bella

Nerdjo doesn't see you in any of his other classes. His heart somehow feeling heavy. Stupid thing. Just because someone showed genuine interest in his 'nerdy hobby' doesn't mean the two of you are friends or something. Plus you make his blood pressure spike through the roof. All the ridiculous comparisons you made, but then again, you didn't seem like you knew better.

Nerdjo who is somehow excited when he sees you two days later. You're scribbling something in your notebook. He sits down next to you like this is normal. He sees you side-eye him, then turn back to your work. Only for you to do a double take a second later.

“Oh! Gojo. What’re you doing here?”

He leans his cheek onto his fist. “‘Thought we should continue our conversation from last time,” he explains. You close your notebook, attention fully on him. And so he begins, this time about the anime. Gesturing wildly, he pulls a few laughs out of you.

It becomes a small little ritual. Just before the lecture begins he tells you about Digimon. You always ask him things—most of which he already explained, more than once, but would happily explain again. You always lean in close, close enough for him to catch a whiff of your vanilla scented perfume. He also notes the way your top practically leaves nothing to the imagination when you sit like that—but he doesn’t let his eyes linger too long, instead he continues talking about Digimon. (Fucking nerd.)

Nerdjo brought his Digivice today. He wants to actually show you. Properly. No more fleeting conversations before the lecture starts. No, showing you would be much easier. And maybe you'll finally remember something. Seriously, the amount of times he's had to re-explain things is starting to get ridiculous. One more weird comparison to something else and he's going to lose it. He'll... He'll... Uuuuhhh... Yeah he isn't sure what he's going to do just yet, but he'll do something.

Nerdjo hears you approach—familiar footsteps approaching his desk—and snaps his head up. A small smile graces his face when he sees you. You smile back at him, and just when you're about to flop into your seat next to him—bag hitting the ground with a thud—you point at his Digivice.

“Oh, you're playing with your little creature! Taking him for a walk. God you're such a good monster dad,” you coo at him.

That's it. He's done.

Nerdjo stands up abruptly, his chair clattering to the ground. It makes you jump—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted. You're about to say something, probably ask him if he's okay, when he grabs you by the wrist and drags you out of the lecture.

Nerdjo has his lips pressed in a thin line. Weeks of explaining Digimon to you. Weeks of you forgetting a lot of the things he's told you. Weeks of you leaning in close to him—your vanilla perfume filling his senses and your tits nearly spilling out of that low-cut top—while you listened so earnestly to him.

Opening the door to an empty classroom, he shoves you inside before closing the door behind him with a click!

Nerdjo doesn't say anything when you ask him what this is about. Doesn't say anything when he closes in on you—who keeps backing up until your legs hit the desk behind you. Your hands planted on the desk. He walks until his feet touch yours and slowly leans over you. Both hands on the desk, caging you in.

“A good monster dad, huh? How many more times do I have to explain things to you until your pretty little head finally gets it?” he asks, voice cold.

You gulp at him, legs pressing together.

Nerdjo notices. Of course he does. Eyes flitting down to them before slowly looking up at you again. There's a rosy hue to your cheeks now. You're very deliberately not looking at him.

“Oh?” he murmurs, voice borderline cruel. “You're getting off on this?”

When you don't answer him, he turns you around. Chest shoved to the desk. You gasp out at the sudden movement.

Nerdjo feels himself get hard. One of his fingers trails down your leg while he leans his broad chest over your back. His lips trail against the shell of your ear. “Answer me,” he murmurs, breath ghosting your ear.

“Yes,” you squeak out.

Nerdjo tuts at you. All condescending. “Yes, what?” “Yes, I'm getting off on this.” He rewards you by finally letting his finger ghost over your panties, and fuck you're soaked. You weren't lying that you were getting off on this. He presses his finger down on your clit, the fabric between giving you some extra friction. You yelp out at the sensation, hands clawing at the desk.

Nerdjo flips over your skirt next. A groan rips from his throat. You're wearing blue panties. His cock stirs in his slacks. Fuck. “This for me?” he asks.

“Mhmmm,” you nod in confirmation.

Nerdjo slams into you from behind not even five minutes later. His fingers barely a warm-up for the way his thick cock stretches you out. He's not doing this to reward you, after all. His hips pummel into yours with harsh thrusts, fat tip hitting your cervix repeatedly. The desk wobbles, the force of his thrusts making it screech in protest.

Your hand comes down to your clit before he grabs it and forces it behind your back.

“Who said you could touch yourself?” he grunts. Your walls clamping down on him deliciously.

You whine out, tears gathered in your eyes. “Jus' wanna cum,” you sob.

“Jus' wanna cum,” he mocks. Speeding up, he presses his chest to your back—your arm wedged between. “You'll cum when I want you to.”

Nerdjo bullies your G-spot. You clamp down on him when he hits it for the first time. “F-fuck baby, just like that. Wanna milk me dry, huh? See how good of a dad I really am? Thaaat's it. Dirty lil' slut wants to be full of my cum,” he bottoms out, abs flexing, eyes rolling to the back of his skull. Thick seed painting your walls. You whine when he pulls out.

Nerdjo sinks to his knees. Prying open your swollen lips with both thumbs, he watches the way his cum bubbles out of your abused little hole.

“S'toru what're you—” you gasp out when he leans forward and slurps the mixture of the two of you righttt out of you. His lip ring cold against you. He licks one broad stripe from your—still leaking—hole to your twitching, swollen little bud. You claw at the desk because you feel something cold right against your clit— where Gojo is making out with your cunt right now.

“Y-you have—nnghh—a tongue piercing?” You turn your head to look behind you.

Nerdjo grins at you, lips and chin slick. He sticks his tongue out. A shiny, little barbell resting in the middle of it. Returning to your cunt, he kisses it once before swirling his tongue on your little clit. More cum oozes out of you.

Nerdjo feasts on your cunt. He's completely lost in the way the two of you taste together. Tongue-fucking you, he thumbs your clit. Without so much as a warning, you come — squirting right on his face. It splashes against his glasses. Hips bucking wildly against the desk.

Nerdjo massages your thighs while you come down from your high. Pressing a few kisses up them, he slowly stands again. You push yourself upright, fix your panties and skirt, and look up at him. “Took you long enough,” you murmur.

Nerdjo smiles softly down at you. Wait, what? A look of confusion slowly takes over his features. “You wanted this to happen?” he asks. You start laughing at him then, legs still wobbling slightly. “I might've done some research on Digimon before walking up to you that first time.”

Nerdjo gapes at you. “You asked all those questions to, what, get a rise out of me?” You put your hair behind your ear. “Mhmmm, though I thought you would've caught on earlier, to be honest.” You slowly walk to the door. Turning around, you walk backwards. “Well, c'mon. I'll buy you that Porcupamon plush you've been raving about.”

Nerdjo who can't believe he got ragebaited into fucking you. You're a fucking minx. With a shake of his head, he jogs up to you. Well, at least he got something out of it.

Some afternoons you open the door nobody uses and stand in the threshold until your ribs stop trying to climb your spine. The room is clean by intent, not denial.

A low hook by the entrance

A faint pale stripe on the wall where a poster used to be.

Boxes stacked in a line like an agreement.

You pick one, slide it down to the floor, kneel.

Top layer — a paper crown, bent once and fixed with tape.

A shirt with seven puffy letters ironed crooked.

A drawing of three figures with long arms and sharp teeth — he looks like himself that way — and stick crowns floating above heads.

A handful of glitter stars that fuse to your finger pads even after months in a box.

A tiny sneaker with a chewed lace.

You press the crown to your hair out of instinct.

It wants to stay.

You let it.

Sometimes nothing comes.

Sometimes a flash strikes, clean and quick — you at the sink counting to ten because she demanded proof that pain gets bored, her voice reciting the wrong lyrics with pride, him bending all the way down to hear a whisper at knee height and pretending he can’t understand until she repeats it four times and stomps.

These are seconds only — they land and leave.

You put everything back where you found it and close the box with your palms flat like you’re smoothing a map.

You load the videos because still pictures lie by omission and moving ones make more honest noise.

The folder is tidy. Dated. You pick a birthday and, without meaning to, sit close to the TV the way a child sits to read the light out of the pixels.

Your legs fold under you. Your knees kiss the cabinet. You anchor your hands to the rug.

The room on screen is bright in the cheap way phone cameras make things too clean.

A banner that says PARTY with the R backward.

Seven short candles in a lump in the middle of a cake that leans like it decided on an opinion mid-bake.

You hear yourself before you manage to believe it — your voice, lower than you expect, joking like you’re telling on someone you like.

“Stop eating frosting,” you say from behind the lens, amused, and it prints itself onto the floor of your skull like a stamp.

He’s there with sleeves shoved up, tying a balloon that slips and flies low and sputters, and a high voice laughs like a lit fuse.

He fakes shock.

He hunts the balloon under a chair like it can escape him.

You smile without permission because the sound buys its way in even if the picture is still asking.

You don’t hear him come from the kitchen, he’s learned how to move quiet on purpose.

He pauses in the doorway just long enough to look at the line of your spine, the angle of your head, the way your feet press the edge of the rug.

Then he crosses the room, lowers himself behind you, and becomes a frame you can lean on — warm chest at your back, long legs bracketing your hips, knees on either side like a safe pen.

His arms slide around and hook low, forearms crossing at your belly like the answer to a question you’ve been asking all day. His chin touches your crown a second and lifts so his breath goes along your hairline, not into it.

You feel the decision, make room, don’t smother, be here.

“Play it,” he says into the top of you, quiet.

You already are.

“Make a wish,” your voice says on screen.

She squeezes her eyes and blows — One candle surrenders, the rest hold.

He leans and takes the last three with a ridiculous performance, then points at the smoke as if he caused a solar event.

She tells on him with her entire upper body.

You shake the camera.

Somewhere the owner of the little restaurant cackles out of frame.

The cake gets cut too big.

Plates change hands.

You say “Ryoumean” with a grin you feel in your molars and you both want to go back in time and stand under that moment with your hands out.

“Good day,” he says in your hair.

No flourish.

Just the pin stuck into the map.

“Tell me something I don’t see,” you say.

It comes out a little breathless.

You keep your eyes on the screen like removing them might make the file dissolve.

“It rained at three and quit at three-oh-nine,” he says. “The lights blinked and she decided it was dramatic, so we had to sing louder in case the house was listening. You measured frosting like it was a chemistry lab and still swore at it at the last swirl. I iced because you said frosting hates you. She ate two strawberries and declared it fruit salad and therefore medicine.”

His breath shifts against your temple, heavier on a word — you think it’s “medicine” — and you understand in your body why he let you have this seat first.

If he had to sit closer, he’d drown.

On screen, a small hand covered in marker ink slaps frosting onto a paper plate.

He tries to sneak a bite off your slice, smirks when he gets caught, stands accused with a fork in his mouth, guilty on purpose.

You feel your face heat a second for a person who doesn’t exist anymore and very much does, both at once.

Your eyes wet.

He doesn’t move to wipe them.

His arms tighten by the width of a finger and stay.

Candle smoke curls.

People you recognize with your ears shout badly in song.

He sets her on the counter and spends far too long admiring the number seven on her pocket because she taped it there herself, upside down, very proud.

Your laugh from behind the camera makes present-you want to stand, to pace, to push the sound deeper in so it can’t evaporate.

You stay still instead because movement would rip the thread.

“Again.” you say at the end of the clip, hand hovering and not pressing, conned by dread into indecision.

He doesn’t take the remote.

He guides your wrist down, a slow press along your forearm, joint over joint.

You print the action into muscle.

Play.

The second time you notice different things.

The way he checks the room without looking like he’s checking — window, stove, door.

The sticker on the headrest she argued protected against dreams with teeth.

Your ring appearing at the edge of the frame and the soft clink it makes on the counter like a domestic bell.

The smell arrives with no picture attached — sugar, a line of burnt match, the waxy tang of cheap candle.

You put a palm to the rug because you need the cold of it and he follows with his hand, palm over yours, weight steady as a paperweight so the second doesn’t blow off the table.

“Smell,” you say, surprised and relieved like that counts as a win on its own. “I can smell it.”

“That’s good,” he says, mouth near, careful with the word good so it doesn’t sound like a test you passed.

You scroll laterally.

Find a clip with the camera propped against a sugar jar so you get the view from the flour’s perspective.

He sits cross-legged on the floor, her perched on his thigh like a parrot, both of them building a tower out of box lids that keeps collapsing for physics and glee.

Your blood warms at the sight of his expression when he fails on purpose.

You recognize that look from the kitchen this morning when he pretended he couldn’t find the salt until your hand brushed the right cabinet and you liked the small power of it.

Your mouth goes soft and stays like that even as your eyes flood and empty again.

“Tell me a hard day,” you say. “Not a sweet one. I want the shape of both.”

He doesn’t answer immediately because he’s picking a version that won’t slam you.

He chooses clean.

“Balcony,” he says. “She ran. No shoes. Knee on tile. Skin off. You went white and quiet.”

You know your own quiet when it arrives. It’s a bad sign dressed like control. He continues.

“You got the kit. I did jokes. Bad ones. She said laughter wasn’t science. You cleaned slow and told her pain gets bored and leaves at some point. She repeated it like gospel. It worked faster than it had a right to. You put the bloody towel in a bucket to soak because you hate stains. I sliced grapes tiny and pretended they were for me. She ate them and made me cut more. You rolled your eyes and hid your smile in the cabinet door.”

A flash lands so fast it steals your breath — your fingers stiff in a gauze pad, a face trying not to cry because red means wrong, his voice in the doorway making the word brave feel useful instead of preposterous, the way you watched your own hands do the job like they belonged to someone else and trusted them anyway.

You let it pass without grabbing.

It leaves a mark you don’t hate.

The file advances to a park

Swings.

She yells “higher” and you hear his answer as a yes and a boundary at once.

Your throat makes a sound it didn’t ask for.

He says nothing, but he slides a little closer behind you and cages you tighter so nothing inside slides away.

When you can breathe without counting, you reach for the stack of flattened crowns at your knee and pass him one without looking back.

He touches the paper.

He clears his throat.

“She made basil wear that,” he says. “Declared it queen. We had to bow.”

Your mouth actually smiles this time.

Your brain offers an image you didn’t dig for — a plant with a mess of tape and a crown on its leaves.

You aren’t in the picture.

You don’t need to be.

The idea is enough.

You can hear him scoffing and submitting.

You look down at your hands, they’re shaking less.

“We can stop,” he says.

It’s always on the table. It never feels like failure.

“One more,” you choose.

You find a file labeled SUNDAY.

The car view.

The cup with two spoons.

His voice pitched fake-criminal.

Your voice dry,

“We’re terrible at secrets.”

A laugh from the back seat.

The camera catches half his jaw and the way it moves when he pretends to say something outrageous.

It catches your thumb on his neck as you turn him at a light so he faces you for a second.

It catches a soft “my turn,” then plastic scraping as a spoon trades hands.

Your chest tightens in a way that isn’t panic — it is want with nowhere to go and nowhere it needs to.

You pause.

The room exhales.

He nuzzles the back of your head once like he can’t not.

It doesn’t aim at sex or distraction.

It’s identification, you, here, this.

“Thank you,” you say, because the words belong.

“For?”

“For watching with me,” you say.

For sitting behind you like a rampart without cutting you off from the field.

For keeping your hands steady.

For letting the tears belong to both of you without turning them into something that needs to be fixed.

“Always.” he says.

The word is plain.

He has stopped dressing it up.

You like it this way.

Later, kitchen.

You lean on the island and let the leftover emotion sit in the space like a piece of furniture. He fills a glass and puts it in your hand. He makes tea you will actually drink. He doesn’t start the next conversation for you.

You say, eventually,

“I can’t go back to what I was doing.”

“I know,” he says. “You don’t have to decide what’s next today.”

“I’m good at making rooms easier to live in,” you say, half-thinking. “I could be paid for that.”

“You do it for free already,” he says. “I’d pay twice.”

“Bias,” you accuse, and the corner of his mouth lifts like the first inch of a sunrise.

Back in the empty room, you put the paper crown on a shelf like an exhibit.

You leave the glitter stars on the box lid because bright spots matter in corners.

He stands in the doorway and lets you set the angle of the door.

You close it until the latch almost catches and leave it hovering open — your choice.

The second night you try again.

Not the birthday this time.

A quiet evening where the camera sits on a dresser at an angle and has the audacity to catch love doing the small work.

He lies on the bed in socks, boots kicked under, reading a book he pretends to hate, she drapes over him, heavy and sticky from a day of everything, you enter with water, a frown hiding a laugh.

He takes the glass,you wag a finger that means drink it, he obeys, she pulls the book down, demands “regular voice.”

He gives it, and you watch the end of the day happen the only way it can — body to body, story to story, the soft landing before sleep.

Your eyes sting again.

This time it isn’t only grief.

It is relief that your body recognizes the rhythm of night with him and does not fight it.

He feels you go loose and rounds you with his arms like a question he knows the answer to.

His hands find the old anchors, one catches your wrist and sets it against his stomach like a promise, the other cups your hipbone through cotton and waits for you to tell it where next.

You leave it. It warms.

“Enough?” he asks when your breath gets shallow and even.

“For today,” you say. “Tomorrow, more.”

You sleep with the crown on the dresser and the videos paused at a face that no longer hurts to see.

When dreams come, they skip the crash and its corridor of sirens and go backward to an afternoon where everything smelled like vanilla and candle smoke and you counted down breathlessly with someone you loved, then counted up to seven with someone else you loved, then laughed because he blew three candles out like a thief and got away with it.

You wake at five, stand under the hall light you insist sits at an angle, and write a new line on the board — watched — breathed — ate — slept and add a star sticker you find somehow at the bottom of your pocket.

He pads in, hair smashed on one side, squints at your handwriting, sets a heavy palm between your shoulders like a stamp, and adds under your words in block letters — proud of you.

You don’t fix his capitals. You let the letters stay oversized and certain. You kiss the corner of his mouth and he kisses you back and drags you to bed without you protesting so he can cuddle you in his arms and secure your dreams.

The day feels possible.

You cut toast, you open the balcony and tell basil you’re trying, he appears at the doorway, follows the music you set to a low volume, lets you pull him in, and you dance like the hour belongs to you.

It does.

At noon, you will open the empty room for a minute, pull one thing out, let it live in your hands, then put it back.

At three, you will go sit too close to a screen and go through another ten minutes of a life that still belongs to you.

At night, you will fit your back to his chest and ask for a story about a day that wasn’t perfect and learn again how you kept each other upright.

This is what progress looks like now — a crown on a shelf, a pause button wearing a greasy fingerprint, his legs on either side of you while you teach your heart how to watch without shattering, your body remembering cake smoke and the sound a plastic spoon makes tapping a paper plate, his voice in your hair saying the smallest word in the right way — here — until your breath follows it in and out without running.

Saturdays are always hectic, especially when you’re the only one working. The bell over the door never stops ringing, the espresso machine hisses like it’s alive, and you’ve barely had a sip of water since morning. You don’t even have time to anticipate his arrival.

And then, suddenly, he’s there, slipping quietly through the door, scanning the packed line in front of your counter. His eyes land on you, just for a second. You barely manage a breath before he moves, setting his bag down at his usual table… only to grab it again and stride straight toward the back.

You blink, half convinced you’re hallucinating, before mumbling an apology to the customer in front of you and darting into the back.

He’s already got his hoodie hanging neatly on a hook, his sleeves rolled up, washing his hands at the sink.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice half exasperation, half disbelief, eyes flicking nervously toward the doorway and the impatient customers beyond.

“You look…” He pauses, meeting your gaze for a heartbeat. “Frazzled. Let me help.”

You should say no. You really should. But your legs are burning and your brain’s already a few orders behind.

“Okay” you sigh. “Just…help me package the orders and clean up a little.”

He nods once, face set with quiet determination. Together, you step back out into the chaos.

It’s messy, loud, and fast-paced, but somehow, you fall into a comfortable rhythm. He moves around you like he already knows your pattern, grabbing napkins and sliding trays without bumping into you once. You shout orders, he catches them. You laugh at a customer’s joke, he flashes them soft smiles,  smiles that nearly send the poor girls waiting at the counter fainting.

He doesn’t even realise what he does to people, and that somehow makes it worse.

By the time the rush dies down, the two of you collapse into the chairs at his usual table, breathless but laughing. The smell of coffee clings to both of you.

“I’m sorry” you manage between breaths, leaning back in your seat. “I don’t imagine this is what you had in mind when you said you wanted to come see me.”

“It’s okay.” His eyes crinkle shut as he smiles, that gentle kind of smile that makes you melt.

You’re a goner.

“Let me get you a coffee” you offer, standing up and heading for the machine.

He follows.

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to use one of these” he mutters, stepping closer, curious eyes fixed on the buttons and levers.

You don’t realise how close he’s gotten until you turn and find yourself almost flush against his chest.

Your breath catches. For a moment, neither of you move. The hum of the coffee machine fills the silence, warm and steady, like it’s keeping the rhythm your heart’s suddenly forgotten.

You glance up, he’s already looking down. His eyes, those soft violets, flicker over your face. You swear your pulse skips when his gaze lingers on your lips, before darting guiltily back up to your eyes.

“Okay, um, so, first you get a shot of coffee.” You lift the espresso handle, slotting it under the dispenser. The machine whirs to life, releasing a neat pile of fragrant grounds into the portafilter. “Then you level it” you say, tapping it gently against the counter. “And tamp it, like this.” You press the tamper down until the surface is flat and firm.

He’s standing so close now, the heat of him brushing against your shoulder. You shift to the espresso machine, trying not to think about how his breath feels against your neck. “Then you lock it in here…” You try to twist the handle into place, but it’s stiff, it always is.

Before you can try again, his hand covers yours. Warm, steady and effortless. He gives a small tug and it slides into position with a soft click.

Your heart somersaults. “Then you press this button, and voilà, coffee” you say quickly, your voice a little too bright. The machine hums, rich amber espresso pouring smoothly into the cup below.

“Now, latte art” you announce, trying to focus on the task instead of your racing pulse.

He laughs softly, the sound like velvet. “Okay, okay, that’s a little advanced for me.”

… 

He comes to the shop again on Sunday.

