second life

Sukuna likes to think that you’ve changed him for the better— his friends and family agree. He’s calmer, less eager to fight. The man who once thrived in chaos now looks forward to the small moments of stillness life has to offer, often he goes out seeking for it. He’s more patient, has more control over himself. 

Many people ask him how he did it, and he just shrugs. “Gettin’ old I guess,” he’ll sometimes tell people. 

Truth is, he’d rather die than admit that change comes easy when you have a girlfriend at home who tells you to shut the fuck up if you sneeze too many times in a row. He doesn’t need them thinking that’s another thing he’s not allowed to do. He is. You’ll even say bless you the first time he does it, you just get annoyed after the third one. It’s like Regina George and Satan had a baby when you’re annoyed, so he’s learned not to annoy you. 

Crazy definitely has a look to it, like the eyes or something, but not always. Sometimes you find out the hard way, like Sukuna did, who, at a very ignorant time in his life, didn’t want to do dishes. He thought reminding you of who pays the most in rent and utilities would get him out of it. Instead, he found out that you had a kill switch for the part of your brain that feels empathy. 

He slept on the couch that night, which was pointless because you committed to turning on the fire alarm every time he managed to fall asleep. Then he went out and bought a dishwasher the next morning, since he was going to be the one doing dishes for the next three months. He also had to buy a new set of dishes since there weren’t any to actually load the dishwasher with. You broke them all, save for the one you hurled at his head. You have great aim, by the way. He almost didn’t catch it. 

That wasn’t the end of his day, though. The flower shop was supposed to be his last stop, but then he remembered you said something about feeling sorry for his mother, and thank god for Jin because she would’ve gone through labor for nothing, and thank god for Jin again because every parent needs at least one kid to be proud of, so he went ahead and bought his mother some flowers, too. 

Then he finally went home. Getting the cold shoulder was expected and well deserved. So you could only imagine how unsettling it was when you smiled and welcomed him back home as if nothing ever happened. To this day, he doubts he needed to bring home any flowers.

It’d be nice to say that was the one and only time he’s ever fucked around and found out with you, but he’s not perfect. He still isn’t. The slip ups are rare, but they still happen, and he still never knows how you’ll react— sometimes it’s instant, you’ll blow up right then and there, then get over it an hour later. Other times it’s delayed, and you’ll shell out weeks' worth of time and effort purely for your entertainment.

Like when he got off work on a random Tuesday and spent half an hour walking around the parking garage, all pissed off because he couldn’t find his car. He thought some asshole stole it, filed a police report, and everything. Only to find out that you hid it in some random parking garage in some town a couple of hours away, and spent two entire months acting shocked about it despite shelling out $300 each month for the parking permit.

There was also the time he showed up to work on a Monday and learned that he had sent his boss a particularly nasty resignation email over the weekend. He got his job back, but it took a good amount of convincing since his boss didn’t believe that you’d do something like that. Sometimes he thinks about what would’ve happened if he couldn’t get his job back— you probably would’ve pushed him out of the house the very next day to look for a new one, since you refused to take on any more bills after that first fight.

He was convinced that was it. That your spite had reached its fullest potential when you fucked with his job, a.k.a both of your livelihoods, and it’ll surely make everything else after look like child’s play. He couldn't come up with anything worse than that, and it was a direct result of his limited creativity. There’s always room for improvement. You can alwaysbe worse.

You proved that when you hit him with his car. 

All he was trying to do was stop you from leaving after an argument, and chose not to believe that you’d hit him if he didn’t move. Why would he? It’s not like he cheated on you. He never lied to you. He thought you were only saying that because you wanted to make him feel bad for yelling at you— that wasn’t a good enough reason to hit someone with a car. Especially when he didn’t even curse! 

He had a little more faith in you than that. 

Let’s say you did try, it'd probably just be a small tap. Your love may be questionable at times, but it was there, and you don’t want to send the person you love flying across the street. You care about him. The most you’d do is take your foot off the brake so your car could give him a little warning bump.

Then the smell of burning rubber hits his nose. 

You stepped on the gas so god damn hard that the tires needed a second to gain traction. 

Sukuna is 6 '4, a whopping 250 lbs of pure muscle. The sound of his tires screeching into the air before taking off made his life flash before his eyes. Despite being worried for a moment there, he was physically fine.

Spiritually, however? Not very good. You made it a personal goal to knock the fucking Mario coins out of him and then watched him get up on his own right after, absolutely distraught and barking about how he couldn’t believe you just did that to him. 

He’s so pissed he doesn’t even realize you turned back around instead of leaving like you said you would.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHO DOES SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!”

It’s hard to take him seriously when he’s like this— so far past the point of shock that he’s outraged, yelling as if he wanted God to truly grasp how bad of a day he’s having. 

You’re still in the car, hand on the steering wheel, casually scanning over his burly frame for any bruising. “I told you to move three separate times.” 

“SO YOU TRIED TO MURDER ME? I COULD’VE FUCKING DIED.”

“I wasn’t trying to murder you, Sukuna.” The accusation sounds ridiculous when you repeat it. Sure, you would’ve understood and agreed if it had come from someone else, but not Sukuna. He’s practically bulletproof with how quick he can bounce back. You wouldn’t have hit him if he wasn’t. “You’re fine, aren't you?”

“THAT DOESN’T CHANGE THE FACT THAT YOU JUST HIT ME WITH MY OWN CAR, YOU FUCKING SLUT.”

“This wouldn’t be an issue if you had just moved.” It’s simple, but the way you laughed while saying it just made you sound cruel. You weren’t trying to make fun of him— you just don’t know what he expected after you told him exactlywhat would happen if he didn’t step aside. 

Sukuna should’ve taken his time getting back on his feet because you did not deserve reassurance in knowing what you did was technically okay. In fact, he shouldn’t have gotten up at all— you wouldn’t be laughing then if you had to watch him getting hauled off in an ambulance.

But no, he got nothing. No broken bones or fractures. No concussions, not even dizziness. Not even a scratch. He was alive and well, and that in itself only enabled your behavior. It pissed him off knowing there was nothing for you to see and feel guilt from as a result.

Instead, he received the complete opposite from you: Lust. 

You took one good look at him later that night in the living room and went from thinking “who cares, he’s fine,” to something fucking crazy and along the lines of, “holy shit, getting hit by a car is nothing for him.” You didn’t even apologize— you just went straight to talking to him like he was some random chick at the bar.

Sukuna naturally thought that getting hit by a car would be a one-time thing. But your sudden shift in perspective made him realize that there’s nothing stopping you from doing it again if you wanted— he was done for, yet it wouldn’t be much of a surprise coming from you.

“What about your ribs?” 

“Dunno. M’sure they’re fine.” 

Your hands were already bunching up the bottom of his t-shirt, and like an idiot, he was allowing it, raising his arms so you could strip him down and pretend to “look” for bruises. You could’ve tried a little harder. Instead, you’re shamelessly running your fingers down the lines of his abs with some unhinged and sexually explicit thought running through your head.

“Evil whore.”

“What?”

Well fuck. He didn’t mean to say that outloud. No use in backtracking now, though. 

“You heard me,” he grumbles, looking away. “Hope you’re happy with yourself.”

“Oh no— never.” It’s not very convincing when you’re running your hand down his skin. “You sure you’re not in any pain?”

“Nope,” he boredly says. 

“Good.” You try not to smile at how butthurt he sounds. “....Was there something you wanted to say?”

“Nope.” He repeats himself.

“You sure? You seem kinda pent up.”

“Positive.”

“Mad maybe?” You hummed as your fingers reached his waistband, tracing along the elastic. 

He laughed in disbelief. “Now what could I possibly be mad about?”

The sarcasm easily slipped out. He was still pissed, rightfully so, throwing a miniature fit in the way he does best. By being condescending.

His laugh was met with a lighthearted shrug. “Well… at first I thought it was because I hit you. But I did tell you exactly what I’d do if you didn’t move, so I guess there is no reason to be mad.”

“Sure.” He continued to smile despite his tone flattening. “Even though you don’t actually need a reason to not hit someone.”

As if he wasn’t already annoyed, you decided to send him over the edge with a contemplative hum, as if it’d ever be up for debate. “I guess. A snake doesn’t need a reason to bite you either, but you still wouldn’t count on not getting bit because of some principle.”

He takes a deep breath in an attempt to push down his frustration. You are really testing him right now with that smart ass mouth of yours. “Yeah, but are you a wild animal?”

“Nope,” you smile, snapping the waistband of his boxer against his skin. “Wild animals don’t give you verbal warnings.”

“How kind of you,” he mutters, tone laced with sarcasm. “I’ll make sure to remember that next time you threaten to hit me.”

“Smart. It probably won’t happen again, though.”

He deadpans and stares off into space for a moment over how bleak and underpromising you made the statement sound. “...You say probably as if you don’t have control over the vehicle?”

“I mean, I do… but—”

“There is no ‘but’, that’s a fact,” he stutters out of frustration as he begins to argue. “You put it in drive and smashed your foot on the gas pedal.”

“So you are mad?” Your lips purse together, innocently drawing circles over his stomach.

His brows pinch together, once again looking at you with a mixture of betrayal and disbelief. No shit he’s fucking mad, can still smell the rubber burning off his tires. You laughed at him once, and it is still haunting him. “Wouldn’t you be mad?”

“I don’t stand in front of the cars, so I wouldn’t know,” you shrug, pretending to be blind to his bubbling frustration. 

He steps back and runs his hand down his face, fighting off the urge to gouge his eyes out. He knows exactly what you’re doing right now, and the answer’s no. You’re raigebaiting your way into getting dick. You don’t deserve it— plain and simple. There was no way in hell he was going to reward today’s behavior. 

“That’s not the point. You don’t hit people with cars just because you can.” You’re lucky he’s even letting you touch him right now— you should be in jail. He leans in and taps his temple, eyes zeroing in on you. “How is that not getting through your head— it’s fucking wrong.”

“I know it’s wrong, I never said it wasn’t.” You tap at your temple the same exact way he did, and spell the next words out nice and slow. “That’s why you should move so it doesn’t happen.”

“I’m your BOYFRIEND,” he finally snaps, forgetting that’s what got him in this predicament to begin with. “I TAKE CARE OF YOU AND YOU SENT ME FLYING ACROSS THE STREET GOD DAMN IT.”

He wasn’t sent flying across the street, the reason for that being directly tied to how heavy he is. Not that you tell him that, the idea of you being the reason behind that is already tearing him apart enough. He’s also most likely embarrassed at those 2 seconds his feet were off the ground. Those must’ve been the longest 2 seconds of his life, given how he doesn’t get his world rocked too often.

“Alright, fine. I’m sorry–”

“FOR?”

Definitely embarrassed. You find yourself having to keep yourself from looking annoyed at the thought of him dragging out as big of an apology as he can from you for the sake of his bruised ego. 

You close your eyes and sigh in preparation. “For thinking it was okay to hit you with a car when it shouldn’t even be a consideration in the first place.” His arms are crossed as he soaks up each and every word. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had a mental list of points that needed to be brought up to make the apology valid. “It should’ve been off limits. You deserve to have peace in knowing our arguments won’t end with you getting struck down like a bowling pin.” 

His face drops as he watches you needing to look away to keep yourself from laughing. “Seriously?”

“Sorry,” you clear your throat. 

“Tch– I don’t believe you anymore,” he grumbles. 

“No! I’m being serious,” you swear, grabbing his arm with both hands as you try to get him to look at you. “I really am sorry.”

He takes one look at you and feels nothing but reluctance. “And you’re never gonna pull that shit again, right?”

“Mhm.” You nod your head, knowing you don’t actually know the answer to that. It doesn't do much in terms of setting him straight— all it did was make him more dramatic, but it was satisfying. You can’t see it happening again in the foreseeable future, but you can see yourself randomly remembering how durable he is after you two have forgotten this incident, and doing it again. You place your hands on his chest as you part your lips to make a promise you don’t mind breaking. “That is not something you have to worry about from here on out.”

“Alright.” 

There’s a certain satisfaction missing from his tone when he mutters the word, and you realize it’s not just your imagination when he pulls his arm away from your hold to cross both of them against his chest. You’re not sure what more he could want, but the contemplative look on his face tells you he’s thinking about it right now. 

He got the apology he wanted and your word that you’ll never do it again, yet he can’t help but feel like it came too easily, and that you should’ve worked a little harder. He’s pushing his luck again, he knows, buuut maybe today’s one of the days where he can get away with that. Sukuna just doesn’t  exactly know what he wants. 

Did he want to grill you some more, get some revenge over the new (and traumatic) memory you gave him? Or did he want to rid himself of some of his pent up tension that you pointed out? Fuck, then that’d mean his punishment for you would end before you even knew about it. He wanted to see your face after being told no. 

Decisions, decisions. 

Well he could also have you—

“Kay’,” you break him out of his thoughts, the satisfaction missing in his tone is crystal clear in yours. “I’m gonna go wash my face now.”

Whoa, hold on a minute?! It’s only been a few seconds, you see him thinking. 

“No. Stay,” he murmurs. 

There was a part of him that was hesitant about that working— there was a chance you’d slap the shit out of him for ordering you around like a dog. Seeing you murmur a little ‘ok’ and actually staying was a pleasant surprise, and confirmation that he could push it a little today. The only thing missing was some sort of regret or guilt on your face. It’s more like you’re just listening to him because you figured he deserved it for once with how bored you look. 

Whatever. He’ll take what he can get. 

He sighs. “The apology was nice and all, but I think you’re gonna have to prove how sorry you are with this one.”

You look at him like he’s a clown and huff out a laugh. “You want me to prove how sorry I am?”

“Mhm. You don’t have to, though,” he shrugs, voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Just figured you’d like the option since it’s either that, or wait until I actually forgive you to get fucked.”

He nearly laughs at the way that instantly wipes the smile off your face. It’s not often he tells you no— it shows in the way you struggle to come up with an answer. Not because you're speechless, you’re just trying to figure out what can be said to change his mind. 

“So it’s either I beg for forgiveness or get punished because you can’t accept my apology?” You force out a small laugh, the regret that Sukuna’s been looking for finally peeking through in your voice. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You and me both, princess,” he says in amusement. “It’s a good thing you don’t need to beg when you’re trying to prove something. I wouldn’t call it a punishment either. It’s more like a boundary— had to set one with you since I don’t really like you right now.” 

You scoff as you watch him start to walk away. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Your failed attempt at guilting Sukuna pulls an airy, satisfied laugh out of him as he walks back to the bedroom. “The choice is yours, sweetheart. You know what to do if you decide to go with the first option.”

—

At first, you’re disgusted and refuse to prove how sorry you are. If he didn’t want to accept your original apology, then that was his problem. He can have fun fucking his fist for all you care. You looked at the bright side of things— you got to have a quiet evening since he decided to stay in the room the entire time, save for when he came out to eat dinner. 

He had the audacity to ask if he could have some of the food you cooked, but that’s how he found out you had decided to retaliate by giving him the silent treatment. It didn’t come as a surprise, nor did it make him question his decisions. If anything, he was quite pleased with how bothered you were. That just meant you’d reach a point where you’d fold and come to him. 

He just had to wait, guessing it’d take around 5-6 days until you grow tired of throwing a silent tantrum and start to miss him.

It took 2. 

Now you see why he doesn’t bother leaving? Dealing with you can be a nightmare sometimes, but that was only 10% of it. The rest of it was smothering him with affection, which you clearly love to do and miss if you’re sitting at the edge of the bed 2 days later. 

His back’s against the headboard, arms folded over his chest, looking a little too pleased to see you break your silence. 

“Missed me?”

“Please don’t tease me right now,” you murmur, clearly struggling with the defeat. 

“I’m not,” he hums, though the laugh he had to suppress said otherwise. “Anyways, what's up?”

You question your decision each time he opens his mouth. He’s making this so much harder than it should be right now and enjoying it way too much while he’s at it. 

You pick at your cuticles at the other end of the bed— the lack of eye contact you’ve made with him leads him to believe you’re more nervous than you let on. He’s wrong. It’s a little hard trying to mask your annoyance at the moment, and cowering in place does a decent job of hiding it.

“I thought about what you said.”

“Yeah?” The smug grin across his cheeks grows. 

“Yeah. I’m tired of fighting,” you look up and say, crossing a leg over the other. “I miss how we normally are.” 

“Me too,” he hums, already undressing you with his eyes because he’s a fucking pervert. “Glad it didn’t take too long either, missed hearing your voice.”

You nod, holding back a smile. “Not really sure what you’re looking for, though.”

“Nothing crazy,” he hums, the shrug he followed it with wasn’t too convincing. “All you gotta do is be nice to me— extra nice.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all,” he confirms, sinking back some more against the headboard. “You know how to be a good girl, I’ve seen it. That shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

“No,” you softly say. 

“Let me see it then— come here,” he hums, curling his finger in to beckon you closer. You start to stand, but he stops you. “Crawl.”

And crawling, at least right now, doesn’t feel very degrading. It’s the way he looks at you when you do, you’ve never wanted to smack him more. Once you’re kneeling beside him, he reaches over and slowly runs the back of his finger across your jaw. 

“So you miss how we normally are, huh?” The broad question gets a nod from you, already knowing where he was going with this. “You’re normally pretty touchy— you miss that, too? Getting to touch me whenever you want?”

“Mhm.” 

His finger traces down the side of your neck and across your shoulder, making your breath catch. 

“Bet you miss having your mouth on me too, huh?”

You give a soft smile when his hand traces back up, cupping your cheek. “Yeah.”

“Think I might just miss that more,” he slips his thumb into your mouth, lightly pressing down on your tongue. “You know how much I love stuffing my cock in here.”

You still out of surprise. That’s what he wanted? Head? What an idiot, he could’ve just said that instead of making it seem like getting his forgiveness was some sinister task.

“Is that what you want?” you ask when his thumb pulls back.

“Mhm,” he smiles. “Look at you. I didn’t even have to ask.”

He continued to be stubborn, making you be the one to pull his sweatpants down by his waistband. You didn’t mind all that much. He may be a little shit, but it’s easy to wave it off when you're freeing his cock from his boxers. Just looking at it, how long and thick it is, sends heat in between your legs. Littered with thick veins, big red tip already smeared with precum, throbbing, begging for attention.

“Spit on it, get it all wet,” he murmurs, lids lowering at the sight of the thick string of saliva falling from your lips and landing on the thick head of his cock. “Yeahh— you know what I like.”

The sight’s filthy from the start when it’s just him telling you to spit on it some more, and more, and more. The entire time, there’s a slight pinch in his brow as he spreads it all from base to tip in a way that was slow and controlled, and hard to ignore. By the time the wet sounds of him stroking his cock could be heard, you were desperately squeezing your thighs together. 

Watching his hand slow to a stop was a shame at first, but what followed took over your mind completely. 

“Stick that tongue out for me— yeah that’s it, let me see it,” he murmurs, cock throbbing in his grip as he starts to tap the heavy tip of it against your tongue, hearing the weight of it behind each one. “Ready to put this pretty little mouth to work?”

“Yeah,” you murmur all sweetly, already in a daze. 

“Good,” he chuckles. “Swirl your tongue around it.” 

He watches you lean forward and do just that. Biting the bottom of his lip as you slowly drag your tongue all around his swollen head, salty remnants of precum hitting your taste buds with each flick and drag. Sukuna groans, abs tensing at your fingers digging into his thighs. 

“Fuuck yeah.” He moves some of your hair out of the way to get a better look. “Suck on it for me, the tip— shit, just like that.” 

As much as he loved the idea of making you beg, you really won’t ever have to. Watching you hollow your cheeks and pull away with a wet pop was enough. He rubs on the back of your neck as you do it again. “Feels fuckin good when you do that— so sweet with it, too.”

A soft hum passes through your lips, pulling back with another pop. He had plans to drag this out, but grows impatient at the sight of your glossy lips and the string of saliva connecting them to his head. His hand slightly tightens on the back of your neck and pushes you in closer, rubbing his tip over your lips. 

“Open up,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he watches your lips part. “Go deeper. Show me how sorry you are.” 

You feel both his hands go to the back of your head as you wrap your lips around his tip, gently bobbing your head as you inch further and further down his length, beginning to breathe through your nose the deeper you go. 

His grip tightens as he starts hitting the back of your throat, throwing his head back with a gravelly, drawn out groan. For a minute, it felt like there was something missing, only for his ears to perk up just moments later when your nose hits his base with a small gag. 

“There you go,” he huffs out a condescending laugh. At first he thinks to tell you to keep gagging on it, but then he has a better idea. “Open wide, princess. Gonna stretch this throat out.” 

You pull up for air, revealing your teary eyes and wet lashes as you take a moment to breathe, and Sukuna thinks to himself how he’s never seen anyone so beautiful. Kinda like a Ursula in her human form type of beauty, given how much of a monster you are. Just cruel and evil. 

He grins and pushes your head back down. 

“Mmm, that’s it— relax it for me,” he says with a low rasp. “Gonna fuck this tight little throat of yours.” 

Holding your head in place, he starts snapping his hips up, stuffing his fat cock down your throat with each thrust. Obscene slurping sounds mixed in with some of your moans fill the air as drool poured out of your mouth, making a mess around the base of his cock, earning his nasty praise. “Look at the mess you're making, you love this, huh? Such a good girl with my cock stuffed in your mouth. Keep it up and I might just stuff your pussy next.”

You make a sound, and it’s almost hopeful, as if you were asking, “Really?” 

“Doesn’t that sound nice?” He thrusts up harder, enjoying the fact that you physically can’t talk right now. “Shit— m’gonna cum,” he murmurs through ragged breaths. “Look at you, did so good and now you get to have your throat filled.”

A low groan vibrates through his chest, swallowing thickly as he picks up the pace. Your nails dig into his thighs, hardly able to keep up and nearly drawing blood once you feel warm, thick spurts of cum begin to coat the back of your throat. 

You’d think he’d be more spent with how hard he fucked your throat, but nope. The cocky, blissful sigh that slipped through his lips as you tried to get yourself together was all you needed to know. 

He’s not the best when it comes to staying mad, at least with you. It’s pretty clear by now that this entire thing was just a ploy to make him feel more wanted, because he’s annoying. And pathetic. 

Not that you get much time to simmer on the thought. It’s like you blink and suddenly you’re on your back, folded in half underneath him. Knees pinned to your chest, ankles up to your ears. Mentally, he’s gone. Too focused on rubbing the fat head of his cock against your hole, spreading your slick up and down your folds. Slow and intentional, enjoying the way you squirm in his hold.  

That’s about the last of his patience, because seconds later, he’s bottoming out and you’re gasping from the sudden fullness. 

“Fuckin’ tight,” he groans through a clenched jaw. His hips draw back, only pulling out halfway through before shoving himself back in with a resounding squelch. “Soaked, too. Is this what you wanted?”

“Y-yeah,” is all you could get out with all the weight he’s putting on you, keeping you locked down in the world’s meanest mating press. 

“Two days is all this slutty pussy could take, huh?” He barely suppresses a laugh as he snaps his hips forward again, pulling another gasped moan out of you. “Better not start crying about how it’s too much then.”  

It’s always too much, but this time he fucks you in a way where you can’t even get the words out. He just has you in straight up tears while he spends the next hour drilling into your sweet spot as if it were your punishment for making his life a living hell every few months. 

While you spent your two days annoyed with him, he spent his saving enough energy to be able to pull back to back orgasms out of you like it was nothing. Going as far as taunting you when he felt you starting to tighten around his cock again, and then laughing after making you squirt once more after god knows how many times, talking about how, “that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Fuck him.

You clearly didn’t hate him that much, though. Yeah, you did go radio silent a couple of times, and there may have been a moment where you truly thought you were going to pass out, but that didn’t stop you from begging him to cum inside of you in the end. 

He may have also teased you at first, asking if you deserved it, forgetting his place for a moment there. 

But you always get what you want. 

Even in the end, when you’re cuddling, and he’s murmuring sweet words into your ear, not knowing what the hell he’s even talking about when he says how much of a sweet girl you are and how you were his sweet girl.

Sukuna gets nothing but a curt “shh” in response. 

“What?” he snorts, still in a lovesick mood. 

There's a smile when you sigh. “The sound of your voice is ruining it right now for me, baby. I need you to be quiet or get lost.” 

he props himself up on his elbows and squints at you like he’s trying to work through a problem set. “you’ve kissed people.”

“that does not count,” you say. “that’s like saying i can write a crime novel because i’ve watched csi.”

he laughs, the sound filling the room and doing that familiar thing where it loosens something in your chest without you realizing it needed loosening. this is why he’s your best friend. this is why he’s safe. this is why he’s absolutely not an option.

“okay, okay,” he says. “what about that guy from your econ class? the one who’s always asking to borrow a pen.”

“no.” you wrinkle your nose without even thinking. “too dorky.”

“too dorky?” he snorts. “oh, and you’re not?”

“shut up,” you say, shoving his shoulder.

he grabs your wrist and suddenly you’re both laughing, shoving, the mattress bouncing under you, the same stupid routine you’ve been doing since you were kids, elbows and knees familiarity, until you flop back onto the bed in unison staring at the ceiling fan as it ticks around.

“i just need,” you say, breathless, “like… an idea. a miracle. someone who actually knows what they’re doing to walk through that door and save me.”

the door opens.

“can you two shut the hell up?” sukuna’s voice cuts in, low and rough with sleep. “some of us are trying to rest.”

you sit up too fast.

he’s standing there shirtless, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded, sweats hanging low on his hips like they’ve given up on decency altogether, and your brain does something traitorous and stupid where it just stalls out for half a second.

“y—yeah, sorry,” you say automatically, words tumbling out before you can stop them.

yuji groans. “we weren’t even that loud.”

“you were,” sukuna says, dragging a hand down his face. his gaze flicks to you—then back to his brother. “keep it down.”

the door shuts. the room doesn’t go back to normal.

you glance at yuji. “wait—what is he doing here?”

yuji yawns. “oh. he just stopped by earlier to grab some stuff from the garage but then he, like, crashed on the couch and didn’t move. don’t mind him. you know how he always is.”

you don’t answer right away. because no, actually. you don’t. not recently.

you haven’t seen sukuna in months. not like this—not at home, not post-nap and shirtless. he goes to school on the other side of town. he doesn’t hang around.

sometimes he’ll show up for holidays or birthdays or the occasional guilt-trip dinner, but that’s it. lately it’s been like he only exists on instagram stories and through yuji’s complaints about him stealing snacks or dodging calls from their mom.

so why the hell is he here now?

and why does it feel like the air got thinner just from the sound of his voice?

you stare at the closed door for a second too long.

your brain tries to fill in the blanks—how many times you used to see him slumped in that doorway growing up, how he was always there in the background, grumpy and mean, lowkey a bully. always had something smart to say. always had to win.

but then he’d turn around and walk you home when it got dark. scare off anyone who tried to mess with you. defend you before you ever learned how to do it yourself. he’d deny it if you ever brought it up, but you remember. you remember all of it.

you remember the way he used to look at you like you were just there, something annoying and permanent.

so why did that look just now feel different?

you shake your head, hard, and look back at yuji, at your laptop, at the blinking cursor.

“anyway,” you say quickly, “that’s definitely not happening.”

“what’s not happening?” he asks.

“nothing,” you say. “ignore me. i’ll figure it out.”

you don’t look at the door again.

—-

you leave yuji’s room later with your laptop tucked under your arm and the same empty document burned into the backs of your eyes, cursor still blinking behind your eyelids like it followed you out just to be petty, like it wants you to know you didn’t escape anything by standing up and walking away.

nothing written. not even a sentence you can pretend you’ll fix later. just white space and that stupid blinking line, waiting.

you walk across campus alone, the air colder than you expected, hands shoved into your sleeves, dorm lights glowing in other people’s windows like proof that everyone else has somewhere to be, something figured out.

but friday is tomorrow.

and fridays are automatic. fridays are routine. fridays are yuji’s place and takeout and sitting around too long and staying later than you mean to. fridays are something you don’t have to plan for—you just show up.

which means you may have the chance to see sukuna again.

and then, because your brain hates you, it does the worst possible thing and starts filling in blanks you didn’t ask it to.

you think about what it would be like if it were him—his hands on you, like when he’s shown you how to do things before, the way he never rushes, the way he explains without making you feel stupid, like teaching is just another thing he’s good at.

you imagine his voice, telling you where to put your hands, what actually matters, what doesn’t, correcting you when you get it wrong without ever raising his voice.

you picture the way he stood in the doorway earlier, loose gray sweats hanging low on his hips, fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that there’s very little left to the imagination there, like your brain clocked it before you could stop it, it catalogued the shape and weight of it without asking for permission.

you think about what’s under them and hate how easily the thought settles, how it slots into place like it always belonged there.

stop.

your pace stutters, heart kicking hard against your ribs, and you squeeze your eyes shut like that might help.

this isn’t you. this isn’t something you think about. not about him. he’s yuji’s brother. he’s always been around. he’s annoying and familiar and not someone your brain is supposed to go quiet over. you’re just stressed. you’re just spiraling. you’re just projecting because you want answers, and he sounds like one.

that’s all this is.

you force yourself to breathe, to keep walking, to shove the image back where it came from, but it lingers anyway—his hands, his voice, the certainty of him knowing exactly what to do and exactly how to explain it to you.

stop, you tell yourself again, more firmly this time.

why now?

why him?

you’ve known him forever. he’s always been there—nothing about him has changed. so why does it suddenly feel different, like something tilted when you weren’t looking? like your chest tightened for no good reason, like you noticed his voice in a way you never have before?

you walk down the path thinking anyone but him over and over, like if you repeat it enough it’ll stick, like it’ll reroute your brain onto a safer track. anyone else. a stranger.

a nameless body you don’t have to think about tomorrow. a version of yourself that isn’t behind everyone else, that didn’t somehow make it to college without picking up whatever experience everyone else seems to talk about so casually.

you hate how childish it makes you feel. how small. how behind. how late.

this would be easier if i wasn’t like this.

the thought sits heavy as you reach your dorm, key sliding into the lock, because it doesn’t come with an answer — just the quiet promise that tomorrow, after classes, after you run out of excuses, you’ll have to come back.

and the cursor will still be blinking.

—

you wake up tired, drag yourself through classes, stare at people who sound like they have their lives together and nod like you understand what any of this is building toward.

you try not to think about last night, but your brain does that thing where it replays the one part you didn’t want it to save, and now you can’t stop seeing it—sukuna in the doorway, shirtless and irritated, gaze flicking over you like he’d already figured it out. the shape of him.

you shake it off, shove it down, swear it meant nothing.

it doesn’t help.

because now it’s dark out and you’re walking back to yuji’s place like you always do, like you haven’t been dreading it all day. it’s autopilot. friday night. takeout and whatever’s playing on netflix. you knock once before letting yourself in like you live there.

yuji’s already yelling from the couch. “you’re late!”

“you’re early,” you shoot back.

he grins when you round the corner, arms sprawled out, socks half-off, hair sticking up like he fought gravity and lost. “i ordered your favorite, so you’re not allowed to complain.”

“i never complain.”

he snorts. “you only complain.”

you drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off, and try to act like your eyes didn’t just flick toward the other end of the couch. like you didn’t already know he’d be there.

except… you kind of didn’t.

because sukuna’s never here. not during movie nights. not when it’s just you and yuji doing the same dumb shit you’ve been doing since high school. he usually avoids this whole thing like it’s contagious—claims you’re too loud, that the movies are trash, that being around the two of you lowers his iq.

so what the hell is he doing here now?

you hover by the entryway a second longer than you mean to, caught off-guard, gaze dragging across the way he’s slouched into the couch—hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed to his elbows, grey sweats dangerously low on his hips, drink in hand, legs spread like he’s claiming the entire fucking house.

he glances up. meets your eyes. nods. “you’re late.”

you blink. “…you’re here.”

he smirks, slow. “sharp as ever.”

you frown, stepping further in. “why?”

he smirks, lazy. “you say that like you thought i’d be gone.”

“i did,” you say honestly. “you usually ghost the second we show up.”

“yeah, well,” he says, raising his drink a little like a toast, “mom and dad are out of town.”

you narrow your eyes. “don’t you have a dorm?”

“yeah,” he shrugs, “but why would i suffer in that shoebox when i can have hot water, real snacks, and a couch that doesn’t smell like mildew?”

you make a face. “gross.”

“truthful.”

you cross your arms. “i thought you hated being here.”

“i hate being here when they’re here,” he says. “every time i sit down, it’s either—‘have you heard back from that grad program?’ or ‘do you need help updating your resume?’” he mimics his mom’s voice a little too well. “it’s like a career fair with emotional baggage.”

you snort, despite yourself. “so this is… what? a staycation?”

“something like that,” he says, sinking deeper into the cushions. “i figure i’ll use up the free amenities while the guilt trips are on pause.”

your stomach does something weird and warm.

he’s not supposed to be here.

he’s choosing to be here.

you look away first.

you barely have time to sit with the weirdness of him being here before yuji’s voice cuts in again, louder this time, coming from the kitchen.

“can you unfold the table?” he calls. “i got dumplings and the good noodles.”

you cross the living room, bend to grab the scratched-up plastic folding table from behind the couch, and pop it open with one foot while yuji drags over the bags, hands full of sauce containers and those cheap paper napkins that never absorb anything. he’s already talking while sorting food, chopsticks stuck behind one ear like a pencil.

“you want the chili oil or no?”

“obviously.”

he tosses the packet toward you. you catch it.

you glance toward the couch—sukuna hasn’t moved. same position, same drink, same hoodie-and-sweats combo, like this is his house and you’re the one visiting.

“you’re not eating?” you ask.

he shrugs. “already did.”

yuji waves a hand. “he’s lying. he just mooched the egg rolls before you got here.”

“they were getting cold,” sukuna says, unapologetic.

you end up next to him on the couch, tray table between your knees, dumplings steaming in front of you. you try not to fidget.

yuji settles on your other side—except he’s yuji, so he sprawls. knee to your thigh, elbow jabbing as he adjusts, plate in his lap like a feral raccoon.

“you’re in my space,” you tell him.

“no such thing,” he grins, and gives you a shove—not hard, just enough to bump you right up against sukuna’s side.

you blink. feel the heat of him immediately, stretched out like he hasn’t even registered you’re touching. like he doesn’t care. like you’re not even—

don’t think about it.

you try to watch the movie. you do. it’s some dumb action flick yuji picked out of nostalgia, one you’ve both seen a million times. the plot doesn’t matter. you know every beat. you’re not watching the screen anyway.

you’re aware of the way sukuna’s thigh stays right there against yours. the shape of his wrist where it rests on the couch arm. how his hoodie rides up when he shifts to drink from the glass in his hand, dragging the fabric tight across his stomach. the clean line of muscle just under the hem, the peek of ink at his ribs. the curve of his mouth when he smirks at something the actor says, even though he’s not really watching either.

you imagine those hands on your hips. your throat. your thighs. his voice behind you, in your ear, telling you what to do and how to do it. correcting you. teaching you. like it’d be the easiest thing in the world for him. like he already knows you’d listen.

you cross your legs and shift away an inch.

he doesn’t react. doesn’t even look.

what is wrong with you.

“uhhh, bathroom,” yuji says suddenly, half-standing and holding his stomach. “that shrimp was a mistake.”

you don’t even register it until he’s gone, footsteps down the hall, door clicking shut behind him.

and then it’s just you.

and him.

and the credits rolling.

and the sound of him setting his glass down soft on the coaster.

“so,” sukuna says, and your whole body freezes, “how’s the little writing project?”

your head snaps toward him. “what.”

his mouth twitches. “yuji said you were stuck.”

“he told you?” your voice spikes, mortified.

“mm,” he hums, noncommittal.

“oh my god.”

“what?” he says, like it’s funny. “you asked for a miracle. you got me.”

you stare at him, open-mouthed, like you’re not sure whether to hit him or die on the spot.

he raises a brow, lazy. “cat got your tongue?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, finally remembering how to speak.

“too late.” he stretches out like he’s settling in, wrist draped over the back of the couch, his whole frame angling toward you now. “so. what’s the issue? you trying to write something hot and you’ve never even been touched?”

you blink. hard. “excuse me?”

he shrugs, annoyingly casual. “not a judgment. just sounds like that’s the problem.”

“yuji told you that?” you hiss, heat crawling up your neck.

“you’d be surprised how much your bestie overshares when he thinks i’m not listening.”

you want to combust. spontaneously. immediately. your chopsticks freeze midair.

he watches you for a beat, head tilted, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back a laugh. then—

“look, i’m just saying,” he says, almost bored, “you don’t need to fuck someone to write about fucking someone. you just need to know what people actually notice. what feels fake. what kills the mood.”

you blink. again. your brain’s lagging, like your wi-fi just cut.

