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Sukuna guided Yuuji by the hood of his red sweatshirt toward the school entrance. His nephew dragged his feet, mumbling under his breath, but Sukuna ignored him. God forbid he’d actually hear what Yuuji was saying — it would only end in another shouting match. That would draw even more concerned stares from parents and their terrified children. Every time he was seen with the brat, people acted like he was some abusive uncle.
He wasn’t.
He had only hit Yuuji once.
Well, technically twice, but the second time Yuuji hit him back, so Sukuna didn’t count it.
He dragged the boy into the appropriate office where the one-on-one parent-teacher conference was being held. Jin had told him that these meetings were only for students who were failing. Apparently, Yuuji fell into that category. How could he not? The kid’s only talent was P.E.
When Sukuna had been in school, he’d excelled at every subject, something he’d already reminded Yuuji of at least four times on their way here. But a little reminder never hurt.
“I was the top student in my school.”
Yuuji rolled his eyes, adjusted his hoodie, and knocked on the door marked with a silver plaque that read: "Faculty Room."
“Oh, shut up, nerd.”
Sukuna’s eyelid twitched. He rolled his eyes heavenward, barely suppressing the urge to shred his nephew into pieces. What a pathetic reason to end up in prison that would be. Sukuna’s brother had once given him some CDs on anger management techniques, but Sukuna had smashed them all in a fit of rage.
A loud voice called from behind the wooden door, inviting them in. Sukuna shoved Yuuji forward and stepped inside.
The room was fairly large, lined with desks, each labeled with a nameplate displaying the teacher’s name and role, along with personal knickknacks. The conference was nearly over, leaving only two staff members in the room. At one desk sat a tearful parent alongside a teacher with dark, tied-back hair and a prominent scar on her face. Sukuna snorted at the sight, which immediately earned a sharp glare from Yuuji.
“Gojo-sensei is over there,” Yuuji said, pointing toward the far end of the room.
There, a man was lounging in his chair, feet propped up on the desk, head tilted back and obscured by a book. At least Sukuna hoped it was a book; the brightly colored cover looked suspiciously juvenile.
“Him?” Sukuna asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow.
Yuuji shot him another annoyed glance.
“Just go already. I’ll wait outside.”
Sukuna exhaled an exaggerated sigh and made his way toward the indicated desk. He wondered if Jin’s bribe for coming here was even worth it. Now he had to sit through a lecture about his pathetic nephew from an equally pathetic teacher. Judging by Yuuji’s grades, it was embarrassing to even admit they were related.
He stopped in front of the desk, which stood out like a sore thumb. It was littered with crumbs and candy wrappers, its edges sticky enough that Sukuna could tell without even touching it. Papers were scattered in chaotic disarray — some even on the floor — and the nameplate was toppled over. Sukuna’s crimson eyes swept over it all with a look of pure disdain.
This had to be a joke.
He tentatively touched the chair beside the desk to make sure it wasn’t sticky. Everything here seemed like a biological hazard. His nose wrinkled at the overly sweet smell lingering in the air.
Only when he sat down did the teacher notice him. The book — or rather, as Sukuna realized with a stab of disappointment, the manga — was lowered, revealing an absurdly attractive face.
The teacher, Gojo, tilted his head, his sky-blue eyes bright enough to look stolen from the heavens. Sukuna hadn’t believed something like that could exist. The intensity of the color was almost offensive.
Equally intrigued, Gojo straightened in his chair with a fluid motion, casually sweeping the mess off his desk and onto the floor. The act was so brazen it was nearly insulting.
And yet Sukuna didn’t feel anger. He felt captivated. The man before him couldn’t be an ordinary man. Ordinary people simply didn’t look like this. With his slender, porcelain face, crystalline eyes, and hair whiter than snow, Gojo looked like a dream.
Sukuna wanted to sink his teeth into him.
“Can I help you?” Gojo asked, raising one pale eyebrow.
Oh, absolutely.
Sukuna handed over the note Jin had signed, intentionally brushing his dark nails against Gojo’s pale skin. His blood-red gaze bore into the teacher’s, unblinking. Most people crumbled under the weight of Sukuna’s stare, breaking like brittle twigs. But not Gojo. He sat there with effortless composure, as if Sukuna was the one who had to prove himself. Sukuna’s mind raced, wondering how much more, how far Gojo could go before he cracked.
“Oh, you’re Yuuji’s uncle,” Gojo said, folding the note in half and carelessly tossing it onto the desk. “I thought you’d never show.”
Sukuna let out a low rumble, studying the lines of Gojo’s smile as they curved over his porcelain features.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he replied, voice quiet and low.
He didn’t mean the conference.
Gojo waved a hand and pulled out a sheet of paper from the pile on his desk. It bore Yuuji’s name at the top. Sukuna sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. Of course. Here he was, face-to-face with someone he’d easily call the eighth wonder of the world if the previous seven hadn’t just been rendered irrelevant, and now they had to talk about his nephew. What a farce.
He would’ve loved to snatch the paper and shred it into confetti, but the teacher likely wouldn’t appreciate that. Life was a cruel sentence, Sukuna thought bitterly.
As Gojo talked about Yuuji’s “academic struggles,” which sounded more like an “F” in every subject, Sukuna grew bored. Ten tests to retake. Pathetic. If Sukuna were Jin, he’d have disowned the brat long ago. If Yuuji knew he couldn’t handle school, the least he could do was cheat. But no — he was too stupid even for that.
In his boredom, Sukuna picked up the overturned nameplate. Gojo paused mid-sentence, glancing at him with mild surprise.
“Satoru Gojo,” Sukuna read aloud, savoring each syllable.
He heard Gojo’s breath catch for a fraction of a second. Their eyes met, and though Gojo’s expression remained politely neutral, Sukuna noticed the subtle shift.
“Thanks, didn’t realize it had fallen,” Gojo replied evenly.
“Hard to notice anything in this mess,” Sukuna quipped.
Gojo rolled his eyes.
“I work better this way,” he countered, folding his arms.
“Is that so?” Sukuna’s gaze slid down to Gojo’s exposed neck and prominent collarbones. His tongue felt heavy, almost sticking to the roof of his mouth as he imagined how blood would look against that smooth skin.
“Do you have a soulmate?” Sukuna asked suddenly, throwing Gojo off guard.
The teacher blinked, his vivid blue eyes widening slightly as he processed the question.
“What does that have to do with my desk?” he replied, frowning. Sukuna had to admit, even annoyed, he looked good.
“It doesn’t,” Sukuna smirked, sharp and almost predatory. “But I don’t have tact. So, do you?”
He’d never had a mark himself — the one supposedly guiding people to their destined partners. Sukuna was born without it and was perfectly fine with that. He wasn’t about to let anyone, not even fate, dictate his choices.
“I do,” Gojo answered curtly.
Something stirred in Sukuna’s chest, a surge of anger sharpening his features. His long nails dug into the desk’s edge.
“Interesting,” he said coolly, leaning closer. His piercing gaze zeroed in on Gojo’s pale throat, his tone dropping into a dangerous growl. “If you were mine, you’d have to wear turtlenecks to work.”
He felt a surge of satisfaction when Gojo visibly shivered. Yet, the teacher only lifted one corner of his mouth in a condescending smirk.
“I’m not yours,” Gojo stated, handing Sukuna a piece of paper.
Sukuna accepted it reluctantly, hoping it held something interesting. To his disappointment, it was just an individualized study plan for Yuuji. Fantastic, he thought sarcastically.
Still, Gojo’s words hadn’t sounded like a refusal.
No, to Sukuna, they sounded like a challenge.
Finding Gojo's address turned out to be surprisingly simple. And no, Sukuna didn’t stalk him, waiting outside the school for him to finish work — that would have been far too risky. Sukuna’s appearance made blending into a crowd utterly impossible.
He had the build of a giant, standing nearly two meters tall, but that wasn’t even his most striking feature. His body, from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers, was a canvas of black, symmetrical tattoos. His ears bore gauges, a steel piercing ran through his sternum, and two more dangled from his lower lip. The right side of his face was marred like scorched, cracked earth, etched with scars that looked like battle wounds. His vibrant pink hair clashed sharply with his overall look, while the red irises of his eyes seemed to pierce through people, silently daring them to break eye contact first.
When Jin had finally found his “poor” long-lost twin brother after years apart, Sukuna was convinced the man might keel over from shock upon seeing him. Still, Sukuna decided to hear him out — out of sheer curiosity. It wasn’t every day someone like Jin approached him, and certainly not with a smile.
So he listened to the stammering man, and thanks to that decision, he now had a couch to crash on whenever he got evicted from a place for “disturbing the peace.”
Whatever the fuck that even meant.
Sukuna chuckled to himself, remembering Jin’s foolishness. He ought to thank the gods that they’d been separated at birth. Yet instead, Jin tempted fate by opening his doors and inviting Sukuna into his life, his family, his home…
A beep from the signal jammer in his hand snapped him out of his thoughts. The house’s security system was effectively neutralized. Sukuna snorted in amusement — it was almost too easy. He circled the grand residence, which looked far too luxurious for a humble teacher’s salary.
With two swift movements, he scaled the tall metal fence, landing solidly on the other side. The overgrown grass brushed against his calves as he surveyed the property with disdain. Such an impressive house, yet it probably mirrored the chaos of its owner’s desk inside. He knelt by the back door, pulling out the tools from his bag.
But before he could get to work, something caught his eye. Straightening up, he noticed with disbelief that one of the windows had been left wide open.
Unbelievable. Gojo Satoru was an idiot.
Sukuna scanned the area to ensure it wasn’t some elaborate prank. But no — this was real. Grinning, he slung his bag over his shoulder and climbed expertly through the window.
No alarms blared, no sirens screamed. As he had already determined, the motion sensors and cameras were all concentrated at the front entrance.
Confidently, Sukuna ventured deeper into the house. As expected, chaos reigned in nearly every room. He stepped over scattered clothes, his disgust evident as he surveyed the state of the kitchen.
A mountain of dirty dishes had long overflowed the sink, forcing Gojo to pile them on the counters. Sukuna opened a lower cabinet, wrinkling his nose at the sight. The trash had clearly been stuffed into the bag until it couldn’t hold any more, resembling a precarious game of Jenga made up of instant noodle packaging and candy wrappers.
Disgusting.
Sukuna approached the sink cautiously, half-expecting something to leap out at him. Nothing did. With a heavy sigh, he set his bag on the floor and — to his own disbelief — began washing the dishes.
What the fuck am I doing?
His brow furrowed deeper with each passing minute. His movements were swift, almost mechanical, yet filled with irritation. He felt like a damn housewife. Despite his humiliating inner monologue, he didn’t stop until every plate, bowl, cup, and utensil sparkled clean.
Only then did he notice the dishwasher cleverly built into the cabinets. For a moment, he simply stared at it, silently contemplating his wasted effort.
Finally, he grabbed the last clean mug and hurled it against the wall with such force that it shattered into pieces. The shards lay scattered across the floor, and for a moment, Sukuna stared at them, hoping Gojo would step on them and cut himself. Bastard.
Still fuming, he wandered into another room, which turned out to be a bedroom. But he quickly backed out — it was too empty and unnaturally tidy, apart from the thick layer of dust coating every surface. Nothing of value here.
He tried another door and hit the jackpot this time. Clothes were strewn everywhere, forming an archipelago of piles on the floor. A low wooden table was buried under papers, comics, food wrappers, and, of course, dirty dishes. But Sukuna wasn’t about to wash these — he’d embarrassed himself enough for one day.
