Chapter Text
“Oh, he’s so cute, I just want to eat him up.”
Shoko never really understood that sentiment—or why people said it to babies as often as they did. It seemed extreme, almost grotesque. And, if she were being honest, counterintuitive.
If you were overwhelmed by love for something, why eat it? If you did, you wouldn’t be able to enjoy it anymore. It would be gone and you’d just be left with something worse than before.
She guessed that closeness of something being inside of you satiated that obsession, but Shoko preferred her obsessions to be things she could still see and touch.
But she didn’t remember being a baby and would probably never have one. So what did her opinion matter?
But At nineteen, standing on the balcony of her very first and very shitty apartment, it finally clicked. Her first real claim of independence and free will, and she was using it to watch her neighbor shove his tongue down the throat of a girl she’d never seen before—and likely never would again.
The girl’s pretty. And she’s not really a girl. She's a woman. At least 25. It makes Shoko feel inadequate.
And suddenly, Shoko understands it.
She wanted to eat him up.
To pick pieces of him out from between her teeth. To run her tongue over her lips afterward and find that he tasted like thick strawberry syrup—because what other flavor would pink hair have?
If she couldn’t consume him, there were other options.
Crawling into him through his chest. Settling there, quietly. She thought it would be warm inside him. Like she was being kept. She was okay with compromise.
She knows it’s weird. Gross, even.
But she doesn’t care.
It’s her head. She can do what she likes with it.
Shoko watches a little longer, cigarette hanging from the corner of her lips. It’s a little voyeuristic, and maybe a little perverted. But if privacy is what he wanted, she doubts he’d be doing this against his car in the parking lot for all of their weird ass neighbors to see. Herself included.
She watches him whisper into her mouth, his tongue tracing the outline of her ear. It looks kinda weird. But she doesn’t really mind.
She stubs out her cigarette on the railing, she’s bored now and tired of looking at something that’s not at all for her. She pulls her hair into a ponytail. It’s gotten longer, now hanging a bit past her shoulders.
She turns around and steps back into her apartment.
She’ll probably get off to the whole thing later.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
Shoko decides to call Satoru against her better judgment. And she sleeps with him against judgment in general.
She doesn’t enjoy his company, but she enjoys the sex, and she knows she can’t really have one without the other.
So, the phone rings twice.
“Hello?” Satoru answers, sounding half-bored.
On the other end, he’s sprawled across his couch in nothing but a pair of his shorts, because he’s a slob, his obnoxiously long leg hanging off the edge.
His TV flickers in front of him. A half-empty bowl of cereal rests on his stomach, spoon clinking lazily every time he takes a bite.
“What’re you doing?” She asks knowing that it’s most likely nothing.
“Watching a bathing suit competition,” he says easily, eyes still on the screen.
Shoko frowns, shifting her weight against her kitchen counter. “That’s gross, Satoru.”
“No it’s not.” He lifts the spoon to his mouth, chewing. “I bet you do it all the time.”
“watch them? What the hell would I get out of that?”
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “You seem like you would.”
“That doesn’t even sound like me.”
“Yeah it does. You’re kinda weird.”
“It doesn’t.”
He clicks his tongue, like she’s the unreasonable one. “It’s just like swimsuit shopping or something.”
“You know that’s not why anybody watches those.”
“Well, there’s nothing else on TV,” he says, stretching out more, scratching absently at his side. “And I’m bored. And now I’m in a mood.”
“Ew Satoru.”
He frowns.
“You act like my hand’s on my dick and I’m doing something about it.”
“How do I know you’re not.”
“Guess you don’t.”
“You’re such a pervert. I don’t know why I bother.”
“You called me.”
She pauses. “…Unfortunately.”
He grins a little at that, glancing down at his bowl. “Rude.”
“It’s true.”
“So? It still hurt my feelings.”
“It didn’t.”
“It did a little.” He eats another bite. Then, like it just occurs to him—“You’d be a cute swimsuit model, though.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
“You are.”
“I’m literally complimenting you.”
“I don’t want your pervy compliments.”
He shrugs. “Fine.”
She stops herself from telling him that he’s such a pig—not because she doesn’t want to, but because he really isn’t trying to piss her off. He’s not even being dense on purpose.
This is unfortunately just how he is.
On his end, the TV keeps playing—applause, music, someone laughing loudly. He barely notices anymore. He sets his empty bowl on the table, attention drifting back to the call.
“…So,” he says after a second, a little more focused now, “you gonna tell me why you called, or am I supposed to guess?”