“i could help,” he says. “if you’re not too chicken.”

you laugh—nervous, defensive, too loud. “you’re joking.”

“am i?”

he doesn't blink.

your heart does this weird sideways lurch, and for a split second your imagination does something very stupid—throws up a flash of what that might look like: his voice behind you, telling you what sounds real. his breath against your ear. one hand in your hair. one on your hip. that same voice, smug and low, saying yeah, that. write that down.

“jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head like that’ll knock it loose. “you’re yuji’s brother.”

“and?”

“and that’s insane.”

he smirks again, cocky this time. “then keep writing about symbolic peaches.”

you open your mouth to say something back—something scathing, probably—but yuji yells from the hallway before you can.

“i think i’m dying!” he shouts from behind the bathroom door.

you flinch, the spell broken.

sukuna just snorts, leans back, and reaches for his drink again like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your brain.

—

you don’t stay late.

you make up something about homework. about being behind. about getting a head start on your readings before monday even though it’s friday and everyone knows you don’t touch shit until sunday night.

yuji doesn’t question it, just clutches his stomach dramatically and says the shrimp’s still trying to kill him, tells you to take leftovers, offers a weak thumbs up from where he’s curled under a throw blanket like he’s on his deathbed.

you wave him off, mutter something about texting later, and slip out the door.

sukuna doesn’t say anything when you leave.

but you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way to the hallway.

you walk faster than usual, keys clutched in your hand, cold night air biting at your cheeks as you cut through campus toward your dorm. your brain won’t stop spinning—like it’s buffering. like it’s stuck between tabs.

you asked for help.

not like that. not really.

except now you can’t stop imagining it. not just the suggestion, but what it would look like. feel like. his mouth near your ear, his fingers tracing your wrist, that stupid low voice explaining the difference between pornographic and believable like he’s grading you.

you swallow and push your dorm door open.

kick off your shoes. shed your coat. go straight for your bed and your laptop, like maybe forcing yourself into motion will fix it.

the document’s still open.

cursor still blinking.

you pull the covers over your lap, fold your legs under you, rest your fingers on the keys.

nothing.

not a word.

not a single honest sentence.

you type, slowly: she kissed him like she’d done it before.

you stare at it. backspace.

he touches her like he owns the moment.

backspace. you close your eyes.

and see him.

you asked for a miracle. you got me.

his smirk. the slow way he said it. the way his eyes didn’t move, didn’t flick, didn’t waver—like he already knew what you’d do with the thought. like he planted it.

and now you can’t stop thinking about what he’d say if you let him get close enough to correct you. to guide you. to show you the kind of heat that doesn’t need metaphor.

you drag a hand down your face, cheeks hot, heart weird and jumpy.

this is yuji’s brother.

you don’t even like him.

he’s smug. infuriating. mean. he barely talks to you unless it’s to be a dick about something. he’s a problem. he’s always been a problem.

and still—your fingers twitch.

you type, again: he touches her like he’s teaching her something she’ll never forget.

you stare at it.

you don’t delete it.

not yet.

you fall asleep like that. laptop still open. sentence still glowing on the screen like it knows it’s crossed a line.

you don’t dream. or if you do, you don’t remember it.

just wake up groggy and uneven, mouth dry, skin clammy, that same heat from last night clinging to the back of your neck like a warning. like you left something unfinished.

you shower. make coffee. sit at your desk and stare at your notes like they’re in a different language.

by noon, you’ve refreshed the same three apps fourteen times and rewritten the same paragraph twice with no new words added. your phone buzzes. it’s yuji.

yuji: shrimp poisoning update: i’m still dying. plz come over yuji: bring electrolytes or vibes or both idk yuji: sukuna’s literally useless. he’s just making toast and watching me suffer :(

you blink.

toast?

you hesitate. because you weren’t planning on going back today. you told yourself you’d take space. get perspective. delete the sentence. reset the mood.

but yuji’s asking. and he’s your best friend. and he’s sick. and… you’re already grabbing your keys.

—

the front door’s unlocked when you get there.

“back from the dead?” you call as you toe your shoes off.

yuji’s voice comes from the couch, muffled under a pile of blankets. “barely.”

you head straight to the kitchen, drop your bag on the counter, pull two gatorades from your tote.

and that’s when you see him.

sukuna. leaned against the fridge, plate in hand, wearing a tank top that’s doing absolutely nothing to distract from the fact that he’s half muscle and no shame, sweatpants hung loose on his hips, jaw working slow as he takes a bite of cinnamon toast like the world owes him nothing and he owes it even less.

“wow,” you say flatly, “what a beacon of brotherly support.”

he shrugs, mouth full. “he’s not dying.”

“he thinks he is.”

“he’s dramatic.”

you toss him a look as you move past him. you do not look at his arms. or the way his neck flexes when he swallows. you do not think about last night. or the sentence. or the way his voice is somehow the same in person as it was in your imagination—just rough enough to scrape against your ribs.

you do not.

“here,” you say, handing yuji the drink once you reach the couch.

he lights up like you’ve performed a miracle. “my savior.”

“your savior brought you electrolytes,” you say, plopping down next to him. “and she’s staying just long enough to make sure you don’t vomit on the carpet.”

"give me some kinda good news." he hums a little between sips, then glances up at you. “you make any progress on your writing?”

you go still.

“…not really,” you say as you sit criss-cross on the floor beside him.

he makes a face, the same one he always makes when you don’t want to talk about something—not annoyed, not pushy, just curious in that sweet stupid way that makes you want to confess things you shouldn’t. “what’s stopping you? still stuck on the scene?”

you nod, slowly.

he sits up more, leans on his elbow like it helps him think. “can’t you just, like… watch porn or something?”

your head whips toward him. “what?”

he shrugs. “i mean, if you need ideas.”

“porn,” you echo, flat. “yuji.”

“what?” he says, defensive now. “i’m just saying. it’s not like there’s a shortage of material out there.”

you stare at him, then drag a hand down your face. “oh my god.”

and behind you—

clink.

you freeze.

slowly glance over your shoulder.

sukuna’s standing in the kitchen again, rinsing his plate in the sink, but there’s something about his posture—the lazy slouch of his shoulders, the way he shakes the water from his hands—that makes it feel like he heard every word. like he was waiting for the right one to land before reacting.

you catch his eye.

he doesn’t blink. just tilts his head, real slow, mouth tugging into the kind of smirk that says that’s what you’re working with?

and suddenly your whole body burns.

you snap your gaze back to the tv, ears on fire, pulse stuttering.

yuji keeps talking—something about storyboarding a sex scene like a fight scene—but you don’t hear it. all you can think about is the way sukuna looked at you, like he knew exactly what part of that conversation wasn’t just academic. like he’d seen the little flash of panic behind your eyes, caught it, catalogued it, kept it.

fuck.

you sit rigid for the next few minutes, barely breathing, and when yuji finally excuses himself to go upstairs—“i think the shrimp’s staging a comeback tour, be right back”—you almost bolt.

but you don’t.

because you feel it before it happens.

sukuna’s steps behind you.

the subtle shift of the couch as he drops into yuji’s spot.

his arm brushes yours.

and his voice—that voice—slides in low and warm like it belongs there.

“porn, huh?”

you jolt. “oh my god.”

“relax,” he says, clearly enjoying himself now. “just thought it was funny.”

“you would think that’s funny.”

he leans in a little, elbow on the back of the couch. “what, not your thing?”

you flinch like it was an accusation. “excuse me?”

he shrugs one shoulder, lazy. “porn.”

“jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

“just curious,” he says, like he’s not enjoying the way your voice pitched. “you watch it or not?”

“why the fuck would i tell you that?”

he grins, sharp teeth and a twitch of his jaw like he’s won something. “so that’s a yes.”

you open your mouth—shut it.

he tilts his head, eyes narrowing just enough to track the way your throat bobs.

“what’s your type?” he asks, soft. cruel. “you like the soft, fake moaning kinda shit? studio lighting, vanilla choreography, lots of uh-uh-uh baby please?” he mimics it in a falsetto that makes your whole body light up in mortification.

“shut up,” you hiss, face burning.

he ignores you.

“or do you skip to the rough stuff? choking. hands. crying. that why you can’t write it down? ‘cause you want someone to make you feel it first?”

but he’s just sitting there like he didn’t say anything obscene at all, pinky tracing a slow circle into the armrest like he’s bored, like he hasn’t just undone you down to the bone with a single sentence and a look that’s far too pleased.

“i’m just saying,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth, “if you’re gonna do research, might as well use a source you can ask questions.”

your stomach swoops.

you freeze for half a second—heat curling up your spine, shame trying to dig its little claws in—but you don’t let it win. not this time.

you smile.

“yeah?” you say, cocking your head just a little, voice light but your pulse pounding. “what kind of porn do you watch, sukuna?”

that gets him.

not much—just a flick of his eyes, a slow shift in his posture, like you surprised him. like you scored a point he wasn’t expecting you to take.

“you look like you’re into some freaky shit,” you add, and there’s something proud in it, something satisfying, because even though you’re flustered, you’re not folding. not for him. not yet.

he smiles.

wide. teeth. slow as syrup.

“freaky,” he repeats, voice dropping a little. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

you roll your eyes—not because you’re annoyed, but because you have to do something with your face or he’ll see it all over you.

“please,” you mutter, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving it into your lap like it might deflect the heat. “you give off big uses the tags ‘brat tamer’ unironically energy.”

he laughs. deep in his chest. low and amused and just a little too delighted.

“and what, you’ve been scrolling?” he asks, leaning in again, elbow braced on the couch, close enough that you can feel the pull of him, gravity bending in his direction. “studying my digital footprint?”

“no,” you shoot back, too quick. “i just—” you flounder. recover. “i’ve met you.”

his eyes flash with something sharp.

“guess that makes you the expert,” he says. “so tell me, then. what am i into?”

you blink.

he’s baiting you. obviously. you can feel it in the slow, smug curl of his mouth, the way his voice drags just enough to make your pulse trip, the way he’s watching you like he’s already heard the answer in your head and is just waiting for you to say it out loud.

you square your shoulders, pretend you don’t feel backed into a corner.

“dumb girls,” you say.

his brow arches, amused. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you sniff, deflecting, heat crawling up your neck. “dumb girls who fall for the whole broody asshole thing. you probably like it when they call you ‘sir’ and pretend to struggle when you pin their wrists.”

his mouth twitches.

“mm. that’s cute,” he says, low. “you rehearsed that for me?”

“i rehearsed it for my own dignity,” you snap. “you’re not the first guy to act like a walking red flag.”

he hums. lets the words hang. then—“but i’m the one you’re thinking about.”

you roll your eyes. “in your dreams.”

“you sure?” he murmurs. “’cause you’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

your stomach flips.

“i haven’t—”

“you have.” his voice is a little quieter now. “last night. in bed. alone. you tried to write, didn’t you?”

your mouth goes dry.

“i’m just guessing,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “but that look on your face says i’m right.”

you stare at him.

your mouth opens. nothing comes out. your brain is still trying to catch up to how easily he said that, how casually he put it on the table like it’s a shared observation instead of a private, humiliating thought you didn’t consent to anyone noticing.

he watches you for another second.

then he moves.

he doesn’t loom. doesn’t crowd. he just shifts, slides off the couch and down to the floor where you’re sitting cross‑legged, close enough that your knees almost brush, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him touching you yet.

he settles there like it’s nothing. like he belongs.

“relax,” he murmurs, when you stiffen. “i’m not gonna bite.”

his knee nudges yours. barely there. accidental if anyone else were watching.

his fingers trail against the carpet, then brush your ankle like he didn’t even mean to do it—light, lazy, testing. you swear you feel it all the way up your spine.

“you’re thinking too loud,” he says quietly.

you swallow. “you’re projecting.”

he hums, amused, and tilts his head to look up at you from where he’s sitting. the angle is wrong in a way that makes your stomach flip—his eyes level with your mouth now, lashes casting shadows you absolutely do not need to be noticing.

“maybe,” he says. “or maybe i’m just good at reading people.”

his fingers shift again, knuckle grazing your calf this time, lingering for half a beat too long to be an accident.

“i bet you even thought about touching yourself to me,” he adds, voice low, almost conversational. “just once. just to see if it’d help.”

your breath stutters.

“that’s—” you start, but he cuts in gently.

“i didn’t say you did,” he says. “i said i’d bet.”

he watches your reaction like he’s collecting data.

then, because he’s cruel, because he can, he continues.

“you wanna know what i watch?” he asks, like he’s offering trivia. “since you asked ever so nicely, princess.”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

he smiles anyway.

“i like girls who don’t know they’re already gone,” he says. “girls who overthink until their bodies give them away. girls who act tough and pretend they’re judging, when really they’re wondering what it’d feel like to be handled by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.”

his fingers tap your ankle once. twice.

“girls like you.”

the words land soft and heavy all at once.

he stands.

just like that.

no follow‑up. no pressure to respond.

he dusts his hands on his thighs, glances toward the hallway like he’s remembered something unimportant, and adds over his shoulder:

“anyway. think about it. or don’t.”

then he walks away, footsteps unhurried, leaving you sitting there with your pulse in your ears, skin buzzing where he barely touched you, mind screaming what the fuck just happened.

and worse—how easily it made sense.

—

you end up leaving yuji's later than you meant to.

not because yuji needs anything—he’s finally asleep, curled into the corner of the couch like a crime scene chalk outline, snoring softly under three layers of mismatched blankets—but because you kept thinking maybe he’d show up again.

that sukuna would walk through the kitchen for a snack, or pass behind the couch on his way to the bathroom, or offer some lazy comment just to hear himself talk.

but he doesn’t.

he disappears the way he always does—suddenly, thoroughly, like it was never about you in the first place. like he didn’t lean close, voice rough in your ear, and say things he had no business knowing.

and you? you just… keep stalling.

hovering in the kitchen too long. picking at leftover rice like it’s suddenly fascinating. checking your phone even though no one texts you except your group chat asking for notes. all the dumb little things people do when they’re trying not to seem obvious about waiting.

but eventually, you run out of reasons to stay.

so you slip your shoes back on, grab your bag, scribble a dumb little sticky note for yuji (“don’t die. hydrate. stop ordering shrimp. love u.”), and let yourself out.

the night is cold. the streetlights flicker. the walk back is too quiet and your thoughts are too loud.

you’re not even frustrated with him—not really.

you’re frustrated with yourself.

because it wasn’t supposed to get under your skin like this. it wasn’t supposed to turn you into some wound-up mess who’s too horny to function and too proud to do anything about it. he’s not even flirting—he’s just being sukuna. smug. sharp. obnoxious. too perceptive for his own good.

and now you’re stuck with the aftermath, walking briskly back to your dorm with your jaw tight and your fists jammed in your jacket pockets, brain circling the drain of every shitty fantasy you’ve accidentally conjured in the last twenty-four hours.

him on the floor beside you. the scrape of his voice. the way he looked at your mouth.

you groan. out loud. to the night air.

“ugh.”

you hate this. you hate him. you hate how easily he slips under your skin like it’s muscle memory. like you’ve always been like this—some girl with a secret soft spot for the worst possible option. except it’s not soft. it’s raw. exposed. stupid.

by the time you get to your dorm, you’re exhausted. not even from the walk. from the noise in your own head.

you drop your bag. lock the door. shed your hoodie like it’s too heavy to keep wearing.

and then you just stand there. in the middle of the room. staring at nothing.

you want—something. someone. a fix. a release.

instead, you’re alone with a blinking cursor again.

and you’re mad at the idea of touching yourself, because it feels like giving him power he doesn’t deserve. like he’d know. like he’d smirk if he ever found out.

like maybe that’s exactly what he wants.

this is stupid. you’re not doing this for him. you’re just—relieved. blowing off steam. resetting. that’s all.

you don’t even argue with yourself anymore.

you peel your jeans off, kick them aside, tug your shirt over your head and swap it for an old tank that hangs loose against your ribs.

you crawl into bed and flop onto your back, staring at the ceiling, arms thrown over your head like surrender.

for a minute, you just breathe.

then you grab your phone.

twitter loads. immediately annoying. loud. fake. you scroll anyway, irritated, thumb flicking too fast, skipping past everything that feels wrong. too polished. too forced. too obviously not him.

your brain narrows the search without asking you.

dark hair. broad shoulders. a voice that’s rough instead of performative. guys who look like they’d sit too close and talk too quietly just to see what you’d do.

it takes longer than it should, but eventually you find one that’s… close enough.

you don’t turn the volume all the way up.

you don’t really watch.

you just listen.

your free hand slips under the blanket, fingers brushing over your chest through the thin fabric of your tank. you suck in a breath when you feel how hard your nipples already are, thumb circling one, then the other, sharper this time like you’re annoyed with yourself for how easy it is.

your other hand hesitates at your waistband.

slow.

careful.

like if you go too fast you’ll have to confront what you’re doing.

“fuck,” you whisper.

you’re already wet. of course you are. slick and warm, your fingers gliding instead of dragging, your hips shifting without permission like your body’s been waiting for this all night.

you close your eyes.

it’s not the video you see.

it’s sukuna on the floor beside you. elbow on the couch. that look in his eyes when he clocked you. the way his voice dropped when he said girls like you like he knew exactly where to aim it.

your fingers press harder. move faster.

you bite your lip to keep quiet, breath breaking anyway, one hand squeezing your chest while the other works between your thighs like it knows exactly what to do even if you pretend you don’t.

“sukuna,” you breathe.

the name slips out before you can stop it.

you freeze.

eyes snapping open. heart slamming so hard it almost hurts.

did i just—

shock hits you, sharp and dizzying, embarrassment crawling up your neck. your fingers still, hovering, like you might pull away and pretend this never happened.

your thighs tremble.

you hesitate.

then—fuck it.

you keep going.

angrier now. needier. like you’re daring yourself to finish what you started. like stopping would somehow be worse. your fingers curl just right, pressure building fast, your body tensing like it recognizes the path even if your brain doesn’t want to.

you cum with a muffled gasp, face turned into your pillow, pleasure ripping through you too quick and too intense to soften. your back arches, toes curling, breath shuddering as it crests and breaks, leaving you shaking and oversensitive and stunned.

you lie there afterward, chest heaving, phone forgotten somewhere near your hip.

“what the fuck,” you whisper again.

but this time it sounds quieter. tired.

you turn the phone screen off without looking at it, tug the blanket up around you, curl onto your side like you’re trying to contain the mess of yourself.

sleep takes you fast.

before you can think too hard.

before you can decide what it means.

before you can admit that this—whatever it is—has already started.

—

his mouth is hot.

that’s the first thing you register. heat and pressure and the slow grind of his tongue as he sucks at the soft flesh just below your jaw, dragging his teeth down the column of your throat like he wants to leave something behind. a mark. a memory. ownership.

you exhale too sharp, hips jolting like he’s shocked something inside you, like the friction between your legs is suddenly the only thing tethering you to the bed. your hands find his shoulders—and you mean to push him off, to say something halfway coherent, but then—

“still with me?” sukuna murmurs, voice low, voice smug, voice so close it curls under your skin.

you nod without thinking.

“use your words, princess.”

“y-yeah,” you breathe.

his mouth twitches against your skin like he’s smiling. then he’s dragging his palm up your thigh, under your shirt, across your stomach—like he’s touching you to prove a point.

his fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts.

“we doing this?” he asks, barely a whisper.

you don’t answer fast enough.

his hand moves lower.

your breath catches.

“fuck,” you hiss, hips jerking when his fingers slide over your underwear, right where you’re warmest. “sukuna—”

“mm?” he hums, nose brushing your cheek, his thumb pressing down, circling once.

you whimper. actually whimper.

his lips graze yours.

“so fucking wet already. cute.”

his fingers slide under the waistband like they belong there.

no hesitation, no asking again, just that confident hook of his knuckles tugging your underwear down your thighs until cool air hits skin that’s already too hot, too sensitive, like your body’s been waiting longer than you have. he doesn’t rush it. of course he doesn’t. sukuna never rushes anything he knows he has control over.

“look at you,” he murmurs, thumb dragging slow and deliberate through slick heat, spreading it like he wants to see how bad it’s gotten. “barely touched and you’re already like this.”

you try to argue. it comes out as a broken sound instead.

his hand cups you fully now, palm warm, fingers long and sure, pressing just enough that your hips lift without permission, chasing it, begging without words. he clicks his tongue softly, amused.

“that’s it,” he says. “don’t think. just feel, princess.”

one finger slips in.

you gasp, sharp and helpless, back arching off the bed as the stretch punches the breath from your lungs. he waits—just a second—lets you adjust around him, lets your body realize what’s happening, how deep, how real.

then he moves.

slow at first, curling his finger just right, finding something inside you that makes your vision blur instantly, that has your thighs trembling and your hands clawing at the sheets like you might disappear if you don’t hold onto something.

“there,” he says quietly. “that’s the part you’re supposed to write about.”

you sob his name.

his second finger slides in easily, obscene in how natural it feels, how full you are, how your body opens for him like it’s muscle memory instead of fantasy. he sets a rhythm that’s cruelly unhurried, fingers working you open, thumb circling your clit in lazy, exact strokes that make your legs shake uncontrollably.

you can’t breathe. you can’t think. every sound you make feels too loud, too needy, but he doesn’t stop — just watches you fall apart under his hand like this is the lesson, like this is what he’s been trying to teach you all along.

“close,” he murmurs, voice right in your ear now. “i can feel it. don’t fight it.”

you shatter.

it rolls through you all at once—tight and overwhelming and white-hot—your body clenching hard around his fingers as you cry out, back bowing, pleasure ripping through you so fast and so intensely it leaves you dizzy, ruined, shaking.

his fingers keep moving through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until your legs give out completely.

“good,” he says softly.

and you wake up with a gasp.

heart pounding. sheets twisted around your legs. underwear damp and unmistakable, heat still throbbing between your thighs like your body hasn’t caught up yet.

your dorm room is dark. silent. empty.

no sukuna. no weight beside you. no voice in your ear.

just the hum of the radiator. the glow of your phone on the nightstand. and the horrifying realization settling in all at once.

oh my god.

you press the heels of your hands to your face, mortified, pulse still racing, slick evidence cooling against your skin.

and worse—much, much worse —your body is still aching for him.

you lie there for a second too long, staring at the ceiling like it might scold you into sanity, heart still kicking hard, your phone buzzes once on the nightstand—nothing important, just a notification—but it snaps something in you anyway.

before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab it.

it reads sunday, 12:23 am.

your fingers hover over his name.

don’t, you think.

why would you do that.

you do it anyway.

you: are you still at yuji’s?

the typing bubble doesn’t appear right away, and that somehow makes it worse. your stomach churns. you toss the phone onto the bed like it burned you, then immediately snatch it back up again, pacing the narrow strip of floor between your desk and the door.

why did i ask that.

what am i even doing.

the phone buzzes.

sukuna: yea. why?

two words. calm. unbothered.

you swallow hard, pulse spiking all over again like your body doesn’t understand the difference between dream and reality yet. your thumbs fly, backspace, hover.

you: just wondering you: didn’t know if you went back to your dorm

you stare at the screen, mortified by how obvious that sounds. he doesn’t respond immediately this time, and the silence stretches, loud and humiliating.

your skin still feels too tight. too warm. like the night clung to you and didn’t let go.

shower, your brain supplies, desperate. now.

you drop the phone face-down on the bed, grab a towel from the hook behind the door, yank your shower caddy off the shelf with a little more force than necessary. shampoo clatters, loofah tangles around your wrist. you don’t care.

as you head down the hall, your phone buzzes again.

sukuna: nah. told you i'm staying the night.

you freeze for half a second, fingers tightening around the towel.

of course he is.

you don’t reply.

you just keep walking, push into the bathroom, lock the door behind you like that might lock the thoughts out too. you turn the water on hot—too hot—steam already starting to curl up toward the ceiling as you strip and step under it, shoulders sagging the second it hits.

you let the water run over you, over your face, your hair, like you can wash the night away. like you can rinse the image of his hands, his voice, the way your body reacted, right out of your system.

it doesn’t work.

you’re still in the shower when you cave.

steam thick in the air, water beating down on your neck, your leg propped awkwardly against the tile wall as you shave like you’re training for the olympics, hands moving fast, razor slipping dangerously close to uneven territory. your breath’s coming too fast to blame on the temperature alone.

your phone’s on the counter, screen lit up, mist curling around the edges.

you lunge for it, still wet, fingers fumbling.

you: i changed my mind you: i’ll take you up on that offer

the second you hit send, your stomach turns over on itself.

a moment later:

sukuna: thought you might sukuna: send the addy

you hesitate.

then:

you: here’s my address you: just knock

you stare at it for a beat. three dots flicker at the bottom, disappear.

you brace both hands on the sink and take a breath like you’re about to dive underwater. everything’s too hot. too real. too fast.

you wipe the fog from the mirror.

look at yourself—damp towel slung across your chest, bare skin flushed from heat and adrenaline, water still dripping from your collarbones.

your pulse thrums low in your stomach, relentless.

why does this feel like it matters.

you rinse fast, too fast. nearly trip getting out, towel half-tucked and slipping, legs damp and goosebumped. you moisturize like you’re trying to erase every imperfection, swipe deodorant like he’s gonna be under your arms, shii he might tug on a loose tank and shorts with a matching set underneath and immediately regret both.

you light a candle. you fluff the pillows. you curse yourself out under your breath.

then you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the door like you’ll be able to hear his footsteps from the stairs.

your phone buzzes.

sukuna: on my way

you don’t respond.

you asked.

he’s coming.

and you don’t know what’s about to happen.

you try sitting.

you really do.

you sit on the edge of your bed, legs crossed like you’re calm, like you’re centered, like you didn’t just text sukuna in the middle of the night and invite him over like a fucking lunatic. you rest your hands in your lap. you stare at the candle.

ten seconds.

then you’re up again.

you pace to the door. check the lock. double check. you twist the knob and relock it just to make sure. you wipe your palms on your shorts. you glance in the mirror. turn sideways. frown. adjust your top. fix your hair. unfix your hair. tug the neckline lower. regret it.

you check your phone.

nothing new.

you open the window for air.

you close it immediately when it makes the candle flicker too hard.

you practice what you’ll say.

“thanks for coming, this won’t take long.”

“i just want clarity, nothing else.”

“this is for the project, nothing more.”

you say them out loud. again. and again.

you try not to think about his hands. his mouth. the way he looked half-asleep and annoyed and hot for no reason.

you try not to think about the dream. the part where he said you were wet. the part where he wasn’t wrong.

you try not to picture how this could go. where it could go. how it might go if you just stop pretending you're normal.

you press your knuckles to your mouth and whisper: what am i doing.

and then—a heavy knock.

you freeze.

you stare at the door like it’s a fucking ghost.

he knocks again. two slower taps this time.

you grab your phone and check the screen like it might offer a reason not to open it. no new texts.

you swallow hard.

then cross the room—step by slow step—and place your hand on the knob.

your heart hammers.

you invited this.

you twist.

and open the door.

he sees everything in one sweep: the dim glow, the towel still damp on the rack, the nervous way you're standing like you forgot how posture works. the smell of whatever you used in the shower clings to the air—sweet, soft, flustered.

his gaze slides over you.

you forget how to breathe for half a second.

“huh,” he says, smirking like he’s already solved the whole puzzle. “romantic.”

you flush instantly. “i wasn’t trying to—i mean—”

“sure,” he says, like he’s humoring you, stepping inside only once you move aside.

you hover, awkward, near the desk while he takes his time scanning your space like he’s evaluating it—picking it apart. then he sinks into your desk chair like it was always meant for him, legs spreading wide, thighs draped in those same loose sweats, forearms resting on the arms of the chair like he’s claiming territory.

he looks up at you, smug. “well?”

you swallow. “i had some—questions. notes. i thought maybe—”

you falter. it sounds fucking stupid now. everything you rehearsed in your head twenty times, all the clever ways you were gonna make it sound academic, detached, like this wasn’t weird—

“is this weird?” you blurt. “i feel like it’s weird. it is weird, right?”

his brow ticks up. that smirk stays.

“you’re the one who invited me, sweetheart,” he says, tone light. “i was minding my business.”

“i know, i just—” you fidget with the hem of your tank. “it’s just a project, but it’s not a project, and now you’re here and you’re sitting like that and it’s just—i don’t know, maybe this was dumb.”

he exhales through his nose. gets up slow, like he’s giving you a chance to walk it back.

“if you’re not ready, fine,” he says. “i can go.”

he looks down at your grip. your fingers on his skin. then back up at you.

you let go too fast. step back like you’re embarrassed. he doesn’t laugh.

just nods, like that’s all he needed.

“then stop wasting time,” he says. “sit.”

you blink. “sit?”

he tilts his head, gestures to the rug between his legs. “on the floor.”

“…why?”

“because i said so.”

you obey before you even think about it, slipping to your knees on the soft rug. the heat from his body hits you like a wall, his legs bracketing you from behind as he leans forward, his breath ghosting the back of your neck.

“close your eyes,” he murmurs.

you do.

“if you were writing this,” he says, voice low and right at your ear, “where would he touch her first?”

you hesitate. “her face?”

his hand ghosts your jaw. barely there.

“boring,” he murmurs.

you bite your lip. “her—her waist?”

his palm brushes your ribs. then withdraws. “warmer.”

you breathe uneven. “her.. neck?”

a low sound hums from his chest. not quite agreement. not quite praise.

just noted.

and then—his knuckles graze the slope of your throat, light as a whisper, slow as a secret.

you jerk, not from fear, but from how exposed it makes you feel. how easily he could tighten his fingers. how quickly he could tip your chin and make you look at him.

how easily you’d let him.

“sensitive, huh,” he murmurs behind you, and you can hear the shape of his smirk in the way the words curl at the edges.

like he’s already writing this scene for you. like you’re just here to confirm it.

your heart knocks hard behind your ribs. you want to play it cool.

but his voice—it’s so soft. like he’s in no rush. like he enjoys this part.

“tell me why,” he says, still close to your ear. “why would a guy touch her here first?”

you try to find your voice. it sticks. your mouth is too dry.

“because it’s…intimate,” you say, quiet.

his thumb presses—just barely—at the hollow of your throat.

you swear you stop breathing altogether.

“that all?” he asks, like he’s testing you.

you scramble for more. “it’s—it’s not sexual, not right away. it builds tension. it’s suggestive. it makes her aware of her whole body.”

there’s a pause.

then, low and pleased: “good girl.”

you swallow like it burns. your thighs clench.

“what next?” he asks.

your brain short-circuits. you can’t think of words, only feelings. only the place his hand used to be. only the way your nipples have gone stiff under your tank, how your skin feels too tight everywhere.

“…her legs,” you say.

“where?” he prompts.

“her thighs.”

“too vague.”

your breath stutters. your chest lifts with it, and the air feels different now, heavier.

you try again. “the inside of her thighs.”

a beat. then—

“getting there.”

his palm ghosts over your knee. slides up, slow, until the heat of it hovers just shy of where you’re starting to throb, and that’s where he pauses—just rests it there.

“why?”

you swallow, hard. “because—because it’s close but not—”

“not what?”

“not where she wants it.”

you can hear the smile in his voice. “and where does she want it?”

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

he leans in.

“say it.”

you flinch. “between her legs.”

“where?”

you shake your head, whispering, “i can’t—”

his breath skims your ear. “sure you can. you’re the writer, right?”

he waits.

“her—her pussy.”

and god, it burns, saying it out loud like that, but he hums like it pleases him, like he’s filing that sound away somewhere dark.

“good girl,” he says, and it shoots straight through you like lightning.

you gasp, and his hand curls tighter on your thigh like he heard it. like it confirms something.

“but,” he murmurs, tone dipping softer, more dangerous, “he doesn’t go there yet.”

you’re panting now. still kneeling. your thighs tense, your hips tilted ever so slightly toward him without meaning to.

“he wants her desperate,” sukuna goes on, and his other hand slides around your waist—light pressure, anchoring you there. “wants her to ask.”

you nod, barely.

he smirks. “and you? what do you want?”

your voice cracks. “i don’t know.”

he brushes your rib again. still not touching your chest. still ignoring the way your nipples are aching under your tank. you hate him. you want him to stop. you want him to never stop.

“that’s a lie,” he says, calm as ever. “try again.”

you’re shaking. “i want—i want more.”

he smiles like you said exactly what he wanted. but he doesn’t give you anything. just shifts a little behind you, one leg bracketing your hip, body like heat, like gravity, like ruin.

“and if you were writing this,” he breathes into your neck, “what would she say when he makes her wait?”

you shut your eyes. try not to whimper. try not to beg.

you say, soft, “please.”

he exhales through his nose. satisfied.

his hand trails up your thigh again, slow, torturous, stopping right at the seam of your panties—and you swear your whole body flinches forward just to chase it. but he doesn’t move. doesn’t press.

just leaves his hand there, over the heat of you.

then—he shifts behind you. one arm sliding around your waist, the other bracing beneath your thighs—and before you can react, he lifts you. not like you’re heavy. like you’re inevitable.

you gasp, breath catching, hands flying up to anchor against his chest as he pulls you into his lap and sets you there, knees straddling his thighs, heat pooling where your body meets his.

“eyes on me,” he says, low, like it’s a favor. like it’s a command.

you obey before you even think about it.

his face is so close now. his hand rests light on your hip. his other fingers skim your spine, tracing lazy half-circles like he’s not already drawing full-body answers from you.

“you know how to kiss?” he asks, like it’s a real question. like it’s on the syllabus.

your breath stutters. “y-yeah.”

his mouth curves. “you sure?”

you stiffen slightly. “i’ve done it before.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

your mouth parts, but no defense comes out.

his thumb lifts to your chin, tilts your face. he studies you—every little twitch, every skip in your pulse like he can read it through your skin. his voice lowers.

“you want me to show you?”

your heart’s in your throat. your chest tightens like it can’t hold all this in. “i…”

his nose almost brushes yours. his breath fans against your lips.

“you can’t write it if you don’t know how it feels,” he murmurs.

you nod, barely. and that’s all it takes.

his hand at your jaw tilts, lifts. your nose brushes his. your mouth parts before you even mean to—like instinct, like muscle memory, like something in you’s already decided. your breath stutters when his thumb grazes your lower lip.

he watches your hesitation like it’s cute.

and then he kisses you.

not deep, not yet—just a soft drag, a test, his mouth slipping slow over yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s showing you how it’s supposed to feel when it’s not performative, not desperate, not trying to win anything—just there.

and when you shift like you’re not sure where to put your hands, he grabs your wrists and guides them up—pulls them around his neck, like this, here, hold on.

you do.

you melt into him.

your fingers knot in the hair at his nape just as his lips part against yours, deepening it—wet now, warmer, his tongue teasing slow, like he’s got time to savor how fast you’re unraveling. your hips squirm before you can stop them,

and that’s when his hands move—down your sides, over your hips, firm and dragging, until they’re settled at your ass, holding, gripping, manipulating—and you realize a second too late what he’s doing.

he rolls you against him.

and he’s hard.

not fully, not all the way—but growing, thick under the soft barrier of his sweats, and you feel it when he shifts again, dragging your clothed heat over the shape of him like he knows what it’s doing to you. like he wants to make sure you know, too.

you gasp into his mouth.

he doesn’t stop kissing you.

just swallows the sound. tightens his grip. rocks you again, slow.

and fuck, you’re already wet.

your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his and you can’t even tell if you’re kissing him back right anymore or if he’s just kissing you until your brain gives up and lets your body want.

he pulls back barely, breath hot against your lips.

“not bad,” he murmurs, cocky. “but you’re still thinking too much.”

and then he kisses you again before you can answer. deeper. dirtier. wetter.

like he’s fixing it himself.

and you don’t know what makes you do it—somewhere between humiliation and adrenaline, between his voice in your ear and the weight of his hands still holding you like he wants something more from you—you lurch forward before he can kiss you again and catch his bottom lip between your teeth.

soft, at first.

then a little harder.

his breath hitches like he didn’t expect it.

you suck lightly, just enough to make him feel it, just enough to taste the gasp he doesn’t let out, and then you slip your tongue into his mouth—confident, slick, matching his rhythm from earlier but slower, dirtier, wet in the way that makes your thighs twitch and your chest tighten and your brain shut off for real this time.

he lets you.

lets you take it.

moans—actually moans—into your mouth when your hips shift forward, grinding down against him on instinct, like your body’s just figured out what it wants and decided to go after it.

you feel him twitch under you. feel him respond.

and when he exhales into your mouth—tight, ragged, like fuck, okay—his hands flex at your hips, then slide down in one long pull, dragging over your ass like he needs something to hold on to, and pushes up into you, slow and hard, meeting your grind with the kind of pressure that makes your breath catch and your cunt clench.

he’s hard now.

not just getting there—there.

and it makes something click in you. makes you bolder. makes you whimper a little into the kiss and tilt your hips again, chasing that friction like it might give you answers, like it might finish what the last night started.

your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his, and you can’t even tell if you’re leading anymore or if you just unlocked something he’d been waiting to release—because now he’s kissing you back rougher, hungrier, teeth catching yours, tongue stroking deeper like he’s reclaiming it.

he breaks the kiss for a second—just enough to pant against your mouth.