The desk told a similar story of chaos, though it featured the intriguing additions of two wine bottles and a folder of ungraded tests. Sukuna sank into the swivel chair, squinting through one eye as he peered through the neck of one of the bottles. Empty.
Sighing, he grabbed the folder and flipped through the tests, sneering at the obvious mistakes made by Gojo’s students. How did this guy have the patience to deal with such idiots? Eventually, he came across his nephew’s test. Jesus Christ. He wished he hadn’t seen it. Utter disaster.
With a heavy sigh, he put the papers back where he found them and rummaged through one of the desk’s drawers. His hand closed around a small notebook. Opening it, he found notes and comments about Gojo’s brats.
Some pages detailed their strengths and weaknesses in academics, others contained quotes from jokes or descriptions of antics that Gojo had apparently found amusing. Still others held notes on their interests and hobbies. Strangely, there wasn’t a single mention of how stupid they were.
It was… oddly endearing.
Sukuna immediately scowled at the thought. What the hell was wrong with him today?
Irritated, he went to slam the notebook shut but couldn’t resist skimming further until he found the section about Yuuji. Naturally, there were notes on his struggles in school, along with glowing praise for his athletic skills. Blah, blah, blah. There was even a mention of his crush on Jennifer Lawrence.
But on the last page, something caught Sukuna’s eye.
“His uncle???!!!!”
Sukuna raised an eyebrow. What were those exclamation points and question marks supposed to mean? He stared at the words, confused. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Gojo doubted that Sukuna was truly Yuji’s family. Sure, Jin often mentioned how much Yuji resembled his uncle, but neither Sukuna nor the brat ever saw it.
Shrugging, Sukuna put the notebook back.
Opening another drawer, he let out a low whistle of surprise. It was packed with… medication? Sukuna pulled out a box and examined it closely. Painkillers, but specifically designed for soulmate-related pain.
His brow furrowed as he dug through more boxes. Every single one served the same purpose, differing only in brand or application method. Syrups, sachets, tablets, ointments — Gojo had an entire arsenal of them.
Sukuna’s grin widened as amusement buzzed through him. When Gojo had mentioned having a soulmate, Sukuna had formed a simple plan: find the bastard and kill them. In fact, he’d hoped to take care of it today if the soulmate happened to live with Gojo.
But now? It seemed the problem had solved itself.
Soulmates were one of those subjects in which Sukuna lacked any particular expertise. After all, it didn’t concern him in the slightest. He had been born without the mark on his shoulder, which, of course, in this idiotic society, was seen as a bad omen. People believed it meant a lack of a soul. An inability to be loved. A curse that stained his very existence.
Sukuna grinned predatorily. Well, maybe those superstitions weren’t that far from the truth.
The whole soulmate ordeal seemed incredibly straightforward to him. You find the person with the same symbol, fall into each other’s arms, spend your lives together, and if fate turns out to be especially kind, you pop out a handful of kids. Beautiful and simple.
But life, being what it was, rarely adhered to perfect scenarios. A soulmate could be of a gender incompatible with your orientation. They could turn out to be an abusive bastard. They could die before you even found them. Or — and Sukuna found this the most comical — they could simply reject you.
And that’s where the real problem began. When you were rejected by your so-called "other half," the mark on your shoulder became a source of agony. It reddened like a fresh wound and, over time, faded into a painful scar.
There were two solutions: either you choked down the proper medications and hoped to mend the relationship, or you severed the bond entirely.
Sukuna couldn’t understand why Gojo hadn’t chosen the second option already. Pathetic. The man was lucky he was so damn pretty.
Sukuna decided to lay low for a few days, just in case Gojo did actually call the police. That didn’t stop him, however, from… gathering information from a distance.
He contacted Uraume, who picked up the phone before Sukuna even heard the dial tone. He instructed them to keep an eye on Gojo. He wanted to know everything: who the teacher spent time with, what he focused on, what plans he had. If Uraume was surprised by the unusual request, they didn’t let it show.
And so, three days passed. Each evening, Sukuna would open his phone, ignoring ten unread messages from Jin — each an invitation to dinner—only to scroll to a text from Uraume detailing Gojo’s day. But eventually, that wasn’t enough anymore.
Sukuna found himself in a rather luxurious bar in the city center. He usually didn’t frequent places like this — the bartenders and customers were too boring, and the alcohol was far too expensive for his unemployed wallet. Sukuna preferred stealing and drinking himself into oblivion alone. Nights like that, however, never ended in solitude. Often the next day, upon waking, he would feel a pleasant throb in his knuckles. Sometimes it came with the taste of blood on his dry tongue.
So why was he here now, perched on a barstool entirely unsuited to his massive form? He had gotten a tip from Uraume that Gojo Satoru would likely show up here. Sukuna couldn’t resist the urge to see him again. Photos on Gojo’s social media didn’t do justice to the beauty he had witnessed that memorable day at the parent-teacher meeting. Yet, almost every night, Sukuna stared at them, hand clenched around the hardness beneath his pants. He imagined those long legs wrapped around his hips, that porcelain throat marked in red, those blue eyes glazed with tears…
Sukuna knocked back another shot of vodka abruptly. He waved the bartender over to pour another round. Shifting on the stool in a failed attempt to get comfortable, he sighed in irritation.
“Mr. Uncle?” someone spoke suddenly from behind him.
Sukuna turned and saw his obsession in all his glory. Gojo was smiling at him with one corner of his mouth. White hair was swept back with a pair of round sunglasses perched atop his head. He wore a loose black sweater that exposed his neck and collarbones and tight cream-colored jeans.
“Satoru Gojo,” Sukuna scanned him with a hungry gaze. “You look awful.”
Gojo laughed, sliding onto the seat next to Sukuna.
“Your eyes say otherwise,” he teased, swiping one of Sukuna’s shots and taking half of it. He immediately choked, sticking his tongue out. “Ew! I forgot how strong that is.”
“Don’t embarrass yourself,” Sukuna muttered, finishing the stolen vodka.
Gojo pouted, resting his cheek on his hand.
“Order me a drink,” he demanded, pointing at the menu board behind the bartenders. “The strawberry one.”
Sukuna raised a brow.
“Order it yourself.”
“Nah,” Gojo grinned, and Sukuna couldn’t tear his gaze away. “I want you to order it for me.”
Sukuna wrestled with his thoughts for a moment, staring at the man beside him. To his surprise, he realized he actually wanted to give Gojo everything he asked for. It was new. It was irritating. It was intoxicating.
Sukuna ordered him the strawberry drink.
“Are you here alone?” Sukuna asked when Gojo sipped his drink contentedly.
“I’m here with you,” Gojo replied with a wink.
Sukuna rolled his eyes. Of course, he already knew Gojo had come alone. Uraume had given him all the information he could ever need. Satoru Gojo showed up here almost every Friday, usually by himself, sometimes with Shoko Ieiri — the school nurse. He often flirted with bartenders or other customers, but he never left with any of them.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Sukuna said dryly, ignoring the flash of satisfaction at Gojo’s words. “Where’s your soulmate?”
Sukuna couldn’t resist twisting the knife where it hurt. Apparently, he succeeded, because Gojo’s face soured as he looked away.
“Not here,” Gojo mumbled, though his tone quickly turned accusatory. “Where’s your soulmate?”
Sukuna let out a sharp laugh.
“I don’t have one.”
Gojo’s shoulders fell, and he looked at Sukuna in surprise.
“Thirty-five years old and you haven’t met them yet?”
Sukuna raised a brow, his upper lip twitching slightly.
Gojo knows his age.
Shaking his head, Sukuna pierced the man with his crimson gaze. He leaned in closer, spreading his legs so his knee now touched Gojo’s.
“You didn’t understand me, Satoru,” he whispered, flashing a row of sharp teeth. “I don’t have a soulmate.”
Gojo visibly shivered, his slender fingers tightening on the glass.
“You’re lucky,” Gojo stated, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t noticed the strange tension. “You get to decide things for yourself.”
For once, someone shared Sukuna’s point of view.
“What’s stopping you from making a decision for yourself?” Sukuna tilted his head.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, he hooked a single blackened claw under the fabric of Gojo’s sweater, pulling it aside to reveal the white mark reddening the surrounding skin. It was twisted now with pain, but Sukuna could guess it once resembled a fish.
Gojo froze.
Sukuna clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“It’s about time, don’t you think?” he pressed his nail into the distorted symbol.
He wanted to tear it from his skin. He probably would have if Gojo hadn’t jerked away suddenly, one hand covering the sensitive spot on his shoulder. Blue eyes were wide, and up close, Sukuna could see that Gojo had long, pale lashes that cast delicate shadows on his porcelain skin.
“Don’t push it,” Gojo hissed, his voice no longer as confident as before.
Sukuna only smiled and downed another shot. The teacher returned to his drink. He moved far enough away from Sukuna so they no longer touched, but he didn’t change seats. He didn’t leave. Sukuna felt an unnaturally good mood washing over him.
“Don’t sulk,” he said after a moment of silence. “I’ll buy you another drink.”
Gojo huffed, but he didn’t refuse. Sukuna called over the bartender, ordering another round of shots for himself as well.
“How are you not drunk yet?” Gojo asked, glancing at the empty glasses near Sukuna’s elbow.
Sukuna shrugged. He felt drunk, but not from the alcohol. He also knew two colorful drinks would probably knock the teacher out. Uraume had written that while Gojo frequented the bar, he never drank more than a quarter of his drink. Yet, this time, Gojo’s glass was nearly empty. Sukuna wondered what had changed.
“Worry about yourself, sweetheart,” he sent him a sharp smile.
Sukuna, as usual, was right. Just a few sips of another pink drink were enough to make Gojo’s blue irises glassy and his speech less clear but decidedly more playful.
He started rambling about the plot of the last movie he watched, enthusiastically analyzing one of the characters. Naturally, Sukuna couldn’t care less, but uncharacteristically, he didn’t interrupt the monologue. If it were anyone else, he would have stopped them long ago.
“Have you even picked up a single book in your life, Satoru?” Sukuna asked when Gojo paused to take another sip of his drink.
Gojo giggled.
Giggled.
Sukuna’s fingers twitched.
“Of course I have. Don’t be ridiculous,” Gojo replied, waving dismissively.
“Oh, really? Does the name Mitsuharu Kaneko mean anything to you?”
Gojo pulled a dumb face, and Sukuna shook his head in disappointment.
“I can’t believe you’re the one teaching the next generation,” he said dryly.
Gojo puffed out his lower lip, crossing his arms.
“Sorry I don’t know your favorite book or something.”
Sukuna scoffed, though he couldn’t suppress a smirk at the sight of a twenty-eight-year-old man acting like a child.
“He’s one of the most influential Japanese poets of the 20th century.”
Gojo rolled his eyes.
“Who cares?”
Sukuna was about to retort when Gojo’s face suddenly twisted in discomfort. The man let out a soft hiss, clutching his shoulder, precisely where his soulmate symbol was located.
Sukuna laughed, and Gojo shot him an offended look.
“A little empathy wouldn’t kill you,” he muttered, fishing a tube of ointment from the back pocket of his jeans.
“I have no empathy for someone who inflicts unnecessary suffering on themselves,” Sukuna replied, amused as he watched Gojo clumsily wrestle with the cap.
Was he really that drunk? Sukuna glanced at the drink, still half-full.
Eventually, he grew tired of watching Gojo’s pathetic struggle and snatched the ointment from his hand, earning a short, indignant "Hey!" With one smooth motion, he unscrewed the cap, squeezed out a generous amount, and used his other hand to pull back the fabric of Gojo’s black sweater. He inspected the distorted fish on his skin, now pulsing under his fingers as he spread the salve over the heated surface.
