ·✧· ───

Her dripping form drew curious eyes as we moved through the foyer. Each step felt like a penance—hers for the recklessness, mine for letting it happen. Heads turned, conversations died, the sudden silence punctuated only by the soft drip, drip, drip of water from her hair.

Kento’s face flashed past, but I barely registered him. No doubt he'd give me shit about it at the university later, like he didn't already know something was up with me and her.

I wrapped my jacket around her shivering shoulders, fighting the desperate urge to reach for the opioids hidden in my pocket. Withdrawal, guilt, and fury burned together in my veins, making me want to crawl out of my own skin. 

I stepped in front of her, partly to block all those eyes on her, partly to hide how bad my hands were shaking. None of it was worth it. Not the keys, not avoiding my parents, none of it. How did we end up here? How did I allow things to get to this point?

Upstairs, she dressed quickly, water still dripping from her hair, leaving damp patches on her clothes.

"Are you cold?" 

"I'm okay," she said, avoiding my gaze. 

She was shaking. I could see the goosebumps on her arms. "You're shivering," I said and reached for her, but she pulled away.

“I’m fine, really.”

Despite her words, I pulled her close. She didn't resist this time, tilting her face up to mine. Her eyes were bright, and for a second, I thought she might cry. The world could have been watching, for all I cared. If those tears fell, it would be my undoing.

And then I thought of everything she'd done, everything she'd had to do—for me. My twenty-four-year-old student, forced to protect me from my own damn parents, to beg for my own money. Because I’d hit a guy who tried to hurt her. Why was it all so fucked up?

The high was long gone, leaving this gaping hole. My limbs felt heavy, detached, like they belonged to a stranger, unable to reach out and fix what I’d broken. And we were so far from where we started.

"You're disappointed," she finally said. She wasn't asking.

"We should leave." Because I couldn't bear to watch her sacrifice one more piece of herself for me.

"You can leave."

Before I could say anything back, Zenin came bursting into our corner, Okkotsu and Inumaki right behind her, her eyes all lit up. "That was fucking insane!" she yelled, waving something around—Naoya's keys. "But it worked! I can't believe it actually—" She stopped short, finally noticing the tension between us.

The win felt empty. Yeah, we got what we came for. But what did it cost? Looking at her, still shivering a little in my jacket, I wasn't so sure it was worth it. I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I just kept watching her throw herself in the fire for me. 

Some professor I was. Some man I was.

Strange how winning can feel so much like losing, especially when you realize you're not the one paying the price.

─── ·✧· ───

I stayed outside Naoya's room, playing lookout. At least that's what I told them. Truth was, I couldn't stand being in there, couldn't bear being near her, watching her fight my battles while I was barely holding myself together.

The itch under my skin had spread, making my whole body crawl with invisible insects while she did the dirty work. Even after everything, she was still trying to save me. 

And I was still letting her.

I slid down the wall, my head hitting the floor. How did we end up here? What the fuck were we doing? What the fuck was I doing?

I'm thirty-five years old, for fuck's sake. Why was I acting like a goddamn teenager? I should've stopped her, shouldn't have let her leave the house to begin with, should've been the adult. But instead, I let it happen, standing by and watching where it led. Again.

This whole situation was insane. We were in too deep, and I knew it. But I couldn't seem to find my way out, couldn't seem to stop this trainwreck we were on. It was like I was watching it all happen from outside my own body, powerless to change course.

What kind of man was I? What kind of professor? I was supposed to be her mentor, her… something more. Instead, I was dragging her down with me.

I thought back to that night, the one that started it all. The night I found her in the lab, working late, hunched over her microscope. She looked up at me with those eyes, those damn eyes that seemed to see right through me. And I was lost. I knew it was wrong. I knew I should have walked away. But I didn't. I couldn't. Drawn in. Consumed.

And now, here we were. Trapped in this fucked-up situation of our own making. I wanted to blame her, to say it was all her fault for being so reckless, so damn stubborn. But I knew that wasn't true. I let this happen. I didn’t stop it. But why? 

I could replay the events in my mind, frame by frame, but the crucial moment, the point where I should have intervened, remained a blur. It was as if some part of me had wanted to see where this ended.

Music still drifted up from downstairs, the bass thumping through the walls. It felt wrong, out of place. Like we were in a different world, a fucked-up one, while everyone else was living their normal, happy lives.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it all out, trying to pretend, just for a moment, that this wasn't happening. That we weren't here. That everything was okay. But it was happening. And I was in it, and I knew I couldn't hold my breath much longer.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Kept seeing things in the corners of my vision. Shadows that shouldn't move but did, faces that weren't faces at all. The wallpaper breathed. In and out. In and out. Like a lung.

Stop it. Just stop all of it. Make it stop. But it won't stop, can't stop, because she's in there right now, digging through his things, trying to save me save me save me why won't she just stop trying to save me?

Everything felt wrong, sick, twisted. Too bright and too dark all at once. My skin didn't fit right anymore. Nothing fit right anymore. God, I needed a goddamn fix.

A cough. I pressed my hand against my mouth. When I pulled it away, my palm was red. 

Huh. That's new. 

I stared at the blood, watching it pool in the lines of my hand. It looked wrong somehow, too dark, too thick. The longer I stared, the more it seemed to move strangely, crawling along the creases of my palm.

Was blood supposed to move like that? Like it was alive? Like it was trying to tell me something? I couldn't remember anymore. I couldn't remember a lot of things lately. The blood kept moving, kept spreading. 

Maybe this was it—maybe I was finally losing whatever scraps of sanity I had left, sitting here on a dirty floor watching my own blood drip down my palm.

A part of me wondered if he'd been right all along, that I was becoming him, the very thing I’d always feared. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be better, different. Not this—huddled on a filthy floor at a college party, watching my blood move as if in psychosis, while she risked everything for me. Again. 

The door handle turned. Shit. I wiped my palm against the dark carpet, smearing the blood into the fibers where it vanished like it was never there. I scrambled to my feet just as they emerged. She moved quickly, shoving something beneath the waistband of her skirt. Before I could speak, she grabbed my arm.

"Let's leave." There was something like panic in her voice. "I'll tell you outside."

I gripped her hand, my own pulse quickening, and we went downstairs and pushed through the mass of drunk students. But then the music cut abruptly, plunging us into a moment of strange silence before panicked voices filled the void. 

"What the hell—?" Okkotsu’s shout cut through the din from behind us.

Then I saw the flashing lights—red and blue strobing through the windows. Fuck. 

"Cops!" Someone shouted, and the whole house erupted into chaos as people scrambled in every direction.

"Everyone freeze!" A voice boomed through the foyer. "Nobody moves!"

We reached the entrance as two officers shouldered their way through the front door. The bigger one looked like he benched trucks for fun, taking up almost the entire doorframe as he planted himself there.

"Listen up!" he bellowed, one meaty hand resting on his belt. "Party's over. Nobody leaves until we check IDs."

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I felt her tense beside me, those things hidden in her waistband might as well have been burning her skin. I could practically feel her panic.

"Look, officers." I stepped forward, forcing my voice into something professional. "There seems to be some confusion—"

"No confusion here," Truck-Bencher cut me off, the scar on his lip twisting as he frowned. "Got noise complaints, reports of underage drinking. Everyone stays put."

"I'm faculty at the university. These are my students and they're all over twenty-one. You're wasting everyone's time—"

"Nobody leaves until we say so."

"You really want to process IDs for over two hundred students?"

"You telling me how to do my job?" He shifted closer, chest puffed out despite me having two inches on him.

Withdrawal crawled beneath my skin like insects, each bite feeding the rage that built vertebra by vertebra up my spine. "Depends. Are you actually doing it, or just power tripping?"

"Back the fuck up." His hand dropped to his belt. "Last chance."

I felt her fingers digging into my arm, trying to pull me back. But the rage was a living thing now, burning away anything resembling sense or restraint. "Or what?"

The punch came fast. I dropped, and heard the sickening crack of bone against flesh—not mine. Some poor student next to me. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Then chaos.

Bodies everywhere. Screaming. Shoving. Radio static cutting through the roar. Her hand in mine as we pushed through the surge. Her friends somewhere behind. Everything blurred. I can't remember when she let go of my hand.

I just remember the scream. Different from the others. Then her voice, "Get her on the ground!" I shoved through the mass of bodies. Saw the girl on the floor. Ice flooded my veins.

I knew that face. Higurama's intern. My patient. My responsibility.

I dropped beside her, my hands shaking so violently I could barely feel them. Her eyes rolled back. Withdrawal made everything too sharp, too bright. I couldn't think. Couldn't—

Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. It was her voice. Fingers gripped my arm. "Satoru, look at me." I met her eyes. Steady. Unnerving. "Focus."

Everything snapped back into place. My phone was in my hand before I realized I'd moved. "This is Dr. Gojo from Jujutsu Medical. Twenty-six-year-old female, epileptic, pre-seizure presentation. We need immediate assistance."

My voice was mechanical, professional. Inside, my mind screamed. Why was she here? Had she been drinking? Were her meds interacting with something? I should know this. Should be better than this. Should be fucking better. 

Nausea rose in my throat and I'd never felt more like a failure in my entire fucking life.

Behind us, the fight continued to rage. A man’s voice bellowed, trying to restore order. Then Suguru was there, kneeling beside her, his hands gentle as he cradled her head. He murmured something, soft and low. The tenderness in his movements caught me off guard. 

"The ambulance is taking too long." His voice cut through everything. Before I could process it, he had her in his arms, head protected against his chest and moved.

─── ·✧· ───

I can't remember how we got to the hospital.

Everything blurred into fragments. Flashing lights, squealing tires, the weight of everything crushing my chest. Each breath scraped like broken glass. My hands wouldn't stop shaking until I swallowed three pills. Maybe four. I lost count.

The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, too harsh, making my skull feel like it was splitting open. I wanted to crack my head against the wall.

Some part of me was still moving, still speaking in that detached doctor voice — rattling off medical history, medications, possible interactions. Years of training overriding the screaming in my head. But they never trained us for this.

Never trained us for how guilt tastes like acid in your throat while watching your mistakes breathe shallowly on starched white sheets.

They taught us to make clean incisions, to suture arteries, to restart hearts. But not how your own heart would seize when you recognize the face on the floor. Not how your girlfriend’s hands would be steadier than your own worthless trembling ones as you fumbled for your phone, your throat closing around the words "this is my fault", "please" and "I'm sorry."

Didn’t prepare us for withdrawal turning your hands into treacherous strangers while someone seized at your feet. For the shame that festers in your gut as you come down, struggling to remember basic fucking dosages through the need scorching through your veins.

They never warned us how love would carve you open worse than any scalpel, making you both butcher and victim, instrument and incision. Never warned us about loving someone while you’re falling apart. How it feels like drowning in open air, your chest cracked wide and your beating heart wrenched out into daylight, desperate and terrified and somehow still pumping, still fighting, still so fucking afraid.

Higurama's intern lay still now, the steady drip of the IV marking time like a metronome in the silence. I watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, my mind replaying the medications, the dosages, searching for the mistake I must have made. There had to be one. There was always one.

Perhaps he was right about me after all. Funny how even now, even here, I could still hear his voice so clearly.

"You okay?"

She sat across from me, swallowed by my spare clothes—an old t-shirt and sweatpants that draped loosely on her frame, a blanket draped over her legs. Anything was better than those clothes from before, those fucking stockings I'd personally thrown in the trash.

"Satoru?" she tried again. "You okay?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer.

"Talk me through her meds again," she said, resting her head in her palm. Her eyes, piercing and unwavering, never left my face as she waited.

I rubbed my temples, trying to focus through the exhaustion. "Standard anticonvulsants. Levetiracetam, 500mg twice daily. Added phenytoin after the first seizure." I fell back into my chair, scrubbing my hand over my face. "She couldn't tolerate the Levetiracetam, so I switched to Topiramate, 500mg thrice daily."

She was quiet for a moment. "Side effects?"

"Minor. Tremor in her extremities sometimes, but nothing she couldn't handle. It was working." I paused. "It was supposed to be working."

"EEG results?"

"Showed mild abnormalities. Nothing that would explain a seizure this severe." I scrubbed at my face again, harder this time. "I should have seen it. Should have caught something."

"Satoru." Her voice held that gentle firmness I knew so well. "You did everything right."

"Then why did she seize?" I stood abruptly, the chair screeching against linoleum. I turned away, unable to bear her gentle gaze. Outside, dawn was breaking in shades of grey. No color, no warmth, just an endless stretch of concrete and clouded sky bleeding into each other. "If I did everything right, why is she lying here?"

"Because sometimes that's just how it goes. You know this better than anyone," she said. "Medicine isn't perfect. Neither are we."

My reflection stared back at me, ghostly and distorted in the glass. Dark circles, stubble, hair a fucking mess. A doctor coming down from a high while his patient lay in a hospital bed.

"I should have increased the dosage earlier. Run more tests. I should have—"

"Seen the future?"

"I should have been better."

"You are already the best," she said, but it felt like a lie to me. "But even the best can't control everything."

Higurama's intern stirred slightly in her sleep, and we both fell silent, the moment stretching taut between us. I dragged myself back to the chair, sinking down with my face in my hands.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she whispered, leaning forward to brush a stray strand of hair from the girl's forehead. "Sometimes life just happens, and all we can do is be there to pick up the pieces."

I wanted to believe her. God, how I wanted to. But the truth sat like stones in my stomach.

"I hate this," I whispered.

"I know."

Silence.

"Do you blame yourself?" she asked quietly.

"How can I not?"

Because it's stupid, you know this. I could feel them in my bones, the words forming on her lips before she could speak them. "How did that ever change anything?" I said before she could start.

She leaned back, the chair creaking slightly. "Do you think we are terrible people?" she asked, her voice so soft I almost missed it.

I turned to look at her then, really look at her. Even exhausted and worried, wearing my old clothes, she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Like a drug I couldn't quit, a high I'd chase until it killed me. 

And what did that say about either of us? That I wanted to crack her open, crawl inside her skin and nestle myself in her marrow? Wanted to consume her, devour her, until there was nothing left but the two of us, fused together in the most depraved way possible?

It was as if we were always meant to find each other. But it was a penance, for both of us.

"I think I am what I am because of you," I finally said.

And it was the truth. She'd molded me, shaped me, just as I'd shaped her. We'd ruined each other for anyone else, stripped away the innocence and left only the filth and grit behind.

Her hand fell from her face, her eyes meeting mine. "And I am what I am because of you."

"Does that scare you?"

"I think one gets used to it."

"Yeah," I said finally, my voice rough. "I guess you do get used to it. Until you don't."

She frowned, but before she could voice something, Suguru stepped inside. 

He said we should leave, and maybe that was for the better anyway, though I couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was an edge to his voice. Anger, perhaps. But I couldn't blame him. Not really.

I grabbed her things, my hand finding its familiar place at the small of her back as we headed for the door. Suguru's voice followed us down the corridor. "What did you find in Zenin's room anyway?" he asked, as if it were something to be discussed in the doorway.

I walked ahead.

I didn't need to hear again about the unconscious women on the Polaroids. 

─── ·✧· ───

Too quiet.

He was never this quiet.

"How bad is it?" I asked, perched on the edge of the exam bed where the paper sheet betrayed every nervous shift of my weight with stupid crinkles. Pale morning light filtered through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the linoleum floor.

I'd coughed up blood again earlier this morning. More than last night. The metallic taste had filled my mouth before I even opened my eyes. I'd stumbled to the bathroom, careful not to wake her—she needed the rest after we spent the whole damn night at the police station.

I stared at the red running down the drain. Way more than there should be. I'd blamed it on stress and alcohol last time. But now? It meant my liver was probably failing faster than I'd thought. Coagulation system breaking down, blood vessels becoming fragile. Textbook end-stage.

I called him then. He was still at the hospital, had slept there while looking after Higurama's intern. His face had gone pale when he saw me walk in. Guess I looked as bad as I felt.

We ran tests. All of them. Blood work, chest X-rays, the works. And now here we are. I watched him reading what I assumed was my death sentence, waiting for him to finally look up, while the clock on the wall ticked away the seconds.

But he kept his eyes fixed on the test results, holding himself with the careful rigidity of someone handling explosives. Another bad sign.

"Suguru."

He exhaled slowly, finally meeting my gaze with eyes that said everything before his mouth could form the words. "You should have started treatment sooner. We talked about this months ago."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." I tried to wave off his concern. "What do the results say?"

His fingers tightened on the papers until the corners creased. "Your liver enzymes are through the roof. AST over 1000, ALT even higher. Bilirubin's climbing while albumin's dropping. Your PT/INR values—" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. Not just damaged anymore—failing."

I let the clinical terms wash over me. The doctor in me understood the implications perfectly. The addict in me wanted to laugh at the irony.

"Well," I said, forcing lightness into my tone, "guess I should have listened to you sooner, huh?"

Suguru's expression hardened. "This isn't a joke. Without immediate intervention—" He caught himself, but I could read the rest in his eyes as clearly as any lab report.

Without immediate intervention, I was dying. Fitting, really. That my body would choose to betray me just when I'd finally found something worth living for.

"How's the withdrawal going?" Suguru asked, setting down the test results.

"Managing." I ran a hand through my hair, trying to ignore how even that simple movement felt like too much effort. "Reduced the hydromorphone gradually. Down to about 5mg now."

"Satoru." His voice carried that familiar note of frustration, the one I'd heard a thousand times before. "You need to stop completely. Not reduce—stop. Your liver can't handle any more strain."

"I'm trying," I snapped, then immediately regretted the harshness. "Sorry. I know you're trying to help."

Suguru pulled up a chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "We need to start treatment immediately. The protocol won't be pleasant—high-dose corticosteroids, immunosuppressants, possibly plasmapheresis if things get worse."

"Sounds fun."

"It'll be brutal," he continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "The side effects alone—you'll need to be monitored constantly. Multiple blood draws daily, frequent imaging. And absolutely no narcotics—your liver won't survive it."

I absorbed this, the clinical reality of what lay ahead settling into my bones. "So basically, I get to feel like shit while you stick me with needles and watch me suffer."

"That's about right. But it's either that or start planning your funeral."

"At least you're honest." I attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. "When do we start?"

"Tomorrow morning. I'll admit you tonight, get you set up in a private room," Suguru said, already reaching for admission forms.

"Monday morning."

He looked up sharply. "What?"

"I have a family dinner on Sunday," I shrugged. "Can't skip it."

"Are you insane?" Suguru's voice rose to fill the small room. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. This isn't something you can postpone for a damn dinner party."

"Monday morning," I repeated firmly. "I gave my word I'd be there."

"Your word won't mean much if you're dead."

"I can manage two more days."

"No, you can't." Suguru slammed the test results down with enough force to make me flinch. Since when is he always so fucking tense? "Your numbers are critical. Every hour we delay treatment increases the risk of complete liver failure."

"Monday."

"For fuck's sake, Satoru—"

"I said Monday. I need to do this, Suguru. Please."

He stared at me for a long moment, jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. Finally, his shoulders slumped.