“…didn’t know you had that in you.”

he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.

that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.

you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.

the bed hits the back of your knees.

then the mattress.

he drops you down and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.

he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.

that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.

you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.

the bed hits the back of your knees.

then the mattress.

he drops you down—not rough, but decisive—and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.

your hands are everywhere. his shoulders. his neck. his back. you feel the flex of muscle under your fingers, the way his weight shifts to keep from crushing you while still making you feel it.

his kisses turn slower. wetter. open-mouthed and tongue dragging against yours like he’s tasting instead of taking now, like he’s savoring the way you sound when you gasp.

his mouth leaves yours just long enough to trail down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse jumps hardest.

“fuck,” you breathe, barely realizing you said it out loud.

his hands slide down your sides, thumbs brushing under your tank, fingers spreading over your ribs, your waist, your hips—grounding, claiming, mapping you like he’s memorizing the shape of you under his palms.

your body moves before your brain catches up.

maybe it’s instinct. maybe it’s frustration. maybe it’s the way he’s everywhere except where you need him.

you reach down.

your fingers brush him through his sweats—hot, hard, there—and you curl your hand around him without thinking, without planning, without permission.

his groan is immediate. low. rough. it vibrates straight through you.

“—fuck.”

for half a second, you think you’ve done it. you think you crossed the line and he’s going to let you have it.

then his hand closes around your wrist.

firm. not angry. not panicked.

“no,” he says, voice tight now, restraint threading through it like steel. he pulls your hand away from him and pins it beside your head, fingers lacing with yours just to make the point stick. “not yet.”

your chest heaves. your legs shift under him, needy, aching.

“why—” you start, breathless.

he dips his head, forehead brushing yours, nose nudging your cheek, voice dropping back into that maddening calm.

“because,” he murmurs, “you’re grabbing for the ending.”

his thumb strokes once over your knuckles, almost gentle. almost affectionate.

“and i’m still teaching you the middle.”

his free hand slides up your stomach—palm broad and warm and maddening—until it rests under the swell of your chest, not quite cupping. just waiting. like he’s listening to your heartbeat there.

“you keep getting shy,” he murmurs. “but you’ve got all these ideas, don’t you?”

your lips part. your throat’s dry. “i…”

his head tilts. he studies your face like a text he’s annotating. like every glance is a margin note you’ll have to answer for later.

“what do you like?” he asks, simple as a quiz. like it’s an easy question. like there’s a right answer and he already knows it.

you freeze. “i—i don’t know.”

he hums, skeptical. “sure you do.”

his hand trails higher, up to the hem of your tank, fingers dipping under like he’s flipping a page. your breath hitches again.

“you liked that earlier,” he murmurs, brushing your ribs, “when i touched here.”

you nod, barely.

“and here,” he adds, palm spreading over your waist again, squeezing, slow and firm.

you nod again.

he leans down, lips near your throat. “what about this?” his thumb brushes the side of your breast, not quite touching your nipple. just teasing. just hovering like it’s a privilege.

you make a noise in your throat. embarrassed. startled. needy.

“hm?” he prompts, voice darker. “you like your tits played with?”

you flinch. “i—i don’t know. i haven’t—”

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “haven’t what?”

you whisper, “no one’s ever done it like that before.”

he grins slow. wicked. fucking delighted.

“no?” his voice dips like it’s velvet dragging across skin. “want me to try?”

your lips part. “i—yeah. okay.”

“okay,” he echoes, already dragging your tank top down with both hands, peeling it under your tits so they spill out, flushed and stiff, nipples peaked from cold and contact and god knows what else. “that’s cute.”

he palms one softly, then both—squeezes just enough to make your hips jerk under him, then thumbs over your nipples like he’s testing pressure, testing reaction, testing how fast he can get you to writhe.

your head tilts back with a whimper. he watches the whole thing, like a study in cause and effect.

“sensitive,” he murmurs, again, almost fond this time. “look at you.”

you do, barely—eyes half-lidded, throat exposed, chest heaving under his hands—and he leans down and mouths over one nipple, wet and sudden and warm, and fuck, it’s worse than you imagined. better. softer. hotter.

he licks slow, then sucks.

you gasp.

your back arches into his mouth before you can stop it.

his hand is still around your wrist, keeping you from grabbing him again, but his other palm strokes down your waist as he sucks your tit into his mouth and hums like he could stay there forever. like he enjoys this more than he should.

you whine. legs tightening. core clenching.

and all he says is, “yeah… you like this,” with your nipple still wet between his teeth.

and then he does it again. harder. longer.

and you nearly sob.

he licks and sucks his way back up—tongue warm against the curve of your breast, mouth dragging heat straight across your chest, up your sternum, wet and unhurried, like he’s claiming everything you are one inch at a time. like you’re something sweet he can’t stop tasting.

his hands don’t rush. they stay low, supportive. one cradling your lower back. the other stroking over your side, fingers grazing the slope of your waist like he’s petting down a shiver.

you breathe, ragged. you feel everything.

then he reaches your neck—and fuck, you thought his mouth was sinful on your tits but here, it’s worse. better. his teeth scrape under your jaw and you gasp, hips jerking into his lap on instinct.

“still nervous?” he murmurs against your pulse, voice sticky and smug.

you try to speak. it comes out a breath. “no.”

he hums, not convinced, and then sinks his teeth in gently—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to jolt something warm and dangerous straight down your spine. you moan, barely, just a sound from the back of your throat, and he chases it immediately with his tongue, soothing the bite with lazy licks, sucking the spot once, twice, before trailing higher.

then your ear—he doesn’t skip it. doesn’t ignore the way you tense the second his breath hits the shell of it. he drags his lips up the curve, then down behind it, tongue soft. teasing. slow.

you let out something between a whimper and a curse.

his voice is soft there, right against your skin. “you always this sensitive?”

“not—normally,” you whisper.

he grins against your ear. “guess you just needed the right study partner.”

you barely have time to respond before he’s kissing you again.

sloppy. hot. tongue-first. not patient anymore—like he’s been holding back and now he’s tasting how wrecked you are. your hands scramble for his shoulders, clumsy, needy, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt like you’re afraid you’ll fall right through him.

and he lets you. lets you take it.

but while your mouth is opening for him again—while your thighs are twitching and your stomach’s fluttering and your body’s starting to catch on to just how deeply he’s unraveling you—his hand moves again.

low.

lower.

his fingers brush over your pussy through your shorts.

barely. just a pass.

but it’s enough to steal every thought out of your skull.

you break the kiss on a gasp. he doesn’t let you go far. just chases your lips with his own, nipping the bottom one as his fingers drag over you again, slow, like he’s learning the shape of the heat there. like he’s checking to see if it’s real.

you can’t stop the way you whimper. or the way your hips try to press down.

his smile is fucking audible. “already?”

your breath stutters.

“thought you were gonna be a good girl and wait for instruction,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but look at you. grinding like you need it.”

you shake your head weakly. “i’m not—i wasn’t—”

he strokes the seam of your shorts again, firmer this time, right over your clit.

you cry out softly. your nails dig into his shoulders.

he groans, low, satisfied. “mm. that’s more like it.”

“can i take these off?”

you nod, too fast. “yeah.”

your voice is high, wrecked. you sound too eager. you don’t care.

he shifts, slides the waistband down slow, thumbs hooking into the sides like he wants to make a scene of it, like it’s important he gets the angle right. your hips lift for him instinctively, and he hums a little like he likes that, like he noticed you offering yourself up without even thinking.

when the fabric drags down your thighs—slow, teasing, heat-sticky—he pauses.

his eyes drop.

and he actually stops breathing for a second.

“…fuck,” he mutters.

you freeze. “what?”

“these,” he says, thumbing the lace, “are ridiculous.”

they’re not. they’re cute. pale and soft, trimmed with little bows.

but he looks at you like you just stepped out of a fantasy he didn’t know he had.

his fingers brush the waistband again, lighter this time. “you always wear shit like this under your writing hoodie?”

you try to sit up, suddenly flustered. “i didn’t know you were gonna—”

he cuts you off with a grin, soft and smug. “i didn’t say i didn’t like them.”

his knuckle grazes the tiny bow at the center. “they’re pretty.”

your stomach flips.

“too pretty,” he adds, dragging the panties down the rest of the way. “almost a shame.”

“almost?” you whisper.

he brushes his nose right up the inside of your thigh, breath hot against your skin, like he’s following the heat of you.

his eyes flick back up—hungry, warm. “i’m not gonna feel bad if they get a little ruined.”

his hands slide up your legs, thumbs grazing the crease where your thighs meet your hips, settling just beneath the fabric. and for a second, he doesn’t do anything. just looks at you from down there—like he’s cataloging, committing, planning. like this isn’t just curiosity. it’s fucking reconnaissance.

you shift. inhale. exhale. it doesn't help.

his fingers press into your thighs, spreading them wider, tugging you closer to the edge of the bed, until you’re practically tilted forward and gasping already, your tank top bunched under your arms, your stomach tight, your pulse wild.

then—

his tongue presses through the fabric.

and it’s filthy. hot and slick and entirely too much even though you’re still covered, his mouth working slowly like he’s trying to taste you through the lace, open-mouthed licks dragging up the center seam while his hands squeeze your thighs like he’s got you locked in place.

you whimper. bite down on the sound. his eyes flash.

“don’t hold back,” he murmurs into you. “i want to hear it.”

your hips stutter forward, chasing him. he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips slick, smirk blooming wide across his face.

“yeah,” he says, voice gone hoarse, “you’re definitely a writer. dramatic little thing.”

he licks you again. slower. this time, the pressure rolls over your clit with enough heat to make your legs jump. and you can’t stay quiet—can’t stay still—you arch up, one hand shooting out behind you to brace on the sheets, the other fisting in the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

he groans, soft, like he likes the way you move. the way you shake. the way you’re already this wet for him and he hasn’t even taken them off yet.

then he does.

hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he drags them down slow—teasing, watching your face the whole time like he’s studying what embarrassment looks like when it hits your cheeks, your collarbone, the curve of your bare, glistening pussy in the cold air of his room.

“fuck,” he says, low and reverent. “look at you.”

you can’t.

you can barely breathe.

“spread wider,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s for the room more than for you.

you’re already panting. already slick and wrecked, thighs trembling on either side of his shoulders, but you do it—you obey without thinking, feet dragging wider over the sheets, knees bent up, nothing covering you now, not even the panties he’d peeled off like wrapping paper.

“fuck—look at you,” he mutters again, more to himself, like he’s taking notes. “pretty pussy already fluttering and i haven’t even touched your clit yet.”

“you did—” you gasp, sharp—“you did earlier—”

he laughs. laughs, mouth warm and wet where it’s already hovering over you, breath ghosting the slick mess of your cunt like a warning. “that was nothing,” he says, dragging his tongue up the center seam just once, slow, all tease, no pressure, “that was a warm-up.”

you flinch. your head tips back. your hips jerk forward—need before thought.

his fingers press down into your thighs. “keep still.”

“i’m trying—”

“try harder,” he says, like he’s teaching you how to hold a pen properly.

you breathe like it hurts. you feel hot, head spinning, mouth open to moan but it’s all breath, no sound. his tongue traces your folds again—no hurry, no rhythm, just methodical, exploratory strokes like he’s figuring out what parts make you jolt and twitch, what spots make your breathing shift and your hands scramble up the bed like you’re trying to run away from the feeling.

you moan. “sukuna—”

he hums against you. your back arches.

“tell me what that felt like,” he says, pulling back, mouth slick, voice serious. “right now. describe it.”

you blink through haze. “it was—it was—fuck—it felt—”

he slides two fingers up your slit, slow, parting you open. “you’re a writer, aren’t you?”

you sob. “warm,” you manage. “and slow. and—wet. deep.”

he nods, satisfied. “good.”

then—his mouth’s on you for real.

you scream, basically, or whimper like something feral, one hand flying to cover your mouth while the other fists the sheets. your hips roll. your thighs clamp. your chest rises like you’re choking on heat and sensation.

he moans into your cunt—on purpose, loud—and it sends a shock through your body so hard you nearly sob.

“s-stop—” you gasp, but you don’t mean it, and he knows it.

“no you don’t,” he mumbles against you.

his fingers slide in.

thick.

slow.

the stretch of it nearly takes you apart, two of them pumping steady while his mouth circles your clit and you’re losing it, like completely. no plan. no dignity. no plot left in your head at all.

“what do you say when it feels that good?” he asks, not even lifting his head.

you pant. “i—thank you?”

he laughs again. “no,” he says, curling his fingers just right, making you choke, “you ask.”

“ask—?”

he licks you again. sucks again.

you cry out. “please—!”

“hm?” he pulls back. “please what?”

your voice cracks. “please let me—please let me cum—”

“why?”

you blink at him, glazed. “w-what?”

“tell me why you deserve it.”

“i don’t—i—i can’t—fuck—” your thighs twitch, trying to close again. he pushes them back apart.

he curls his fingers deeper, tongue flicking again, faster.

“you’re gonna cum anyway,” he murmurs, amused. “might as well earn it.”

“because—” you sob, high-pitched, “because i want it—because i need it, i swear—please—”

his mouth closes over you again, and this time he doesn’t stop.

doesn’t pull back.

doesn’t tease.

just devours you.

his fingers never falter, fucking you open while his tongue presses your clit into a constant throb, and you’re not even breathing anymore, you’re gasping, you’re grinding your hips into his face now, you’re whining like an animal, like a slut, like a student who finally gave up and admitted she wants to be taught—

—and when you cum, it’s like everything stops.

it’s so wet, you can hear it.

it’s so hot, you forget how to move.

your legs lock up around his head. your hips buck once. your back arches off the bed as your mouth drops open, a long, broken moan falling from it like confession.

and he stays there, tongue softening, licking through the aftershocks like dessert, until your thighs shake and your pussy pulses and you push at his shoulder, begging him—begging—for a break.

when he pulls back, his mouth is glossy. flushed. still smirking.

“good girl,” he says, wiping his thumb over your slit one last time.

you twitch. you gasp.

you don’t know who you are anymore.

you’re still twitching when he shifts down.

still trying to catch your breath.

your legs part instinctively—an offering, a warning, an invitation you couldn’t take back if you tried.

“relax,” he murmurs, voice a rasp against your inner thigh. “not gonna make you cum again.”

you whimper. “i—i can’t—”

“i know.”

his hands anchor you open again anyway, firm on the backs of your thighs, keeping you spread, keeping you honest, and his mouth dips one more time, down, down, down—

—and kisses your clit.

just once. just a kiss.

a wet, closed-mouth press that turns your whole body to glass, that makes your hips jump and your thighs tremble and your breath hitch like you know he did it just to see if you’d beg for more.

you almost do.

you feel it for a lifetime.

“mm,” he hums against you, and the vibration shoots through your cunt like a punishment. “still twitchy.”

your voice breaks. “that was—”

“what?” he murmurs, glancing up with that gleam in his eye. “too much?”

you swallow. “too good.”

he grins. kisses it again.

lighter. shorter. more like a thank you than a threat.

you moan before you can stop it.

he breathes out a laugh.

“still so sensitive,” he says. “guess we’ll save the rest for next time.”

then he drags his mouth back up your body—slow, wet kisses over your hipbone, your ribs, the curve of your breast, the underside of your jaw. he sucks your skin like he’s tasting a story he wrote first.

“n-next time?”

when his mouth finds yours again, you’re still slick and open and ruined.

and you kiss him back like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

you whimper.

then he stands.

and it’s ridiculous, the way your whole body feels it, like pressure dropping from the ceiling, like heat pulling away from your skin all at once. like something just got taken away before you even had it.

you’re flushed. trembling. panting like you just ran a mile, thighs aching, nerves shot, breath hitching every time his scent brushes the back of your throat.

your chest rises and falls like a warning. your core pulses like an afterthought.

his gaze drags over you once, then dips lower.

“rewrite the scene,” he says. “send it to me.”

your mouth is open, but no sound comes out.

he turns.

the door swings open.

he doesn’t look back.

his scent lingers. his voice lingers worse.

the silence rushes in like a wave.

you don’t move. not for a long time.

you don’t know how.

you’re still on your back, legs numb, lips parted and swollen, pulse still caught in that place just below your bellybutton where everything feels wrong and raw and so, so ready for more.

you close your eyes. you breathe in slow. you try to ground yourself.

but there’s no coming back from this.

no neutral after that.

the cursor’s still blinking on your laptop.

you reach for it like you’re in a trance, fingers trembling, breath shuddering as you drag the computer onto your lap, still kneeling, still sticky, still wearing nothing but the throb between your thighs.

you know exactly what you’re gonna write next.

The afternoon line moved in patient little shuffles. A toddler cried at the front end of the store, and somewhere in aisle seven, someone dropped a jar of pasta sauce with the dramatic commitment of a Greek tragedy.

You didn’t even flinch. You just counted tablets, checked an interaction screen, and thought, Please let everyone be kind today.

That was when you saw him.

At first, it was just a shadow crossing the pick-up lane—too tall for the world, shoulders filling the space like the building had to breathe around him. Then the details sharpened: pale pink hair buzzed close, a face that looked carved out of irritation, tattoos climbing his arms like black vines that had decided to stay forever.

He stood there like he didn’t wait in lines. Like lines waited for him.

One of the pharmacy techs—Mika—smiled her retail smile and chirped, “Hi! Name and date of birth?” The man’s eyes moved, slow as a blade leaving its sheath, and landed on you behind the counter. Not on Mika. Not on the register. On you—like your existence was a new sound he was trying to locate.

“Ryomen,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sukuna Itadori.” Mika typed, still smiling. “And your birthday?” He recited it, bored, eyes never leaving you. That alone was unsettling—most people looked away when they gave personal information, like it was polite to pretend they weren’t handing you a piece of themselves.

Sukuna didn’t pretend anything.

Mika’s expression shifted the smallest bit when she saw the profile. New patient. New meds. The kind of prescriptions that came with notes and caution flags and the invisible weight of someone finally saying, Alright. We’re going to try something different.

She reached for the bag in will-call.

Sukuna’s hand rose, palm out, stopping her like a traffic light.

“No.” Mika blinked. “Um—sorry?” He nodded toward you with his chin, like it was obvious. “I want the pharmacist.”

A small pause fell into the air. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… present. Like the pharmacy itself tilted its head.

Mika glanced at you, eyebrows lifting in a Can you take this? question.

You exhaled through your nose—quiet, controlled—and set your tray down.

“Of course,” you said, stepping forward.

Your voice was gentle, but your posture was pure professionalism. You didn’t hurry. You didn’t shrink. You simply arrived at the counter, hands folded, eyes lifting to meet his.

Up close, he was worse.

Not because he was handsome—he was, in that dangerous way people warned you about with the phrase trouble. Not because he was tall—though he was, towering enough that you had to tilt your chin to keep eye contact. Not because he was built like a door that lifted weights.

It was the look in his eyes.

Red-brown, sharp, watchful. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to be disappointed and was still hoping you might surprise him.

“Mr. Itadori?” you asked, because you were polite even when your pulse tried to sprint. “Sukuna,” he corrected.

You nodded once. “Sukuna. I’m Y/n. I’m the pharmacist on duty.” His gaze flicked to your name tag, then back up. “Y/n,” he repeated, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth.

You slid the bag toward you, glanced at the label, and kept your tone calm. “This is your first fill with us. I’m going to review your medication with you—dosage, common side effects, and what to avoid.” He leaned in a fraction, forearms on the counter. Tattoos flexed as he moved. The scent of him reached you—clean soap and something mineral, like cold metal warmed by skin.

“Side effects,” he murmured. “Yeah. Let’s talk about those.” You kept your face neutral, but your brain whispered,

Please be normal. Please be normal.

He wasn’t.

“What’s it do to my sex drive?” he asked, casually, like he was asking if you had paper or plastic bags. Mika made a strangled sound behind you. Someone in line coughed, suddenly very interested in the greeting cards.

You stared at him.

He held your gaze with the calm confidence of a man who had never been embarrassed in his life. “And before you say ‘everyone reacts different,’” he added, voice dropping, “I’m an athlete. I need my body working. All of it.” Then he gave you a slow blink that was somehow a wink without technically being a wink. “I can go all night,” he said, like he was sharing a fun fact. “It’d be a tragedy if the meds took that away from the world.”

Your expression didn’t change.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the implication. You did. Unfortunately. Vividly.

It was that you refused to reward it.

You lifted the leaflet, tapped it once with a neatly trimmed nail, and said, “Sexual side effects are possible. If you experience changes, you should speak with your prescriber. Do you have any other questions that are actually relevant?” Mika choked harder. You heard a stifled laugh from somewhere down the line.

Sukuna’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, like your deadpan had struck something in him that wanted to live. “Mm,” he hummed. “I like you.” You kept reading off the counseling points like your life depended on it. “This medication should be taken once daily. Try to take it at the same time each day. It may cause drowsiness, dizziness, nausea—”

“Will it make me less… angry?” he asked, quieter now.

That one landed different. Not flirtatious. Not stupid. Just raw, slipped under the counter like a note you weren’t supposed to see.

You softened your voice without meaning to. “It can help. Especially if you give it time and take it consistently.” He looked at you like he didn’t enjoy needing anything. “Time,” he repeated, as if the word tasted bitter.

You nodded. “Time. And routine.” He stared, then reached into his pocket and placed his ID on the counter—too carefully, like he didn’t trust himself to move too fast. “Y/n,” he said again, and your name sounded like a warning and a compliment in the same breath. “Tell me the truth.” You met his eyes. “Okay.”

“If I take this,” he said, “am I going to feel like someone else?” Your throat tightened, just a little. You’d heard this question in a hundred different forms—Will I still be me? Will my thoughts still belong to me? Will I lose my fire? Will I lose my edge?

You didn’t give him a rehearsed line. You gave him the truth you could safely hold.

“It shouldn’t erase you,” you said softly. “It should give you more space to breathe inside yourself. If it ever feels wrong—if you feel numb or unlike yourself—you talk to your provider. We adjust. We don’t suffer in silence.” Something flickered behind his eyes—annoyance, relief, suspicion, maybe all of it braided together.

Then, because he was him, he tilted his head and said, “So you’re saying you’ll take care of me.” Your cheeks warmed. “I’m saying I will do my job,” you replied.

He smiled this time. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… pleased.

“You’re sweet,” he said. “It’s cute.”

“I’m professional,” you corrected. “You’re both,” he said with a smirk, you handed him the bag and the paperwork. “Do you have any allergies?”

“No.”

“Any other medications you take?”

“Sometimes protein powder,” he said. “Sometimes violence.” Mika audibly inhaled like she’d just swallowed a cough the wrong way.

You blinked once. “We’ll start with the protein powder.” He chuckled—low, brief. The sound startled you more than his words. It made him seem… human. Like there was a person in there under the anger and the edges.

He took the bag, but didn’t move away. Just stayed, leaning in like the counter was a fence and he didn’t want to leave the yard you stood in.

“So,” he said, “when do I see you again?”

“Your next refill date is on the label,” you told him evenly.

He lifted the bag, glanced at it, then looked at you again like the label was a suggestion, not a schedule. “Yeah,” he said. “But what if I have questions?”

“You can call the pharmacy.”

“I don’t like phones.”

“You can ask any pharmacist.” He stared at you. Slow. Heavy. Like he was setting down a decision. “No,” he said simply. “I’ll ask you.” You held your composure like it was stitched into your ribs. “We have multiple pharmacists.” He leaned closer, voice dropping into something that vibrated in your chest. “I need the real one.” Your stomach flipped, traitorous and soft.

You didn’t curse. You didn’t snap. You didn’t flirt.

You simply lifted your eyebrows. “Sukuna, are you refusing counseling from anyone else?” He stared back, completely serious. “Yes.”

Mika’s eyes went wide with Is that allowed?

You exhaled quietly, like you were releasing a patient prayer.

“Fine,” you said. “If you have questions, you can ask me when I’m on duty.” His mouth curved again—victory, wrapped in velvet. “Good,” he said. “Because I do have a question.” You didn’t even sigh this time. You just waited.

He tapped the bag lightly. “If this makes me calmer,” he said, “and less obsessive… will I still want things?” You watched his face for the joke, for the crude punchline, for the easy innuendo.

It didn’t come.

Instead, his eyes stayed on yours, too intent, like he meant things in a way that wasn’t just about bodies.

You swallowed. “Most people still want things,” you said carefully. “Sometimes they want them in a healthier way.” He nodded once, like that answered something he hadn’t said out loud.

Then he straightened, finally stepping back.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” You lifted your chin. “Take it as directed.” He paused at the edge of the counter, glanced over his shoulder.

“And Y/n?”

“Yes?” His gaze slid over you—not lewd, not careless. Just aware. Like he noticed the way you held yourself, the way your softness didn’t mean weakness. “Maybe one day,” he said, voice lazy again, “you’ll let me give you my own personal medicine.”

Mika made a sound like a dying battery.

You stared at Sukuna with the same straight face you’d given him all along.

Then, very calmly, you said, “If you’re experiencing delusions, that is a side effect you should report.” For a second, he looked stunned. Then he laughed—real laughter, low and dangerous and delighted—and walked out of the pharmacy like he’d just won something.

You stood there, hands folded, heart doing a ridiculous little dance inside your ribs.

Mika leaned in, whispering, “Who was that?” You watched the automatic doors slide shut behind him, the winter light swallowing his silhouette.

You spoke softly, mostly to yourself.

“Trouble,” you said.

And as you turned back to the counter, the phone rang—one of those sharp, ordinary sounds that kept the world moving—while you tried very hard not to wonder how soon “next refill” could possibly come.

Friday nights at the pharmacy always carried a particular kind of exhaustion—one that clung to your sleeves and crawled up behind your eyes, the kind that made the fluorescent lights feel personal.

So when you heard, the next morning, that Sukuna Itadori had fought the night before, something in you tightened.

Not curiosity. Not excitement.

Just… a quiet, reluctant awareness. Like a storm report you didn’t ask for, but still read anyway because you needed to know where the wind might hit. You didn’t follow his career. You didn’t watch clips. You didn’t scroll past headlines the way other people did when they wanted to feel alive through someone else’s chaos.

You didn’t like fighting.

You liked calm. You liked clean counters. You liked the soft clink of pill bottles. You liked order, and routine, and the steady reassurance of labels that told you exactly what something was meant to do.

And yet—when you got dressed that morning, you took a few extra minutes.

You fixed your curls until they fell in obedient ringlets, glossy and thick, framing your face like they belonged there. You smoothed a little cream into the ends with careful fingers. You put on the smallest swipe of mascara, barely enough to count.

It wasn’t for him, you told yourself.

It was just… for you.

But your reflection looked back with an almost-suspicious sweetness, and you felt your cheeks warm as if your mirror had caught you hoping.

The pharmacy doors chimed sometime after nine.

You didn’t look up right away. You were checking a profile, eyes scanning for interactions, mind in its tidy little corridor of clinical focus.

Then you heard the change in the air.

The subtle pause at the counter.

The way your tech’s voice lifted—nervous, amused, trying not to sound intrigued.

And you knew.

Mika cleared her throat. “Uh—hi. Can I help you?” A familiar low voice slid over the counter like smoke. “Yeah. I’m here for the pharmacist.” Mika tried. She really did. “We can counsel you—”

“I don’t want ‘we.’” You could hear the smirk in his tone. “I want her.” You closed your eyes for half a second.

Not because you were angry—though you were definitely annoyed—but because your heart did something completely unhelpful, fluttering like a trapped thing.

You set your pen down with exaggerated calm, then stepped out from behind the workstation.

Sukuna stood there in a fitted hoodie that looked like it was fighting for its life across his shoulders. His buzzed hair was still damp, pale pink and close to his scalp, and he had that post-training heat clinging to him—clean sweat, sharp soap, something metallic and bright.

He looked… awake.

Not in the polite way people looked awake after coffee.

In the way a blade looked awake after being sharpened.

There was a faint bruise at the edge of his cheekbone that hadn’t fully yellowed yet, and a small cut near his brow like a careless punctuation mark.

His eyes found you instantly and the second they did, his mouth curved, slow and pleased.

Like he’d walked in already knowing you’d be pretty.

You hated that your pulse noticed.

You approached the counter, posture perfectly professional, voice soft enough to be kind but firm enough to be a boundary.

“What was going on?” you asked, because he always arrived like a disruption and acted like it was your fault.

Sukuna didn’t even pretend to be here for a refill.

He pulled something from his pocket and slid it across the counter toward you with two fingers.

A ticket.

Black, glossy, heavy stock—one of those tickets that didn’t look like paper so much as a promise. VIP lettering caught the overhead lights.

You stared down at it.

Then you stared up at him.

“What is this?” you asked, even though you already knew. Your stomach had answered before your mouth did.

His smirk deepened. “My fight.” You blinked once. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.” He tilted his head, watching your face like he was waiting for some reaction he could collect. “You should come.” You didn’t touch the ticket. Like it might burn you. Like accepting it would be the same as agreeing to something you hadn’t said yes to. “Sukuna,” you said gently, “this is—unprofessional.”

He leaned closer, forearms resting on the counter like he belonged there. Tattoos flexed beneath his sleeves. His voice dropped, warm and too intimate for a pharmacy at nine in the morning.

“You’re a pharmacist,” he murmured. “You like… aftercare.” Your face stayed neutral on pure willpower. “Aftercare isn’t a medical term,” you replied, even though the words sounded a little too careful leaving your mouth, like you were stepping around a puddle you didn’t want to admit you’d noticed.

His eyes flickered, amused. “It is if I say it is.” You glanced down at the bruise near his cheekbone, the cut at his brow, and felt something tender tug at the inside of your ribs—something you didn’t want to name.

“Why are you giving this to me?” you asked softly.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because I want you there,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your throat tightened.

You kept your voice steady. “I don’t—watch fighting.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “Watch me.” You looked at him, and his gaze held yours, steady and bold and too sure.

Then he tapped the ticket lightly with one knuckle.

“And after,” he added, lazy and cocky again, “you can fix my bruises.” Your brows lifted. “I’m not a nurse.”

“You’re close enough.” His grin sharpened. “You’ve got that gentle little voice. You’ll do great.” Mika made a small, helpless noise behind you, like she was watching a rom-com she hadn’t paid for.

You exhaled, the sound barely more than air. “This is inappropriate.” Sukuna straightened, as if he’d heard you but didn’t accept the premise.

He set the ticket down with slow certainty—like a man placing a coin on a counter, already convinced the purchase was complete.

Then he leaned in one last time, eyes on yours.

“See you tonight, Y/n,” he said.

You opened your mouth to argue.

He turned and walked away before you could.

Just left the ticket there.

Like you were going to pick it up.

Like the world always did what he wanted.

The doors chimed as he exited, and the pharmacy felt too bright again, too normal, too clean for the way your heart was misbehaving.

Mika crept up beside you, eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “He is… actually insane.” You stared at the VIP ticket like it might start talking. “He shouldn’t do that,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her.

Mika’s smile widened. “He’s not exactly a ‘should’ kind of man.” You swallowed, still staring down.

All day, the ticket sat in the back of your mind like a little weight.

Between counseling patients on antibiotics and explaining prior authorizations and repeating the same gentle script you’d always used—Take with food, call us if you have questions, no, don’t double up, yes, please drink water—your thoughts kept drifting.

Not to the fight.

To him.

To the way he’d looked at you like you were something he wanted to keep in his hands.

You tried to focus. You really did.

But you caught yourself imagining his bruises.

His cut.

Your fingers—gloved, of course—dabbing antiseptic.

The absurd intimacy of tending to someone who was built for damage.

The idea made you feel warm and ridiculous.

And nervous.

Near the end of your shift, Mika leaned against the counter, casual like she wasn’t about to push you off a cliff.

“You’re going,” she said. “I’m not,” you replied automatically.

Mika hummed. “You’re going.” You frowned. “Why are you acting like you control my decisions.”

“Because I like joy,” she said. “And because you’ve been walking around all day like someone put a secret in your pocket.” You tried to look offended. It didn’t work. Mika waved her hand. “Leave early. We’ve got it handled. Go… do whatever this is.”

“This is nothing,” you said, but your voice came out too soft, too unconvincing.

Mika’s eyes narrowed. “Your mascara begs to differ.” Your cheeks warmed instantly. “I always wear mascara.”

“Mm-hm.” She smiled like she’d caught you stealing candy. “Go.” You hesitated long enough for your conscience to wrestle with your curiosity.

Then you sighed.

“Fine,” you said quietly, like you were agreeing to a chore instead of a choice that made your stomach flutter.

You went home and stood in front of your closet longer than you should have.

You told yourself you were dressing comfortably.

You told yourself you didn’t care what you looked like.

You told yourself the black long-sleeve was just clean and simple and easy, but when you pulled it on and it hugged your curves—when the mirror showed you soft and shapely and a little too pretty for your own comfort—you paused.

Not because you were trying.

Because you weren’t.

You chose jeans that fit the way they were supposed to—snug at the waist, fitted at the thighs—and when you turned sideways, you let out a small breath, surprised at your own silhouette. Your hair fell down your back in thick ringlets, framing you with that natural softness you couldn’t hide even when you wanted to.

You didn’t add jewelry. No perfume. Nothing dramatic.

Just you.

Just… slightly braver than usual.

The drive to the arena felt surreal.

Streetlights blinked on one by one like the city was exhaling into night. Traffic thickened closer to the venue, headlights pooling like water. You followed the signs, parked, and sat for a second with your hands on the steering wheel, heart tapping an anxious rhythm.

You could still turn around, you told yourself.

You could drive home.

You could return to your quiet apartment and your safe routines and pretend you’d never accepted anything from a man like him.

But your fingers had already touched the ticket.

You got out of the car.

The arena loomed bright and loud, all banners and bodies, and you felt small walking toward it—small, and out of place, like you’d wandered into someone else’s movie.

At the entrance, security scanned your ticket.

The staff member’s face changed—respectful, quick. “Right this way.” You swallowed. “Okay.” They led you through a corridor where the sound of the crowd grew heavier with every step—bass thumps of music, shouts like waves, the electric hum of anticipation.

You were guided into the private area.

It was quieter than the main seating, but it still throbbed with noise beneath it—like you could feel the energy in the floor. Plush seats, a small table, a view that made your stomach dip. People in nicer clothes sat around you, laughing, sipping drinks.

You sat stiffly, hands folded in your lap, trying not to look like you didn’t belong.

Because you didn’t.

A screen lit up with highlights, and the announcer’s voice rolled through the arena like thunder.

Your palms dampened.

You didn’t like violence. You didn’t like the idea of bodies as entertainment. You didn’t like the way the crowd sounded hungry and yet… you were here.

Because Sukuna had looked at you like you were the only soft thing in the room worth reaching for.

Lights dimmed.

The first fight began.

You flinched at the first sharp impact—two bodies colliding, the sound somehow louder than it should’ve been. You tried to focus on the rules, on the structure, on the idea that this was controlled, sanctioned.

But your shoulders stayed tense.

You found yourself watching the referees more than the fighters. Watching for safety. Watching for stopping points. Watching for the moment someone would say enough.

You took slow breaths, the way you taught anxious patients to do when they came to pick up meds they didn’t want to need.

Around you, people cheered.

You didn’t.

You simply watched—eyes wide, heart uneasy—trying to understand why anyone craved this.

And then, between fights, a movement near the VIP entrance caught your attention.

A familiar shape.

Too tall. Too broad.

Sukuna appeared at the edge of the private area like he owned the air itself.

He wasn’t in his fight gear yet—still in warmups, loose pants, a jacket zipped partway. His hair looked freshly dried again, and there was a calm to him that made him even more dangerous, like all the anger had been leashed tight for later.

His eyes swept the room.

Then landed on you.

And the smirk returned, immediate and satisfied—like a lock clicking into place.

He walked over with unhurried confidence, gaze never leaving your face. People glanced up, murmured, shifted to make space without being asked.

He stopped in front of you, towering just enough that you had to tilt your chin again. “Well,” he said, voice low, amused. “You came.” Your heart stuttered.

You tried to sound composed. “You left the ticket.”

“That was the point.” He leaned down slightly, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in your ear, not in public. “I wanted to see if you’d do what I asked.” You frowned, though your cheeks warmed. “That’s… manipulative.” He shrugged like it was a compliment. “And yet.” You exhaled softly. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

He studied you—your curls, your black top, the way you held yourself like you were trying to be invisible and failing.

