⭑

you were way too drunk and the sigma chi house was spinning.

the music thumped through the walls and your head felt light and fuzzy, but you were smiling anyway, red cup dangling from your fingers as you leaned against the wall for balance. your friends had disappeared ages ago and you didn’t really mind.

that’s when you saw him.

tall. pink hair. tattoos crawling up his arms. he looked really familiar but your drunk brain couldn’t connect the dots. you just knew he was stupidly hot standing there by the stairs with his arms crossed.

you stumbled over with a bright smile.

“hi,” you said, voice soft and sweet. “you have the prettiest eyes. like… scary pretty.”

sukuna looked down at you and his eyebrow raised, but he didn’t move away. the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“yeah?” he asked, voice low.

you nodded, stepping closer until you were leaning into his space. he smelled so good. warm and a little sweet, just like someone you used to know.

“mhm. my ex had eyes like yours,” you mumbled, resting your forehead against his arm because the room wouldn’t stop tilting. “he was mean looking but really nice to me. i miss him a lot actually.”

sukuna stayed quiet, one big hand coming up to steady you by the waist so you wouldn’t fall.

you kept talking, words spilling out easily now that someone was listening.

“we broke up because i thought he didn’t care enough but… he used to do the sweetest things. like bringing me coffee before class or letting me play with his hair even when he acted all tough about it.” you sighed softly. “i think i messed up. i still wear his hoodie to sleep sometimes.”

his grip on your waist tightened just a little.

“you’re drunk,” he murmured.

“super drunk,” you agreed with a little laugh, tilting your head up to look at him again. “but i mean it. he was the best. made me feel safe even when he was quiet and scary. you kinda look like him, it’s weird.”

sukuna let out a quiet breath that sounded almost like a laugh. he guided you through the crowd with a hand on your lower back, taking you upstairs without saying much. you didn’t even question it. his room felt familiar but everything was blurry.

he sat you on the edge of his bed and grabbed a bottle of water, crouching down in front of you so you could drink it. his hand rested gently on your knee the whole time.

“you’re really nice,” you whispered, eyes half closed. “my ex was nice like this too. when nobody else was looking.”

he didn’t answer right away. just brushed some hair out of your face with careful fingers and helped you lie down. when you reached out and grabbed his hand he paused.

“stay?” you asked softly.

sukuna sighed, but it was the soft kind. he sat on the edge of the bed and let you keep holding his hand, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles while you drifted off.

warnings [mdni] - angst | implied trauma | mean sukuna

wc - 7.3k

series masterlist

∞

ryomen sukuna knew three things about his soulmate. 

she drank too much caffeine, she slept curled on her side whenever anxiety crawled beneath her skin and whenever she read for hours on end or colored, the noise in his head quieted enough to let him breathe. 

it was fucking irritating. 

the first time she got under his skin, it was in the middle of his first match. 

he’d nearly put his fist through the guy, rage sitting ugly beneath his ribs as blood pooled in his mouth and sweat dripped down his spine. 

then suddenly, he was overcome with serenity he’d never experienced before. 

a calmness that wasn’t his own, never his own. 

something soft slipped beneath his skin then, warm and quiet in a way he wasn’t used to. like somebody had pressed cold hands against the back of his neck after years of burning where he stood. 

he’d won that match. 

“again?” toji muttered from across the gym, cigarette balanced lazily between scarred fingers. 

sukuna rolled his jaw once before slamming another punch into the heavy bag hard enough for the chains overhead to rattle violently. 

“fuck off.” 

toji smirked, tongue peaking out to lick at the scar against his lip. 

the gym smelled like rust, sweat and the metallic ting of blood that both men were used to. it was a shitty set up buried beneath the city in the lower levels of an abandoned parking structure. it barely looked legal from the outside and the inside wasn't much better. 

the concrete floors, flickering lights and men all too violent to exist comfortably above ground. 

and it was the place ryomen sukuna felt alive. 

𐚁 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃!𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐉𝐎𝐂𝐊!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

tags: he's just intelligent af and she's a jerk, fem reader, college setting, modern au, sukuna has his tattoos, he also has piercings, he's a little condescending shit, she's also very arrogant, she's the frat party rat, drug mention, laced drink, alcohol consumption, a little violence, no one is really sane but who's sane in college, sukuna is more pedantic than he normally is, colleagues to project partners to something else. sum: you're paired up with Sukuna, the weird quiet sharp nerd of your lit class, for your midterm project, but you have so much to do... like the parties, the volleyball team, and all of the things that don't involve being buried in books and boring ass researches, so you're pretty sure the big lonesome nerd will take no issue in doing it all by himself, right? wrong. art: @to00fu

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐌 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐒

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄

Extra. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄

In which sukuna gets shy and forgets how to speak when you fix his chain in front of his frat brothers

A reference to this series

It’s a friday night.

You had come over to the frat house after class, by now it was normal for you to randomly show up. It was the end of the week, with your body and mind both sore and tired from all the work you’ve done all week , eyes heavy, you went straight to sukuna’s room, plopped on his bed, and drifted to sleep.