"Fine. Monday morning, first thing. But if you show any signs of deterioration—any at all—I'm admitting you immediately. And no alcohol at that dinner. Not a single drop."

"Deal."

"I mean it, Satoru."

"I know," I said, trying to inject some levity into the heavy atmosphere. "You can do all sorts of things to me on Monday. Not like I have much on my schedule anyway."

"So Yaga has exempted you?"

"Temporarily relieved of my teaching duties until further notice." I tried to keep my voice light, but the words still choked me. "Apparently, licking your student's leg in public view isn't considered acceptable behavior. Who knew?"

"Everyone would have known that."

"Most people were too drunk to remember anyway, or too busy dealing with the police raid afterwards to care." I shrugged. "Silver lining?"

"This isn't funny. Do you have any idea how serious this is? Your career—"

"My career?" I almost laughed. "In case you missed the memo, my liver's failing. I think my career concerns just got bumped down the priority list."

Suguru fell silent.

"Besides," I added, "maybe it's for the best. Can't exactly teach while going through treatment, can I?"

"Yaga doesn't know about your condition?"

"No, and he's not going to. As far as he's concerned, I'm just taking some time to... reassess my professional boundaries."

"And when he asks why you're not fighting this?"

I sighed. "Let him think what he wants. I've got bigger problems right now."

"Like a family dinner you're insisting on attending despite being on death's door?"

"Exactly." I flashed him a grin, this one a little more genuine despite everything. "See? You're getting it."

"You're impossible."

"That's why you love me."

"That's why I'm going to enjoy sticking you with needles on Monday."

"Kinky."

His expression sobered, eyes searching my face. "You should tell her."

The mere mention of her sent a knife twisting in my gut. "No."

"Satoru—"

"I said no. She has enough to deal with right now. This stays between us."

Suguru shook his head but didn't argue further. He knew me too well to waste his breath.

"I will," I added softly, more to convince myself than him. "When I'm a bit better."

"This will kill her."

"I know."

Silence.

"I'm sorry," I finally managed. "For being an asshole. For everything. And... thanks for coming to the party with me."

"You already apologized."

"I mean it." I met his gaze. "You've always been there, even when I didn't deserve it."

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of the friendship we'd shared before everything got so complicated. Before I'd dragged us both into this mess.

"Just don't die on me," he said. "I've invested too much time in keeping your stupid ass alive."

I pushed off the bed, steadying myself against the sudden dizziness that threatened to knock me over. "See you Monday."

"You're a stubborn idiot," he called after me. I didn't disagree. 

I stopped at the door, turning back. "Hey, what's going on between you and Higurama's intern anyway?"

Suguru stiffened slightly. "Nothing. Just concerned since she's my patient now too."

I studied him, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze shifted slightly left—his tell when he wasn't being entirely truthful.

"Sure," I said, too exhausted to push it further. "See you Monday."

As I walked away, I wondered if he knew how obvious he was. Then again, who was I to judge? I was hardly an expert at handling matters of the heart.

─── ·✧· ───

I paused outside our apartment door, my hand trembling on the handle. Withdrawal clawed through me, a living thing twisting my gut. Each breath was a struggle, my lungs constricting as if they'd forgotten their purpose. Just breathe, idiot. In, out. You're almost there.

Relief flooded through me the moment I opened the door. Her shoes were there, neatly arranged next to my scattered ones. Her coat on the hook. She was home.

Strange how that simple fact could lift the weight crushing my chest, made breathing a fraction less painful. No matter how bad things were, coming home to her felt like breaking the surface after being underwater too long.

Dog bounded up to greet me, tail whipping back and forth, before darting off toward the bedroom. Smart boy knew exactly where to find her. I kicked off my shoes, let my jacket fall where it would, and followed.

She was there, sprawled across our bed in a sea of papers, bathed in the warm light of the bedside lamp. The sight of her stole what little breath I had left. Hair messily pulled back, drowning in one of my old t-shirts, completely lost in whatever she was reading. Beautiful. It was a beauty that made my heart ache.

Without a word, I crawled onto the bed, dragging myself up until I could rest my head on her stomach. I paused, remembering the bruises on her midsection. But before I could pull back, she gently tugged me closer and I surrendered, resting my head against her warmth. 

I wrapped my arms around her waist and her fingers found my hair instantly, like they belonged there, gentle strokes that made my eyes flutter closed and I thought, this was home. This was peace. Even as my body screamed for relief, even as guilt gnawed at me, here with her, I could almost believe everything would be okay.

"What are you reading?" I mumbled against her shirt, already knowing the answer. Why did she still throw herself into this project? Did it even matter anymore? But I already knew that answer too. Distraction.

"Research papers. For our project." Her fingers never stopped their magic. "Everything okay at the hospital?" I wondered for a second how she knew where I went, but then she said, "Antiseptic smell."

Did I always smell like that? Like the harsh, sterile scent of the hospital? I hated it. Hated how it seemed to cling to my skin no matter how many times I scrubbed my hands raw. Hated the way it reminded me of sickness and death.

I hugged her tighter, breathing in her familiar scent as that was so unlike the clinical smell of the hospital as I crafted the lie. Yeah, everything's fine, I told her. Had to check on something with a patient. Normal stuff, nothing to worry about. Standard procedure.

But even as I spoke, the guilt in my stomach twisted. The truth was, I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep going like this. I could feel myself slipping, losing my grip on the things that mattered most and I couldn't help but wonder if I'd even make it to the end.

If I'd be there to witness the results of our research, to stand by her side as we perhaps do something great. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown out the intrusive thoughts, focusing on the feel of her beneath me, the steady rise and fall of her breath.

Her fingers paused momentarily in my hair, and I knew she sensed something off. She always could read me too well. But then she resumed the gentle stroking.

"You'd tell me if something's wrong, right?"

"Of course," I whispered, another lie to add to the growing pile.

I tightened my arms around her waist, as if by holding her close enough, I could somehow make up for my betrayal. As if loving her fiercely enough could somehow balance out the pain I was about to cause her. Monday felt both too far away and not nearly far enough.

Desperate for a distraction, I asked about how it went at the police station. She said it was fine, her friends were with her as they'd needed to clarify their statements, she explained, her fingers still weaving through my hair. Everything had been too hazy right after the party.

She mentioned they needed me to verify my own statement again too. I bit back the urge to say that they'd likely have to come to my hospital bed for that. Instead, I just hummed in response. Whatever it took to make that little shit pay for what he'd done.

"He won't hurt anyone else," she added. "We'll make sure of it."

Something about her struck me as odd. How could she be so unaffected by everything that had happened? Like we didn’t just discover that Zenin Naoya was—

"You're so calm about it." 

"And what would you have me do?"

I didn’t know. Maybe I should be grateful that at least one of us could keep it together. 

I turned my head, pressing a kiss to her palm. I wanted to tell her how proud I was of her, how sorry I was for dragging her into this mess, how I feared the rumors that would follow her through university halls. How fucking terrified I was. How much I loved her. But it all just crowded in my throat, tangled with all the other truths I couldn't voice.

Instead, I just held her tighter. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"For what?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Or lie again. I clung to her, as if she were the only thing keeping me from falling apart, pressing my face into her stomach, trying to blur myself into her very being. "Satoru,” she winced, a small sound escaping her lips. "You're hurting me."

"Please," I pleaded, tears pricking at my eyes. “Just… bear it for a moment. Please.” But then, a sudden tickle rose in my throat, and I sat up abruptly, he movement sending the room spinning.

"You okay?" she asked, sitting up as well, her hand cradling her side.

"Yeah," I managed, before another cough clawed its way out. I stood, turning away from her, my hand coming up to cover my mouth. When I pulled it away, blood glistened on my palm.

"Satoru? You sure you're okay?"

"Everything's fine." I curled my fingers into a fist, watching red seep between my knuckles. "Just need some water."

I should call him again. Should probably head to the hospital right now. Every logical part of my brain screamed at me to seek help, to stop this madness before it was too late. 

But Sunday's dinner loomed in my mind. One last chance to fix things with her, to make things right before everything inevitably crumbled around us. Just two more days. I just needed to hold on for two more days and then I could let the chips fall where they may.

Even as blood painted the back of my throat red, I clung to that desperate hope, that foolish notion that I could make this right. I knew I was being stupid. Reckless. Playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. 

But then again, what did it matter anyway?

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note — welcome back, i hope this wasn't too intense, even tho i went through all stages of grief writing this chapter, but i'm quite happy with how it turned out. hope you all survived seeing things through satoru's eyes once more. writing from his perspective is always both challenging and thrilling in some strange way.

quick note, as this is somehow not obvious to some people: i understand that this story deals with controversial topics and might not be everyone’s cup of tea but this is purely fictional work, and i'm just here to enjoy a stupid little hobby. i am not looking for criticism. if the story makes you uncomfortable, feel free to block me and move on.

for those following the spin-off: yes, this chapter runs parallel to remedies and reasons chapter 04 ! if you want to see how certain events played out from a different angle, definitely check out the suguru spin-off.

and i want to thank you all for your incredible support. your comments, messages, and theories continue to blow me away. seeing how deeply you connect with this story and catch all the little details i sprinkle throughout brings me so much joy. your thoughtful analyses and wild speculations make writing this stupid story so much fun !! :''))

also a massive thank you to @/nanamis-baker who beta reads all these chaotic chapters, listens to my rambling about plot points, and talks me down whenever i'm convinced everything i write is terrible <3

& second quick note about the alcohol consumption in this story: while it's serve the narrative of the story, please remember that alcohol is toxic to the body and brain, with no "safe" amount. please be mindful of your health and wellbeing.

next chapter we'll be back to our regular pov as we deal with the aftermath of... well, all of this. until then, take care of yourselves ! and as always, thank you for joining me on this chaotic journey and being patient with my slow updates <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !

tags — @browrm @panteramarron @starlightanyaaa

@myahfig4 @rosebluod @bloopsstuff @depressedemosantaclaus @nanamis-baker

@tofumiao @shoruio @s3vtrue @rosso-seta @bnha-free-writing

@chiyokoemilia @bonequinhagojo @janbannan @mikkmmmii @yeiena

@coeqi @faustina @glenkiller338 @yenmrtnz @buni-bunnydoll

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[gojodickbig]

sub!choso x dom!female reader.

(i just know that choso loves having his ass fucked!!)

anywoooo, get the strappppp😝😝

conts: nsfw!! MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI!!!

wc: 2,3k.

Choso sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with his fingers, his dark hair framing his flushed face as he avoided your gaze. His cheeks were burning red, his entire body tense with nerves, though the way he shifted slightly in his seat told you he was more than just nervous—he was eager. His hands gripped the sheets tightly, trying to calm the flood of anticipation coursing through him.

"You don't have to be so tense, baby," you said softly, your voice soothing but laced with playful amusement as you stepped closer. The strap slung around your hips made his eyes dart toward it, widening slightly before he quickly looked away. You tilted his chin up with your fingers, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"I—I'm not tense," he muttered, though the way his knuckles tightened in the sheets said otherwise.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Choso," you murmured, your lips brushing against his with teasing softness, "you trust me, don't you?"

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, nodding. "Yeah. I do. just... I've never done anything like this before."

You kissed him fully this time, your lips soft but insistent, coaxing him to relax as his hands slid up to your waist, gripping you like you were his anchor. When you pulled back, his lips were slightly parted, his breath coming quicker.

"It's just me and you," you reassured him, your tone softer now. "You're going to be fine, baby. If it's too much, all you have to do is tell me, and I'll immediately stop, okay?"

"Okay," he whispered, his voice shaky but resoluted

"Good boy." You kissed him again, this time a little deeper, your fingers tangling in his hair before gently guiding him to all fours.

He obeyed, his shoulders trembling slightly as he shifted into position. You ran your hands down his back, your lips brushing over the nape of his neck. His breath hitched when he heard the snap of the lube bottle, and you caught the way his toes curled against the sheets.

"Relax for me," you murmured, rubbing small circles over his hips. "You're gonna feel so good. I'll make sure of it."

Choso nodded quickly, his forehead pressing into the pillow as you slicked up your fingers and gently spread him open. The first cool touch of lube against him made him jolt, and when your finger pressed into his asshole, he gasped loudly. his body going rigid.

"Shhh," you cooed, pressing a kiss to his spine. "You're doing so well, baby. Let me take care of you."

"It feels... weird," he admitted, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"That's normal," you said, slowly working your finger deeper. "It's just because you're not used to it yet. I'll go slow, promise."

You took your time, stretching him with patient, deliberate movements, until he started to relax into the pressure. By the time you added a second finger, his hips twitched, and his cock hardened, a soft moan escaping his lips. "Fuck," he whimpered, his voice trembling. "It's... a lot, but it's n-not bad.”

"You like it," you teased, curling your fingers slightly and grinning when his moan turned sharper, his hips rolling back instinctively. "See? You're already opening up so nicely for me."

Choso's breath stuttered, his hands fisting the sheets even harder now. "I—I didn't think it'd feel like this," he admitted, his voice breaking into a whimper.

"You've barely felt anything yet," you said, withdrawing your fingers and grabbing the toy. "Are you ready, baby? You want me to fill you up?"

"Yes," he gasped, desperation creeping into his tone. “Please…”

You pressed the tip of the strap to his entrance, teasing him by pressing it against his clenching hole, making circles against it. When you put it in, he whimpered. You started with shallow thrusts, letting him adjust to the stretch. His body trembled as you eased in slowly, inch by inch.

"Fuck," he choked out, his head dropping forward onto the pillow.

"Breathe, baby," you cooed, your hands gripping his hips. "You're taking me so well. Just relax and let me in."

When you finally bottomed out, you paused, letting him adjust as you leaned over to kiss his back. "How does it feel?"

He turned his head slightly, his voice muffled but needy. "It's so much... you're so deep," he whimpered. "But it's so good. I didn't think it'd feel this... full. You're—fuck. Stretching me so good."

"That's because you were made for this, Cho," you purred, pulling back before sinking in again, your hips rolling with slow, deliberate thrusts. "Made to take it. Look at you, baby, moaning like a whore for this cock."

His moan was loud and shameless, his back arching as he pushed back against you. "F—fuck," he gasped, his voice breaking into a whine. "It's... it's so good. You're— ah!—ugh! Stretching me so good. I feel you everywhere—Fuck!”

You smirked, gripping his hips tighter as you picked up your pace, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. "That's right," you murmured, your voice dripping with satisfaction. "You love it, don't you? Getting fucked like this, stretched out by this cock. Such a good boy for me, you're so perfect, baby."

"Yes," he cried out, his voice cracking with pleasure. "I love it—fuck!—I love it so much. I love you so much."

"I love the way your body reacts, Cho. You're so sensitive." His moans grew louder as you shifted your angle, hitting his sweet spot with every thrust. His body trembled beneath you, his thighs shaking as he clawed at the sheets.

"Please—please don't stop. I—I don't care how sensitive I am, just keep—ah!—keep going, please." Choso begged, his voice breaking into a desperate whimper. He pushed himself back against you, seeking more. Every nerve overstimulated, his thighs shook as he buried his face in the pillow, muffling the moans spilling uncontrollably from his lips.

You laughed softly, your nails grazing his hips as you picked up your pace. "So greedy, baby. You want me to ruin you?”

"Yes," he whimpered, the word spilling from his lips before he could think. "I want you to fuck me as hard as you want. I'll take it—I'll take anything from you."

"You're such a good boy," you praised, reaching around to wrap your hand around his aching cock. He let out a scream, his hips bucking into your hand as you started stroking him faster. "So hard for me, baby. You're gonna come for me, aren't you? You've been holding back this whole time."

"I—I can't, he whimpered, his voice desperate and high-pitched. "I'm gonna... ah!, I—I can't hold it." He shook his head, his breath coming in ragged pants. "I'm sorry—hgh—fuck!, it feels too good! I can't help it! I need to cum, please!"

"You don't need to hold it, baby," you purred, stroking him in time with your thrusts. "Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart on this cock."

With a broken cry, Choso's body tensed, his cock twitching in your hand as he came hard, spilling over your fingers and the sheets below. His entire frame trembled as he moaned loudly, his head dropping forward onto the pillow.

"Yes, baby, let it all out." you murmured, slowing your movements as he rode out his orgasm. His body went limp beneath you, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You leaned down to press a soft kiss to his shoulder, carefully pulling out and tossing the strap aside before laying down beside him. Choso turned his head, his eyes dazed but full of warmth as he gazed at you. "You did so well, Cho."

"T-Thank you... it... felt really nice.." he whispered, his voice hoarse.

You smirked, brushing the hair from his sweat-dampened face. "Mmh, I told you you'd like it, baby," you murmured, leaning in to kiss him deeply.

Once he pulls away from the kiss, he looks at you, his cheeks flushed and his eyes half-closed.

…

"Can you sit on my face now, pretty please?" he asks, his voice low. "I miss eating your pussy."

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[gojodickbig]

🎸 out of my mind ! 💿 track five: the battle of the bands

guitarist!ino x drummer!reader

summary: it's the annual battle of the bands at the fix, your college campus's iconic live music bar, and this year you're taking the stage as the drummer for indie rock group cursed technique. you know the competition is strong, but no part of you is ready for lead singer and guitarist takuma ino. you lock eyes at the edge of the stage, and something starts—something that might make you feel alive even more than the beat of the drums.

warnings: language, alcohol, DOGGOS, yuji literally is just a ray of sunshine 24/7, mentions of drunk driving, so much fluff, ridiculous amount of kissing tbh, short time skip at the end, FINAL CHAPTER! || sfw. 8.8k words.

FOR THE FIRST time in a long stretch of busy days, you wake up not to the chirp of your alarm but to soft rays of Saturday morning sunlight seeping through the cracks in the blinds, painting your eyelids orange-gold. You crack an eye open and find Takuma stirring beside you. Right.

“Morning,” you whisper. For a moment, when Takuma opens his eyes, he looks surprised, and then he seems to remember why and how you got here and his expression melts into a soft smile.

“Morning, Skip.” He yawns. “Time’s it?”

You shrug. You’re pretty sure your phone is dead.

“Eh, it’s Saturday,” he mumbles. “S’fine.” You chuckle, daring to reach out and ruffle his hair. You don’t know what this is, the unspoken thing in the thin slice of air between you. You know what you want it to be, though.

For a while you both lie in comfortable silence, letting the sounds of the awakening house float up the stairs toward you. Murmuring, clattering around in the kitchen, the front door opening and closing, cars outside.

“Hey,” you say eventually, making eye contact. His eyes are a very deep shade of brown, dark but warm in a way that reminds you of old bookshelves or tree bark after the rain.

“Hey back.”

He’s relaxed, every part of him unhurried, and you take the image of it and stamp it into your mind over the memory of the night prior. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Takuma smiles. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Maybe it should be more awkward, the fact that you’re here in his bed in his clothes and you haven’t named whatever it is that stretches out in the silence. But it’s not. It’s just… easy.

“Skipper?”

“Hm?”