His eyes darkened with approval. “You look good.” You blinked. “Sukuna—” He cut you off with a lazy little smile. “Don’t start. Just take it.” Your lips parted, then closed.

You forced yourself to ask the sensible thing. “Are you hurt?” His gaze flicked over your face, then softened—almost imperceptibly. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

That answer should’ve unsettled you.

It did.

He sat down—too close, far too casual—like it was normal for him to fold himself into your space. His knee brushed yours, and the contact sent a small spark up your leg, stupid and bright.

“You look like you want to run,” he murmured.

You stared forward at the cage. “I don’t like this.” He hummed. “I know.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

He met your eyes. “You’re too soft for it.”

You didn’t like the way that sounded—like softness was a limitation.

But the way he said it… wasn’t insulting.

It sounded protective.

It made your throat tighten anyway.

Sukuna leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like a man settling into a theater seat. “Just watch. I’ll make it quick.” You frowned. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can.” He turned his head, gaze pinned to you again. “Because you’re here.” Your heartbeat stumbled.

Then an official approached, speaking quietly to Sukuna. Sukuna listened with a bored expression that didn’t match the intensity of the room.

He stood, towering over you again.

His eyes dragged over your face—slow, possessive in a way that made you want to scold him and blush at the same time.

“Stay,” he said.

You blinked. “I wasn’t—”

“Stay,” he repeated, voice sharper now, like it mattered. Like you mattered.

You nodded once before your mind could argue.

Sukuna’s mouth curved, satisfied.

Then he walked away, disappearing into the corridor like a promise you didn’t know how to hold.

A few minutes later, his name boomed over the speakers.

The crowd erupted.

Your stomach dipped.

Lights flashed. Music surged. The atmosphere changed—thicker, wilder, like everyone suddenly leaned forward at once.

And then he was there.

Sukuna stepped out into the arena lights, and the roar around you became physical—vibrating through your bones, rattling the air in your lungs. He moved like he belonged to that sound, like it fed him. Like he wore noise the way other men wore cologne.

He looked… different.

Not softer.

Not calmer.

Just focused—cold, bright, terrifyingly controlled. His shoulders rolled once. His jaw flexed. His eyes scanned the crowd, then lifted briefly toward the VIP section.

You swore he found you instantly.

That smirk flashed again—quick as a match strike.

Your heart jumped.

Then the cage door closed.

The bell rang.

You braced yourself without meaning to.

The first exchange happened fast—feet shifting, hands snapping out, the sound of gloves and skin and impact echoing in a way that made your stomach twist.

You hated how much the crowd loved it.

But you couldn’t look away from him.

Sukuna moved like a predator.

Not frantic. Not sloppy. Every motion had intent. He slipped a punch like it was nothing, countered with something sharp and clean, forced the other man back with the effortless confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power he had.

Your hands curled in your lap.

You didn’t cheer.

You didn’t smile.

You just watched with a growing knot of worry that made your throat tight.

Because you’d seen bruises on him before and you’d realized, somewhere in the middle of counting pills and fixing curls, that you didn’t like the idea of anyone hurting him.

Not even if he chose it.

The other fighter rushed him, trying to close distance, and for a second you felt your breath catch—fear flashing through you like a cold splash.

Sukuna didn’t even look panicked.

He caught the clinch, turned it, drove the man back into the fence with brutal efficiency. Not excessive. Not theatrical. Just… decisive.

Your stomach turned.

The referee watched closely.

The crowd screamed.

Sukuna worked—short strikes, pressure, control—and when the other man tried to twist away, Sukuna dragged him down with a takedown so clean it looked like choreography.

You flinched at the sound of bodies hitting canvas.

Then Sukuna was on top, posture low, heavy, controlling. Not wild. Not cruel. Just complete.

It was horrible and mesmerizing all at once.

Your fingers pressed into your palm until you felt your own pulse.

The other fighter struggled. Sukuna adjusted. The referee hovered.

And then—so fast you almost didn’t understand it—Sukuna shifted, locked something in, and the other man tapped.

Tapped.

It was over.

The bell rang again.

The crowd exploded like fireworks.

You sat frozen, heartbeat pounding, relief washing through you so hard it made you dizzy.

Sukuna rose, chest heaving, sweat gleaming under the lights. He looked to the referee, then to his corner, then—like he couldn’t help himself—his gaze cut up toward the VIP section again.

This time, he didn’t just glance.

He stared.

And you felt it—felt the way his attention wrapped around you, heavy and sure, like a hand at your waist.

Then he smirked.

Like he’d done it for you.

Your cheeks warmed, even as your stomach still churned.

The officials swarmed him. His team surrounded him. Someone lifted his arm. Cameras flashed.

You sat there, a soft thing in a loud world, trying to steady your breathing, trying to convince yourself you hadn’t just watched a man win a fight and felt… something embarrassingly close to pride.

Around you, people stood and toasted and laughed.

Mika texted you a single message:

HE WINNING???

You stared at your phone, then at the cage, then back again.

You typed:

Yes. He’s okay.

You paused, then added:

I think.

Your phone buzzed with her reply almost instantly.

GO FIX HIS BRUISES, ROMANTIC DOCTOR LADY.

You didn’t reply.

Because your heart was still trying to climb out of your chest.

A few minutes later, movement stirred in the VIP corridor again.

Sukuna appeared, freshly towelled off but still damp, still warm with adrenaline. He had a new bruise blooming along his ribs, and his knuckles looked red and sore. There was a faint split at his lip that made something in you ache.

He looked wired.

Alive in a way you didn’t understand.

His eyes found you immediately.

And when he walked over, the crowd noise seemed to dull around the edges, like your world narrowed to the space he took up.

He stopped in front of you, smirk sharp, voice low.

“See?” he said. “Quick.” You stared at the bruise, then at his lip, then up into his eyes. “You’re bleeding,” you murmured.

His grin turned wicked. “You sound worried.” You straightened your shoulders, trying to reclaim professionalism like a shield. “It’s… my job to care about injuries.” He leaned closer, eyes bright. “That’s not your job.” Your breath hitched, very small.

He tapped his lip with a knuckle, as if inviting your gaze. “You gonna fix it?” You swallowed. “Do you have a medic—”

“I do,” he cut in smoothly. “But I wanted you.” Your face heated. You tried to keep your voice calm. “Sukuna, you can’t keep saying things like that.” He smiled like you’d told him a joke. “Why not?”

“Because…” You hesitated, honesty snagging in your throat. “Because it’s not appropriate.” His gaze softened for a split second, then sharpened again with that cocky edge he wore like jewelry. “You still came,” he murmured.

Your lips parted. Closed.

You hated how true that was.

He bent slightly, lowering his mouth closer to your ear, voice dropping into something that made your skin prickle.

“Come over,” he said. “After this.” You blinked, startled. “What?”

“My place.” His eyes held yours, steady and daring. “We’ll have drinks.” You didn’t curse, but you felt like your brain did. “I—” You swallowed. “That’s… that’s not—” Sukuna straightened, smirk returning like a familiar sin. “Relax. I’m not saying we’re getting married.” Your cheeks flamed.

He looked pleased by that too.

“I’m saying,” he continued, voice lazy, “you came all the way here, watched me do my job, and you’ve been staring at my bruises like you want to press kisses on them.” You nearly inhaled wrong. “I have not,” you whispered.

His smile widened, pure menace. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” you lied softly.

He leaned down again, just enough that his voice felt like it brushed your skin. “Come over.” You stared at him—this towering, tattooed man with a split lip and a smug grin, looking at you like you were the prize he’d already claimed.

And you should’ve said no.

You should’ve stood up, thanked him for the ticket, and left.

Instead, your heart beat quietly, insistently, like it had its own agenda.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your seat.

And Sukuna watched you—patient in the most dangerous way—like he had all the time in the world to wait for your answer.

You heard yourself say it before your brain could intervene. "Okay." The word came out soft, barely more than a breath, like you were afraid if you said it any louder, you'd scare yourself into taking it back.

Sukuna's eyes flashed—something dark and pleased and victorious all at once. "Yeah?" he murmured, leaning closer, like he wanted to make sure he'd heard you right.

You nodded, throat tight. "Just… for a little while." His smile curved slow and dangerous. "Sure," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't believe the 'little while' part for a second. "Just for a bit." He straightened, offering you his hand.

You stared at it—bruised knuckles, tattoos wrapping around his wrist like they were holding something wild in place—and then you took it. His palm was warm, rough with calluses, and when his fingers closed around yours, you felt the strength in them. Not crushing. Just… present. Like he could hold on as long as he wanted and you wouldn't be able to pull away.

He helped you stand, and suddenly you were too close to him, the heat of his body radiating through the small space between you. He smelled like sweat and clean skin and something faintly metallic, and it made your head swim.

"You drove here?" he asked.

You nodded. "Yeah."

"Follow me, then." He released your hand slowly, fingers trailing against yours as he let go. "I'm not far." You swallowed and nodded again, not trusting your voice. The walk back through the arena felt surreal—like you were moving through a dream where everything was too bright and too loud and your body didn't quite belong to you. Sukuna walked ahead, glancing back every few steps like he was making sure you hadn't bolted.

You hadn't. But you thought about it.

Your car was parked in the lot, and when you unlocked it with shaking hands, Sukuna leaned against the driver's side door of a sleek black car a few spaces down—something expensive and low to the ground that looked like it had opinions about speed limits.

"You good?" he called over.

You looked at him across the parking lot, standing there like he owned the asphalt, and your stomach flipped. "Yeah," you called back, voice steadier than you felt.

He smirked. "Don't get lost." Then he slid into his car, and the engine purred to life—a low, rumbling sound that you felt in your chest. You got into your own car, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor you to reality, and watched as he pulled out of the lot.

You followed.

The drive wasn't long, but every minute of it felt like your nerves were being pulled tighter and tighter, wound around a spool that was running out of thread. You kept your eyes on his taillights, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts that all contradicted each other.

This is a bad idea. This is exciting. You should turn around. You don't want to turn around. He's your patient. He's not your patient right now.

Your hands tightened on the wheel.

The city lights blurred past, and then you were pulling into an underground garage—concrete and steel and the echo of your engine cutting off as you parked beside him. Sukuna was already out of his car, waiting, hands in his pockets like he had all the patience in the world now that you were here.

You got out slowly, clutching your purse like it might protect you from your own decisions.

He tilted his head toward the elevator. "Come on." You followed him across the garage, your footsteps too loud in the quiet space, and when he pressed the button for the elevator, you stood beside him in silence.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

You stepped inside.

He followed, and the space immediately felt smaller—too warm, too close. He pressed a button near the top of the panel, and the elevator began to rise.

You watched the numbers climb.

15… 20… 25…

Your heart climbed with them.

When the doors finally opened, you stepped out into a hallway that was all clean lines and soft lighting, and Sukuna led you to a door at the end.

He unlocked it with a keycard, pushed it open, and stepped aside.

"After you," he said, voice low and amused, like he knew exactly how nervous you were.

You stepped inside and stopped.

The penthouse was… enormous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, showcasing the city sprawled out below like a carpet of lights. The space was open—sleek, modern, expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself. Dark hardwood floors, minimalist furniture in shades of black and gray, a kitchen with marble countertops that gleamed under recessed lighting.

It was beautiful. And it felt… empty.

Not physically—there was furniture, art on the walls, a massive sectional sofa that looked like it had never been sat on—but emotionally. Like no one really lived here. Like it was a space designed to impress, not to comfort.

Your apartment was small and cozy, full of throw blankets and plants and mismatched mugs. It smelled like vanilla candles and old books. It felt like home.

This felt like a showroom.

"You like it?" Sukuna's voice came from behind you, and you turned to find him watching you with that same unreadable expression. "It's… big," you said softly, because you didn't know how to say It's beautiful but it doesn't feel like you without sounding presumptuous.

He smirked. "That's what she said." You blinked at him, and despite everything—despite your nerves and the surreal nature of being here—you felt a laugh bubble up in your throat.

You tried to suppress it.

Failed.

It came out as a soft, helpless giggle, and Sukuna's smirk widened into something that looked almost like a real smile. "There she is," he murmured, stepping closer. "I was wondering if you were gonna stay scared all night."

"I'm not scared," you said, even though your pulse was racing. "Liar." He moved past you into the kitchen, and you watched as he opened the fridge—a massive stainless steel thing that probably cost more than your car. "What do you want to drink?" You hesitated. "Um… water?" He glanced at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Water."

"Yes."

"You sure? I've got—" He rattled off a list of things you barely registered, your brain too busy trying to keep up with the fact that you were in Sukuna's penthouse, alone, at night, after watching him fight. "Water's fine," you said, voice a little firmer. He shrugged, pulling out a bottle of water and a bright blue Gatorade for himself. He poured your water into a glass—actual glass, not plastic—and handed it to you. Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the contact sent a little spark up your arm.

"Thanks," you murmured.

He twisted the cap off his Gatorade and took a long drink, his throat working as he swallowed, and you found yourself staring at the line of his neck, the way his tattoos disappeared under the collar of his shirt.

You looked away quickly, taking a sip of your own water.

"Sit," he said, nodding toward the sectional.

You moved toward it, perching on the edge of one of the cushions like you might need to run at any moment. The leather was soft and cool under your thighs, and you set your glass down on the coffee table—a slab of dark wood that looked like it had been carved from a single tree.

Sukuna dropped onto the couch beside you—not across from you, not at a polite distance, but right beside you, close enough that his thigh almost touched yours.

You felt the heat of him immediately.

"So," he said, leaning back and draping one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. "You gonna tell me what you thought?"

"About what?" you asked, even though you knew.

His smile was slow and wicked. "The fight." You looked down at your hands, folded in your lap. "It was… intense."

"Intense," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "That's it?" You glanced at him. "I don't like violence."

"I know." His gaze was steady, unrepentant. "But you watched anyway." Your cheeks warmed. "You asked me to."

"And you came." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Why?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I don't know."

"Liar," he said again, softer this time, and his fingers brushed against your shoulder—just a whisper of contact, but it made your breath hitch.

"I'm not—"

"You are." He shifted closer, and now his thigh was pressed against yours, solid and warm. "You know exactly why you came." Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. "Sukuna—"

"Say it," he murmured, and his hand moved from your shoulder to your hair, fingers threading through your curls with a gentleness that didn't match the intensity in his eyes. "Say why you came." You stared at him, at the bruise on his cheekbone and the split in his lip and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

"Because you asked me to," you whispered, his smile was slow and satisfied. "Good girl." The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how much you liked the sound of them in his voice. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. "You're so fucking sweet," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's gonna ruin me."

You didn't know what to say to that. So you didn't say anything.

You just sat there, frozen, as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin.

"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.

You should have. You should have said stop and this is a bad idea and I need to go home.

But you didn't.

You just looked at him, your lips parted, your breath coming too fast.

And Sukuna smiled like he'd won something— his thumb traced your lower lip, and your breath caught.

"You're not gonna tell me to stop, are you?" he murmured.

You shook your head, just barely.

"Fuck," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined—not that you'd been imagining it, except you had, you absolutely had—it was rough and hungry and tasted faintly of blood from his split lip. His hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place as he kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for days.

You made a soft sound against his mouth, and he groaned in response, his other hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer.

You went.

Your hands found his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt, the heat of his skin, and you kissed him back with a desperation that should have embarrassed you but didn't. He pulled you into his lap with an ease that made your head spin, and suddenly you were straddling him, your thighs on either side of his, your hands braced on his shoulders.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, pulling back just enough to take you in—your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the way your chest was rising and falling with quick breaths. "You're so fucking pretty." You opened your mouth to respond, but he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt.

You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hips shifting beneath you in a way that made you acutely aware of how hard he was. "Sukuna," you breathed, and his name in your voice seemed to do something to him.

He groaned, low and rough, and his hands moved to your hips, grinding you down against him. The friction made you whimper, and he did it again, harder this time, his mouth moving to your neck. "You have no idea," he muttered against your skin, teeth grazing your throat, "how long I've been thinking about this."

Your head fell back, giving him access, and his mouth was hot and demanding, sucking marks into your skin that you'd have to cover tomorrow.

Tomorrow felt very far away.

His hands slid under your shirt, palms rough and warm against your bare skin, and you arched into his touch.

"Bedroom," he growled against your neck. "Now." You nodded, breathless, and he stood with you still wrapped around him, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you across the penthouse.

You should have felt self-conscious—about your weight, about how desperate you must look—but Sukuna held you like you weighed nothing, his hands firm on your ass, his mouth still working against your neck. He kicked open a door and carried you inside, and you had a brief impression of a massive bed and more floor-to-ceiling windows before he was laying you down on the mattress. You looked up at him, breathless and flushed, and he stood over you for a moment, just looking.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he muttered, and then he was on you again, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that made you feel safe and trapped all at once.

His hands were everywhere—pulling off your shirt, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, sliding your jeans down your legs until you were bare beneath him except for your panties. He sat back on his heels, looking at you spread out on his bed, and his expression was something between reverent and predatory.

"Fuck," he breathed.

You resisted the urge to cover yourself, your hands fisting in the sheets instead.

He pulled his own shirt over his head, and you got your first real look at him—all hard muscle and ink, tattoos covering his chest and arms in intricate patterns that you wanted to trace with your fingers.

You reached up, tentative, and he caught your hand, bringing it to his chest.

"Touch me," he said, voice rough.

So you did.

Your fingers traced the lines of his tattoos, the hard planes of his muscles, and he watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. When your hand drifted lower, brushing the waistband of his pants, he caught your wrist.

"Not yet," he said. "You first." And then he was kissing his way down your body—your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His mouth closed over one nipple, and you arched off the bed with a gasp.

He hummed in approval, his hand sliding down your stomach to the waistband of your panties. "Can I?" he asked, and the fact that he asked—that he paused to make sure—made something in your chest tighten. "Yes," you breathed.

He hooked his fingers in the fabric and pulled them down, tossing them aside, and then you were completely bare before him. He settled between your thighs, his shoulders forcing your legs wider, and you felt exposed and vulnerable and so turned on you could barely think.

"So fucking pretty," he muttered, and then his mouth was on you.

You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, and he groaned against you, the vibration making your hips buck. He ate you out like he was starving, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, and you were already so wound up that it didn't take long before you were trembling on the edge.

"Sukuna," you gasped, "I'm—"

"Come," he growled against you. "Come on my tongue." And you did, your orgasm crashing over you in waves that made your vision white out, your thighs clamping around his head as you shook apart.

He worked you through it, only pulling back when you whimpered from oversensitivity.

When you finally came back to yourself, he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Good?" he asked, voice smug.

You couldn't even form words. You just nodded, breathless and boneless.

He chuckled, low and dark, and then he was stripping off the rest of his clothes.

When he was finally naked, you couldn't help but stare.

He was… big. Everywhere.

Your eyes widened slightly, and he noticed, his smirk widening. "Don't worry," he said, crawling back over you. "I'll make it fit."

You were on your hands and knees on his bed, your back arched, your face pressed into the expensive sheets that smelled like him—clean and sharp and male. Sukuna was behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other wrapped around your front, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles.

And he was fucking you.

Hard.

Deep.

Fast enough that you couldn't catch your breath, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but take it and moan and feel. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned in your ear, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck. "So fucking perfect." You whimpered, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he thrust harder, the sound of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. "You like that?" he muttered, his fingers pressing harder against your clit. "You like me fucking you like this?"

"Yes," you gasped, the word barely coherent. "Yes, oh, yes—" He groaned, low and rough, and his hips snapped forward again, burying himself so deep you saw stars. Your second orgasm was building already, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel yourself getting wetter, could hear it in the slick sounds of him moving inside you.

"That's it," he growled. "Fuck, you're dripping for me. You gonna come again? Gonna come on my cock?" You nodded frantically, beyond words, and his fingers moved faster, his thrusts harder, and you were right there, right on the edge— And then he laughed.

Not a cruel laugh. Not mocking.

Just… amused.

"Fuck," he said, his rhythm faltering for just a second. "I forgot to take my meds." Your brain, fogged with pleasure, took a moment to process that, and then you felt him shift, his body leaning away from yours slightly, and you heard the sound of a pill bottle opening. You turned your head, dazed and disbelieving, and watched as Sukuna—still inside you, still hard, still moving in slow, lazy thrusts—popped open his prescription bottle with one hand.

He shook two pills into his palm, tossed them into his mouth, and then reached for the water bottle on his nightstand.

He took a drink, swallowed, and set the bottle back down.

All while still fucking you.

"Sukuna," you groaned, half scandalized, half delirious. "Are you serious right now?" He leaned back down, his chest pressing against your back again, his mouth right against your ear. "What?" he murmured, his voice full of dark amusement. "You told me to take them at the same time every day." You made a sound that was half laugh, half moan, because this was obscene and inappropriate and somehow the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.

"You're insane," you gasped. “Yeah," he agreed, and then he thrust hard, making you cry out. "But you like it." You couldn't argue with that.

His hand returned to your clit, and his pace picked up again, faster now, harder, and you were so close you could taste it. "Did I do a good job?" he growled in your ear, his voice rough and possessive. "Taking my meds like a good boy?" You whimpered, nodding frantically. "Say it," he demanded, his fingers pressing harder. "Tell me I did a good job."

"You did," you gasped. “God, Sukuna, you did so good—" He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back, and his thrusts became almost punishing, chasing his own release now. "Gonna fill you up," he muttered. "Gonna make you come one more time and then fill this pretty pussy up. You want that?"

"Yes," you sobbed, because you were so close, so fucking close— "Then come," he growled. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it." And you did.

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your whole body seizing, your walls clamping down around him so hard he cursed. "Fuck, fuck, yes—" He thrust twice more, hard and deep, and then he was coming too, groaning your name into your neck as he spilled inside you.

You collapsed forward onto the bed, and he followed you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you breathing hard. For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Sukuna shifted, pulling out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss.

He rolled onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest still heaving.

You turned your head to look at him, your body still trembling with aftershocks. "You really just took your meds in the middle of sex," you said, your voice hoarse.

He lowered his arm and looked at you, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Yeah," he said. "I did." You stared at him for a moment.

And then you started laughing.

You couldn't help it—it was absurd and ridiculous and so perfectly him that you couldn't do anything but laugh, your body shaking with it.

Sukuna watched you, his grin softening into something that looked almost fond.

"You're fucking cute," he muttered.

You were still laughing, breathless and spent and completely wrecked, when he pulled you against his chest, and for the first time since you'd met him, Sukuna looked like a peaceful menace, a menace you had to refill his prescription in 2 weeks.

But maybe the only medication he needed was just his pharmacist.

this was a brain rot idea I had like a long time ago, you're welcome😩

“The trend!” you say, eyes lighting up. You immediately launch into an animated explanation, using your hands to make every point, describing the concept of it as if this is a normal, healthy married activity and not, as he’d certainly label it, an act of domestic emotional terrorism. Weird crushes, unhinged picks, absurd defence arguments—”The whole point,” you stress finally, “is that they don’t make sense. That’s what makes it so hilarious.”

Sukuna listens just enough to follow, crossing his arm over his broad chest, clearly not impressed with the idea. Before he can actually object, you shove a handful of wooden sticks and a roll of tape into his hands.

“Print them,” you instruct. “Little squares. We’ll need a few, let’s say five. I already did mine, so you just need to do yours.”

He stares down at the sticks and states flatly, “You’re fucking unbelievable.” 

“I know,” you say sweetly, putting your palms flat on his chest and giving him a gentle push toward the end of the couch. “Now go.”

He saves his game with a put-upon scoff, but he gets up anyway, muttering something under his breath as he heads toward his gaming room. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, and a moment later, you hear the faint sound of him tossing the sticks onto his desk. No more than thirty minutes later, he returns, holding a small bundle of skewered photos.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says calmly, dropping into one of the chairs, voice low and already annoyed, “this is under protest.”

“Yes, yes, crystal clear.”

His eyes flick to you, then he mutters to himself, “This has Satoru’s fingerprints all over it.”

Grinning widely, you absolutely ignore his comment, heading toward the kitchen to pull the cake you bought on the way home out of the fridge. You set it carefully in the middle of the table, prop your phone up against a stack of books, hit record, and then take your seat next to him, your eyes full of mischief.

Sukuna leans back in his chair, gaze humping between the cake and your expectant face. He’s clearly resigned to his fate.

“…I already regret this,” he mutters.

“Okay,” you begin with a grin, “hear me out. Nick Wilde.”

You press the picture of the fox into the cake's soft icing, angle it toward the camera, and straighten the stick. Then, you look back at him, waiting patiently.

His head tilts a little and his eyes narrow, but to your surprise, it’s more of a reluctant, almost annoyed consideration. There’s a beat where he looks nearly offended by how much sense your ridiculous pick actually makes.

“…Huh.” He tightens his arms across his chest, glancing between the cartoon fox and your beaming face. “Smug,” he says slowly, ticking off the traits. “Mouthy. Thinks he's the smartest one in the room.” 

His eyes slide back to you, narrowing even more, and a knowing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “You have a type.”

You laugh, deeply pleased by the grudging admission. “I think I do.”

He exhales sharply through his nose; it sounds frustrated, but there’s no real heat to it. “I hate that I can defend this one,” he mutters. “You started strong, not stupid. I’ll give you that.”

There’s a pause before he clicks his tongue and looks away, but you can see the faintest, most infuriating hint of amusement in his eyes. Whether he likes it or not, you absolutely made your point with your first pick.

You lean back in your seat, focusing entirely on him and settling in to see what kind of wild nonsense he's going to pull.

Sukuna reaches for his stack, dramatically shielding it with one hand, like you’re going to cheat or peek. He sifts through his picks with irritating slowness, selects one without a word, and before he even moves, you’re already giggling. 

He stabs the stick into the cake with no hesitation.

“Fine,” he says, sitting up straight. “Shrek.”

Your quiet giggle instantly turns louder. You were not expecting him to go that absurd that fast. 

“Okay, I respect the commitment,” you manage in between laughs. “I just need to understand why you picked him.”

“He’s hot,” he says flatly.

“You’re lying,” you wheeze, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “There’s just no way—”

“I’m not,” he replies, completely unbothered, meeting your gaze with unsettling sincerity.  “You said the point was that it doesn’t make sense.”

“So you’re saying you just went straight for chaos,” you grin at him.

“Of course I did. Unlike you, I understood the assignment,” he smirks, the corner of his mouth curling up in victory.

“Excuse me?” you splutter, sitting up straight and placing a scandalized hand on your chest. “What do you mean unlike me?”

Sukuna tilts his head to the side, giving you a slightly condescending look, and you narrow your eyes and glare at him in response. 

“Nothing about Nick is unhinged. He’s a wet dream of every single woman on the planet. You picked safe.”

You gasp like you’ve been mortally wounded, dramatically raising your hand from your chest to your forehead as you sag back in your chair. “No one has ever hurt me this deeply.”

“Oh, no. What have I done. How could I say such a thing,” he deadpans with an absolutely straight, unblinking face. The lack of sympathy in his tone is so profound it’s almost artistic. You can’t help but swat his arm, trying to match his expression, but it’s futile, and you burst out laughing again.

After a loud exhale, you give your husband that particular, confident little smile that always puts him on edge. He watches your fingers reach for your next choice, and the look in your eyes tells him that this pick is going to get under his skin, and, what’s worse, you’re loving it.

You stick the picture firmly into the cake, angling it toward the camera, proud of it like you’ve just played a very strong hand.

“Death,” you just say. “From Puss in Boots.”

“…Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble of annoyance. 

Sukuna stares at the image for a second, then slowly lifts his gaze to you, raising one eyebrow. His mouth hangs just slightly, a slow breath caught halfway between disbelief and frustration.

He drags his hand down his face, groaning internally. “Of course you picked him. Because why wouldn’t you put the literal personification of death on a cake?”

“He whistles,” you reply simply, as if that one fact explains everything. “And he’s hot.”

“And you’re not well,” he says flatly.

You stare at him for a few seconds, taking in his deadpan delivery, and then burst out laughing again.

He gestures at the cake with disdain as if he saw this coming. “You’re not slick, you know. You’re saying you want someone with red eyes who chases you down, breathes down your neck, is impossibly strong—”

You cut him off innocently. “Remind you of anyone?”

Immediately, his eyes narrow, and the corner of his mouth twitches with a barely suppressed reaction. “Watch it, brat,” he snaps back and then adds in a voice already edged with real annoyance, “That one pisses me off.”

Sukuna exhales sharply, like he’s trying to clear his head after that. He reaches for his pile without even looking at you, not bothering to shield it this time. He jabs his next pick into the cake right beside Death with a firm, slightly aggressive motion, angling it toward the camera.

“The Lorax.”

You lean forward, squinting at the grumpy orange character now standing next to Death, Nick and Shrek like it’s the most natural, sensible lineup ever.

“…You’re putting the fucking Lorax on the hear me out cake?” you manage to choke out.

He shrugs, completely unfazed by your escalating shock. “He’s got a god complex.”

You make a noise halfway between a laugh and a gasp.

“Speaks for the trees,” he continues, completely serious. “Thinks he’s morally superior to every living thing. Decides what’s right and what matters. Loud about it.”

Your mouth opens to protest, laughing, “Kuna, that’s—”

“And,” he cuts in flatly, “he’d absolutely be screaming during sex.”

“What the—" You burst out laughing, slapping the table with both hands. “You are not serious.”

“Oh, I am.” His eyes flick to you as a slow, triumphant smirk forms on his face. “You asked for unhinged. That’s peak unhinged. Guy’s not even half my height, and still talks like a cult leader with a megaphone and zero self-awareness.”

You drop your head into your hands, trying not to cry from wheezing so hard your chest hurts.

“So that’s your type?” you manage, your voice muffled by your palms.

He smirks. “That was a confession, yeah.”

“What is wrong with you—” You’re genuinely struggling to breathe now.

“You married this,” he says, leaning back with smugness like he just made the most disturbing power move of the entire evening, “No refunds.”

“Sadly,” you mutter, though you can’t help but smile brightly at your utterly deranged husband.

A moment later, smirking like you’ve already won, you reach for your next pick, and Sukuna narrows his eyes at you. The second the next stick is pressed into the icing, he leans forward over the table to get a better look.

And then he stops. His head tilts, slowly, and his brow twitches with a deep, existential dread.

“Tai Lung?” His voice is instantly acidic, like the words are physically painful to say out loud. “The fucking snow leopard?”

You hum, completely delighted with his reaction. “Mhmm.”

He doesn’t look at you—he stares at the cake, like it personally betrayed him and everything he stands for. “He’s not even charming. He’s just violent. And dramatic. And full of unresolved mommy issues.”

“And built,” you add sweetly, gazing admiringly at the picture to annoy your husband even more.

“Oh my god,” he groans, frustratingly dragging a hand down his face. “He tried to kill a turtle because he didn’t get his gold star. You need therapy.”

“He had a rough childhood,” you say innocently with a shrug. “And the abs? Incredible.”

Sukuna turns to face you fully, arms crossing, one brow rising with glacial menace. “So let me get this straight. Death wasn’t enough. Now we’re putting a bitter, orphaned cat with rage issues and a hero complex on the cake. You wanna get chased and thrown through a wall?”

You grin, proudly tapping the stick with Tai Lung on it, clearly enjoying watching him squirm. “I like what I like.”

He exhales slowly, grounding himself. “You’re gonna look me in the face,” he says, voice dropping low, “and tell me I’m not allowed to throw the whole cake out the fucking window?”

“You’re not,” you beam, completely unfazed by the low, lethal tone of his voice. “We’re only halfway through, Kuna. We each have a few more picks, and this cake was very expensive. Besides,” you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with ill-concealed mischief, "I'm curious about the reasoning of your next choices.”

He lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, equal parts offended and stunned. “You are out of your fucking mind.”

Then he grabs his next pick, never breaking eye contact with you. 

“Fine. If that’s how we’re playing.”

He stabs it into the frosting, turning it toward your recording phone. It is an image of a thin, purple chameleon with bright yellow eyes and a super slimy demeanour.

“Randall,” he says simply, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“From Monsters, Inc?” you ask, genuinely confused. 

“Mm.” He nods once, entirely serious, lips pressed into a thin, self-satisfied line.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You lean in, stunned at just how far he’s willing to take it, squinting at the tiny picture of the purple lizard proudly perched in the cake. It takes you a second to speak, as you try to process the immediate shock and the dawning understanding of his logic.

“…He tries to murder a child,” you say flatly, nudging the stick with your finger for emphasis. “Like, literally, multiple times.”

Sukuna just shrugs, completely unbothered. “And he’s a chameleon,” he adds, as if the ability to turn invisible somehow excused attempted homicide.

You just stare at him while the silence hangs in the air.

“I mean, come on,” he presses, sensing your internal struggle. “Creepy little freak, resourceful, invisible, petty as hell, holds a grudge forever, and he gets off on being the overlooked genius who finally gets his revenge. He's fundamentally unstable.”

At that, you just crack up, laughter bubbling out of you in bright, uncontrollable bursts as you clutch your side and lean forward in your chair. Trying to cover your mouth, you attempt a horrified look, but the laugh is too real.

“Oh my god, Kuna, you admire Randall.”

“I relate to Randall,” he says in that low, dead-serious voice he only uses when he’s saying something alarmingly true.

“That’s even worse,” you gasp, choking on another wave of laughter and trying to get out a half-formed insult that disappears because you're already too far gone.

“Just tell me that’s not an unhinged pick,” he challenges with a smirk back on his face.

“I’m not saying it doesn’t fit,” you mutter in between giggles, but they stop fast as you realise something. “Wait,” you say slowly, narrowing your eyes at him. “So murder’s only a problem when it’s a turtle? Interesting place to draw the line.”

His jaw tightens, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek like he’s deciding whether you even deserve an answer at all, then he lets out a quiet, humourless laugh, finally turning his head toward you.

“Don’t start pretending this is about morality. You know damn well it isn’t,” he says flatly, giving the cake a dismissive flick with his fingers. “Tai Lung’s loud about what he is. He’s all theatrics. Randall’s honest about it in a quiet, calculated way. There’s a difference.” 

“We both picked monsters. I’m just better at owning mine,” he adds after a moment, and then quieter, like it should’ve been obvious from the start, “And you know I’m picky about what I care about.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “God,” you murmur, peeking at your hidden sticks and closing your fingers on the one that you know will make him lose it. “You really make the next one so easy for me.”

He immediately straightens in his seat with a sigh. “Who the hell did you pick now?”

You slowly press the next photo into the cake with both hands, making a whole show out of it, angling it toward the phone like you’re unveiling a masterpiece. You give the stick a little wiggle to make sure it is secure, holding his intense gaze the entire time as if challenging him to react.

For a long, drawn-out moment, he says nothing as he processes the new picture.

Because right there, dead centre in among all the villains, Nick, and Lorax, is him.

It’s not something polite, or even a caricature, or anything of the sort. It’s your favourite photo of Sukuna, a still from one of his sparring sessions that someone at the gym had foolishly posted to their stories a few months back, before he made them take it down. He’s shirtless, gloves on, sweat pouring down his face and chest. His crimson eyes are wide and blown, and his mouth is twisted into a feral smirk, looking exactly like he’s about to beat someone into the floor—or, from what he told you when you first saw the picture, that he already did.

Without even a twitch, Sukuna stares at the image, eyes darkening as he takes it in.

You sit back, hands folded neatly in your lap, eyes bright with satisfaction, waiting for the explosion.

“What?” you say sweetly.

He exhales harshly through his nose, like he’s trying not to spontaneously combust. When he finally speaks, he sounds unnervingly, dangerously calm. “That’s me.”

“Mhm,” you nod, entirely unbothered. “Sure is.”

“You’re supposed to put freaks on this cake. Not—” he gestures wildly at his own photo, “—your husband.”

You tilt your head, smiling widely. “Exactly! And my husband’s the hottest freak I know.”

“Jesus Christ, woman—” His voice actually cracks, and his jaw tightens so hard you can practically hear the clench as he looks at the cake again, then back at you. “You’re gonna sit there and act like that makes sense? You put me next to Nick, Death and Tai Lung like you're proving a point."

You shrug, smug, and tap your chin thoughtfully. “If the shoe fits.”

His mouth actually twitches despite his best efforts, his amusement briefly fighting the offence. “You’re not even pretending you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Why would I?” you say sweetly.

“...Figures,” he scoffs, but his mouth twitches slightly. “You’ve never been good at backing down.”

“Never been, never will.” A huge, unrepentant smile spreads across your face. “Especially not after you said you relate to Randall.”

He falls completely silent again, dropping his hands to his thighs like he needs to physically restrain himself from flipping the table, or, more accurately, from dragging you onto it and either strangling you or fucking you stupid. Probably both.