He heard Gojo suck in a sharp breath.
Sukuna leaned closer.
“Stop embarrassing yourself, Satoru,” he murmured.
Something uncomfortably soft flickered in Gojo’s blue eyes, something Sukuna couldn’t quite decipher.
When he finished, keeping his hand on Gojo’s skin far longer than necessary, Gojo exhaled shakily, as though conceding defeat in some internal battle. His gaze fell to the pink drink, which suddenly seemed to embody all the world’s melancholy. Sukuna frowned, annoyed by the shift in mood.
“I just don’t get any of it,” Gojo muttered, grabbing the straw and slurping so pathetically that Sukuna briefly considered shoving him off the stool.
“He left me!” Gojo suddenly exclaimed, throwing his hands up dramatically. “To start some stupid cult!”
Sukuna raised an eyebrow.
“You poor thing...” he cooed mockingly.
Gojo ignored him, finishing his drink alarmingly fast.
“Disappeared overnight, not a word, nothing. And then... I see his face on TV. On TV!” He slammed his fist on the bar, drawing glances from several patrons who clearly regretted their choice of venue. “I bust my ass trying to reach him, and he comes at me with something like, ‘You wouldn’t understand anyway.’ Can you imagine?!”
Sukuna chuckled, enjoying the dramatic outburst.
“I should kill him,” the teacher concluded sharply.
Sukuna grinned wider, his crimson irises gleaming.
“You should,” he said in a low voice.
Gojo was utterly wasted. He sprawled over the bar like a bird battered by a storm, his cheek resting miserably on crossed arms atop the counter. His sunglasses had slipped off his head, freeing his white hair to fall unchecked onto his damp forehead. He gazed at Sukuna through half-lidded, glassy eyes, his stare unfocused and heavy.
“I’m so drunk,” Gojo mumbled, his voice echoing like the hollow sound from the bottom of an empty bottle.
He looked pitiful — but also oddly endearing.
“I can see that,” Sukuna replied, smirking sarcastically.
Gojo’s glazed-over eyes drifted across Sukuna’s face, pausing at his jawline before wandering lower, tracing the line of his neck, collarbones, and finally his chest. The teacher swallowed nervously. Sukuna, sensing the tension, raised an eyebrow.
Without a word, he flagged the bartender and ordered water, which he pressed into Gojo’s hands. Gojo drained it in one go, as though it could save him from completely falling apart.
Sukuna noticed the faint flush blooming on Gojo’s nose and cheeks, wondering briefly if it was the alcohol.
“You’re… huge,” Gojo murmured once the glass was empty.
Sukuna let out a short laugh, a sound that could have passed for genuine if it wasn’t so unnervingly amused. He reached for Gojo’s sunglasses and hooked them onto the collar of the teacher’s sweater.
“You’re staring, Satoru.”
Gojo giggled again, a sound Sukuna found himself oddly enjoying. He didn’t know how to deal with that realization.
“Does it bother you, uncle?” Gojo teased.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then what should I call you?” Gojo grinned, fluttering his lashes. “Dadd—”
“You know my age but not my name?” Sukuna interrupted quickly, a shiver running down the inked nape of his neck.
He was usually a master of keeping his composure, but something about Gojo shredded his calm faster than a house of cards in a storm. He needed to get a grip.
“Sukuna Ryomen…” Gojo whispered, leaning closer.
Sukuna felt a chill shoot down his spine.
With a sharp black nail, he brushed a stray white strand of hair from Gojo’s forehead. His crimson irises fixed on the chaotic smile in front of him. Only a few centimeters separated them now.
Sukuna wanted to be closer. As close as possible…
But, true to his unpredictable nature, Gojo suddenly pulled back with a grimace of discomfort.
“I feel sick,” he muttered miserably.
Sukuna’s eyelid twitched.
“You’re impossible,” he stated coldly.
Gojo waved a hand lazily, swiping at Sukuna’s arm.
“Pay the tab and call me a cab,” he demanded, closing his eyes as he tried to steady his breathing.
Rolling his eyes, Sukuna grabbed him by the collar of his sweater, hauling him upright.
“Can you run?”
“Run?” Gojo repeated indignantly. “Of course not!”
Sukuna smiled wickedly.
“That was a rhetorical question, darling.”
Gripping Gojo’s hand, he pulled him to his feet, ignoring his protests.
As they exited the bar, Sukuna picked up the pace, forcing Gojo into a stumbling jog. Clinging to Sukuna’s arm, Gojo shot him an exasperated glare from beneath his lashes.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know? That was my favorite bar!”
“Of course I did,” Sukuna said, tightening his grip on Gojo’s hand. “I’m not paying for your drinks.”
Thankfully, Gojo was too drunk to question why Sukuna already knew his address when he gave it to the cab driver.
Before the car took off, Gojo grabbed Sukuna’s palm and, borrowing a marker from the driver, began scrawling something on an untattooed patch of his skin. Sukuna raised an eyebrow, watching his efforts with open amusement.
When Gojo finished, he pulled back with a triumphant grin. And though Sukuna already knew his phone number, a strange elation washed over him as he stared at the crooked, drunken digits on his hand.
“Don’t forget to save it,” Gojo said, his tone equal parts teasing and challenging.
Sukuna wanted to devour him whole.
That night, Sukuna's skin almost burned, as if something insatiable, feral, roiled beneath it. An ordinary itch? No, it was something deeper — a hunger that no amount of ordinary food could satisfy. He had felt similar urges before, but this time, it was different. Something about it terrified him; he could admit that only to himself, in the privacy of his thoughts, after downing several shots of straight vodka.
He was now watching two girls walking slowly through the shadowed park, their arms linked at the elbows. They were young, likely around his nephew's age. The thought amused him, though not enough to make him smile. The blonde was swinging her phone in its case, as if pointing the way. Was she leading them home? To friends? To the nearest bus stop? It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t get there anyway.
The park was empty. The shortcut they had chosen was their sentence.
He severed the brunette’s head first, almost lazily. Her last words — something about a boy from school — drowned in a gurgling, grotesque sound as blood erupted like a geyser. Her friend, now drenched in crimson, froze in place.
For a moment longer, Sukuna looked at the brunette. Her body, eerily still, slumped to the ground with a heavy thud. The blood on the grass smelled warm and intense, like a spiced note of wine. The blonde, when she finally moved, dropped to her knees, grabbing at the headless body in a frantic, desperate motion, screaming her friend’s name. Sukuna watched her with something akin to fascination — was that love? Despair? No, it didn’t matter.
His heart didn’t even flutter.
She lunged at him. The attack was so pitiful it was almost touching. Sukuna smiled faintly, almost tenderly. He loved those who had the courage to fight. Defeating them was child’s play, but he always appreciated the effort. The blonde met a worse end than her friend. Her body was now little more than a heap of flesh, bone, and blood. The phone she had clung to so stubbornly lay shattered in the grass, next to her severed fingers.
Sukuna crouched beside his victims. With swift, precise movements, he began carving pieces of skin that seemed the palest under the moonlight, almost porcelain-like. He didn’t question why he felt such a specific preference that night.
When he finished, he called Uraume.
Uraume’s face seemed tired, though their expression remained the same as always — impassive, with slightly furrowed brows. Sukuna wondered if they had learned that from him.
They were sitting on the fifth floor, in Sukuna’s studio apartment. A place like any other — four walls, a ceiling, a floor — nothing more than a pit stop to him. Since his mother had vanished from his life, the word "home" sounded like a joke. The longest he had ever stayed anywhere was the streets. That was where he first came across Uraume. Back then, they were still just a kid. And even though Uraume was twenty now, Sukuna still saw a child in them.
A child so desperate for his praise and presence that they were willing to do anything for him. From stalking a random teacher to cooking him human flesh. Sukuna found it endearing, in its own twisted way.
The meal Uraume served was nothing short of a masterpiece — perfectly balanced, a harmony of flavors. Of course, Sukuna had taught them himself. Every bite awakened the senses, deeply resonating with the palate. The spices didn’t overpower but rather unveiled the truth of the ingredients. And yet, Sukuna sat motionless, staring at the empty plate before him, his gaze colder than ice. He felt unsatisfied. Normally, such food allowed him to relax, if only briefly. This time, however, the hunger tearing through his mind refused to be tamed.
“Was something wrong?” Uraume asked. Though their tone was neutral, Sukuna had known them long enough to sense their unease.
He waved a hand dismissively, shaking his head.
“Exquisite, Uraume.”
“Are you still hungry?”
“I am.”
Silence fell between them. Uraume took the plate from in front of Sukuna and carried it to the kitchen. Sukuna heard the sound of running water. When Uraume finished washing up, they returned to the small two-person table.
“Will you hunt Gojo Satoru now?”
The question was straightforward, though it still demanded clarification. Sukuna couldn’t blame Uraume for assuming he simply planned to kill and devour Gojo. He had considered it himself, but he realized the thought stirred something strange and not entirely pleasant within him.
“I’ll hunt him soon,” he said at last. “But I don’t intend to take Satoru’s life.”
Uraume raised their eyebrows but quickly masked their surprise, nodding in acknowledgment.
“You can stop following him,” Sukuna added. “Excellent work, Uraume.”
Uraume lowered their head to hide a smile.
Sukuna had never felt the need to control his impulses. If he desired something, there was nothing and no one on this earth that could stop him. Only his pleasure or displeasure mattered.
He had dismissed Uraume because their reports no longer satisfied the need that bore the name Satoru Gojo. It seemed as if nothing could soothe it anymore. Yet Sukuna still remembered those unfamiliar emotions that coursed through him when he sat at the bar with Gojo so close by. He remembered his smile, his voice, the warmth of his breath on his face, the touch of his pale skin.
He hadn’t felt fulfilled then but intoxicated — and not by alcohol. His cold heart had beaten faster, something that didn’t even happen during the thrill of a kill. Sukuna had to have Satoru. But at the same time, he didn’t want to take him by force. No… Sukuna wanted Gojo to want him.
Several times, he dialed Gojo’s number on his outdated cell phone, pondering what kind of message should he write. No one had ever made him hesitate like this. But then again, he had never tried to make himself appealing to anyone before.
It was pathetic.
Sukuna had started visiting Gojo’s residence more often than what could be deemed reasonable. Each time, he left a trace of his presence. He bought him sweets and left them on the desk or in the kitchen. He also replaced the mug he had broken the last time. Sometimes, he took out the trash, other times he organized Gojo’s books and manga. It was during one of these visits that he discovered a new addition to Gojo’s collection — one that stood out amidst the colorful covers.
"An Anthology of Poems by Mitsuharu Kaneko."
Sukuna smiled as he flipped through the book, finding pencil notes scribbled in the margins. Some were terrible interpretations, but others were… less terrible. The most marked-up section surrounded the poem "Song of Loneliness." Yet, there were no clear thoughts written out. Instead, the page was filled with underlined passages, exclamation points, and key words. Near the end of the page, there was a hastily drawn symbol — the same one that adorned Sukuna’s forehead.
He devoured those notes as if they were poetry in themselves.
That day, Sukuna deliberately didn’t leave the residence on time. He wanted — no, needed — to see Gojo. He hid in the only place that could fit him: the wardrobe in the bedroom. It was nearly unused anyway — most of Gojo’s clothes lay scattered across the floor or the bed. Sukuna left the doors slightly ajar; the narrow gap allowed him to observe the room.