“I really, really like you,” Takuma whispers. The words wrap themselves around you, warm when you didn’t know you were cold.

“Yeah?” You bring a hand up to his face, trace the line of his jaw. His cheeks are a little colored in the mix of light slipping through the window and the cracked door. “I really, really like you too, Takuma.”

He cups your face in both hands, pulls your lips to his, and your whole body responds, pressing up against him in the too-small twin bed. Your hand goes to hold the back of his neck, deepening the kiss, and this is what people write love songs about, you fucking get it now, all the metaphors and cliché words you thought were exaggerations but no, they’re not, because you’re feeling all of them all at once and you don’t ever want to leave this moment in time.

“Like” doesn’t feel strong enough, not for this. You’ve only known him for a month. Is it really possible he’s already become so integral to the structure of your heart?

You’re kissing in the early morning light and it’s hungrier than you thought your next kiss would be, because even though all the rest of your days are rolling out before you, you don’t know how many there are. He twists so he’s above you on his knees, one of them between your legs, and it’s like a reversal of that night on the roof, like you can feel the night air even in the golden midmorning hours.

“Kuma,” you murmur between kisses, and he grins against your mouth, takes your next breath and makes it his.

At some point you’re interrupted by the startled growl of your stomach, and you break apart, unable to stifle the giggles rising up in your throat. “Well.”

“Well,” Takuma echoes, grinning. He stands and offers you a hand. “Breakfast?”

Downstairs, the house is alive with idle chatter and the clinking of silverware. Kirara is seated atop the counter, legs swinging as she eats a plate of eggs, and Hakari stands beside her leaning against the cabinets. Megumi scrolls absently through his phone at the table, the dogs looking up at him expectantly from either side, and Yuji is digging through a bunch of take-out boxes. When he sees you, his whole face lights up.

“Morning!” he practically sings. “Here, eat food.”

“Where’d this come from?” Takuma asks.

“My friend dropped off breakfast,” Yuji chirps, pushing a Tupperware container of pancakes toward you. If it weren’t for the brace wrapped around his wrist, you’d have no idea anything happened. He’s his usual golden retriever self.

You smile, forking one of the pancakes onto a plate. “That’s sweet.”

Your phone buzzes, and it’s Tsumiki sending you the link to the news brief. You frown at the headline, not out of any disrespect for the writer who stepped up to cover it, but more at the fact that it’s unfortunately true.

JU senior issued DUI after crash on 34th and Olson Blvd Friday night

“What’s up?” Takuma asks, immediately noting your expression. You slide the phone across the counter, watching its screen catch the light from the kitchen window. Kirara leans over it as well and starts reading off Junpei’s story halfway through.

“Zenin, who according to a campus police report was driving under the influence of alcohol, was on the phone with an ex-girlfriend when he swerved into the opposite lane.” Her dark brows knit together in some combination of anger and disbelief. “Jesus.”

“That’s fucked,” you murmur.

Someone’s phone rings, and Megumi glances at his screen and blinks, seems to hesitate. Then he gets up and disappears down the hall. You glance at Takuma, but he just shrugs. It’s probably Gojo.

The rest of you eat and eventually make your way to the living room, scattering yourselves across the couch and carpet and chairs.

“That single last night,” Takuma says, letting Kuro jump up beside him on the couch. “Concept. Make it the title track of an EP.”

You blink for a second, startled. “Wait, for real?”

“Yes!” Takuma says, sitting up straighter. “Think about it. Cover art is one of those name tag stickers, you all sign it, wrinkle it up and crease it and take a grainy film photo. And you put the song on it with Next Fix and a couple of your older singles you and blow up.”

“Or you print one off that says hello, our name is,” Kirara pipes up, seeming excited by the idea. “Ooh, you can have an intro track like that.”

“All caps. Just to match the energy,” you say, picturing the EP cover in your mind. “HELLO MY NAME IS. No punctuation either.”

“I like it,” Kirara nods. Takuma’s got that excited shine to his eyes, and you realize he’s very in his element in this conceptual space—he really will be a good producer. He has the mind for it.

Megumi slips back into the room looking a little haphazard, disgruntled, looking anywhere but into anyone else’s eyes, and Yuji cocks his head in question. Not Gojo, then. “Who was that?”

“No one,” Megumi lies, waving him off and turning back toward the kitchen to avoid everyone’s questioning gaze. Hm.You know better than to ask, and it seems that’s the consensus, because nobody pushes it—Megumi will open up in his own time. You hope he figures it out soon.

For your part, it’s a lazy Saturday, hanging out with Takuma, Yuji, Megumi, Kirara, and Hakari, gaming and talking and generally just existing in each other’s presence. After the chaos of last night, it seems to be exactly what all of you needed.

It’s not until late afternoon that Kirara broaches the topic of the band.

She gestures at Yuji, a flapping motion that misses the mark a little because Kirara is sprawled upside-down in the beanbag in the corner. “Itadori, can you, like… drum with that?”

He shrugs, looking down at his injured wrist. “Yeah, probably!” You frown. So much of drumming is in the wrist, and you kind of figured Kirara’s question was rhetorical. You realize abruptly that Shibuya Incident is still going up against Black Flash in the finals on Friday, and if they don’t have Yuji, they’re fucked.

“Psh, don’t look like that, it’s fine,” Yuji insists, grabbing two Wii remotes and wielding them like drumsticks. He goes to bang them around, mimicking a rock beat, and you watch as his face twists into a grimace and he drops one of them. “Okay, so, update: never mind!” He grins sheepishly.

Kirara is the first one to look at you, and by the time you’ve processed what exactly it is she’s trying to say, everyone else has their eyes locked on you—including Yuji.

Oh, shit.

“Whaddaya say, girl drummer?” Kirara asks, pointing a finger gun at you.

“Oh, guys, I don’t… I don’t know, it’s your band. Yuji—”

But Yuji is the one who seems the most excited about it. He’s abandoned both Wii remotes on the floor and is now looking up at you with bright eyes and his eternal grin. “No, Skipper, please? It would be so fun! I can still do aux and stuff. But we could play together! It would be so awesome!”

“Is that even allowed?” you ask, glancing at Takuma, who’s trying and failing to hide a boyishly excited smile. “I mean, I already got eliminated.”

“Hang on,” Hakari says, pulling out his phone. It takes you a minute to realize who he’s asking. “Yeah, no, Panda says it’s whatever. Better that than not have a battle at all.”

Takuma nudges you with a knee, looking at you with steady eyes. It’s your choice, he seems to say.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I should talk to my band first. But… I’m not opposed.”

Yuji whoops so loudly you flinch a little and Takuma grins, putting his arm around you and squeezing your shoulder.

“I probably should head out,” you say, a little reluctantly. “Kinda left the roommates high and dry last night.”

Kirara salutes you, her face red from the blood rush of still being upside down, and Yuji chirps out a happy see ya!

“I’ll walk you out,” Takuma says, standing when you do. You say bye to the band and the dogs and he follows you to the front door, going as far as to step just outside with you. The door stays open just a crack as you linger, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back. He pulls you in and kisses you right there on the front step, and you smile against his lips.

“Are we, like…?” Takuma murmurs when he pulls away, cheeks flushed from the question or the cold, you can’t tell.

“Are we what?” you tease, shoving lightly at his chest.

“You know.”

“Well, if you don’t say it I’m gonna beat you to asking—”

This seems to zap whatever hesitation Takuma had right out of him, and he cuts in, “Willyoubemygirlfriend?”

“Sorry, what was that?” You know you’ve got a shit-eating grin on your face, but you can’t stop it. “Couldn’t really hear you—”

“Oh my god. Will,” he says slowly, drawing out the word, “You. Be. My. Girlfriend?”

You can see your laugh fanning out before you in a puff of warm air, and you tip your head forward into his chest, grinning. “Yes, Takuma, I would love to be your girlfriend.” You pull back and look up at him, lacing your fingers together. “I was kind of trying to get you alone all week so we could figure out what the fuck was going on. But it worked out, huh?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “It worked out.” He reaches up and ruffles your hair, laughing when you go to swat his hand away. “I was trying to get you alone, too,” he admits. “I like spending time with you, Skip. I’m pretty sure you’re the coolest person I’ve met, like, ever.”

“Ever,” you echo. “Those are some pretty lofty expectations to live up to.”

He shrugs. “You meet them all.”

Despite yourself, heat creeps up to your cheeks again.

“That was less scary than I thought it was gonna be,” Takuma confesses. Your phone rings in your pocket, and you glance at it and see Maki’s name sliding across the screen.

“Think that’s my cue.” You plant one last kiss on Takuma’s lips and turn around, throwing a “bye, boyfriend” over your shoulder. You glance back and catch him mid fist-pump, and he sheepishly shoves his hands into his pockets when he realizes you saw.

You’re still wearing his clothes, you realize as you answer your phone. Guess it doesn’t really matter, since they’re your boyfriend’s.

“Hey,” Maki says in your ear. “You comin’ home anytime soon? No rush, but we’re making lunch so we figured we’d ask.” In the background, you can hear Toge singing what you think is a dramatic rendition of Kristoff’s song from Frozen II, but you aren’t entirely certain because none of the words are right.

“Yeah, I’m literally walking through the door in thirty seconds,” you say, and Nobara’s face appears in the kitchen window. She waves excitedly and you raise a hand in return.

“Oh, sick.” The line goes dead as you open the front door. “Hey!” Maki shouts when she hears it click, and you slam it closed against the rush of cool air trying to sneak inside with you.

“Hi!” you call back.

Yuta pokes his head around the corner and grins at you. “Welcome home, our favorite breaking news reporter.”

“I didn’t actually report on anything,” you admit, kicking your shoes off and padding into the kitchen. Toge is somehow balancing cross-legged on one of the high stools, and Maki is making tacos. “Conflict of interest once I realized who it was.”

“Yeah, I saw the article,” Nobara chimes in, glancing up from her phone. “Yikes. Frickin’ Naoya Zenin. What an asshat.”

You snort. What an understatement.

“Hope he rots in jail,” Maki says in a sing-song voice, not even looking up.

“I love family,” Toge says.

You fill your friends in on the crash and the aftermath and Yuji’s wrist, leaving out some of the details about Takuma, because that feels a little invasive. And then Yuta asks the big question: “What about the band?”

“About that,” you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not exactly sure why this makes you so nervous. Maybe it’s just that these are your people, your band, and you all worked so hard and then went down together. It doesn’t seem fair that you get to go back on stage and try again and the rest of them don’t. “So. They asked me to fill in—“

“Yes!” Nobara shouts, pumping a fist in the air. “Oh, that’s so awesome!”

“Well, I didn’t say yes yet—”

“What? Why?” Toge asks incredulously. You laugh, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. Of course they’re okay with it. These are your best friends. They’ll always have your back.

“I wanted to check with you guys,” you say, feeling silly about it now. “Just—I don’t know, to make sure. Since it’s not our band, and I didn’t want you guys to feel like I was, I don’t know, like…”

“Musically cheating?” Maki chuckles. “Skipper, this is great. You should say yes.”

Yuta solemnly puts a hand over his heart. “Avenge us.”

“Thanks, guys.” You grin as you hop up on the counter next to Nobara, pressing your shoulder to hers. “I love y’all.”

“Sap,” Maki says, which means love you too.

—

Using a drum set that isn’t yours is always a weird experience. You feel like everything is just ever so slightly off, and Yuji’s kit is an absolute patchwork of different brands of heads and shells and cymbals. You have to lower the stool because he’s taller than you. But it’s just for rehearsal, at least—you can use your own kit at The Fix.

It’s your first time in the shabby basement of Takuma’s house, and it looks distinctly different than your own. They’ve pinned old rugs to the walls as a type of sound deadener, not dissimilar to your own setup, but their lighting is a collection of Facebook marketplace floor lamps and a little disco ball that’s apparently Yuji’s. Your basement has string lights and a bunch of stools and beanbags, and this one has extra blankets all over the floor where Yuji and Kirara have made themselves at home.

Learning Shibuya Incident’s songs isn’t difficult—you’ve heard enough of their music to anticipate what’s coming, and Yuji’s there to give you pointers. Their three-song set for the final performance isn’t actually done, because they don’t feel like they have a good enough finisher, and after you’ve run the first two songs several times you mess around with potential chorus lines.

“What about that?” Kirara says after plucking out a new melody. “It’s hype enough, I think. Or it will be, once we add the rest of you.”

“I like that.” You tap out the rhythm on the snare rim, humming. “You have lyrics?” You look at Takuma, who’s staring at the ceiling like it might have all the answers if he just squints hard enough.

“Somethin’ about, like… losing your head a little bit because you caught feels,” he says. “Like, you’re down so bad you can’t function, to be dramatic about it. That triplet at the beginning of the chorus, Kirara—”

She plucks it out again, down-up-down. “On my own,” Takuma echoes, down-up-down. “Every little move I can’t pin down…”

The words tumble past your lips before you can stop them, because they’ve been circling your head for a week now. “Friends with all the dead in my ghost town.”

He spins around to look at you, a grin spreading across his face. “Yes! It’s like I’m going…”

“Going,” Kirara echoes, and they go back and forth—going, going, “out of my mind!”

“Whoo!” Yuji cheers, pumping a fist in the air. “Holy shit. That was crazy.” Takuma grabs the nearest beat-to-hell spiral notebook and starts scribbling.

Megumi starts laying out a bassline, subtly driving the beat forward a little, and you clamp the hat down on two and four to keep time. Kirara comes in with something that must be the verse, and Takuma reads off, “You left in the morning after eight, I got into work two hours late, I can’t see the sun without your face.” Bass, bass, bass. Megumi nods along and Yuji is practically dancing from his spot on the floor.

“One day and I run fresh out of light…”

Hm. You add, “Twelve hours without your hand in mine.”

“I’m dizzy and overworked and tired,” Kirara sings lowly. All three of you sing the chorus again, and you feel just like you’re at home in your own basement, writing a song in real time with Nobara and Maki and the boys.

“Oh, that slaps,” Takuma practically shouts. “Jesus. We’re gonna win.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Megumi warns, a wry quirk to his lips.

Kirara glances at her phone. “Food’s here. Break time, freaks.” She bounds up the stairs and Megumi follows to help her grab the bags—you DoorDashed Taco Bell, since Yuji never got his beloved crunch wrap on Friday.

You leave your sticks on the snare and move around the drum set, flopping down on the ground beside Takuma. “You’re good at that,” you tell him honestly, pulling the notebook away to read what he’s writing down. I met you across the darkened stage, you shook up my life, you got me made, you’re drivin’ me crazy night and day.

You can’t help thinking of the night you met him, locking eyes while he sang from the edge of the low stage at The Fix, lit up by purple-red stage lights and putting you in a trance. You scribble a few more lines after his and hand the pen back.

“You’re a poet,” he tells you, and you laugh.

“I’m a journalist.”

“Woman of many talents,” he says, echoing Maki’s words from that first night you met.

“Itadori!” Kirara shouts down the stairs.

“Coming!” Yuji leaps up and disappears up the rickety basement staircase, leaving you and Takuma alone.

“Hey,” he says, tapping the pen on the page. You glance up at him, nodding for him to keep going. “Can I take you out? Like, on an actual date?”

Something light and quick kicks around in your chest, a hummingbird loose in your ribcage. “I would not be opposed,” you say, as if the idea doesn’t make you want to kick your feet like a little kid. “When are you thinking?”

“Mm, you’re in night class prison tomorrow,” he says, tapping the pen against his lip now. “Tuesday?”

It shouldn’t make you so irrationally happy that he remembers your schedule, but logic seems to go out the window where Takuma Ino is concerned. “Tuesday’s good. Where do you wanna go?”

He shakes his head adamantly, tapping you on the nose with his pen. “Leave it to me.”

—

The only things Takuma’s told you about your date tonight are dress warm and bring your board. He meets you outside your place at four, his bag definitely bulkier than usual, his own skateboard under one foot.

You’re wearing a denim jacket over a hoodie and your favorite cargo pants with your boots, and you tucked a beanie and gloves into your bag just in case, but it’s surprisingly balmy out for late October. The wind is the worst of it.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Takuma says when you coast down the driveway and come to a stop beside him. The greeting makes you blush as much as his smile does, and he chuckles as he pushes off. “This way.”

“Where are we going?”

“Crazy,” he says. You roll your eyes. Sounds like the kind of dad joke Yuta would make.

“Well, then.” The two of you make your way down the street and around the bend, and you realize he’s taking you to the skate park. But at the entrance he keeps going, around the pit and a few of the ramps and to the largest one, back in the corner—not the one Sukuna deals under, but the one opposite. And you stop in your tracks, your longboard making a protesting schkk under your feet, when you see it.

Battery-powered string lights loop around the posts and down the underside of the ramp, and blankets and pillows are spread out across the ground. The area is sheltered from the worst of the wind, and you know your jaw is hanging open a little as you watch Takuma unload his bag—JBL speaker, two thermoses, and a bunch of food.

“Takuma,” you say, not knowing what other words suffice. “I—oh my god.” You did not peg him as being this romantic.

Then you think about his song lyrics and think maybe you should have.

He grins at you from where he’s sat down on the blankets, holding out one of the thermoses. You leave your board by one of the poles and sit down beside him, taking it and letting the warmth seep into your hands. “What is it?”

“Hot chocolate.”

“Mm.” You scoot closer to him, staring up at the layers and layers of graffiti and marker art covering the underside of the ramp. “This is maybe the sweetest thing ever.”

“I’m glad,” he says. “I had no idea what I was doing.”

“I wouldn’t know.” You take a sip of the hot chocolate—still warm. “It’s romantic. Big fan.”

“Really?” He points to where somebody drew a dick on the far side of the ramp.

“Okay, well, you didn’t have to point it out,” you smirk. “You ever done graffiti?” Looking at his mischievous smile and the beanie tugged over his head, the skateboard abandoned a few feet away, he does look like the type.

“Tagging?” He shrugs. “No. I would, though. Maybe we should.”

You hum, staring up at the arcing bubble letters and jagged black lines all over the ramp. You think you’d be horrible at graffiti, but you’ve always appreciated it, the way it sends a message and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

“This is like… alternative aesthetic stargazing,” you muse, lifting a finger and tracing the sharp lines of one of the illegible words in the air. You could stare at all this art for hours and never find all the intricacies of it.

Takuma digs around in his bag and produces a Sharpie with an “aha!”

“You’re gonna graffiti with a Sharpie?”

He throws it at you and you catch it in one hand, instinctively twirling it like a drumstick. “We’re gonna graffiti with a Sharpie,” he corrects.

And so you do.

The nearest part of the wall is covered in bright pink paint outlined in black, and it takes you a moment of squinting and tilting your head to realize it says LEAVEYOURMARK. Seems as clear of an instruction as any. So you do—scooting forward, you start to draw flowers into the thick bands of pink lettering, and soon they’re shifting to music notes, percussion notation, aimless squiggles. Takuma queues up a laid-back playlist with a few artists you recognize and many more you don’t, and you pass the pen back and forth, adding tiny notes to messages around the ramp, doodling in the empty space.