Lucky for you, it’s quiet, the usual morning rush long gone, the soft hum of machinery and clinking dishes the only sounds left. You finally get to sit with him, chatting about everything and nothing, time slipping by unnoticed.

“Did that hurt?” you ask suddenly, leaning forward to gently tap the black ring in his gauged ear.

He turns his head toward you slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. “Not really” he murmurs. “Throbs a little when you size up, but it goes away after a while.”

“What about this one?” You ask, reaching up to touch the conch piercing glinting in the light.

That earns you a small, genuine laugh, quiet, but warm. “That one? Yeah, that one hurt.”

You grimace instinctively, scrunching your nose. “Ugh, I can imagine.”

He smiles at the face you pull. “I’m used to it, though” he says softly.

You nod thoughtfully, your gaze dipping lower, to the snakebite piercings gleaming against his bottom lip. He notices, laughing again, deep and easy.

“Yes, those hurt a bit too” he says, answering before you can even ask. Then his expression shifts, suddenly unsure. “Do you… not like piercings?”

“I like them” you admit quickly, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve. “I’m just scared of needles.” You glance up through your lashes, smiling sheepishly. “They look really good on you though.”

His reaction is immediate. His ears go pink, the colour creeping down his neck as he turns away to stare out the window.

You bite back a grin, pressing your lips together to hide it, feeling that familiar fluttering in your chest.

…

“So, how come you keep to yourself so much?” you ask softly.

It’s another slow afternoon in the café, sunlight spilling through the windows in lazy streaks. Geto had walked with you from college instead of heading home to change, so his hair is tied up messily, half 'college Geto,' half 'café Geto.'

He glances at you, swallowing the bite of cake in his mouth before answering.

“Well… when I was in high school, I got..” he pauses, frowning faintly, searching for the right word. “ill..."

Your breath catches. You lean forward, worry tightening in your chest. He notices, gives you a small, almost reassuring smile.

“I got depression” he says finally. “Severe depression.”

The words hang heavy between you. You nod slowly, your throat tight, encouraging him to go on.

“It got really bad” he murmurs, eyes dropping to the half-eaten cake. “Finally, I went to the doctor, and they gave me medication…”

He trails off again, pushing crumbs around with his fork. You don’t speak, you just wait.

“Some of my friends found the pills in my bag one day” he continues quietly. His voice cracks just slightly. “They laughed. Called me a weirdo. Said I was crazy for needing them.”

Something in your chest aches at that. “Suguru…” you whisper.

Without thinking, you reach out and lay your hand over his. His fingers twitch beneath yours, his gaze turning glassy. It still doesn’t feel like enough.

You stand and move to his side, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pressing his face gently into your chest. He startles, his back goes rigid, then, slowly, he exhales and his arms come up around your waist.

“Those people…” you murmur into his hair, voice trembling, “they were cruel. What you did was brave, so brave. You asked for help when you needed it. That takes strength, Suguru.”

He nods against you, shoulders trembling slightly.

“I’m so proud of you” you whisper.

---

“You know you’re staring, right?” Utahime whispers, leaning close enough that you feel her breath against your ear.

You blink, realising only now that your gaze has been locked across the room far too long. You whip your head away, cheeks burning. “I wasn’t…” 

“You totally were.” Her grin is sly. “Why don’t you just go sit with him?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur, twisting a strand of hair between your fingers. “I feel like I’d be invading his quiet space or something. And with Gojo around, I think he’d terrify him.”

Even as you speak, your eyes flick back to where Geto’s sitting. His head lifts, like he felt the weight of your stare, and your heart stutters when amethyst eyes meet yours. You offer a small, shy smile. For a second he looks confused, glancing around like he’s not sure you’re really smiling at him, and then, softly, he smiles back.

“Wow” Utahime breathes, following your line of sight. “He’s actually kinda cute.”

Your head snaps toward her so fast she flinches. “Don’t even think about it” you hiss.

She covers her mouth, laughing into her hand. “Relax, I was just saying—”

“He’s not her type” comes a voice right beside your ear.

You shriek, Utahime shrieks, and the entire room turns to stare, including Geto. Gojo’s standing there, looking far too pleased with himself.

“He’s going to kill me” Utahime groans, collapsing forward on the table, clutching her chest.

“I’m more her type” Gojo says proudly, striking a ridiculous pose.

“No, you are not!” Utahime shouts back.

“I so am!”

Their voices blur into the background, bickering like children, as your focus drifts back to Geto. He’s still looking your way, expression unreadable, a flicker of confusion, maybe curiosity. You wish you were over there, sitting across from him, close enough to see the way his eyes soften when he smiles.

Your chest feels too full, your pulse thundering beneath your skin. The warmth blooming in your chest isn’t something small anymore, it’s bigger, heavier, something that fills every corner of you until you can barely breathe.

You love him.

The thought hits like a spark to kindling, bright and undeniable. The idea of seeing him every day, hearing his voice, being the reason he smiles... it makes your heart ache.

You. love. him.

For some reason, that realisation turns you into a stuttering school girl. 

… 

“Am I doing this right?” he asks, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

He’s holding the metal milk jug beneath the steaming wand, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration. Steam curls between you, rising like mist.

You nod without quite meeting his eyes, your throat feeling inexplicably tight. “Yeah, you’re fine” you mumble, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

He tilts the jug, uncertain “I feel like I’m getting this wrong.”

You sigh softly and step toward him, reaching out to take the jug from his hands, careful not to brush his fingers. “It’s like this” you murmur, lowering your gaze to the milk as you submerge the wand and begin to move the jug up and down in smooth, practiced motions. “If you wrap your hand around the metal, you can feel the temperature. Too hot and it scalds, it’ll taste awful.”

He hums softly, curious, and before you can step back he moves in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth of his chest at your back. His hand slides over yours, holding the jug. The contact sends a jolt through you so strong you nearly drop it.

“Like this?” he asks, voice soft, right beside your ear.

Your breath catches. You pull away too quickly. The jug slips, clattering against the counter with a deafening metallic clang as warm milk splashes across both of you.

“Oh my god…” You fumble to turn off the steam, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry” you gasp, though you’re not even sure what you’re apologising for, the mess, or the fact that you panicked. Most of the milk is splattered across your shirt, but some has caught his hand.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, though his voice sounds uncertain. He grabs a nearby cloth and, without thinking, begins gently dabbing at the milk on your shirt. His brows are knit, focused, like he’s trying to fix something he doesn’t understand.

For a moment you can only stare at him, the tenderness of the gesture, the closeness, the confusion in his eyes. Your heart skips painfully in your chest.

“I can do that” you blurt, stepping back and pushing his hand away a little too fast.

His expression flickers, confusion, then something that looks almost like hurt. But you can’t face it.

You turn, wiping at your shirt with shaking hands, your cheeks burning. “I’ll… I’ll clean this up.”

…

“Do you want me to help clean up?” he asks softly.

He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched, wringing his hands like he’s afraid to take up space. His eyes search yours, uncertain and worried.

The sight makes your chest ache. You hate that you’re the reason he looks like that, nervous, hesitant, but your pulse won’t slow. It’s as if your heart’s forgotten how to function properly whenever he’s near.

Where his presence used to feel warm and grounding, now it makes your breath catch and your thoughts scatter. You’re terrified he’ll see straight through you, that every glance, every flushed cheek and fumbled word will betray just how much you like him.

“No, you can go” you manage, voice thinner than you intend. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.

He nods once, slow and careful, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make things worse. Gathering his coat, he lingers by the door for a heartbeat too long.

“Goodbye, Y/N” he says gently.

You force a quick smile, a weak dip of your head, but no words come out. The bell above the door chimes softly as he leaves, the click of the latch echoing far too loudly in the quiet that follows.

You sag against the counter, eyes squeezed shut. “You stupid idiot” you groan, dragging your palms down your face. “If you keep this up, you’ll drive him away.”

The thought makes your stomach twist. But what can you do? You can’t control the way your breath catches when he says your name, or the way your heart stumbles when he smiles. You can’t control any of it.

… 

He can’t quite figure out what changed.

The air between you feels different now,  heavier somehow. Every word he says seems to make you tense, every time he gets close you take a step back. He replays the moment in the café over and over in his head, the milk spilling, the way your hands shook, how you wouldn’t meet his eyes after that.

He can still feel the ghost of your hand under his, warm, small, trembling. He hadn’t meant to make you uncomfortable. He just wanted to help.

Now, walking home through the cool evening air, he keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his thoughts running wild. Maybe he’d crossed a line. Maybe he’d imagined everything, the smiles, the laughter, the easy comfort that once filled the space between you.

He remembers the way you’d hugged him that day, the way you’d held him when he’d told you about his depression, so fiercely, like you wanted to protect him from the world. He remembers your voice, warm and steady against his hair, I’m so proud of you.

So what changed?

He stops walking, staring down at his shoes. The idea strikes like a sudden chill, maybe you’re just being kind. Maybe you were always just being kind.

To him, kindness had started to feel like affection. A mistake.

He swallows hard, forcing a breath. “Stupid” he whispers, trying to convince himself it doesn’t hurt.

But it does.

Still, he tells himself he’ll stop coming by. Give you space. If he really made you uncomfortable, the last thing he wants is to make it worse.

And so, for the first time in weeks, he walks past the café the next day without going inside, pretending not to notice the way his chest aches as he does.

…

You wait.

You thought having him around made you nervous, but not having him around felt worse. The hours drag by, each one slower than the last. Every time the bell over the door rings, your head snaps up instinctively, hope flaring in your chest, only to sink again when it’s not him.

You even pull out your phone at one point, thumb hovering over the screen. You could text him, if you had his number. The realisation stings more than you expect. You know where he sits, how he takes his drink, the exact sound of his laugh, but you don’t even have his number.

So, you wait.

The café’s too quiet tonight. Too cold. His absence hums in the silence like static. You busy yourself cleaning, restocking, rearranging the display case, anything to keep from watching the door again.

By closing time, the weight of disappointment sits heavy in your chest. You’re tired, but not from work, from hoping. You almost want to cry.

Then you see him.

Through the glass, a tall figure walking down the street, hood up, hands buried deep in his pockets. Suguru.

Your heart jumps so violently it hurts. You can’t help it, you smile, wide and unguarded, warmth flooding your chest. You spin around, flicking on the warmer for the hot chocolate, reaching for the heart-shaped strawberry shortcake you’d hidden away just for him.

But when you look up again…

He’s still walking. Right past the window. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even look at you.

You freeze. The plate in your hand feels heavy all of a sudden. Behind you, the hot chocolate begins to hiss softly, forgotten.

He walked right past.

You set the plate down, staring blankly at the spot where he’d been. The smile slips from your face, your brows drawing together as your throat tightens painfully.

Had he figured it out? Had you made him uncomfortable?

You press a trembling hand over your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but the only thing you can think, the only thing that hurts, is how easily he walked away.

… 

Morning comes slower than usual. You get ready for college, but your mind is somewhere else entirely, replaying yesterday’s image of him walking past the café without so much as a glance.

By the time you arrive, you’re a bundle of nerves, your stomach twisting with anxiety. The classroom feels impossibly bright, the chatter around you blending into white noise. And then you see him.

Suguru Geto. Sitting at his usual spot in the back, hood up, book in hand. Just like every other day. Only today… he doesn’t look up.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to focus on your notes, your hands shaking slightly as you flip through your textbook.

Your chest tightens.

Had you done something wrong? Did he… not want to see you anymore? Your mind races through every interaction, every smile, every laugh. Were you too forward? Too cheerful? Did he notice how much you’d been staring at him?

“Hey, Y/N?” Utahime’s whisper jolts you slightly, pulling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You glance at her, eyes wide. “You okay?” 

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “I… I don’t think he wants to talk to me anymore ” you murmur, voice small.

Utahime glances back at him, then at you, her expression softening. “Are you kidding me? Look at him. He’s… he’s just quiet. That’s all. He’s not avoiding you.”

But her words don’t reach you. You can’t shake the feeling that something’s changed, that he’s seen too much of your heart already, and now he’s retreating.

You glance again at the back of the room, hood shadowing his face, book open, fingers lightly tracing the pages. He hasn’t even noticed your gaze.

And in that moment, you realise, you miss him. You miss his soft smile, gentle voice, and the comforting pressure of his presence. 

And yet, today, he’s distant. He’s different.

Your chest tightens further. You bury your face in your hands for a moment, forcing yourself to focus on something else, anything else, while the quiet, lonely ache of longing settles heavily in your chest.

… 

You don’t run to the café like you had the past few weeks.

You move slowly instead, each motion weighed down by the knot in your chest. Your friends’ laughter barely registers, their voices feel distant, muffled, as though you’re underwater. You smile when they look at you, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

By the time you gather your things, your hands are trembling. The walk feels endless, every step heavier than the last. The closer you get, the louder your heartbeat grows, until it’s all you can hear.

You turn the corner, and there he is.

Suguru.

He’s leaning against the café door, hood down, hair tied up, the late sunlight spilling across his face. The piercings at his ears catch the light like tiny flares, but his expression is tense, uncertain. His hands are buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as though he’s been standing there for a while.

Your breath catches. Then your heart surges so suddenly you almost stumble.

He’s here. He came back.

You nearly break into a run, terrified that if you take too long, he’ll leave before you can reach him.

“Suguru!” you call out, voice breathless.

He looks up.

When you stop in front of him, neither of you speaks. The air between you hums with nerves and unsaid things. You can’t quite meet his eyes, not yet.

“I just wanted to apologise…” he starts, voice soft, gaze fixed somewhere near your shoes. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Telling you about…” He trails off, swallowing hard.

“What?” you whisper, confusion flooding your voice.

He shakes his head. “I won’t bother you anymore” he murmurs, pushing off the wall and turning to go.

The words hit like a gut punch.

“No!” You gasp, grabbing his sleeve before he can take another step. “You don’t make me uncomfortable.”

He stops, turns slightly, eyes flickering with confusion and hurt. “You’ve been avoiding me” he says quietly. “You wouldn’t even look at me the last time I was here.”

Your fingers tighten around his sleeve. You tug him gently back toward you until he’s standing close, so close you can smell the faint scent of soap on him.

Your throat feels tight. The words tremble in your chest, threatening to choke you, but you force them out anyway.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable” you whisper, screwing your eyes shut. “You make me nervous.”

A shaky breath leaves you. “I like you… a lot.”

There’s silence. Then, a soft, incredulous sound — a gasp.

“You… like me?” he breathes.

You open your eyes, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You shake your head weakly.

“No” you whisper. Then, with a trembling voice and tears burning your eyes. “I love you.”

…

For a moment, he doesn’t move. The words hang in the air.  Then his eyes widen, the amethyst depths staring straight into yours, and a slow, incredulous smile spreads across his face.

“You… love me?” His voice is barely above a whisper, full of disbelief and awe. He steps closer, closing the last bit of space between you.

Your stomach twists, nerves wrangling, but you stand your ground. “Yes” you murmur, voice trembling. “I can’t… I can’t hide it anymore.”

He swallows, blinking rapidly, and for a heartbeat, he looks almost vulnerable. Then, carefully, like he’s testing if this is real, he reaches out. His fingers brush against yours, warm and sure, and your heart jumps.

“I… I’ve liked you for so long” he confesses, voice low but steady. “I just didn’t think… I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”

You can’t stop the laugh that escapes you, a mixture of relief and joy, tears pricking at your eyes. “I was scared” you admit softly. “I didn’t want to scare you off…”

He shakes his head, pressing his hand into yours. “Scare me off? No. You’re… perfect.” You feel tears slip down your cheeks.

“I love you,” he repeats, this time with more certainty, his other hand coming up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face. His touch is gentle, careful not to break the fragile atmosphere.

“I love you too” you whisper, voice breaking with happiness. “So much.”

For a long moment, you just stand there, foreheads almost touching, hands entwined. The world around you, the café, the late sunlight, the quiet hum of the street, all fades away. There’s only him. Only the warmth of his hands, the soft brush of his lips against yours as he leans in closer.

When he finally kisses you, it’s slow, careful, and utterly consuming. You melt into it, letting go of all the fear, all the hesitation, all the nervous energy that’s been coiled in your chest for weeks. His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there gently, like he’s afraid to let go, just for a moment.

When you finally pull back, your breath catches. His smile mirrors your own, eyes bright, lips still trembling from the kiss.

“You’re mine now” he murmurs, voice soft, playful, but carrying a quiet certainty that makes your heart flutter.

“Okay” you giggle, slipping your head beneath his chin, resting your cheek against his chest as your arms circle his waist. The steady thunder of his heart thrums against your ear. “Only if you’re mine as well.”

You feel him nod, his breath ghosting over the top of your head before his arms tighten around you, holding you close. 

“I am” He whispers, his voice rumbling through his chest. “Always”. 

The End!

He didn't yell, he didn't look at you. Hell, he was just staring at the bowl of rice sitting in front of him, but still, his words lingered in the air. And the aftermath of it was just pure tension, "...Okay, sorry."

You understand that he's tired, but was that really necessary at all? He ate quietly while you sat there watching him eat. Satoru would usually have a big appetite, especially after missions. But, today particularly, he ate half of his rice and barely touched any of the side dishes you made for him.

He set the chopsticks down and began walking away, "Hey, wait, are you done eating..?" You quietly questioned, please say no.

"Yeah. Don't have much of an appetite right now."

No apologies, no help removing the dishes, he just walked back into your shared bedroom and doesn't come out — sleeping, presumeably. To be quite frank, you would love to hold him back and talk about his attitude, but he doesn't seem to be in any mood to talk at all right now.

So, you let him be.

You let him linger in his space right now and seek the night on the couch. Thank goodness you had left a big quill right on it for movie nights, in case it gets cold.

Satoru awoken himself at three AM, he reaches out to touch your figure —like he always does whenever he doesn't feel your presence— however, much to his dismay, you weren't there. Initially, he had thought that you had awoken as well and was outside, with a hoarse voice, he calls out, "(Name)?"

No answer.

Satoru rolls off the bed, stumbling over his foot slightly as he opens the door to the bedroom and walked out. His ears caught the distinct noises from the television, were you still up this late?

He walks to the living room, rubbing his eyes. He had parted his lips to give you a light scolding — but you were asleep? On the couch and not the bed? With a swift press to the remote, he turned off the television and squats down in front of you. For a while, he just stayed in that position, watching your features.

Then memories of earlier came flooding in, and the guilt began settling down on his stomach. Had you decided to sleep outside because he got angry at you? Were you scared of him? Why did you sleep outside?

He shook you awake gently, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, "Baby, wake up."

Satoru has always known that you're a deep sleeper, and he's not surprised that it took him at least six other shakes to finally get your eyes to flutter open, "Mm, what time is it? Should I cook breakfast?"

It broke his heart that you thought he woke you up for breakfast, "Why are you sleeping here? Not at the bed?" He murmurs out softly, holding your hand in his.

"I thought you needed space, I didn't want to bother you—"

"God, no. I was an asshole, (Name). If I ever act like that again, please smack some senses into me, I don't care. Just because I'm tired, doesn't give me the excuse to be a dick to my girlfriend, you understand me?" He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you as he began carrying you back to bed, the quill dropped to the couch.

"It's alrig—"

"It's not alright. I'm sorry for what I said to you at the dinner table, and for not eating, that's a dick move. I'd like to eat the leftovers—"

"I threw that away, I thought you wouldn't want to—"

"Then, I'm cooking for us. You rest," he mumbled out, setting you down on the bed gently, tucking you under the covers.

Satoru wasted no time pressing his chest to your back, his chin compressed to the top of your head gently like it belonged there, "Slap me the next time I act like that, you have full permission from me, and don't ever let me treat you like that. You're my woman, you deserve the best."

"You're so cheesy."

"You like cheesy," he retorts.

"I like cheese."

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

God helps a man who overworks himself 24/7. Nanami works a lot, more than you thought a body could withstand. But, then again, his stamina is out of your league — so, it wasn't as surprising anymore if he live to work. At the same time, you did understand that he's doing this for the both of you.

Sometimes, you wish he would have been more... present. Every time you brought that topic up, he'd avoid it like plague, saying that he was doing this to provide for the both of you. You once told him that you worked too, but he told you that you deserved more than just a this — he wanted to give you the world.

But, would it mean anything if he was your world. All you needed was him, not his money.

Yet again, he had came home later than usual. You knew his office dismisses workers at 5.30 sharp, and it must have meant that Nanami had decided to work overtime. Again.

"Can you stop coming home late? I understand you said that you work for us, but I work too, I get money to provide for us too," he spared you a brief glance before quietly feeding himself a couple of bites. You could clearly tell he was uncomfortable with the said topic, "Are you going to keep avoiding this topic like it's nothing?"

He sighs out softly, "You understand that I'm doing this for—"

"Us. Yes, I work too, have some faith in me. You telling me to quit my job is like you telling me to break up with you," Nanami was visibly confused by what you're saying — because, how is that apple to apple.

"That makes no sense. I make money enough for the both of us—"

You cut him off. "And I make money enough for us too, I don't need you working overtime. Why can't you work a normal nine to five like I do, and we collect money and use it together, and we can spend time. Think about it, we barely see each other, we see each other during dinner... like now, then you go to bed because you're too tired to have a proper conversation with me."

He snaps back, "I give you everythi—"

"All I want is to spend time with you," you replied back.

Nanami stood up and walked to the bedroom. No words, no gestures, nothing. He ditched you and seeks comfort in the bedroom — even when you came inside the bedroom to check, he was already tucked in. Fuck, that was upsetting you.

You know what, he and his work could go screw themselves.

You grabbed your pillow and went to the couch. Thank God, t was spacious on the couch (minus the fact that it's a bit uncomfy, you'd prefer the bed over this anytime). It took a bit of thrashing and turning before slumber finally dawned on you.

Nanami found himself unable to sleep. He was aware of your presence when you entered the room earlier, but he was only then made aware of your lack of presence beside him when he reached over to touch you. His body shot up in surprise, tired eyes peering at the clock perched o the nightstand.

02.34 AM

Has he been sleeping without you?

Nanami wastes no time putting his slippers on, walking out in a rush. It was dark, and he could still smell the aftermath of dinner from the hallway — his eyes immediately lands on your sleeping figure, arms hanging by the edge of the couch, lips parted slightly, and he could see you twitch a couple of times.