How many hours had passed since you fell asleep , Three? Four? You don’t even know , you sit up , rubbing the sleep out of your eyes , with no signs of sukuna around, your throat is so dry it feels like thorns are pricking at it.

Now you were downstairs looking for water.

Unbeknownst to you, everyone’s already there ,

The second you stepped into the kitchen, Shoko noticed you first.

Then Sukuna.

And just like always, something in him changed immediately.

He’d been leaning against the counter beside Toji and Geto, lazily picking apart some story Gojo was telling while half the room listened in amusement. Tattoos stretched beneath the sleeves of his black shirt, rings catching against the fluorescent kitchen light every time he gestured.

He looked Confident and Sharp-edged. Like he always did.

Then his eyes landed on you and as soon as they did,His posture straightened subtly.

The tension in his jaw eased.

Like his entire nervous system recalibrated.

You walked over quietly, still sleepy enough that you barely noticed everyone watching. Sukuna’s gaze followed you the entire way until you stopped in front of him.

“You okay?” he asked immediately.

“Mhm.” Your voice came out soft from exhaustion. Then your eyes caught on the silver chain hanging crooked beneath the collar of his shirt. “Your chain’s twisted.”

“Huh?”

Without thinking much of it, you stepped closer.

Conversation around the kitchen slowly faded.

Your fingers brushed lightly against the cool metal resting against his throat as you fixed the clasp, carefully straightening where it had turned sideways against his skin.

And Sukuna went completely still and no,

Not in a dramatic way.

But the kind where someone forgets how to function entirely.

His hand tightened slightly around the cup he was holding while he stared down at you, breathing quieter ,shoulders stiff beneath your touch.

Gojo blinked. Then blinked again.

“No fucking way.”

You didn’t even notice.

You were too focused on fixing the chain properly, fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck every few seconds.

“There,” you murmured finally. “Better.”

Silence.

You looked up confused.

Every single person in the kitchen was staring.

Toji looked moments away from losing consciousness laughing. Geto had physically covered his mouth trying to hide a grin while Shoko watched like she’d just witnessed a rare astronomical event.

Gojo pointed directly at Sukuna.

“HE’S BLUSHING.”

Your eyes snapped back upward instantly And there it was.

Faint pink dusting across Sukuna’s ears and creeping slowly over the bridge of his nose while he looked at you like his brain had short-circuited.

Your lips parted slightly to say something,

“…wait.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna muttered towards Gojo without taking his eyes off you once.

That only made everyone laugh harder.

“Oh this is BAD,” Geto said through laughter. “He’s gone.”

“To think,” Shoko sighed dramatically, “the campus plague finally domesticated.”

“Fuck off.” He told them.

But there was no bite in it.

Not really.

Because you were still standing close enough for him to feel the warmth coming off your body, your fingers lightly resting against his chest after fixing the chain.

And Sukuna looked wrecked by it.

You smiled , you just couldn’t hold it in.

“Aww,” you teased softly. “You’re embarrassed?”

His eyes narrowed immediately, but it lacked its usual sharpness.

“Don’t start.”

“You’re literally red.”

“I am not.”

“You kinda are,” Toji interrupted giddily.

Gojo looked ready to pass away from excitement. “I HAVE NEVER SEEN THIS MAN EXPERIENCE HUMAN EMOTION.”

Before you could say anything else, Sukuna suddenly grabbed your wrist gently and tugged you against his chest.

A small startled sound left you as his arm settled around your waist instinctively, keeping you tucked against his side like proximity itself calmed him down.

“Enough,” he muttered lowly.

But when you tilted your head up at him, smiling still lingering on your lips, the blush deepened anyway.

And the kitchen absolutely lost its mind.

“HE GOT SHY.”

“THIS IS INSANE.”

“Somebody take a picture.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Gojo announced dramatically.

Sukuna flipped everyone off immediately.

Yet even while doing it, his thumb rubbed absentminded circles against your waist beneath the hoodie.

Like touching you had already become second nature to him.

He had learnt to be gentle with you at all times, which was kinda shocking for someone like him, but he did.

And when you reached up one more time to flatten the collar of his shirt, Sukuna leaned down automatically without even realizing he’d done it.

The room erupted so loudly someone from upstairs yelled asking if a fight broke out.

Everyone was enjoying this way to much.

Meanwhile Sukuna buried his face briefly against the top of your head, muttering,

“You’re never coming downstairs with me again.”

You could only laugh a little because you know that’s far from the truth.

Crazy gf!reader changing bio to ‘single’ after Boyfriend!Sukuna doesn’t reply to a text immediately

The door slams open. 

“What the fuck is your problem? I didn’t respond for one fucking hour, and suddenly we’re done?” he asks, irritated beyond hell. He drops his heavy duffel bag on the floor and comes to sit behind you on the sofa. You’re lying on your stomach on the carpet, painting your nails. You don’t reply. He rolls his eyes and nudges your thigh with his foot. “Don’t ignore me, you stupid, pain in my ass. Put ‘Sukuna’s girl’ back in your bio. Now.”