You’ve been on dates before, but this feels wholly different. With Takuma, you’re not stressing over conversation starters, worrying about commitment, wondering if you picked the right outfit, trying to gauge your shared interests with carefully planned questions. It’s just easy, existing with him like this.

After a while, you’re on your back in the mess of pillows and blankets, staring directly up at the massive painting of a skateboard with a face. Takuma is drawing something on the wall behind you.

Squinting, the green streaks under the skateboard look like that loss meme Toge sends you at least twice a week. You take a photo with the intention of showing it to him later, though maybe you shouldn’t—he gets way too proud of himself for versing you in what he calls Reddit culture.

You crane your neck to see what Takuma’s drawing and find the thick, dark strokes of a city skyline, towers and domes and boxy apartment buildings.

“Artsy,” you tell him, smiling when he appears in your line of vision upside-down. “You sure about this computer science thing? You’re too creative.”

“That’s what my mom said,” he chuckles, capping the Sharpie and sitting down beside you. As you sit up, he leans back on his hands and glances over at you. “I told her about you. She’d love you. I mean, I’m pretty sure she already does.” He hesitates. “Is that weird? Too soon?”

“No,” you grin. “I—that’s really sweet, actually. I would love to meet your mom.” Your gaze softens at the relieved smile that crosses his face. “Gotta thank her for raising a guy like you, anyway.”

You realize you want Takuma to meet your family too—you want to show him all the corners of your too-small town, show him the place you grew up. It made you who you are—it led you here, to him, after all.

“So,” you say, tilting your head. “When you say you wanna be a producer. Where do you mean? Like, LA?”

He shrugs. “Probably. But I’m sure it’s more competitive there than anywhere else. I feel like the major hubs are there and New York, but I wouldn’t mind somewhere quieter, either.” He loops an arm around you, and your head finds its way to his shoulder. “What about you, world-class journalist?”

You grin, thinking of all the places you haven’t been, all the places you want to go. “Anywhere and everywhere. I just wanna see it all. I wanna travel.”

“You should!” He sounds genuinely excited about the concept, and you lift your head, taking in the expression on his face—he looks the way he did when he was talking about making an EP, like the world is full of possibilities and he wants to see them all play out. “You’d be so good at it. Being a travel writer or international correspondent or whatever.” He clears his throat. “I read some of your stuff, y’know.”

“What?” Suddenly you’re racking your brain for every piece you’ve published in the JU Journal, overly critical of your own work in hindsight. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s good. Really good, Skip, seriously.” He reaches out and tugs a wayward strand of hair behind your ear, and you find yourself leaning into the contact.

You aren’t sure what to say, so you settle on a soft, “Thank you.” Somehow, the idea of Takuma going out of his way to read your work feels personal on the same level that writing a song together does. Taking in your words, your ideas, internalizing them. What is intimacy if not that intellectual exchange?

“I think you’re going to be a really good producer.” It’s his turn to blush. “I mean it. Not everyone has the perspective for it, or the ear. But you do.”

“Ah, well, I—”

“Am not good at taking compliments?” you cut him off, raising a brow. “Mm, we’ll fix that.” He laughs, and you’re leaning in to kiss him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is the most natural thing in the world.

It’s late October, and you are not the least bit cold.

—

Your hands need to stop sweating before you lose a drumstick or something.

Shibuya Incident has about twenty minutes before you’re all due on stage for the finals, and The Fix is alive with students and lights and drinks and music and chatter. You’re out on the floor tonight, off to the side for easy access to the stage once Black Flash clears out.

“We’re kicking off with the reigning champions of the Battle of the Bands,” Panda booms, throwing an arm out as the band takes the stage. “You know ‘em, you love ‘em, they’re every genre and no genre, covers and originals, brass and wind. Give it up for Black Flash!”

You whoop just as loud as anyone else here, grinning at Nobara’s animated cheering from closer to the center of the floor. Miwa walks right up to the mic and takes it off the stand, the neck of her white electric in her other hand. “Hey, folks!” She brushes her bright blue hair out of her face and shouts, “Y’all ready to hear some good music?”

She has the sort of infectious enthusiasm that could work on pretty much anyone, and before you know it you and Kirara are spinning each other around to the beat of a synth-heavy pop song that sounds like it came straight out of the 80s. The instrumentals are simple but tight, and Miwa jumps around, engaging the crowd, belting like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“They’re good,” you catch Megumi saying lowly, probably to Yuji, but Takuma’s the one who answers.

“If I tell you the power of friendship will lead us to victory—”

“No.”

“Well, okay, you’re no fun.”

Kirara turns around and plants a hand on her hip, looking at Megumi. “Fushiguro, we’re fine. We’re going out with a badass new single and not one but two percussionists. We’ve never sounded this good.”

“Just being the token pessimist,” he sighs, cracking a reluctant half-smile. “I know we’re good.”

Yuji elbows him playfully. “Mr. Realist.”

Black Flash segues into a second track, an ABBA cover that has you dancing without thinking, and Takuma catches your eye and grins, moving along with you. And all too soon it’s over, a third song come and gone, and Panda’s back up on stage and the five of you are hopping up over the side to make your way to your places. Hakari and another tech have already swapped out the kits, and you settle yourself in the comfort of your own throne, your own pedals, flipping on the snare and pounding the kick a few times.

Yuji’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning at you. “You got this,” he mouths, shaking his tambourine at you.

You truly have no idea where he got a tambourine.

“What happened in Shibuya? Who the hell knows?” Panda shouts, riling up the crowd. “Give it up for Shibuya Incident!”

That’s your cue. You look at Kirara, who nods with a conspiratorial smile, and then Megumi, who plucks out a few notes in answer. Yuji’s already giving you a grin and a thumbs-up. And Takuma… he’s already stepped into his on-stage confidence, all relaxed, easygoing performer, and the look he gives you has energy coursing through your fingertips like an electric shock.

You hold your sticks above your head, clicking them loud on the lower end of the shaft, and shout, “One, two, three, four!”

You are alive.

The first track is another pulled from their EP, and you’ve listened to it probably an embarrassing number of times—you know Yuji’s part down to the sixteenth note, the roll, the rest, but you don’t hesitate to put your own spin on it, and he’s alight with the same energy beside you, messing around with a tambourine and a few other aux instruments near a mic of his own, since he’s also doing backup vocals tonight.

Your hands are moving fast, your feet pumping the pedals of their own accord, an instinct, and it’s over before you know it, a sheen of sweat already forming under the stage lights. You grin, catching your breath, wiping your hands on your jeans as Takuma introduces the band.

From your place near the back of the stage, you get more of the low feedback than anything else, but you definitely hear when he says Shibuya Incident and the crowd responds raucously in kind.

“That’s Kirara Hoshi on guitar and vocals,” he says, pointing to her as she does her little riff.

“Yeah, Kira!” You have no idea where Hakari’s voice is coming from, but it’s unmistakable.

“We got Fushiguro back there on the bass,” Takuma continues, and Megumi gives the crowd an unbothered nod, showing off his own instrument for a moment. “Itadori’s back here on aux and vocals.” He pauses to let the crowd shout for Yuji and then adds, “And filling in for him on kit, we’ve got the legendary drummer from Cursed Technique. Everyone give it up for Skipper!”

You do a quick roll, laughing as your own band goes crazy—you can’t see them in the glare of the lights, but you (and everyone else) can definitely hear them.

“I’m Ino, we’re Shibuya Incident, and this next one’s gonna slow things down a little.”

This one starts with Megumi, a laid-back track with a similar vibe to the first song you ever heard Shibuya Incident perform, but a little smoother. It’s over before you know it, and then you and Kirara are launching into the new single. Even Yuji looks like he’s having the time of life on backup vocals.

“On my own,” he and Kirara harmonize, Takuma taking the lead, and you nail the next two lines with punchy cymbal-tom hits, “all the shadows look like a death threat, everybody’s waitin’ to get hit, it’s like I’m going (going) going (going) out of my mind!”

All your worries melt away as the beat drives your movements. You’re not thinking about dropping a drumstick, missing a measure, losing the competition. You’re doing what you love with people you love, and that’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.

“Think I’m seein’ double in one eye, startin’ to think this air is spiked, no one told me that’s what love is like.” Takuma lets the guitar hang and grips the mic in one hand and the stand in the other, leaning with it as he engages the crowd, and you definitely hear Nobara screaming. “You got me going (going) going (going) out of my mind, yeah, yeah.”

It’s over so fast you can barely breathe, and you’re laughing before you know what’s happening, Yuji throwing his arm around you and shouting, “You killed it!”

Takuma turns around and locks eyes with you, and you see that same adrenaline high in his gaze that you know is in yours, and when the band stumbles off stage in Panda’s wake, he grabs your hand and pulls you into a hug. “That was crazy!” he practically shouts, which is probably good, because your ears are ringing so much you probably wouldn’t have heard him otherwise.

“Guys,” Megumi says, deadpan as always, but you can see the effects of the performance even on him, his usually stoic expression unable to mask his own excitement. “I think… we might have a shot.”

“Holy shit,” Kirara says. “Skip, write the story. Resident pessimist breaks vow of negativity—”

“Oh, shut up.” Megumi elbows her as she dissolves into laughter. In the wings, you can hear the indistinct sounds of Panda’s instructions as he starts voting, and music kicks up over the speakers. Ten minutes. Ten minutes.

It’s the longest and shortest wait of your life, and then you’re back on stage with Black Flash and Panda, and it’s fucking time.

You wonder if everyone else can hear your blood roaring, too.

“Once again, an insanely tight vote,” Panda says, a hush falling over the crowd as they wait for the verdict. “Phenomenal performances from both of our final bands, but someone’s gotta win. Give it up for the champions of this year’s Battle of the Bands…”

You imagine Maki hissing under her breath for Panda to hurry it up, Nobara’s hands clasped together as she anxiously bounces on the balls of her feet, Yuta biting his lip and trying to get Toge to shut up.

Takuma’s hand is on your shoulder, Yuji on your other side, Megumi and Kirara behind you. You glance at Miwa, and she gives you a knowing look that you can’t interpret.

You almost don’t hear it.

“SHIBUYA INCIDENT!”

You don’t know which screams belong to who—maybe one of them’s yours—but you’re swept into a massive pile of musicians drunk off victory, and you’re laughing, and Miwa’s jumping up and down and saying how that was insane, guys, you were amazing, and even Mai nods at you in congratulations, and Yuji is abruptly on Todo’s shoulders, and as the stage lights turn down a bit you finally catch sight of your own band, losing their minds on the floor.

“That’s our girl!” Maki hollers, and Yuta whoops as Toge pumps a fist in the air. You realize you can’t see Nobara, and two seconds later your questions are answered when she somehow materializes on the stage, launching herself at you with a massive grin on her face.

“You did it!” she shouts. “Holy shit, Skipper!”

Everything around you is chaos and laughter and noise, but something in the center of your being is incredibly still, and you think maybe it’s contentment. In this moment, you would ask for nothing else. It is perfect.

Nobara detaches herself from you after more profuse congratulations, turning to Miwa, and the bands make their way gradually off stage. Takuma’s hand is in yours—you don’t know when that happened—and he pulls you past the band, past the wings, all the way into the drum storage room backstage.

“That was fucking amazing,” he says. “You’re fucking amazing.” His beanie is off, tucked into his pocket, his hair as wild as his eyes as wild as your heart.

You close the door.

It’s a pulse. That’s the only way you can describe it, the rush of living energy that comes with kissing Takuma Ino behind the stage of a shitty campus bar, the heat shooting through your veins in time with the throb of the bass from distant speakers. Breath on your teeth and hands in your hair, the warmth in your gut from skin-on-skin proximity, ears ringing with the sound of your name on his lips and love-blind eyes, you’re alive and addicted to a feeling you know you’ll chase forever.

—

TWO MONTHS LATER. DECEMBER 19.

The house is alive with laughter and chatter and Michael Bublé’s Christmas album spinning from the record player. The semester is over, and tomorrow you’ll scatter for winter break, home for the holidays. Nobara insisted on throwing a party before all the inevitable road trips and flights, and the main floor is strung with multicolored lights and tinsel—Yuta’s plant, Rika, even has a tiny Santa hat on.

In addition to the actual residents of the house, Takuma and the band are here, as well as Hakari, Panda, Tsumiki, Miwa, and a handful of other friends. Megumi’s even brought the dogs, who have both taken a liking to the loveseat by the window and claimed it as their own. You’ve informed Megumi that they’re going to stay here with you forever (he said no, but you don’t take orders from him).

“Okay, I’m dropping you off at ten, right?” Yuta quadruple-checks. You’re huddled in the kitchen with him and Maki—Toge was here a minute ago, but he heard someone in the living room mention Just Dance and ran off to assert his dominance or whatever.

“Oh my god, yes,” Maki answers for you. “Yuta. You wrote it down. It’s in your calendar. You live in the same house as Skip, you’re not gonna forget.” She bumps her shoulder with his and he sighs in admission.

“I know.” He smiles at you. “Just gotta make sure she gets home for the holidays. Can’t have you turning into a sad Christmas cliché on us, Skip.”

You salute him with half a gingerbread cookie. “Appreciate it.” He’s taking you to the airport tomorrow for your flight home and refuses to take your gas money, so you’re already planning on beating him to paying for the first grocery run when you get back.

“Things with Mai are good?” you ask, glancing at Maki. She shrugs noncommittally but doesn’t correct you, which is a good sign. She and her sister met up the week after the Battle of the Bands for coffee, which you genuinely thought was a joke when she told you about it. They’re both going home for Christmas and have apparently decided to try and like each other a little more openly. And she actually showed up tonight, which you have to admit you weren’t entirely expecting.

“Yuta!” Toge hollers from the other room. “You have to come do Rasputin with me!”

Yuta groans, looking pleadingly at Maki like she can get him out of this, but she just grins. “You heard him.”

“You hate me.”

“Yeah,” Maki says fondly. Yuta, defeated, goes to join Toge in the dance of death. Maki whispers to you that she’s going to record it for blackmail and slips out after him.

Tsumiki appears beside you, drink in hand, and leans against the wall. She tilts her phone screen toward you and you see it’s the Journal website analytics.

The top story right now is yours. You grin. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize.”

“I expected it,” she admits, tucking her phone back in her pocket and gazing out across the room. “Look, I’ve been meaning to tell you. We won’t start the application process until spring sem, but, if you want it,” she glances at you, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “I really think you should apply for editor-in-chief, Skip.”

Your mouth opens and closes without anything of use coming out, and Tsumiki laughs. “You don’t have to, but—”

“No!” you blurt, grinning. “I—I want to. I would love to. I was planning on it. I just didn’t know you… wanted me to.” Kusakabe’s just the advisor—when it comes to actually hiring the next editor, Tsumiki has the final say. Her endorsement is as good as a job offer. “I… thank you, Tsumiki.” You look down, suddenly overwhelmed by the words. “Big shoes to fill.”

“Aw, none of that,” she says, stealing a cookie from the tray on the counter next to you. “I literally can’t think of anyone better.” With a wink, she disappears through the doorway, where Kirara and Nobara are talking animatedly. Nobara gestures to you when she catches your eye.

“Dude, our listens are shooting up!” she says, shoving her phone into your hands. Your EP dropped mid-November, six tracks recorded in the studio with Takuma and Hakari, and you’ve performed better than you ever expected. The analytics show a sharp uptick that’s probably in large part due to Panda playing your stuff on the radio station.

You whistle, leaning on Nobara’s shoulder. “Awesome.”

Kirara leans against the wall, considering. “You guys thought about what you’re gonna do next year?”

Truthfully, you’ve really tried not to. The idea of Maki and Yuta graduating is so bittersweet. But graduation means Shibuya Incident will have a hole in their band, too. Kirara will be gone.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Nobara muses. “We could join forces. If we lose Maki and Yuta and Kirara, the only thing we’re doubled up on is drums and lead.”

It’s not a bad idea. And if Yuji is track captain next year and you get that editor job, neither of you will have as much time for the band—switching off could actually be very helpful. You hum, considering. You’ll have to talk to the others.

“Oi,” Kirara says, reaching out to poke you with a socked foot. “Your boyfriend’s in lost puppy mode over there.” You glance into the living room to see Takuma scanning the room next to Megumi and the dogs, probably looking for you.

“Dumbass,” you say fondly, and nod goodbye to Nobara and Kirara before making your way over to him. The boys are halfway through Rasputin and Yuta is, much to Toge’s chagrin, kicking ass. Toge looks like he’s just run a half marathon.

Takuma lights up when he sees you, a mischievous smile appearing on his face as he intercepts you by the hall entrance.

“Oh, wow, what is that?” he asks cheekily, and tilts your chin up to see a piece of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. That was definitely Nobara’s doing. “Crazy that we just happened to—”

You cut him off, dragging him in by the shirt and kissing him, and makes a surprised sound that has you smiling against his lips.

“Crazy,” you repeat after you pull back, relishing the flush on his cheeks. Even after dating him for two months (as of today), every reaction you get out of Takuma makes your heart rate bump up a few beats. “Oh!” he says, suddenly remembering something. “Wait, c’mere, I have something for you.”

“Takuma!” You swat at him. “I told you not to—”

“Boo hoo,” he says, sticking his tongue out and dragging you toward your room, where he dumped his stuff earlier. You quietly close the door behind you as Takuma digs around his bag, standing up with his hands behind his back. “It’s Christmas and it’s been two months. You have no defense. Close your eyes.”

You do, giggling a little as he grabs your hand and presses something into it—something soft. “Okay,” he says, and you open your eyes to see a little stuffed penguin perched in the palm of your hand. It’s fucking adorable.

“Oh my god!” you cry. “Oh, he’s so cute! Takuma.” You cradle the penguin to your chest with both hands, grinning.

“It’s you!” he says, laughing. “Not official Madagascar merch, but I thought it was pretty cute. Your own lil’ Skipper.”

“I love it,” you say, making the penguin do a little dance in the air. You grab its tiny wing and poke Takuma on the nose with it. “Thank you.”

“Merry early Christmas.” His nose scrunches up a little in thought. “Early Merry Christmas? What’s the right way to say that?”

“Happy early nondenominational holiday of your choice,” you say teasingly, because the public university won’t actually say Christmas despite the decorations all around campus.

It’s a running joke among the entirety of the student body that the massive tree in the arts lobby is not a Christmas tree but a secular modern art installation. There are variations of insane alternate tree names on the school meme accounts. The knockoff JU Barstool page even got in on it, and the student groups hosting the Hanukkah and Kwanzaa celebrations.

Takuma’s answering laugh is bright and it follows you as you cross the room to your desk, pulling a box out of the second drawer. “Your turn.”

“What?” He has the audacity to look confused. “Skip—”

You hold up the penguin. “Objection denied!” The box is light and square, and you watch excitedly as he opens it.

“Oh my god,” he says when he realizes what’s inside. “No way. These are the exact ones—how did you even—?”

You had to do some investigating to figure out the precise guitar strings he uses, but what's your journalism degree for if not this?