He walks over to you, he didn't even wake you up, he just carefully slithered an arm under the back of your neck and the crook of your knees, pulling you up into his arms. Nanami walks you back into the bedroom and tucked you by his side, holding you the entire night. Hell, he didn't even sleep until at least an hour later.

When you woke up, you were met with his eyes, "Hey."

He nods at you, "Hi."

"What time is it?"

"Ten."

"Work—" you shot up, but he pulls you back.

"I called you in sick," he murmured out softly, brushing a strand of hair on your face, "and me too."

"Really?"

He hummed, "I apologize for what I did last night, it wasn't right of me to leave the conversation like that. I know you meant well," his words comes out raw and genuine, Nanami brought your hand to his lips, pressing it on your skin.

"Can you stop overworking and work a normal time? Can we not worry about money right now, all I want is just you by my side," he nods his head, kissing your knuckles briefly.

Nanami murmured against your skin, "I'll stop. I trust your decisions, which... sounds better than mine anyways. Would you like to go out with me today?"

You grinned, nodding, "That, I want."

𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

You were already plotting to sleep on the couch the second Fushiguro Toji stepped inside the house smeared with blood, leaving traces of blood on his foot and on the floor. He had promised that once the two of you got together — he'd stop doing this job of his, and you thought he did. Until, today of course.

"Is that blood?"

And from then on, the full blown argument started. You yelled, and he yelled back. You argued, he argued even more. And none of you were willing to tone yourself down, "Jesus, you promised not to do this anymore. You said you stopped!"

"Where else am I going to get money?" He retorts back.

"A normal fucking job, that's what! We talked about this, you told me you stopped completely, just how many times have you done this without me finding out, huh?" You argued back, pointing to the blood on the floor of the house.

"Fuck. Get off my fucking ass, (Name)." He groans out loudly, taking off his shirt and tossing it aside. That has got to be the last strike for you — because the very next second, that shirt was hanging off his head as you had strewn it to him, "What the fuck is your problem?"

"Can you try to see it from my point of view? This job is dangerous to you and me, and you can't be here to protect me every single time, Toji. I could be dead tomorrow!" You tell him almost desperately, trying to explain how this was going to affect the both of your futures.

His jaw hardens, "Don't fuck with that. You won't fucking die just because I kill people for a living."

"I just might when they find out you got me," he rolled his eyes.

"Get off my ass, don't talk to me." And so, the argument ended. It was a cold ending, you didn't talk to him and nor did he talked to you all night — you slept on the couch while he got the bed (maybe because your pride stopped you from sleeping on the same bed as he is).

However, Toji was not the man he usually is. That brooding, cold-hearted man. Maybe still, but to you? He's a whole different person. Sure, he was mad. But, he couldn't be angry at you forever. Not to you.

He stood over your sleeping figure. He was already upset at the argument you both had — but now, e's even more upset that you've decided to sleep on the couch alone and not right by him.

His shadow was enough to wake your fight or flight senses, shooting up with both your hands up to fight. That was enough to make him snort, "Why aren't you sleepin' inside?"

"I'm angry at you."

"Be angry and sleep with me then," he retorts back.

"Go away if you aren't going to talk nicely," you shoo-ed him away, and Toji wouldn't be Toji if he listened to you — he throws you over his shoulder like a sack.

No matter how hard you tried to smack his back or kick your legs (not at him), he wouldn't let go of you. Until, the bed. He throws you onto the bed, before laying all his body weight onto you. Does he think he weigh a feather or something?

"You're suffocating me."

"Don't care."

"Don't you have anything to say to me?" You asked, lightly pushing him to ease the suffocating, "like an apology would be nice."

He turned his head to your stomach, muffling out a soft, "Sorry."

"What was that?"

Toji pulls his head up, "I said, I'm sorry. I know I promised you on stopping — but I can't land myself a normal fucking job, and I don't feel comfortable doing normal people job," he mutters out, his chin digging into your stomach, "I don't know how to do this... normal people thing, I love you and all, but I... I don't know how to stop."

"I'll help, I can literally provide for u—"

"No. And can we just sleep? 'M tired. I'll stop killin' people and get a real job."

#THEY SURPRESS IT

They push your death to the furthest corner of their mind, locking it behind layers of distraction and obligation. Maybe it’s because they truly don’t have the time to grieve— missions and the constant killing of curses/demons kept them busy down to a meticulous schedule, merciless to any relief or privacy. Or maybe it’s because acknowledging it would make it real, and they’re not ready for that, they want to drag out the realization that you're gone for as long as possible if it meant that maybe some part of them can pretend that you're still alive. Or maybe grief hit them so hard that their reaction is almost delayed and they truly don't realize that anything is wrong.. yet (they acknowledge that you’re gone deep in their mind but they haven’t realized fully yet). So they keep moving, pretending they’re fine, crack a few jokes but don't mention your name, a ringing filling their eardrums when your name is mentioned, almost as if to block it out, pretending that they don’t hear the murmur of your voice in the quiet moments, pretending that they don’t look for you in crowded rooms even when their friends/colleagues stare at them worriedly because they know that look too well. But grief is patient. It waits. It's a ball of love that has no where else to go, especially when the person that receives it most is gone.

And then one day— maybe a random Wednesday, maybe while they’re doing something mundane like folding laundry or cooking food and.. it hits. Maybe it was a scent that reminded them of you, maybe a song that you loved, maybe they found your belongings in a pocket of theirs, maybe they reach to the bottom of the basket and see your clothes waiting at the bottom for you— squished and flattened from the weight of the previous clothes piling up on them, waiting to be washed and be worn again on another sunny day as if everything was normal again, or maybe if they're cooking they perhaps had subconsciously cooked your favorite meal without realizing. And suddenly, they’re on the floor, their kneecaps digging into the wood as if the ache in their knees could distract the heaviness deep inside their heart. And suddenly, they can’t breathe, their heartbeat hammering into their ear drums. The reality crashes in: you're gone. And with it, something inside them collapses too. The idea of death that was once feared and distant, or maybe hard mixed feelings of wanting it or avoiding it, doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore— or lonely, because maybe it's less terrifying to know when the person you love most is waiting for you on the other side, and that's what makes it hurts less.

Satoru Gojo, Yuta Okkotsu, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Aoi Todo, Mahito, Shoko Ieiri, Miwa (jujutsu kaisen) Tengen Uzui, Muichiro Tokito, Kokushibo, Shinobu Kocho, Aoi Kanzaki (kimetsu no yaiba)

#THEY USE IT AS A RESOLVE

Your death forged something in them.. something sharp, something quiet, something unbreakable. They've grieved before and allowed it to hurt them to the deepest parts of them, but they've changed, they've grown, and they learned from it. The mourning was real and deep, yes, but it didn't last in the way others might expect. Instead, it hardened them— it turned the warmth in their chest to steel, like sharp barbed wires surrounding their heart, the sharpened spikes that was supposed to protect their own heart presses into their own heart too, and it hurts them just as much as it would hurt somebody else that attempts to get inside— but as long as it prevents others from reaching their heart the same way that you once did.. then maybe it's not so bad to feel the way that they feel.

They don’t flinch when they talk about you. They’ve learned how to speak of you in past tense without their voice shaking, they learned how to lock all that previous warmth in their voice when they say your name away. But their eyes... their eyes have never been the same, so dull and devoid of the brightness and affection they previously held for you and only for you. They've stopped letting people in (if they had even let anybody else in in the first place anyway), stopped letting themselves feel too much, too deeply. Love? That was yours. Only yours. There’s no room in their chest for anyone else, not now. Not ever. They focus on missions, on goals, on staying in motion, they go back to their previous mindset of fighting til they break instead of following the mundane one they once imagined with you (the idea of settling down with you is thrown into the deepest parts of their mind, if you weren't in it then they won't even bother to try to imagine anybody else in your place) because stillness only invites memory. They wear their grief like armor— heavy, silent, cold, and defensive. A part of them died with you, and no matter how many years pass, that part will never return.

They learn how to live without you, but if death presents itself in front of them while they're on the brink of death? then maybe, just maybe.. they stop struggling all together.

Ryomen Sukuna, Megumi Fushiguro, Toji Fushiguro, Choso, Toge Inumaki, Maki Zenin, Mai Zenin, Yuki Tsukumo (jujutsu kaisen) Obanai Iguro, Giyuu Tomioka, Sanemi Shinazugawa, Akaza, Kokushibo (kimetsu no yaiba)

#THEY PROPERLY MOURN

They don’t try to hide it. They can’t hide it. The tears come easily, sometimes without warning, like it replaced the routine that included you to be reduced to tears during the hours that you would usually be around. Their friends have heard the same stories of you a thousand times— but they listen anyway, they don't have the heart to get them to stop, not when they're mourning too. Their pain is loud and raw and endless, seemingly as if the tears never stopped day and night. Speaking of nights— nights are the worst. When everyone else has gone to bed, and there’s no one left to distract them? The silence is louder than their breathing, and they cry until sleep takes pity on them and allow some type of rest even if they're sniffling and soaking their own tears into the plush of their pillow. Their heart aches in a way that makes the world feel dimmer, slower, wrong. The grief doesn’t come in waves where it's easier on one day and harder on the next— it’s just there, constant like a finished heartbeat. Time doesn’t heal, not really. It just teaches them how to live around the absence.

But one day they'll learn how to smile again someday, even laugh, the pain never leaves but its easier to breathe. It sits beside them like a ghost. Then their pain shifts from a constant weight and a finished heartbeat to waves, some days are easier and some days are harder, days are shorter but sometimes they're longer, they stop crying about the reader during those lonely nights that much.. in comparison to before. Their friends help them along the way, like having a hand on their back constantly rubbing there softly and reassure that maybe they'll learn how to live without you. But they look for you in their dreams, or maybe they look in stars too— to see them glimmer and sparkle like you once did, or maybe in the flicker of candlelight for a sign from you. They beg the universe for a sign—just one. Maybe for you to show up in their dreams, maybe for you to whisper a sweet murmur in their ear when they're alone, maybe to feel the cold feeling of your cold hands holding them again— a far mimic from your once warm hands, anything. Just to know that you're doing okay now at where you're at. They just want to know that you're happy now at least. No longer in pain, no longer carrying the weight of others, whatever it was.. they hoped that you're given the same happiness that you gave to them. Because they will never, ever, forget the happiness they felt when they were with you. And one day, they'll learn how to live without you once again.

Yuji Itadori, Takuma Ino, Mitsuri Kanroji, Kanae Kocho, Nezuko Kamado (jujutsu kaisen) Zenitsu Agatsuma, Tanjiro Kamado, Inosuke Hashibira, Rengoku Kyojuro, Douma (kimetsu no yaiba)

frat!sukuna can’t stop touching you when you’re in his room. your waist, your hair, your jaw. always grounding himself with a hand somewhere on you. sometimes he just holds your face, thumb brushing your pretty lips before kissing you slow, like he’s savoring every second. afterward, when you pull away to breathe, he whispers, “yeah, we're definitely chemically bonded.”

frat!sukuna loves when you get all serious and nerdy about chemistry, talking with your hands and forgetting he’s there. he’ll nod along, pretending to follow, eyes fixed on your mouth. “kuna, you’re not even listening!” you say, narrowing your eyes. “nah, i am,” he grins. “just distracted by how hot my genius girlfriend looks explainin’ equilibrium or whatever the fuck.” you shove his muscular arm, he’s still smiling.

frat!sukuna gets real quiet when other guys talk to you. he doesn’t blow up, doesn’t make a scene, just slides an arm around your waist, lips brushing your temple like a warning as he pulls you close to him. “you good, baby?” he says loud enough for everyone to hear. the guy always backs off. later, in the comfort of your apartment he’ll grumpily mutter, “i don’t like sharin’ your attention,” against your neck.

frat!sukuna always wakes up before you, no matter how late he stayed up. he’ll just lie there for a while, propped on his elbow, watching you breathe against his big chest. he traces the outline of your shoulder with one finger, slow and careful, like he’s taking note of every inch of your soft skin. sometimes he’ll press a kiss to the crown of your head, whisper something like, “so fuckin' adorable, its unfair,” he’ll get up quietly, make coffee that’s way too strong, then come back just to sit on the edge of the bed and watch you stretch. you always catch him staring, and he never denies it.

frat!sukuna always keeps your things in his hoodie pocket. says it’s because you’re “always losin’ your shit,” but you know it's just because he likes to keep pieces of you close to himself. he'll randomly pull out one of your favourite glosses and take your jaw into his hand, unscrewing the lid with his teeth and free hand before carefully swiping it across your lips for you.

"there you go, baby. your lips were chapped." "when did you even take that?" "don't worry bout' it."

frat!sukuna grumbles every time you steal his clothes, but his smirk always gives him away. he’ll say something like, “that’s my favorite hoodie, you little shit,” while tugging the hem just to see how it fits on you. the sleeves swallow your hands, and he can’t look away. it’s half possessive, half soft. he’ll act like he’s irritated but if you try to give it back, he just shakes his head. “no, keep it. looks better on you anyway.”

frat!sukuna always finds an excuse to touch you when you’re studying together, knee against yours under the table, fingers brushing the back of your hand when he steals your pen. you roll your eyes when he asks questions he already knows the answer to, pretending to explain the chemistry problem just so you’ll lean in closer. when you catch him staring, he doesn’t look away. “focus, ryo,” you tease, and he grins. “oh, i am,” he says, voice low. later, when you finally finish the assignment, he’ll close your laptop and pull you into his lap, murmuring, “you know i only study ‘cause you make it look hot.”

frat!sukuna starts calling you “my girl” more often than your actual name. it slips out casually at first, in front of friends, during late-night calls, when he texts you goodnight. but the way he says it carries weight, like a promise. “my girl’s got a big test tomorrow,” he’ll brag to toji, pride softening his voice. when you call him out, teasing, “what, you get bored of my name?” he just smirks, leaning close until his breath ghosts over your ear. “i can't help it. been mine since that first day in chem, sweetheart. you just didn’t know it yet.” and when you blush, he grins like he’s just won the lottery.

frat!sukuna loves cooking with you even though he can’t cook for shit. you try to teach him, but he keeps sneaking behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. he’ll whisper something stupid like, “why cook when i can just eat you instead?” before you elbow him and tell him to stop teasing. still, he watches every move you make. by the time the food’s done, it’s cold because he’s too busy hoisting you up into the counter and kissing you deeply. “worth the wait,” he murmurs between gasps, lips tasting like spice and warmth.

frat!sukuna gets weirdly gentle after a fight. you’ll be pacing, still mad, and he just stands there, hands in his pockets, eyes following you. when you finally snap, “aren’t you gonna say something?” he sighs and pulls you close before you can protest. “i hate when we fight, baby,” he says, voice soft in a way that breaks you down instantly. he won’t apologize with words, he’ll do it with his hands, with the way he presses his forehead against yours and whispers, “you drive me fuckin’ crazy, but i can’t sleep without you next to me.” it’s messy, but it’s sweet.

frat!sukuna texts you random shit all day, even when he’s with the guys.

“miss you,” “you’d look cute in this shirt,” “come over, the house’s too quiet.”

you tease him about being clingy, but he never denies it. if you don’t reply fast enough, he sends an over the top reaction pic captioned: guess i’ll just shoot myself in the throat, then. but when you finally show up at the frat, he’s leaning against the door like he wasn’t waiting patiently. “jeez, took you long enough,” he says, smirk slipping the second he pulls you in by the waist. his texts are playful, but the way he kisses you isn’t.

frat!sukuna always keeps something of yours in his room. maybe your scrunchie, a necklace, your perfume bottle half-empty on his shelf. he says it’s accidental, but you catch him holding your hair tie once, twirling it around his fingers like a nervous habit. “smells like you,” he mumbles, eyes distant. when you tease him, he shrugs. “reminds me why i put up with you.” but when you’re gone for a few days, that’s the first thing he grabs, the small trace of you that keeps his chest from feeling too empty. he’d never say it, but those little pieces are his comfort.

frat!sukuna is addicted to your laugh. he’ll make the dumbest jokes just to hear it, smirking every time you try to hold it in. “don’t hide your laugh,” he says, voice low. “it’s adorable.” sometimes he tickles you until you’re crying with laughter, his grin wide and boyish. “never seen you this happy,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. then, quieter, “wanna be the reason for it every day.” it’s moments like that when his walls drop, when you see the softness under all the tattoos and sharp grins. he looks at you like you’re the first good thing he’s ever known.

frat!sukuna likes when you wear his shirts to bed, thin fabric slipping off your shoulder, nothing underneath but skin. he’ll pull you closer, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your thigh. “fuck, i want you, so badly,” he whispers against your ear before kissing that spot on your neck that makes you melt. "you look so fuckable in my clothes, you're so adorable." his shirt ends up forgotten somewhere on the floor after a few minutes.

frat!sukuna pretends he’s focused on the movie, but his hand keeps wandering. first your knee, then higher, higher, until he's got one of his fingers pressing down on your clothes clit, you gasp his name. he smirks without looking away from the screen. “you're so tempting,” he says, voice low, “be a good girl and let me take care of you.” the credits roll before you realize you haven’t seen a single frame.

frat!sukuna gets off on seeing you flustered. loves leaning in close when he talks, just to watch your breath hitch. “what’s wrong, sweetheart?” he murmurs, eyes dark. “can’t handle me this close?” when you push him away, he only grins wider, whispering, “you're so easy to tease. y' sure you don't want me closer?” knowing damn well you do.

frat!sukuna always ends up behind you when you’re brushing your teeth at his sink. bare chest against your back, arms sliding around your waist. he’ll kiss your shoulder between words, muffled by toothpaste. “you look so pretty in the mornings, love.” he murmurs, “so adorable, even with bed head.” you roll your eyes, but his reflection in the mirror is smiling.

frat!sukuna has a thing for hearing you say his name. not “sukuna,” but the quiet, breathy way you say it when you’re half-asleep or half-undone under his relentless hands. he’ll push your hair back and whisper, “say it again,” like it’s the only word he wants to remember. you notice the way his eyes blow out with that feral look each time you let the word slip, his pace always shuddering with desperation as the syllables fall out of your mouth.

frat!sukuna makes you sit in his lap during parties. says it’s “so no one else gets ideas,” but his fingers trace circles on your thigh the whole time, his breath hot against your ear. you try to focus on what the people around you are trying to talk to you about, but all you can feel is him murmuring, “good girl, stay right here.” and you always do, feeling him grow harder and harder underneath you as you squirm in embarrassment.

frat!sukuna likes when you steal his rings. he’ll catch your hand midair, smirk tugging at his mouth. “you tryin’ to claim me or somethin’?” he teases, sliding one onto your finger himself. “fine. but now everyone’s gonna know who you belong to.” you pretend to protest, but the way his eyes linger says you love it too.

frat!sukuna has a habit of whispering filthy things between soft ones. “you’re beautiful,” he says, lips brushing your neck. “you drive me fucking insane.” then lower, rougher—“can't wait til' we're alone... m' gonna ruin your pretty little body, make you forget everything but me.” his tone shifts so easily it leaves your head spinning. and afterward, when you’re tangled in sheets, he’s still whispering, “all mine,” like it's gospel.

frat!sukuna takes his time with you. he never rushes sex. he’ll kiss you like he’s got nowhere else to be, fingers pushing into you slowly with careful attention, his voice a low rasp: “fuck, you're so tight for me, baby. taking me sooo well.” when you finish and you're a mess of breathless gasps, he grins. “told you i could make you forget everything, didn’t i?”

frat!sukuna is constantly staring at you. in the library, in class, even across crowded rooms. he doesn’t look away when you notice — just smiles big and dopey, like he got caught stealing something he already owns. “whattt?” you ask. “nothin’,” he says, eyes lingering on your lips. “just can’t believe you’re real sometimes.” you never stop blushing after that.

frat!sukuna only really trusts you around a handful of people — nanami, choso, maybe gojo on a really good day. everyone else? he keeps a hand on your back, eyes scanning the room like he’s ready to start something. “don’t need the guys talkin’ to you too much, fillin' your head with their bullshit ideas,” he mutters. “can't have them corrupting your pretty little mind.” you just smile, because sukuna's possessive side was the cutest thing you'd ever witnessed.

frat!sukuna loves buying you little things for no reason — hair clips, pens shaped like beakers, plushies he pretends are for “decoration.” when you ask why, he shrugs. “saw it, thought of you.” but the truth is, he likes knowing that everywhere you look, there’s something that reminds you of him. every trinket a quiet, wordless kind of love note.

frat!sukuna lays across your stomach while you study, head turned toward the pages like he’s pretending to read. really, he’s just listening to your heartbeat. you complain that he’s heavy, but he hums, tracing circles on your side. “helps me focus,” he lies. you know he’s just trying to anchor himself in your calm, his chaos finally quiet.

frat!sukuna gets obsessed with the way you concentrate. the way your brows furrow, your lips move when you read under your breath. he’ll be across the room, supposed to be doing something else, and he’ll just stand there, watching. “what?” you ask without looking up. he grins. “just admirin’ my favorite nerd.” you roll your eyes, he smiles like an idiot.

frat!sukuna gets territorial in tiny, stupid ways. wipes your lipstick from his cheek but leaves it on his throat. lets people see the marks you leave but glares if anyone stares too long. when you scold him, he just smirks. “you started it, sweetheart.” the next day, his jaw’s bruised from your teeth, and he’s never looked prouder.

frat!sukuna keeps showing up at your dorm with snacks, claiming it’s for “study fuel.” half the time he just watches you eat, chin in his hand, smiling like he’s got everything he’s ever wanted right there. “you’re so cute when you chew,” he teases, dodging your pen when you throw it at him. he laughs. “my favorite nerd.”

frat!sukuna was being mysterious. you got a text from your man at some random hour of the afternoon, it simply read, "i'm coming over, baby." you hearted the message and sent a cute sticker in return, just assuming he was coming over to chill.

you open the door to see his big, brooding stature, dressed in a casual black beater and loose sweatpants.

"hey, sweetheart. missed you." he gave you a peck on the cheek before walking past you into your apartment like second nature. you smiled and let him drag you to the couch, falling down onto his lap as he wrapped his arms around your waist and peppered your face in feather light kisses.