Then after a moment, he scoffs, low and biting. “Yeah. I should’ve known you’d do that.”

You snort softly. “You really thought I was gonna finish this cake without putting my husband on it?”

Then he drags one hand down his face, exhales again, and says with absolute certainty, “You’re unhinged.”

“No, you are,” you shoot back, grinning wide as you lean forward. “And that’s the whole point.”

His head tilts slowly, eyes cutting toward the photo again, and finally, a ghost of a real, genuine smirk touches his lips. “You picked a good photo, though.”

“I know. My favourite,” you say with a wink, getting a raised brow and a slight head shake in return.

You know he feels smug after that, even if he earlier pretended to be furious.

To annoy you in return, he lets the silence stretch again, his eyes raking over your face with a lazy confidence that makes your skin prickle. However, you manage to relax a fraction in your chair by letting your attention drift back to the cake and the truly absurd lineup already standing there.

He calmly reaches for one of his two remaining sticks, turns it once between his fingers, and then leans forward to press it into the cake with such carelessness as if trying to tell you he’s already so done with this whole thing that he can barely be bothered.

Already knowing he’s going for something truly absurd, you follow the motion of his hand instinctively, expecting another stupid argument and another character you’ll have to interrogate him about. You lean toward the cake, squinting at the screen of your phone to see… and immediately freeze, your brain momentarily buffering.

You squint harder at the blurry screenshot wedged between Tai Lung and your very attractive and sweaty husband. It takes you a full second to register what you’re even looking at, mostly just because you were not prepared for that. 

Blinking hard in disbelief, refusing to take your eyes off the new character, you manage a stunned, “Is that—”

Sukuna tilts the stick slightly, adjusting it for maximum visual impact, then looks straight into your eyes. “Marcus,” he says calmly, like this is not only obvious but inevitable.

It’s a strange, vaguely humanoid creature with extremely long, thin limbs, bizarre proportions and a croissant-shaped head. The best, or worst, thing about it is that in the corner of the picture, it still has the twitch logo and a nickname of a guy who creates these dumb videos.

The longer you look at it, the worse it gets, and your lips begin to tremble as you fight to stop the burst of hysterical laughter that bubbles up in your chest.

“That’s not even—he’s not—he’s literally just—” you stammer, trying to find a word that describes the idiotic character.

“Correct,” Sukuna’s expression is disturbingly serene and unmoving as he smoothly interrupts you, as you’ve just proven his point for him.

Then, in a perfectly flat, uninflected and entirely too convincing voice that is immediately recognisable, he deadpans, “Robert. I don’t like this rock."

Bright giggles burst out of you before you can stop them. “Don’t. Oh my god, don’t,” you plead with tears already pricking in your eyes.

Sukuna’s lips twitch in a tiny, almost imperceptible betrayal of his inner amusement. He leans toward you slightly, his own eyes gleaming. “I am mildly irritated, Robert.”

You bury your face in your hands, trying to muffle the sound, your shoulders shaking violently from your laughter.

“Very irritated,” he continues, inching his face closer with every word and without breaking the composed mask.

“Kuna—stop—” you mumble brokenly from underneath your palms, feeling his warm breath against your skin.

“Quite irritated.”

He stops there, hovering, and you gather the courage to peek in between your fingers. He’s practically nose to nose with you, mimicking that wide, unblinking stare.

“I’m irritated that you are irritated,” you manage to choke out in between the bursts of helpless laughter, deciding to play his ridiculous game. “So how are we going to fix it?”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “I’m going to remove South Carolina.” 

He somehow maintains the same terrifyingly familiar, unchanged tone throughout this entire thing, and you completely lose it. You are reduced to a wheezing, gasping mess, fighting for your life against the unstoppable tide of laughter. Your hands fly up from your face to blindly grab at his arms, trying desperately to pull yourself together, but spectacularly failing.

“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp out, trying to catch your breath.

That’s when his lips finally curl, slow and satisfied. 

“And yet,” Sukuna says, tapping the table with a decisive, satisfied sound, “you married me.”

You nearly fall off the chair, doubling over in a fresh wave of uncontrollable giggles. “Means I married a fucking menace,” you finally manage to articulate, wiping furiously at your eyes.

He crosses his arms over his chest, absolutely smug and pleased. “And I gave you a husband and content. You’re welcome.”

You glare at him weakly for a beat. “You picked him because you know it works on me,” you accuse him. He knew exactly what he was doing, and you just fell into his trap. 

“Yes,” he confirms, utterly unapologetic, grinning wider.

“And because you love watching me spiral.”

“Also, yes.”

“…You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mutter, averting your eyes finally to glance down at your remaining sticks.

His eyes gleam when he closes the remaining distance between the two of you to kiss your forehead, a brief, warm press of his lips that is both a truce and a declaration of war. “Your turn, brat.”

Before he can really pull away, you reach for your next pick. Sukuna watches you from the corner of his eye, suspicious but calm, as you slowly stick it into the cake.

He blinks once, then again more slowly, as if his brain is refusing to process what it's seeing, and the disrespect of it. Being, as you are, an amazing and incredibly patient wife, you give him a moment to think it over and maybe, just maybe, come to the obvious conclusion.

“...No,” he finally says, breaking the silence. He cuts himself off immediately, the muscle in his jaw twitching until the bone practically juts out. “Tell me that’s not a fucking horse.”

Sitting back in your chair, looking annoyingly calm, you fold your hands neatly in your lap. You brace for the storm you know is brewing, biting back a laugh that threatens to bubble up and ruin his reaction. 

“It’s the horse from Tangled,” you confirm.

“The horse from Tangled,” he repeats flatly, like he’s testing the words, trying to see if they taste as insulting as they sound. His crimson eyes, which had been fixed on the cake, snap back to you. “You put me on this cake, and then you followed it up with that.”

"He has a name," you reply, gently pointing out a little oversight. "Maximus."

The chair creaks faintly when he leans forward, turns the whole cake to get a better view, and drops his forearms heavily onto his thighs. He studies it again, staring intently at the smug cartoon horse standing proudly next to the ripped, shirtless photo of himself, the ultimate insult to his pride.

“He’s a horse,” Sukuna repeats, clearly offended.

“He can swordfight!” you happily add. 

“He’s a fucking horse,” he snaps back, ignoring your logic completely.

You shrug, entirely unrepentant. “A really intense one.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps once in a small, violent spasm, then again as he pushes the cake back slightly.

“Explain,” he demands in that gravelly, hoarse rasp that always makes your knees buckle.

You brighten immediately and a wide, genuine smile spreads across your face, as if you’d been waiting for him to ask.

“Okay, listen,” you start, leaning in, your hands excitedly coming to life to make your points as you speak. “He’s super loyal, like, to a fault, a total nightmare for anyone who messes with him, says so much without actually talking, built like a tank, will throw himself into danger without hesitation, holds grudges forever, silently judges everyone, and has absolutely zero respect for autho—”

“You’re describing me again,” he cuts in flatly, not even a little amused.

“Yes,” you agree instantly, your enthusiasm not dimmed in the slightest, “but with hooves.”

The sound he makes then is a low, incredulous and rough exhale that turns into a short, disbelieving laugh. He just slams back in his chair, dragging one hand down over his face like he’s trying to physically reboot his brain to get rid of the image.

"I didn't ask to be compared to a horse," he snaps, eyes flicking back to you. "And I especially didn't ask to be compared to a cartoon horse."

“A very hot cartoon horse,” you toss in, helpful as always.

His head snaps toward you. “Do not.”

“He communicates through intense side-eye and violence,” you continue sweetly, undeterred, crossing your arms. “That’s kind of your whole thing, you know?”

The following silence is really heavy, heavier than before, and you can practically feel the dark energy brewing. Maybe it's not full-on rage, but definitely a deep, thoughtful offence. He lets out a slow breath, squinting his eyes a bit as he glances from your smug face to the cake, then back to you.

"So, let me make sure I've got this right," he finally says, dropping his voice to that low, intense level that usually means trouble. "You seriously just told your husband that your 'hear me out' is a horse?"

You smile, bright and unapologetic. “You don’t see the vision?”

He looks at the cake once more, eyes fixing on the annoyingly judgey horse, then sliding to his own photo, and then back to you. His lips press into a thin line as he exhales again. Even though he’s absolutely offended and genuinely can’t believe the audacity of you choosing him, and then immediately after a horse, the very corner of his mouth twitches. 

The truly painful part for him isn't actually the disrespect, though. It’s that he gets it.

“Oh, I see it,” he mumbles, his hand flying to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I just hate it.”

You smile at his words and nod toward the cake, but you know Sukuna well enough to understand he won't rush this. It’s obvious he intentionally saved this one for last, and now he’s savouring the moment, stretching the tension between you.

Taking his sweet time, he reaches for the final photo from his side of the table, but his gaze never leaves yours as he slowly picks it up and spins the stick in his hands a few times, like he’s got all the time in the world. It’s like a silent warning: he’s decided to be difficult, and he’s going to fully enjoy every second of it.

And without breaking that eye contact even once, he finally leans toward the table and presses the stick into the cake, but he’s not done. He makes absolutely sure the image is impossible to miss, meticulously angling it toward you first.

Only when your gaze shifts from the crimson of his eyes to his choice, and it’s been in your line of sight for just long enough to leave no doubt in his mind that you’ve seen it, does he shove it firmly into the icing and twist it toward the camera. Then, with a smug, slightly mocking smirk, he leans back in his chair, spreading his arms ever so slightly, practically inviting judgment.

It’s Toji.

The sound you let out is nothing like the outraged gasp or dramatic protest he was definitely expecting. It’s a short, disbelieving, but undeniably bright laugh that bubbles up from deep in your chest before you can stop it.

“You’re not gonna believe it, Kuna,” you manage to choke out, your grin splitting your face as you lean toward him, shaking your head in delight. “I was literally thinking the exact same thing.”

He watches, speechless for a moment, as you reach for your own last pick. You’re absolutely unfazed by the fact that you’ve just confirmed your joint betrayal, pressing your Toji square into the cake just a little to the side, but neatly beside his. Now, there are two of them, standing proudly among all the other choices you two had made.

For a delicious, charged moment, the room falls quiet. Your sparkling eyes are locked on him, and you’re so completely, childishly pleased with yourself. The amusement Sukuna has clearly been holding back flickers dangerously close to the surface, but he manages to force his voice into something that sounds like deep annoyance.

“No fucking way,” he says lowly, his voice full of mock betrayal and all the exaggerated weight of a man wronged by fate itself. “That’s my friend.”

You just smile wider, your chin tilting innocently up at him as he stares down at the cake. Then, his eyes slide back to you, the crimson irises narrowing exactly to that level of intensity that would be genuinely threatening if you didn’t know him as well as you do.

“Are you fucking my friend?” His voice is low and rough, delivered with the perfect deadpan of a truly suspicious spouse, but the barest flash of humour in his eyes tells a different story.

You meet his stare and stay perfectly calm, tilting your head ever so slightly to the side and tapping your chin with a finger like you’re seriously giving the question some thought, before firing right back, “Are you fucking your friend?” 

He just tilts his head the opposite way. “I mean…” he starts, drawing out the word like he wants you to feel suspicious, “he’s got a nice back.”

Your entire body convulses with sudden, involuntary giggles, and you move before your brain catches up, reacting purely on instinct, launching yourself at the cake. Your hand plunges straight into the side of it, fingers closing around frosting and sponge, and you fling it at him with all the force of someone who has completely lost control of their laughter. It hits him square across the face and neck with a disgusting, satisfying splat. The frosting is everywhere, covering his sharp features and dripping down his jaw, and you’re cackling so hard you can barely breathe, tears springing to your eyes.

You’re out of the chair immediately, the moment the cake leaves your hand. Your legs knock the edge of the table as you spin toward the hallway, and you run.

For a blissful half a second, it feels like you might actually make it. The hallway is right there, just a few steps away; the cool floor under your feet feels like a nice contrast to the heat creeping down your neck, while your pulse pounds in your ears as you laugh in chaotic, absolutely delighted gasps, already imagining the sweet taste of victory.

But before you can reach it, a low, dark growl, a sound of both threat and pure amusement, rolls through the space behind you. Then, with a speed that defies his earlier lazy movements, his hand closes around your waist. 

Sukuna just stops you dead, breaking your momentum with his grip. A loud shriek, half in joy, half in panic, escapes your lips, and you try to surge forward again, though it’s absolutely useless when he holds you flush to his chest.

“You think you can outrun me in my own damn house, brat?” Sukuna snarls right next to your ear, but the roughness of his voice gives him away, thick with the laughter he's struggling to hold in.

Still squirming, you writhe in his grip, breathless and weak, but he just tightens his hold, effortlessly hauling you back one step, then two, until your feet leave the floor entirely, and you are lifted into the air like your weight means absolutely nothing to him.

The walk back is slow and almost lazy, like he’s intentionally giving you time to reconsider every single ridiculous decision that brought you here. Your breathless giggles are now less from humour and more from the absurdity of being manhandled and helpless in the face of that calm, silent fury laced with unmistakable, hungry amusement.

Sukuna puts you down right on the table, positioning himself between your legs and keeping one hand firmly at your waist in case you dare try to run again. His other hand reaches to the side toward the now ruined, messy cake, and scoops through the frosting and sponge until he has a nice coating of it on his palm.

And just as you expected, he smears it all over your face, slowly tracing your cheekbone down to your jaw, then up to your forehead, matching the mess you made on his.

You gasp, eyes wide with pure joy, because you’ve dragged him down into your chaos and he’s choosing to stay there with you. You grin at him, frosting smeared, giggling again, reaching for another breath you don’t quite manage to get.

Without any warning, he dips his fingers into the cake again, but only two of them this time, scooping a smaller portion. While you’re still lost in the moment and laughing carelessly, he pushes them into your mouth firmly enough that your lips part around them.

The laughter cuts off instantly, choked in your throat. Your breath catches in your chest, and your eyes widen as the intense taste hits you, sugar and cream and… surprising, thrilling heat. It’s a rush that sends a sharp, involuntary shiver straight between your legs.

The fingers stay inside your mouth, unmoving, and he watches you with a raised brow. A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across his mouth as he feels your body still completely in his hold, and your pulse jumps beneath the palm on your waist. There’s that familiar, smug look on his face that says he knew exactly how you’d react and just had to see it for himself.

“Hmm,” he murmurs at last, pleased and almost curious as he leans in until his forehead nearly brushes yours, and you can’t focus on anything but the wicked curve of his mouth. “Not laughing now, are we?”

Only after your tongue brushes between the knuckles and licks them clean does he drag them out with agonising slowness, and your thighs involuntarily tighten on his in a helpless response. He leans in even closer, and your lips part eagerly, because you’re absolutely sure he’s finally going to kiss you… only for him to drag his tongue slowly along the frosting from the bottom of your cheek up all the way up to the shell of your ear, absolutely unhurried, savouring the taste and your reaction.

Sukuna’s mouth brushes your earlobe, giving it one quick lick. His voice drops a full octave, barely more than a hoarse, gravelly murmur, thick with hunger, “Next time, remember you married someone who finishes what you start.”

A violent shiver runs through you instantly, goosebumps breaking out along your skin, your breath hitching sharply, and he feels every single bit of it. He lets out a low, pleased hum and pulls back to wipe his own face, like he didn’t just totally mess with your head. 

Without letting you catch a breath or even form a single thought, both of his arms slip around your thighs and lift you again. Your legs instinctively wrap tightly around his waist as he turns and carries you toward the bedroom, ready to give you a taste of your own medicine.

kozume, that time, was outside of the classroom chasing frantically at his pokemon cards kuroo threw outside for him to catch.

“please, can you just— can you help me hide this?”, kuroo slammed the switch (with care) at your desk, while you were already slinging your backpack at your shoulder, about to head to the cafeteria.

you were a bit taller than him at that time, and seeing him bouncing nervously on his feet, eyeing the door like kozume would kick it down any second now and commit murder.

you weren’t sure at first what’s going on, and it clicked. you didn’t know if you really should, but your body moved before your mind registered it.

your fingertips almost brushed his shaking hands as you got the switch from him, hiding it in the pocket of your bag between the thick sheets of balanced chemical reactions you worked through ‘til midnight.

he didn’t seem to notice.

and you cancelled whatever plan you had just to go along with his.

the next time you see kuroo tetsurō after kozume saw the faint outline of his nintendo in your bag that day—which thankfully, he didn’t kill you, but glared at kuroo so hard, he left your classroom—was when you passed by him at the school gates.

he was with his best friend again, throwing a volleyball at his direction, but kozume wasn’t amused at all. in fact, he looks tired.

you have seen the announcements.

kozume kenma always mentioned for attendance but always marked excused because of volleyball trainings, cheer team already practicing chants, and gymnasium always unavailable for PE because it’s being used by clubs, leading to you guys doing jumping jacks and squats in your cramped classroom like crazies.

you see kuroo look your way, but when you tried to raise your hand to wave at him, unsure, his eyes went the other way like he didn’t see you too.

he kept speaking to kozume.

okay, perhaps he didn’t see you.

it’s not like you were bothered by it. no, you were, but you weren’t in the place to be.

kuroo is your senior, a grade above you. maybe that time he asked you to play along was just because you were the nearest. the convenient option.

you clutched your chest. why does it feel like a bag of slabs weigh on it?

but deep down, you knew, and it’s more the reason you denied it—

—all because that little crush you had hurt you more than you admit.

yua and aki has been begging you since last week to tutor them for that english test they failed. they have to pass the required remedial so they could continue acting their roles in the theatre club they’re both part in.

they are attached to both your arms, wiping their fake tears on your sleeve as you three walked through the hallways.

“i told you to study the reviewers i gave”, you scolded like a tired nanny as you dragged their limping bodies through the floor. you almost tripped when aki caught her uniform blouse on a locker knob.

“GUYS!”, you exclaimed as they finally let you go, giggling, and you had to furiously wipe their smudged foundation and eyeliner on your pristine blouse with your handkerchief you got from your pocket like it’s going to remove the stain. “YOU KNOW THIS STAINS ARE HARD TO REMOVE— UGH!”

your bestfriends, if you can still call those menaces that, started walking towards you again making those freaky expressions that sent a shiver down your spine.

you started walking backwards away from them.

“nope, stay back”, you warned. “i’m not spending three hours scrubbing more stains off of this blouse”.

they were laughing, still walking towards you and you away from them. you flipped them off, and they stuck out their tongues.

your feet continued to make you back away from them, running backwards you didn’t see some people on the hallway avoiding you colliding to them.

but then, you bumped to a hard wall—well, more like a chest.

“woah, woah”, you hear him say. you were startled you stepped on his shoes, and sent you stumbling on your own, trying to find your footing.

your ankle twisted slightly, and the next thing you knew, the world spun and your sides ache. you had to regain your vision from blurring for a while. you winced as you tried to get up.

“OH MY G— NO!”, you recognize yua and aki’s voices simultaneously calling for your name from a distance. you turned your head, trying to find where they were, but you got so dizzy you can’t even see them.

“hey, you okay?”

a deep voice pulled you out of your haze.

“um, yeah, i’m— i’m fine—“, you replied weakly, though your body doesn’t cooperate.

“does it hurt?”, that voice asked again. you feel his warm palm rubbing circles on your arm ghostly, like he’s trying to test if you’ll flinch or push him away.

but you didn’t.

you see a hand reaching out towards you. “here, let me help you”.

your body moved on its own as you took his hand. he pulled you up quickly, but stopped when you let out a low sound of pain. you sat up, still on the cold cement.

it hurts everywhere, but your vision started getting less foggy. you rubbed your eyes, and see a tall man crouching in front of you.

the first thing you saw was his cat-like eyes, similar to that one person you knew so well.

wait—

“kuroo-san?”, you blurted out, shocked.

you can see him clearly now, him rubbing his neck. he offered his hand again, and you hesitate before taking it, and he pulled you up to your feet.

you were standing now, kuroo steadying you by your shoulders. you see everyone’s eyes on the both of you as they watched, but somehow yours went back to him.

kuroo put a finger up in front of your face. “follow this”, he tells you as he moves his index finger, and you did.

seeing you responsive, kuroo grinned down at you. “good, no concussions”.

apparently, he’s taller now, a little taller than you.

how did he get so tall?, you asked yourself. months back, his forehead’s the level of the bridge of your nose, but now, your hairline’s the same height as his lower lip.

“sorry about that, i wasn’t looking”, you hear kuroo gently say. you realized you have just been staring at him and being silent the whole time. god, you were a weirdo.

you shake your head. “no, no! it’s alright”, you reassured.

“are you sure?”, kuroo searched your face for signs of you lying, but there wasn’t any. “i could take you to the clinic…”

your hand is already on fire as you realized he pulled you up earlier, and held your shoulders to help you regain your balance from falling.

“i— it’s alright— i’m okay!”, you prayed he couldn’t see the slight blush on your face. “i am fine. see?”

you even demonstrated jumping jacks like someone possessed just so he would believe you. but it ended badly as your rib decided to humiliate you, punching the air out of your body.

you stopped jumping mid-way.

kuroo blinked, then let out a short chuckle. “okay, i get it”, he tells you with a wide smile on his face. “just tell me though, i could pay for damages in case you change your mind”.

you only nodded, your cheeks burned brighter as you registered the fact that you just did an exercise, in front of kuroo tetsurō, and then backfire because you were NOT fine at all.

kuroo turned to leave. “see ya!”

you didn’t look back at him as embarrassment flooded your veins. what the hell did you just do?

meanwhile, two bodies encased you with their arms tightly, squealing so loud it hurts your ears.

“OH MY GOSH, kuroo-san?!?”, yua shook you by your shoulders.

“girl, you were like a princess in distress!”, aki smacked your shoulders, jumping slightly on her feet.

you felt a migraine form in the back of your eyes. you hid the fact that your heart is racing, and you pushed them away playfully. “really? that’s what you’re concerned about?”, you rolled your eyes at them. “i think you forget you’re the one who caused this”.

yua and ako pretended to not hear you as they continue chatting your ear off about shipping you and “kuroo-san”. you denied it the second time, but you can’t mistake the uncontrollable beating of your heartbeat.

you never stopped seeing kuroo after that day, like fate is torturing you and reminding you of your shame. you frequently pass by him in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in your bus stops.

it’s like he’s a ghost and he’s haunting you.

you convince yourself you notice him more and more just because your friends kept teasing you about him every second you breathe. but gosh, it wasn’t like back then.

kuroo always looks at you intentionally now. sometimes he waves when you’re too far from each other, sometimes he says hi. but mostly, he asks if you’re doing okay from the incident.

you don’t dislike it, per se, but what bothers you is how you stutter back greetings at him when in fact you’ve always been delivering academic speeches in front of crowds without any errors.

but towards him? your heart starts doing irrational things you’ve never done ever.

you were someone competent, someone composed. not this nervous of a mess kuroo turned you in.

sports have always been boring to you. you never watch them, only because you think your time can be spent on other stuff.

maybe it’s another “kuroo effect”, as you call it, but you find yourself watching one of his practice matches with your friends who decided they have crushes on yaku and another player you didn’t recognize. you had to hold their mouths shut from cheering too loud.

you don’t get the mechanics of volleyball, but from what you observe and from what yua tells you, the ball must not drop from their side of court.

seeing kuroo play so passionately, scoring for their team, cheers bubble from your throat too. but you suppress it from coming out.

from that day on, whenever you have time, you spend your afternoons watching drills, sitting on the corner of the gym bleachers before going home. your eyes are always on him, always admiring him from afar.

you always leave before his match ends.

you didn’t want to impose or make it seem like you’re stalking kuroo. he never approaches you either and you understand. he’s busy.

but sometimes kuroo does see you, and he nods with that little crinkle in the corner of his eyes. you smile back, but you tell yourself you’re just being polite, even if your fingers tingle in your skirt pocket.

the last time you really talked to kuroo was that time you bumped on him and he helped you up. deep down, you wanted to, but you decided against it anyway.

before you know it, a new school year has started. you were a step closer to your dreams, but the person who’s been appearing in your dreams every night is a step away further from you.

you heard kuroo has graduated from middle school, but you never knew what school he went. the first time you realized you might not see him again had your heart lurching inside your chest. tokyo is a big city. you weren’t even sure if he still stayed in tokyo. he could have moved anywhere.

you never told yua and aki. they didn’t need to know the small crush you had. you laughed with them, you joked, you ate a lot.

they never noticed.

that night, your diary which has been unopened for years is now filled with your illegible handwriting, contrasting your usually neat and organized scribbles.

you didn’t think that time, just wrote and wrote and wrote ‘til your hand cramped. you wrote about the supposed crush you had, and how it hurt more than it should.

you don’t cry. you don’t scream or shout.

you closed your eyes and opened them. your fingertips touched the corner of your dusty diary, rereading the last line of the entry you wrote:

i should’ve told you that you mean so much more to me than i tell myself.

you didn’t know you could juggle multiple activities with the procrastination problem you had. you have been elected as the student council’s secretary of your middle school, the representative for regional math olympiads, and an associate editor for your school paper.

safe to say, your excessive volunteering cured it.

back then, you thought to yourself you couldn’t do it. but recounting on the tasks you finished in just a day—writing two feature articles about the ongoing construction of the new building, created minutes, and reviewed a page of practice problems—but you did anyway.

aki and yua have been really supportive, texting you to remind that you need to eat and hydrate, and sending you notes on missed lectures, sometimes gossips.

you’ve been busy. and it’s the best time of your life.

and you have buried kuroo under paperworks, computation sheets, and article drafts.

nekoma is your first option for high school since you were given a loyalty scholarship for studying in their middle school.

it was hard to let your jobs and titles that have been part of your life for a year go, but as you were flipping through your medals and certificates, you realize it’s time to prioritize something else which is college admissions in your third year.

yua and aki were still with you, and as you three celebrated your first day of high school as freshmen, you went to the gymnasium to watch volleyball. it’s been a while since you guys went to a match since you all have been busy with school.

you’re hugging your lay’s on your chest, and holding sprite on your other hand. you’re lightly scolding aki about her having a crush on one of her teachers, and yua ushering you both to walk faster because seats are being occupied fast.

you overheard nekoma volleyball club is going up against another school for their practice, everyone wanted to watch.

you, aki, and yua have already sat in the middle rows, chatting loudly over the noise.

your eyes scanned the red and white jerseys of your school’s team to get to know them by their faces. you won’t admit it but a part of your heart still searches for him after all this time.

that your heart still clings to the hope that maybe you’d see him again.

and maybe, it wasn’t so bad to wish for the impossible.

your eyes widened.

there, talking with what seems to be their coach was kuroo tetsurō. you know him, you can’t forget that face. that confident smirk, that bedhead.

god, he grew so much taller. much broader.

and from the distance, you can see he matured lots. your heart dropped and leapt at the same time as you try to take him in, drowning out your friends’ voices, and the crowd’s noise.

he was here, he was really here.

and you? finally allowed yourself to feel.

you never stayed quiet anymore, you cheered, you screamed, you went along with the chants with your friends.

you looked ridiculous and you didn’t care. you watched him play, and somehow, you can’t deny within yourself feeling pride in your chest for him anymore.

you can’t deny within yourself that you were falling harder for him than you should.

and this time, you never pushed it away.

you don’t know if it’s the relief that you saw familiar faces in your new school aside from your friends.

you were flushed, and your hands are still shaking at the adrenaline of watching the game and cheering every time they land the ball on the opposing team’s court.

everyone has started leaving the gym to go back to their homes. you can hear them talking about the match of nekoma and fukurodani. some are even playfully arguing on who’s the better team.

from beside you, yua’s stomach growled audibly.

she stopped walking. “you didn’t hear that”.

“but i did”, you giggled.

aki on your other side has already started pointing to a stall just a few meters away. she linked your arms with hers. “i want takoyaki”.

“takoyaki?”, yua exclaimed so loud, some heads turn to you three. “you hate takoyaki”.

aki only winked. “what can i say? i evolve and adapt”.

you dragged a hand down your face, so done with the antics of these two. “you got a perfect mark on the theory of evolution and you suddenly say stuff like that”.

aki flipped you off as she dragged yua to the vendor anyway, muttering under her breath about fake friends and killjoys.

you held the strap of your handbag as you waited for them. you’ve never eaten those. you have developed that fear from that one day back when you were eight years old you couldn’t breathe after eating an octopus tentacle.

you stood outside the gymnasium, fiddling with your brand new flip phone, smiling widely because the thrill of the match hasn’t worn off yet.

someone tapped you from behind.

“excuse me, miss—“

you turned your head over your shoulder and see the person you’ve been eyeing and thinking about since then. your lips parted.

kuroo tetsurō.

he looks equally as shocked as you.

that smirk you knew from him faltered a bit, and your smile turned into a shy one.

“oh wow. hey there”, kuroo laughed in disbelief, probably at the coincidence of it. “you go here too?”

“yeah”, you softly said, suddenly feeling conscious on how you look. your hair was surely sticking out on different directions, and your uniform askew from all the jumping you did.

you cleared your throat, looking everywhere but him. “i’m— uh, i didn’t know you go here too, k— kuroo-san”.

it’s the first time you blurted his name out loud again, and it feels so right, but your mind tells you it shouldn’t.

when you looked up, kuroo is smirking down at you. “yeah”, he slings his jacket over his shoulder. “guess we both needed the scholarship huh, sec?”

that title. how did he know?

you haven’t heard it since the summer break you graduated. your cheeks heated up. your hands went to hold them unconsciously, like you’re trying to hide it from him.

god, you hate how he still has that effect on you.

the silence hung between the both of you. you didn’t trust yourself to respond, because you might embarrass yourself like you did back then.

“so”, kuroo’s eyes darted in the direction where his teammates were waiting for him for their afterparty. “you wanna go eat?”

the breath got knocked out of your lungs. is he asking you out?

he seemed to notice.

he smirks teasingly, but his voice is kind. “i didn’t mean that way”, he clarifies for you, and you had to stop yourself from saying out loud that you hoped he meant it that way.

“i meant to invite you since, you know, celebrate our victory after the game”, kuroo observes you with that glint on his eyes, but you didn’t see. “don’t worry, it’s my treat”.

you bit your lip, and you forced to straighten your back to look back at him. “thank you for the invitation, kuroo-san”, you held your bag closer to your chest. “but i don’t want to bother you or your teammates. they don’t know me after all”.

kuroo tilts his head, like he’s confused at the same time. “i promise you won’t, they’re kind. they won’t eat you alive”.

your knees wobble beneath you, not because of the reassurance, but because he asks you to come, and also insists you to come.

did he really want you to?

you internally shook your head. he couldn’t, he wouldn’t.

it’s just a polite gesture, you tell yourself.

maybe he’s just a good senpai trying to make his junior feel welcome at her new school. maybe he’s trying not to make things awkward.

and you were getting ahead of yourself thinking that it’s something else entirely. you may have watched him, and finally admitted to yourself that you like him more than a crush, but now, maybe it’s just a delusion you had.

you smiled politely at him, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. “i got plans too, kuroo-san. but thank you, and congratulations on your win”.

you turned on your heel, and you didn’t stay to hear his reply. you were suffocating from your feelings, and from your heart threatening to burst out of your ribs.

but what you didn’t see was kuroo’s feet staying glued to its spot where he talked to you, watching your back as you walk away from him.

you didn’t see his smirk falter, and how his hand flew to his chest to hold it.

you didn’t see him watching your smile as you playfully hit your friends while eating with them.

you didn’t hear how his friends asked what’s wrong with him because he was quieter than usual that night.

the next time you meet kuroo was when you passed by him looking for vacant seats in the cafeteria. you’re holding your silver tray on your one hand, and a cup of steaming broth on the other.

it’s burning your hand so bad, but everyone has already filled the seats with their own circles.

“mannnn”, yua whined, her lips forming to a pout. “all the seats are taken”.

aki sighed, glaring at yua. “you spent like, fifteen minutes redoing your eyeliner”.

“excuse me? i did our eyeliner!”

you stood between them before they start pulling each other’s hairs out. “guys, it’s okay”, your eyes scanned the room, looking for a group that’s already finished their lunch. unfortunately, everyone is still occupied in gossiping and giggling even after their trays are already empty.

you can’t take your trays back to your classrooms either, the policies don’t allow it.

you adjusted your grip on the cup, also making sure the sloshing broth doesn’t spill on you, trying your best to not let yourself be scalded any longer.

aki and yua were holding their own hot cups, so you can’t ask them to hold it for you.

“let’s have our lunches packed instead”, you tell your friends, and they nodded back at you, walking back the cafeteria counter with the longest line you’ve ever seen.

“hey, sec!”, you heard someone call you from the distance. you looked over your shoulder, and you see kuroo jogging towards you with the biggest smirk on his face.

“oh my gosh! he goes here too?”, yua gasped dramatically, squinting her eyes at you then back to your senior. “what a coincidence!”

aki gawked and nudged you with her elbow. “girl”, she whispered harshly. “i think fate brought you two back together”.

you scoffed at that idea, but your toes curled inside your socks. “don’t be ridiculous”.

kuroo inclined his head. “hey girls”, he greets smoothly, then his eyes found yours. “been standing for a while there, need some seats?”

embarrassment bubbled in your throat and you stepped slightly forward. “thank you, but—“

your friends though, aki and yua nodded furiously at the tall man. “yes please!”

you bit back a glare, letting out a strained smile.

kuroo’s ears perked at your friends’ bluntness, amused. “is that so?”, his stare stayed on you, pocketing his hands. “well, we have some extra space”.

aki has walked ahead that instant she saw where kuroo was pointing. yua followed, and looked back at you with that worried gaze. “call me”, she mouthed, and you nodded once.

“i’m sorry about them”, you looked down at your tray, your food gone cold. “they’re—“

“don’t worry about it”, he smiles genuinely now, his smirk gone. “you sure worry a lot”.

your head snapped up to him.

he wordlessly took the hot cup from you, surprising you even more.

his hand grazed yours.

he must’ve felt you tensed up, because his palm lingered, watching you carefully.

“i— um—“, your heart couldn’t take it, and you retracted your hand away. you brushed past him, and walked briskly to where aki has already finished half her food, and yua eyeing you, picking her lunch.

kuroo arrived at the table a while later, placing your broth beside your tray. you muttered a thank you, not really noticing the way he nervously looked at your figure.

you don’t know how the hell aki has made kuroo and his friends her friends already. she’s talking about teachers she find attractive, asking them (since they’re second years) if they’re any good, and are generous in giving out grades.

yua has her hand on your knee as you both eat, occasionally shoving onigiri inside aki’s throat when she sometimes crosses a line or she curses.

the only first year in that table like you three, kozume kenma, stared at you, tilting his head.

“it’s you”, he muttered, but everyone else heard. people knew he doesn’t speak much so everyone practically flinched. even kuroo did.

“you’re the one who conspired with kuroo”.

you stopped chewing, and tilted your head. your eyes flash with recognition, his black hair now dyed with blonde halfway the strands.

“kozume-kun?”

“you know him?”, aki looked at you, then back at kenma, while yua raised a brow.

you were about to speak when kuroo beat you to it. “oh yeah, we stole kenma’s switch back in middle school”.

yaku, hearing this, almost spat out his tea. “excuse me?”, he coughed. “you stole kenma’s switch?”

kai who’s sitting between yaku and kuroo, patted yaku’s back. he chuckled quietly. “how is that even possible?”

kuroo’s face relaxed as he looked back at you. your hand twitched on your chopsticks. don’t smile at him, don’t smile at him, don’t—

you can’t help but let out a giggle at the memory. “yeah”, you shyly tucked a hair behind your ear. “we managed to”.

“holy fuck!”, yaku suddenly stood up, his chair scraping on the floor and pointed at you. “you are amazing, what’s your name?”

“l/n y/n”, you put a hand to your chest. you pointed at your friends who are still gawking at you. “and my friends, yua, and aki”.

kai reached out his hand and shook yours across the table. “this is yaku, and i’m kai”, he tells you. “i guess you know kuroo and kenma already”.

yaku sat back down, eyeing you and kuroo. “you have to tell us the story, ‘cos holy shit i don’t believe it”.

aki raised her hand. “agree, you have to tell us!”

yua rubbed circles on your thigh. “i wanna hear it too”.

kuroo crossed his arms and smirked down at yaku. “you don’t believe how good i am?”, he snickers. “just because you failed to do it, doesn’t mean i will too”.

“HUH?! WHAT DID YOU SAY?”, yaku collared kuroo, and kai had to hold them down, apologetically looking at you three.