“Who knows?” You shrug playfully. “Maybe it’s the psychic powers, maybe it’s the housemate I begged to sneak into your room and find out.”

Kirara was more than willing. “Good thing you came to me and not Itadori,” she laughed. “That kid can’t be subtle to save his life.” Takuma’s strings have been on the brink for a while, and you’re honestly shocked none of them have given out yet.

“They’re perfect,” Takuma laughs, setting the box back on your desk. “I love them. I love you.”

He says it so easily it takes you a moment to realize what just happened. He freezes, mouth opening and closing like he doesn’t know what words he’s looking for.

“I—uh,” he says eloquently. “It’s—I mean. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I didn’t mean to say it like that but I did mean it, you don’t have to say it back, if it’s too soon or you—”

Instead of cutting him off verbally, you grab him by the shoulders and press your lips to his. His eyes are wide when you pull back, despite the way he relaxed into the kiss on instinct.

“Hey,” you laugh, one hand trailing up to the back of his neck. “I love you, too.”

The excited smile that spreads across his face is slow and hesitant, like he can’t believe you reciprocate. You pull him back in and feel his grin against your lips, his hands coming to rest at your waist, warm.

“Thank god,” he murmurs between breaths. “Because I keep almost accidentally saying it, and it was gonna happen sooner or later.”

“Least it didn’t happen over the phone,” you grin, your hand skating down his arm and coming to rest in his.

Sheepishly, he admits, “Almost did. Yesterday.” Your laugh is bright and so is his answering one, and you perch your little stuffed penguin atop the guitar strings and tug Takuma toward the door.

“Okay, lover boy. Back to the outside world.”

“Lover boy, huh?” he teases. “Kay, pretty girl.”

“Couple of cheesy ass romantics we are.”

“Mm.” He presses a kiss to your temple, the action so casual and unthinking you want to melt. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The second you step back into the living room, Yuta grabs you by the elbow and presses a Wii remote into your hand.

“Oh, no. Yuta—”

The song’s been chosen for you, and Toge has passed the remote to Maki, who looks like she’d rather die than give a rousing performance of TiK ToK by Ke$ha.

“Well, at least it’s you,” she says. Toge tries to discreetly pull his phone out, but Maki gives him a death glare that could send a grown man to his grave. He nearly drops it in his hurry to shove it back into his pocket.

You snort, patting Maki sympathetically on the shoulder. “Let’s kick ass.”

Three hours later, everyone has somewhat settled down, sprawled across furniture and countertops and the carpeted floor. Yuta’s grabbed an acoustic from the basement and it’s being passed around, goofy Christmas songs overlapping with the still-spinning record player.

You enrolled here with the intention of building a new life, finding a new purpose—new faces, new music, a new place to call home. And you feel like you’ve found it. This is the point of college. You’re surrounded by the best people you’ve ever known, and your heart is practically overflowing with how much you fucking love them all.

After all, your heart is not a finite thing. You’ve just got an endless supply of affection, and you’re not scared of it.

Love is the right word, you think, letting your head fall onto Takuma’s shoulders, legs tucked up beneath you on the couch.

“I love you,” you whisper, just to say it. When he whispers your name, your real name, in the shell of your ear, something in your chest sparks a little. He makes it sound like a song.

“I love you, too.”

directory | prev.

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro @bisforbuse @risararelywrites @idkidk32 @gojodickbig @stargazing-with-choso @anonymity-222 @honeyyhuggs

a/n: that’s a wrap on out of my mind! ahh! i loved this one a lot, and it has so much spinoff potential i’m going a little crazy with it—keep an eye out for the megumi spinoff dropping soon. if you want to be alerted when it drops, lmk and i’ll put you on the jjk taglist. also, greta wrote a sukuna spinoff here—go read!

@bitchkay i need you to know your reblog tags give me life and you were fucking RIGHT ON THE MONEY with these developments

i’m not sure if i’ll start writing other fandoms or not—if y’all would want to see attack on titan or blue lock do let me know!

[gojodickbig]

BOOM CLAP! chapter O1 — toji fushiguro x (female) reader

summary: he was a boy, you were a girl — can i make it any more obvious? you were all set to be the college football coach, the position you rightfully deserved, until toji fushiguro, resident walking jawline and professional misogynist magnet, swooped in and snagged it because, apparently, chromosomes count as qualifications now. now, you're stuck coaching the cheerleading team — a job you’ve grown to begrudgingly enjoy, even if it’s not your dream. but here's the kicker (pun intended): coach fushiguro is... not entirely insufferable? between his penalty shootouts and his oddly compelling smirk, you start to wonder if there’s more to him than the man-sized ego he’s parading on the field. is this the beginning of a rivalry, a redemption arc, or just a massive concussion from spending too much time around footballs? one thing’s for sure: sports, love, and bad decisions make one hell of a combo.

content warnings: reader is implied to be sporty/coming from a sports-centric family, lots of crack, workplace sexism, mentions of other characters [nobara, yuki, yuuji, megumi, choso, inumaki, gojo, geto, nanami], takes place in a college au - characters are aged up for that reason alone.

— read on ao3・series master-list

you were pretty sure this wasn’t what your ancestors envisioned when they moved heaven and earth to give your family a better life.

“you’re doing great, sweetie!” sarah, your assistant coach, chirped from the bleachers, holding up her phone to record the practice. the teenage girls in front of you were trying — bless their glitter-covered souls — but the pyramid kept collapsing faster than your dreams of ever being taken seriously as a coach.

“you’re supposed to catch her, not fling her,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as poor nobara was sprawled on the mat for the third time in ten minutes. “this isn’t rugby. save the tackles for your boyfriend, brianna.”

“ugh, coach, it’s not my fault she’s so slippery,” brianna snapped, tossing her ponytail like it was a weapon. “maybe if nobara didn’t moisturize so much —”

“do i look like i care about your opinions on skincare?” you shot back, arms crossed. “again. and this time, if nobara hits the floor, all of you are doing burpees until i’m too old to count.”

there was a collective groan as the girls trudged back to their positions. you ran a hand through your hair, your patience wearing thinner than the soles of your favorite sneakers. it wasn’t their fault, really. it was yours. two weeks in, and you still felt like a fraud in this role. sure, you’d coordinated chaotic wedding dances with more participants than the population of this college, but cheerleading? flips, tumbles, and chanting in unison? it didn’t help that toji fushiguro — the school’s golden boy of coaching — never let you forget how misplaced you were.

“hey, dollie,” his voice drawled from behind you, like a mosquito you couldn’t swat. “or should i call you coach barbie today? either way, you’re rocking that whistle.”

you turned around, ready to unleash verbal warfare, only to be met with toji leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed and smirking like he’d invented the concept of smugness. the boys’ and girls’ football teams — his teams — were warming up on the other side of the gym.

your half? chaos.

his half? perfection. of course.

“shouldn’t you be busy coaching your team?” you asked through gritted teeth.

he gestured lazily to the football players, who were executing drills like a well-oiled machine. “what can i say? they’re naturals. unlike…” he trailed off, tilting his head toward your pyramid attempt number four, which was currently wobbling like a newborn giraffe. “…whatever’s happening over here.”

“we’re building character,” you snapped, refusing to rise to his bait.

he grinned wider, like he could taste your irritation. “call me when you’ve built some coordination.” and with that, he sauntered off, leaving you fuming.

“i hope he trips over a football,” you muttered under your breath, turning back to the girls. “alright, listen up! one more time. and if this pyramid doesn’t hold, i’m switching to wedding choreography, and you’ll all be dancing with pots on your heads. clear?”

to your surprise, the pyramid held. it was shaky, and nobara’s victory pose was more of a “please don’t drop me”, but it stayed up. you clapped your hands together, genuinely thrilled.

“great job, team!”

“we’re gonna die at regionals,” brianna whispered to her friend, earning a glare from you.

“yo, dollie,” toji called out during water break, tossing a football that landed on your side of the gym with a loud thud. “don’t forget to stretch before your next round of… interpretive dance.”

without missing a beat, you picked up the ball and punted it back. “maybe if your players learned to aim better, this wouldn’t happen. great coaching, by the way.”

he caught the ball effortlessly, his smirk deepening. “are you this feisty in staff meetings? might have to start paying attention.”

“i’m this close to reporting you for workplace harassment,” you shot back, holding your fingers barely an inch apart.

“huh. guess you’re good at measurements after all,” he said with a wink before jogging back to his team.

by the time practice ended, you were exhausted, your hair was a mess, and your whistle had a permanent dent from all the times you’d angrily bitten it. but the girls were improving — slowly — and that was something. and as much as you hated to admit it, a small, petty part of you couldn’t wait to wipe that smug grin off toji’s face when your team actually nailed their routine. watch out. you had a whistle, a questionable pyramid, and an unyielding hatred for toji fushiguro.

you were unstoppable.

honestly, you loved those girls, alright. your cheerleading team was your little sanctuary in the storm that was college athletics. they adored you too, even if your sage advice on their boy problems sometimes felt like a cold slap of reality.

“just break up.”

“but —”

“break. up.”

and you said it with so much finality, they’d stop in their tracks like deer caught in headlights. sure, back home, that was how it went. if a boy so much as sneezed the wrong way, you’d have cousins ready to form a cricket-bat-wielding mob. here? not so much. you couldn’t exactly call up your country’s army to deal with shitty college football players, no matter how tempting it was.

but toji fushiguro was your biggest frustration. it wasn’t even about his smug smirk or the way his biceps seemed to defy the laws of fabric elasticity. no. it was the simple fact that he got the head coaching job just because he was a man.

“you trained them for what?” the dean had gawked at your résumé during the interview.

“state-level cricket teams. tennis. football — all kinds of sports, really.” you’d rattled off, confidence practically oozing from your posture. you’d grown up in a household where sports were life and competition was the air you breathed.

“impressive,” he’d said, though the tone didn’t match the words. 

a week later, you heard toji fushiguro had been hired instead.

“respectfully, i could run circles around him,” you muttered one day, arms crossed as you watched him bark out orders to the football team.

“what’s that, sweetheart?” toji’s gravelly voice interrupted, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.

“nothing you’d understand,” you shot back, plastering on your best fake smile. oh, how you hated men. or, more specifically, him.

toji’s style of coaching was… let’s call it unique. where you’d planned drills and strategies backed by actual sports science, he relied on yelling and vaguely threatening insults. yet somehow, the boys loved him. you stormed into his office one afternoon, intent on giving him a piece of your mind. “toji, this isn’t a high school wrestling match, it’s —”

“sit down, sweetheart,” he interrupted, leaning back in his chair, looking insufferably smug.

“don’t sweetheart me,” you snapped, ignoring the slight heat rising in your cheeks.

“fine, dollie.”

but no matter how much you bickered with him, there were moments — annoying little moments — where you caught yourself watching him work. like when he got one of the team’s laziest players to hustle just by clapping him on the shoulder and muttering something low enough only the kid could hear. or how he remembered everyone’s names, even the substitutes. ugh. you shook the thought away, leaning into your girls’ latest drama about who was dating who on the football team.

“coach, what would you do if your boyfriend was caught flirting with another girl?”

“just break up,” you said automatically.

“not everyone’s built for your advice,” one of the girls teased.

“then they’re built to be miserable,” you replied with a shrug, though your gaze flicked toward the field.

toji glanced your way at that moment, catching your eye. he smirked, tipping an imaginary hat. god, you hated him. or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

toji knew you were a force to be reckoned with — sharp tongue, sharper mind, and a work ethic that could put military officers to shame. not that he’d ever tell you that to your face. where would be the fun in that? no, toji fushiguro preferred to keep you on your toes, which, in his opinion, was just a side benefit of the job he’d swiped from under your nose.

did he feel guilty about it? a little. okay, maybe more than a little. but guilt didn’t pay rent, and it sure as hell didn’t cover the tab for the occasional beer he needed to take the edge off. so when the opportunity had come knocking, he’d taken it. unapologetically. and hey, coaching football wasn’t just about shouting at boys to run faster — it was cathartic. an outlet. plus, there was the added bonus of watching your face scrunch up in frustration whenever he did something to tick you off. like calling you every variation of the word “doll.”

“hey, dollface, the girls forgetting their pom-poms again?” he’d quip as you passed by the field.

“funny. did your team forget their brains again?” you’d shoot back without missing a beat.

but sometimes — toji wouldn’t admit this even if you held him at gunpoint — he admired you. your work ethic, the way you seemed to carry yourself like the whole world could throw curveballs, and you’d knock them right out of the park. he knew you were overqualified for the role they’d given you. hell, you weren’t just a coach — you were a legend in the making. and here you were, stuck babysitting a group of cheerleaders who worshipped the ground you walked on. 

not that he blamed them. you had this way of commanding respect without even trying. when one of the boys on his team had mouthed off about the cheer squad, you’d shut him down so hard, toji swore the kid contemplated quitting the sport entirely.

“careful,” you’d said, voice dripping with disdain, “the only thing harder than learning basic respect is realizing you’re not half as important as you think you are.”

damn.

sometimes, toji wondered what would’ve happened if the roles were reversed. if you’d been given the head coach job, and he’d been stuck with… whatever the hell your role was. but then he’d catch himself and think, nah, you’d never let him hear the end of it. so, instead, he’d keep doing what he did best: coaching, paying bills, and finding increasingly creative ways to annoy you.

because, honestly? if he didn’t get under your skin at least once a day, what was even the point?

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

you hated family group calls. not the people, of course — you loved them to bits. but the chaos of trying to fit twenty relatives into the frame of a single phone screen, all shouting "how’s coaching?" like it was some kind of mantra? unbearable.

“it’s going great!” you chirped, holding the phone at an angle that conveniently cut off the pom-poms in the background.

“which sport again?” your uncle asked, squinting like he was interrogating you through the pixels.

“uhh…” you scrambled for an answer, “multisport, you know. holistic fitness and all.”

your dad, meanwhile, was busy trying to shuffle the younger cousins into view. hey, say hi to your sister!”

“hiiii!!!” they chorused, all wide grins and innocence.

and then came the kicker: “when are you coaching football again? papa says you were the best.”

ugh. you waved goodbye hastily, hanging up before they could press for more details. sliding your phone onto the table, you sighed like a character in a tragic play. what was this life?

“this calls for tea,” you muttered to yourself, heading to the staff room.

tea was your therapy, plain and simple. brewing it, sipping it, smacking your lips in satisfaction — it was all part of the ritual. you’d become that person, the one who needed a cup every few hours to function. you were mid-sip, the satisfying slurp echoing in the empty room, when toji walked in. because of course he did.

“what’s this?” he asked, eyebrow raised as he leaned against the doorframe.

“tea,” you said flatly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“no kidding,” he drawled, striding in like he owned the place. “make me one?”

you froze mid-slurp, cup hovering in front of your lips. “excuse me?”

“you heard me,” he said, smirk firmly in place. “i could use a cup. make it strong, will ya?”

you stared at him, contemplating your life choices. what kind of karmic debt were you paying off to be here, making tea for toji fushiguro? but then you remembered your mother’s voice: "dear, manners are everything. even if someone’s being a pain, be polite."

“fine,” you muttered, setting your cup down with a dramatic clink. grabbing another mug, you threw in the tea leaves and, for good measure, an extra generous chunk of ginger. because why not?

toji watched you work, arms crossed, an amused glint in his eye. “you always this dramatic, or is it just me?”

“it’s just you,” you shot back, stirring the pot like it had personally wronged you.

a few minutes later, you plopped the cup in front of him with a thud. “here. enjoy.”

he took a sip, and you braced yourself for the complaints. instead, he smacked his lips and said, “damn, that’s good.”

you blinked. “you like it?”

“hell yeah. the ginger’s got a kick. might be the best tea i’ve had in years.”

you didn’t know whether to feel victorious or insulted. “you’re welcome, i guess?”

he leaned back in his chair, looking far too smug for your liking. “you know, dollie, if this coaching thing doesn’t work out, you could always open a tea stall.”

you narrowed your eyes at him, biting back a retort. “funny. maybe i’ll hire you to wash the cups.”

“deal,” he said with a wink, raising his cup in a mock toast.

you groaned, hiding your face behind your mug. tea was supposed to be your escape, not an invitation for him to invade your peace. but as you watched him take another sip, clearly enjoying your handiwork, you couldn’t help but feel a tiny, begrudging flicker of pride. not that you’d ever admit it.

but somehow, toji had somehow declared himself a permanent fixture of your tea breaks, like an oversized, annoying cat who refused to leave your lap. after almost every practice session, he’d show up at the staff room with that infuriating smirk, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“cooaach,” he’d say, voice dripping with mock respect, “you know what time it is.”

“time for you to make your own damn tea,” you’d snap, even as you begrudgingly reached for the kettle.

the worst part? the ritual was starting to give you flashbacks. vivid, dramatic flashbacks, like some overly sentimental movie playing out in your head. your mother handing your father a steaming cup after they both finished training sessions with their teams. both of them sipping in companionable silence, occasionally exchanging notes about players. the memory might’ve been sweet if it didn’t feel so… familiar.

“yuck,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head to banish the black-and-white mental reel. color tv was a thing by then, for god’s sake.

meanwhile, toji was rambling about something — probably how hard it was to deal with the boys on his team. as if he didn’t yell at them like a drill sergeant every day.

“you listening, doll?” he asked, snapping his fingers in front of your face.

“nope,” you deadpanned, pouring boiling water into his mug with just a little too much force. he raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, instead taking a sip of the tea you’d grudgingly made.

“damn, you’ve outdone yourself today. seriously, what’s in this?”

you leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “magic.”

“c’mon, i’m serious. what’s the recipe?”

“gatekept.”

he blinked, caught off guard by your bluntness. “what?”

“you heard me. it’s my secret recipe. not sharing.”

toji chuckled, shaking his head. “you’re a dirty little shit, you know that?”

“and yet, you keep coming back,” you shot back, smirking as you took a sip of your own tea.

he didn’t have a comeback for that one, instead taking another sip of his tea. for a brief moment, you thought he might actually say something serious — like maybe an apology for, oh, you know, stealing the job you were clearly more qualified for.

but no.

“you know,” he began, his tone that maddening mix of teasing and smug, “if you put half as much effort into coaching as you do into this tea, you might’ve gotten the head coach gig.”

you nearly choked on your tea, slamming the cup down onto the counter. “you’ve got some nerve, fushiguro.”

“relax, just kidding.”

“uh-huh,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at him. “men.”

he grinned, completely unbothered. “don’t lump me in with the rest. I’m one of a kind.”

“yeah, you’re something alright,” you muttered, turning away to hide the twitch of a smile threatening to ruin your scowl.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

today sucked.

you woke up to ice-cold water for a shower, cursed the heavens when you realized you were out of tea leaves, and then, halfway to the practice grounds, your monthly decided to show up uninvited like the absolute menace it was. to top it all off, your irritation level was skyrocketing, and the girls — sweet, well-meaning girls — were bearing the brunt of it.