"i'm gonna show you something, but you promise you can't freak, hmm?"

you looked at him skeptically, but smiled anyway, nodding your head as he grabbed the hem of his shirt. without warning, he lifted it up and off, revealing his tatted upper body, one you'd seen countless times. only, there seemed to be a new addition...

resting softly against his left pec, was a tattoo of your name in a pretty, classy font. your eyes go wide as you cover your mouth with your hand.

"are you... are you deadass?"

"i'm so deadass." he replied, smiling down at you as your fingers trailed over the slightly red mark. he laughed at your expression, one of pure shock and enthralment.

"okay... we have to get married now."

his reputation was built off of hot, messy nights and really shitty decisions. the kind where he’d stumble out of one girl’s dorm room at 2.a.m only to crash a sorority mixer at 3.

the kind where he’d hook up with someone’s best friend on friday, then text that same girl’s roommate on saturday. he didn’t discriminate either. freshmen, seniors, sorority girls, athletes, even a teaching assistant once, if the rumors were true.

he had a type, sure, but it was less about looks and more about who was available and willing to let him flash that cocky grin in their direction.

and when he wasn’t fucking half the campus population? he was talking shit, running his mouth. satoru lived to mind fuck anyone who crossed his path.

he’d clap back at professors mid-lecture, throw casual digging insults at his teammates during practice, or lean out of the frat house windows yelling down at passersby just to get a rise out of them. he thrived on being the insufferable asshole everyone loved to hate.

gojo wasn't one to settle, he was loud, fast paced, and too full of himself to really slow down and appreciate anything.

so it was no surprise that when he strutted into your social studies lecture, ten minutes late with sunglasses on and a protein shake in hand, no one batted an eye. it was just gojo being gojo.

you, though, you were new to the spectacle.

you had slipped into the back row that day, notebook neatly open, pen poised in your hand. you weren’t the kind of person who drew attention. you came to class, you took notes, you went home. simple. your world was quiet, orderly, filled with the kind of softness that most people overlooked.

gojo didn’t notice you at first. why would he? he was too busy propping his feet up on the desk in front of him, whispering some crude joke to the guy next to him, grinning when the professor sighed like she wanted to strangle him.

but then, halfway through the lecture, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

you.

and he swore to god, he almost choked on his spit.

you were leaning prettily over your notebook, hair falling in your face as you scribbled cliff notes like the lecture actually mattered. your pen tapped lightly against the page when you paused to think. and then, you looked up. only for a second. but your eyes lifted toward the projector screen, the light catching your face just right.

and gojo’s brain short-circuited.

what the fuck.

how had he never seen you before? he knew everyone, or at least knew of them. but you? you looked like you belonged in another world entirely. drop dead gorgeous, so soft, too perfect, too out of place in a boring lecture hall where he usually dozed off.

you weren’t looking at him. you didn’t laugh when he cracked a piss funny joke under his breath. you didn’t whisper to the girl next to you about whatever scandal he got himself into recently. you didn’t even glance his way.

that was new.

for the first time in maybe forever, gojo felt... thrown off.

he kept sneaking glances the rest of the lecture, his sunglasses sliding down his nose so he could actually see you better. every time you tucked your hair behind your ear or chewed on your pen cap, his chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.

he leaned over to whisper something to nanami who sat next to him, "nanamin, that girl... oh my god, she is the prettiest person i've ever fucking seen, what the fuck?"

nanami glanced up at who he was talking about and was clearly a little taken aback as well, but agreed promptly nonetheless.

you weren’t loud, you weren’t dressed to turn heads, you weren’t doing anything at all to stand out. and yet, he couldn’t make himself stop staring even if he tried.

the second class ended, you packed up quickly and slipped out before he could catch you. but that didn’t matter.

because now he was head over heels obsessed with a girl he didn't even know the name of.

later that night, while the frat house was pulsing with music and sweaty bodies crushed together on the dance floor, gojo sat sprawled across the couch with a beer in hand.

girls passed by, some throwing him flirty smiles, one even trying to perch herself in his lap. normally, that would have been the highlight of his night. but instead, his mind kept circling back to the image of you in that back row seat.

who the hell were you? some perfect slice of heaven he couldn't stop dreaming about.

by midnight, he was leaning over to sukuna, half-drunk and half-crazed, muttering, “bro, i saw the prettiest girl in lecture today. like, actually insane. i think i’m in love with her.”

sukuna laughed in his face, obviously. told him he was full of shit.

but gojo wasn’t joking.

and for once, it wasn’t about a conquest. it wasn’t about proving he could get you or wrecking another heart. it was just… you. the way you looked so unbothered by him, so wrapped up in your own little world, so untouchably kind without even saying a word.

gojo was absolutely star struck.

and for the first time in his ridiculous life, he finally took a deeper look at himself and saw a problem with his overall personality.

he wanted more than just a night with you. he wanted you to actually see him for what he was. which, to anyone's standard, wasn't anything worth wanting. he figured if he just stuck by you long enough, made a good first impression, the rumours wouldn't catch up to you, and he could rebuild his own image in your eyes.

~

the next time he knew he would see you, he didn’t waste a second.

gojo showed up to lecture early, which was unheard of. that day he was already in the room when you walked in, slouched casually in the back row like he hadn’t been waiting there for fifteen minutes just to see you again.

you slid into the same seat, pulling out your notebook like always. and before you could even click your pen, there he was, leaning one long arm across the desk between you.

“hey, pretty girl.” he drawled, voice lazy but eyes sharp on your face. “i’m satoru.”

you blinked at him, surprised he’d even spoken to you. “hi.”

“hi?” his grin widened. “that’s it? no ‘oh my god, you’re the satoru gojo?'” as soon as it left his mouth he internally strangled himself.

'yikes... i'm embarrassing.'

you raised an eyebrow, a little confused. "is that... not a normal reaction?”

he laughed, loud enough to draw looks from a few rows ahead. you turned back to your notebook, a slight blush of embarrassment brushing your cheeks as you fiddled with your pen.

he felt his throat close up at a lack of words to say to you, like you'd struck him so hard with your allure he couldn't bark out an insensitive comment if he tried. and just like that, he knew he was screwed.

because you weren’t impressed. not in the way everyone else was. you weren’t leaning toward him, batting your lashes, asking for his number before he even offered it. you were polite, a little cautious, maybe even amused, but not smitten.

gojo lived for attention. but yours? yours he had to earn. and for the first time, he wanted to.

after that, he stuck to you like glue.

if you were in class, he was next to you, pretending to take notes while actually doodling dumb cartoons in the margins and sliding them your way.

if you lingered in the hallway after lecture, he was suddenly at your side, cracking jokes and asking what you were doing later, and if he could tag along.

if you went to the library, somehow he was there too, sprawling across from you and loudly declaring he was there to “study” while actually distracting you until you gave in and laughed.

he followed you like a lost puppy, and everyone noticed.

the girls he used to text at 1.a.m stopped hearing from him. his name faded from gossip about who hooked up with who last weekend. even his frat brothers were suspicious, watching as the guy who used to thrive on chaos suddenly spent his time orbiting one person.

“you’re whipped,” choso muttered one night, exhaling smoke as he leaned back on the couch. the party raged around them, bass shaking the walls, but gojo wasn’t on the dance floor. he was sprawled beside choso, drink untouched, talking about you.

“not whipped,” gojo argued, though his grin betrayed him. “just… invested.”

“bro, you haven’t gotten laid in like a month.”

“so? i don’t need to. she’s different.”

“different,” choso echoed flatly, passing him the joint.

gojo didn’t even smoke it. just twirled it between his fingers, staring into the crowd like he could manifest you appearing there even though he knew you’d never set foot in a place like this.

because that was the thing, he learned quickly you weren’t a party girl. you’d wrinkle your nose when he invited you to a rager, politely decline with a smile that never felt judgmental, just firm. you told him you preferred nights in, maybe a movie or book before bed.

at first, it drove him insane. he wanted you here, pressed into his side on the couch while the music pulsed and the drinks flowed.

he wanted to show you off, parade you through the crowd like proof he’d actually caught something precious. but he also didn’t want to push you.

so instead, he stayed sober at parties, sinking into the couch with choso or nanami and rambling about you.

how your laugh had slipped out in class that day when he whispered something dumb under his breath.

how your handwriting was neat enough to frame.

how you always brought an extra granola bar and offered it to him without thinking, like kindness was your default setting.

“i wish she liked this shit,” he admitted one night, watching the door like maybe you’d magically walk through it. “like, imagine her sitting here with us. i’d never leave the couch.”

“you already never leave the couch,” choso pointed out.

“yeah, but if she was here, it’d be romantic.”

nanami groaned. “you’re insufferable.”

but none of them had ever seen gojo like this. he wasn’t chasing anyone else, wasn’t flashing his usual cocky smirk at every girl who crossed his path.

his phone, once a graveyard of unanswered texts from hookups, was now filled with half-written drafts to you. memes he wanted to send, dumb thoughts he thought might make you laugh, questions about class he didn’t actually need answers to.

and you, well, you thought he was just being friendly.

when he plopped down next to you in the cafeteria, stealing fries off your tray and launching into some dramatic story about how his friend yuji nearly set the kitchen on fire, you laughed and rolled your eyes. when he followed you to the bookstore, carrying your bag without asking and tossing commentary at every shelf you paused at, you shook your head but didn’t push him away.

"ooo, romance huh? spicy." he teased, ruffling your hair from his much taller stature.

you'd just smile in response and elbow him in the ribs before moving onto the next shelf.

when he texted you at 1.a.m with a picture of his half-finished essay and a caption like “this is actually so fucking bad. please help me?” you sent back a sleepy laughing emoji and told him you'd help him tommorow after class.

to you, he was becoming a friend. an annoying, persistent, weirdly charming friend, but a friend all the same.

to him, though, you were everything. he'd carefully made sure not to let any sort of mean comment slip, no display of rude and selfish gojo around you, that's for sure. he'd rather cut his hand off then be anything but kind to you.

two months slipped by like that. two months of him ignoring every girl who still tried to flirt with him, brushing them off with a distracted smile. two months of him waiting outside your classes just to walk you home. two months of him sitting at frat parties with choso, whining about how badly he wanted you to see him the way he saw you.

every day he grew more certain. every night he grew more restless.

because this wasn’t a fling. not anymore.

he wanted you. not for a night, not for a quick win, but for real.

and gojo satoru, the campus asshole, the frat boy slut, the guy who never before cared about someone quite as much as you, was willing to wait as long as it took for you to realize it. he was in love with you.

~

by the time the second month bled into the third, everyone around him was sick of hearing your name.

“bro, you literally said her name four times in the last five minutes,” itadori groaned, dropping his controller when gojo steamrolled him in mario kart for the fifth time straight. “i get it, she has cute handwriting. shut up.”

“you don’t understand,” gojo fired back, grinning like an idiot. “it’s not just cute, it’s like… aesthetically pleasing. symmetrical. satisfying.”

megumi sighed from the other end of the couch. “you sound insane.”

“i’m in love,” gojo corrected, then flopped backwards so his head hung off the couch, hair brushing the floor. “and none of you support me. fake friends.”

he was unbearable. everyone knew it. his frat brothers started taking bets on when he’d crack and either confess to you or combust from sheer pining. even sukuna, who usually wanted nothing to do with other people’s lives, snapped one night when gojo showed up at his door for the fifth time in a week, ranting about how you’d smiled at him in class.

“jesus christ,” sukuna growled, tossing a pillow at his face. “just ask her out already before i sew your mouth shut.”

but asking you out wasn’t that simple.

gojo had never been nervous about that kind of thing before. usually, if he wanted someone, he got them. he didn’t even have to try. one smile, one joke, and girls were climbing into his lap at parties. rejection wasn’t in his vocabulary.

but you weren’t like them.

you were careful. he noticed it in the way you took your time answering him sometimes, like you were weighing his words for hidden meaning. in the way you tilted your head when he told a story, like you were trying to figure out what was true and what was exaggeration. in the way you politely ignored the flirty comments he sometimes let slip, as if you didn’t want to encourage him.

you didn’t trust him. not fully. and why would you?

his reputation clung to him like smoke. you’d probably heard the stories, everyone had. how he slept around, how he treated people like toys, how he broke hearts without blinking. and maybe you thought you’d just be another notch in his bedpost if you gave him a chance.

the thing was, you weren’t wrong. if this had been a year ago, maybe even a few months ago, that would’ve been exactly what he wanted. but now? now he wanted something real. something terrifying for him.

he wanted you.

so for weeks, he stalled. he walked you to your cute little apartment every single day without fail, made you laugh until you covered your mouth to hide your smile, never let you carry anything, bought you coffee. he turned down girls left right and center, letting their numbers rot unread in his phone. yet he lingered on your texts, typing and deleting responses just to make sure they came out right.

but still, the words “will you go out with me” stuck like cement in his throat.

until one friday afternoon.

the two of you had stayed late in the library, your notes spread across the table while he pretended to study but really just doodled little caricatures of you on his paper. the sun dipped low through the windows, painting everything gold. you pushed your books into your bag and stretched, your sweater slipping just enough to reveal your collarbone, and gojo nearly lost his mind.

he had to do it. he couldn’t drag this out anymore.

“hey,” he blurted, voice sharper than he meant. you glanced at him, eyebrows raised, and he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly uncharacteristically awkward. “so, uh… i’ve been thinking.”

“hmm, that's dangerous,” you teased, zipping up your bag.

“ha ha. real funny. no, seriously.” he leaned forward, trying to mask how fast his heart was beating. “i really like you, y/n.”

you froze. your hands stilled on your bag, and your eyes flicked up to his. cautious. guarded.

“satoru…”

“no, wait, don’t give me that voice,” he rushed, holding up a hand. “the one that’s like ‘you’re full of shit, satoru.’ i’m not. i really really mean it.”

you sighed, and for a moment, he thought you might laugh in his face. “you have a pretty bad reputation with girls, you know.”

“yeah... i know.” his grin faltered, replaced by something rawer. “but, y/n, i swear, you're not like those stupid flings, okay? genuinely i really like you.”

you pause again, searching his eyes for any hint of deceit. "i dunno toru..."

“look... i know i was abit of, well... a whore. but please believe me. ever since i met you, y/n... i've stopped all of that shit.”

he leaned closer, voice low, almost pleading. “i haven’t touched anyone else since i met you. i don’t even look at anyone else. i think about you when i wake up, when i go to bed, every dumb second in between. i’m not good at this whole… sincerity thing, but i’m trying, because you’re worth it.”

your lips parted, surprise flickering across your face.

“please,” he added, softer now. “just one date. if i’m still the asshole everyone thinks i am, you can walk away. but give me the chance to prove i’m not.”

silence stretched between you. his palms were sweaty against the table, heart hammering so hard he swore you could hear it.

finally, you exhaled. “okay, satoru.”

his head snapped up. “wait- really?"

“yes you big dummy,” you joked, standing and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

gojo shot to his feet so fast his chair screeched against the floor. “you won’t regret this. i swear, you won’t. best date of your life, promise.”

you shook your head, but there was the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at your lips.

and just like that, he was soaring.

he walked you home that evening practically buzzing out of his skin. every step felt too small for how big the moment was. he wanted to shout it off rooftops, text everyone in his contacts, run a victory lap around campus.

instead, he saved it until he got back to the frat house.

the second he walked in, he threw his arms up like he’d just won a championship. “boys!” he bellowed, voice carrying over the tv. “she said yes!”

heads turned. groans and cheers erupted in equal measure. itadori nearly spit out his drink, megumi buried his face in his hands, and choso just muttered, “thank god” under his breath.

but gojo wasn’t done.

he bounded up the stairs two at a time and slammed open sukuna’s door. “she said yes!”

sukuna scowled from his desk, mid-study. “get out.”

“no, listen, she actually said yes! first date, it’s happening, i’m a taken man now, kiss bachelor gojo goodbye!”

a pillow hit him square in the face. “i don’t care.”

“you care a little,” gojo sang, ducking out before sukuna could throw something heavier.

then he bolted to the kitchen, where nanami was quietly making tea. he skidded in, nearly crashing into the counter, and declared, “nanamin, she said yes.”

nanami didn’t even look up. “please stop yelling.”

“you don’t get it,” gojo insisted, grabbing him by the shoulders. “this is life-changing. history in the making. i’m officially off the market.”

“congratulations,” nanami deadpanned, prying his hands off. “now leave me alone.”

but nothing could dull his grin. not the groans, not the insults, not the pillows thrown at his face. because for the first time in his ridiculous, chaotic life, satoru gojo had something real to hold onto.

and it was you.

~

the night of your first date, gojo treated it like he was gearing up for war.

not the usual frat boy “spray on half a can of cologne and call it a day” kind of prep. no, he actually cared this time. he spent a full hour in front of the mirror, changing shirts three times, arguing with himself about whether a button-up was too try-hard or if a hoodie was too lazy. nanami, who had the misfortune of walking past his room, stopped dead in the doorway and just stared.

“what are you doing,” nanami asked flatly.

“bro, i have a date, obviously."

“never seen you this stressed about getting ready for a dumb date.”

“no, you don’t get it. it’s the date. first date with y/n.”

nanami sighed so hard it sounded painful. “oh yeah. god help that poor girl.”

but underneath the jokes and chaos, gojo’s chest was tight with nerves. his hands actually shook when he tied his sneakers. when had that ever happened before? he’d walked into hookups without a single thought, breezed through flings like they were nothing. but you weren’t a fling. you were the one person he couldn’t afford to screw this up with.

he showed up right on time, knocking on your door with his heart hammering against his ribs. when you opened it, dressed prettily and glowing in a way that made him lose his breath, he forgot every dumb speech he’d rehearsed in the mirror.

“you look…” he swallowed, his usual smooth confidence tripping over itself. “holy shit. you look amazing.”

you flushed, ducking your head. “thanks, toru. you too.”

he grinned, wide and unrestrained, and offered his arm like he was escorting you to a ball instead of just dinner.

the date wasn’t extravagant. gojo debated booking some over-the-top spot, something flashy to prove he was serious. but then he remembered what you’d told him, you liked cozy, simple things. so he picked a quiet ramen place off campus, one with dim lights and big portions, where you could actually talk.

and talk you did.

at first, you were slightly guarded despite talking to him everyday for the past three months, shoulders tense, answers a tad clipped. but gojo didn’t push. he asked about your home life, your favorite everything, whether you liked digimon?

he told you dumb stories about his frat, exaggerated his way through a tale about sukuna accidentally breaking a chair with one punch, and laughed at his own jokes just to see if it would make you laugh too.

slowly, you relaxed. your smiles came easier, your laughter softer but genuine. and every time you looked at him, really looked, he felt like he was being seen in a way no one else had ever bothered to. not as campus legend, not as the asshole frat boy, just as satoru.

by the time dinner ended, you weren’t thinking about his reputation anymore. you were thinking about how he held the door for you, how he listened when you spoke, how he didn’t make a single flirty comment that felt like a game.

you were thinking maybe, just maybe, he meant it.

afterwards, he walked you home. the night air was cool, the campus quiet except for distant laughter and the hum of streetlamps. he shoved his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to reach for yours.

“so,” he said, tilting his head toward you. “be honest. was that the worst date of your life, or just bottom three?”

you laughed, shaking your head. “yeah, it was good.”

“good?” he gasped, feigning offense. “just good? i poured my heart and soul into that top tier date.”

“finee. it was really good, satoru.”

his grin softened, and he hummed sweetly. “better.”

you stopped outside your apartment, turning to face him. for a moment, neither of you spoke. the world felt smaller, quieter, the air between you charged.

“thanks for tonight, it was really fun... i really enjoyed it, toru,” you said.

“no no, thanks for saying yes.” his voice dropped, sincerity seeping through. “seriously. i know you didn’t have to. i know what people say about me. but… i’m glad you gave me a chance.”

you hesitated, then smiled. “me too.”

gojo’s heart soared. "so... how about a second date?" he asked with a shy blush, fiddling with his fingers behind his back.

you smiled softly, and let your eyes fall to the floor before responding with a bashful laugh. "of course, i'd love that."

he wanted to kiss you, wanted it so bad his chest ached with it. but he didn’t push. instead, he stepped back with a lopsided grin. "thank god. i'll make the second one even better, y/n, promise."

for once in his life he wasn't following someone inside after a date to get what he wanted, he was taking things slow, at your pace.

“sleep well, sweetheart.”

you disappeared inside, and the second the door shut behind you, he nearly exploded.

he jogged back to the frat house like he had rockets strapped to his shoes, grinning so hard his face hurt. the second he burst through the front door, he shouted at the top of his lungs.

“she had fun! she actually had fun! i didn’t blow it!”

the guys groaned from the living room.

“we get it!” itadori yelled.

but gojo was unstoppable. he sprinted upstairs to sukuna’s room, threw the door open without knocking, and declared, “she likes me!”

“get the fuck out,” sukuna growled.

“she likes me,” gojo repeated, ignoring the death glare. “i told you i wasn’t full of shit!”

“if you don’t leave in five seconds, you won’t live to see a second date.”

gojo ducked out, laughing like a madman, and bolted straight to the kitchen. nanami was, once again, making tea.

“nanamin!” gojo sang, sliding across the tile like a kid. “she laughed at my jokes. she smiled with me. she actually said she had fun.”

“you’re very loud,” nanami muttered, not looking up.

“i’m very in love,” gojo shot back, leaning against the counter with a dreamy sigh.

nanami rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

for the rest of the night, gojo couldn’t stop. he told anyone who would listen, hell, even people who didn’t want to, that he’d taken you out, that it went well, that you’d agreed to a second date. he paced the halls at 2.a.m, still riding the high, muttering to himself about what he’d plan next time.

and for once, the frat didn’t tease him too hard. because they all saw it.

the way he lit up at the mention of you. the way his grin softened when he said your name. the way the infamous campus asshole had gone three whole months without a single hookup, without a single scandal, because he only wanted one girl.

satoru gojo, the untouchable, the heartbreaker, the menace, was finally caught.

and the truth was, he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

"hmm... maybe a cat cafe next."

awe i love writing frat gojo 🤗

happy kinktober guys, i might push some work out but i need some ideas for the kinks you wanna see!

m.list 💞

ShyCheerleader!Reader who does not even know how to cheer that well. Her best friend made her join so that she could get out of her comfort zone and show that adorable smile of hers to everyone on campus :3

ShyCheerleader!Reader who cheers for her first game, and is literally just rigid, her movements so stiff it's insane. Her eyes are wide like a scared mouse, and god she just wishes she could run back home and binge watch cat videos on youtube to get over the embarrassment.