He knew why, she only ever called him for one reason, but he got off on making her feel a little worse about it.
“What’re you doing tonight.”
“I mean Suguru’s doing fuck all and didn’t extend an invite, some roommate he is. So…um nothing. I'm doing nothing.”
Shoko leaned back on her counter, her tank top riding up her waist as she did. If he came over, he was going to talk a lot. And take forever to leave. He was gonna drool on her pillows and probably on her. Her apartment was going to smell like him afterwards. She was going to smell like him afterwards.
Whatever.
“Come over”
There’s a pause, like he’s thinking about it. If Satoru ever turned down sex with her she doesn’t really know what she’d do. Probably hang up and never talk to him again.
“Y’know we wouldn’t have to keep doing this if you just moved back in.”
“I’d rather move back in with my parents.”
For the three of them, living together had long since stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like the default.
Technically, they’d only shared a lease for under a year, but that was just paperwork—semantics, really. In every way that mattered, they’d been in each other’s space for most of their adolescence. Boarding school had a way of collapsing distance like that.
But they weren’t in school anymore.
And still, Suguru and Satoru remained so wrapped up in each other that they didn’t notice she was miserable—at least, not until it became something that inconvenienced them.
He chose not to push it.
“Yeah, Give me an hour.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
He shows up an hour later.
Shoko’s stretched across her couch, half-sunk into the cushions, watching something trashy but entertaining. A game show—people caught at awful angles, tripping over themselves, saying the wrong thing at the worst time. The kind you can’t help but laugh at, even if you feel a little bad about it after.
Her TV still isn’t mounted, just propped up against the box it came in, slightly crooked.
The door opens without a knock and takeout bags in hand.
Satoru lets himself in, like he lives there, and smiles, easy knowing she most likely hadn’t moved since their phone call.
You need to start locking your door,” he says, nudging it shut with his foot. “That’s how people end up murdered.”
Okay.” She’s in a bit of a mood and he’s amused.
“Okay,’” he repeats. “What’re you watching?”
He walks over and pokes her cheek with his index finger. She doesn’t look at him. “Something I think you’d like.”
He looks at the screen. “Doubt it.”
“Mm.”
He lingers there for a second anyway, waiting for something else. Acknowledgement, maybe, but she doesn’t bother to give it, and that’s something Satoru decides he’s fine with.
He hums under his breath and climbs over the back of the couch instead of going around, and drops on top of her.
His head lands on her exposed stomach, legs hanging off the side.
Shoko exhales through her nose.
“I can’t breathe.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
“Mammoth.”
“I actually wouldn’t watch this,” he says, not interested enough to argue with her, his eyes already fixed on the screen.
She frowns.
“Why? ’Cause it’s not cable porn?”
“No,” he says, offended in a way that couldn’t be described as genuine. “I don’t like watching normal people getting laughed at and competing for stupid amounts of money.”
“It’s a lot of money.”
“After taxes?”
She hums. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“I think it’s cruel.”
Shoko looks down at him.
“You’re so full of shit.”
Satoru’s brows pull together, more confused than anything.
“Why’re you in such a shitty mood?”
“What?”
He groans under his breath, irritation slipping through, and leans down pressing a sloppy kiss to her stomach, his lip
catching briefly on her piercing.
“You’re being combative on purpose.”
“Am not.”
“Whatever.” She can feel his tongue on her skin.
Shoko’s known Satoru longer than she’s known a lot of people, and she thinks that’s a large reason as to why she treats him the way that she does, and why he lets himself be treated this way. She doesn’t actually think Satoru has enough self respect to tell her any different. If he did he wouldn’t be here.
His foot starts swinging idly off the couch again.
On the TV, someone wipes out hard. The audience erupts.
Satoru snorts.
What a liar.
“You ever thought about dyeing your hair”
“What,” he mutters, nudging his head.
She shrugs “Y’know, something different.”
“I think white is already pretty different.”
She reaches down and rakes a hand through his hair.
“It was really white when we were younger. It’s more of a silver now.”
He wraps his arms around her waist.
“Still.”
She drums her fingers on the base of his scalp.
“A pink would be cute.”
He scrunches his nose at the thought.
“Pink?”
“Yeah.”
“Does anyone un-ironically have pink hair?”
She lets her head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“Some people do.”
He grins a little to himself, still watching the TV.
“Sure, Shoko.”
Shoko’s never wanted to eat Satoru. She’s accepted that consumption is allegorical for affection, and he’s never been something that she really wants. Just has because there’s nothing else to eat.