“straighten those arms!” you barked, watching them flinch mid-dance routine. god, you felt terrible. the rational part of you was screaming to dial it down, but the rest of you was caught in a storm of cramps and fury. and then it happened.

you’d turned around to yell at a particularly sloppy formation when bam! a football collided with the back of your head, hard enough to make you stumble. the world tilted, and for a moment, you just stood there, stunned, as the distant sound of laughter from the boys’ team rang in your ears. slowly, you turned to see where it came from. the offender — some cocky freshman who clearly didn’t know better — was grinning sheepishly.

“uh, sorry, coach!” he called out, not sounding sorry at all.

oh, you little —

before you could think twice, you grabbed the ball and aimed.

“you wanna play games?” you muttered, rearing your leg back. “fine.”

you swore you were aiming for toji’s stomach, but —

whack!

“oh my god!”

the collective gasp that followed wasn’t as loud as the groan that came from toji as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his… well, you know. his balls.

ohhh fuck.

“coach!” the football team rushed to him, panic written all over their faces.

“you okay, man?”

“oh my god, she killed him!”

meanwhile, the girls had gathered behind you, wide-eyed and ready to throw hands.

“they shouldn’t even be practicing that close to us!” one of them hissed.

“totally their fault,” another chimed in, glaring at the boys.

and just like that, world war iii broke out.

the football team was yelling at the cheer squad, the cheer squad was yelling back, and you? you just stood there, watching the chaos unfold, praying for divine intervention. or at least for toji to stop groaning like he was in actual labor.

“alright, alright, everyone shut up!” you finally shouted, silencing the field.

the boys froze mid-argument, the girls quieted down, and all eyes turned to you.

toji, still curled up on the ground, managed to rasp out, “you got… a hell of a kick, doll.” 

your face burned with embarrassment as you walked over, crouching next to him. “look, i’m sorry, okay? i wasn’t aiming there.”

“oh yeah?” he wheezed, glaring up at you. “where were you aiming, the moon?”

despite the situation, you couldn’t help the tiny snort that escaped. “relax, you’ll live.”

“not with the way this feels,” he muttered, finally sitting up with a wince. “you’re lucky i don’t file a workplace injury report on you.”

“you’re lucky i didn’t kick harder,” you shot back, though your voice lacked its usual bite. he stared at you for a moment, then smirked — smirked. even after getting nailed in the nuts, the man had the audacity.

“guess you’ve got a mean streak after all,” he said, voice still a little strained.

“guess you’ve got terrible reflexes,” you retorted, standing up and offering him a hand.

he took it, letting you pull him to his feet, and for a moment, the field was eerily quiet. the boys and girls were all watching, waiting for the next explosion.

“alright, everybody back to practice!” you barked, clapping your hands. “no more drama!”

as the teams reluctantly dispersed, toji leaned in, voice low enough for only you to hear. “you owe me a cup of tea for this.”

“you’re lucky i don’t owe you an ice pack,” you muttered, stomping off before he could say anything else.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

toji was still thanking every higher power — excluding whatever divine force orchestrated the kick to his balls — that he could walk straight for the rest of practice. the man had pride, after all, and no way in hell was he letting a bunch of college kids see him wobble like a newborn giraffe. his dignity? barely intact.

but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. not the pain — though, ouch — but the precision of your kick. ridiculous as the situation was, it wasn’t lost on him that you had game. real game. the kind that could've been teaching his boys to kick a ball with sniper accuracy, not yelling at… what was her name? brianna? brooke? eh, whatever — about holding her pom-poms at the right angle. 

toji’s boys, of course, hadn’t let the incident slide without commentary. not two minutes after he limped back into the field, he caught them snickering behind their hands, one of them muttering something along the lines of “coach really got sacked, huh?”

toji’s eyes narrowed.

“that’s funny,” he said, voice deceptively casual, “real funny. you know what’s funnier? ten laps.”

the smirks vanished.

“but —”

“ten laps,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

as the team groaned and started running, he crossed his arms, watching them with a satisfied smirk. they could crack all the jokes they wanted later, but right now? they were learning a lesson. toji wasn’t about to let his boys grow up into men who disrespected women — even the ones who’d temporarily sidelined their coach. later, during a water break, one of the braver ones — yuuji, bless his heart — mustered up the courage to ask, “coach, are you mad at her?”

toji raised an eyebrow. “mad? for what?”

“uh, you know…” yuuji gestured vaguely toward his own midsection, wincing in sympathy.

toji chuckled, the sound low and a little menacing. “nah. if anything, i’m impressed. that kick’s got more accuracy than some of your passes.”

yuuji winced harder, slinking back into the group.

but toji wasn’t lying. you’d proven you weren’t just some cheer coach barking at teenagers about pom-pom placement. you had skill — real, undeniable skill — and it bugged him more than he wanted to admit that it wasn’t being used where it mattered. as practice wrapped up, toji found himself wandering toward the staff room, half out of habit and half because, well, he wanted tea. your tea. ginger-heavy and all, it was starting to grow on him. he found you slouched at the table, one hand cradling a mug while the other rubbed at your temple.

“rough day?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

you didn’t even look up. “toji, if you’re here for tea, get lost.”

“what, no warm welcome?”

“you’re lucky i didn’t spike the last cup,” you muttered, finally meeting his gaze.

he grinned, unbothered. “you got a hell of a kick, coach.”

“don’t start.”

“seriously, though,” he said, stepping into the room. “where’d you learn to aim like that?”

you shrugged, taking a sip from your mug. “family thing. we’re good at sports. not so good at keeping jobs that require us to smile through bullshit.”

toji snorted, pulling out a chair and sitting across from you. “well, for what it’s worth, my boys learned to respect you today. even if it cost me, uh…”

“your ability to father children?” you offered sweetly.

“you’re hilarious,” he deadpanned, though his lips twitched.

silence settled between you, broken only by the clink of your mug on the table.

“seriously,” he said after a moment, “you’re wasted here.”

you looked at him, startled. “what?”

“you heard me,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “you should be out there, coaching a real team. not babysitting hormonal teenagers with pom-poms.”

the sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. “thanks,” you finally muttered, looking down at your mug.

toji shrugged, standing up. “don’t mention it. now, about that tea…”

you rolled your eyes but stood up anyway, heading for the kettle. maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the worst man alive.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

the first time you left tea in a thermos for toji, you chalked it up to convenience. no way were you going to risk him barging into the staff room, interrupting your schedule with his dumb requests. better to preempt the situation entirely. but then it became… a thing. you hated to call it a routine, because that implied a level of domesticity that made you want to gag. but there it was: a quiet, unspoken habit.

on days when you were too busy with extra practice sessions, you’d leave the thermos on the corner of his desk, always filled with your carefully brewed tea — heavy on the ginger, the way he liked it. toji never said much about it. instead, he restocked the milk and sugar when you ran low, always replacing the containers before you even noticed they were gone. you were particular about the tea leaves, though. that was non-negotiable. toji tried once — once — to pick some up, and when you spotted the cheap, dusty-looking box on the staff room counter, you immediately threw it in the trash.

“what’s wrong with those?” he’d asked, genuinely confused.

“what’s wrong? do you have no taste buds?!”

toji stared at you for a beat, then grinned. “didn’t realize you were such a snob, dollie.”

you rolled your eyes, but from then on, he left the tea leaves to you.the jibes between you two had lessened over time, though the occasional insult still flew when the moment called for it.

“you’re gonna wear a hole in that field if you pace any more,” he’d say, watching you stress over the girls’ routines.

“and you’re gonna wear a hole in my patience if you don’t mind your business,” you’d shoot back.

but what surprised you more was how defensive you both had become — of each other. it started small. one of your cheerleaders, nobara, had made an offhand remark about the football team being “a bunch of brainless oafs,” and you’d snapped before you could think twice.

“hey, they’re not all brainless,” you said sharply. “just… some of them.”

toji, meanwhile, had overheard one of his players, yuuji, joking about how “coach drinks tea like an old lady,” and promptly made him run laps until he was too tired to crack another joke.

“respect your elders,” he’d grumbled, though you weren’t exactly old, which made the punishment funnier. 

this weird, mutual protectiveness didn’t go unnoticed. nobara and yuki, two of your most perceptive cheerleaders, started giving you knowing looks during practice.

“soooo,” nobara began one day, stretching lazily as you directed the squad.

“nope,” you cut her off before she could finish.

“but you don’t even know what i was gonna say!” she protested.

“if it’s about fushiguro, i don’t wanna hear it.”

yuki smirked, tying her hair back. “she didn’t say it was about him.”

“but it was,” you snapped, glaring at her.

on the other side of the field, toji was dealing with a similar interrogation.

“coach,” yuuji asked, dribbling a ball idly at his feet, “why do you let her boss you around?”

toji raised an eyebrow. “boss me around?”

“yeah, with the tea and stuff. you just do whatever she says.”

“kid,” toji said, leaning down to yuuji’s level, “if you drank tea as good as hers, you’d do what she says too.”

choso, quieter but no less observant, muttered with a simple, “you don’t let anyone else talk to her like you do.”

toji snorted, straightening up. “maybe ‘cause no one else can keep up.”

back in the staff room after practice, you found toji already there, leaning against the counter with your thermos in hand.

“what’s got your girls all giggly today?” he asked as you walked in, eyebrow raised.

“same thing that’s got your boys acting like they’re on a gossip show,” you muttered, grabbing a mug for yourself.

toji laughed, a low, warm sound that made you freeze for half a second before shaking it off. “you know,” he said, watching you pour your tea, “if they’re gonna act like we’re a thing, we might as well give ‘em something to talk about.”

“dream on, fushiguro.” 

but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips when you turned away.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

the staff room was a mess, but so were you. papers strewn everywhere, scattered thermoses, and half-empty snack wrappers told the story of sleepless nights and relentless days as the intercollegiate sports season loomed. you were perched in one of those godforsaken spinning chairs, courtesy of the dean’s dubious sense of practicality, and you weren’t making it easy on yourself. you spun around and around, ranting to toji as he lounged — well, slouched — in the chair beside you, a thermos in his hand and a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“i mean, i get it,” you started, leaning back dramatically mid-spin. “nobara is trying, but her angles are all over the place. like, do these girls not know what symmetry is?!”

toji snorted. “symmetry, huh? big word for you.”

you shot him a glare that made him chuckle, but he didn’t interrupt as you continued your tirade.

“and don’t even get me started on those pompoms,” you groaned, throwing your head back. “who knew a piece of fluff could cause this much grief?”

“you?” toji offered, his tone casual but teasing.

“don’t test me, boy,” you warned, pointing a finger at him mid-spin. he just leaned back further, clearly enjoying the spectacle. but somewhere between venting about nobara’s form and chiding yuki for over-relying on her back handsprings, your rant took a turn.

“honestly,” you muttered, slowing your spinning to an almost thoughtful pace, “sometimes i wonder what the hell i’m doing here.”

toji glanced at you, his smirk fading slightly.

“i mean,” you continued, gesturing vaguely, “cheerleading? really? no offense to my girls, but this isn’t what i signed up for. back home, i was coaching actual teams. real sports teams.”

toji opened his mouth to interject but quickly shut it when you kept talking.

“like football,” you said, throwing your arms up. “or cricket. hell, even wrestling. but here? it’s just... pompoms and jazz hands.”

toji stiffened, feeling like you’d socked him in the gut, though your words weren’t even directed at him. he stared at you as you rambled, spinning absentmindedly in your chair. the usual fire in your tone was replaced by something softer, tinged with frustration and exhaustion.

“you’re a good coach,” he said suddenly, his deep voice cutting through your monologue.

you blinked, caught off guard. “what?”

“you’re a good coach,” toji repeated, leaning forward now, elbows resting on his knees. “your girls might be dealing with pompoms and jazz hands or whatever, but they’re disciplined, and they respect you.”

you raised an eyebrow, a little skeptical. “that supposed to make me feel better?”

“look,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “i get it. this gig isn’t what you wanted. but you’re here, and you’re killing it. doesn’t matter if it’s football or fucking synchronized pompom shaking.”

you couldn’t help but laugh at his phrasing, even if your chest still felt a little tight. “that supposed to be a pep talk?”

“nah,” toji said, smirking again. “just the truth.”

for a moment, there was a comfortable silence between you two, broken only by the faint hum of the staff room’s overhead lights.

“still think i’d be a better football coach than you,” you muttered, spinning your chair one last time for good measure.

toji barked a laugh, shaking his head. “dream on, dollie. you don’t have the patience for these idiots.”

“and you do?”

“barely,” he admitted, and for the first time all day, you both laughed — real, unrestrained laughter that echoed through the messy staff room. toji might’ve felt a little guilty for taking the position you wanted so badly, but as he watched you spin aimlessly in that stupid chair, he couldn’t help but think you were doing just fine where you were. even if you didn’t realize it yet.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

it was a rare day off, one you couldn’t even properly savor because the weight of the looming sports season hung over your head like a particularly vindictive storm cloud. but hey, misery loves company, and somehow, the misery that was your job had landed you in the company of four other equally stressed, overworked individuals.

“a toast,” gojo said, raising his glass dramatically, his sunglasses perched precariously on his nose, despite being indoors. “to us, the backbone of this college!”

“to unpaid overtime,” nanami deadpanned, clinking his glass against gojo’s.

you snorted, swirling your drink lazily. “to the promise of another year of being underappreciated.”

“to the fact that this bougie college has a fencing team,” toji added, nodding toward geto, who simply raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest.

“why are you dragging me into this?” geto asked, sipping his drink with the grace of someone who definitely didn’t belong in this chaotic circle.

“because you’re the only one here who looks like he has his shit together,” you said, motioning at his pristine button-up and perfectly styled hair.

toji leaned back in his chair, taking a generous swig of his beer. “he doesn’t. you should’ve seen him last week when his star fencer sprained her wrist.”

“she’s our best chance at nationals,” geto said, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “and unlike you, i don’t have a team of hormonal boys ready to fling themselves headfirst into each other for fun.”

toji smirked. “jealous?”

“of you?” geto scoffed, shaking his head. “please.”

you rolled your eyes, tipping your glass toward nanami. “and how’s the swimming team? drowning yet?”

“barely,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “if i have to remind one more student that flip turns are not optional, i might actually walk into the pool and stay there.”

“woowww, nanamin,” gojo chimed in, feigning a shocked expression. “you almost made a joke. are we corrupting you?”

“no,” nanami said flatly. “i’m just at the point where my patience is thinner than your ego.”

the table erupted in laughter, save for gojo, who clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “ouch, nanamin. that hurt.”

“good,” nanami replied, lifting his glass.

you were halfway through another drink when toji nudged you with his elbow. “so, coach, what’s the game plan for your team?”

you sighed, rubbing your temples. “make sure nobara doesn’t kill yuki in a fit of competitiveness and pray that we don’t drop anyone during stunts.”

“sounds promising,” toji said, his grin borderline infuriating.

“and what about you?” you shot back. “besides yelling at your boys until their brains leak out their ears?”

“works like a charm,” toji said with a wink, and you swore you heard nanami mutter something about toxic masculinity under his breath.

as the drinks flowed and the insults flew, the weight of the season didn’t feel quite as heavy. for a moment, you were just five overworked, slightly drunk adults bonding over the absurdity of your jobs.

“we’re a mess,” you said, laughing as gojo tried and failed to stack his empty glasses into a precarious tower.

“speak for yourself,” geto said, though his tie had somehow ended up draped over his shoulder. toji raised his glass one last time, a smirk tugging at his lips. “to being employed losers.”

“barely,” nanami muttered, but he clinked his glass anyway.

and for the first time in weeks, you felt a little lighter. sure, the season was going to be a nightmare, but at least you weren’t facing it alone.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

the energy in the air was palpable as the crowd buzzed with excitement, waves of cheers and laughter rippling through the stadium. the football field looked pristine, a stark contrast to the dirt and sweat that would soon mar its perfect lines. your cheerleaders stood on the sidelines, a mix of glittering pom-poms and determined faces as they prepared to execute the routine you had drilled into them for weeks.

toji’s boys huddled on the field, shoulders squared and faces tense. it wasn’t just a game — it was the game, the one that could put the college on the map and cement their reputation. toji barked out last-minute instructions, his deep voice cutting through the din, while you stood nearby, secretly proud of how sharp and disciplined your girls looked in their matching outfits.

the referee’s whistle pierced the air, signaling the start.

megumi was quick on his feet, acting as the anchor in midfield. you’d seen him during practices — quiet but strategic, with a knack for reading the game like a chessboard. he intercepted the ball from the opposing team with a sharp tackle, weaving through players before passing it cleanly to choso.

choso, taller and more composed, had a style that made the game look effortless. with his sharp passes and keen eye for positioning, he was the backbone of the team’s offense. the ball zipped between players like a magnet, his precision unmatched. even from the sidelines, you could hear toji hollering, “kid! keep that momentum!”

toge, the team’s wildcard, was next to make a move. he was smaller than the others but fast, darting past defenders like a blur. every now and then, he’d give a sharp “shake!” or “twist!” — one of his rare words — causing the defense to falter as he executed exactly what he called. his speed kept the opposing team on their toes, leaving them scrambling to keep up.

the first half was a nail-biter. goals were attempted and blocked, fouls were called, and the crowd gasped with every near miss. your girls rallied on the sidelines, bursting into practiced routines whenever the boys seemed to falter, their synchronized chants echoing through the stands.

“let’s go, team!” gojo’s volleyball crew yelled from the crowd, waving their glittering banners with such gusto that you were almost worried about a few headbutts in the crowd. but their energy was infectious, and the crowd fed off it.

in the second half, the game reached its boiling point. the opposing team scored, equalizing with a solid shot that slipped past the goalie. toji’s frustration was evident, his hand running through his hair as he shouted adjustments. but the boys didn’t buckle. megumi made another critical interception, sending the ball to choso, who feigned left and passed it to yuuji.

yuuji was the team’s star, and everyone knew it. his boundless energy and fearless attitude made him a powerhouse. with the ball at his feet, he charged toward the goal like a force of nature. defenders swarmed him, but he ducked and weaved with a determination that had the crowd on their feet.

“you got this, yuuji!” someone shouted — probably nobara, if the pitch of the voice was anything to go by. with one final burst of speed, yuuji launched the ball. it sailed through the air, spinning almost in slow motion, before slamming into the net with a satisfying thud.

the stadium erupted. the crowd was a sea of jumping, screaming bodies as the boys celebrated on the field. yuuji was tackled by his teammates in a euphoric dogpile, toji’s face breaking into a rare, wide grin. even megumi cracked a small smile, the corner of his mouth lifting as he clapped yuuji on the back.

“holy shit, they did it,” you muttered under your breath, barely able to contain your grin.

your girls launched into their victory routine without missing a beat, pom-poms flashing under the bright lights as they cheered for the team’s triumph. nobara and yuki, as loud as ever, led the chants, their voices rising above the chaos. you weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the roaring cheers from the crowd, or the absolute chaos of the moment, but when toji grabbed you by the waist and lifted you into the air, you didn’t even resist.