“you sure you wanna be friends with us?”, kenma finally sighed like it’s an ordinary day. “you’ll be dealing with these morons everyday”.

when kuroo’s stare found yours while yaku was screaming at his ear, and yua and aki are fawning over kenma’s hair, you find yourself looking back.

and you never looked away.

being friends with kuroo’s circle gave you some mutual benefits. they reserve front seats for you, aki, and yua in their games, and you agree to drag kenma to practices like you’re his older sister.

lunch with them are almost every day. yaku always manages to find seats for all of you because apparently he knows how to argue with people according to kuroo and kai.

for a year, kuroo has treated you well. you’d say he treats you like you’re his girlfriend, but you don’t try to create meaning into it.

you notice kuroo always sitting across you in tables. he always offers to carry you and your friends’ trays. he always asks you if you’re cold or you’re hot.

he even compliments you, not the usual ways like “you’re pretty”, instead he tells you honestly how he admires how you balance your time, and how you barely fail your tests.

and your heart? appreciates it more than it should.

they are now third years, and you, kenma, aki and yua are now second years.

yaku, kai, and kuroo have been talking about college options at lunch. you helped weigh them, because in yua’s words and absolute bluntness, “her life is already planned and set”.

you told them about scholarships abroad. kenma only comments, playing his psp, “they’re too much of an idiots to qualify for it”.

you suggested tokyo, waseda and tohoku as top universities locally, but you still insist they try on overseas. among the three of them, yaku’s actually the only one considering it, while kuroo and kai has already decided on tokyo u, but the former on business marketing, and the latter on agricultural studies.

but as the third years left the table with kenma, your eyes followed kuroo’s back. he’s graduating soon, and it took you back in middle school when you just watched him from afar in months.

before you knew it, he was gone.

that night, you barely got any sleep. you need to be up early tomorrow, yet you keep debating yourself if you’re going to confess your feelings to him.

would it be better if you just kept it to yourself like you did back then?

would it be better if you let him go wordlessly?

that moment happens on just an ordinary day.

it was raining heavily in tokyo, and you woke up late. you stayed up ‘til two a.m. arguing with yourself.

you were already boarded on the train when you realized you forgot your coat and your umbrella. on a rainy day. goodness gracious.

you’re soaked when you arrive at your classroom. you were shivering. thankfully, aki was your savior, lending you her rain jacket.

“thank you”, you leaned forward at the back of her chair, and whispered. aki gave you that goofy kiss in the air as she turned back to her seat work.

you returned it to her on lunch time because she will buy your lunch with yua outside. you wanted to borrow it again before dismissal because your house is farther than hers.

although, it left your mind.

you only realized it when yua and aki has went ahead to go home, and you still had some club works. you had ran from the school gates to the bus stop. now you, your bag, and your shoes til your socks are dripping wet from the rain.

you rubbed your hands together for heat. you’ve been waiting for over twenty minutes now, the bus that passes your street is either already filled, or none is passing by.

your eyes started watering, your lips already turning pale purple.

you just wanted to go home.

but it seems you’re not alone.

you hear the splash of shoes against shallow puddles from behind you. you didn’t look up immediately as you were wiping your tears with your thumb.

“you’re going to catch a cold”.

you lifted your head and see kuroo standing before you, his bag lazily slung on his shoulder. his smirk is nowhere to be found.

“h— hey”, you probably looked pathetic right now, and you hastily wiped the combined rain drops and hot tears from your face to save yourself some ounce of dignity.

he steps closer to you. you finally see him, his bedhead ruined in all the good ways, and his jacket unzipped. “i thought you already went home”.

you sniffle, wiping your snot with your wet handkerchief, making it worse. “yua and aki went ahead, had to finish some org works”, you reply in the smallest voice that made kuroo’s brows crease together. “and— uh, buses are— the buses are not cooperating”.

he didn’t say anything else.

you both watch the rain fall from the bus stop shed. you see cars wiping their windshields. you see people pass by. minutes stretch the silence between you two.

you hug your bag closer to your chest. you’re cold, but not shivering anymore. “what about you?”, you broke the quiet. “why are you not home yet?”

kuroo didn’t answer you.

instead, you see the muscle of his jaw clench as he stared straight ahead.

“do you remember”, he says suddenly. “when you discussed college admissions with us?”

“yeah”, you reply.

“do you really think that universities abroad are the best option?”, his throat bobbed as he tried to get his voice to be casual. like what he’s asking doesn’t matter.

you tilted your head, but answered anyway. “i think… it depends on your decision, and the things you have to sacrifice and leave behind”.

you didn’t know it, but your words landed heavier than you expect them to be for him.

kuroo finally faces you this time.

he huffs a laughter, but there was no humor in it. “it’s just— god, i just realized i’m graduating, and i—”, he runs a finger through his hair. “everyone’s talking about futures, you know? yaku and kai have already decided if they want to leave or not, and i—“

he cuts himself off.

your hands went to your sides. “i thought you already decided”, your eyes softened. your hand carefully reached out to try and hold him. you expected he pull away, but he doesn’t. your fingertips caressed his sleeve. “i was like this once, i didn’t know what my future holds, but look, i’m fine—“

“—that’s not what i was talking about”, kuroo whispered to you.

your hand froze against his sleeve. your lips parted to say something but he spoke first.

“i kept— i kept thinking i already had my life planned”, his voice cracked, like there’s something in him too tired to hold his feelings together. “college, volleyball, graduate and get a stable job, but every time i picture that life for me, i don’t see what i wanna see”.

“what is it you want to see?”, you feel like you have finally overstepped, but gosh, something in your heart tells you that maybe he feels the same way. that’s why you ask.

you want your hope to get crushed, you want to move on and finally let go.

but he’s not letting you.

“you”.

your breath hitched. “what?”

“i know, i know that it’s not the right time, i know—”, kuroo let out a scoff at himself, hiding the fact his lip trembled. “we’re stuck here, we’re soaking, and our buses seem to be not arriving soon”.

you can’t breathe. “i—“

“you don’t have to answer it”, he reassures you. “i didn’t mean it like that— i mean i did, not to ask you to like me back, but i—“,

his voice grew quieter. “but i just couldn’t keep pretending i feel nothing when i sit across you in lunch. when you say something so smart it stabs me, when you manage to appear in our games in your busy schedule. i just— i— i needed to tell you”.

silence hung between you two.

kuroo’s tight smile disappeared at your lack of response. “i’m sorry”, he tells you, about to turn on his heel.

“i guess we’re both idiots after all”, your fingers tightened on his sleeve.

his feet stopped mid-step.

“last night, i stayed up late thinking if i should do the same”, you shyly tell him, feeling your chest hurt at the best and the absolute worst way. “that i should tell you what i feel too”.

kuroo’s head snapped at you over his shoulder. “what?”

“i spent years convincing myself to not feel for you”, you confessed. “that maybe it’s wrong, that maybe it’s easier”.

kuroo’s body finally turned toward you, your hand still holding him.

“and guess what, it’s not”, you whisper.

your heartbeat thumped in your ears. silence fell again, but this time, you stared at each other with that heaviness that wasn’t so bad at all.

“…so”, kuroo carefully spoke. you can hear hope lacing his voice. “so does it mean…”

“yeah”, you answered with that lightness in your tone. “it does”.

his hand went to your wrist gently. “yeah?”

you shakily exhale, and smile up at him. “yeah”.

he smiled back, faint but the happiest you had seen with him. “then, can i walk you home?”, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around you.

for a second, neither of you moves. neither of you looks at the bus that finally pulled up in front of you. neither of you heard the pouring rain anymore.

your fingers interlace with his. “i’d like that”.

your diary filled with dust and pages that turned yellow better prepare for your messy handwriting that dents the other pages.

because now, you were falling harder. more than you should.

and you know he feels the same.

you brushed a stray noodle on kuroo’s lip with a tissue. his hand squeezed your palm on his, as if thanking you.

you smile, picking up your chopsticks when kenma and aki gagged audibly on the other table. “get a room”, aki scrunched her nose. “i swear”.

kenma just turns his chair so he’s facing the other direction where he can’t see you. yua giggles quietly, slurping her noodles. inuoka is giving her extra char shu slices from his bowl, and yua smiles at him with a light blush on her face.

kai is on the counter with fukunaga and lev, ordering extra fried gyoza like they’re eating for ten people.

it was the celebratory party after their national volleyball tournament where they lost to karasuno. you were there, and you watched kuroo with that pride swimming in your eyes as his dream of The Battle of the Trash Heap finally happened.

they lost.

he found you waiting for him after the game, and he hugged you. your lips brushed his ear as you whispered how proud you are of him and how amazing he did at that game.

he never showed it, but you felt something trickle through the back of your blouse. you didn’t know if it was his sweat, or his tears. you wrapped your arms around him even tighter.

you never asked about the faint marks from the corner of his eye trailing down to his cheek.

you never asked why he was the one who never broke down in front of his crying teammates. you never let go of his hand, offering him the strength he maybe needed.

it was an eat all you can ramen place coach nekomata rented for the whole team, the owner a friend of his.

akane and alisa are giggling on the table about some bad shots they got from the players on the match, holding their digicams in their hands. “you gotta have them printed and give it to us”, yaku chewed as he spoke. “i better look good in those”.

kuroo plastered his signature smirk. “bet you don’t”.

yaku threw a slice of narutomaki at his direction.

yamamoto slammed his bowl down, glaring at you and kuroo the whole time. “y/n-san, why do you even like captain, huh?”, playful envy dripping from his tone.

you sipped the broth, wiggling your eyebrows together as kuroo removed his hand on your leg to put it around the back of your chair. you leaned on it.

yaku looked up from his chirirenge and pointed. “YEAH! he’s bullying me, l/n! don’t you see he’s a jerk?”

kenma muttered from the side. “agreed”.

kuroo’s lip curled, fake pouting. “i hate you all!”

you put a hand on top of his on the table. “come on guys”, you rubbed circles on his knuckles. “tetsurō’s such a great captain, give him some break”.

his teammates were about to protest again, but you placed a finger on your lips, shushing them. “i started watching volleyball because of tetsurō”, you grinned at the memory. “he’s so good i got hooked on it”.

yua’s in awe. “that’s so cute— wait, LOOK AT HIM”, she suddenly exclaimed.

everyone’s heads turned to look at kuroo, and you did too.

kuroo tetsurō—the man who can make freshmen (you’re guilty) shake in their boots, and squeal like banshees—is blushing so madly you think he might pass out.

“are you okay?”, you worriedly touched his cheek, and he suddenly stammers which is so unlikely for him to do.

“i—“, he tries to speak, but just shuts up when he realized he couldn’t form a word.

everyone is laughing. yaku is face palming so hard, yamamoto calls kuroo “downbad”, everyone else is just smiling for you and him.

after a while, when they returned to their own businesses, kuroo leaned down at you and whispered, “did you really mean that?”

another smile spread across your face. you shake your head no.

“more than that”, you whispered back.

you love him. more than you should, and you didn’t want to stop at all.

his mind was moving slower than he’d like to admit. the lack of sleep, and stress from the rolling events of the last few weeks. all of it had his movements delayed, so when he felt the first touch of someone’s lips on his, he couldn’t help, but sink.

his lips moved against hers, eyes closed briefly until he felt the unfamiliar force of someone’s tongue pushing into his lips. this isn’t the same type of a kiss that always had him reeling. that’s when he’s suddenly pushing the the sorority president off.

his jaw clenches at the interaction, shoving through the crowd, to get some fresh air. this better not get that psycho attached to him again, he curses.

sukuna presses his fingers to his eyes, rubbing them aggressively before finally looking up. chest suddenly tugging.

you were a few feet away by the benches. head thrown back laughing. the weird fuzzy lighting from the fairy lights strewn above the backyard illuminated your face like a halo. pretty. you probably just arrived, he thinks, pushing past a few more men to head to you.

however, his stomach twists the moment the whole group comes to view.

there you were smiling, as gojo leans close to you, laughing at something shoko had said, his hand casually feeding you smarties that you’re both sharing. your lips part with ease, touching his fingers as you take the candies into your mouth, before he’s retracting his hand and dumping a handful of smarties into his mouth, and licking the same fingers after.

you don’t seem bothered in the slightest, even as your eyes close laughing a little louder, slapping gojo’s chest lightly leaning against him, and gojo has an arm wrapped around the bench behind you. the entire thing left a bad taste in the vp’s mouth.

“move.”

sukuna suddenly appears beside gojo, hand coming to the white haired man’s head, shoving it lightly.

“woah, where’d you come from?!” gojo’s still laughing as he easily moves to the bench beside geto. your eyes flick up briefly, before turning your attention back to nanami.

“keep going, kento,” you say, unbothered as sukuna plops himself beside you, legs spreading on instinct and arm taking gojo’s spot on the back of the bench.

sukuna sips his drink, “what’re we talkin’ about?”

gojo laughs, “oh this girl is hitting on ken hardcore at his work study and he basically—“

“you don’t have to explain the whole thing again. just let him finish,” your cold words cut the conversation, silencing everyone. satoru pauses awkwardly glancing between you and sukuna. everyone feels a sudden shift in the air as sukuna’s brows pinch in mild confusion.

nanami clears his throat, “yeah, uh so after I went back to my desk and—“ his story trails on, sukuna does his best to focus, but it was difficult when he’s glancing over at you and sees how tight your shoulders are, arms and legs crossed, back resting against the bench, but avoiding his arm. you also weren’t laughing as loud as he’d seen before.

did something happen? sukuna leans over, voice low so only you can hear.

“when’d you get here?”

you take a deep breath, itching your chin, “dunno probably over an hour now,” you don’t meet his eye, so you miss the annoyance that crosses his face.

“you should’ve texted me, so you didn’t have to wait here—“

“I wasn’t waiting,” you cut immediately, eyes sharp. sukuna pauses, even more confused at the expression itched on your face. “I’m talking with my friends, it’s not like I’m sitting around waiting for you all the time.”

“did i say all the time?” he snaps back in quick irritation at your targeted attitude.

you huff out a sigh, turning back to nanami just for shoko to have noticed the tense interaction between you both and interrupt with your name. “you didn’t finish telling me what happened with your meeting.”

utahime clasps her hands, “oh my god yeah! you haven’t told me yet!”

that’s when your stomach drops.

“what meeting?” geto glances up from his phone.

“she had a meeting this morning with her screenwriting professor who really really likes her and invited her out for brunch,” utahime gushes on your behalf.

“oh yeah, I forget you minor in film,” geto hums. all the attention now on you, including sukuna’s, body turning slightly to listen.

“yeah,” you smile, “it was fine. she was really nice, complimented all the stuff I did this semester, said she really sees me having a good future if I wanna pursue film, and told me to keep in touch.”

“and the internship?” utahime leans forward, eyes bright, you almost hate yourself for cursing her out in your mind. specifically coming here as to not think about this morning.

“it’s like whatever.”

“what d’ya mean?” shoko presses.

you laugh, embarrassment coursing through your veins as you feel all their eyes on you. “like she didn’t fully bring it up and the conversation was going pretty well so I didn’t wanna ruin it.”

“but—“

“it’s fine,” you laugh, “film isn’t even my major so let’s just talk about something else. it went well so that’s the good thing,” you stop them from asking anymore questions, and both utahime and shoko give you sympathetic looks understanding immediately; while the boys don’t fully grasp what’s happening and easily change the subject.

sukuna however, similar to his friends, didn’t fully understand what the meeting with your professor meant, but he does notice how you went from laughing, to tense and short, to not speaking at all now. your eyes distant as you disassociate completely. mind wandering back to the morning brunch.

“anyone want more drinks?” he stands, counting geto, shoko, and nanami. then he calls your name, “come help me.”

“oh i can help,” nanami moves to stand, but sukuna shoots him a glare, hand wrapping around your wrist tugging you up before anyone could protest, ignoring the way shoko’s lips part.

you don’t have time to argue, when this large man is suddenly dragging you towards the house. “I can walk myself,” you twist your hand free, “jeez,” you mutter, glancing up when he halts with you. your breath catches, cheeks flushing at the expression on his face. “what?”

“are you mad at me?” his tone is clipped, irritated. your lips part. “did something happen?”

“what,” you’re baffled by how forward he is, glancing away in annoyance. “nothing happened, I’m fine, clearly.”

“yeah, you’re very convincing,” he scoffs, getting closer, seeing if he can read your thoughts.

you put your hand up to keep him from getting in your space, “well I’m tired from studying, and the meeting…” you grumble the last part, making his brows pinch.

“thought you said it went well,” he says, you roll your eyes.

the nerve. seriously, you should make interrogations a goddamn condition…then again, you’ve done plenty of that with him.

“no it didn’t go well, that was a lie. I was lying. she’s not responsible for awarding the internship, even if its part of her department, so she really just wanted brunch because she liked me or whatever,” you ramble, head falling back, as exhaustion seeps from your pores. sukuna frowns, stepping forward to touch your waist, just for you to step back oat the mere contact. “don’t.”

“don’t what,” he follows, but you take another step back, sharp glare targeting him.

“I’m not in the mood for you to touch me is what,” you huff, cheeks flushing at the confusion on his face. god, he’s so annoying. you swallow a thick lump in your throat, lips parting, tight pounding in your temple, “so don’t.”

sukuna stops, brows pinching, knot twisting in his chest.

a loud commotion breaks your conversation, both of you glancing in the direction with annoyance, expressions unnervingly identical. a couple of guys from another frat were picking up girls and tossing them into the pool. one of which was the pearl’s president who is making a show now of stripping her pink skirt and white top after coming out of the pool.

she manages to hold everyone’s attention, men and women alike catching their breaths as she glides her hands down her curves soaking up all the wandering envious glared like a fuel, almost as if the humiliation sukuna had targeted to her was being wiped clean. her eyes cut through the crowd in seconds, landing on the one person that she begs to look at her, sukuna.

you notice immediately, and the ugly bubble of disgust crawls up your spine, causing you to dramatically roll your eyes, brushing past the soccer captain.

sukuna immediately turns, the half-second he spent glancing at the commotion was enough time for him to grow sick of the sight and follow after you. you try to head back to your friends, but he catches your bicep again, easily tugging you to his broad chest.

“we’re still talking,” he meets your eyes, noticing your gaze locked on the sorority president who seems to be watching you both closely. her eyes are livid, you can see it from here, she whispers something to one of her friends pointing at you.

sukuna’s brows pinch, and the stupid unfiltered part of him decides to shove itself out as follows your line of sight, then glancing at you again, “did you see?”

your body goes rigid.

party falling silent,

you feels sick and annoyed all at once, and it only gets worse when sukuna’s starts talking, “she kissed me, we didn’t fuck,” he’s defending himself before you get the chance to say anything. your throat constricting as you sigh.

“I’m not—“

“so you are mad at me,” he snaps aggressively, grip tightening around your bicep, making you squirm slightly. “you could’ve said something if that’s what you’re thinking about.”

“dude, chill,” you huff, shoving his hand making him let go immediately. “god, you’re so dramatic,” you mutter, brushing your arm as you glare up at him. “I’m not mad at you jeez. I’m just fucking frustrated with my own stuff — again not everything’s about you,” you scoff, finding it amusing how you don’t even believe your own words to fullest. “or are you the only one that’s allowed to be upset about things?”

his jaw clenches.

you glance between his dark crimson eyes. he’s not saying anything.

but you don’t want him touching you. why?

you can’t even admit to yourself why! so now you’re glancing at his lips, cheeks flushing and vision turning a sick red knowing who’s lips had just been on his.

it wasn’t yours from this morning…it was some other girl…some girl that’s glaring daggers across the yard, scrambling to figure out who the fuck you are.

someone that forced herself onto him.

so why is it getting harder for you to breathe? why are you seeing red when you glance down at his pretty lips.

why are you getting more angry when he easily bends down to your height, exhaling heavily like he’s holding himself back because you told him not to touch you. all of it was causing your heart to beat faster than usual, noticing the way he looks over your features. grip clenching, tempting to crawl up to touch your waist—

“kuna!!”

a cold sticky splash hits sukuna straight in the face. you jerk back in shock.

“what the fuck!” he barks, hand coming down on his face, wiping the beer off his face.

yorozu, only wearing her pink lingerie, stands with the evidence in her hand, an empty solo cup, her chest heaves dramatically, eyes bloodshot and crazy, whipping her head to you now.

your eyes widen when the girl suddenly steps towards you. “who the fuck even are you?” she snaps with such judgement, looking you up and down like some rat from the subway. you seriously can’t help the way you step back in absolute cringe. face twisting like you smelled something atrocious,

“oh my god, this is unreal,” you scoff, brushing past her and getting away from the entire crowd of people that seem to be stuck in some cringey ass high school drama movie.

by the time you find your friends again, gojo and utahime are standing on their tippy toes trying to see what the commotion was all about on the other side of the yard.

“what’s goin’ on?” gojo asks when you appear out of the crowd.

you glance over your shoulder, face in a perpetual state of disgust and cringe, “that president that sukuna supposedly ‘hates’, threw a drink at him.”

“what?!” gojo and geto both get on their feet. “what’s he doing now?” geto asks.

“dunno, I left when she got up in my face,” you sit back on the bench with a loud huff. geto and gojo glance at each other again, and in seconds they’re pushing through the crowd stumbling through to find their friend, praying things haven’t escalated.

your remaining friends look back at you, clearly for some explanation. but instead, your fingers pinch your nose, head falling back.

“you okay?” utahime quietly comforts sitting beside you. she presses her hand over the one on your lap, and you feel a damn crack inside you. throat running dry in moments.

god, this is so exhausting.

you can feel the familiar hot stinging behind your eyelids, afraid to even respond not knowing what’s stirring inside you. your thoughts and feelings all a mess, and now all you can feel is the sinking in your stomach and the overstimulation of what was supposed to be a small mixer. you just wanted him…

“is she okay?” you can hear gojo’s distant voice as shoko answers. the attention feels like you’re being some sensitive baby that can’t take someone getting up in their face. you can! but that doesn’t mean you want any of the drama. that’s quite literally the main fucking reason you had this agreement! it was all too much, too much for someone who already had a pretty shit way of organizing her thoughts!

“here, i got you some water,” gojo sits on the other side of you, but your unable to take your hand off your face now, knowing exactly what’ll happen if you do.

you swallow thickly, before muttering a short. “thanks.”

“what happened?” shoko attempts to take the attention off of you as geto returns a few moments later, with a very angry sukuna huffing right behind him.

“the last time we’re ever fucking inviting that fucking psychotic ass sorority!” sukuna is swearing up and down as he pulls his beer drenched shirt off, tossing it aside and airing his baseball cap before putting it back on backwards.

geto glances over his shoulder, spotting most of the main kappa phi pearl members huddled around their deranged president. “yeah…just stay away from her or we’re gonna be caught in another problem.”

“I have been!” sukuna throws his hands up in exasperation. “I’ve been keeping my distance from that bitch all fucking night—“

“but you kissed her.”

the group goes silent.

everyone turns to you. shoko’s brows pinch in concern as utahime looks absolutely baffled at the reveal. however, the boys look even more shell shocked, as they stand still, including nanami.

sukuna’s jaw is taunt. red irises gleaming under the fairy lights, gaze locked on you.

“when did you kiss her??” gojo’s eyes snap to the man, who’s eyes haven’t left yours, noticing the slight gloss that shines over them.

“I didn’t kiss her,” he snaps coldly.

your brows pinch in irritation, “shoko.”

“we both saw you,” she agrees.

sukuna’s eyes are livid, adrenaline and sleep deprivation pumping through his veins as he glares at you in disbelief, and you reciprocate it with an annoyed shrug and a look that basically screams what?

“I told you I didn’t kiss her, she kissed me— doesn’t mean I asked her to go insane like she always fucking does,” he defends, words aggressive and heated.

you roll your eyes, “you kissed her back though.”

“are you fucking kidding me?!”

“dude we literally saw, right shoko!” the more defensive he became, the more heated you got.

shoko hums nodding her head, and as calm as she looks right now, shoko can’t help glancing at utahime as they both look between you and sukuna in worry. same for the other three men who are frozen in place.

“so you’re saying I asked for it!” he snaps.

your eyes widen, throwing your hands up towards him, “who’s the one putting words in my mouth now! if you don’t want drama, don’t kiss a million fucking people.”

“so kissing you and her is a million people?” he barks.

“you’re unbelievable—“

“what! I’m just repeating exactly what you’re saying. you forgot to add the part that we’re not dating, we fuck. fucking and kissing are two different fucking things!” his aggression only adds more punch to his words making you catch your breath in shock. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend, so I don’t know what the fuck you’re getting pissed about.”

you look around the group, putting one hand up, “raise your hand if you heard me say anything about him being my boyfriend?” no one raises their hand. “no one? yeah, that’s because that wasn’t even my point, dumbass,” you huff. “what i was saying is if you don’t want drama, don’t make any.”

“I wasn’t!”

“so did you or did you not kiss her back?”

sukuna groans loudly, “she threw herself at me!” he hits his chest, “are you not hearing that fucking part? do you have selective hearing or some shit?” sukuna aggressively taps his temple like you’re some simpleton.

you roll your eyes, “for someone supposedly smart, you’re really fucking dumb.”

“says you! jesusfuckingchrist!”

suddenly gojo and utahime are stepping in, getting between the both of you as she loops her arms with yours getting you to stand. “let’s go breathe.”

“yeah, take a break,” gojo pushes his friend to sit in your spot as utahime drags you further into the dancing crowd beside the pool.

“oh my god he’s such a dick,” you huff, face hot with anger and mind still pounding. utahime fans your face with her hands as she nods.

“it’s okay, it’s okay, everything that you said made sense, he’s just an idiot,” she agrees, body moving to the beat to get you to loosen up. luckily no one can hear your conversation over the music.

you help fan your face with your hands, inhaling sharply as your head tilts back, “never said he was my boyfriend,” you mutter.

“she’s pulling shit from her ass and I’m the dumb one!” sukuna continues to curse, grip so tight on the bottle, no one would be surprised if it shatters in seconds. “you all know how fucking insane that twisted bitch is — why the fuck would I get involved with her again??”

they all agree with him, nodding along, and humming and union, except for shoko, frowning. she quietly smokes her cigarette, eyes narrowing at the shirtless soccer captain.

it’s been a couple weeks since you started this deal with sukuna, and unbeknownst to you, your two closest friends are unsure how to feel about the relationship. shoko knows how stressed you are, you’re both bio majors on pre-med tracks, and while she takes her stress out by smoking cigarettes or weed — she knows you have a different source of relief, one that she vaguely knows about from freshman year.

the memories of freshman year when you first met by being paired for a group project in the fall. as much as you smiled and laughed, you were closed off, more than shoko was. it was to the point where shoko who had assumed you’d grown close and would be considered close friends, had no idea what you were struggling with until winter break.

she swallows thickly remembering you laughing the next day and vaguely explaining to her that you were on antidepressants, but you were trying to slowly wear them off, since you weren’t heavily reliant on them. but you accidentally miscalculated which caused the dark episode you had when she came by.

shoko was hesitant to leave you after that, but you reassured her over and over. nevertheless, the uneasiness she felt towards that moment left a lasting impact, even years later.

by the time your first year ended and the next year began, you were moving differently. you were still you, but there was a heaviness on your shoulders, something that utahime thought she could make better by telling you these speed dates she’s doing.

while shoko doesn’t like to think everything is so linear, or black and white. there were just so many blind spots to you, but what she knows is your stress, and your adamant refusal to have any drama or external problems weigh you down more than you already are.

which leads her to hating, but subtly relying on the man in front of her. the same one that had taken your stress away ten-folds for blocks at a time. but now it’s looking like he’s just going to add to it now.

shoko holds the nicotine in her lungs, letting it simmer inside before exhaling your name, “she doesn’t like drama.” she starts, turning the mens attention to her. “that’s really almost everything to it. you denying it and just stirring the pot is drama in it of itself.”

sukuna scoffs, “she was stirring the fucking pot by getting me to admit to something she already fuckin’ believes!”

shoko rolls her eyes in disbelief. men.

“she wasn’t trying too—“ shoko starts, but the man cuts in.

“I need a fucking drink,” sukuna stands back up, shoving through the crowd.

shoko shakes her head, even she can admit that your stress is being targeted towards the frat boy, and maybe seeing utahime trying to get you to dance instead of cool down didn’t look like the best idea.

utahime isn’t a party girl, but she’s also the best person to go to a party with. especially when she’s having you jumping up and down to house music with no alcohol in your system.

the music is too loud, the bass vibrating straight through your ribs, bodies pressing in on all sides, sweat-slick and carelessness.

you let your eyes close. just for a second.

the image of sukuna kissing yorozu resurfaced behind your eyes making your jaw clench. your stomach churns thinking about exams in a few days. all of it was making your feet feel lighter , your heart pounding faster trying to escape, and your senses start to lose ground.

you sway, weight shifting back as someone bumps your shoulder, and you’re not fully realizing the slight slip of your heel until you’re tilting back without thinking. body weightless for a moment, and gravity hanging you midair.

and the music cuts out in a single, ugly splash.

the water swallows you whole.

the shock steals the breath from your chest. as you sink, blowing bubbles at the loss of air in surprise.

after a moment, you break the surface with a sharp inhale. heaving as your shirt clings to your chest uncomfortably, heavy against your skin. you blink the water from your lashes, dragging a hand down your face. perfect, you think. catching your breath.

“are you okay?!” utahime pushes the crowd to get to the edge of the pool while your head is tilting back, staring up at the night sky in complete boredom. great, really this is great.

across the patio, sukuna just cracked open a beer when he hears the splash sharp enough to cut through the music. he glances up in annoyance, someone better not be fighting, or jumping off the fucking roof, but then he sees the ripple, and then spots you.

his brows pinch, stepping forward, glancing to see if it was any of those dipshits that tossed you in. but you were standing still in the pool like you chose to be there.

something tight and ugly coiled in his chest.

a few people crowded the edge asking if you were okay. some guys still in the pool swam over to check on you, since you scared a few with the sudden fall and splash. you don’t answer right away. your eyes half-lidded, completely unconcerned, like the world didn’t just knock you off your feet, literally this time.

sukuna doesn’t remember setting the beer down.

but by the time he gets to the pool, his jaw is clenched, and his shoulders are rigid. you’re brushing wet hair out of your face with annoying calm. bringing obvious attention your chest. your shirt clings to you like a second skin, the collar wet and sticking low on your chest revealing most of your cleavage. the hickey he marked your skin with last night prominent, but it wasn’t enough to keep almost all the men around you from checking you out. especially the pebbling of your nipples through your sheer shirt, your thin bra doing absolutely nothing.

you don’t even notice, you’re entirely somewhere else, staring at the reflection of the lights wobbling on the surface.

but sukuna notices.

his jaw tightens so hard it aches. he steps in fast. his broad shoulders cut through the half-circle of bodies like he’s clearing a path on instinct alone. he opens his mouth, already halfway to saying something stupid and vague—some bullshit or anything that will get you out of the water and away from these perverts eyes—

then two hands slams into his shoulder blades. hard and rough.

he stumbles, more from surprise than force. his boots skid on the wet concrete as someone shouts his name. but once he turns, it’s too late. the shove sends him backwards. and there’s a split second where his eyes meet yours.

then he hits the water.

the splash is loud. bigger than yours. the cold shock drags the breath out of him as he goes under. the crowd oh’s all turning in disbelief, everyone looking to see the perpetrator.

sukuna suddenly breaks the surface. hot steam was leaving his ears as he swears loudly, water streaming down his face, finally snapping you out of your disillusion.

you blink.

“oh,” you say flatly, like he just walked into a room instead of being shoved into a pool.

sukuna glares at the edge of the pool, cap floating in the water and hair plastered to his forehead. he looks feral, like a wet tiger. furious and somehow still very aware of the fact that you’re standing a few feet away, wet shirt clinging, eyes finally focused on him.

the laughter around you grows, the party rolling on, but sukuna doesn’t hear any of it.

he only sees you.

and the fact that now everyone else does too.

“did you get thrown in?” he barks in your direction.

you shrug.

he mimics your shrug in irritation, “fuck is that supposed to mean? yeah or no?”

you roll your eyes, “no I wasn’t shoved,” you tsked, moving to the edge. sukuna watches you closely, eyes following every moment, along with all the men staring you down. you carefully climb out, water falling from you as utahime helps you.

“did you fall in?” she mutters in confusion, because one second you were dancing beside her, the next she heard a splash and you were gasping out.

you flush, head hitting her shoulder, “can we leave?”

she nods frantically, arm wrapping around yours as she leads you away. both of you ignoring the fuming man still in the pool.

shoko and the rest had came to the pool after the commotion, the boys gravitated to their overly pissed vice president, while shoko met you and utahime half-way.

“it’s over,” sukuna starts, easily hoisting himself out of the pool, abs clenching and beefy arms flexing as water cascades down his toned chest, “end the mixer, we got what we want.”

gojo frowns, “but the nights still young.”

“I did see a couple people start puking,” geto grits in annoyance.

“and more people have been coming since the videos of the apology were posted,” nanami adds, causing both geto and gojo’s eyes to bulge, both feeling sukuna’s eyes close in controlled anger.

“pull the plug,” he utters through clenched teeth. gojo groans in annoyance, dragging his feet towards the dj as geto glances back at his wet friend. the man was standing completely still, strong arms crossed, reeking of chlorine and alcohol and face pulled into a permanent scowl. he quietly observed shoko and utahime across the yard as they squeezed your drenched shirt, while you tried to brush them off. a weak attempt when he sees you give up in seconds and just close your eyes in exhaustion.

geto glances silently between sukuna and you, brows pinching in thought. everybody in the frat was beginning to get a hint at your relationship with sukuna. many of them had a list of go-to girls they’d call up for a quick fuck. however, geto and gojo were beginning to realize how you’re starting to become the exception for most of sukuna’s rules.

it was odd in a way, seeing sukuna staring daggers at you across the yard, deaf to the complaints that echo through the crowd.

gojo had taken the mic to conclude the hectic mixer, people moaned and groaned, dragging their feet as he cut the music. sukuna watches you closely, eyes narrowing when he sees a few guys stop by you, unable to make out a word, but he can see them eyeing your chest.

“I’m gonna cut the music in the house, do you wanna round the people upstairs and in the basement?” geto pats sukuna’s shoulder, but the man shrugs him off, ignoring what he said to head in the opposite direction of the house.

you’re completely worn out from the day, shoko was checking her phone to call an uber for you guys, while utahime did her best to airdry you.

“s’ whatever, we’ll just take the subway if the uber guy won’t let us in,” you mutter in defeat. however, utahime just whines lowly, brows furrowed.

“I wish I brought a jacket. we’re not getting on the subway when you’re basically see through,” utahime huffs, lips parting before catching something behind you, her face going dead still.

“what?” your brows furrow, following her line of vision over your shoulder.

sukuna stands directly behind you, brooding aura towering over the three of you, hair damp and water still dripping from his jeans as he eyes your chest. you frown, hands coming up to your collar, pulling the sticky shirt from your skin to shake it out. “you need something bud?”

his frown deepens, “parties over.”

shoko and utahime roll their eyes, “yeah we’re leaving,” utahime tsks. sukuna, however, pays the girls no mind, keeping his gaze locked on you and the annoyance itched in your face.

fuck, you’re so goddamn irritating! his mind screams, veins straining in his arms. it was almost impressive how you could get under his skin with just a look. he can practically read what your face was saying. you won’t believe a word he says.

his hand moves on its own, touching your wet cheek with his thumb—

“uber’s here,” shoko interrupts. you barely bat an eye as you brush past the fratboy, heading around the house with utahime beside you and shoko behind, both girls rolling their eyes at the man.

while the only good thing that happened today was the uber letting you ride soaked, sukuna had a longer night kicking people out of the frat. luckily nanami stayed for a bit to help, along with yuno, as members started dragging people passed out in the basement and the yard. geto kept dragging gojo by the ear because he kept flirting with girls.

nonetheless, today is really the gift that keeps on giving. a handful of pledges are cleaning up the kitchen as the older members start shoving people out. sukuna had just thrown some guy slamming the front door shut just when a familiar figure descends the stairs, dawned in one of his sweats and tshirt.

“fucking christ,” sukuna inhales sharply, walking away. “get the fuck out.” he doesn’t even care to point out his clothes on the sorority president.

“sukuna,” she cooes wickedly. “i forgive you.”sukuna’s vein twitches. “i know you’re angry at me, but i just wanted to say sorry. I can make it up to you, I didn’t wanna throw that drink on you but people were whispering about you and that girl, and I just couldn’t help it,” her small arms reach for the man’s bicep, just for the cord inside him to snap.

he shoves her arm off, her small frame stumbles back.