It was Friday, exactly one week since their encounter at the bar. Gojo came home straight from work, which meant he hadn’t found a new spot to waste the first night of the weekend. Sukuna guessed the way they had left the last bar made it impossible for Gojo to return there.
The sound of the radio switching on reached Sukuna’s ears. The music was too faint to identify, but he assumed it was pop. Moments later, he heard the microwave beep.
Sukuna pursed his lips in distaste. Microwave-prepared food was inedible. Once, Jin had served him soup reheated this way — the meal had ended up on the floor, followed by a tirade of insults.
If Satoru were his, he would never have to rely on such cheap inventions again.
Finally, after eating and indulging in the music, Gojo entered the bedroom. Sukuna’s heart raced, and goosebumps prickled his neck. He felt like a child about to unwrap a coveted gift.
Gojo wore a wrinkled black shirt and matching pants. He carried a bag slung over one shoulder, which he unceremoniously dropped onto the freshly cleaned desk. Sukuna’s eyelid twitched. Did this idiot even notice his efforts?
Gojo sat in a swivel chair, spinning around like a child. Eventually, he sighed heavily, pulled a few stacks of papers from the bag, and set them aside before discarding the bag onto the floor, where it joined the pile of clothes, trash, and towels.
Instead of attending to the documents, Gojo pulled out his phone, resting his cheek on the hard desk surface as he began scrolling. Every so often, Sukuna heard the sounds of a video playing. Utter nonsense, Sukuna thought, straining to make out the random noises.
Pulling out his own phone, Sukuna navigated to his messages and selected Gojo’s number. He debated what to write. He wanted to do it now, to observe Gojo’s reaction firsthand rather than guess through a tiny screen.
Do you know who Mitsuharu Kaneko is yet?
Sukuna saw the moment Gojo received the text. The teacher straightened in his chair, immediately shutting off the app producing the annoying sounds. He started spinning in his chair again, a faint smile curving his lips.
Gojo abruptly tossed his phone onto the bed, stood up, and left the bedroom. Sukuna frowned, snapping his own phone shut. Was that bastard planning to ignore him?
Gojo returned with a bag of gummies, a gift he’d received earlier that day. Without changing out of his work clothes, he flopped stomach-down onto the bed, giving Sukuna a clear view of the left side of his face. Gojo opened the candy and unlocked his phone, swinging his legs like a teenager.
Who is this?
Sukuna raised an eyebrow. It was hard to believe that Gojo genuinely didn’t know who was texting him.
Don’t pretend you don’t know.
The outdated phone’s plastic keys clicked faintly, but thankfully, Gojo seemed too engrossed in his snacks to notice.
I don’t know :p
A lot of people got my number recently.
Sukuna rolled his eyes. Liar.
Liar.
Gojo giggled to himself, easing some of Sukuna’s irritation.
Tatsuya?
Whatever. Gojo Satoru could rot for all he cared.
Sukuna didn’t reply for a few minutes. The entire time, Gojo stared at his phone, waiting. Eventually, he flipped onto his back and sent another message.
Don’t be mad :pppp I know it’s you, Kuna.
"Kuna?" Jin had once tried shortening his name to "Suku," but one glare from Sukuna had been enough to stop that mistake from happening again. Yet this time, he didn’t feel annoyed. Instead, curiosity and a strange anticipation churned in his chest.
He wanted to hear how that nickname sounded when spoken by Gojo.
Not ‘Daddy’ anymore?
Gojo covered his eyes with the back of his hand and laughed. Sukuna wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn a faint blush colored his porcelain cheeks.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Sukuna smiled in satisfaction.
Sure.
They texted for a long time, with the hours on the phone display shifting almost imperceptibly — from six in the evening to eight, and then to one in the morning. During this time, Gojo managed to devour two bags of candy and one of chips. Occasionally, he took short breaks, switching to other apps, though he never lingered on them for long.
Each time he returned to their conversation, he started by sending a meme that had amused him. Sukuna didn’t always get them, but he consistently responded to every one with a sarcastic thumbs-up emoji. Gojo would usually snort under his breath or roll his eyes at those reactions.
At one point, Gojo began negotiating, promising to read "those stupid poems" in exchange for Sukuna agreeing to watch a movie about a guy bonded with an alien. He passionately assured Sukuna that it wasn’t a typical superhero film, that it wasn’t about the action, but rather about a grand, almost epic love story. Sukuna read Gojo’s ramblings with a condescending smirk because he knew perfectly well that Gojo had already read the poems — probably more than once. Their little game was pure formality; Sukuna would have done anything Gojo asked anyway. He argued only to keep up appearances.
And just as he was about to (graciously!) agree to the deal, Gojo fired off another message:
We could watch it together.
Sukuna shifted his gaze from his phone screen to Gojo, who was now sitting on the edge of his bed, drumming his fingers against the phone’s case in rhythm. He was biting his lower lip. Sukuna didn’t reply immediately, curious to see how Gojo would react.
Gojo tossed his phone onto the pillow and, pressing his hands over his eyes, let out a long groan.
“Great, you screwed it up,” he muttered to himself, and Sukuna, though tempted to scoff, only smiled faintly.
Idiot. Gojo was a complete idiot. Sukuna had wanted to devour him whole during their first meeting, and here this fool was, worrying that a suggestion to watch a movie together was too… bold? Ridiculous. Pathetic. Endearing.
Gojo suddenly hissed in pain, clutching his shoulder.
“Damn it,” he mumbled, walking to the medicine cabinet. He poured two pills into his hand and swallowed them dry.
Sukuna’s mood darkened.
This whole soulmate farce had stopped amusing Sukuna a while ago. He had grown to despise it. He wanted to lunge at Gojo and tear the distorted fish off his porcelain skin. Gojo deserved nothing less than the best, and Sukuna could give it to him. He knew that if anyone else were to be Gojo’s "one and only," it would be the ultimate waste. Gojo was blind as a bat if he thought this soulmate was worth his sacrifice.
And yet… Gojo waited. Waited like a dog for his master’s overdue command.
Because if Gojo still hadn’t cut the thread of this connection, it meant he still dreamed of a happy ending with his soulmate.
Sukuna didn’t reply. He didn’t feel like it anymore. Instead, he just watched as Gojo reached for his phone every few minutes, as his face fell a little more each time he saw the empty screen, and his shoulders sagged heavier with each sigh.
By two in the morning, the light in the room went out. Gojo collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep where he sat, still in his clothes. He hadn’t even changed, hadn’t even brushed his teeth.
Disgusting.
Sukuna listened to the steady rhythm of Gojo’s breathing, and once he was sure the man was sound asleep, he stepped out of the wardrobe. The silence in the room felt almost tangible. Gojo lay curled up on his left side, wrapped around himself like a protective cocoon. Even like this, he looked... Sukuna sighed. He looked perfect.
Wrinkled clothes, messy hair sticking to his forehead and cheek — a picture of chaos, yet Sukuna couldn’t tear his eyes away. He crouched down to get a closer look. Gojo’s pale skin seemed almost luminous in the faint light filtering through the curtains. His eyelashes, light and delicate, barely fluttered. His lips were slightly parted. Sukuna tilted his head, his gaze drifting to Gojo’s neck — exposed, defenseless, almost inviting.
He reached out, his tattooed fingers hovering just above Gojo’s throat. It would take only a minute, maybe less. With his strength, crushing a windpipe would be as easy as crumpling a piece of paper. He imagined the moment those blue eyes would snap open, wide, flaring with panic and disbelief. The sight would be beautiful. And afterward? He wouldn’t have to endure those looks, those conversations, that constant struggle for attention against some ghost, some shadow of a soulmate. There would only be him. Sukuna. As it should be. As it always was.
But his hand trembled and then dropped. Sukuna sucked in a breath through his teeth, straightening up with a scowl. He glanced at Gojo’s face once more, still peaceful, blissfully unaware. He stared for a moment longer before finally turning away, leaving without a sound.
Next time, he thought, though he wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean.
When he reached his own apartment, he showered under icy water and brushed his teeth. Lying down to sleep, he opened his phone and checked their messages again. The conversation was silent. Gojo’s last text still lingered on the screen:
We could watch it together.
Sukuna frowned, swiping his thumb across the screen as if he could erase the words, but of course, that didn’t work. He exhaled softly, and before he could second-guess himself, he typed a response.
We could.
He set the phone down on the bedside table and turned off the light. In the darkness, he listened to the sound of his own heartbeat, trying to convince himself it was nothing. But behind his closed eyes, he saw something else entirely — white hair, parted lips, and delicate, trembling eyelashes.
They arranged to watch the movie together at Gojo’s apartment on Monday, right after the teacher finished work. It was the first day since Friday that Sukuna, instead of hiding in the wardrobe, left earlier — only to knock on the front door an hour later. Honestly, no one could blame him for constantly breaking into the house — Gojo never called the police, accepted his gifts, and most importantly, always left the window wide open. Sukuna took it as a clear invitation.
Gojo greeted him with a smile. Sukuna immediately noticed that the teacher was wearing pants even tighter than the ones he’d seen on him before — which was an accomplishment in itself. Not that Sukuna was about to complain.
The apartment looked... managed, though it couldn’t exactly be called clean. The clothes and trash littering the living room floor were gone, and the dishes had found their way into the dishwasher. Still, dust piled up on the furniture, and the scattered clutter maintained the familiar, chaotic aura of the place. Sukuna, however, appreciated the effort.
“Are you hungry?” Gojo asked, leading him into the kitchen, where he pulled out a carton of chocolate ice cream.
Sukuna was starving.
“Not really,” he said, refusing the extra spoon Gojo offered. “I don’t like sweets.”
Gojo made an exaggeratedly offended face but didn’t comment.
“I could make spaghetti?”
Sukuna snorted. He didn’t even want to imagine what Gojo considered cooking.
“I’ll pass.”
They settled in the living room. The black leather couch they sat on seemed to radiate a chill that perfectly mirrored the distance between them. Gojo took his seat with a casual ease, as though they were just acquaintances who’d coincidentally ended up in front of the same TV. Sukuna, with his jaw clenched and an uncomfortable tightness in his neck, couldn’t shake the growing irritation bubbling within him.
Gojo sprawled out, balancing the box of ice cream on his lap, and eagerly reached for the remote. Naturally, he had to talk. About everything and nothing, as if trying to fill the silence with something as insignificant as the hum of a fridge at night. He rambled about work. His favorite drink, which the store had run out of. Some bizarre bird he’d seen on his way home.
But it wasn’t Gojo’s words that were driving Sukuna into the maddening state now simmering within him. It was that stupid fish. Sukuna kept catching glimpses of the mark on Gojo’s shoulder, hidden beneath his clothes. The fish. That ridiculous, laughable fish, and Sukuna couldn’t stop seeing it, as if someone had carved it into his awareness.
The more he tried to ignore it, the worse it got. And every thought about that ridiculous mark stirred something strange, alien, and deeply unsettling within him, making his mood spiral further. He wanted to snap, to yell at Gojo.
Maybe Gojo sensed it. Maybe he knew what was happening. Maybe he could see how agitated Sukuna was becoming. Maybe the teacher regretted inviting him in the first place.
The last thought sent an unfamiliar pang through Sukuna. Something foreign.
Eventually, Gojo started the movie and fell silent, but Sukuna couldn’t focus on the images flashing across the screen. He kept stealing glances at the teacher, feeling both distant and close at the same time. He struggled to name the emotion that was unraveling him from the inside. Until he finally identified it.
Helplessness.