“we did it!” he barked, his grin splitting wide enough to rival the stadium lights, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of you as his enthusiasm became infectious.

“put me down, fushiguro, before your back gives out!” you protested, half-laughing, half-scolding, but your voice lacked its usual edge. toji ignored you completely, spinning you in a circle as if you were the damn trophy he’d just won. “admit it, coach, you’re proud of my boys!”

“fine,” you relented, still laughing, “but my girls deserve credit for firing them up!”

“team effort,” he declared, finally setting you down, though his hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary. you chose to ignore the slight warmth that spread across your cheeks. megumi stood nearby, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. his face was pale, and his voice wavered as he muttered, “dad, please… you’re embarrassing.”

“embarrassing?” toji shot back, tossing his arm around megumi’s shoulders. “kid, i just secured us the win! lighten up!”

meanwhile, nobara and yuki were screaming at yuuji, their voices a high-pitched cacophony of excitement. “yuuji, take a picture of them! oh my god, this is so cute! do it now!”

“wait, what? why me?” yuuji protested, holding up his phone but fumbling as nobara physically repositioned him to get the “perfect angle.”

“you’re the one with steady hands,” yuki declared, though her reasoning was dubious at best.

on the sidelines, choso stood by, gazing wistfully into the distance as he muttered, “and so, the tides of destiny entwined two souls, bound by triumph and resilience…” inumaki, standing beside him, simply nodded in agreement, though it was unclear if he was endorsing choso’s poetic musing or just processing the scene unfolding before him.

you shook your head, a laugh slipping out despite yourself. “you’ve turned this whole thing into a circus.”

“ah, love,” toji said mockingly, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he side-eyed choso. “it’s everywhere, huh?”

“oh, shut up,” you snapped, though the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you.

and as the cameras flashed and the chaos of victory reigned supreme, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the insanity of this moment was worth it.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

you nearly spat out your tea when you saw the college paper. there it was: a glossy, full-spread shot of the team holding their trophy, surrounded by the cheer squad, all grinning ear to ear. directly next to it? yuuji’s horribly blurry photo of you and toji in what could only be described as a cliché rom-com moment. you pinched the bridge of your nose, muttering, “back home, this would’ve been the last photo i’d have. my mother would’ve commissioned an artist to paint toji’s gravestone herself.”

toji, who had waltzed into the coach's office like he owned the place, leaned over your shoulder to peek at the paper. “huh. we look good together.”

you snapped your head around to glare at him. “don’t say we. i look blurry, and you look like you’re trying to wrestle a bear.”

“hey, it’s my best angle,” he shot back, grinning smugly.

before you could retort, the door swung open, and in sauntered geto, his expression one of pure, unfiltered glee. “so,” he began, dragging out the word, “congrats on making the paper. i see they’ve started a new section: unspoken romances in sports.”

“geto, i swear to god,” you growled, but the man was unstoppable.

“no, no, don’t mind me. i’m just here to pick up my fencing gear. but wow, the chemistry is palpable. almost like you’re auditioning for a hallmark movie.”

toji, of course, couldn’t let that slide. “better than your fencing team, geto. i’m pretty sure i saw one of your kids crying because their saber bent.”

“that’s called sportsmanship,” geto replied smoothly, though his smirk didn’t waver. he turned to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “so, when’s the wedding?”

“oh, come on!” you barked, your face heating up as you tried to push him out of the room.

but geto was quick on his feet, sidestepping your attempts. “i mean, with all this spinning around in each other’s arms, it’s only a matter of time before —”

you tripped on your own shoelace mid-push, stumbling forward. you braced yourself for the inevitable fall, but instead of meeting the floor, you slammed face-first into something solid.

“careful, coach,” came toji’s amused voice, his hands gripping your shoulders to steady you.

you pulled back, absolutely mortified. great. just great.

“very smooth,” geto quipped, his grin widening. “next time, try swooning more dramatically. really sell it.”

you shot him a murderous glare as toji chuckled. “you’re enjoying this way too much,” you grumbled.

“oh, absolutely,” geto replied. “this is the highlight of my week.”

toji patted your shoulder, his smirk annoyingly smug. “you should thank him. he’s making sure we stay in the headlines.”

“if we end up there again, it’ll be for a murder,” you snapped, stalking out of the room, leaving their laughter echoing behind you.

and yet, as you replayed the scene in your head later that night, you couldn’t help but groan. smooth, coach. real smooth.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

toji didn’t usually care much for meetings with the dean. they were typically filled with redundant pats on the back for “the football team’s spectacular performance” or thinly veiled comments about "keeping things professional," which toji ignored. but today was different. today, he’d overheard something he couldn’t stomach.

"she's doing fine with the cheer squad," the dean had said earlier, dismissive and casual, like your entire career amounted to fluff and pom-poms. "i mean, it's not like she'd handle the pressure of coaching a football team anyway."

toji had seen red.

"you’re kidding, right?” toji barked as he barged into the dean’s office, his voice a sharp contrast to the overly polished room. the dean, startled, looked up from his laptop, clearly not expecting to be ambushed.

"toji —"

“no, let me ask you something. do you even know her résumé? do you know how qualified she is?”

the dean sighed, clearly uncomfortable. “listen, toji, i understand you’re close with her —”

“close?” toji cut him off, his voice dripping with disdain. “this isn’t about being ‘close,’ this is about being fair. do you know how many years of experience she has? the teams she’s coached? she could run this entire department blindfolded and with one hand tied behind her back.”

"toji, lower your voice," the dean hissed, his eyes darting toward the door as if worried someone might overhear.

“oh, now you’re worried about appearances?” toji snapped, leaning over the desk, his towering frame making the dean visibly shrink. “you were fine with underestimating her in private. what, too scared to admit you’re wrong in public?”

the dean’s face flushed, his composure cracking. “i didn’t mean any disrespect —”

“bullshit.” toji’s voice was razor-sharp, his words cutting through the room like a blade. “you think just because she’s coaching the cheer team, it’s easy work? do you have any idea how much effort she puts into making them perform? how much discipline and strategy that takes? if it weren’t for her, half of those girls wouldn’t even be on the field.”

the dean tried to interject, but toji steamrolled on. “she could coach this football team better than me, better than anyone. and if you can’t see that, then you’re a bigger idiot than i thought.”

a tense silence settled in the room. the dean, visibly shrinking in his seat, avoided toji’s glare. he coughed, fidgeting with his tie. “i think we’re done here.”

toji stood straight, scoffing. “yeah, i bet you do.” he turned on his heel, slamming the door on his way out, leaving the dean to stew in his discomfort. as he stalked down the hall, his fists still clenched, he muttered under his breath. “idiot doesn’t know what he’s got.”

toji wasn’t one for noble causes or sticking his neck out for people. but something about the way the dean dismissed you — your talent, your dedication, your work — had struck a nerve. and if the dean wanted to underestimate you? toji would make sure to shove your success in his face every chance he got.

news spread faster than you could wrap your head around it. you’d barely stepped into the staff lounge when gojo leaned against the wall dramatically, twirling an imaginary mustache.

“sooo, i hear our resident musclehead knighted you his queen.”

you blinked, confused, until nanami, ever the bearer of blunt truths, sighed. “toji confronted the dean. loudly. about you.”

“about me?” you squawked, your voice carrying over the low hum of the coffee machine.

“mm-hmm,” geto added with a raised eyebrow, his tone amused. “apparently, he was yelling about how you’re more qualified than him. something about blindfolds and coaching departments single-handedly.”

your jaw fell open, words catching in your throat. “he — what — why —”

“he’s smitten, clearly,” gojo deadpanned, earning an exasperated glare from nanami.

“he’s not smitten,” you hissed, though your voice cracked at the end. “he’s… he’s ridiculous! what the hell is he thinking?”

gojo shrugged, flipping his sunglasses down. “thinking with his —”

“gojo,” nanami interrupted sharply.

with the lounge buzzing in laughter and thinly veiled smirks, you left, stewing in a mix of mortification and… something else. it didn’t take long to find the man in question, lounging on the field, overseeing practice like he hadn’t just upended your professional dignity. 

“toji!” you bellowed, marching toward him.

he turned lazily, hands stuffed in his pockets, a smug grin plastered on his face. “coach,” he greeted, his voice all gravel and nonchalance.

“what the hell was that?” you snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

toji’s grin widened, and he tilted his head like he hadn’t just caused a ripple effect across the entire faculty. “what was what?”

“you know what i mean, fushiguro,” you growled, stopping just short of poking his chest. “why are you playing knight in shining armor all of a sudden? i don’t need your pity.”

“pity?” his grin faltered, replaced with something sharper. “you think i’d waste my time feeling bad for you?”

“then why would you —”

before you could finish, he grabbed your shoulders, firm but not harsh, forcing you to look him in the eye. “because you’re better than me,” he said plainly, the conviction in his voice startling.

your brain short-circuited. “wha — excuse me?”

“you heard me,” he said, his grip tightening just enough to ground you. “you’re better than me. at coaching, at organizing, at handling people. hell, probably better at football too, if we’re being honest.”

your jaw dropped, words dying in your throat.

“but for some reason,” toji continued, his voice low but unwavering, “you’re stuck playing babysitter to a bunch of cheerleaders when you should be running the goddamn football team. so yeah, i yelled at the dean. because someone had to say it.”

his words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, you were too stunned to respond.

then, as any rational adult woman would, you yelled. “what is wrong with you?”

toji blinked, taken aback. “uh, you’re welcome?”

“i didn’t ask you to do that!” you threw your hands up in frustration. “do you know how embarrassing this is? now everyone thinks you’re defending me like i can’t stand up for myself!”

“you don’t, though,” he shot back, crossing his arms. “not against that idiot dean.”

“because i’m professional!”

“and look where that’s gotten you.”

the audacity. your face burned, both from his bluntness and the infuriating fact that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

“i didn’t need your help,” you said, your voice quieter now but still firm.

“maybe not,” he replied, his tone softening just a fraction. “but you deserved it.”

you stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes. the tension crackled between you like static, neither of you willing to back down.

finally, you scoffed, throwing your hands up. “you’re impossible, fushiguro.”

“and you’re stubborn,” he countered, that smug grin returning. “but hey, guess that’s why you’re such a good coach.”

you wanted to yell again, to wipe that grin off his face, but instead, all you could do was huff and stalk off, muttering under your breath.

toji watched you go, a chuckle rumbling low in his chest. “you’re welcome, coach,” he called after you, and he swore he saw the faintest smile tugging at the corners of your lips before you disappeared from view.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

it seemed like the universe was having a laugh at your expense. one minute, you were marching across the field, grumbling about toji's antics and the dean's incompetence. the next, you were standing there with the dean’s official announcement ringing in your ears: assistant football coach.

what the fuck?

it had happened so fast you barely had time to register it. your name was on the roster. your title was printed. and now you were surrounded by your cheer squad, who, bless their dramatic hearts, were wailing louder than a litter of kittens.

“cooaaccch!” nobara cried, clutching you like you were heading off to war.

“you can’t leave us!” yuuki wailed, her pom-poms discarded on the ground as she dabbed her eyes with a tissue. even sarah, your assistant coach, looked on the verge of tears, though she dutifully handed you makeup wipes and tissues. “we’re proud of you, coach,” she said, sniffling. “but this is so unfair!”

you weren’t faring any better. your tears was streaked halfway down your face, your nose was red, and you were openly sobbing like a kid who dropped their ice cream cone. “i — i don’t know how this happened!” you stammered between hiccups, clutching a tissue like it was a lifeline. “i was just yelling at toji yesterday —”

“it’s his fault!” nobara snapped, eyes blazing through her tears. “he probably bullied the dean into giving you the position!”

“he did yell at the dean,” sarah offered, her tone more amused than angry.

“this is so typical of him!” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “he gets me into this mess, and now i’m — oh god, i’m leaving you guys!”

that realization hit harder than the dean’s news. no more yelling at nobara to fix her angles or threatening to replace routines with wedding choreography. no more feeding them sandwiches you made the night before after an especially grueling practice. no more laughing with them during warm-ups or watching them nail a move you’d worked on for weeks.

“i’m going to miss you so much,” you sobbed, pulling all the girls into a group hug.

“coach,” nobara sniffed, “if you cry like that, your new team will think you’re soft.”

“i am soft!” you wailed, clutching them tighter.

“soft?” a familiar, smug voice called from behind. “you’re tougher than half the boys i coach.”

you froze, turning slowly to see toji leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed and an infuriatingly satisfied grin on his face.

“oh, you!” you pointed an accusing finger at him, still holding a tissue in your other hand. “this is all your fault!”

“you’re welcome,” he said smoothly, clearly unbothered by your outburst.

“i didn’t ask for your help!” you huffed, stomping over to him. “do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to leave them?” 

toji shrugged, unbothered as always. “you’ll survive. besides, they’re not losing you. they’re sharing you.”

“oh, now you’re poetic,” you snapped, glaring at him through your tear-streaked face.

“look,” he said, his voice softening just enough to catch you off guard, “you’re the best person for this. those boys need someone like you to keep them in line and whip them into shape. and yeah, the girls will miss you, but they’ll survive. they’re tough, just like their coach.”

you blinked, caught off guard by his sincerity.

“plus,” he added, his smirk returning, “now i get to see you yell at my boys instead of me. win-win.”

you groaned, wiping your eyes aggressively with a tissue. “you’re insufferable.”

“but effective,” he quipped, walking past you to ruffle nobara’s hair. “don’t let her fool you. she’s gonna kill it out there.”

as the girls sniffled and nodded in agreement, you sighed, reluctantly accepting your fate. “fine. but i’m still blaming you if this goes sideways.”

“deal,” toji said with a wink, already halfway out the door.

you stared after him, shaking your head. what the hell have you gotten yourself into?

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

coaching the boys' football team was like stepping into a parallel universe. gone were the pom-poms and delicate wrist flicks; now, it was all about agility drills, formation strategy, and somehow managing a group of hormonal chaos gremlins masquerading as athletes. but damn, you made it work.

it started with the rules.

“choso,” you said one day during a team meeting, staring him down as he casually leaned back in his chair, long hair spilling over his shoulders. “the hair stays in a bun at all times during practice.”

“why?” he asked, tilting his head, as if the idea of tying his hair up offended him on a personal level.

“because i don’t want half the field tripping over themselves trying to impress you,” you deadpanned, pointing to a section of the stands where a cluster of girls were already sighing dramatically. he shrugged, clearly unbothered, and tied it up without argument. the mourning period for the female students was real; some of them even brought candles to the stands during practice.

then there was yuuji.

“coach!” he called out during a break, face already smeared with streaks of black paint.

“yuuji,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose, “why is your face painted like that? this isn’t war.”

“it’s tradition!” he grinned, pointing to an old team photo in the locker room where his brother, sukuna, had sported the same markings.

“tradition my ass,” you shot back. “save the paint for game day. now, go wash your face before i make you run laps with your arms tied behind your back.” he pouted but obeyed, muttering something about how “sukuna would’ve let him do it.”

as for toge, his penchant for wearing a mask during practice made zero sense.

“it’s for the vibes,” he’d explained the first time you confiscated it.

“and the wheezing soundtrack is for my migraines,” you retorted, tucking the mask into your bag. “no mask during practice, toge. unless you want to run laps for each wheeze.”

“...salmon,” he muttered, clearly resigned.

and then there was megumi.

“no dogs at practice,” you had told him firmly during your first week.

“but they’re good boys,” he argued, his voice deadpan but his eyes betraying his attachment.

“they’re also fast boys,” you countered. “and i don’t need your dogs chasing toge across the field again.” 

megumi had muttered something about “accidents” and how “it wasn’t his fault,” but the suspiciously loose leash knots told another story. you didn’t buy it for a second.

“toji,” you’d snapped one day, catching the older fushiguro watching the chaos from the sidelines with a smirk. “you’re his dad. enforce the rule!”

“what can i say? the kid’s got a rebellious streak,” toji shrugged, utterly unhelpful.

despite the madness, you made it work.

you drilled strategies into their heads with such precision that even the most scatterbrained players started to look like pros. your ability to break down plays and predict the opponent’s next move left the boys stunned, and half of them probably had crushes on you by now.

“another lap,” you’d bark, and not one of them complained.

but you didn’t forget your cheer squad roots. no matter how tough the day was, you always made time to cheer the loudest for the girls during their practice, your voice echoing across the field as they nailed their pyramid formations.

“you’re doing great!” you’d shout, clapping your hands together.

“traitor!” nobara would yell back, though her grin betrayed her pride.

this was your life now. juggling chaos, managing egos, enforcing bizarre rules, and somehow creating a well-oiled football machine out of it all. you wouldn’t have it any other way.

taglist: @jelligiri @starmapz @jxisnwaol @naoyoki @rriwyu @sanemistar @phantomremi @hellokittyish @linaaeatsfamilies @isalenperry @norikuna @momoewn @acrazybiotch374 @addehehe @lauuriiiz @yharnam-prophet @aerareads @gojodickbig @moncher-ire

[gojodickbig]

fucking satoru was a whole process, from his whining and impatience and wanting you to loosen him up instead, which turned into hours, but you couldn’t complain because the reward was so godly it made every little thing worth it.

satoru’s moans filled the bedroom wall to wall, his body squirming and drool hitting the bed sheets as your fingers worked overtime.

“stop tensing. relax.” your fingers buried deep inside of him, you’ve done the same routine every single time, yet he still got nervous, but no one understood the effort the way you did; that’s why he put all his trust in you.

“i cant… just put it in.” his words coming out fast, his body still twitching and the tip of his dick wet, he was eager, but his body was sensitive, especially his backside.

adjusting yourself, you slide your hand up and down his back, hoping it would soothe his nerves, the squirming and twitching eventually stopping.

sliding your hand to his lower back and lightly pushing down, satoru adjusting his position as you slip your fingers out and line yourself with him, placing one hand at his hip and the other on your base, slowly sliding yourself in.

"you okay?" his body started to tremble again, his face turning to the side, his cheeks flushed and his mouth wet. it was like looking into a portal; he always looked the same; even his moans when you started to move were the same.

taking deep gasps and clutching the sheets that were damp beneath him, trying to catch his breath as you started to move faster but never could.

once you were into it, you always made sure to go the extra mile and go faster than he did when he was inside of you, but the way he looked beneath you turned you on in a way where you wanted to go slow but make him cry and whine around you.

"stop laying down; hold it." gripping your hand on his hip as he whined, sliding yourself out and pushing into him harder, his eyes wet from tears and his knuckles red from how hard he was gripping onto the sheet.

he loved how it felt, but he wasn't as strong as you when it came to taking dick, his dick twitching while he came, his position falling again, looking at you with his head still turned, some of his hair sticking to his forehead.

an exhausted smile on his lips as his eyes closed.

"just give me a few minutes. yeah?" breathless, trying to compose himself, drifting off to sleep. that face was the reward that you worked for every single time; you had to see it.