“don’t fucking touch me!” his dark orbs cut through her instantly, goosebumps breaking out across her skin. “if you touch me one more time, I’ll snap y’er fucking neck.”

the air between them goes quiet. a few stragglers glance as they make their way to the exit followed by a couple pledges shooing them with brooms.

yorozu swallows a lump, eyes shining with quick tears that further annoy the frat boy. she takes a cautious step forward, “but I said I’m sorry—“

sukuna clicks his tongue, loud and heartless. “when I told ya I never wanted anything to do with you, I wasn’t fucking joking. it’s not my fault you got y’er brain fried because i fucked you twice, and ya think I want anything to do with you after. but if you need me to say again, here it is. I. hate. your. fucking. guts,” he spits with shameless cruelty.

her lip trembles, “y-you don’t have to like me. we can just have sex.”

“sex?” he scoffs, “I’d rather fuck a brick wall then stick my dick anywhere near your loose ass cunt again. we only fucked when i was piss drunk,” the girl is already in tears. wet lips parting. “and I didn’t even like it then, and I like anything drunk.”

“you don’t mean that!” she sobs.

“I do,” sukuna tsks in disgust, walking past the sorority president, but the second her fingers make contact with his passing bicep, he snaps. “fuck off!” sukuna’s shout had her flinching, and the entire house stilling.

he side steps yorozu, looking straight at two members “someone get her out of this house.”

—

utahime and shoko both crashed at your place for the night. the two girls deciding on it themselves, unfortunately, you didn’t have the guts to reject them. so instead you silently stood under the hot water, mind desperately trying to forget the events of the night as you closed your eyes. the water slowly cascades down your body, washing off the all the chlorine and stench from the party.

you could barely keep your eyes open in the uber, but now your mind won’t stay quiet. instead it felt like you were being punished as thoughts of yorozu making a scene at the party, a drink getting thrown at sukuna, your meeting this morning—

a sudden knock interrupts your thoughts. “sorry, I really needa pee,” utahime pokes her head in.

“yeah ‘s fine,” you reply behind the curtain.

the night — as long, loud, and chaotic as it was — ended abruptly with your body hitting the bed like a dropped sandbag. you grumbled to shoko and utahime that you couldn’t keep your eyes open, even though the truth was the opposite: you were exhausted everywhere except your mind, which refused to shut up.

now the apartment is silent, save for the soft, uneven breathing of your friends. shoko is folded awkwardly on the air mattress in the living room. utahime is half-buried in a throw blanket on the couch, both dead to the world. meanwhile, you’re lying awake in your room still, eyes open, body heavy, and brain still sparking like a live wire.

you wanted the silence of sleep to take over, to quiet everything. but it wasn’t coming easy. the meeting earlier today replaying in your mind…your exams…that annoying drama filled kiss.

your throat tightens as you glance at the antidepressants on your nightstand. you don’t crave them. you resent them. you’ve been successfully wearing them off for the last few weeks. you’ve been sleeping much better since another relief has taken it’s place, one that fills your mind and body with a shot of dopamine. but as three am ticks by, the silence grows teeth, and you finally let a finger nudge the lid.

the trazodone bottle makes the smallest click when it opens, obscenely loud in the quiet. you swallow thickly, dry-mouthed, pulse still humming from long day, and the absence of a certain tattooed frat boy as a distraction you’re trying very hard not to think about.

you shake out a single pill and glare at it like it personally wronged you before chasing it down with a lukewarm sip of water. it doesn’t knock you out. it doesn’t save you. it simply smooths the jagged edge of awareness, dulling the quiet just enough for you to stop wanting to crawl out of your own skin.

not a cure, or a setback…just a pill for the night.

and even that feels like defeat.

unfortunately, sukuna didn’t have a pill to quiet the demons. instead his shower consisted of a growing fire inside him. annoyance and irritation scratching at his insides as he replayed the moments that have lead him into punching his shower wall until it cracked, and his knuckles bled.

“fuck!”

his back heaved with each breath, eyes bloodshot as he eyed his bruised hand. none of it able to snap his mind from spiraling.

his heavy footsteps rattled his room, mind pounding and thoughts like daggers. how could he be so worked up after he’s so close to the end of the semester? but after the stunt yorozu pulled, and now you’re throwing it back in his face, every path he takes feels like battle. and of all the things currently unraveling in his life, his fucking sex buddy wasn’t supposed to be an added problem. that was the whole point of the fucking agreement!

sukuna groans face buried in the mattress, pillow over his head.

a kiss? was it the action that set you off? or was it because it was yorozu? if it was the latter than he wouldn’t blame you. either way, you didn’t even know her like he did, how could you get so worked up over that. and from what he could tell, the sunken look on your face, the exhaustion you were desperate trying to hide — you should’ve just stayed and let him fuck you. that’s why he’s here.

nonetheless, it didn’t matter how many circles sukuna thought himself into. his mind kept him awake for a majority of the night, unaware of your own thoughts that snuck into your dreams.

starting from this point on, it was a waiting game.

sunday morning arrives too quickly. the pill never fully pulled you under, but it softened the night enough for you to function, like applying a blur filter to a scene you didn’t want to watch in high definition.

shoko and utahime kept a close eye on you when you all went out for coffee. your movements were slightly sluggish, your reactions a bit delayed, and your emotions dulled. neither of them questioned it at first, considering how utahime was slightly hungover from last night, and shoko was chugging her coffee like it would quiet her nicotine addiction.

now, the three of you are camped out at the library long before noon, claiming your usual corner table with your notebooks, ipads and laptops out. the half-finished coffees surrounding you. the atmosphere is studious, but restless.

the calm before a week that’s about to devour all of you.

your eyes stay glued to the page, but your mind keeps cutting elsewhere…the argument, the pool, the drink spilled, the confrontation with the sorority president, her voice like ice against your spine.

you groan internally, despising how often the memory resurfaces, but you hate even more how sukuna is distracting you. you drag your pen across your notebook, trying to rewrite what you’d just been thinking before.

shoko yawns, mumbling something about regretting the drinks she had towards the end of the night. your pen freeze on the page. utahime’s eyes widen, noticing your sunken expression.

“hey,” she nudges you with her foot under the table, her expression sharper than her tone. “do you wanna talk about…you know?” she tries to soften her voice for you. shoko finally realizing what she’d said, her cheeks flushing, why’d she bring up the party!?

you glance between your friends, smiling, “i was just thinking about the meeting I had.” you notice both your friends fall quiet. eyes filled with pity. you laugh quietly, tone laced with rejection, tapping your pen on the table, “kinda embarrassing how I thought I’d actually get an internship—“

shoko’s brows pinch tight, “don’t say that. this happens to everyone. I didn’t get a thousand internships either. that shouldn’t be a direct reflection of your abilities,” shoko huffs, her mind still pounding from her hangover. but utahime nods along, just as serious.

“yeah, remember I told you, it could still be beneficial in the long run. everything happens for a reason,” her hand squeezes your forearm.

the sudden confidence in you pouring from your friends was…suffocating.

you swallow thickly, nodding your head. “yeah,” you mutter, the slight dejection in your voice completely going over your friends heads as they smile. neither of them realizing the amount of rejection you’re nursing. how their belief in whatever you wanna do in the future is making you feel even more insecure. why are you even trying to pursue something so hard? you should just keep your attention focused on your exams, and medical school….

utahime tries to read your distant expression, nibbling on her cheek. shoko and utahime exchange glances wondering if this was a good time. it was the selfish part of them that wanted to know.

“have you heard anything…?” utahime cuts the study session again. you glance up with a raised brow. “from him?”

your heart skips a beat, palms clammy and the instinctual eye roll was hard to control as you scoff. “that’s the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

“that’s good, what he did gave me the biggest ick ever,” shoko adds, with utahime nodding erratically.

“yeah you don’t need that type of energy around you. you definitely deserve someone better,” utahime’s firm words seem to hit you the wrong way as you sigh.

your eyes cut up to your friends, half lidded with a hint of irritation, “he was never my boyfriend. I don’t wanna explain this again.”

“we know we know, we’re just saying he’s just so ugh—“ utahime going into further detail about last nights events wasn’t helping your pounding headache and growing nausea.

meanwhile, across campus, sukuna wakes up like he’s been resurrected by bad decisions. his head splits first, then the world slowly loads around it.

he’s completely overslept. the frat house is unnervingly quiet, sunlight slicing through his blinds like a punishment. then he registers his phone’s nonstop vibration — notifications, tags, blurry photos, videos, comments he’ll never read.

a disgruntled groan leaves the beast as he lazily swipes through the notification on his lock-screen, then drops the phone on his chest with another groan. hundreds of messages. a thousand shitty reminders of last night.

but not a single notification from you.

the absence hits harder than the hangover. not dramatic, or poetic. just… noticeable.

you flip a page. sukuna rubs his temples. both of you brace yourselves without saying it out loud: exams start tomorrow, summer is close enough to smell, and the next week is going to feel a lot longer without the other to drown in.

a week of hell.

sunday was spent a majority in the library. utahime left towards the late afternoon after finishing her essays. she only has two finals this week — unlike you and shoko — I guess that’s the perks of being a fashion major, and business minor.

you, on the other hand, felt like every passing second studying was like you were crawling your way out of hell. your body was sinking and your mind was wandering. the food truck food between you and shoko was only keeping you alive, not satisfying your hunger.

either way, the next day is when things slowly began to fall apart. specifically after your first exam.

the monday sun hits the courtyard like a spotlight. everyone looks exhausted, a little dehydrated, and stressed as hell. you, shoko, and utahime are halfway through lunch when utahime freezes mid-scroll, eyebrows shooting up.

“what?” shoko sips her iced coffee.

uathime is almost pale, turning the phone to shoko. you glance up, noticing both their frozen reactions.

“woah, i wanna see,” you say, crawling before they can react. and of course—

the biggest sorority on campus — kappa phi pearl — posted multiple different party recap photos/videos of saturday’s mixer at delta alpha stride. except the recap is basically exposing everything in pink glitter.

“what the…” you lean over, eyes narrowing at the first slide of their third post.

front and center: a photo of their president, yorozu, drunk-grinning, breasts pushing out of her top, hands gripping sukuna’s collar, and mouth pressed to his in the kiss he clearly did not initiate that night.

a wave of nauseous crawls up your throat. his crimson eyes are half-lidded in the photo, one brow raised, hand already mid-motion pushing her off-frame, irritated. but seeing him kiss her again, had an unwelcome feeling twisting in your gut for the second time.

“why would they even post that?” utahime scoffs in shock.

your finger just swipes to the next slide: the fight.

sukuna is on the patio, wild hair damp under his backwards baseball cap, shirt drenched from yorozu’s spilled drink, veins sharp with anger, jaw tight like it was carved specifically to ruin lives. and his finger was pointing at someone off-screen.

“when was this?” shoko questions.

you lick your bottom lip, breath-controlled. “I think after she threw her drink at him and I walked back to you guys.”

the comments however were eating that slide up:

‘not him fighting the air again 😭’

‘anger issues from our captain!! moreee🫦🫦’

‘red flag but… like… smashhh😍’

‘what’s his @…for b-blocking purposes ofc🙈’

‘when was this?? i always miss the drama!’

shoko cringes at the comments, while you swipe to the next slide…and of course it’s a video of the pool, and you just happen to be falling into it at the same moment.

“you’re not even part of the sorority??” utahime exclaims in disgust. “why would they choose this video??”

“I guess because those sorority girls are dancing on the side,” shoko tsks. your brows furrow as you watch yourself. your soaked shirt clinging to your chest for all their followers to see. however the camera pans back to the sorority girls on the side, and they start….laughing.

“what the fuck?!” shoko and utahime’s shout, jaws slack in shock, including yours.

“wait guys…” you turn to them in disbelief. “are we in high school again?”

“that’s literally insane,” shoko’s dumbfounded. “why’re you catching strays?”

“no for real, what the hell??”

this can’t be real? you’ve never been apart of any drama in college because it was so easy not to be apart of it, unlike high school. but after one night, it seems like your luck has run out.

“I’m gonna report them,” utahime starts, shoko hums as your head drops back.

“they don’t even know my name, why would they even include that in their recap?” your voice is laced with annoyance.

utahime tsks, “forget about them, I’ll handle it, especially because I can say some shit about your shirt literally showing everyt—“ utahime stops herself. “and we’re definitely skipping suguru’s shitty pool party this week too.”

“and we still have so many exams,” shoko whines, immediately letting reality set as you lean back into the sun.

“this sucks,” you mutter, fingers picking at the grass. your eyes drift towards the library you’ll inevitably end up in later. there was nothing distracting you from the overwhelming doom of finals week…and now this drama, and you don’t have a buffer. no sukuna.

‘wait who is the pool girl???’

‘the chlorine knew what it was doing😩’

‘she fell in and still looked hotter than everyone’

‘surprised no one jumped in after her🥵’

sukuna’s blood boils with every comment he scrolls through.

the boys had sent pearl’s recap posts to the groupchat, and after gojo came crashing into the vp after his final. sukuna was forcefully shoved their instagram page in his face, to see the multiple recap posts. gojo is swearing up and down about the first recap post they uploaded, where it was multiple different videos of his humiliating apology, minus sukuna’s part, he was livid. all the while sukuna is immediately recognizing himself on the cover of the next recap post.

“what the fuck?”

sukuna stops in the middle of the sidewalk. grip tightening around gojo’s phone.

“yeah man, there’s a thousand fucking angles of this goddamn apology and—“

sukuna quickly pulls out his own phone, finally checking the notifications he’s been avoiding since yesterday.

“not that—why the fuck would they post this shit?” sukuna grits, jaw tense as he sees the photo of yorozu kissing him. the comments are a mess, different people wondering if their favorite tiktok influencer/ sorority president is dating this guy. people tagged him a million times in their now deleted stories. a couple other fraternities and sororities that were there that night, posting their own recap posts with the apology, the fight he had on the patio, or him falling in the pool.

the worst one was their were just as many random comments about you. even though many girls had jumped in the pool, it was seeing your nipples through your shirt that sent many into orbit. or that bored expression you had that had so many commenting about how nonchalant you looked completely drenched.

“I’m gonna fucking kill them,” sukuna swears, quickly swiping through all the photos. there were more of him randomly, and gojo. it was normal for a recap post, but their captions were beyond misleading.

“tell me about it,” gojo swears, arm crossed as he glares at his phone. his speech playing from the speaker. “why wouldn’t they add your part.”

sukuna scrolls through the group chat briefly.

“a lot of the sororities unblocked us though. but I can’t stand this humiliation,” gojo grits, ruffling his white hair as he glances around, then stops… “did you get any texts from,” gojo mutters your name cautiously.

sukuna freezes.

“haven’t checked. been studying since yesterday,” he mutters sharply, cutting any further discussion. gojo hums, rocking on his heels catching the vp’s attention. his brow cocks in irritation at his friend. “what?”

silence followed the one word question, but sukuna’s eyes narrowed as he noticed gojo glancing over his shoulder. nodding subtly in the direction.

it had been less than forty-eight hours since the night. however, the ugly pit that sank deep in his gut was immediately triggered by your presence on the courtyard.

you were laying on the grass beside shoko and utahime. eyes closed under the spring sun. your lips parting still talking to your friends.

the unexpected twist in sukuna’s chest left a bad taste in the back of his throat. the memories resurfacing in seconds as his jaw locks. you hadn’t texted him, or called, but he also hadn’t reached out either. why would he? you were accusing him of everything!

“i was gonna say hi,” gojo treads carefully, eyeing his friend for any reaction.

sukuna shrugs his backpack higher on his shoulder. his gaze sweeps over you again. the wind gently brushes your hair as you sit up on your arm. you’re pointing at utahime as you say something.

“I’m gonna gooo nooow….” gojo drags each syllable, taking slow steps onto the grass of the courtyard. his hands in his pockets as he looks back at his grumpy friend.

sukuna shoots him an unamused expression, lip curled in a scowl at the white haired man’s antics. “then go.”

gojo frowns, “you don’t wanna say hi to your girlfriend?”

the word immediately triggers the tatted man, the vein in his temple snaps. he shoots a sharp glare at gojo as he turns on his heel. “fucking dick.”

gojo laughs, running after his friend. “I’m kidding I’m kidding! you’re so sensitive!” he throws his arm over sukuna’s shoulder, just to be shoved off by said man.

unbeknownst to either of them, your eyes had drifted from utahime to the commotion a couple feet behind her. your expression dulled at the sight of the six foot so athlete. he looked offensively good for someone just walking out of a final. his jeans sit low on his hips, a clean black t-shirt stretched slightly over a frame built from a strict schedule and diet, and a backwards baseball cap that only makes him look more like a hot fratboy. the familiar plain backpack hangs off one shoulder, and his headphones are looped around his neck.

of course, you recognize the familiar white haired man walking beside him, oversized hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses on, grinning like he’s just said the most diabolical thing ever. he nudges sukuna’s shoulder while talking, but sukuna barely reacts, hands stuffed in his pockets, posture loose, steps slow and sure, like the courtyard parts a little just for him without him noticing.

you wonder if other people see him the way you do? wait—

“you wanna head to library now?” shoko cuts your thoughts, ripping your attention away from the retreating men.

“yeah let’s go,” you stand, ignoring the slight flush that dusts your cheeks when you notice shoko and utahime glancing back. both catching sight of the men you were looking at.

“oh,” utahime slips, eyes trying to meet yours, but you’re already walking in the opposite direction.

as stressful and chaotic the week has been, sukuna still attempts to let off some steam with a run after his exam.

spring is melting into summer, humid and merciless, and it shows on him: sweat-drenched shirt clinging to a torso carved by D1 soccer conditioning, athletic shorts riding high on his muscular thighs showing off the bands of ink that wrap around each thigh, calves glistening from the pump, and headphones peeling off his ears as he crosses the yard. his backwards cap never moves, casual, and infuriatingly attractive, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat running down his face— even cardio couldn’t shake the arrogance out of his silhouette.

he’s breathing hard, body and temper still calibrating back to baseline when he returns to the house like a quiet storm cloud. the door slams harder than intended, rattling the crooked banner the new pledge-turned-members half-hung for friday’s pool party.

the frat is anything but quiet as sukuna crosses the house stepping onto the patio to see a majority of the members hanging out in the hot weather studying, or fooling around.

“oh! captain how was your run?” a younger member, also apart of the soccer team comes up to the sukuna as he grabs an energy drink from the cooler.

“fine,” sukuna dryly replies, still lost in his mind when he notices one of the new members. the first-year is sitting on the outdoor couch, legs kicked up, sorting through the week’s mail like it’s arts and crafts. folders, packages, envelopes, junk flyers from ads… and one sleek black folder stamped with a foreign crest that makes sukuna freeze mid-sip.

the first-year doesn’t notice the silence curdling behind him. his fingers flip the folder open, careless and nosy, like a guy who’s forgotten he was a pledge just a week ago. sukuna knows that folder. the same way a wolf knows its territory. his name is printed on the front, bold, clean, important. the first-year squints at it like he’s trying to solve some puzzle sukuna never gave him.

“hey…you guys get folders like this often?” the kid says, voice a little too loud for someone who’s inches away from committing a crime.

sukuna moves before anyone can blink.

one second he’s across the patio, the next his shadow is towering over the first-year, swallowing the afternoon sun whole.

he suddenly rips the folder from the kid’s hands. it was primal. the paper crackles in his grip. a few of the frat brothers look up from their beer-less studying circles, from the pool cleaning equipment, from their phones, and immediately feel the air shift.

“the hell do you think you’re doing?” sukuna speaks, low and molten. no tremor or shout, but simmering control.

the first-year feels his stomach drop to his ass, heart racing as sweat builds on his forehead. “i didn’t—i was just— it thought it was an a-ad—“ he sputters excuses, but sukuna doesn’t hear a single syllable. the air around him sharpens as the members exchange glances. because sukuna snapping is normal. but sukuna grabbing a folder like it contains someone’s soul? that’s new.

they feel the warning signs lighting up one by one.

“don’t fucking open the mail,” sukuna spits, just as gojo is stepping out onto the patio, decked in his usual sunglasses,completely shirtless, and swim shorts hanging low on his hips, unashamed of the fresh hickey decorating his sharp v-line, or the scratches down his back, or the girl disappearing out the front door.

“what’s going on—“ gojo reaches for a juice box, then stops. his eyes catch the folder in sukuna’s hand, the air grows thicker. “oh shit.”

sukuna frowns, cutting the punishment he was about to inflict on the first-year short. he crosses the patio, passing gojo with a silent threat not to speak as he enters the house. but gojo isn’t one to listen to threats, as he follows the vp.

“yo, when’d they email you?”

sukuna ignores him, heading towards the stairs to his room.

“dude?! i thought you weren’t—“ gojo huffs when sukuna continues up the stairs, completely ignoring him. geto is stepping out of the bathroom freshly showered, towel held by one hand when he hears gojo shouting. “well i’m happy for you, asshole!”

geto raises a brow as sukuna passes him— immediately noticing the folder.

“oh shit.”

sukuna grits, jaw tensing.

“when is it—“ geto starts, just for sukuna’s door to slam in his face. geto looks down the stairs, making eye contact with gojo as the two exchange irritated looks due to their hot headed friend. “fuck is his problem?”

gojo throws his hands up in an exasperated shrug. “don’t know. he was the one giving me shit over winter break for getting in one.”

geto hums, brows furrowed, “he’s been a dick all week.”

“stop talkin’ shit outside my door!” sukuna snaps from his room.

back inside, sukuna drops the folder on his bed, his breathing is still, eyes sharp as if he can read the contents through the black concealment. his beefy arms cross in thought, his mind spiraling as he stares holes into the folder.

this is both the best outcome, and the worst possible timing ever.

sukuna snatches the folder ripping it open.

the days felt like centuries. every final felt like a part of your lifespan being sucked away. each moment spent studying something you know you’ll definitely forget, felt like absolute torture and humiliation. reading the same question on the exam, and remember studying that exact topic, but forgetting how to solve it, was just god laughing at you.

but the cherry on top was returning home wednesday night with most of your finals under your belt, only two left, but you were so lost in your mind that you couldn’t recognize the man standing beside a parked car, hand in his pocket talking on the phone.

your headphones blasted music that’ll definitely be the cause of your hearing loss in a few years. you unlock your apartment, shoulder dropping, letting your bag hit the ground, already feeling the exhaustion of the day building up behind your eyes, ready to cry in the shower—

“you’re here!” a loud squeal sends you flying ten feet in the air, just as a little four year-old comes crashing into you.

“what the—“ you stumble back, holding the little girl, keeping your balance as you glance up, wide-eyed. “when did you get here??”

standing just a few feet away was jennie, your older sister, aka. the person you trust the most in life, and your biggest op.

“we’re in the city for sami’s meetings, our flight leaves friday, did you not see him downstairs by the car?” jennie asks, crossing the tiny living room to reach you, her arms wrapping over your shoulders for a tight hug. “i tried calling you, but i guess you were still in class.”

“finals actually,” you mutter, arms loose around her frame, forehead dropping on her shoulder. “I’m so tired.”

your sister coos, squeezing you tighter before pulling away. “well i bought you some pastries.”

“i want some!” your niece, yazzy, huffs by your leg.

“you had some,” jennie picks her up as she steps further into the apartment. you quietly glance at the suitcase by the couch, along with nice dress your sister was wearing, a couple of yazzy’s toys were also lying around. “did you have dinner yet?”

you shake your head, following her to the kitchen.

“mommy got you spaghetti and chicken!” yazzy claps, as your sister laughs lightly, you smile.

“we got dinner for yazzy, i asked them to box some pasta for you too,” your sister pulls the box of food from the microwave to keep it warm. “i put the pastries over the fridge, to keep ‘em away from this one,” she pumps yazzy up on her hip for emphasis.

you sit at the small kitchen table, grabbing the box of pasta. “thanks, you didn’t have to get me so much food,” you cautiously glance at her as she sets yazzy back down. “are you guys gonna stay the night?” a small part of you twists at the thought, but you shove it down. “I have the air mattress too, so i can take the couch and you and sami can sleep in the room with yazzy since i need the lights on to study.

you sister picks at the table, still standing across from you avoiding your eyes, “favor?”

your frown.

she smiles, full of semi-guilt, “sami has another fundraiser, it started an hour ago…and i was wondering if you could watch yazzy for the night so i can go with him.”

“jen.”

“I’m sorry, i tried calling you all day, but you weren’t answering!”

“i had finals—“

“all day?”

“I was studying, I wasn’t checking my phone,” you huff, glaring at your sister. your throat constricts as yazzy makes noises a few feet away with her toys. the tv playing some cartoon. “you couldn’t get a nanny for the night?”

jennie glares back at you, the type that makes you roll your eyes, “you know I don’t like that.”

“but you can get a personal driver in a city you don’t even live in,” you bite back coldly.

her tongue clicks, “that’s completely different.”

“whatever,” you grumble, neither of you breaking eye contact, until she glances over your face again.

“you look dead.”

you frown, “it’s almost like it’s not finals week, exactly why I can’t watch yazzy.”

“I’m asking for one thing idiot. it’s her bed time anyways, let her sleep the night and I’ll pick her in the morning before your class—“

“final.”

“yeah, whatever,” jennie always has a way of getting under your skin in seconds, and the easiest possible way is making you feel like shit for saying no, especially to her. “dad was also telling me to check on you.”

your frown deepens, finally glancing away.

“asked me if I knew you weren’t taking your mcats this summer,” she drawls, you briefly glance for her reaction. “I told him I knew.”

“what the hell??”

she sighs, sitting in front of you, her arms cross, “I wasn’t going to lie if he directly asks. I just wanted to check on my baby sister—“

“don’t say that,” you cringe.

she laughs, “well I wanted to make sure you’re okay—“

“and dump your kid on me—“

“your niece, who you haven’t seen in awhile,” she cuts in coolly, because when is she not?

you gasp, “I literally saw you guys in the summer. sorry you didn’t feel like visiting over winter break.”

your sister waves you off, “well are you doing okay?”

“yeah, I’m fine,” you lie through your teeth, and your sister immediately narrows her eyes.

“I thought you were getting off the antidepressants?”

your jaw tenses, eyes narrowing harshly, “why’re you going through my stuff?”

“technically this is still my apartment—“

“your husbands,” you correct.

she brushes your comment, again, “the bottles are like empty.”

“dramatic much? there’s still a few left. I’m just taking them this week, literally not your problem,” you huff, regretting the fact that she knows about this part of you. she has a cruel way of throwing any secret you tell her, back in your face.

“well when you act like a snappy bitch then I’m not dramatic since you have such an attitude,” she coldly claps back.

your blood freezes, annoyance boiling up inside, “you’re so annoying,” you mutter, standing up, completely over this interrogation.

jennie’s eyes narrow as you grab your bag from the front door. “why do you always get so defensive? I’m just talking to you, and you always get so butt-hurt?”

“I’m not butt-hurt, I just hate the way you talk to me like I’m an idiot,” you roll your eyes, already feeling the face your sister makes when she’s irritated and ready to rip you apart. it was a face that you felt deep in your soul, you knew and hated it so much.

“more like sensitive,” she points. your eyes roll into the back of your skull. “ignoring me?”

“whatever, go. I’ll watch yazzy,” you snap, “you’re so annnoying,” you mutter, not low enough for jennie to miss it though. you toss your bag into your room, making the four year old glance back at you and her mom from the couch.

“maybe take another pill too cool the flip down then,” jennie says as she crosses the small apartment to yazzy, kissing her forehead. “be good to auntie.”

your arms are crossed, weight leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom, beaded curtain resting on your back as you watch your sister grab her purse, fixing her heels on. she glances up at you, matching your harsh expression with her own. “call dad. him nagging me is annoying as hell.”

“almost like that’s not my life every freakin’ week,” you snap coldly.

“alMosT liKe tHat’s nOt mY liFe evERy weeK,” she mimics. your blood pressure spikes in seconds, successfully rage baiting you like the perfect older sister. “night.” she disappears with an eye roll, door shutting behind her.

your head drops, mind pounding as you hear your four-year old niece singing in the living room.

your sister brought up dad in the worst possible time, because now you’re spiraling as you pull up your phone, tapping your dad’s contact to read the multiple messages he’s sent you since the last time you spoke to him at the library. not only was he sending you forms to fill out for the hospital, he was sending you other doctors contacts, and their kids contacts who are in med school now. fuck!

“can we watch a movie together?” yazzy cuts in from the living room. you glance over, the girl is smiling so brightly it was blinding, and quite exhausting, it was nearing nine at night and she was not looking close to being tired.

“yup, lemme shower real quick and we can watch.”

one movie led to another, then another, until the soundtrack of kpop demon hunters was playing on repeat in your head, especially because your niece keeps rewinding every song.

the overwhelming pit in your stomach grew larger. it was amusing to think you could study while also sitting with her. the music and her four year old voice singing along felt like pure torture. the headache grew into a twisting sensation in your temples, head dropping back on the couch.

you love her to death…but seriously…

“again, again!” she jumps in front of the tv as she rewinds the song to golden.

the looming shadow of tomorrow’s exam made you feel worse. your stomach began hurting with the anxiety of failure…

as the night grew, you had to forcefully shut the tv after the clock struck eleven. the four year old would not stay still unless you laid beside her until she fell asleep. but the second you left her on your bed to go back to the living room to study, she’d suddenly appear beside you again.

“yazzy,” you sigh, exhaustion seeping through your bones as you stand up carrying her back to bed.

“don’t leave,” she mutters under her breath, small hands clutching your shirt. “I can’t sleep alone.” you sigh in defeat, humming. praying this time she’ll actually fall asleep so you can slip away again.

however, your prayers, once again, are not answered.

instead, you feel the moment you close your eyes, they were opening again, but the sun was up.

you wake up disoriented, the kind of heavy confusion that comes from sleep you never meant to have. the bed is warmer than it should be, sunlight harsher than it has any right to be, and your niece is already awake, blasting the same movie from last night.

your heart jolts awake before the rest of you does. you blink once, twice, and then it hits you like a thousand pound brick: you passed out, halfway off your meds, and completely off your shitty schedule.

you launch yourself out of bed, as the world tilts. your eyes quickly look around stumbling out of your room, landing on the floor after tripping on one of yazzy’s toys, scrambling over to grab your phone off the coffee table.

yazzy follows you with her eyes, music blasting from the tv behind her like a soundtrack to your mental breakdown.

the screen lights up. 9:34 AM.

“fuck!”

your exam is at 10. campus is 20 minutes away on a good day. and you still need to walk to the station—maybe the bus is faster—

“that’s a bad word,” yazzy giggles, your brows crease, determined, albeit frazzled as shit. you stand up, senses sharper than they should be as you glance around the apartment like a crazy woman.

“mommy is not here yet?”

she shakes her head, sitting back on the couch, legs swinging as she looks at you standing in front of her.

you swallow thickly, not a single notification from your sister.

“I’ll pick her up in the morning,” you mutter under your breath.

you’re dialing before your lungs fully refill. it rings. rings again. you pace back n forth, glancing around your apartment. “come on, come on,” you mutter. your feet quickly grabbing your bag and shoving your laptop and random notes in, stuffing your keys and id in. you were failing to parent and student at the same time.

yazzy walks over, tugging your shorts. “I’m hungry,” she looks at the kitchen, your eyes folllowing.

fuck it, you quickly grab the box of pastries over the fridge ripping it open and handing her two pastries. “you wanna quickly change?”

you run as fast as you can grabbing some clothes from the suitcase your sister left for her and handing her the clothes to change while you grab socks for yourself, a zip up hoodie and a baseball cap.

“are we going?” yazzy’s confused as she pulls the clean shirt on, her pajamas on the floor.

“yup, mommy’s gonna meet us in front of my school,” you start walking out the door, niece in hand, and bag over your shoulder.

then finally, jennie picks up. music, chatter—of course, she’s at some other event.

“you said morning!” you hiss, whisper-yelling like the walls are judging you, racing down the stairs, “it’s morning so where the hell are you?!” you spit.

“I texted you to tell me when your class was, you didn’t answer,” she says coolly like your entire morning isn’t hell right now.

you can’t breathe, your heart was pumping in your ears, and your blood was on fire.

“I fell asleep,” you spit like it was her fault, which you’re unfairly putting on her, but you could care less. “my exam is at 10, I’m leaving the apartment now—“

“where’s yazzy—“

“she’s with me, I’m not a freaking idiot. so you better be in front of the arts and science building ten minutes before I get there,” you snap.

“okay,” she aggressively snaps back, hanging up on you.

your blood spikes, groan curdling up your throat as you squeeze your nieces hand, holding back a scream.

on the street, the spring heat slaps you again. sweaty toddler beside you, your bed hair hiding under a baseball cap, backpack half-zipped, phone trapped in your hand. you speed-walk like you’re being chased, heart racing, eyes darting. you can’t even tell if people are staring at the college girl dragging a toddler into the bus. but you know you look insane. you feel insane.

yazzy swings your linked hands happily, oblivious, giggling when you jog a little once you arrive at your stop. quickly exiting the bus, you cross the street faster. meanwhile, you’re spiraling — panic, rage, and anxiety.

you can’t think, you check the time on your phone every second a minute passes. yazzy is still blabbing about the movie, humming golden under her breath as you slowly start panicking once it reaches 9:57 and you don’t see jennie anywhere near your building.

you tighten your grip on yazzy’s tiny hand sprinting to the building, whispering a prayer that your sister arrives in the next minute or you might just kill her.

but it’s not until the clock strikes ten, does a slick black car pull up to the curb, your chest is heaving from running and the hot morning sun. while your sister steps out of the backseat, composed as can be.

“mommy!” yazzy smiles, running to her mom the second you take a step towards her.

“hi baby,” jennie easily scoops up the little girl, eyes flicking up to you with guilt as you step back. “thanks, and you didn’t tell me what time last night so you can’t blame me—“

“whatever,” you snap, turning quickly to run into the building, not having a single second to spare as you run up the flight of stairs to your lecture hall.

you’re praying that your professor hasn’t closed the doors yet, and maybe you shouldn’t have, because the moment you step into the lecture, a sheer layer of sweat clinging to your skin, and chest heaving in your pajamas. you’re realizing you’re not ready for this exam at all.

nonetheless, you quickly mutter an apology to your professor, quickly grabbing the first available seat as the exams are being passed throughout the lecture hall.

the quiet shuffles and scribbles of pen on paper fill the lecture hall as the exam commences.

with the morning you’ve had, you have to read each question thrice before you’re able to even attempt at answering the question.

unbeknownst to you, a familiar frat boy is sat three rows back. his pink hair just as unruly as his appearance. however, the second he sees you storming into the lecture hall, along with two other people that were late, he feels completely uneasy.

maybe it’s because there was an empty seat beside him. or that shoko hadn’t greeted him when she took her seat a few rows back, hiding from any TA’s. but seeing you again since the courtyard, left that unfamiliar twist in his gut again. the one that clenched up in concern seeing your flustered state as you came running in.

his mind was internally screaming. forcing every braincell to focus on the exam in front of him. ignoring everything else.

the thudding in your chest doesn’t seize until the last ten minutes are left, and you’re going back to the questions you left blank, quickly scribbling down a guess before standing up and handing your exam to a TA.

the weight of the morning hasn’t fully set in once you step out into the spring heat.

did shoko finish already? in your alert state, you’d completely ignored everything around you, so it’s possible shoko had finished and left or is still in there. either way, your head tilts back, allowing the morning sun to grace your face. the buzzing in your bag suddenly starts again pulling you a frown from your lips.

then you feel a shadow.

your heart skips a beat. your lashes flutter softly, glancing up at the source. and you hate yourself. truly. your stomach twists and churns in confusion, and your throat feels tight and dry at the sight of him.

“what happened to ya?”

there was a softness to his casual tone. his own appearance wasn’t impressive, looking like he’d rolled out of bed too. however, his eyes didn’t look like a damn that was about to burst just from a single touch, like yours. but it did look like he’d melt between your fingers the moment you meet his eyes. he swallows thickly, holding his breath when you glance away, shrugging…then your hand slowly comes up to your face, thankful for your baseball cap now.

“I’m just…” you swallow. “that was hard.”

sukuna hums, fingers cautiously reaching for your wrist. index finger caressing the bracelet around your wrist.

“i guessed on like…all of it,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes to hold back your exhausted tears.

sukuna could feel his heart thudding against his chest. the events and unwelcome fight you’d had last weekend quietly haunts his mind like a silent cloud, unsure if it’ll turn into rain, or get winded away. the bags under his eyes were similar to yours, clearly pulling an all nighter to study for the exam. but the tugging in his chest, wouldn’t stop, even when you brushed a finger in the creases of your eyes.

“how bad do i look?”

he blinks, eyes locked before he looks over, giving you a shrug. “not too bad.” his hand gently tips your cap back to get a look at your face. “you do have some dried drool here,” he lightly taps your cheek, an amused snort leaving his lips.