FratJock!Satoru can't help but notice during halftime that she's the only cheerleader still practicing, instead of resting with the rest of the cheer squad. Most people don't bat an eye at her, but after he finishes discussing game strategy with his team, he walks up to her and creates small talk.

"You're nervous,” he states, more like a fact than an observation.

“…No?” you respond back, your voice monotone yet betraying your true nervousness. Also, because you’ve never talked to the most popular guy on campus, and don’t want him to think that everyone falls in love with him immediately.

Because obviously, all popular guys think that way.

“You sure?” he asks, masking his sarcasm with a question. You try to ignore him, to go back to your practice, before he fishes something out of his pocket.

“Take this," he throws a tiny packet towards you. You catch it, slightly startled and out of balance. For a second, you think he just gave you a drug, but then you open your palm to see ginger electrolyte powder.

“Helps me before big games,” he states simply, before looking at you. His hands are in his pockets, and he begins jogging back to his team.

“Try it out, it’s gonna help!”

FratJock!Satoru who is just a chill guy and always unserious. He's okay when it's just a college game. But when it's a high-stakes game, there's nothing that can distract him. On the field, he's a completely different guy altogether. His head is in the game, and he already strategises ten different ways to gain victory. There's a reason he's the best player on the team.

FratJock!Satoru is only serious about football. He's a ladies' man, literally for all age groups. Girls on campus flock around him, old grannies ruffle his hair and give him candy like he's some seven-year-old. Even the little girls he meets when he's playing football with the young school boys in his hometown give him innocent little love letters from time to time, which he obviously just gives back to them with a sigh and an apologetic smile, telling them that they can't (and shouldn't) marry a guy an entire decade older than them.

FratJock!Satoru plays football in the morning, parties until sunrise, and somehow still passes all his classes. He's always hooking up with a different girl every week, absolutely no strings attached, and when they do get attached, he just ignores them. Not because he wants them to stop following him around, but because he can't, for the life of him, let himself get attached. And most of the time he doesn't, because he's never met a girl who wants him for anything other than his pretty face and body.

FratJock!Satoru who starts noticing ShyCheerleader!Reader a bit more after the first interaction he had with her. He's never seen a quiet girl like her on the cheer team, because most of them are usually in popular friend groups. So obviously, he's intrigued and approaches her. He asks her if his ginger powder electrolyte worked, and from then on, he's talking to her like she's his friend.

ShyCheerleader!Reader always comes to cheer practice with her big sling bag full of books, her iPad, and cheerleading pom poms. FratJock!Satoru is always looking, because he swears he saw you and your friend play digimon together in the cafeteria one day, and he cannot help the nerd inside of him from getting overexcited.

ShyCheerleader!Reader tries to ignore him, gives him short and curt replies, because popular jocks who hook up with every pretty girl on campus and are also part of the fraternity? She hates them. They are the same kind of people who would have bullied her when she was a little girl, the same kind of guys who would always pick her pretty friends over her.

FratJock!Satoru is just confused. He just wants to nerd out with her because no one else on campus has ever even heard about Digimon :(

FratJock!Satoru notices her reluctance to talk to him about nerdy stuff, her fearing she may be too much of a loser for him, and that he'd probably talk shit about her to his friends. She thinks he's the typical douche bag popular guy she finds everywhere. However, all of that is flown out the window when she finds a cold bottle of Pocari Sweat next to her bag during cheer practice, with a note attached to it saying:

"I somehow found a huge stash of that manga you said you like in the library. Meet me after practice? ;P"

FratJock!Satoru and she meet up. They start talking, getting closer, and most importantly, getting comfortable with each other. He realises that this is the most entertaining conversation he's had in a very long time. He doesn't feel the need to be fake or superficial; he's genuinely interested.

ShyCheerleader!Reader does not know much about Digimon, and suddenly FratJock!Satoru tunes into his inner nerd, going on and on about digimon, giving her knowledge from the depths of the digimon dungeons. And somehow, she finds it adorable, because this was the first time she was seeing another side of him.

ShyCheerleader!Reader eventually realises she's talking to FratJock!Satoru more, almost craving conversations with him. Because maybe not all jocks are mean. Especially one who is always so nice to her, talks to her with interest, stands up for her, appreciates her talents, and eases her nerves before cheerleading. He's sweet, pretty, and… biceps.

FratJock!Satoru and she meet up more often and get to know each other more. He's there during her cheer practice, coincidentally, most of the time, patching up another bruised knee or forehead every single time she falls right onto her butt.

FratJock!Satoru reassures her that she'll get better with time and makes sure she doesn't cry from sheer embarrassment. He's immediately giving a death stare to anyone who laughs at her. He thinks she's cute; he's always thought she's cute. But it's the first time he notices just how pretty she is.

ShyCheerleader!Reader however, is always on edge, trying her best not to mess up, especially when FratJock!Satoru is there. He can't help but catch her eyes wandering towards him every time, maybe when he's stretching or when he's drinking water with the rest of the cheer team also surrounding him. He almost wishes she was also one of the girls in the crowd surrounding him, although he doubts whether he'd be able to keep his eyes off of her without making it too obvious.

ShyCheerleader!Reader doesn't want to stand out or come off as different. She's just always on edge, especially when FratJock!Satoru is around. And she is also starting to notice how his mere presence makes her heart speed up

FratJock!Satoru starts to skip parties, instead preferring to go to ShyCheerleader!Reader place, chill and play some video games for the night, maybe teach her more about digimon while watching her make instant ramen. It's the calmest he's felt around someone, and with how sweet she is to him, he doesn't feel ashamed to be his real self.

FratJock!Satoru realises he likes ShyCheerleader!Reader. Like, a lot. How could he not? She's sweet, refreshing, absolutely adorable, and so goddamn witty it almost drives him insane sometimes. She's shy, but she knows how to stand up for herself, even though it scares her. And he loves it, he loves the way she tries, despite knowing she's not a good cheerleader. He pretty much loves everything about her, and he doesn't mind skipping nights full of alcohol and unnecessary hookups if instead he gets to be with her in her room, patching her bruises up while telling her about his day. She might not be a good cheerleader, but he'll still cheer her on even when she's tripping again and pissing her entire team off. He knows nothing's gonna happen when he's watching. No one disses his girl.

"Got hurt again?" He murmured with a soft sigh, dabbing the cotton bud lightly onto the plush of your bruised cheek. "...Yeah." You fiddled with the box of cotton buds, your gaze downcast. It's so embarrassing always having him patch you up like this. He didn't say anything, his expression nothing but concentration and concern, his touch gentle yet clearly unskilled. "Well... did you at least make any improvements today?" A beat of silence, while you tried to think of a way you didn't mess up during practice. "I, uhm... didn't drop the pom poms this time...?" Your voice was shaky, unsure. But despite your uncertainty, his expression gave way to a satisfied grin. "Yeah?" You nod. And he hums back, his voice soft and fond. "That's my girl."

divider by @cafekitsune

a/n: whew… now lets see if I ever get the motivation to turn this into a full blown series!! (sweatdrops)

that’s his way out. he just needs a smart partner who can carry his hopeless ass.

sukuna’s eyes sweep across the room, scanning for anyone who looks like they know what the hell they’re doing. most of the people he usually talks to in class are as useless as he is, too busy flirting or sleeping through lectures.

but then his gaze catches on someone sitting right up the front.

you.

the quiet girl with the tidy notes and the neat handwriting, the one who always answers when the professor asks a question no one else dares to.

you’re sitting there now, head slightly tilted as you jot something down, your pen gliding across the page with that easy confidence of someone who actually understands this shit.

you’ve always sat alone, tucked near the window. you never talk during lectures unless you have to, and even then your voice is small, hesitant. you wear oversized sweaters, keep your hair pinned up, and avoid eye contact with anyone who looks remotely like they belong to his world.

still, he’s noticed you before. everyone has. it’s hard not to. you’re the kind of girl that seems untouchable, not because you’re trying to be, but because you’re so far removed from everything he knows. soft, focused, real sweet.

and right now, you look like salvation.

he pushes up from his seat, ignoring the curious glances from a few classmates as he moves down the aisle. his tall frame blocks the light for a second when he stops beside your desk. you glance up, startled, your pen pausing mid-sentence.

"yo, my names sukuna. and you?"

"uh, hi? it's y/n." he smirks at your shy response, but continues.

“you’re like, a chem genius, right?” his tone is low, rough with disinterest, though his eyes linger on you a little too long.

you blink up at him, hesitant. “oh, um… i guess? why?”

“i need a partner, like, real bad,” he says, dropping the failed exam onto your desk with a dull slap. the red ink almost glows. “i'm gonna be honest, i completely fucked myself with this last exam. i can’t afford to fail again.”

you stare at the paper, then at him. up close, he’s intimidating. messy pink hair, dark eyes sharp and unreadable, tattoos trailing up his arms, his face, and peeking out from under his shirt collar.

he looks nothing like someone who’d ever ask for help, especially from you, and the fact that he’s doing it now makes your mind reel.

“i—look, don't take this the wrong way, but... theres a lot of people in this class,” you manage softly. “why pick me?”

he shrugs, leaning one hand on the desk beside your notes. “because you actually know what you’re doing. and i’m not looking to get stuck with some idiot who’ll drag me down, i'm already so fucking cooked."

you hesitate, glancing away. you’ve never really talked to him before. actually, you’ve barely even noticed him beyond the times you’ve seen him walking across campus with toji. that’s usually when your stomach does that stupid fluttering thing. watching toji laugh, his arm slung lazily around sukuna’s shoulders, both of them looking like they own the place.

it’s strange seeing one of them standing here now, asking you for help.

you fidget with your pen. “that's fine, sure. but… if we’re partners, wed have to split the workload.”

"yeah,” he says. “i can pull my weight, don't stress it, sweetheart. mostly just need someone to keep me from bombing it.”

it’s almost funny. he’s trying to sound casual, but something about the way he’s watching you feels uncharacteristically careful. like he’s actually waiting for your answer rather than being the overbearing dick he usually is.

maybe it’s because you’re cute. or maybe it’s because he knows you hold his fate in your small, nervous hands.

you chew your lip for a moment, then nod. “yeah, okay. i’ll help you out.”

his mouth tilts in a grin that’s half smug, half genuine relief. “good. 'preciate it, babe.”

you look down instantly, pretending to organize your papers so he doesn’t see the way your face warms. you weren't used to such casual name calling.

he drags a chair over from the next row and drops into it beside you, leaning back like he’s been sitting there all semester.

the professor’s voice fades into the background again as you stare straight ahead, trying to focus on anything but the fact that sukuna ryomen, the most notorious guy in beta tau, is now your project partner.

a few minutes pass in silence. the lecture drags on, your notes filling another page. but your mind’s racing the whole time. sukuna, meanwhile, can’t stop sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye.

he hadn’t expected you to actually agree. and he definitely hadn’t expected to find himself curious about you. you’re so… different. not the kind of girl who shows up to parties. not someone who flirts back when he smirks at her. just quiet and sweet, head buried in your work, the type that shouldn’t even be in his orbit.

and yet here you are.

when the professor dismisses the class, people start packing up. you hesitate, fingers tightening around your pen. then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to him.

“hey… sukuna?”

he hums, eyes flicking toward you lazily. “yeah?”

you look nervous, the words almost tripping over themselves before they leave your mouth. cute. “i’ll help you pass. but… can you help me out with something too?”

his brow arches. “hmm. depends what it is.”

you take a quiet breath. “it’s about your friend. uh— toji.”

that gets his attention. his posture stiffens a little. “what about him?”

you look down at your notebook, like it’s safer than looking at him. “i just… i think he’s really attractive. and he looks nice. i know it’s kind of stupid but i was wondering if maybe... you could help me get him to notice me.”

for a second, sukuna just stares at you.

out of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t it.

you, the shy little thing sitting up front, blushing and tripping over her own words, want toji fushiguro. one of the biggest assholes on campus. his best friend, sure, but a guy who barely remembers girls’ names after he sleeps with them.

he leans back slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “you’re serious?”

you nod, eyes still fixed on your notebook.

he studies you for a long moment. you’re fidgeting again, twisting your pen between your fingers, your voice so soft he almost misses it. “you don’t have to if it’s weird, i just thought… you two are close, so maybe…”

sukuna exhales through his nose. part of him wants to tell you it’s a bad idea. that toji doesn’t deserve someone like you. that you’d get hurt trying to chase a guy like that.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he tilts his head and says, “yeah, fine. i’ll help you out.”

your head snaps up, eyes wide. “huh— really?”

“yeah. but only because you’re saving my ass with this project,” he says, smirking a little. “guess we’ll call it even.”

you smile—small, bright, genuine—and something tightens in his chest. you're so cute.

“thank you,” you say quietly.

he grins again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “don’t mention it, honey.”

and as you pack up your notes, he watches you go, already trying to ignore the strange feeling crawling up the back of his neck.

he tells himself it’s just a deal. a trade. nothing more.

but as you disappear out the door, he can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s gotten himself into more trouble than he realizes.

~

music blasts through the frat, heavy bass shaking the walls, bodies moving in rhythm across the living room floor. someone’s yelling over the noise, someone else is laughing too loud.

the air smells like bad beer, smoke, and sweat, the classic friday night cocktail that means beta tau is alive and wild again.

sukuna leans against the kitchen counter, red solo cup in hand, watching a game of beer pong play out in front of him. the noise is deafening, but it’s a familiar kind of chaos. toji’s across the table, grin sharp as he sinks another ping-pong ball into the last cup.

“hell yeah,” toji shouts, hands raised. “that’s another win for me, baby!”

someone hands him another drink, and he downs it in one go, slamming the cup down as the room cheers. toji fushiguro lives for this kind of night—beer, bets, and easy company. sukuna’s used to it, the routine almost comforting.

he joins the next round, barely losing after a stupid bounce, then lets himself collapse onto the sagging couch beside toji. the music’s pounding through the walls, but the corner they’re in feels quieter, almost like the noise fades around them.

toji stretches out, arm slung over the back of the couch, shirt sticking to his skin. “you’re slipping, man,” he says, smirking at sukuna. “used to be able to hold your own in beer pong.”

“fuck up,” sukuna mutters, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. “that last shot was rigged.”

“rigged?” toji laughs, deep and unrestrained. “you’re just rusty.”

sukuna grunts, tossing his empty cup onto the coffee table. his head’s buzzing—not from the alcohol, just from thoughts he can’t quite shake.

the image of you, the way you looked earlier in class, keeps floating up uninvited. you sitting at the front of the room, your careful handwriting, the little way you’d fidget with your pen when you were nervous.

he doesn’t even realize he’s been quiet until toji elbows him. “yo, what’s got you zoning out?”

sukuna runs his tongue over his teeth, deciding. screw it. “you ever heard of someone named y/n?”

toji raises a brow, blinking like he didn’t catch that over the noise. “who?”

“y/n,” sukuna repeats.

toji shakes his head, lips quirking. “nah. that some new chick you’re banging?”

sukuna sputters, choking on air. “what? no. i’m not—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. great. smooth start.

toji’s smirk widens. “come on, man. don’t get shy on me. you’re stuttering like some freshman.”

“shut up,” sukuna mutters, glaring at him. “it’s not like that.”

“then what’s it like?”

he hesitates, watching the light flicker off the beer bottles on the table. there’s no way to explain it without sounding weird. he’s not even sure why he’s bringing you up at all, except that he made a promise, and now he’s gotta start somewhere.

“she’s just… in my chem class,” he finally says. “smart as hell. the kind that actually knows what she’s doing, y’know?”

toji snorts. “so, a nerd.”

“yeah,” sukuna says, ignoring the way toji says it like it’s an insult. “but, like… cute. shy, quiet, nice, i guess.”

toji’s grin widens. “bro. you’re seriously telling me about a crush right now? what the hell happened to you?”

“it’s not a crush,” sukuna says quickly, though his voice comes out sharper than he means. “she’s just—” he stops, running a hand through his hair. “she’s helping me with chem, okay? and i told her i’d help her with something too.”

“what, she want free alcs?” toji laughs.

“no.” sukuna exhales through his nose. “she wants you.”

that earns him a pause. toji tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide if he misheard. “me?”

“yeah.”

“as in… she wants to, what, date me?”

“basically.”

toji’s silent for a moment, then he breaks into a bark of laughter so loud it turns a few heads. “you’re kidding, right? some shy nerdy girl wants me?” he grins, tapping his chest. “guess she’s got good taste.”

sukuna grits his teeth. “don’t be an ass about it.”

“what? i’m not being an ass,” toji says, still smirking. “just saying, that’s not really my type, man. i like girls who can actually keep up, y’know?”

“yeah, i know,” sukuna mutters. “that’s kinda the problem.”

“problem?”

sukuna leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “look, she’s… she’s sweet. like, actually sweet. the kind of girl that probably still says ‘sorry’ even when someone bumps into her first. you’d break her in half.”

toji shrugs, unbothered. “then maybe she shouldn’t be into me.”

“she doesn’t even know you,” sukuna says, frustration creeping into his tone. “she just saw you around. thinks you’re… i don’t know. hot and nice.”

“ha,” toji barks out a laugh, finishing his drink. “then she’s definitely got the wrong idea.”

sukuna sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. this was going nowhere.

he tries again, his tone careful. “i just figured maybe you could give her a chance. she’s not like the other girls you mess with. she’s…” he hesitates, searching for the right word. “different. the kind you’d actually like if you gave her five minutes.”

toji side-eyes him, clearly amused. “you trying to sell me a girlfriend or something? what’s in it for you?”

sukuna’s jaw tightens. “nothing. i told her i’d help her out, that’s all.”

toji grins, eyes glinting. “you sure about that? you sound kinda like you wanna keep her for yourself.”

sukuna’s silent for a beat, his pulse ticking faster than it should. “i don’t.”

“right. and i’m the pope.” toji laughs, leaning back. “are you high? tellin’ me about how cute and shy she is… just fuck her and move on, bro. no need for all this emotional shit.”

sukuna drags a hand down his face, groaning. “i wish i was fucking high. jesus, you’re impossible.”

the music gets louder again, another chant rising from the kitchen as someone calls for shots. toji stands, stretching, grinning down at him. “come on, man. stop thinking so hard. let’s go get wasted.”

sukuna waves him off. “nah, i’m good. go ahead.”

toji shrugs and disappears into the crowd. sukuna sinks further into the couch, head tipping back, letting the noise drown out the frustration burning in his chest.

this was going to be a nightmare.

.

the next morning, the fluorescent lights of the lecture hall feel like punishment. the air smells like stale coffee and paper, and the chatter around the room grates on his nerves. sukuna slouches into his seat, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion clinging to him.

you’re already there, of course. neat stack of papers beside your laptop, pen in hand, posture perfect. you glance up as he approaches, offering a small smile.

“morning,” you say softly.

“hey,” he mutters, sliding into the seat next to you.

the teacher doesn’t waste time, telling everyone to start working on their projects. pairs scatter across the room, some staying behind, others leaving for the library. you glance at sukuna, uncertain.

“should we…?”

“yeah, library,” he says before you can finish. “less noise.”

you nod quickly, tucking your notes under your arm as you follow him out.

the walk’s quiet. you keep close but not too close, fingers gripping the strap of your bag. sukuna glances at you once or twice as you walk, the sunlight catching the edge of your hair. there’s something weirdly calming about you, like your presence forces the chaos in his head to settle for a bit.

when you reach the campus library, you pick a small table near the back, away from the groups of whispering students. the morning light filters through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air. it’s quiet enough that every turn of a page feels loud.

you sit across from him, pulling your laptop from your bag. “um, before we start, maybe we should exchange contact info?”

he nods, pulling out his phone. “yeah. what's ya' number?”

you rattle it off, and he types it in. his phone pings a second later when you text him, and he adds your contact with a lazy swipe. then you both exchange social media.

you open your instagram to show him, but he’s already found it. your account’s small—cozy, soft colors, pictures of coffee cups, notes, and the occasional selfie that looks like you were trying not to take one.

then you look at his. thousands of followers, stories from parties, shirtless gym photos, snapshots of him and toji grinning like idiots with red cups in hand.

you blink, then smile politely. “ours are… really different.”

he huffs out a quiet laugh. “yeah. just a little.”

he doesn’t tell you that he finds it kind of adorable, how small and peaceful your corner of the internet looks compared to his chaos.

you both settle in to start discussing the project, papers spread between you. you talk about ideas, your voice growing steadier as you get into the topic. you explain concepts easily, your hands moving as you describe how you could structure the research, how to divide the work.

he listens. or tries to. mostly, he’s just watching the way you light up when you talk about something you love.

after a while, you pause, glancing at him with a small, hopeful look. “did you… talk to toji?”

he freezes for a fraction of a second, mind flashing back to last night—the laughter, the teasing, the absolute disaster of that conversation.

“yeah,” he says after a moment, forcing a smile. “i did.”

your eyes widen, curious. “what’d he say?”

he hesitates. you’re looking at him so earnestly, waiting for an answer, and he can’t bring himself to tell you that toji laughed it off, that he’d said something crude about just sleeping with you and moving on.

so he lies.

“he seemed interested,” sukuna says smoothly. “asked who you were. said you sounded cute.”

you go still for a moment, then your cheeks flush, and you duck your head. “really?”

“yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “told him you were smart, nice. he said that’s rare.”

your shy smile makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t understand.

“that’s… really nice of you, sukuna,” you say softly. “thanks.”

he shrugs, forcing a grin. “told you i’d help.”

but as you turn back to your notes, still smiling faintly to yourself, he can’t look away. he doesn’t know what’s worse—the way lying to you actually hurts his heart, or the way part of him’s starting to wish that toji never finds out who you are.

because the thought of you smiling like that at anyone else makes his stomach twist.