@goobleissocool <3

[gojodickbig]

hehehe 😈😈😈😈 this might be my best work so far. i'll publish it soon, promise. just need to proofread it real quick🙏🏻

[gojodickbig]

just wrote this and immediately felt the urge to post it lol

conts: nsfw!!! minors and ageless blogs dni!!!

wc: 1,6k

The room is quiet except for your soft, unsteady breaths, the warm glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows over your bare skin. You’re stretched out on the bed, legs spread wide, fingers resting hesitantly between your thighs. Suguru sits at the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, watching you like a predator waiting to devour its prey. The weight of his presence makes your skin burn.

“Go on,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “Let me see you. Show me how you do it when you’re thinking about me.”

You hesitate, fingers brushing over your thighs. Your breath hitches as your eyes flick to his, searching for something—permission, encouragement.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” His tone sharpens, though the corner of his mouth twitches with amusement. “Start with rubbing your clit. Nice and slow. Don’t rush. I want to see everything.”

Your hand moves shakily, your fingers finding your sensitive bud. You gasp at the contact, legs tensing. Biting your lip, you try to focus, desperate to please him as you rub your clit slow. A soft moan slips from your lips, and his smirk widens.

"Good girl,” Suguru murmurs, his dark eyes fixed on your hand. “Now rub it in small circles. Let me hear you, baby.”

A soft moan escapes, your body responding almost immediately to the pressure. “It feels… so good,” you breathe, your movements quickening instinctively.

“Fuck. Look at you, already so sensitive. Keep going, baby. Don’t stop unless I tell you to.”

Your hips begin to move on their own, chasing the pleasure building between your legs. “Suguru…” you gasp, unsure if you’re begging for more or just overwhelmed by the way he watches you—hungry, unblinking, utterly in control.

“Hmm?” he hums, tilting his head. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Tell me how it feels.”

“So good, Sugu,” you whimper, your fingers working faster.

“Stop,” Suguru snaps, his voice cutting through your haze. Your hand falters instantly, and your cheeks flush as you look at him.

The word slams into you like a jolt. Your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, the frustration and desperation clear in your wide eyes.

"Such a good obedient baby.” His smirk softens, almost affectionate. “Now, slide a finger inside. Slowly. Stretch yourself more for me.”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as you begin thrusting your finger inside. Your body arches slightly off the bed as you moan his name.

“Eyes on me,” he growls, tone firm. You force them open, locking onto his gaze, the intensity making you whimper. “Add a second finger, princess. C’mon, stretch that little hole for my cock.”

You moan as you push a second finger inside, body trembling under the weight of his gaze. “Suguru,” you gasp, his name spilling from your lips like a plea. Your chest heaves, desperation flickering in your tearful eyes.

“Good girl.” His gaze darkens as he leans closer. “You don’t come until I say so. Understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling.

His smirk softens again. “Faster,” he orders, voice rougher now. “Fuck yourself with those fingers. Let me hear how much you need me.”

Your movements grow frantic, the wet sounds of your fingers filling the room as your moans intensify. Your thighs tremble, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge. "So good, Suguru,” you gasp. “Feels so—ah!—good.”

“Rub your clit with your thumb,” he commands, leaning back slightly, savoring the view of you falling apart. “I want you trembling. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” you cry, your thumb brushing against your clit as your fingers continue their relentless rhythm.

The dual sensations have you crying out. Your hips lift off the mattress, meeting your hand. The wet sounds of your fingers sliding in and out of your heat grow louder, obscene, as your breath comes in gasps and moans. Suguru leans closer.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he murmurs to himself, his smirk wicked. “You look so pretty like this. Completely wrecked for me.”

Your back arches further, moans growing louder as the tension in your belly coils tighter. “I—I’m close,” you gasp, voice trembling.

“Not yet,” Suguru growls, his sharp tone making your hips falter. “Slow down. You’ll come when I tell you to, not before.”

You cry out, your free hand clutching at the sheets as your body quakes. A desperate whine escapes as you force yourself to obey, fingers slowing even as your body screams for release. “Please,” you beg, tears pricking your eyes as you look at him. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupts, voice steady and unyielding. “You’ll wait, or you’ll start over. Keep moving your fingers slowly. Show me how badly you need me to let you come."

Your entire body shakes as you fight to hold back, fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes as tears of frustration spill down your cheeks. He watches, dark and satisfied, his gaze never leaving your trembling form.

For a long moment, he lets you linger in desperation. Finally, his voice softens, almost like a reward. “Alright, baby. Faster now. Cum for me. Let it go.”

You cry out his name as you obey, fingers moving frantically as release crashes over you, wave after wave of pleasure making your body shudder. Suguru doesn’t move, eyes drinking in every sound.

When you collapse onto the bed, gasping and spent, he finally leans forward. His hand brushes your cheek, his voice low and teasing, his breath hot against your ear. “Such a good fucking girl,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead. “Now let’s see how much it’ll take to make you stupid on my cock.”

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[gojodickbig]

My first kiss went a little like this

Pairings: Satoru Gojo x reader

Short drabble- SFW-lil suggestive- 800 WC- arranged marriage, jujutsu world, you can break Gojo's barrier, there is kissing, sweet, fluffy, emotional!

Satoru Gojo was the strongest.

But you, his new wife?

"Again, please please!" Satoru's got blue puppy dog eyes at you, you giggle a bit at him, shaking your head while he's about to head out the door on another mission, everyone thinks that all the kisses could make Satoru weaker, but he disagrees, and you're sorely tempted.

"You know what they say-"

"Please." He pouts his pretty pink lips at you, and you sigh, cupping his perfect face in your hands, feeling your heart racing as you lean up on your tip toes.

You've been married for just a couple of weeks and are still getting used to each other, married sight unseen.

But when you saw Satoru standing there, so powerful and tall, with his blindfold on, you'd been so worried. What was it with that!? Did he not wanna even look at you!? And you've heard all about the six eyes and the power he holds, you've heard he's cocky from listening to meetings with the higher ups, you've heard he's trouble.

But that night, when he'd taken you into his fancy penthouse for the night, and took off that blindfold? When he'd leaned close and teasingly whispered-

"Go ahead, try to touch me." You had flushed from your nerves, being promised to Gojo you had no life experience when it came to dating anyone.

"Try to touch you, what do you mean? You'll just put up a barrier." You say, and he grinned, bright white teeth, leaning against the wall and brushing long fingers down your bare shoulders.

"Nah, give it your best shot. If you beg I'll even kiss ya." You glare now, he is chuckling at you, before he freezes, when you lean up, yanking him by his dark blue suit jacket, slamming his lips against yours, in what is your first kiss.

He's frozen there, but you realize he must have let his barrier down, he must want this, especially when his big hands drift over the network of beads on your dress, pressing against your waist. He moans softly, pressing you close against his hard body, the intensity making you dizzy. You both gasp for air when he pulls back, eyes wide in shock.

"What did you... what was that, missy hmm!?" You blink a bit, trying to gather your thoughts.

"It was... a kiss?"

"No, my barrier you... what..."

"Didn't you let it down? I thought you wanted me to." You get emotional then, blinking rapidly, Satoru exhales, then turns you, brushing your hair off your back over your shoulders, you tremble as he starts to unzip your bodice, kissing your shoulders with plump lips. You gasp in pleasure, eyes fluttering shut.

"I do want you to kiss me, but I didn't... you are the only person that can touch me through it." You look back in surprise, he's towering over you but you feel safe, curious, you feel desire, for a stranger, for your husband.

"I still only want to touch you if you want me to." He turns you back, your dress falling down your shoulders, before he kisses you again, deeper, you cry out into his sweet lips, like the cake he nibbled on earlier, his hands press on your bare skin.

"I want you to."

You bring yourself back to the present, feeling the heat of his body against you as you kiss him, the higher ups say you distract Satoru too much from his missions, so you're essentially forbidden from doing much together, but it's not as if either of you listen. Plus, you couldn't live with yourself if you didn't kiss him thorougly before every single mission.

"I... Satoru I love you." You haven't said it yet, it's so new, his lips part in a gasp, before he slams them back on yours, pressing you against the door now, picking you up in his arms.

"You do!?" He asks, so cute you giggle, nodding, arms around his neck as your thighs press on slender hips.

"I do." Like your vows, you whisper the words, and Satoru grins so big it melts you, pecking kisses all over as his phone goes off, as Dean Yaga is demanding him to come help, as he needs to save the world again and again. You feel emotional, tears falling down your cheeks.

"I love you too." You sob now, and his thin white brows furrow. "You're crying baby?"

"S-sorry, yes. I just really... worry..."

"Shh, I'm the strongest you know. Except when it comes to you." You both kiss again, he is vulnerable for you, and you for him, in the quiet little moments in Satoru's fancy penthouse, your heart feels so full. "I can be a little late, yeah?"

"Satoru!" He pouts again, you grin now. "Just a little."

This was a lil inbox request!!! Hope you enjoy the fluff <3

[gojodickbig]

car sex with bsf!satoru x f!reader😗

conts: nsfw!!! MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI!!

wc: 3k.

If looks could kill,

That brunette dude you were just chatting with? Yeah, he’d already be six feet under.

Don’t get him wrong—Satoru Gojo isn’t the jealous type. Seriously, he’s not. And he knows you’re not doing anything wrong; you’re just out here having fun. But watching you laugh at some guy’s jokes? That was enough to make his blood boil and his head spin like he might actually hurl.

And seriously, he knew for a fact that guy wasn’t that funny.

So why the hell were you laughing so much?

Satoru knows that what he’s about to do now isn’t fair. Not even close. Because he’s just your best friend. He’s been your best friend for years now—the one who’s always had your back, the one who’s sat through your messy breakups, listened to your drunken venting, and never once let you down. You trust him with your life.

He’s your ride or die.

And god, you’re his.

And unfortunately for that guy, Satoru Gojo doesn’t share what’s his.

Or, well… what’s about to be his.

Satoru moves through the crowd, his sharp eyes never leaving you. Your smile was still a little too wide for his liking.

When he reaches you, your eyes settle on him, and your look softens.

His heart stopped for a second.

“Oh! Satoru,” you say, flashing him a smile, “This is—”

“Sorry,” Gojo cuts you off, his voice smooth, turning to the guy and flashing him one of his disarming grins. “I need to borrow her for a sec.”

You blink, surprised by the interruption, but before you can even protest, Gojo’s hand is around your arm, guiding you away.

“We’re leaving,” he says firmly, his voice a little too low.

You stumble a bit to keep up with his pace. “Wait, Satoru, what’s going on? Why—?”

He doesn’t say anything right away, pulling you through the crowd and outside into the cool night air. When you’re out of sight of the party, he finally slows down, but he doesn’t let go of your arm. Stopping, he turns to face you.

“Seriously, what was that?” you ask, your tone a little confused, but you have a pretty good idea of what’s going on.

He takes a deep breath, like he’s just been through a war. “He was getting way too close to you,” he mutters, his voice tight. “And you were—” He stops himself for a second, like he’s trying to control his frustration. “Fuck— I just didn’t like it.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Satoru, we were just talking. It wasn’t like that.”

Gojo crosses his arms and gives you a pointed look, his mouth twisting into a frustrated but amused frown. “Don’t play dumb. You were leaning in, hanging on his every word. I’ve never heard you laugh that much at my jokes.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before you can even speak, a small laugh escapes your lips.

“So that’s what it’s about?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “You’re jealous?” You sigh, taking a deep breath. “Satoru, I wasn’t leaning into him. I don’t even like him. He’s just a friend from middle school. He recognized me and came to say hi. We were just catching up. I was laughing because he was telling me stories from back then, not because he’s some funny guy.”

Gojo’s jaw tightens, his brows furrowing as he looks at you. Then he lets out a low, frustrated “Oh,” like the realization just hit him. “So you weren’t getting all googly-eyed over him?”

You shrug, suppressing a smile. “No, dumbass, I wasn’t.”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to keep his cool. “Well, shit. I don’t know why it bugged me so much. Guess I just don’t like seeing other guys around you. Especially when you give them that look.”

You roll your eyes, unable to hold back the smile now. “I told you, I wasn’t giving him any look and he was just being friendly.”

He shrugs with a grin, trying to act cool. “Yeah, well, I don’t like it anyway.”

The walk to the car had been quiet, too quiet for you. When you two arrived at the car, he opened the passenger door and gestured for you to get in.

“Get inside. Please.”

Sliding into the seat, you barely had time to register the sound of the door slamming before he rounded the car and climbed in beside you.

The car was dark, the faint glow of the streetlight outside illuminating his sharp features as he turned to you.

“I’m sorry, by the way. I didn’t want to ruin your night, you know. But fuck, you drive me fucking crazy. Seeing you talking so close with that guy drove me mad.” He reached out, his hand sliding up your face and squeezing it gently. “Do you even realize what you do to me? I’m so fucking tired of hiding it just because I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Your breath hitched as his words sank in, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Satoru—”

“Shh,” he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against your ear. “I’m talking now.”

His hand reached out, sliding down your thigh and pushing the hem of your dress higher. “Tell me to stop, sweetheart. Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Satoru—”

“Tell me, baby. What do you want? Want me to stop?” His hand slid higher, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric of your panties. He groaned softly, his breath hot against your skin.

“No—no, please don’t stop.”

And in that moment, Satoru Gojo lost his mind.

Before you could process anything else, his lips were on yours. Rough. Hungry. Demanding. His hand left your thigh to grip the back of your neck, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss. His tongue parted your lips with no hesitation, sliding against yours as if claiming every part of you in that moment.

The kiss was hot and dizzying, leaving you breathless as he devoured you like he’d been waiting for this forever. His teeth scraped against your lower lip, a low growl rumbling in his throat when he heard the soft whimper you couldn’t hold back.

He pulled back suddenly, his hand leaving your neck as he reached down to undo his belt with quick, practiced movements. The sound of the buckle clinking echoed in the tight space, followed by the low rasp of his zipper. He freed himself, his cock hard and throbbing, the sight making your mouth go dry.

“Come here,” he ordered, his hands gripping your hips as he guided you onto his lap.

The cramped space made it awkward—your knees bumping against the console, your dress tangling even more up around your thighs. His hands slid under your thighs again, lifting you slightly to settle you over him. You gasped when his hand returned to your panties, his fingers teasing you one last time before pulling them aside.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he murmured, his fingers sliding through your slick heat. “You were thinking about this too, weren't you?”

“Yes,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, his grin cocky as he pressed his thumb against your clit, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. “Fuck, look at you," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "So desperate for me. Say it."

"S-say what?"

"Say you're mine."

“I’m yours,” you gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. “I’m yours, Satoru. All yours.”

"Damn right you are."

You bucked against his hand faster, chasing the pleasure he was giving you, but he stopped suddenly, pulling his hand away entirely. You whined at the loss of contact, but he only smirked, guiding his cock to your entrance.

“Take it slow, baby,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You bit your lip as you sank down onto him, the stretch making your breath hitch. His hands gripped your hips tightly, grounding you as you adjusted to the feeling.

His lips found yours again, this time slower but just as intense, as if he was savoring you now. The kiss deepened with every second. You clung to him, trying to adjust to his cock, feeling like you might melt into the seat if he didn’t hold you up.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your head falling against his shoulder. “You’re so big—it feels so good.”

His chest rumbled with a groan, his grip on your hips tightening. “Yeah? Taking me so fucking well, baby.”

You tried to move, but the cramped space and his overwhelming size left you breathless. His hands slid down to your ass, lifting you slightly to guide you. He thrust up into you in sharp, deliberate strokes, hitting spots that had you crying out.

“Fuck, Satoru,” you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders. “You’re so deep. I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, his voice rough. “You’re made for me. Just like that, baby. Perfect fucking pussy—fuck.” he groaned.

Your rhythm quickened, desperation driving your movements. The sound of your skin meeting his filled the small space, his low groans and your soft moans mingling in the dark.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he asked, his thumb finding your clit again. “I can feel it. Let go for me, baby girl. Come on.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, your walls clenching around him as your body shook. The pleasure tore through you, leaving you gasping for air as your head dropped onto his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his pace faltering as he neared his own release. His voice was strained when he spoke again. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you breathed, your voice trembling but certain. “Want it inside. Toru, please.”

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, gripping your hips tightly as he buried himself deep. With one final thrust, he came, spilling into you as a guttural moan tore from both your lips and his. The heat of him filled you, the sensation making your already trembling body shiver.

For a few moments, the car was silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing. Satoru’s hands slid up your back, holding you against his chest as he rested his forehead against your shoulder.

“I should’ve told you what I feel for you sooner if I’d known your pussy was this good…” He let out a breathy laugh, clearly pleased with himself.

You lifted your head, your hand swatting weakly at his shoulder. “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, though the slight curve of your lips betrayed you.

“Yeah? But now you’re stuck with me,” he smirked, tilting his head to capture your lips in a softer, slower kiss this time.

When he pulled back, his pale blue eyes locked onto yours, unguarded for once. “I mean it, though,” he said, voice softer now. “I should’ve told you how I feel sooner. You’ve always been it for me, you know?”

Your chest tightened at his words, the raw sincerity in his tone making your heart race all over again. “Well,” you murmured, brushing a strand of his hair back, “you’ve got me now, so don’t screw it up.”

Satoru chuckled, the cocky grin returning to his face. “Trust me, sweetheart. I wasn’t planning on it.”

He leaned in, pressing one last kiss to your lips, and as his arms tightened around you, you knew you’d never want him to. “Let’s go home now, yeah?”

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[gojodickbig]

them sending you the wrong pic

<3 incl: gojo, toji, sukuna, choso, geto.

my asks are open for more ideas and requests. also likes and reblogs are really appreciate. :)

have fun reading!💘

cont: suggestiveness, crack, fluff.

A/N: this was an smau i made a while ago but then removed coz i didnt like it. brought it back with some fixing😗 hope y’all like it!

MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI !!

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[gojodickbig]

thinking ab writing a hockey player!sukuna x ice skater!reader 😈😈😈let me cook guys😈😈😈

[gojodickbig]

and the award for best tumblr username goes to..... gojodickbig !!

heheheeheehe thank you thank you 😂😂😭

[gojodickbig]

them sending you the wrong pic

<3 incl: gojo, toji, sukuna, choso, geto.

my asks are open for more ideas and requests. also likes and reblogs are really appreciate. :)

have fun reading!💘

cont: suggestiveness, crack, fluff.

A/N: this was a smau i made a while ago but then removed coz i didnt like it. brought it back with some fixing😗 hope y’all like it!

MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI !!

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[gojodickbig]

confessions time

in which they finally confess their feelings!!

<3 incl: gojo, toji, geto, sukuna, choso, nanami.

my asks are open for more ideas and requests. also likes and reblogs are really appreciate. :)

have fun reading!💘

cont: fluff

A/N: lol i got a bit carried away with this one… it was so funny to write though! can i say my best smau so far??? also i've decided that from now on, for sukuna's smau, i'll do modern AU and not heian-era sukuna anymore because i find modern sukuna more funny. so yeah ^3^

(i didn’t change the contact names to adapt to the situation just cus i'm a lazy fucker sorry lol)

MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI!!!

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.