It was something so utterly new and... pathetic that Sukuna almost wanted to laugh. But not out of amusement. For the first time, he couldn’t possess something he desired, and it was humiliating. He had never felt this way before. He didn’t want to feel this way. He should have killed Gojo when he had the chance.
A quiet voice in his head reminded him he still had the chance now, but he ignored it — he knew he wouldn’t do it.
Truly humiliating.
When the movie ended, Gojo turned his face toward him. His expression suggested he was about to start rambling again. Sukuna had no patience for it.
“Why are you sitting so far away?” he asked coldly, pinning his crimson eyes on Gojo’s blue ones.
Gojo blinked.
“Do you want me to sit closer?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?”
Gojo laughed, and there was a hint of surprise in the sound.
“You’re really direct,” he said, seemingly pleased. His voice, too, was calmer, stripped of the earlier forced cheer.
Gojo scooted closer, though not as much as Sukuna would have liked. Sukuna narrowed his eyes, assessing the situation, before finally taking action. With one tattooed hand, he grabbed Gojo and pulled him closer, so close that their thighs were now touching. Gojo chuckled, and Sukuna felt the weight on his shoulders lighten ever so slightly. The furrow in his brow smoothed out, and the hand he had tensed earlier slipped onto the back of the couch in a gesture of relative ease.
“Are you satisfied now?” Gojo teased.
“Never,” Sukuna replied, baring his teeth in a sharp grin. Gojo laughed louder this time.
Genuinely.
Without asking Sukuna’s opinion, Gojo started the sequel, but Sukuna didn’t protest. Like this, he could have watched even just the commercials.
Sukuna tried to focus during the next movie, but the same couldn't be said about Gojo. The teacher had clearly lost interest in what was happening on the screen, instead tossing out annoying comments that disrupted the film’s carefully crafted atmosphere. Gojo seemed to think his remarks were the pinnacle of comedy, as he punctuated each one with quiet laughter. Sukuna merely rolled his eyes, though Gojo seemed entirely unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm.
Eventually, Sukuna’s patience ran out. As Gojo opened his mouth to say something else, Sukuna grabbed a spoonful of long-abandoned chocolate ice cream from its container and shoved it into Gojo's mouth. Gojo’s eyes widened in surprise as he swallowed the ice cream, shooting an irritated look at Sukuna.
“Shut up, Satoru,” Sukuna said coldly, ignoring the offended glare he received in return.
Turning back to the TV, Sukuna enjoyed the brief moment of silence, but it was, of course, short-lived. He glanced suspiciously at Gojo — just in time, as the teacher, clearly delighted with his brilliant idea, attempted to shove a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into Sukuna’s mouth in retaliation.
Sukuna tilted his head back just in time to avoid the attack. Undeterred, Gojo swung the spoon like a weapon, aiming for Sukuna’s face. Sukuna narrowed his eyes and lunged, trying to pin Gojo’s mischievous hands to the couch, but the struggle was more difficult than he’d expected. Instead, it devolved into a full-blown tussle, with Gojo laughing gleefully and Sukuna muttering curses under his breath.
Then Sukuna felt a faint resistance under his clawed fingers, followed by a barely audible hiss from Gojo. The teacher instantly stopped his next attack, freezing in place. Both of them paused, eyes meeting for a split second. A drop of melted ice cream fell from the spoon, landing on the floor with a soft splat.
“Careful with those claws, Wolverine,” Gojo said, lifting his right forearm toward Sukuna. A fresh, red line marked his pale skin, with tiny beads of blood beginning to form.
Sukuna stared at the wound as if entranced, a glimmer of satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
“That’s what you get for being an idiot,” he replied dryly, straightening up but keeping his gaze locked on the mark on Gojo’s arm.
The mark he had left.
Gojo sighed dramatically, raising his forearm higher and twisting awkwardly to try and reach the scratch with his tongue. He resembled a child attempting to lick their own elbow. Sukuna watched the display with amusement and a faint smirk of mockery.
“I win,” Sukuna declared smugly.
Gojo shot him another irritated glance.
“Could you just shut up?”
“You’re one to talk.”
Ignoring the comment, Gojo returned to his clumsy efforts, but before he could try again, Sukuna grabbed his wrist. The movement was quick, almost predatory. Leaning closer, he brought his face near the injury.
Without a word, maintaining unwavering eye contact, Sukuna lowered his head and licked the blood away in one slow, deliberate motion. The taste, though sweet, sent a strange electric thrill coursing through him.
Gojo blinked, his eyes widening in silent astonishment. The vibrant blue of his irises was nearly swallowed by his dilated pupils.
“You’re the worst,” he whispered.
Sukuna licked his lips, his expression one of unmistakable satisfaction.
“I know,” he replied simply, his grin more a flash of fangs than a smile.
For a long moment, they stared at each other, the silence between them thicker than the air in the room. The sounds from the TV, though loud, seemed strangely distant, like they were underwater.
Sukuna’s hand still held Gojo’s wrist, his fingers lightly pressing against the teacher’s skin just enough to feel the rapid, uneven pulse beneath. It throbbed in time with his own heartbeat, a bizarre synchronization that unnerved him in its intimacy.
And yet, in the back of his mind, that stupid fish resurfaced — an irritating splinter in his thoughts that flared suddenly, causing him to frown and glance at Gojo’s covered shoulder. Something in him tensed, urging him to break the moment and pull away.
Before Sukuna could move, Gojo caught his hand, forcing Sukuna’s gaze back to his eyes. Those unnaturally vivid blue irises glowed with an intensity that pulled him in like gravity.
“I’m severing the bond,” Gojo blurted out, almost breathless.
Sukuna processed the words, feeling something inside him release, like a taut string snapping. The lines on his brow softened, and a smile — a genuine one — graced his lips. It was disarmingly rare, unsettling in its honesty.
“What brought this on?” Sukuna murmured, intertwining their fingers.
“I don’t know. Something just… came over me,” Gojo shrugged slightly, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
His expression then grew more contemplative.
“I thought it would hurt,” he admitted.
Sukuna raised an eyebrow.
“It doesn’t?”
“No…” Gojo shook his head, narrowing his eyes like he was searching for the right words. “It’s exhausting, but it doesn’t hurt. Kind of like… taking a shit when you’re constipated.”
Sukuna let out an exaggerated sigh, leaning back against the couch theatrically as he rubbed his temples.
“You’re disgusting,” he said, a mix of exhaustion and disdain coloring his voice.
Gojo only laughed, unabashed.
When they finished the third movie, Gojo lazily lifted his head from Sukuna's shoulder. The snowy white strands Sukuna had been absentmindedly playing with for the past half-hour were now even more tousled. Gojo looked at him through half-lidded, sleepy eyes, yawning widely without bothering to cover his mouth.
Sukuna genuinely tried to feel annoyed at this lack of manners, but it just wasn’t working. That drowsy, slightly disheveled look on Gojo’s face explained why they had sat in silence for the latter half of the movie. The bastard had simply fallen asleep.
“I don't want to go to school tomorrow,” Gojo murmured, his voice carrying the petulance of a child.
Before Sukuna could reply, Gojo collapsed back onto his shoulder. His slender hand shifted dangerously close to Sukuna’s chest, as if unconsciously — though Sukuna knew better.
He raised an eyebrow, though Gojo, in this position, couldn’t see it.
“Don’t act like a brat,” Sukuna said with a practiced impatience, but his tone lacked any real bite.
Gojo mumbled something incoherent, then added with faux contemplation, “Maybe I’ll skip.”
“You’re a teacher, idiot.”
Gojo groaned louder in response, scratching Sukuna on the sternum with a finger. Sukuna swatted his hand away without an ounce of gentleness. Gojo flinched dramatically, withdrawing his hand with an exaggerated pout.
“Ow!” he hissed, though he made no effort to move from his spot.
For a moment, they sat in silence, staring at the now-dark screen. Finally, Gojo lifted his head again, sighing heavily.
“I still have to grade quizzes for tomorrow,” he muttered.
Sukuna knew what that meant. Without a word, he stood up from the couch and made his way toward the door. Gojo trailed behind him, dragging his feet without enthusiasm.
Sukuna slipped his shoes on, while Gojo cracked the door open, offering him a faint smile.
“Take care of yourself,” Gojo said, his tone so soft it felt strange to hear. No one had ever spoken to Sukuna like that. “There’s some killer-cannibal roaming the area.”
Sukuna let out a sharp laugh.
“I’m serious,” Gojo insisted, tilting his head with an irritated expression. “I heard the guy’s huge.”
“Bigger than me?” Sukuna bared his teeth in a grin.
Gojo rolled his eyes and let out a dramatic sigh.
“Whatever, go get eaten,” he huffed, feigning annoyance, though the glint in his eyes told a different story.
Sukuna was sitting in the wardrobe again. This time, he was watching Gojo struggle with a pile of tests he had abandoned in a corner a few days earlier. A red pen tapped against the edge of the desk, producing a sound somewhere between a nervous rhythm and the beat of a pop song he’d probably heard recently. Sukuna would have done anything to catch a glimpse of his face. But no. All he had before him were those slender shoulders and the silvery chaos of Gojo’s hair.
He felt like he knew Gojo inside out. He knew about his two close friends. Knew how much he cared for those brats at school, even though he pretended it was all just a game to him. He knew Gojo’s favorite gummies, chocolates, and chips. Knew he played the same song every day. Knew he fell asleep fully dressed every other day, smelling of exhaustion that he masked in the morning with strong deodorant. Knew he drank more sugar than coffee and always left things until the last minute. That his tolerance for alcohol was embarrassingly low, and that his nights rarely ended at a reasonable hour.
And yet, almost every night, Sukuna slipped into the closet and watched. For some reason, watching Gojo never got old.
Gojo flinched sharply when the prolonged sound of the doorbell shattered the silence of the residence. His gaze immediately shifted toward the open bedroom door. He furrowed his brow, and Sukuna glanced at the phone screen. It was nearly midnight. Something was wrong, but Sukuna didn't react as Gojo stood, seemingly ready to answer the front door. Whoever was waiting there, Sukuna knew one thing: he remained the greatest threat in this place.
For a long moment, nothing happened — at least nothing Sukuna could hear. Eventually, though, snatches of raised voices reached his ears. Gojo was agitated. His tone was laced with sharpness. He was speaking to someone — a stranger. Sukuna frowned. His fingers twitched impulsively, but he held himself back from stepping out of his hiding spot. Not yet.
Suddenly, the words became clearer. They must have moved into the living room.
“Don’t be unreasonable, Satoru!”
The unfamiliar voice cut through the air. Sukuna froze. He didn’t recognize the intruder, but something in their tone made his teeth clench. Who else dared to call Gojo by his first name?
Gojo let out a sarcastic laugh, devoid of any humor.
“As usual, you’re treating me like an idiot,” he hissed. “There’s no room for you in my life anymore.”
A silence so tense it buzzed filled the air until the stranger finally spoke again.
“Look at this, Satoru,” the person said. Sukuna, of course, couldn’t see what they were referring to. “This connects us. Forever. You can’t escape destiny.”
Sukuna’s vision blurred with vivid red. Before he could think, he was already moving. He stepped out of the closet, heading toward the sounds of the argument. He already knew who had invaded this home.
Gojo’s soulmate.
Sukuna felt his teeth itch, his claws tense. Now, he cared about only one thing.
“Screw destiny,” Gojo sneered, and through the bedroom door, Sukuna could see him tugging at his shirt to show the dark-haired man his mark, distorted by pain. “It’s so faded now you can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be.”
The soulmate flinched slightly but still reached out to touch the symbol. Gojo shoved him back with enough force to make him stumble. Thankfully, or Sukuna might have killed him right then.