~

the frat house is quieter than usual when sukuna pushes the door open.

no bass pounding through the walls, no laughter echoing down the hallway, no beer pong table clattering in the kitchen. just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant muffled sound of someone’s tv from another room.

it’s strange. unsettling, almost. he’s gotten used to the constant noise, the never-ending buzz of people that filled the house from dusk till dawn.

he kicks off his shoes at the door, shoulders rolling back as he heads for the stairs. his head still feels heavy from the long day, the faint scent of your shampoo stuck in his memory.

it’s weird—he’s been around a thousand girls, maybe more. girls who practically threw themselves at him, who laughed too loud at his jokes and leaned in too close.

but somehow, you—sitting across from him with that shy smile and your soft voice explaining inter molecular relationship—manage to stick in his head longer than any of them ever have.

his room’s dark when he steps inside, save for the light bleeding in from the street through the blinds. he tosses his keys onto the desk and falls back onto his bed, exhaling. the ceiling stares back blankly.

he doesn’t even mean to grab his phone, but his hand moves before he can think. he unlocks it, thumb hovering over instagram.

just checking something, he tells himself.

his fingers type your username into the search bar without hesitation.

your profile opens instantly.

the same cozy layout he remembered. a few new story highlights. your bio—something simple, maybe a quote or a flower emoji. his thumb scrolls down slowly, eyes following the grid of neatly arranged photos. you, a few landscapes, coffee cups, snippets of sunlight through your window, a cat that might not even be yours.

he stops when he sees a picture from about a month ago.

you’re holding a tiny puppy in your arms, your face caught mid-laugh, like someone had said something funny right before snapping the picture. the puppy’s paw rests against your chest, nose tucked near your chin. in your other hand, you’re holding a paper cup of coffee, a little swirl of foam peeking through the lid.

he stares at it for longer than he should.

it’s just a photo, nothing special, but something about it hits him hard . the little details—the way your fingers curl gently under the puppy’s paw, the sunlight catching on the curve of your cheek, the way your smile looks completely unposed.

he catches himself wondering stupid things.

was that your dog? probably not. maybe a friend’s. or some random one you met at a cafe.

was the coffee yours? it looks like something you’d order, something simple. maybe vanilla, maybe something with caramel.

where was that taken? some small corner cafe? a weekend morning somewhere quiet?

he doesn’t know. and that bothers him more than it should.

his thumb hovers over the photo for a second before he double-taps it. the little red heart fills in on the corner of the screen.

great. now you’re going to see that he liked a post from a month ago. real smooth.

he tosses his phone onto the bed beside him, covering his face with his hands.

“what the fuck am i doing,” he mutters.

he’s never been that guy. the one who scrolls through a girl’s profile like he’s studying for an exam. the one who cares enough to wonder what her favorite coffee order is, or if she likes dogs or cats more. he doesn’t ask those questions. he doesn’t want to ask those questions.

but he can’t stop himself.

he scrolls again, back up to your most recent post—another candid shot, you’re wearing one of those oversized sweaters you always seem to wear to class, sleeves pulled over your wrists.

you look peaceful. and sweet. and so painfully far from the world he lives in.

his throat tightens unexpectedly, he looks deeper, really looks at you.

you’re really fucking pretty.

he’d always known that. he’d noticed, sure—he’s not blind. the first day you’d agreed to work with him, he’d thought you were cute. adorable, even. but now, staring at your pictures, seeing the small glimpses of your life beyond those chemistry notes and shy smiles, he realizes it’s more than that.

you’re beautiful.

and that realization sits heavy in his chest, thick and uncomfortable.

because he knows exactly where this is supposed to go.

he still owes you. he still promised you something.

toji.

the thought of his friend’s name makes him exhale hard through his nose.

he can already picture it—if he brings you up again, toji will laugh the same way he always does. say something crude. maybe shrug and agree to meet you, just for the hell of it. and maybe you’d smile that soft, nervous smile at him, and maybe you’d fall for him harder than you already have.

and that image—that thought—makes sukuna’s jaw clench.

he shakes his head, forcing the phone screen off.

“get a grip,” he mutters, rolling onto his side.

but it’s no use. even as he closes his eyes, the image of you laughing with that puppy burns into the back of his mind.

~

two weeks pass withf lectures and late-night text exchanges about project deadlines.

you’ve met up three times since that first day at the library. each time, sukuna’s noticed small things—how you seem to relax around him more, how you’ve started teasing him lightly when he messes up an equation, how your laugh sounds quiet but genuine when he actually manages to make you smile.

and now, on the fourth meeting, he finds himself heading to the library again, trying to ignore the way his stomach feels weirdly tight.

you’re already there when he walks in.

same table. same corner near the back.

but this time, something’s different.

you’re standing by your seat, waving slightly when you see him. and in your hands, you’re holding two cups of coffee.

“hey,” you say, your voice bright and clear in a way that makes him pause.

he blinks, momentarily thrown off by how cheerful you sound. “hey,” he replies, trying to sound as casual as usual.

you hold out one of the cups toward him. “i, um, got this for you. black coffee, right?”

for a second, he just stares.

it’s stupid. it’s a coffee cup. but his mind stutters anyway.

“yeah,” he says, voice quieter than he means it to be. “yeah, that’s right.”

“i wasn’t sure how you take it,” you admit with a small laugh. “you seem like the kind of person who drinks it straight. no sugar, no milk.”

he huffs out a small laugh, taking the cup from you. “you got that right.”

“lucky guess.”

you sit down, cheeks faintly pink. he watches you for a second longer than necessary before clearing his throat and dropping into the chair across from you.

“thanks,” he says finally, lifting the cup slightly. “for the coffee.”

you smile, soft and genuine. “you’ve been helping me a lot with this, so i thought it was the least i could do.”

he wants to tell you that you’ve got it backwards—that you’re the one keeping him afloat, not the other way around—but he bites his tongue.

instead, he takes a sip, the bitter taste grounding him.

“you didn’t have to, y'know.”

“i wanted to,” you say, eyes flicking down to your notes.

and for a brief second, he feels his pulse skip.

you wanted to.

he tries to shake the feeling, pulling out his own notes. “alright, so. what’s the plan for today?”

you talk about the experiment data, what needs to be written up, the references you still have to gather. he listens, but part of him’s distracted.

it’s the way you’re talking now—louder, lighter. you’re not tripping over your words anymore. you’re not afraid to meet his eyes. the shy girl who could barely look at him two weeks ago is now smiling at him between sentences.

and fuck if that doesn’t make something twist in his chest.

as the minutes pass, the project talk starts to blur into something else. he’s the one who changes the subject first.

“so,” he says, leaning back slightly. “what’s with you and coffee? every time i see you, you’ve got one.”

you look up from your laptop, blinking. “i just like it, i guess. i go to this little place near campus almost every morning before class.”

“the one with the green sign?”

“yeah, that one.”

“figured.”

you laugh quietly. “you go there too?”

“sometimes,” he says. “after workouts. they’ve got good espresso.”

you tilt your head. “you work out every morning?”

“almost,” he says, smirking faintly. “gotta keep my sexy frat guy aura in tact.”

“oh, right,” you tease, eyes glinting a little. “wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”

he blinks, caught off guard. “fans?”

“your instagram,” you say, trying not to laugh. “you’ve got, like, a thousand girls following you. i saw.”

he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “don’t remind me.”

“why?”

“because half of them don’t even go to this school,” he says, grinning a little. “they just… show up.”

you laugh, the sound soft but real, and he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

after that, the conversation drifts. you talk about random things—your classes, your favorite kind of music, the dog from your photo (“that’s my friend’s puppy,” you explain. “he’s named mochi.”).

sukuna finds himself asking questions, more than he’s ever asked anyone before. not just because he wants to fill the silence, but because he genuinely wants to know.

you tell him about your hobbies, your part-time job at the campus bookstore, how you’re saving up for a trip after graduation.

he listens. really listens.

and for every small thing you share, he feels himself drawn in deeper.

when the session finally ends, the clock showing that two hours have slipped by without either of you noticing, you start packing up your things.

“same time next week?” you ask, glancing up.

“yeah,” he says. “same spot.”

you smile again, that soft, shy one that makes his chest ache.

and as you wave goodbye and walk out of the library, sukuna stays seated for a moment, staring at the empty chair across from him.

he should be thinking about the project. about grades. about keeping his promise to you.

but all he can think about is how the smell of coffee still lingers faintly on his fingers—and how, somehow, that’s become his favorite part of the day.

~

the frat house always feels heavy on monday mornings. air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, half-empty red cups scattered on tables like small grave markers from the weekend before. sukuna drags himself through the hallway, towel hanging around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower.

toji’s already waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other. he looks up when sukuna walks in, flashing that familiar cocky grin.

“yo, you down to hit the gym?”

sukuna doesn’t even hesitate. “for sure.”

mondays are brutal, but skipping a session isn’t an option. not when you’ve got someone like toji keeping score. they finish off their drinks, grab their bags, and head out.

the campus is still quiet. early morning sun stretches across the pavement, birds chirping somewhere above. their sneakers hit the concrete in sync.

“bro, did you see the game last night?” toji asks, tossing a smirk his way.

“yeah,” sukuna mutters. “you owe me twenty.”

toji groans. “bullshit. that last call was garbage.”

“still counts.”

they go back and forth for a while—typical talk. girls, workouts, who pulled who at the last party. toji’s loud, animated, the kind of guy who fills silence with his own voice. sukuna listens, laughs when he should, but half his mind’s somewhere else.

they’re cutting across the main quad when he spots you.

you’re walking toward one of the lecture halls, tote bag slung over your shoulder, hair catching the light in a way that makes his breath hitch.

you’re wearing something simple—a cute shirt and nice jeans, your hands wrapped around a coffee cup—but somehow it makes you stand out more than anyone else on the path.

you don’t see him, too focused on your phone, but his chest tightens anyway.

for a second, it’s like the rest of the campus fades away.

then he remembers who’s walking beside him.

toji’s still talking about some girl he hooked up with over the weekend, words fading into the background as sukuna’s jaw tightens. he forces his eyes away, tells himself to stop being weird. this is stupid. you’re just his lab partner.

except he’s not supposed to be thinking about how good you look in the morning light. he’s supposed to be thinking about the deal.

the one with toji.

his throat feels dry as he forces himself to speak.

“hey,” he says suddenly. “you remember that girl i was talking about the other night?”

toji glances over, raising a brow. “the chem one?”

“yeah. that’s her.”

he nods toward you before he can second-guess it.

toji slows immediately, his attention shifting in your direction. you’re still walking across the path, the sunlight brushing over your face as you look up for a moment, squinting.

sukuna watches as toji literally stops in his tracks.

“no way,” toji says, eyes widening. “that’s her?”

“yeah,” sukuna mutters.

“holy shit.” toji’s grin spreads, sharp and impressed. “you didn’t tell me she was that cute.”

sukuna doesn’t respond. he just keeps walking, pretending to be unfazed, but every word toji says feels like it’s digging deeper under his skin.

“seriously, bro,” toji continues, still staring after you even as you disappear into the building. “you made her sound like some dorky little nerd. i was picturing ugly glasses, messy bun, the whole thing. but she’s—damn. she’s adorable.”

sukuna’s stomach twists. he forces a smirk, because that’s what’s expected. “yeah, she’s not bad.”

“not bad?” toji laughs, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me, man?”

“nah,” sukuna says quickly. “just didn’t think you’d be into that type.”

“what type?”

“the smart, quiet type,” he says, voice flat. “thought you liked girls who could ‘keep up,’ remember?”

toji scoffs. “yeah, well, she’s too cute to pass up. shit, you should let me tag along next time you’re studying with her. see what she’s like up close.”

sukuna forces a laugh, but it comes out strained. “yeah, sure. whatever.”

inside, he’s cringing so hard he feels sick.

they head into the gym, the sound of clanging weights filling the space. he tries to focus—on the burn in his muscles, the rhythm of his breathing—but his thoughts won’t shut up. toji’s words keep echoing. she’s adorable. she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me?

this was what he was supposed to do. this was the plan. introduce you to toji, let things fall into place, make good on his end of the deal.

so why does it feel so wrong?

~

the next study session comes faster than he expects.

the day’s overcast, the library quiet except for the soft hush of the air conditioning. you’re already there when he walks in, sitting in your usual spot by the window, books neatly stacked, pen tapping absently against your notebook.

you look up when you hear his voice.

“hey,” he says, slipping through the aisles toward you.

your face brightens instantly, that small, warm smile tugging at your lips.

“hi,” you say, already starting to greet him—

then your voice falters.

because right behind him, towering and broad-shouldered, is toji.

your words die halfway out of your throat, eyes going wide. he’s impossible to ignore—dark hair, sharp grin, that easy confidence that radiates from him like static.

sukuna can see the exact moment you freeze. your fingers grip your pen a little too tightly, your posture going stiff.

“this is toji,” sukuna says, trying to sound casual. “he wanted to tag along today.”

“hey,” toji says smoothly, pulling up a chair without asking. “nice to meet you, y/n.”

you nod, cheeks pink. “h-hi.”

it’s awkward from the start. painfully so.

sukuna tries to start things off, opening his notebook and asking about the data you collected last week, but toji’s already jumping in with his own questions—none of them relevant.

“so,” toji leans forward, elbows on the table. “you’re really good at this chem stuff, huh? always been a little nerd?”

you laugh nervously, eyes flicking between the two of them. “i… guess so?”

“yeah, i could never,” he says, shaking his head. “i barely passed last year. too many parties, you know how it is.”

you nod politely, but the look on your face says it all—you have no idea what to say.

sukuna clenches his jaw.

toji keeps going, oblivious. he talks about the last frat party, about the time he benched two hundred in front of half the football team, about some girl who texted him last night. you just sit there, smiling faintly, giving small nods and quiet hums of agreement.

it’s brutal.

every word toji says feels like a slow car crash sukuna can’t stop. he knows he should’ve expected this—this was always how toji was—but now that it’s happening in front of you, he can’t stand it.

you’re sitting there, trying so hard to be polite, cheeks flushed, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve. and for the first time, sukuna hates how loud the other guy is. hates how he’s filling the space that’s always felt quiet and easy with you.

after what feels like forever, toji’s phone buzzes. he glances down, reads the message, and stands up.

“gotta head out,” he says, smirking. “good luck with your project, sweetheart. maybe i’ll swing by next time, yeah?”

before you can respond, he gives you a wink.

you freeze again, murmuring something that barely sounds like a goodbye.

he leaves, whistling under his breath, completely unaware of how painfully awkward that was.

the second he’s out of sight, sukuna exhales hard and runs a hand through his hair.

“fuck,” he mutters. “sorry about that.”

your eyes widen a little. “oh, um, it’s fine.”

“no, seriously,” he says, glancing at you. “i should’ve told you i was bringing him.”

you hesitate, then smile, shy but real. “it’s okay. i was just… nervous, i guess.”

he tilts his head. “why?”

you look down at your notes. “he’s just… kind of intense. i didn’t expect that.”

“yeah,” he says quietly. “he’s like that.”

the silence that follows isn’t awkward, though. it’s calm. steady.

you’re visibly more relaxed now, shoulders no longer so tight, your voice softer when you start talking again. sukuna listens, his chest loosening with every word.

you don’t mention toji again.

and he doesn’t either.

for the rest of the session, it’s just the two of you again—back to the easy rhythm he didn’t realize he’d missed until it was gone. you explain a reaction mechanism, he teases you about your handwriting, you roll your eyes and laugh.

when it’s time to leave, you pack up your things slowly, almost like you don’t want the moment to end.

“see you next week?” you ask.

“yeah,” he says, smiling faintly. “next week.”

you give a small wave, and as you walk out, sukuna watches you disappear between the shelves, that same quiet warmth settling in his chest.

he should feel relieved—he did what he was supposed to. he introduced you to toji. he followed through.

but instead, he just feels like he’s made a mistake.

because the whole walk back to the frat, the only thing running through his head isn’t how toji couldn’t shut up or how awkward the whole thing was.

it’s how your voice had softened when you told him it was fine. how your eyes met his, even for a second, and he felt that stupid little spark again.

he doesn’t know what to call it. doesn’t want to.

but deep down, he knows one thing for sure.

the next time you two meet, he’s showing up alone, keeping you to himself.

~

music pounds through sukuna's chest, pulsing out of the open doors of the sorority like a heartbeat on overdrive. laughter spills down the steps, mixed with the sharp scent of alcohol and perfume and that sticky-sweet haze that always clings to these kinds of parties.

banners hang crooked above the door, fairy lights tangled like spiderwebs. the sorority girls really went all out.

it’s a mixer. one of those invite-only things, where every girl in greek row tries to get noticed by the “right” house. and sukuna’s frat—their house—was always the right one. full of grade A hotties like sukuna and toji and successful athletes like gojo and geto.

he spots toji near the entrance, already in his element. white t-shirt, chain glinting at his throat, grin carved sharp enough to cut through the noise. every few seconds, someone calls his name. girls from different sororities, guys from the rugby team, even one of the organizers waving him over.

toji was built for this. sukuna knew it. hell, everyone did.

“about time, man,” toji says when sukuna steps up beside him. “thought you’d bailed.”

“nah,” sukuna mutters. “just took my time.”

“yeah, well, tonight’s supposed to be wild. let’s make the most of it.”

they shoulder their way through the crowd, music pounding overhead, the smell of beer and sweat and too much perfume thick in the air. sticking together like usual.

a few girls call out sukuna’s name as they pass, and he just flashes that lazy grin he’s perfected—the one that says he’s not interested, but he might be later.

it’s all automatic now. the smirk, the eye contact, the way his shoulders roll when he laughs. it’s all muscle memory.

but tonight, something feels off.

maybe it’s the way every laugh sounds fake. maybe it’s the way the lights flash too bright, painting everyone in the same plastic color.

maybe it’s because all he can think about is you.

they end up in the kitchen, where the music’s still loud but not deafening. beer pong’s already set up on the long dining table, cups half-filled, ping-pong balls scattered across the sticky surface.

toji grabs a ball and grins. “let’s go. loser does a shot.”

sukuna smirks, rolling up his sleeves. “you’re on.”

they start playing, drawing a small crowd of girls who cheer and giggle at every throw. toji’s competitive as always, talking shit between shots, while sukuna plays quiet and steady. the rhythm feels familiar—the weight of the ball, the sound of it hitting the cup, the way everyone leans in to watch.

after two rounds, they’re tied. toji wins one, sukuna the other. the girls watching don’t seem to care who’s winning—they’re too focused on the way the two of them look, the easy confidence that comes with knowing the room revolves around them.

and then they descend.

a blonde slides up beside toji, pressing herself against his arm. another girl, brunette this time, drapes herself over sukuna, laughter dripping from her lips like honey.

“you guys are, like, scary good at this,” she says, voice high and flirty.

“practice,” sukuna says automatically. his smirk looks real enough. it always does.

her nails trace the edge of his sleeve, and she leans closer. “bet you’re real good at other things too.”

normally, this is the part where he’d lean in, let the moment pull him under. he knows how this goes—shots, dancing, slipping upstairs when the music gets too loud. normally he'd do anything for a quick fuck.

but tonight, it doesn’t land.

he looks down at her, at the perfect makeup and glitter around her eyes, and all he can think is how different she is from you.

how you’d never lean on someone like this. how you’d never grab at someone you just met. how when you talked, you actually meant what you said.

his jaw tightens.

toji’s already got two girls around him, laughing loudly, drink in one hand, the other at someone’s waist. he looks like he’s having the time of his life. and for the first time, sukuna feels nothing but exhaustion watching it.

the brunette keeps talking—something about the psych department, something about a pool party next weekend—but her words fade into static.

god, he can’t stop thinking about you.

he pictures your small smile, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. the way your voice lifts just slightly when you talk about something you love. the way your eyes meet his only for a second before darting away again.

then he thinks about how you’d react if you saw this.

if you saw toji right now—grinning, drunk, hands everywhere.

you’d look crushed. maybe not outwardly, but he knows you’d feel it. he can see that tiny flicker of hurt in his head, your lips pressing together, pretending not to care.

and for some reason, that thought hits him like a punch.

you’d be heartbroken over a guy like toji. and he hates that. hates it enough that his fake smirk starts to slip.

because toji’s the one you wanted. and toji’s right there, laughing with some random girl like you never even existed.

it makes his stomach twist.

the brunette leans in closer, her perfume cloying and too strong. she presses her lips against his neck, and something cold floods through him instead of the usual heat.

he stiffens.

she pulls back, confused, maybe even offended, but he just steps away, shaking his head.

“you good?” she asks, pouting a little.

“yeah,” he mutters. “just—need a smoke.”

he grabs a beer from the counter and makes his way outside.

the air’s cooler out here, cleaner. it hits his lungs in a way that almost feels like relief. he digs into his pocket, finds his pack, and lights up. the first drag burns his throat, grounding him a little. he thinks back to the time you'd seen a flash of the packet in his pocket, the look of concern plastering your cute face.

"you smoke cigarettes? y'know that pretty bad for you, sukuna..."

he sighs and takes another drag, he knew you were right, hell, he even cut down after that little statement.

inside, the party’s still raging. someone shouts, laughter echoing off the walls. he hears toji’s voice above the rest, loud and easy and so damn sure of himself.

sukuna exhales a long stream of smoke and stares out at the street.

why’s he even thinking about you like this?

you're just a girl. just a project partner. you needed his help, he needed yours. that’s all it was supposed to be.

but then he remembers how you'd smiled when he showed up on time for once, how you’d brought him that stupid cup of coffee just because you thought he’d like it. how careful you’d been, shy but trying.

and now he’s here, surrounded by everything he used to want, feeling nothing but restless.

he thinks about the library tomorrow morning.

you’d be there early. you always are. waiting at the same table, your notebook open, your pen tapping as you concentrate. you’d look up when he walks in, offer that small, quiet smile like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

the thought of showing up hungover makes his stomach knot.

he can’t let you see him like that. not reeking of beer, not bleary-eyed and half-dead from a night he didn’t even enjoy.

he flicks the ash off his cigarette, curses under his breath.