“seriously?” your hand comes up quickly, face hot as you lick your thumb and rubbing it off. “so embarrassing,” you mutter.

even after the exam, the heaviness that weighs down on your shoulders doesn’t disappear. and sukuna towering in front of you only stirred an unknown feeling inside you that you’re not ready to address. especially when he’s still playing with your bracelet, then your necklace, thumb brushing your collarbone, as he takes a deep breath.

“where’re ya heading now?” he asks, tone gruff, but slightly soft around the edges.

“to shower, then come back and study,” you glance over your shoulder. “don’t know if shoko finished yet—“

“y’still have another exam later?”

you shake your head, “tomorrow morning is my last one.” sukuna quietly nods, gaze still on your chest. “do you have any exams left?”

he nods, “last one is tomorrow too.”

the air quietly shifts, neither of you wanting to address the elephant in the room. his aura is silent, like a resting beast, unsure if you should wake him up or not. your heart picks up at the silence as another beat passes between you, when you hear chatter from a group beside you. your brows scrunch, overhearing a couple sentences.

“is that the captain?”

“I thought he was dating yoro?”

sukuna gaze darkens, the two of you glance at the group of sorority girls, with their similar bright colored outfits. his sharp brows scrunch, the tattoos on his face seem much more intimidating. especially when you feel that ugly twist in your stomach again, along with the prickles of disgust.

your casual step back automatically draws sukuna’s attention back to you. his hand slips from your wrist as you suck in a sharp breath.

sukuna frowns, frustration quickly boiling up like his cup has been steadily rising since the mixer. his temper has never been his best quality. “don’t just—“ he starts, cutting himself short when you start walking away.

sukuna easily follows you, hand brushing your back, before standing in front of you. “just tell me if the deals over.” he stares into you, cornering you. “your fuckin’ choice.”

the sun beats down, heat stinging as sweat trickles down his forehead.

“why am i being put on the spot?” you mutter, embarrassment crawling up your spine as you glance away.

“y’er the one that caught an attitude, ignoring me tellin’ me not to touch you,” he claps back, immediately pushing your buttons as your eyes shoot up to him.

“me?!”

sukuna rolls his crimson eyes, snarl pulling at his lips, “just tell me if ya still want this deal.”

“it sounds like you don’t want it anymore since you think I’m treating you like my boyfriend, which I never ever wanted” you throw his words from the mixer back in his face.

“that’s not what I meant when I said it,” he spits, neither of you addressing your pounding headaches, or the twists in your chests every time the other responds with the same cruelty and lack of empathy.

you shrug sarcastically, “well it’s hard understanding anything since you’re the one that caught the attitude, and just started yelling at people.”

sukuna can hear his brain pounding against his ears. the blood pumping through his strained veins, grip tightening around the strap of his backpack. his eyes narrow, glancing over the flush across your face caused by the heat, the slight rising of your chest, and the gloss that shines across your lips.

“you didn’t answer the fuckin’ question,” he seethes between clenched teeth.

you frown. heart pounding.

do you still want this agreement?

after everything, and the rise in blood pressure he’s been the source of, the added stress from his drama. all of it was just a big. fat. headache.

…but is it bigger than the one you’ve already been nursing. with classes, assignments, medical school, jennie, dad…

was sukuna making it worse…or is he something else?

you swallow thickly, glancing over his features. for a big man, he was radiating exhaustion, like he’d fall over with a small push. the intimidating scowl on his face couldn’t fully mask the uncertainty behind his eyes. something you couldn’t fully read either way, but pray he’s more sure when your lips part, “do you still want it?”

sukuna is a cold man. his walls built up like steel, and reach the sky. you barely see a shift in his expression, if there is any, when you throw his question back.

“seriously?” he grits, low…unsure.

his gaze doesn’t leave you. his eyes quietly track down your figure as his mind rewires. it was difficult to form concrete thoughts about you. his emotions have always been scattered, it was the same reason he avoids relationships. the unpredictability and responsibility it adds, was not something he needed in his life right now.

however, you rarely, if ever, bring that level of stress to him.

you were nosy, but nothing compared to the craziness he’s had the displeasure of being with. you were also gentle when you’re alone, even more gentle when you’re tired. your hands are soft when they touch him, your body is even softer when he’d caress you when he’s deep inside. your stamina is surprisingly impressive, and you can handle him — at least in bed.

the agreement was working.

you were his perfect drug. no responsibility, no guilt. and yet, he’s ignoring the truth in this feeling. the one that physically forms into a twist in his chest.

his tone is stern, “I asked first.”

the perfect outlet was starting to slip through your fingers, but you couldn’t admit it first. not because you didn’t want him at the drop of a hat, but because you couldn’t form a solid opinion on the man. it was a rollercoaster of emotions, and you’re not even sure how to have a conversation about a non-relationship deal—

your thoughts cut, flinching at the loud horn.

sukuna steps back in surprise, arm immediately in front of you, pushing you back with him, away from the crub. a car suddenly pulls up beside you.

“what the fuck—“

the swears are ready to spill from his mouth, cursing off the crazy ass driver and the honking — until you push his arm aside.

“sorry,” you huff, an unfamiliar tone reaching your voice as you quickly walk towards the car, anger stirring behind your eyes. “I have to go.”

sukuna is completely frozen, silently watching you disappear into the SUV, barely catching sight of another woman in the car with you before its speeding away.

“what the fuck?”

sukuna was left completely in the dust, and the worst possible solution to his unaddressed, bubbling anger, is allowing his teammates to drag him out to the bar that same night.

a majority of them have finished their finals, and wanted to finally celebrate the end of the season. they’d invited coach toji, but he declined, something about his son. either way, the division one soccer team packed into the crowded university bar and started a line of shots. a game was playing over the bar, as men and students shout as they drink.

sukuna knocked back the first shot without ceremony, but without resistance either. the liquor scorched a straight line down his throat, a familiar heat he could manage. his teammates hollered around him, already halfway to tipsy after the second round, but sukuna remained unnervingly steady like a rock in a river.

he enjoyed the team like this, uncomplicated, unfiltered, alive. he knew his role without having to explain it.

more of the team poured into the bar, shouting his name from across the bar. sukuna barely juts his chin in acknowledgment, the cold exterior familiar to the soccer players. they knew the type of person their captain was. they’d witnessed him roaring on rainy fields, bleeding for wins, screaming tactics until his voice cracked. they knew the passion burned in their captain. it was the reason he was their captain and not their ace (debatable) gojo, who flaunts his talents almost every match.

speaking of the devil. gojo slides into the booth after his fourth shot, already flushed, already buzzing, and immediately launches into pool-party planning.

“do we seriously have to talk about this now?” The goalie, and also a senior member of the frat, groans.

“yes! it’s tomorrow, and it has to be banger so people will forget that shit I said last weekend!” gojo screeches, pulling at his beautiful snowy locks, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “people,” he hiccups, cheeks flushed, “people have been coming up to me, telling me about my small dick—I don’t have a small dick!”

laughs echo across the table.

“it’s not funny!” gojo snaps.

“like that’s stopped any girls from sleeping with you this week,” geto snorts.

“that’s not the point, it’s about my reputation,” gojo seethes. he then proceeds to dive in full, halfway through the night, assigning tasks to anyone who breathed in his direction. “kegs, ice—someone handle buying the drinks,” he said, waving a hand dramatically, then pointing at sukuna without hesitation. “captain, you’re on beer duty,” gojo assigns with a hiccup.

sukuna exhales through his nose. trying to keep himself neutral, but internally, something twitched. he didn’t mind picking up the liquor. he minded being volunteered without warning. worse, the other members on the team and frat perked up, sensing opportunity, already piling on other drinks onto him like they were offerings to a volcano they didn’t realize was active. this was supposed to be a relaxing night.

geto watched the exchange, swirling the condensation on his glass. he didn’t comment, but he didn’t need to. the tension was already sitting between them like a fourth player at the table—quiet, coiled, inevitable.

sukuna’s gaze drifted upward toward the bar TVs again. A striker missed a penalty on screen, the crowd groaning in collective agony. sukuna felt the moment like a physical blow, fingers tightening around his glass. soccer was the only place his emotions were allowed to be big. everything else had to fit into a smaller container. and you weren’t here to fill the silence between those containers anymore.

that was the real problem.

the argument from earlier kept looping in his head, uninvited. the team celebrated around him, blissfully unaware that his world had narrowed down to one question: did you still want this deal, or was it just him clinging to a distraction that suddenly was biting back?

the bar was loud now. not celebratory loud—chaotic loud. most of the students on campus that finished their exams packed the bar. his team was scattered across tables, sukuna tried to escape gojo’s rambling to the other end of the raised tables, stool screeching the ground only for the president to follow, yapping more as he bought more drinks.

multiple conversations were overlapping. one teammate argued about grades, another about summer tournaments, and gojo, gloriously unbothered by anyone’s internal climate, kept directing traffic like a drunk general who assumed everyone was on the same page.

sukuna’s jaw ticked. a micro-movement. a seismic warning sign the team would’ve noticed on any other day, but they were too drunk, liberated from exams and wanting to celebrate, oblivious to the pressure rising in their captain.

sukuna was growing more irritated by the second, people behind him brushing his back occasionally to get through the crowded bar. his grip tightens around his glass, his forearms flexed. still no outburst yet, but he could feel the air slowly bend around him.

then someone bumped into him. hard.

it wasn’t a brush. not accidental shoulder contact. it was a full-body collision.

the drink in sukuna’s hand lurched outward, sticky liquid splashing across his shirt, jeans, and lap before he could blink. the table shook on impact.

the bar was still in full motion, unaware of the beast they just woke, except for a few teammates who went dead silent.

the liquid soaked into fabric of his clothes. ice cubes skittered off the table.

then he stood up.

the scrape of the stool against the wooden floor was like a gunshot.

and the cord on his temper snapped.

without a second thought, or warning. sukuna lunged at the perpetrator, a completely shitfaced grown man, but sukuna just saw red. his fist connected with a violent crack that made the entire bar collectively flinch.

“woah!” one person yelled, multiple people stepping back causing a few chairs to topple.

“sukuna, chill—” but the sentence never finished. the team surged up, not to join the fight, but to contain the scene. but sukuna was already grabbing the man’s collar, sending another punch straight to his face.

the guy he hit, staggers back into another table. glasses shattering as more people scramble, cursing sukuna out. but a circle formed instantly, the universal draw that a fight brings.

“fuck is your problem?!” the man shouts at sukuna, wiping blood from his lip.

“watch where the fuck you’re going pig,” sukuna bites, chuckling darkly the second the man lunges at him. his core tightens maintaining a little ground before he’s raising his elbow, driving it down onto the man’s shoulder making him cry out in pain. “fucking piece of shit!” sukuna aggressively shoves him off, knee driving into the man’s rib, just in time for geto to grab sukuna

it didn’t fully stop him, but it shifted his balance enough for the rest of the team to wedge themselves between him and the other man crying in pain.

“get the fuck off me!” sukuna tried to shrug geto off, but two other teammates are holding him back alongside the black haired man.

sukuna’s vision is narrowed on the guy who made the mistake of bumping into him when everything thing around him was already picking at his nerves. his temper, way past his control, was now sparking due to his drunken stupidity.

the bar staff rushed in. “out. all of you! NOW!” a bartender barked, pointing at the door like some referee.

sukuna wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavier now.

“fucking kick these pricks out, they started it!” the man shouts, pointing at sukuna and his teammates.

sukuna waves his arm in front of him like a mad man reeling for another go. “you’re fuckin’ bitchass is slamming into everyone and can’t fuckin’ take a punch when you’re asking for it!” sukuna barks like a rabid dog.

“dude, you’re gonna get us banned!” yuno tries to cut, but sukuna isn’t hearing it.

“If ya want us kicked out, come kick us out y’rself!” sukuna baits him.

but the bartender is already grabbing the phone dialing the cops. that’s when gojo seems to blink at geto and the other drunk members quickly step in like a team.

“we’re out,” geto and the team shove sukuna further away, dragging him out of the bar before the cops arrived.

the bar door slams behind them.

it was difficult for sukuna to cool down afterwards. the adrenaline of the bar fight pumping his veins alive, chest heaving as they all continued the celebration/planning at the frat. but sukuna was busy drinking, the stinging down his throat numbing his thoughts.

“dude, you wanna be hungover for your exam?” yuno cuts in, watching his captain reach for another beer.

“nothing new,” sukuna mutters, slightly off balance as he stands, heading up stairs. his knuckles were cut from the few punches he’d thrown at the bar, but he could barely feel it with the amount of alcohol in his system.

the events of the week all accumulated to friday.

the end of the year pool party.

everybody off from exams. well in a few hours. sukuna was beyond hungover, pounding headache waking him up in time to review a couple notes before heading to his exam. his eyes silently glance at the black envelope on his desk, the familiar crest sending chills down his spine.

“don’t forget to buy the drinks for tonight!” gojo shouts from the kitchen, pouring a very sugary flavored cereal into a bowl.

sukuna mutters in acknowledgment.

summer was right around the corner, and the quiet anxiety building inside him was a clear sign that something was going to happen.

his mind was in the clouds as he went through the motions of the day. his eyes read each question, memory luckily intact as he answered the open ended questions. his legs carried him to the TA like a robot, eyes cold as he handed his last blue book exam of the year.

even as he stuffed his face with a turkey sandwich, chugged an energy drink before hitting the gym, showered in the locker-rooms like he was scrubbing a layer of skin, all of it felt like he was on autopilot.

and the only thing that managed to snap him back to reality was spotting you across campus hopping on the bus.

he’d just stepped out of the gym, when he saw you. it was another hour until the party. his jaw clenched reaching for his phone as he quickly pulled up your messages, the bus is pulling off the curb as he taps your number.

waiting for you to pick up felt like hell.

but once you did, the weight on his shoulders felt just a pound lighter.

“hello?”

sukuna scratched his jaw, he hadn’t thought about what he was going to say when he called. it was all just a domino affect now. “hey.”

you’re silent for a moment. “you need something?”

he clears his throat, walking towards the liquor store off campus. “was thinking about our convo yesterday…”

you shift on the bus seat, “what about it?” you don’t mean to sound dry, but you can’t help it, not when he’s being so vague.

“can we continue it?”

your throat feels dry, clearing it as you glance out the window, nail picking at your jeans. “you finished your exams?”

“yeah. i’m grabbing drinks for the party righ’ now. can we talk when you get here later—“

“I’m not going to the party.”

sukuna’s face twists, “why? you get free entrance, and free drinks—“

“and free drama?” you quickly retort, inhaling sharply. “yeah, i’ll pass on the end of the year bitch fits.”

“there won’t be any drama,” sukuna grimaces with annoyance, stepping into the liquor store. “everyone is celebrating.”

“have you not been on social media?” you accuse, “i don’t even use insta that much, so it’s weird as hell getting posted on some influencer’s sorority page.”

sukuna’s jaw ticks, “she’s fucking crazy. that shouldn’t be surprising—”

“ryo.”

the warning in your tone just sets the man off. “what? y’er acting like it’s my fault,” sukuna aggressively shoves the drinks into the cart, “I’ve had her blocked for a year—“

“dude, relax, we’re just talking,” you huff on the other line, his aggression quickly dissipating.

he tsks, rolling his eyes, “whatever, I can’t fuckin’ ditch the party so if y’er not gonna come then—“ beep

you hung up.

“what the—“ WHAT THE FUCK?!!!!

everything was red from that point onwards.

his knuckles cracked in pain as he stormed out of the liquor store. blood pumping in his ears when he tossed the drinks into the uber. anger clouding his vision as he stood at the entrance of the frat. and full blown aggression when he’d kick men out of the party for trying to bypass the entrance fee.

but even with him as a rabid guard dog running security at the front, the party was alive in under thirty minutes. music blasting off the walls, lights flashing inside and outside the house, and people already jumping off the roof flipping into the pool. it was five times bigger than the mixer the previous week, almost everyone on campus knew which frat party they were heading too.

it was the perks of being an infamous athletic fraternity, everybody knew who they were— they were either fans of the athletes on the field or court, or wanted to fuck them. or they would rather be at a party with the biggest fraternity and most exclusive house on campus.

either way, half the campus is packed into the house.

gojo was trying not to get drunk, avoiding every single drink that’ll immediately have him flushed and slurring, all so he can clean up his reputation.

“is utahime not coming?” yuno asks, the central midfielder, and non-frat member, glancing at gojo and geto for an answer.

geto shrugs, “shoko ain’t ‘ere either,” he looks over the crowd, spotting sukuna at the front, sharp brows pulled tight as three sorority girls surround him, manicured fingers pointing at him with anger. “ya think that’s why he’s all pissed and not because someone isn’t here?”

gojo and yuno look over at their captain. it was clear the sorority girls are hounding the short-tempered frat boy.

“uh-oh,” gojo steps down. “should we—“

suddenly a loud thud shakes the house. everyone sharply turns at the source, which came from their vp slamming his palm into the doorframe, smoke coming from his ears.

“he’s not—“ yuno quickly runs after gojo and geto as they push through the forming crowd.

“I’m not dating y’r fuckass friend, so none of you are getting in here without paying the fee!” sukuna barks, blocking the kappa phi pearl girls from entering, a line beginning to form behind them.

“so you kiss her and try to ride off her fame then?”

“yall posted that shit not me!“ sukuna snaps, just as his friends reach him. “I don’t need shit from your psycho president—“

“woah ladies!” gojo laughs, stepping between his friend and the girls. “what’s going on here?”

sukuna tsks, glaring at the girls, knowing exactly who sent them here. “sororities are supposed to go in for free, but your dog isn’t letting us in,” one girl huffs.

sukuna’s glare cuts through them, their eyes quickly darting away from his face. gojo laughs, pushing sukuna further into the house, “yes well,” gojo licks his teeth, his own anger bubbling remembering their recap posts. “that’s with the sororities we have good faith with,” he shrugs dramatically, “and well…yours isn’t one of em.”

geto snorts beside his friend, as yuno takes a step away. definitely not wanting to get mixed up in his teammates fraternity drama.

“but our president is dating your vp—“

“for fucks sake,” sukuna shoves gojo, storming out of the party.

the anger of an entire week curdled in his gut like something spoiled and fermenting. even though finals are over, the relief never came. instead rumors are starting to flood across campus and now these parties only seem to be a big headache, especially because it finally marks the end of the semester and now summer looms. which means facing everything he’s been putting off….his step-mom. choso’s attitude. family ghosts. and conversations he’d rather swallow glass than have.

the warmth in the air feels mocking, like the world was laughing at him as he unravels.

the subway ride is torture in motion. every stop gives him another second to think, and every second sharpens the anger instead of dulling it. the kappa phi pearl recap posts flash in his mind, that unbearable smirk of the sorority president pressed against his mouth in pixels, already pushing the rumors around him like poison. like comments he’s been checking everyday just to see more and more people sexualize your fall, as if he isn’t staring and screen-recording the video.

then the black folder that sits in the back of his brain, heavy. something that could crack his life in half and he hates that it exists. hates that it’s something that’s come now, forcing him to decide.

by the time he emerges from the station, the city feels alive. city lights still humming, late-night cars passing, and people walking in and out of restaurants and bars.

he walks fast, face stern, eyes sharp, his hair is damp from the heat, shirt sticking to him, the picture of masculine calm to anyone who doesn’t know better. but he was burning inside.

his phone is already in hand when he turns the corner. there’s no greeting, no softness, just a single text sent to you reading:

I’m five minutes away.

he wasn’t asking a question, or for a request. he was deciding. you were the one thing that worked, the one thing he could crash into, the only place the anger ever went and came back quieter. and now he needs it again.

needs you again.

even if he’d rather twist it around and torture himself than admit what that churning in his chest really means.

he has tunnel vision. he pays no mind to the couple strapping their daughter in the suv outside your building, or the glances they give him as he buzzes your apartment repeatedly, until the door finally clicks, and he’s whisking himself inside, door slamming behind him.

“did that man buzz her apartment?” jennie looks at her husband, brow raised. sami glances back at the door, sukuna’s figure disappearing further into the building.

he shakes his head, “don’t think so.”

jennie frowns, eyes narrowed, “you sure?”

“yes, cmon we have to get to the airport,” sami ushers his wife into the back of the car, “you were talking to her for awhile,” he adds, a bit agitated at the rushing.

jennie shrugs, door closing behind her husband as she looks out the window. “I don’t think she’s coming home for the break now,” she mutters as sami signals the driver to go.

sukuna doesn’t wait for the elevator. he heads up the stairs. six flights between him and the one place he’s already decided he’s going. his lungs burn from the run, his legs ache from the week, but anger is his only fuel. halfway up, he’s practically jumping steps, taking them two, three at a time, hands barely grazing the rail. and by the sixth floor, he shoves the stairwell door open.

your apartment door appears at the end of the hall like a finish line. he doesn’t stop to breathe. or think. knuckles connect with wood rapid and heavy. the hallway is quiet except for the ringing impact in his ears, until your door finally clicks open.

he sucks in sharp breath once you come into sight. and a sight you were. heat crawls up his chest in seconds.

“thanks for the warning,” you sarcastically huff, unaware of the night he’s had, or him yours.

but he doesn’t care, shoving your bratty attitude aside, “can we talk now?”

“you couldn’t have texted me earlier?” your brows pinch, glancing over him. he was completely out of breath, broad chest heaving under his shirt.

“I texted you,” he cuts, not processing his mistakes at all. you swallow a thick lump, allowing him inside, with a sigh. the door shuts behind him. sukuna kicks his shoes off, following you inside as you pick the toys still on the ground. the tv paused on some cartoon. “did you have someone over?” he picks up a princess sippy cup off the counter.

“yeah. they also came uninvited, like you,” you mutter coldly, tossing the sippy cup into the sink. his jaw ticks, eyes tracking down your figure, eyeing your ass as you bend down to pick up a few more toys. your shorts ride up, hugging that ass of yours so deliciously.

“you said you didn’t wanna talk at the party,” sukuna grumbles, glancing away once you stand again.

“true,” you toss the toys into a bin in the closet.

you clear your throat, chest hot as you glance at the big man. his hard exterior was beyond intimidating, especially when you can see he’s clearly wound up. “you go first,” you say kicking the blankets off the couch allowing him to sit. but you sit on the coffee table in front of him, his eyes briefly glancing at your plush thighs as they push against the surface.

“I asked you a question yesterday and you ditched me, then you fucking hang up on me today,” he huffs, arms crossed and thick thighs spreading.

damn he’s so hot, you avert your gaze, “the first one wasn’t my fault, and the second one was because you were getting angry—“

“of course I’m angry, we were talkin—“

“dude, seriously stop yelling!” you huff, sharp breath escaping your lungs in exasperation.

sukuna couldn’t handle any of it. his emotions are raging inside him like a typhoon, and you were right in front of him. “what do you want?” he cuts, coldly, sitting up. “do you want the sex still? because I do. it’s been pissing me off all week that we’re not fucking.” your cheeks flush, heart thudding quicker. “but you’re the one that’s pissed so do you wanna add another condition or cut the whole thing?”

your jaw tightens, glancing between his crimson eyes. “no kissing other people,” you say, taking a breath to clarify. “like you can, I don’t care about that. It’s more the person. I don’t want any drama with your sororities, especially with some influencer and if you still wanna have sex or whatever with them, then yeah, I wanna end it.”

sukuna nods, jaw ticking, “I didn’t ask her to kiss me, by the way.”

“seriously,” your eyes narrow in annoyance. sukuna tsks, sitting on the edge of the couch, coming closer to you. “I don’t care.”

“you do,” he pokes, “just say it. i know you think i kissed her back—“

“because you did,” you snap, standing up in anger, but, his hand clutches your wrist pulling you back down with a cute yelp.

“it was an accident,” he spits like venom, but his jaw ticks, and he continues. “but yeah, no kissing other people—“

“that’s not—“

“so deal is still on?”

your jaw ticks, eyes flicking over his face, blood flowing loudly in your ears, as you glance at his wet lips, the crease between his thick brows, his narrowed eyes, his face so close to yours—

“yes.”

your lips crash onto his.

his surprised hum easily morphs into a hungry growl. his legs push up to stand, hands immediately pulling your shirt off. your hands quickly shove your pants and panties down as he unbuckles his belt unzipping his jeans. he groans as you distract him, hands peeling his shirt off, shoving him back on the couch climbing on top.

you were fully naked, while he was still half dressed. his calloused palms easily gravitating down your waist to grab your ass squeezing. he swallows your moan as you start rocking on his bulge sticking out of his unzipped jeans.

“fuck, you’re so good,” he husks, voice dropping an octave as he grabs your ass, kneading the flesh, before he sinks a finger inside you from behind. “y’er fuckin’ soaked baby,” his laugh is hoarse against your lips, the carnal sound sends shivers down your spine and another wave of hot arousal pools between your legs. “gonna stretch this pussy out?”

“yeaah,” you moan, the soft sound he’s been yearning to hear for days. “need you so bad, ryo,” you coo into his lips, panting softly as you kiss him. your mind slowly begins to quiet. your only thoughts are of him. his lips, his hands, his touch, his voice—

shit. his jaw slacks, hips bucking as his mouth opens wider for you, tongues messy as they collide.

your vision grows hazy in seconds. choking on whines as he pumps two fingers into your sopping cunt, unbothered by the wetness that stains his pants as you tremble above him. your nails rake through his pink locks, the other flat on his chest panting into his mouth.

“need me so bad?” he repeats, tongue hanging out as you start lapping it like a needy touch-starved puppy. you’re perfect. he curls his fingers inside you, pressing against your gummy walls, arm keeping you firmly against his chest as you arch into him. the aggressive pump of his fingers earns a pitched whimper from your pretty lips. “you’re fallin’ apart and we just got started, ya shouldve texted me first,” there’s a slight clip in his tone, one that has you grabbing his jaw aggressively.

your lips hover over his, brows pressed tight, all the while he’s got his middle and ring finger shoved up your pussy, stretching you open. your quiet aggression pours onto your tongue, “i didn’t wanna kiss you after that bitch shoved her tongue down your throat.” your fingers squeeze his sharp jaw, manicured nails digging into his skin leaving crescent marks. “didn’t want her sloppy seconds.”

his eyes are lidded, pupils dilating as he looks between your heated orbs. you were fully unclothed and completely vulnerable on top of him, and his cock is twitching violently at your attitude. especially one that so easily gets under his skin in the most allusive way imaginable.

“what’re you doin’ now then?” sukuna bounces his thighs making you jump on his lap, tits bouncing at the movement. “lickin’ up her sloppy seconds?”

your spit collects in your mouth as you lean further up. your manicured thumb gently caressing his bitten lips, tugging the bottom lip down. his jaw slacks with ease, a glint in his eyes as he watches you closely.

“I’m cleaning you.”

was all you say then a glob of spit falls directly into his mouth.

fhhuuck…..a throaty groan escapes the man’s chest, fingers sliding out of your pussy. grabbing your ass as he feels your spit slide down his tongue. his hips buck up violently, throat bopping as he swallows.

“more,” he rasps.

your lips curl, smashing your lips again. this time he lets you take control, lets your tongue invade his mouth, lets you rinse him of whatever residue you imagined that bitch left on him.

you were the best drug. some anomaly on his lap, bare skin warm against his, and sukuna is unraveling with a hunger that feels humiliating in how total it is. his hands are everywhere at once, your waist, your spine, the back of your neck. chest hot with how you’re consuming him. he’s gripping you like he’s memorizing your touch again, like you might evaporate if he doesn’t keep contact. his kisses meet yours with just as much fever, teeth grazing your lip just enough to make you inhale sharply against his mouth. the sound goes straight to his cock, bucking up as you hump him quicker, syrupy pussy soaking his boxers through his open fly.

you’re addictive, and now he can’t put you down.

your scent should be calming, but it just felt intoxicating in its gentleness and warmth. he buries his face in the curve of your shoulder for half a second, breathing you in like he’s stealing air as you catch your breath. “you smell so good,” he leaves open mouthed kisses along your neck, dragging his mouth back to yours.

every wet, hungry kiss leaves him more gone than the last, more irritated at himself for the lack of resistance. even when he’s losing it, you’re sitting there completely naked on him like you know exactly what you’re doing.

but you don’t.

the worst part is, you feel the same way.

you hate how easily you fit against him. how right he feels. how little effort it takes for you to want more of him, not realizing how little resistance he’s giving you in return.

the week has shredded both your nerves, but right now none of that exists. not finals, step-moms, futures, grudges, or pride. there’s only your mouth on his. your body pressed into him like a solution he doesn’t deserve, and his restraint finally snapping.

“haah fhuck, keep rocking y’er hips,” he husks kissing you harder, deeper, like he’s drowning and you’re the tide. his palm slides down your spine to hold you flush against him. perky tits pressing into his firm pecs, hips rolling harder up as you hump his bulge, whimper slipping out.

there was no softness from him, no sweetness, just pure masculine desperation. consumption that says more than any confession ever could, and your body was speaking the same language.

your hands drag up and down his arms, hands squeezing his bulging biceps, threading through his hair tugging, until you’re panting erratically, lips parting in an silent moan as you unravel softly from the aggressive humping. sukuna hums in satisfaction, lip curling into a devilish smirk as he cracks a hard spank on your ass as you desperately grind on the wet spot you left until you’re shivering.

you pant directly into his lips, like you’d just run a hundred meters. but really it was just him.

“ryo,” you call, lashes fluttering against your flushed cheeks meeting his eyes.

his arms squeeze your torso, palm splayed on your back and ass, lips hovering over yours, gently kissing the corner of your mouth, “hmm?”

“I really…” your words are breathless, like it takes so much willpower to speak, “really,” you lean up, hand rubbing his shoulder, and neck, “wanna fuck you righ’ now.”

sukuna’s cock shots a small pathetic amount of cum into his boxers. “you—“ he chokes, lips back on yours to mask the humiliating moan that escapes his throat.

you whine, climbing off his lap, just for him to instinctively reach for you as you stand between his legs. his hands grabbing your hips leaning on the edge of the couch, to keep you close, hands grabbing your ass, lips connecting to your lower stomach, kissing up your belly button, licking your skin.

your nails tangle in his hair before you’re pulling his arm from around you, lightly tugging him to stand.

the silence in the apartment would be deafening if neither of your hearts were beating erratically. but he couldn’t help how worked up he was getting when you’re leading him to your bedroom. your hips swaying naturally as you hold his wrist, walking across the apartment completely naked. his eyes rack down every dip and curve. his hand falling to grab his crotch, hand cupping himself through the open fly, squeezing some relief behind your back.

by the time you enter the bedroom, beaded curtains clanking behind you, his lips are back to attacking yours. his thumbs easily hook under his boxers and pants, pushing them down kicking it aside, heavy cock bopping into view. your fingers brush the painfully hard girth, tip flushed a hot red, veins protruding on every inch, and globs pushing out of his slit as he grabs your face, deepening the kiss.

“do i needa prep ya some more?” he husks against your lips, kneeling onto the bed and crawling between your legs. you shake your head, arms locked around his neck pulling him down, hips bucking up and back arching.

“no s’ fine, jus’ want it inside me,” you mutter against his lips, humming as he reaches for the box of condoms, quickly tearing one open.

“whatever ya say, babe,” he doesn’t even look as he rolls the condom on, your arms already grabbing the roots of his hair dragging his lips back down to yours. you couldn’t last a second without his tongue on yours, like every kiss was brining a part of your soul back.

neither of you have fully recovered from the week you’ve had. instead, you’re drowning your shortcomings in sukuna’s body, and his yours.

his cock nudges your entrance, catching your clit before teasing your clenching hole. your lips part as a pitched moan escapes.

“y’er gonna let me in?” he teases, chest heating at the sight of your blown eyes meeting his. “gotta loosen up down there.”

“It is,” you huff, nails scratching his overgrown undercut, “put it in.”

he smirks, pushing his hips down, slipping inside with a stretch. you hum at the first inch filled, and when he’s grinding the rest of his impressive size into your small hole, you’re back to your pathetically hot gasps and moans.

sukuna was a selfish man. of course, he’s good in bed because he satisfies his partners, but he knows exactly when to break them in, using the little strength they have to his full advantage. but it was never as fulfilling as it is when he’s with you.

you’re already in tears, arched back on your hands and knees, your arms stretched out in front of you as he thrusts into you from behind like a wild animal. grunts and swears spewing from his mouth, hand cracking down on your ass like a punishment, spanking each cheek until you’re moaning at the after burn.

“fuckin’ slut, clenching up every time I spank this ass,” he chuckles hoarsely. “everyone lookin’ at that video of you,” he seethes, remembering your soaked shirt with over a thousand likes from the sororities instagram. yes, he was checking the count every day. “flashing these slutty tits to everyone—“ his hand reaches under to grab your breast, cruel fingers pinching your nipples.

you cry out, slamming your hips back into his, hand falling over his on your breast. “i was wearing a bra—ngh ah!” your lips part with another broken moan.

his bulbous tip drags out, before he’s slamming back into, hitting your cervix.

“those comments were fuckin’ disgustin,— pigs haah jerkin off to you—“ he seethes, pushing your lower back into the mattress, hands grabbing at your hips as he picks up the pace.

“mmph—ryo— keep ngh—wanna cu—uh-cum!” you were babbling like a dumb little slut. your brain was mush by the time he’s pressing you into a deeper arch.

“there we go, baby, ya’ missed me handling your little body like this? hmm—fuckin’ ya how i want ngh—better than any of those sh-shit-heads,” he groans, thrusts brutal, carnal grin and glint in his eyes, slamming in knowing you feel every inch, every vein, every pulse.

“y-you missed me, ryo,” you babble, lips covered in drool as you turn your head on the mattress, vision blurry with tears.

fuck you were mess, sukuna cracks a viscous smile, cheeks hot and red from the sight.

“I’m so haah good,” you praise yourself, something that elects a physical reaction from the man as he feels his cock twitch violently inside your clamping hole. “my pussy can h-handle a-all of ryo—ahh!” you cry out as he shoves his entire weight behind one thrust without warning again.

“fuck—you talk too much,” he growls, fucking you fast and hard, just the way you like, his hand covers yours, interlacing it on the mattress, using it as balance. “ya think this pussy can handle me all night?”

“mhmm,” your eyes roll back after another mind numbing thrust, your body shivering as you clench up, creaming around him for the third time that night.

“let’s see about that,” he snorts, already flipping you into another position, taking full advantage of your pliant body and dumb bratty attitude.

you’re in tears by the fifth round, he’d only came twice, condoms tied and tossed on the ground, his face now buried between your legs as you cry out. your hips arch up, lifting off the mattress as you tug his hair, eyes clenching closed as you let out hiccuped moans.

sukuna groans into your pussy, tongue shoved deep into your pussy, swallowing your sweet syrup straight from the source. your arousal bursts on his tastebuds, his hand locking under your hips keeping you arched high as he eats you out like a starved man.

“ryo—haah please— too much!” you’re gasping as he sucks your clit, tongue circling the puffed bud like you aren’t on the brink of passing out.

“thought you said y’can handle this?” he snorts, spitting on your pussy aggressively, hand replacing his mouth with vicious rubs to your clit. you whine loud and hot, hand stretching out to his wrist, but he’s moving quicker than you can process. his condom covered cock is piercing your pussy again, the stretch lethal as your moan pierces the walls of your bedroom. “there we go! haah ah fuck! even tighter than before,” he groans, quick, sharp thrusts hitting your sweet spot. your vision blurs with tears as he pulls out again, mouth shoved back to your pussy, drinking you up. he was filthy….possessed.

“ryo!” you’re sobbing, choked hiccups making his cock throb, shoving his girth back into your pussy. his hips erratically forcing you into another orgasm as your hips raise off the bed. your arm stretches out to him, weakly pushing at his pelvis, while the other grips the sheets beside your head.

“c’mon, gotta let me cum too, brat— pussy still wants more,” he groans, the squelching has grown much more lewd, filling his ears as his thumb falls on your clit.

“I can’t—I can’t—“ tears fill your eyes as your legs start to shake, gasping as he leans down capturing your lips, subtly trying to distract you from the overstimulation, mind guessing when you’ll tap out, begging internally you won’t.

“s’ okay, I got ya baby, fhuck—“ he groans, kisses messy, tongues and teeth clashing as he pulls away. his large palms push your thighs further apart, abs tensing as he drives his cock deeper.

tears cling to your lashes as your hand extends out again, strength weak as you try to push him away. however his hand only pushes your hand down, biting his lip as you scratch his sweaty happy trail, his thumb easily falling on your clit, rubbing tight circles again.

“haah ah—“

his thrusts are so deep the squelching more obscene. “shiit—this pussy is loud as fuck,” he smiles devilishly, face flushed.

you were impressed how well you keep up with sukuna, truly. but i guess there has to be a moment where his athletic capabilities will exceed your own libido, like tonight.