“Get out, Suguru,” Gojo said coldly, exhaustion seeping into his voice. “I’m cutting the bond. Better late than never.”
Suguru stood still, staring at his soulmate with tightly pressed lips. Suddenly, he grabbed Gojo’s hand.
“Satoru—”
But he never finished the sentence. Sukuna’s patience had run out. He stepped out of the bedroom, pushing the door wide open. Both men froze, turning their heads to look at him. Sukuna’s eyes burned crimson, almost glowing. In a few strides, he was upon Suguru, slashing through the black shirt to reveal the soulmate mark beneath.
A fish. It was there — perfect, flawless in every detail — unlike the one on Gojo’s shoulder. You could even identify the species: Nishiki-goi. The precision only fueled Sukuna’s fury. He heard nothing now but the pounding of his blood in his skull. He felt nothing but overwhelming rage.
He stared at the mark one last time. Barely registering Suguru’s resistance, Sukuna sank his teeth deep into the symbol.
A loud hiss of pain filled the residence, followed by a stream of curses from the dark-haired man. Suguru grabbed a handful of Sukuna’s pink hair, trying to pull him off, but it was futile. Sukuna only bit harder. The taste and scent of blood sharpened his senses, bringing him a grim satisfaction.
Only when he had bitten the mark away entirely did Sukuna relent. He spat the torn piece of flesh onto the floor without even glancing at it. Suguru looked at him with a mix of rage and fear.
“Get out,” Sukuna growled softly, but his voice carried a power that pierced like an arrow.
Suguru glanced at Gojo, who stood behind Sukuna. His brown eyes were wide, as if trying to process what he had just witnessed. But Gojo said nothing.
Clutching his bleeding shoulder, Suguru left their sight. The last thing he left behind was the echoing slam of the front door.
Sukuna licked his lips, savoring the metallic taste of blood that still lingered on his palate. Neither he nor Gojo spoke a word. Sukuna didn’t even turn to look at Gojo, which was ironic in a way. After all, for the past few nights, he had been hiding in Gojo’s bedroom just to gaze at him endlessly.
But confrontation couldn’t be postponed forever. That wasn’t his style. Slowly, he turned around, crossing his arms over his chest, his intense red gaze locking onto Gojo’s blue eyes. Immediately, Gojo’s focus shifted to Sukuna’s mouth and chin, now stained with dried scarlet. Sukuna probably looked like a beast after a feast.
He expected fear, anger, disgust, maybe even regret in Gojo’s expression. Instead, Gojo stared at the blood with an inscrutable look, his gaze nearly unblinking. His blue irises were almost entirely swallowed by the black of his pupils.
“I knew you’d been sneaking in, but I didn’t think you were staying,” Gojo finally spoke, his voice a mix of amusement and disbelief.
Sukuna licked his lips again. Gojo, almost entranced, followed the movement with his eyes, his blue gaze strangely hungry. This was new. For the first time in his life, Sukuna felt like he might be the one devoured. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine.
“If you’d clean up your clothes for once in your life, you’d have noticed sooner,” he said, his tone lazy, almost indifferent, despite his racing heart.
Gojo smiled.
“You were hiding in the closet?” He tilted his head. “How cliché.”
Sukuna had nothing for his defense. Gojo stepped closer, that irritating smile still on his lips.
“Why?” he asked suddenly. Sukuna raised a brow. “My life isn’t that interesting.”
Sukuna grinned, baring teeth still stained with blood.
“You look disgusting when you sleep.”
That was all it took. Gojo reached up, grabbing the back of Sukuna’s pink hair, and yanked him forward, their mouths crashing together with such force their teeth clicked. Sukuna felt the weeks of endless hunger finally come to an end. Now, he could indulge.
Gojo’s lips were soft and warm but insistent. He kissed as if he had an endless supply of breath. In this regard, he wasn’t much different from Sukuna, who tangled his fingers in Gojo’s snowy strands and pressed in, deepening the contact.
Gojo’s hand fisted the fabric of Sukuna’s white shirt. He let out an almost inaudible sigh as he licked the blood off Sukuna’s teeth, only to have Sukuna nip at his lower lip in return. Sukuna didn’t even notice when he pinned Gojo against one of the walls.
With Sukuna, there was no space for gentleness or tenderness, but Gojo didn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite — his skin trembled under Sukuna’s touch, sharp and relentless like a predator’s. Every motion, every greedy brush of Sukuna’s lips, drew involuntary sounds of satisfaction from him.
After a moment, Gojo tried to pull back, placing a hand on Sukuna’s chest. But Sukuna didn’t want to stop, wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop…
Gojo chuckled, right into Sukuna’s parted mouth, then grabbed a handful of pink hair with surprising strength and yanked Sukuna away. Their eyes met — Sukuna’s red ones blazing, almost offended.
Both of their faces were smeared with blood now. The metallic taste only fueled Sukuna’s hunger further. He ran his thumb over Gojo’s swollen lips, smearing crimson across his warm cheek.
“Looks like the bond’s completely broken,” Gojo said.
Sukuna noted with satisfaction that Gojo’s breathing was labored, his eyes slightly hazy.
“Broken, huh?” Sukuna rasped.
“Accidentally, I guess.” Gojo shrugged, still keeping one hand on Sukuna’s chest. “It came super easy just now.”
Sukuna smiled sharply, triumph coursing through his bones. He gripped Gojo by the hips, pulling him even closer, pressing their bodies together almost as one. A satisfied growl escaped him when he realized he wasn’t the only one getting excited down below.
Gojo sighed, throwing his head back against the wall as Sukuna rolled his hips, grinding their hardness together through the irritating barrier of their pants.
Gojo’s hand shot to the back of Sukuna’s neck, pulling the tunnel-adorned ear close to his lips. He nipped lightly at the lobe, grinning when Sukuna shivered and ground his hips harder.
“Take me to bed,” Gojo whispered playfully.
Sukuna didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed Gojo by the thighs, claws digging into his pants, and hoisted him up. Gojo chuckled.
“Aren’t you strong…” he purred in mock awe, laughing again when he was unceremoniously tossed onto the sheets of his own bed.
“Shut up, Satoru,” Sukuna said in a low, menacing tone as he peeled off his undershirt.
Apparently, it was an effective way to silence the teacher. Gojo blinked, his gaze instinctively trailing down to Sukuna’s tattooed chest. His Adam’s apple bobbed beneath pale skin as his blue eyes traced the black markings. They began at Sukuna’s broad shoulders, lingered on his muscular chest, and continued downward to the sculpted muscles of his abdomen.
Sukuna leaned over the sprawled man, capturing his lips again in a brief but searing kiss. Then, he slid lower, teasingly grazing his teeth along Gojo’s jawline before reaching his intended destination — the soft, vulnerable neck.
Gojo held his breath as a warm exhale ghosted over his exposed skin. His body shivered, and a quiet sigh slipped from his lips as his hand found Sukuna’s pink hair, gripping it tightly. Sukuna’s eager tongue attacked the smooth column of his throat.
Sukuna wanted — no, needed — to leave his mark. He adorned Gojo’s pale neck with bites, hickeys, and thin scratches. Gojo didn’t resist; on the contrary, every possessive blemish was met with a soft moan of pleasure. When Sukuna licked away the small droplets of blood from a particularly hard bite, Gojo instinctively rolled his hips, grinding against Sukuna’s thigh.
Sukuna hid his smirk against the heated skin.
“'Kuna…” Gojo murmured, his hand slipping from Sukuna’s hair to his exposed chest, where he squeezed firmly with his fingers.
Sukuna huffed, pressing a tender kiss to the rapid pulse beneath his lips — a gesture of surprising softness that contrasted sharply with his earlier ferocity.
Then, suddenly, he pulled away, eliciting a drawn-out, dissatisfied sound from Gojo. Sukuna snorted with amusement.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured mockingly, grabbing the hem of Gojo’s shirt and roughly yanking it off him.
When Sukuna tossed the discarded fabric aside, he sat back on his heels, taking a moment to admire the sight before him. Gojo was a mess — his platinum hair disheveled and pointing in every direction. The dried blood around his slightly parted, teasingly smirking lips stood in stark contrast to his porcelain skin. Blue eyes, narrowed slightly, bore into Sukuna’s with a provocative challenge. Gojo's neck, now adorned with crimson, inflamed marks, looked as though he’d just been attacked by a wild beast.
Sukuna raised a hand, his fingers lightly trailing over Gojo’s lean but visibly toned chest. His black nails caught on a nipple, eliciting a faint shiver and a flutter of those impossibly long, pale lashes.
Satoru looked utterly divine.
When Sukuna pinched the sensitive bud and gave it a gentle tug, Gojo bit his bottom lip, his hands bunching up the sheets beneath him. His hips bucked instinctively, betraying a tension that left Sukuna breathless. Beneath the fabric of his pants, the unmistakable outline of his arousal pressed against the material. Gojo's eyes met Sukuna's, filled with desperation, and the sight made Sukuna’s mouth go dry. He already knew he couldn’t hold back any longer.
With deliberate precision, Sukuna unbuttoned and unzipped the creamy white trousers Gojo was wearing. Impatiently, he grabbed the waistband, yanking them down in one smooth motion, taking the damp boxers with them. The clothing slipped down Gojo’s long, slender legs, leaving him fully exposed.
For a brief moment, Gojo’s breath hitched in his throat as his length was freed, springing up to rest against his abdomen. Sukuna’s lazy smile widened when he noticed how much precum had already gathered at the tip. Wrapping his hand around the throbbing shaft, he dragged his thumb over the head.
Gojo threw his head back, sucking in a sharp breath, his back arching in a way that was almost obscene.
“You’re so sensitive,” Sukuna murmured into his ear, his hand moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm that was equal parts teasing and tormenting.
Gojo’s fingers dug into Sukuna’s shoulder, trembling slightly against the inked skin.
“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire.
Sukuna ignored him entirely.
“You’re already so wet,” he said with a quiet laugh. “And I’ve barely started. Does the fact I’ve been stalking you turn you on this much?”
Gojo responded only with a long, desperate moan as his cock twitched in Sukuna’s warm grip. Watching this, Sukuna paused for a moment, marveling at the sight. At the same time, he felt his own arousal straining painfully against the confines of his jeans.
Not wanting to waste another second, Sukuna withdrew his hand. The resulting look of protest in Gojo’s eyes was almost endearing, but before he could voice his frustration, Sukuna grabbed him by the hips and flipped him over, positioning him on his stomach. Gojo exhaled loudly, burying his face in his folded arms as he arched his back, pressing himself eagerly toward Sukuna.
Sukuna grabbed Gojo’s ass firmly, his hands squeezing the soft flesh. The smoothness of his skin was almost maddening, a silent provocation. His long nails trailed lightly over the pale surface, playfully testing its softness, though he didn’t leave any marks. Not yet.
Finally, he lifted one hand and delivered a sharp slap to Gojo’s right cheek, causing the flesh to bounce slightly, a cute flush blooming on the skin. Gojo flinched, and Sukuna distinctly heard his breathing quicken for a moment. The teacher turned his head, glancing back over his shoulder. Those piercing blue eyes glinted with indignation, a shadow of hesitation crossing his features — as if he couldn’t decide whether to scold his partner or demand more.
Sukuna grinned predatorily, disregarding the hint of protest. He delivered another smack, harder this time, to the same spot.
This time, the reaction was undeniable. Gojo shuddered, his back arching slightly, and his hips instinctively lifted higher, as though his body sought out more of Sukuna’s touch. Sukuna noted how Gojo’s tense shoulders began to relax, his hands clutching the sheets tightly. His long lashes fluttered nervously before a quiet whimper escaped his lips.