“what the fuck am i doing?”

he looks back toward the house. the windows are glowing with golden light, silhouettes moving inside. laughter spills out again, shrill and wild.

that used to feel like home.

now it just feels loud.

he takes another drag, the ember lighting up in the dark.

this isn’t him. at least, it’s not the version of him you’ve seen. the one who actually listens, who tries, who stays sober enough to remember what you said about catalysts and reactions. the one you’ve somehow turned him into without even knowing.

he huffs out a quiet laugh, bitter and low.

you’d probably never believe it if someone told you sukuna ryomen left a mixer early because of a girl.

but here he is.

he stubs out the cigarette, tosses the butt into the gutter, and pulls his jacket tighter around him.

he steps back inside just long enough to find toji at the beer pong table, a girl perched on his lap now, and rolls his eyes.

“yo,” toji calls over. “where the hell’d you go?”

“m' heading out,” sukuna says. “got shit to do tomorrow.”

toji raises a brow. “it’s friday, man.”

“yeah. i know.”

“whatever,” toji laughs. “your loss.”

sukuna just shrugs, already turning toward the door.

the music fades behind him as he walks out again. the night air hits him, cool against his skin. campus is mostly empty now, streetlights flickering.

he lights another cigarette as he walks, the smoke curling up into the cold.

his mind won’t stop racing.

he thinks about you again, about how small you look sitting behind your laptop, about the way you focus so hard you don’t notice him staring sometimes. about how quiet the world feels when it’s just the two of you in that corner of the library.

you’d laugh if you saw him now. the guy everyone calls a monster, walking home early from a party just because he wants to look sober in front of some shy chemistry nerd.

but it’s not just that anymore.

he doesn’t want to look sober. he wants to look good for you.

he wants you to think he’s better than this. better than what everyone thinks he's like.

he blows out smoke and watches it fade into the dark.

when he gets back to the frat, the house is nearly empty—most of the guys are still at the mixer. it’s quiet for once. he climbs the stairs, every step heavy, and stops at his door.

he stares at the handle for a second before going in.

the room smells like cologne and laundry detergent. his desk’s still a mess, papers and dumbbells scattered everywhere. he drops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

he should sleep. he should forget tonight.

but all he can see is you.

your smile. your voice. your eyes when they meet his and flick away just a second too fast.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

he ashes the cigarette in the tray, lets his head fall back, and closes his eyes.

the thought of you lingers like smoke in his lungs. intoxicating, slow, impossible to shake.

and for the first time in a long time, the idea of tomorrow doesn’t feel like just another day. it feels like something he’s waiting for.

~

the sun crawls through the blinds too early for a saturday.

pale light drags itself across the room, landing on the mess of clothes and empty bottles scattered over the frat floor. everyone’s still passed out.

bodies everywhere. some sprawled across couches, others snoring in corners, heads tipped back with half-empty beer cans slipping from their hands.

but not sukuna.

he’s awake.

he’s the only one who doesn’t feel like he got hit by a truck. no pounding head, no sour stomach. just the faint trace of smoke on his tongue and the quiet buzz in his chest that’s been there since last night.

he sits up, rakes a hand through his hair, and exhales. the air smells like sweat and cheap vodka. he looks around at the disaster that was his frat house—sticky floors, someone’s shoe on the counter, a guy in nothing but boxers drooling into the carpet—and shakes his head.

he’s not sticking around for the aftermath.

there’s something about this morning, something clean, light, strange. he grabs his hoodie, slings his bag over his shoulder, and checks his phone. too early for most people. not too early for you.

he smiles a little at that.

when he walks into the hallway, a few guys groan from the couch.

“yo,” one of them croaks. “where the hell are you going? it’s like… eight?”

“got plans,” sukuna says, slipping on his sneakers.

“plans?” another mumbles, half-asleep. “with who?”

“no one,” sukuna says quickly. “don’t worry about it.”

he’s already halfway out the door before they can start asking more questions. the last thing he needs is toji—or anyone, really—catching wind of this and deciding to tag along like last time.

the air outside hits him cold and fresh. campus is quiet, only the occasional sound of birds or a bike rolling past. everything’s washed in soft gold light, the kind that makes the world look cleaner than it really is.

he starts walking.

there’s a bounce in his step that he tries to ignore. it feels stupid to feel this way. giddy. like he’s got something worth looking forward to. he tells himself it’s just because he didn’t drink last night. he’s clear-headed. alert. that’s all.

but he knows it’s a lie.

the café comes into view just down the block. it’s the one you always go to—the one with the green sign. he remembers the first time he saw you there, hunched over your laptop with a coffee that had already gone cold, scribbling in your notebook like the world might end if you looked up.

the memory makes his chest feel weird.

he pushes open the door, the little bell chiming. the barista greets him with a sleepy smile. he glances over the glass case, scanning the pastries. croissants, muffins, a few danishes. then he spots the one he remembers you ordering once—flaky and soft, sugar dusted over the top.

“one of those,” he says, pointing.

the barista wraps it up neatly in paper. sukuna hands over the cash, then hesitates when she asks if he wants a drink.

he almost says yes. almost orders a sweet coffee for you.

but then he remembers.

you’ll already have one right now, you always do.

“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “js' the pastry.”

he walks out with the small paper bag in hand, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

he feels ridiculous. it’s a fucking pastry. but somehow it feels like more than that. like he’s carrying a confession.

when the library comes into view, he spots you right away.

you’re there, in your usual spot. that back table near the window, the one you’ve claimed without ever really saying so. your coffee’s beside your laptop, steam curling up faintly. you’re biting your lip, eyes narrowed in concentration as you read through something.

and god, you’re cute.

it slaps him all over again.

the way your hair falls forward, the soft sweater you’re wearing, the tiny crease between your brows. you’re not trying to be anything. you’re just there, focused, quiet, real.

he stands there for a second, just watching.

then he remembers himself and walks over.

“g'morning,” he says.

you look up, startled, then your whole face softens when you see him. “oh—hi! you’re early.”

“yeah,” he says, dropping his bag into the chair across from you. “didn't wanna sleep in today.”

you laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “fair.”

he pulls the paper bag from his hoodie pocket and slides it across the table.

he holds it out to you. “for you. figured you might want breakfast.”

you blink, startled. “wait, really?”

“yeah. it’s from that cafe you like.”

your mouth falls open slightly, and your cheeks go pink in that way he’s starting to adore. “you... remembered that?”

“guess so.”

you take the bag from him carefully, like it’s something fragile. when you peek inside and see what it is, your expression softens even more.

“oh my god,” you whisper, smiling so hard your eyes crinkle at the corners. “this is my favorite one.”

he watches, almost helpless, as you keep talking, thanking him over and over. your voice stumbles with embarrassment, your fingers fidget with the bag, and the more flustered you get, the more something warm spreads through his chest.

“you didn’t have to—really, that’s so sweet of you.”

“it’s nothing,” he says, but his voice is rougher than he means it to be. “just figured you might be hungry.”

you look down, still smiling. “thank you.”

and it hits him, how long it’s been since a girl said that to him and meant it.

you break the silence first, switching to the assignment, pulling up your notes and explaining something about the next section. he nods along, but he’s not really listening. he’s watching the way you push your hair behind your ear, the way your brows furrow when you focus.

he forces himself to pay attention. still, the moment feels easy.

you talk for a while about the project, comparing notes, trading small jokes. he feels himself relax into the rhythm of it, like it’s become a routine.

and then, without warning, you bring up toji.

you clear your throat first, eyes flicking down to your notes. “so, um... toji.”

he stills, one brow lifting, you were finally gonna talk about him since that awful run in last time. “hmm?”

“he’s… very…” you trail off, searching for the word. “loud.”

he snorts. “that’s one way to put it.”

“and, um, big. like—physically. and personality-wise. very… confident.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah. sorry about that. he’s… a lot. again, i didn’t mean to unleash him on you like that.” he was apologising again, so out of character for him but he couldn't help it. not with you.

“no, no,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “he’s just… different than i expected.”

“different how?”

you hesitate, chewing your lip. “i guess i thought he’d be more like you.”

the words hang between you for a second. his pulse stutters.

“like me, huh?” he says, teasing, leaning back in his chair, spread wide as he looks you up and down. “what’s that supposed to mean, hm?”

you go red instantly, trying to drag your eyes away from his man spread legs. “i just meant—you’re, um, thoughtful. more focused. not overbearing, you're nice...”

he grins. "nice, huh?"

you hide your mouth behind your hand and look off to the side. "nicer than toji, yeah."

he laughs, "that's not a very high bar to clear."

you giggled in response, letting him continue.

“so you like my type better?”

“that’s not what i said,” you mumble, covering your face with your hand again.

“didn’t have to.”

you peek at him through your fingers, and he has to bite back a laugh. your cheeks are so pink it hurts to look at you.

“you’re bullying me,” you say, your voice small.

“maybe.”

you shake your head, still smiling, and reach for your coffee. he watches the way you hold it, the delicate tilt of your wrist, the little sigh you make after a sip.

then, quieter, he asks, “so… you still interested in him? toji, i mean.”

you freeze.

“i—uh.” your voice falters. “i guess so? i... i don’t know.”

“you don’t sound sure.”

“he’s just—not what i thought he’d be. i thought he’d be a little calmer.”

“he’s not really the type to surprise you in a good way,” sukuna says.

you smile faintly, eyes on your cup. “yeah. maybe not.”

the way you say it, soft, thoughtful, uncertain, it makes his chest ache.

you’re too sweet for this. too genuine. you deserve someone who actually listens, who doesn’t treat you like background noise. and for some reason, he hates that the person you’re hung up on is his best friend.

he sighs, rubbing his jaw.

you look up, curious. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing,” he says, forcing a smile. “just tired.”

you nod, and the two of you fall back into quiet work. it’s peaceful again, the only sounds the soft click of your keyboard and the scratching of his pen. time blurs.

when you finally close your laptop, stretching your arms, he realizes two hours have passed.

“we got a lot done,” you say, smiling.

“yeah,” he says, though he can’t remember a thing you just studied.

you start packing your things, tucking the empty pastry bag into your bag. before you can leave, you hesitate. then, shyly, you step closer and wrap one arm around him in a little side hug.

“thank you,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “for breakfast. and for helping me.”

for a second, he forgets how to breathe.

you smell like coffee and sugar and something faintly floral. your hand rests briefly against his side, and he swears every nerve in his body lights up.

then you pull away, smiling up at him, oblivious to the chaos you’ve just caused.

“see you tomorrow?”

“yeah!” he says quickly, way too excited. “d-definitely.”

you wave and head out, the door swinging shut behind you.

he stands there for a full minute, still staring at the spot you’d been standing, until he realizes his hands are clenched and his pulse is hammering.

he grabs his bag, mutters something under his breath, and heads outside.

the moment he’s in the open air again, he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

the breeze does nothing to cool the heat crawling under his skin.

he walks fast, head down, eyes on the pavement.

every step feels heavy with restraint.

because all he can think about is how soft you felt, how small your hand was against him, how much he wanted to pull you in, bury his face in your neck, keep you there for hours.

he curses under his breath, tugging his hoodie lower, hoping it hides the problem growing in his jeans.

“get it together,” he mutters.

he tries to think about anything else—the assignment, the game tomorrow, the half-finished paper on his desk—but his mind keeps circling back to you. your laugh. your blush. your hug.

by the time he reaches the frat, his heartbeat’s finally starting to slow, but the feeling stays. that dizzy mix of guilt and want.

he steps inside quietly, the house still a mess of half-dead hangovers, and slips upstairs to his room.

the first thing he does is sit on his bed, elbows on his knees, and let out a long, shaky exhale.

he’s in trouble.

he knows it.

because he can’t stop smiling.

~

the gym in the frat house isn’t much. it’s a dim room tucked behind the kitchen, with cracked mirrors and rusted weights, the air always heavy with the stale scent of sweat and cheap deodorant.

the guys call it a “home gym,” but it’s really just a collection of mismatched dumbbells, an old bench press, and a speaker that always buzzes when the bass hits too hard. its nothing like the fancy campus one him and toji visit, still, it works for sukuna.

he’s halfway through a set, sweat sliding down the back of his neck, when his thoughts start slipping away from the burn in his muscles and land right where they always seem to go lately.

he tries to ignore it, focusing on the motion, the rhythm, the push and pull of the bar in his hands.

but the harder he tries not to think about you, the more vivid you become. your voice, soft but steady, your shy little smiles whenever he cracks a joke, the way you always tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to blush.

it’s infuriating, how easily you creep into his head.

he exhales sharply, finishing the set with a grunt, letting the bar clang down harder than he means to. it rattles against the frame, echoing in the small room.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, sitting up and grabbing the towel draped over his shoulders.

he wipes his face, breathing hard, his reflection in the mirror smudged with fingerprints and dust. he looks exhausted, not just from the workout but from everything sitting in his head.

you and toji.

you and that stupid, innocent crush you’d confessed to him like it was nothing.

he leans forward, elbows on his knees, towel hanging loosely around his neck. he can’t keep fucking around pretending like this is going to work anymore.

he can’t sit through another study session with you knowing that toji knows you're into him.

toji doesn’t even remember half the girls he flirts with, so why should he get to occupy that sweet spot in your brain.

that thought alone makes his blood boil.

you’re too good for that. too damn good.

he picks up the dumbbell again, trying to lift through the frustration, but his mind keeps racing. toji’s face flashes in his mind—the obnoxiousness, his interest in you only after finding out what you looked like.

the memory makes his jaw clench.

toji doesn’t deserve to know you exist, let alone be someone you lose sleep over.

his grip tightens around the handle. he lifts again, but it feels pointless now, his muscles burning for a different reason entirely.

finally, he slams the weight down and stands up, chest heaving.

he’s done.

done thinking he can stomach this, done keeping that deal, done lying to himself.

without even thinking about it, he walks out of the gym, towel still slung over his shoulder. his feet move on instinct, carrying him through the hall, up the grand stairs, straight to toji’s room.

the door’s half-shut, light spilling from the gap, and he doesn’t bother knocking. he pushes it open, the wood hitting the wall with a dull thud.

toji’s sprawled across his bed, shirtless, scrolling through his phone. there’s a protein shake on the desk, a game controller tangled in the sheets. he looks up lazily when sukuna appears.

“yo,” he says, grinning. “you look pissed. what, satoru stealing your shirts n' shit again?”

sukuna doesn’t answer. he stands there for half a second, jaw tight, and then the words just fall out before he can stop them.

“y/n has a boyfriend,” he blurts. “so you can forget the whole crush on you thing.”

toji blinks, confused. “uhm?”

“what,” sukuna says, crossing his arms. “shes got a guy.”

toji sits up slightly, eyebrows furrowing. “who’s y/n again?”

the silence that follows is deafening.

sukuna stares at him, the vein in his temple twitching.

“are you actually deadass right now?”

toji shrugs. “bro, i talk to a lot of girls, you gotta be more specific.”

that’s it.

sukuna drags a hand down his face, muttering something that sounds halfway between a growl and a groan. he doesn’t even bother explaining. it’s not worth it.

“don't worry, man,” he snaps, spinning on his heel.

he slams the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.

by the time he gets back to his room, his chest is tight, the frustration boiling over into something heavier. he paces once, twice, then finally drops onto his bed, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“who’s y/n again?”

the words echo in his mind like a bad joke.

he can’t believe it. he can’t believe he ever thought this was a good idea, trying to set you up with that idiot.

it’s not even about the deal anymore. it’s about you.

because now he knows what it feels like to be around you, to hear you laugh, to see the way your eyes light up when he remembers the smallest things. he knows what it feels like to walk beside you through campus at night, the air cool and soft, your voice quiet but steady.

he likes you.

really, really likes you.

and it’s not just because you’re pretty, though god, you are. it’s because you’re kind. because you make him feel human again, in a way that nothing else ever does. because you talk to him like he’s worth something more than the reputation that follows him.

he doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s there now, and it’s not going away.

.

the weeks that follow move in a blur. the two of you keep meeting for study sessions, but they’ve shifted. so subtly that neither of you seems to notice.

you’re more relaxed now. you smile more, laugh easier. you’ve started showing up with little things for him too. chocolates, protein bars, a can of cold brew. every time, he teases you about it, but inside, he’s having a spaz out.

and every time he brings you something in return, you light up like he’s handed you the world.

you’ve started talking about more than the project. now, it’s everything. random things. favorite youtuber, weird scandals, "uhm, no way you think d4vd is innocent, they had matching tattoos!", childhood fuck ups, "yeah, i used to be one of those devious lick kids in middle school, me and gojo stole an entire sink".

sometimes, you talk so much you forget the assignment altogether, and he never stops you.

he lives for these moments.

sometimes, when you’re sitting side by side at the library, your knees brush under the table. it’s barely a touch, accidental every time, but it makes his pulse stutter.

you’ve started giving him hugs too, real ones. not just quick, polite ones, actual, full-bodied hugs that make him want to forget how to breathe. all he wants to do is bundle you up and take you back home, lock you away where no one could possibly taint that beautiful smile.

he pretends to be chill and nonchalant, but inside, he’s crashing out so hard.

one afternoon, it’s raining outside, and you show up in a damp tank top, hair slightly damp. he nearly forgets how to speak. you hand him a hot chocolate and giggle when he stares at it like he’s never seen one before.

“it’s not that weird,” you say, smiling. “i thought you might want something warm and sweet for this type of weather.”

he looks at you for a long moment trying not to stare at your see through chest, then takes the cup. “thanks,” he murmurs, and it sounds like something heavier than gratitude.

you shrug, shy but pleased, then sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

when the session ends that day, he walks you home like he always does. it’s become a quiet habit between you. no one suggested it, but neither of you questions it either. you live just off campus, in a small apartment with ivy creeping up the walls, and every time you reach your door, you both hesitate.

he wants to ask if he can come inside, just once.

you always look like you might invite him, too.

but neither of you ever says it.

instead, you smile, soft and warm, and tell him goodnight. he always watches until you disappear inside, until the light flicks on and frank ocean starts softly pouring from the window.

and every time, he walks back to the frat with that same ache in his chest, the one that’s half longing and half fear.

he knows he’s in wayyy too deep.

but he can't stop.

you’ve started coming out of your shell in little bursts. you tease him now, gently. you call him out when he’s being lazy, roll your eyes when he tries to act too chill. and he eats it the fuck up. every second of it.

you’re different with him now. freer. you trust him.

and that makes everything both better and worse.

because every time you look at him with that open, honest expression, he has to remind himself of the lie he built this on—the deal, the fake promise to get you closer to toji.

it barely comes up anymore. sometimes you mention toji in passing, usually as a joke, and you both laugh it off. it’s like neither of you really care about it anymore.

and maybe that’s the truth. maybe it stopped mattering the moment you started looking at him like that.

one evening, when the sun’s setting, you’re sitting across from him at the library, talking about nothing in particular. you’re smiling, head tilted, your voice soft. and he catches himself staring, not hearing a single word.

you stop mid-sentence, blinking. “what?”

he shakes his head quickly. “nothing.”

“you’re staring,” you say, cheeks pink.

“you’re imagining things, honey."

you laugh, hiding your face in your hands.

he smiles too, but there’s something behind it—something he doesn’t let you see.

because in that moment, it hits him all over again, stronger than before.

he’s seriously can't do this shit any longer.

he doesn’t want to help you get to toji anymore.

he doesn’t want to stand by while you talk about someone else, even in passing.

he wants you. all of you.

the quiet smiles, the shy blushes, the little quirks he’s learned by heart.

he wants to be the one who gets to see every part of you—every version of that soft, sweet girl who’s been slowly unraveling in front of him.

and he knows, deep down, that if he ever let himself say it out loud, he’d never be able to take it back.

so he keeps it buried, just for now, as he walks you home again that night. the streetlights stretch long shadows across the pavement, and your arm brushes his once, twice, and each time, he swears of he doesn't concentrate he'll trip over his jordans.

when you reach your door, you turn to him with that same bright smile, the one that always knocks the air from his lungs.

“thanks again,” you say softly.

he nods. “anytime.”

you linger for a second, like you want to say something more, then wave goodnight and disappear inside.

he stands there for a long moment, staring at the door, listening to the faint hum of music from your apartment.

then, finally, he exhales, a small, helpless laugh slipping out.

he’s ruined. completely.

and for once in his life, he doesn’t even mind.

~

the classroom is thick with the sound of quiet chatter, chairs scraping against tile, pens clicking as people jot down reminders before leaving. the fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting everything in a washed-out glow that makes it feel like time’s been stretched too thin. the chemistry teacher’s voice cuts through it all, cheerful but distant.

“alright, everyone—just a quick reminder that your paired assignment is due at the end of this week. make sure you’ve got everything finalized. i’ll be checking submissions on friday.”

the words hang in the air like a quiet ending bell.

you look up from your notes at the same time sukuna does, and for a moment, your eyes meet across the shared lab table. he’s already watching you, elbows resting on the counter, twirling his pen between his fingers.

he gives you this crooked half-smile—something between fond and nervous—and you return it, though yours falters just a little at the edges.

it hits both of you at once. this thing between you, this rhythm you’ve fallen into, the study sessions, the walks home, the quiet coffees before class? it’s been built around this assignment. and when the assignment ends, what happens then?

he taps his pen against his notebook, looking away first. “guess we’re almost done, huh?”

you try to sound light. “yeah… crazy how fast it went.”

but it doesn’t feel fast. it feels full. it feels like a lifetime compressed into a few short weeks, every minute threaded with something unspoken.

he hums in agreement, glancing at you again. “we should probably go over everything one more time. make sure it’s perfect.”

you nod, pretending to check the notes in front of you. “mhm, library after class?”

“yeah,” he says. “one last session.”

one last. the words make your stomach twist.

.

sukuna drops his bag on the chair across from you, stretching his arms as he sits down. his hair’s a little messy from the wind, and he smells faintly of the sexy cologne he always wears, something clean and manly that clings to his skin.

you open your laptop, trying to focus on the document in front of you. it’s almost done—just small edits, formatting, double-checking citations—but the words keep blurring. you can feel his presence across the table, solid and steady, and it’s impossible to think about chemistry when he’s right there.

he’s quieter than usual too. his knee bounces under the table, a restless rhythm, and every now and then you catch him glancing up, like he’s about to say something but decides against it.

the silence stretches between you, thick and loaded. you can’t stand it anymore.