She wants to throw him up immediately after she’s had him.
She feels gross and fat. She thinks she’s allergic to him.
Shoko sighs. “I’m bored.”
Satoru groans, still slouched where he is. “It’s almost over. I don’t want to get up right now.”
“Then what’re you here for?”
He shifts at that, pushing himself up enough to lean over her. Close, but not all the way. He dips his head and nips lightly at her nose, more absentminded than anything.
Stupidly trying to be cute towards a girl who was never going to find him endearing.
She presses her hand to his face and nudges him back, but he doesn’t really move, still hovering there.
“To spend time with you, of course.”
Shoko lifts her hips, the two of them physically meeting where it’s most familiar. A little difficult to do with his weight over her.
“Then spend time with me.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
She’d said she was going to kick him out after. She meant it, too, at least at the time. But then he whined, and then he begged, and now he was in her bed, on her side.
Satoru never stayed still when he slept. He sprawled, something he never grew out of, took up space like it was second nature. Now he’s face-down, snoring softly, one knee pushed over into her half.
It annoys her but not enough to say something about it. She knows she should have more of a backbone when it comes to him.
She doesn’t.
Shoko slips out of bed without bothering to be quiet. It wouldn’t matter anyway—he sleeps like he’s dead.
She pulls his shirt over her head as she goes, the fabric hanging loose on her frame, and lets herself out the front door. Normally she’d just smoke on the balcony, but the smell tends to linger inside, and Satoru complains about it like he’s a big ass baby.
So she heads outside instead, crouching into a squat, and feels homeless outside of her own home. Her cigarette is already between her fingers as she lights it.
She still smokes a lot. Just not for the sake of stress. There’s not much going on in her life right now, so it’s just something to do.
She plays around with it for a bit, thinking of calling her mom. Knowing she most likely won’t.
“You should do that somewhere else, huh?”
Shoko knows a few things about him.
He’s twenty-seven. Eight years older than her. That doesn’t at all bother her.
He lives on the fourth floor—two above her. He’s got an eyebrow, a lip, and a tongue piercing, all of them looking slightly uneven.
And there’s a kid.
Or—there was. She’s seen him with one, at least. Damn near identical to him. Down to the hair, which she still couldn’t tell if it was natural or not.
That doesn’t mean anything. People borrow kids. Babysit. Get divorced. He’s old enough to have been married before which makes her laugh a little.
If it is his, then there’s a mother. There has to be. And if there isn’t, that’s worse. Or better. Either way, she wants to know.
Not only about the kid.
About him.
And, more specifically, does he like brunettes?
She swallows. Sukuna and Shoko. It sounds good together. It’s probably the S’s.
“Excuse me?” She pushes to her feet.
“Smoking. It’s bad for you.”
“Oh—do you not?”
“Not out here. Yuji runs up and down this hall.”
“Yuji?”
“The kid. He’s probably the only one in this complex.”
“Your kid?”
He lets out a short laugh. “Fuck no. My brother’s. He just lives with me.”
“Oh.”
He’s big. Not in an over-the-top or intimidating way—just solid. By nature.
Like Satoru, she thinks at first. But it’s not the same.
Where Satoru 's height and loose limbs, something very youthful about the way he moves.
He tilts his head, the metal of his piercing catching slightly as his brow lifts.
“Why?” he asks. “You don’t like kids?”
She exhales smoke to the side, away from him more out of habit than consideration. “I don’t know any.”
He watches her for a second.
“How old are you?”
There’s no real curiosity in it.
And for a second, Shoko really, really wants to lie.
“I’m nineteen.”
He gives a short, quiet huff—almost a laugh.
“Hmm. Makes sense.”
Her brows pull together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re a kid,” he says plainly.
Shoko suddenly feels very stupid.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he cuts in, not really looking at her anymore. His eyes flick to the cigarette in her hand, then back to her face very passively. “You look like one. You act like one.”
Shoko isn’t offended. She knows she should be, but she isn’t.
A part of her really wants him to tell her how dumb she is.
Spell it out. Sit her down like she’s fucking stupid and walk her through it step by step—percentages, outcomes, slow, inevitable consequences. Charred lungs and shortened lifespans
“Whatever,” she mutters, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. “You don’t know anything.”
“Sure,” he says, already losing interest. “Just smoke on your balcony. I don’t want yuji getting cancer.”
She grinds the cigarette into the floor with the heel of her
cheap flip-flop, twisting until it’s smeared in the ground.
By the time she looks up to see his face, he’s already walking away from her.
Asshole.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