Gojo finally let his head drop, pressing his cheek against the soft mattress, surrendering himself to Sukuna’s control. The subtle act of submission, though perhaps unconscious, ignited something deeper within Sukuna. He chuckled softly, running his hand across the now-pink cheek in a gesture almost apologetic — though that illusion was quickly shattered by another sharp smack.
“Sukuna…” Gojo whispered, the name leaving his lips in a breathy sigh as his hips trembled. His voice was filled with a confusing blend of need and irritation that only seemed to amuse Sukuna more.
“Hm?” Sukuna hummed in response to the plea, feigning nonchalance. His hand, which had been soothing moments before, struck again, drawing another wave of shivers from Gojo’s body. The porcelain skin beneath Sukuna’s palm grew steadily warmer, each contact wringing increasingly desperate sounds from the man beneath him.
Gojo’s breathing grew ragged, almost frantic, his hips wavering between retreating and pressing closer with every impact.
Sukuna repeated the motion a few more times, watching with satisfaction as Gojo’s body seemed to react on its own — tense muscles flexing, his hips lifting slightly only to collapse again. Gojo’s cock throbbed visibly, the thick droplets of precum dripping lazily onto the sheets with every jolt of his body.
Finally, Sukuna stilled his hand, though he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let his fingers dig into the heated, pink skin, drawing a quiet hiss from Gojo. The teacher didn’t lift his face from the mattress, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly with his labored breaths.
Sukuna frowned slightly and reached for a strand of Gojo’s platinum hair. Without ceremony, he yanked, forcing Gojo to lift his head. The teacher’s mouth opened as if to say something, but instead, only a soft, broken sigh escaped.
Leaning closer, Sukuna locked eyes with him, their gazes meeting as the bulge in Sukuna’s pants pressed firmly against Gojo’s tender, reddened cheeks.
“Do you want me to keep spanking you?” Sukuna asked, his voice low and husky, thick with desire. “Or would you rather sit on my face?”
Gojo seemed to wrestle with the question — or perhaps with the haze clouding his mind. His glassy eyes were unfocused, while snow-white strands of hair stuck to his flushed cheeks, giving him an almost innocent appearance that starkly contrasted the situation.
“The second one,” Gojo finally managed to choke out, his ruined voice sending a jolt of arousal straight to Sukuna’s core.
Sukuna grinned, capturing Gojo’s lips in a short, sloppy kiss that tasted like desperation and blood.
Sukuna shifted their positions so that he was now lying on the disheveled sheets, with Gojo hovering above him, thighs on either side of his face. The white-haired man steadied himself with his hands planted on Sukuna’s muscular chest, trying to maintain balance. Meanwhile, Sukuna, his face lit with fascination, spread Gojo’s well-abused cheeks, exposing the delicate pink entrance nestled between them.
He licked his lips, staring at the sight with a ravenous hunger. Without hesitation, he lifted his head and ran his hot, wet tongue over the exposed area, savoring the teacher's immediate reaction.
Gojo trembled, his shoulders tensing sharply. A loud gasp tore from his lips as the wet muscle made contact.
“Fuck…” he whispered with a shiver of pleasure, his body moving instinctively in sync with Sukuna’s teasing strokes.
Gojo’s fingers dug into Sukuna’s tattooed skin with desperate strength, the faint scratches only fueling Sukuna’s excitement. Gripping Gojo’s trembling thighs, Sukuna pulled him closer until the man, instead of hovering above, was fully seated on his face. Gojo hesitated as his hips descended but let out an unrestrained moan as he felt the intense heat and wetness against his most sensitive spot.
“'Kuna!” he panted, his cock twitching as thick beads of precum dripped onto Sukuna’s collarbones.
Inhaling the musky scent of sweat and arousal, Sukuna wet the rim of Gojo’s entrance with his saliva before pushing his tongue in, applying more pressure with each thrust. Gojo shuddered, a strangled moan escaping his throat, sounding like a desperate plea. His hips involuntarily pressed down against Sukuna’s eager lips, as if Gojo’s body could no longer restrain itself.
The tight walls gradually relaxed under Sukuna’s relentless ministrations, and Gojo’s uneven breaths filled the room. His trembling body seemed to pulse in time with Sukuna’s motions, his fingers alternately clenching and releasing against the tattooed chest beneath him.
Gojo chanted Sukuna’s name like a mantra, his body bouncing lightly on his partner’s face as Sukuna fucked him with his tongue.
“'Kuna…” Gojo whined in a high-pitched voice, his trembling thighs clenching tightly around Sukuna’s head. “Please, I’m gonna… I can’t…”
Before Gojo could finish, Sukuna gripped his hips firmly and slid him off. Gojo whimpered in protest, but the sound was abruptly cut off when Sukuna grabbed his jaw. Their gazes locked, Sukuna’s crimson eyes blazing with raw intensity.
“You’ll come only when I’m inside you,” Sukuna growled in a low, menacing tone, licking the excess saliva from his lips and savoring the taste of Gojo.
The white-haired man furrowed his brows, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. His legs still trembled, betraying his barely-contained need.
“And how long do I have to wait for that?” he asked provocatively, his gaze dropping to Sukuna’s swollen lips.
Sukuna smirked predatorily as he released Gojo’s face from his grip. His hands immediately moved to the man’s thighs, spreading them apart to reveal his throbbing cock and the slick, glistening hole that quivered invitingly.
“Do you think my tongue alone is enough to prepare you?” Sukuna whispered, his voice laced with mockery.
Gojo didn’t have a chance to reply before Sukuna reached out, pressing a sharp black nail against the trembling rim of his entrance. The white-haired man let out a loud, uneven exhale.
“You’re not seriously going to use those claws, are you?” he asked incredulously, though his actions betrayed him as he spread his legs wider, granting Sukuna better access.
“And why not?” Sukuna replied with an ironic grin, applying more pressure to the sensitive spot. “I think you’d enjoy it.”
Gojo let out a breathy chuckle, his voice trembling. Propping himself up on his elbows, he gazed at Sukuna through his hazy, lust-filled eyes.
“With you, I’d probably enjoy anything,” he admitted lightly, his tone tinged with playful honesty.
Sukuna’s eyes locked onto Gojo’s face, his grip tightening on the man’s leg. His fingers twitched involuntarily as the words hit him with unexpected force. His head spun, overwhelmed by the sudden surge of desire.
In that instant, he realized just how desperately he needed to bury his cock inside this gorgeous man.
Sukuna lowered his hand from Gojo’s thigh, leaving reddened imprints on the soft skin. He reached over to the small nightstand by the bed, rummaging through it for a moment before retrieving a tube of lubricant. He tossed it toward Gojo.
The teacher caught it mid-air without comment, though a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, as if noting how well Sukuna knew where to find what he needed.
“Get yourself ready, and do it fast,” Sukuna growled in a deep, raspy tone as he began unfastening his pants. “I’m out of patience.”
Gojo laughed softly, the sound light and teasing, which only fueled Sukuna’s frustration as he clung to the last shreds of his composure.
Wasting no time, Sukuna slid off his pants and boxers, finally freeing his throbbing cock. He gripped it firmly, his fingers moving lazily from the base to the tip, emphasizing the black marking around its base — a perfect complement to the symmetrical tattoos that adorned his body.
Catching Gojo staring at him with flushed cheeks, wide, fevered eyes, and slightly parted lips, Sukuna sighed loudly, irritation seeping into the sound.
“Satoru…” he growled, his voice sharp with impatience.
The reaction was immediate — Gojo’s cock twitched at the commanding tone. His lips curved into a playful smile, and he licked them slowly.
“Yes, sir,” he quipped playfully, squeezing a generous amount of lubricant onto his slender fingers. Maintaining eye contact, he slid his hand down toward his entrance, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.
Sukuna tightened his fist around his throbbing length as he watched Gojo slide two fingers into himself without hesitation. The display was utterly mesmerizing.
Gojo tilted his head back, his muscles tensing sharply as a soft, trembling moan escaped his lips, resonating through the room. His fingers moved with precision and ease, stretching himself deeper, the slick sounds filling the air.
Sukuna’s breathing grew heavier, his cock pulsing painfully in his grip. Each moan, each ragged breath from Gojo chipped away at his restraint, clouding his mind with raw desire. He quickened his strokes, barely managing to resist the urge to pounce on him.
“Satoru…” he rasped hoarsely.
Hearing his name, Gojo cracked open his lust-filled eyes, meeting Sukuna’s gaze with a blend of arousal and teasing mischief. His lips parted in a breathless sigh, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Gojo thrust his fingers deeper, his hips trembling as his back arched slightly, beads of sweat trailing down his pale skin.
Sukuna couldn’t look away. Every motion, every sound from Gojo set him ablaze. The sight of him stretching himself open, his lips wet and slightly swollen, was intoxicating, almost unbearable.
Releasing his cock, Sukuna gripped Gojo’s thighs tightly, spreading them wider as his crimson gaze fixated on the slick, quivering entrance stretched around pale fingers.
Gojo giggled breathily, his laughter interspersed with quiet moans, and Sukuna felt his resolve blur and dissolve entirely.
Gojo let out a startled noise as Sukuna’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist and roughly pulling the slick fingers away from between his legs. Wide-eyed, Gojo blinked, as if trying to process what had just happened. But Sukuna didn’t give him a chance to protest. He seized Gojo’s calves, effortlessly throwing them over his shoulders and leaning forward until their bodies were nearly touching.
At this proximity, Sukuna noticed the bob of Gojo’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed nervously. Sukuna was well aware of his size and knew that while his tongue and two fingers had been enough to tease and excite, they were hardly sufficient preparation for what was to come. But he couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Deep breaths, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with tension.
Grasping his hard, throbbing length, Sukuna guided it to Gojo’s slick, tight entrance. He pressed the tip against the sensitive ring of muscle, just barely brushing it without pushing inside.
Gojo exhaled shakily, his breath catching as his fingers clenched tightly around the wrinkled sheets beneath him. He gripped the fabric as though it might anchor him, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Through half-lidded eyes, he gazed up at Sukuna with a mix of desire and apprehension.
“I thought I was going to have to do all the work myself,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, the corners of his lips tugging into a cocky smile.
Sukuna raised a brow, mildly amused by the challenge. He grabbed the tube of lubricant, squeezing out the remaining contents between them, letting the cool, slippery substance drip onto their heated skin. Gojo hissed softly at the stark contrast in temperature.
Sukuna rolled his hips a few times, letting his cock glide against the slippery entrance. Gojo clenched his jaw, his body tensing as his hips lifted instinctively, as though urging Sukuna to enter.
“Do your worst,” Gojo taunted, his voice shaky and punctuated by uneven breaths.
That was all it took. Sukuna felt the last shreds of his self-control crumble like a house of cards. His hand tightened around Gojo’s thigh, his fingers digging into the hot, flushed skin beneath them. He leaned closer, pressing forward with more intent until the tip of his cock slowly began to slide into the tight, searing heat.
Gojo clenched his eyes shut, letting out a broken gasp, his body instinctively tensing. Sukuna watched every movement, every twitch of his muscles, and every flicker of emotion that crossed his partner’s face. He felt every subtle tremor beneath him.
“Breathe, Satoru…” Sukuna murmured, barely holding himself back from fully plunging into him.