“so…” you start, voice softer than you mean it to be.

he looks up instantly, like he’s been waiting for you to speak. “yeah?”

you open your mouth, close it again, glance at your hands. “never mind. it’s nothing.”

he frowns slightly. “come on. what is it?”

you shake your head, forcing a small smile. “seriously, it’s nothing. just focus.”

he watches you for a second longer, then sighs and leans back, crossing his arms. “fine. but you’re acting weird.”

you let out a soft laugh that sounds too nervous. “i could say the same about you.”

that gets a real smile out of him, crooked and teasing, but it fades quickly.

you both go quiet again, typing half-heartedly, neither of you really working. the tension builds, unspoken and unbearable.

you can feel the words sitting on your tongue, begging to be let out. you want to tell him everything. how the crush on toji fizzled out weeks ago, how stupid it feels now, how you can’t stop thinking about him instead. how every time he looks at you, your whole chest feels like it’s about to give out.

you glance up. he’s staring at his screen, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. and somehow, you can tell he’s holding something back too.

finally, you both move at the same time.

“i have to tell you something,” you say, right as he says, “there’s something i should tell you.”

you both stop, eyes locking.

you laugh softly. “you first.”

he shakes his head. “nuh uh, you first.”

“no way,” you say, smiling now despite the nerves. “you looked like you were about to explode. go ahead.”

“ladies first,” he shoots back, that teasing lilt returning to his voice, though his eyes are still serious.

you roll your eyes, but your heart’s hammering. “fine,” you breathe.

he leans forward, forearms on the table, watching you carefully.

you swallow, your fingers twisting the edge of your sleeve. “okay. so, um… this is kind of embarrassing, but—”

you stop, take a breath, try again. “it's about toji.”

his expression flickers for a second, something unreadable crossing his face. “yeah,” he says slowly. “what about him?”

you toy with a pen to keep your hands busy. “i don’t really… feel that way anymore. about him.”

his brow lifts just slightly, his voice careful. “ts' that so?”

you nod, cheeks warm. “yeah. i mean, it was kind of silly, wasn’t it? i barely knew him. i think i just liked the idea of him. and then when you brought him to that one session, i realised he’s… kinda clapped, nothing like what i imagined.”

he lets out a small sound, something close to a laugh, but it’s quiet, almost nervous. “yeah, that sounds like him.”

you smile faintly, tracing a finger along the edge of your notebook. “the truth is, i think i was just projecting. when we started hanging out, i didn’t know you that well, and i guess i thought maybe toji was like you. you know? confident, funny, easy to talk to.” you pause, your gaze flicking up to his. “but he’s not you. not even remotely close.”

his breath catches slightly, and for a moment, he forgets how to speak.

“i don’t know,” you go on, voice softer now, almost trembling. “i kept thinking i wanted someone like toji, but… the whole time, i was really just wishing he’d be more like you, sukuna.”

you meet his eyes fully now, and the world seems to narrow around you both. “and then i realised maybe i don’t want someone like you. maybe i just, you know, want you.”

the silence that follows feels endless.

he’s staring at you, completely still. you can see the realization hit him. the tension in his shoulders easing, his expression softening in disbelief and relief all at once.

you bite your lip, instantly flustered. “that sounded so stupid, didn’t it?”

he shakes his head quickly. “no. no, not at all.”

he leans back in his chair, letting out a long, shaky exhale. it’s the biggest breath of relief you’ve ever seen someone take. he runs a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath, a sound that’s half disbelieving, half overwhelmed.

“holy shit,” he murmurs, still smiling. “you have no idea how good it is to hear that.”

you blink. “uhm, what?”

he laughs again, softer this time, his hand still pressed to the back of his neck. “that’s what i was gonna tell you. i’ve been losing my fucking mind these past few weeks because i’ve been trying so hard not to say it.”

you stare at him, your heart pounding. “say what?”

he meets your gaze again, eyes warm and honest. “that i like you. like, really like you. i’ve had this massive crush on you for a while now, and it’s been killing me trying to act normal.”

you can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, part disbelief, part giddy joy. “you’re deadass?”

he nods. “one hundred percent.”

“but… the deal,” you say quietly. “you were supposed to help me with toji.”

“yeah, about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “i kinda… just didn’t.”

you tilt your head. “uhhm, what?”

he laughs again, nervously this time. “i told him you had a boyfriend.”

your eyes widen. “you did?"

he winces. “yeah. i told him that weeks ago. i just... i couldn’t do it anymore. couldn’t keep pretending i was helping you get with him when all i wanted was to keep you all to myself.”

you blink once, twice, then cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “you told him i had a boyfriend?”

“yep.” he grins now, a little cocky, a little embarrassed. “guess that’s me sabotaging the deal.”

you drop your hand, still smiling. “that’s so stupid.”

“i know.”

“but…” you pause, your smile turning softer. “it’s kind of sweet.”

he leans forward again, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “you’re not mad?”

“mad?” you repeat, shaking your head. “no. that’s… exactly what i wanted, actually.”

he blinks. “really?”

you nod, heart in your throat. “yeah. i didn’t want you helping me with toji. not anymore. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”

he stares at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “so what now?”

you smile. “i don’t know. maybe we just… stop pretending.”

he exhales, leaning back with a grin that could light up the whole room. “i can do that.”

for a moment, neither of you says anything. you just sit there, the quiet hum of the library around you, the sun slipping lower through the windows, painting his skin in gold.

finally, he breaks the silence, voice low. “for the record, i was terrified you were about to tell me you had a new man for real.”

you laugh softly. “no chance.”

“good,” he says, and the way he looks at you—soft, sure, a little possessive—makes your pulse race.

you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re both leaning across the table, closer than you’ve ever been. the distance between you shrinks until you can feel his breath on your lips, his hand brushing lightly against yours.

neither of you say anything. you don’t need to.

the moment stretches, slow and sweet, full of everything you’ve both been holding back.

~

the second you get back to your apartment, your face ignites with the kind of fire only a really nice fireplace could match, the ones in those fancy houses you see on the block.

the guy you'd been crushing on for a total of four weeks now had just told you he felt the same. and ever more, he'd been so obsessed he'd told your ex-crush you'd had a boyfriend in hopes of bagging you himself.

for a girl not used to being in the spotlight, having such a loud, well known frat guy like ryomen sukuna become vulnerable, just for you? it was like the world came crashing and burning down at your feet. he made your stomach swim with love and passion, a feeling you'd only ever gotten from receiving higher grades than everyone else, a feeling so much better than finding a new delicious pastry you couldn't help but order again.

ryomen sukuna was it. he was the kinda guy you'd been dreaming of ever since you'd started college. he was the perfect man, and he was as into you as you were him.

you settled into your living room with an adorably large smile painted on your lips, the sensation of fulfilment taking over your ever thought as you dreamt of what was to happen next.

~

the week after the submission crawls by. you think about both sukuna and the possible grade you'll both get every day. every time you pass the lab, every time you open your laptop, every time you catch sight of sukuna across the courtyard, leaning against the wall with his friends.

you can tell he’s thinking about it too. the way he catches your eye during class and offers a small, crooked smile says everything. neither of you can really stop wondering what the final mark will be, as well as what life has in store for the both of you.

friday finally rolls around, the classroom feels weird. students trickle in with tired faces and restless energy, everyone buzzing quietly with the same anticipation. the teacher walks in, holding a stack of papers in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.

she sets everything down at the front desk, claps her hands together, and gives a small, approving smile.

“alright, everyone,” she says, her tone almost teasing. “i’ve marked your projects. you’ll get the official grades through the online portal, but since i know you’re all impatient—” her gaze sweeps the room, landing briefly on you and sukuna, “—i’ll let you know this much: some of you really impressed me.”

a ripple of chatter runs through the class. sukuna shoots you a look from across the room, eyebrows raised. you smile nervously and shrug.

after class, the two of you linger by the doorway, waiting for the crowd to clear out. you’re clutching your phone, refreshing the student portal again and again even though the grades still aren’t visible. sukuna leans close, peering at your screen.

“nothing yet?” he asks.

“no,” you sigh. “probably another hour.”

he tilts his head, thinking for a moment. “want to check it together later? at that little cafe with the green sign?”

you blink. “awe, my favourite. sure!”

“of course,” he says, smirking lightly. “how good am i remembering your favourite things n' shit.”

you laugh, cheeks warming. “what a man. how about we meet there at five?”

“five it is.” he gives a small wave as he heads down the hall. “see you then, partner.”

the cafe smells like roasted coffee beans and sugar, the air humming with quiet conversation and the clinking of ceramic cups. it’s early evening, and the place is wrapped in that warm, lazy glow that makes everything feel softer. the green sign outside flickers faintly through the window, the letters worn from years of weather and sunlight.

you spot him immediately—sitting near the counter, wearing a black hoodie and tapping his thumb against his phone screen. his hair’s pulled back, a few loose strands falling into his eyes. he looks up the moment the door chimes, and that grin spreads across his face like it’s second nature.

“hey,” he says as you approach.

“hey,” you echo, sliding into the seat across from him.

he gestures toward the counter. “i already ordered for us. black coffee for me, that thing you like for you, and—” he grins, “—a pastry, because apparently you can’t sit in this place without one.”

you laugh softly, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters. “you know me too well, we needa' hang out less.”

“noo,” he says, leaning back. “i'm just an observer.”

the drinks come quickly, steam curling from the cups. you take yours with both hands, staring at the little swirl of foam, trying to calm your nerves. sukuna pulls out his phone again, refreshes the student portal, and freezes.

his eyes widen. “holy shit,” he mutters.

you look up sharply. “what?”

he turns the screen toward you. there it is—your names side by side, and next to them, the number that makes your breath catch.

98%.

you stare at it for a second, then look at him, and the two of you just burst out laughing.

“oh my-” you say, grinning from ear to ear. “ninety-eight?”

he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “holy shit- holy shit can’t believe it,” he says, half-laughing, half-sighing in disbelief. “i actually passed. i can stay in the frat. holy shit.”

you laugh again, the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “i told you you’d do fine!”

he stands up suddenly, still laughing, and before you can react he pulls you into his arms. it’s a full, tight hug—so warm, so big. his chest rumbles with laughter, and you can feel how much this means to him, how much the stress and pressure have finally melted away.

“thank you,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low, almost breathless. “thank you so much for helping me. i would’ve completely fucking tanked without you.”

you laugh against his shoulder, feeling your own face heat up. “you’re welcome,” you mumble, your words muffled by his hoodie. “you did so good, really.”

when he finally lets go, you can still feel the warmth lingering where he’d held you. he looks just as flustered, rubbing the back of his neck as he sits back down.

“sorry,” he says, half-smiling. “got a little carried away.”

“it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “it was… nice.”

his grin widens at that.

you both take a moment to calm down, sipping your drinks in the cozy corner. the sound of the coffee machine hums faintly in the background, and sunlight filters through the leaves outside, dappled across the table. it feels like the whole world’s slowed down just for the two of you.

“so,” he says eventually, voice softer now, “ninety-eight percent. that's so peak."

“yeah, we did that,” you reply, smiling. “you’ll probably get a compliment from the teacher next class.”

“you too,” he says. “you carried me, you're actually so clutch.”

“you helped too,” you insist. “you actually tried, sukuna. that’s what mattered.”

he chuckles, shaking his head. “yeah, but even if i hadn’t passed…” he pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “i don’t think i’d be too upset.”

you tilt your head, smiling faintly. “no?”

“nah.” he leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “because i got to spend all that time with you. and honestly? that made it worth it.”

your chest tightens, a flutter rising under your ribs. you look down quickly, pretending to focus on your coffee. “you’re just saying that.”

“i’m not,” he says firmly. “you made studying actually fun. no one’s ever done that shit before.”

you look up again, and his expression is so genuine, so open, that you forget how to breathe for a second.

“well,” you say softly, “i liked spending time with you too.”

your cups sit forgotten on the table, the croissant half-eaten, and all you can hear is the chatter of other uni kids and the soft clatter of dishes.

you stare into his eyes, and there’s a question there—unspoken but clear.

he smiles, almost shyly, a rare thing for him. “so… what now?”

you shrug lightly, but your smile mirrors his. “i don’t know. i guess we don’t have to stop hanging out just because the project’s done.”

his grin grows wider, and you can see the faintest pink dusting his ears. “good,” he says. “because i was kinda hoping you’d say that.”

he hesitates for a moment, then sits up a little straighter, as if gathering courage.

“actually,” he says, rubbing his thumb against the edge of his cup, “there’s something i wanted to ask.”

you tilt your head. “hmm? and what’s that?”

he exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “i know this is probably cheesy as hell, but… i’d really like to take you out. like, properly. dinner, movie, whatever you want. an actual date.”

the words sink in, soft and certain. you blink, surprised but instantly smiling, your cheeks growing hot.

“you mean… like, a date date?” you ask, teasing just a little.

he laughs under his breath. “yeah. a date date.”

you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “i’d love that.”

his expression softens into something that almost makes your heart ache. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

for a moment, you just sit there, both grinning like idiots. it feels unreal, like something out of a quiet, sunlit dream.

he leans back in his chair, relief washing over him in waves. “good,” he says. “i was worried you’d say no.”

you shake your head, still smiling. “never.”

the light outside shifts slowly, spilling gold through the window, painting his skin in soft warmth. he looks at you like he’s memorizing the moment—the coffee, the laughter, the way you keep tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

and as he sits across from you, grinning like he can’t quite believe his luck, you know that whatever comes next, it’s going to be something worth waiting for.

~

months slide by, slow but certain. what once was a study partnership built on awkward exchanges and quiet glances has become something sooo much more. somewhere between library stops, coffee stops, and tight hugs, it shifted. you shifted. sukuna shifted. the line between school and romance blurred until it disappeared completely.

now, you’re his. officially, undeniably, completely his. and he’s yours.

the first time sukuna brings you to the frat house as his girlfriend, it feels like stepping into a completely different world. the place is loud, music spilling from bluetooth speakers, guys shouting from the kitchen about who’s out of beer, the smell of cheap cologne and pizza hanging in the air.

you pause in the doorway, clutching sukuna’s hand like it’s an anchor. he glances down at you with that little smirk that never fails to make your heart stutter.

“don’t stress it baby,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath grazes your ear. “they’ll love you.”

and they do.

weather or not that's because he threatened to beat them unconscious if they made you feel uncomfortable before you came over is irrelevant.

satoru’s the first to notice you, perched on the couch with a controller in hand. he looks up mid-game, grins wide, and immediately calls out, “holy shit, sukuna actually brought a girl here voluntarily?”

“shut up,” sukuna grumbles, tightening his grip on your hand. “this one’s permanent.”

that earns a chorus of oohs and whistles from the guys nearby. your face burns, but when you glance up at sukuna, he’s smiling—not his usual cocky grin, but something softer. proud.

“hey,” you mumble under your breath, “it smells so bad in here, ryo.”

he chuckles quietly. “you’ll get used to it.”

before you can even respond, toji appears from the kitchen, a beer in hand and a knowing grin on his face. “well, if it isn’t the little chem genius.”

you blink. “you… remember me?”

“of course,” toji laughs, setting his drink down and stretching out a hand. “heard you saved this idiot’s academic career.”

“hey,” sukuna cuts in, rolling his eyes. “i wasn’t that bad.”

“you had an eight percent, bro.”

the whole room bursts into laughter. sukuna just grumbles and flips toji off while you try not to giggle too loudly. it’s strange, seeing them all like this. so loud, so chaotic, so different from the quiet rhythm you’re used to, but somehow, it feels okay. you feel okay.

by the end of the night, you’re sitting between sukuna’s legs on the couch, his arms draped loosely around your waist, your back against his chest. someone puts on an old movie in the background, and the chatter slowly fades into easy quiet. for the first time, the frat doesn’t feel intimidating. it feels warm. welcoming.

satoru catches your eye from across the room, giving a thumbs up before mouthing, she’s a keeper. sukuna just smirks.

later that night, when everyone else has gone to bed and the house has fallen quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards, sukuna presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“told you they’d love you,” he whispers.

“yeah, you were right,” you murmur, smiling softly. “they’re so nice.”

“you’re even nicer,” he says, his voice barely audible. “that’s why they love ya'.”

and you can hear the truth in his tone. you know he means it.

after that, everything starts to fall into blissful routine. you help him study, drilling formulas and reactions into his head late into the night. he’s surprisingly good at it now, his grades climbing steadily—proof that maybe he was capable all along, he just needed someone to push him in the right direction.

and in return, he helps you come out of your shell.

he brings you to tiny cafes you’ve never been to before, teaches you how to play pool (terribly, but he doesn’t care), and pulls you into spontaneous late-night walks through campus when the air is cool and the stars are bright.

sometimes, you end up sitting on the hood of his car, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders, your fingers tangled with his as he talks about everything and nothing.

he tells you things he’s never told anyone else—about his parents, about the pressure to be someone bigger, stronger, louder. about how he never really cared about anything before he met you.

“you made me start giving a shit,” he says one night, his voice low as he traces lazy circles against your palm. “about school, about the future. about being a better guy.”

you glance up at him, smiling faintly. “you're the bestest guy, kuna.”

he looks at you for a long time, his chest squeezing with the urge to squish you until you pop. then, with a soft exhale, he leans down and kisses you. gentle, slow, like the world could end and he’d still be happy just holding you against his muscular chest.

word gets around campus fast. whispers follow you sometimes. half disbelief, half awe. people don’t really understand how you ended up with him. the shy, quiet girl who sits at the front of every lecture, always polite, always prepared… dating one of the loudest, most notorious frat boys on campus.

but the thing is, neither of you care.

you’ve seen the way people look at you two when you walk hand in hand across campus, his tall frame towering beside yours. you’ve heard the murmurs—'how long do you think it’ll last, she’s too good for him, he’ll get bored'. but then he catches your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and all of it melts away.

"don't listen to those clowns."

because you know him now. the real him.

the boy who wakes up early to get your favorite pastry from the cafe before class. the one who drapes his hoodie over your shoulders when it’s too crisp. the one who never forgets to text you goodnight, even when he’s exhausted.

the one who stopped showing up to most frat partys because, as he put it, “none of it’s fun without you anyway.”

you see it in the way he’s changed. not because you asked him to, but because he wants to.

he doesn’t flirt with girls anymore. he doesn’t even seem to notice when they do. his focus is all on you. your laughter, your voice, your little quirks that no one else ever bothered to notice.

and it’s not just the big things that show it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the road closest to the cars. the way he remembers all your orders without ever asking. the way he’ll pull you closer when you’re out together, even if it’s just to rest his big hand on your hip.

he doesn’t talk about feelings much, not directly. but in every gesture, every glance, it’s there.

you’re his world now, and everyone can see it.

his room at the frat house has changed, too. gone are the stacks of solo cups and random gym gear scattered across the floor. in their place are little pieces of you—a throw blanket you brought one day, a mug you left on his desk, your notebook tucked on the shelf next to his textbooks.

he keeps a photo of the two of you pinned on his bulletin board. it’s a candid, one of those moments you didn’t even know he was taking. a shot of you sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing his hoodie, laughing with a half-eaten cookie in your hand. he swears it’s his favorite picture in the world.

“you look so fucking cute, and happy,” he tells you when you catch him staring at it one night.

“i am happy,” you reply softly.

“better be,” he says. “that’s all i ever want for you, y/n.”

some nights, he stays over at your apartment instead of the frat. he always claims it’s because it’s quieter, easier to focus on studying. but you both know it’s just because he sleeps better when you’re beside him.

you cook together sometimes, though “cook” might be a really shitty out of touch excuse for the disaster you two create. he burns half the things he touches, laughs through every fuck up, and still insists on taste-testing everything like he’s on master chef. you can’t stay mad when he grins at you with flour on his cheek, his dimples showing as he holds up a misshapen cookie.

“hey, we’re improvin',” he says.

“barely,” you reply, giggling.

he just leans down, presses a quick kiss to your nose, and murmurs, “yeah, but you’re still here, so i must be doing somethin' right.”

there are still parties, of course—he’s still in the frat, and sometimes showing up is expected. but it’s much different. when he does go, he stays by your side the whole night, a protective hand on your back or wrapped around your waist.

he barely drinks anymore, claiming he doesn’t need to. when people flirt or make comments, he just laughs them off and pulls you a little closer.

and when it gets late, when the music’s too loud and the air too heavy with alcohol and perfume, he’ll lean down and whisper, “wanna get out of here?”

you always nod. and the two of you slip away, walking through quiet streets until you reach your place, where everything feels calm again.

people still whisper, still wonder how it works. how a shy, soft-spoken girl could tame someone like ryomen sukuna. but you know the truth.

you didn’t tame him, you just saw him. really saw him. beneath the tattoos, the reputation, the arrogance. you saw the boy who just needed someone to care, and he saw the girl who needed someone to make her feel brave.

and together, you found something that feels a lot like forever.

months pass, the seasons shifting from late autumn to the first chill of winter. the air turns crisp, the sky pale and bright. the two of you walk through campus hand in hand, your breath forming little clouds in the cold.

“remember when we first started that project?” you ask one day, laughing softly. “you barely knew what a periodic table was.”

“hey,” he says, pretending to be offended. “i knew what it was. i just didn’t give a shit.”

“hmm, and now you’re pulling straight a’s.”

he grins. “guess i had a real good tutor. she's real sexy, too..”

you bump his shoulder lightly. “awe i bet she'd be real flattered to hear that.”

he stops walking for a moment, looking down at you with that same warm, unguarded look that still makes your stomach flip.

“you know something?” he says quietly.

“hmm?”

“i still think that fuckass project was the best thing that's ever happened to lil' ol' me.”

you smile, reaching up to fix the collar of his jacket. “yeah?”

“hell yeah,” he murmurs, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours. “because it led me to you.”

the world fades for a moment, the cold, the noise, the people around you, and it’s just him. just you.

when he kisses you, it’s slow, steady, full of all the fuzzy romantic fire that’s been culminating between you since the day he walked up to your desk with a failed test and a hidden nervous smile.

you remember that moment so clearly now, and you can’t help but think how far you’ve both come. from shy glances and awkward silences to this. a love that feels like home.

and as his hand tightens around yours, you realize something simple, something certain.

you’ve both found exactly where you’re meant to be, with each other.

soft sukuna is my fav icl