Gojo’s eyes fluttered open, glistening with unshed tears. His hands abandoned the sheets, moving to Sukuna’s shoulders and clutching them tightly, almost painfully. Sukuna shivered at the sensation, a wave of goosebumps running down his neck. His cock twitched at the intensity of the moment, drawing a soft groan from both of them.
“Fuck,” Gojo muttered under his breath, his nails raking across Sukuna’s skin and leaving behind red trails of scratches.
Sukuna let out a low, rumbling laugh.
“We’re not even halfway there, love,” he reminded, his voice both tender and threatening. His hands gripped Gojo’s thighs firmly, pushing them closer to his partner’s torso, folding him nearly in half.
Gojo let out a drawn-out, almost pitiful moan as his body clenched tightly around Sukuna in response to the petname. Sukuna’s vision blurred for a moment, overtaken by desire. A feral growl rumbled deep in his chest, and his hips moved on instinct. With one ruthless thrust, he buried himself entirely within the scorching tightness of Gojo’s body.
Gojo cried out loudly, his back arching into a perfect curve as if he were trying to escape his own body. His legs shook violently, spasming uncontrollably, and his nails dug deep into Sukuna's tattooed shoulders, leaving crimson crescents in his skin. Gojo’s cock twitched sharply, releasing hot streams of white that splattered obscenely across his tense abdomen and chest. Each drop spilled over his flushed skin, creating a breathtaking sight.
Sukuna watched it all as if entranced. He hissed low through clenched teeth as the scorching tightness of Gojo's walls clamped down around his length, nearly to the point of pain.
“Fuck, Satoru…” he growled, his voice rough and guttural. His hands gripped Gojo's thighs harder, fingers pressing deep enough to promise bruises by morning.
Without giving Gojo a moment to recover from his shattering climax, Sukuna began moving his hips, thrusting into the trembling body beneath him. The aftershocks of Gojo’s orgasm made his body quake with every deep stroke Sukuna delivered, sending fresh shivers through the white-haired man.
Gojo let out a muffled whine, his hands sliding up Sukuna's back, clutching desperately as if searching for an anchor against the overwhelming tide of pleasure and overstimulation. His stomach, still slick with his release, rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath after the intensity of his orgasm.
“’Kuna...” Gojo moaned, his voice cracking on the name.
Sukuna’s lips curled into a sharp, predatory smile as he leaned down, pressing his chest against Gojo’s sticky torso, smearing the mess between them.
“You’re still so fucking tight…” he murmured, his hips driving deeper as he quickened his pace.
Each thrust was deliberate, dragging through Gojo’s soaked, quivering heat, the spasms inside him clenching unevenly, involuntarily.
Gojo tilted his head back, exposing the column of his marked throat as a desperate, drawn-out moan escaped him. His misty eyes glistened with tears that spilled over, trailing down his flushed cheeks.
Sukuna froze for a heartbeat, his gaze fixed on the tear-streaked face below him. But instead of slowing down, his desire flared hotter, ignited by the sight of Gojo — shaking, crying, and utterly surrendered beneath him. The sheer intensity of the moment hit Sukuna like a drug.
“Crying for me, sweetheart?” Sukuna asked, his voice a dangerous purr that blended primal dominance with a hint of tender satisfaction. He leaned closer, his tongue darting out to lick the salty tears from Gojo’s face and the dried blood from his neck.
Sukuna deepened his thrusts, angling himself toward that one spot he knew would utterly ruin Gojo. Each movement was powerful and deliberate, pulling uncontrollable reactions from the trembling man beneath him.
He found it.
Gojo let out a sudden, broken cry, his voice cracking into a high-pitched note that echoed through the room — a sound teetering between despair and pure ecstasy. His hips, though quivering and fatigued, jerked instinctively in response, his body completely surrendered to the rhythm Sukuna imposed.
Gojo’s nails raked down Sukuna’s tattooed back, digging in deeply enough to leave searing marks that burned with every motion. Sukuna growled, low and guttural, almost animalistic, as the tight heat around him clenched rhythmically, refusing to let go.
Gojo’s cock, which had barely softened, hardened again, his body strung taut as if on the verge of snapping. Tears continued to stream down his flushed cheeks, smearing messily across his skin.
Sukuna couldn’t tear his eyes away from Gojo’s face. The sight of him trembling uncontrollably, his mouth open and spilling a mixture of moans and sobs, the way his body responded to each precise thrust — everything about it drove Sukuna to quicken his pace.
Sukuna fucked him mercilessly, the bedframe pounding against the wall in time with his unrelenting rhythm. Each perfectly aimed thrust slammed into Gojo’s prostate, causing violent spasms to ripple through the teacher’s body.
Gojo’s shaky hand reached for his own throbbing length, desperate for some relief, but Sukuna didn’t allow it.
Instead, Sukuna seized Gojo’s throbbing cock in his own grip, his hand working it with a ruthless pace perfectly synced to the way he was wrecking him from the inside.
“Gonna cum again?” Sukuna taunted, a mocking smirk curling his lips as he swirled his thumb over the slick head, spreading the precum. “You’re so greedy, Satoru.”
Gojo couldn’t form a coherent response. His head fell back, high-pitched, broken sounds spilling from his lips, resembling Sukuna’s name. He nodded frantically, his expression a mix of desperation and surrender.
Sukuna’s grin turned predatory at the pitiful sight, the raw vulnerability fueling his own nearing climax. His cock throbbed inside Gojo, signaling that he, too, was reaching his limit.
With one swift motion, Sukuna pulled out of Gojo, ignoring the faint whimper of protest that followed. Before Gojo could react, Sukuna gripped his hips and flipped him onto his stomach. He spread the still-flushed cheeks apart with his hands and thrust back into him, this time deeper than before. The new angle drew a moan from both of them, raw with pleasure.
Without missing a beat, Sukuna resumed his movements, fast and predatory, almost as if carving a place for himself inside Gojo. His hips slammed forward relentlessly, filling Gojo to the brink with each punishing stroke. Gojo trembled with face buried in the bedding, muffled sobs escaping his lips — though Sukuna knew well they were cries of overwhelming pleasure.
From this angle, Sukuna had a perfect view of the distorted soulmate symbol on Gojo’s shoulder. The sight of it stoked an irrational fury within him, a gnawing anger that quickly boiled over into his movements. His thrusts grew even more forceful, bordering on brutal, each one shoving Gojo further into the mattress, leaving him breathless and unable to voice even a moan.
Gojo shivered on the mattress, his fingers clutching the fabric in a desperate attempt to ground himself. His gasps were ragged and broken, barely audible over the sound of Sukuna’s unrelenting rhythm. Fueled by anger and a bitter edge of jealousy, Sukuna grabbed a fistful of Gojo’s snow-white hair and yanked him back, forcing the man’s body into an arch so tight it seemed unnatural.
Moments later, Sukuna’s hand wrapped around Gojo’s throat. The bruised and battered skin beneath his fingers pulsed, the Adam’s apple bobbing as Gojo swallowed hard. Sukuna didn’t squeeze; he left his hand there as a silent yet unmistakable warning.
Gojo shook violently, one trembling hand reaching for his own cock and stroking it with erratic, clumsy movements. But Sukuna’s focus was elsewhere. The distorted symbol on Gojo’s shoulder seemed to glare at him, an unspoken challenge, a reminder of something he couldn’t ignore.
Losing the last shred of his composure, Sukuna pulled Gojo even closer and sank his teeth into his shoulder. His fangs pierced flesh, warm blood spilling into his mouth and flooding his senses with its metallic tang. He bit down harder, as though desperate to leave something indelible, more permanent than mere pain.
Gojo spasmed beneath him, his entire body locking up in an uncontrollable convulsion. A choked moan escaped his lips, raw and broken. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat and saliva staining his skin as his body surrendered to yet another climax. His cock jerked violently, releasing thick, white streams that splattered across the bedframe, the wall, and his own abdomen. Inside, his body clenched tightly around Sukuna’s length, the spasms drawing a shuddering growl from Sukuna, who was now teetering on the edge of his own orgasm.
With two final, deep thrusts, Sukuna surrendered completely. His hips quivered, and Gojo’s warmth seemed to envelop him entirely as his release spilled inside. A low, guttural groan escaped Sukuna’s throat. His body tensed, his hands gripping Gojo’s hair and hip with bruising force, as though trying to etch this moment into their very beings. Gojo let out a quiet sigh, tinged with exhaustion but also undeniable satisfaction, as the heat of Sukuna’s cum filled him.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Sukuna released Gojo’s shoulder, revealing the bloody mark left behind by his teeth. A surge of fulfillment coursed through him at the sight — a crimson testament to the fact that Gojo was his.
Gojo lay beneath him, trembling, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths interspersed with quiet murmurs. His body still quaked, as though the echoes of their high refused to release him. Sukuna gazed down at him with a mixture of triumph and something that almost resembled fascination. The sight — Gojo in this utterly fucked out state — was nearly hypnotic.
Finally, Sukuna slowly withdrew, eliciting a barely audible hiss of discomfort and a mutual grimace from both men. As if to break the silence, Sukuna slapped Gojo on the ass, the sound echoing through the room. The gesture caused his own seed to lazily seep out of Gojo’s entrance, leaving a wet, sticky trail on the crumpled sheets. Sukuna observed the scene with open satisfaction, making no attempt to conceal his pride.
Gojo tilted his head, trying to look at him. A flash of indignation lit up his eyes, but it quickly faded. The hazy gaze, still glistening with the remnants of pleasure, robbed him of any aura of hostility.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered weakly, his tone carrying more exasperated resignation than actual reproach.
Sukuna smirked, a mocking edge curling his lips, but his eyes betrayed something deeper, something less detached. He leaned down to study Gojo’s tired but still stunning face up close. The glow of half-lidded blue irises nearly struck him when their eyes met. Almost without thinking, Sukuna reached out and, with a thumb, wiped away the wet streaks of tears lingering on Gojo’s flushed cheeks.
“I hope you’re not planning to reward all intruders like this,” Sukuna finally remarked, his gaze darting away as if to mask his thoughts.
Inwardly, he flinched at the sound of his own voice — too soft, too unguarded to fit him.
Gojo raised an eyebrow slightly, but there was a playful glint in his eye.
“Only the ones who do my dishes,” he replied casually, his voice carrying the familiar tone of a joke.
Sukuna grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, but instead of retorting, he delivered another sharp slap to Gojo’s butt. This time, Gojo merely laughed, his voice light and melodic.
Resigned, Sukuna fell onto the bed beside him. Gojo immediately took the opportunity to scoot closer, resting his head on Sukuna’s tattooed chest. Snow-white strands tickled Sukuna’s skin, and warm breaths fell gently against his collarbone.
“When I get back from school tomorrow…” Gojo began quietly, his tone unusually cautious. “Will you be here?”
Sukuna stared up at the ceiling, hiding the faint smile tugging at his lips. The answer was obvious to him, but he wasn’t about to make it too easy for Gojo. For a moment, he wrestled with the urge to simply kiss him then and there but ultimately decided to keep up his cover of indifference.
“I’ll be here,” he replied shortly, with a hint of reluctant acceptance.
Gojo drew in a breath as if he wanted to say something, but instead buried his face in Sukuna’s chest, hiding a smile that seemed to illuminate his entire being.
The next day, Sukuna sat on the bed, watching as Gojo rummaged through the clothes scattered on the floor. He rolled his eyes in disgust as the teacher sniffed the fabrics, trying to determine which one was fit to wear.
Still, he couldn’t help but smirk to himself, a sense of triumph washing over him as Gojo slipped on a dark turtleneck. Sukuna knew the man hadn’t chosen that outfit solely because of the weather.