Innocently, you turn to look at him. A challenging brow is cocked up. “Or what?”

Sukuna’s eye twitches. 

“Look, idiot, I would have texted back if I had my phone on me. You know I didn’t. I’ve got nothing to apologise for, so if that’s what you’re waiting for, you’ve got another thing coming. Now delete it, or I might start thinking we really are broken up, in which case I won’t be held accountable for the things I do.”

An eerie silence takes over. You put the nail polish down and sit up. Quietly, you mumble, “...so you hate me.” 

With a blank stare, he watches you wrap your hands around your neck and squeeze hard. Gurgling sounds escape into the air as you writhe on the floor, moving like a drying-out fish. Sukuna pinches the bridge of his nose. “Quit it. I’m serious. You look constipated.”

“Shut…up,” you wheeze out. “I’m -hah- dy…ing.”

Impatiently, he pulls your hands away by the wrists, like you’re a misbehaving toddler who’s just picked up dog shit. “Enough.”

Realising the act isn’t working, you pause for a second, and he knows from that look in your eyes that you’re calculating your next step. Maybe you’ll try to make a run for the window again, or you’ll tackle him with your claws out, or maybe you’ll smash the TV up and pin it on him. It’s impossible to predict your next moves, even after how many years he’s been with you. 

Naturally, you do none of the things he anticipated, and you simply resume strangling yourself. 

Sukuna groans. “Fuck my fucking life. Was I a dictator in my past life or something? Christ.” Whilst you shamelessly discard any dignity you have, Sukuna picks up your phone and gets into your socials with ease. He changes your bio back, and replies with his own dick pics to the assholes who sent their micros, and calls it a day. “I’m hungry,” he suddenly says. “Wanna go to a drive-thru?”

As though nothing happened at all, you stop choking yourself out and shrug. “Yeah, actually. ‘was waiting for you to suggest it so I don’t look like a big back.”

A corner of his lips curve up. “I think that moment’s passed, sweetheart.”

“Ugh, I’d rather you call me a whore,” you reply, nose scrunched up. 

Sukuna snorts. “Yeah, bet you do.”

Ryomen Sukuna was having the kind of day that made him want to commit a felony.

Work had been an absolute, unmitigated disaster. His clients were being brain-dead idiots, his emails had been piling up since 6:00 AM, and his boss had the audacity to drop a massive, last-minute project on his desk right as he was packing up to leave. By the time he finally unlocked the front door to your shared apartment, his jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. He was exhausted, he was pissed off, and he was fully prepared to pour himself a massive glass of whiskey and not speak to a single soul for the rest of the night.

He pushed the door open, dropping his keys into the bowl by the entrance with a loud, aggressive clatter. He shrugged off his suit jacket, loosening his tie with a harsh yank.

“I’m home,” he called out, his voice a low, gravelly grumble.

He expected you to be in the kitchen, or maybe curled up on the couch watching some trashy reality TV show. He expected you to ask him how his day was, which would inevitably lead to him ranting for twenty minutes straight.

Instead, there was silence.

Sukuna frowned, his bad mood spiking just a fraction. He walked down the hallway and stepped into the living room.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over the coffee table. The entire surface was completely covered in hundreds of microscopic, brightly colored plastic bricks. You were wearing one of his oversized t-shirts, your hair tied up in a messy bun that was slowly falling apart.

But the best part? The absolute most ridiculous, endearing part?

You were squinting so hard your nose was scrunched up, and the very tip of your tongue was poking out of the corner of your mouth in pure, unadulterated concentration. Your fingers, which were currently trying to snap a tiny, translucent green piece onto a microscopic brown cylinder, were trembling slightly from the effort.

You hadn’t even heard him come in. You were entirely, completely consumed by your task.

Sukuna stood there in the doorway, his suit jacket dangling from his fingers. He didn’t say a word. He just watched you.

You were a serial hobbyist. Every month, it was something new. Knitting, painting by numbers, making weird little clay frogs that currently haunted his nightstand. He usually just rolled his eyes, funded your little hyper-fixations, and let you do your thing.

But this? This tiny, intricate Lego flower shop you had apparently bought today? It had you in a chokehold.

Snap.

The tiny green piece finally clicked into place.

You let out a massive, dramatic gasp of victory, throwing your hands up in the air like you had just won the Super Bowl. “Yes! Take that, you stupid little plastic bitch!”

Sukuna let out a sudden, loud snort.

You jumped, spinning around so fast you nearly knocked over a pile of pink bricks. When you saw him standing there, your eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. The sheer, radiant joy on your face was blinding.

“Babe!” you squealed, scrambling up onto your knees. You carefully scooped up the tiny, completed structure in your hands and held it out toward him like it was the Holy Grail. “Baby, look! Look what I did!”

Sukuna slowly walked over, dropping his jacket onto the sofa. He looked down at your hands.

It was a tiny, incredibly detailed Lego flower shop. And sitting right in front of it was a single, slightly lopsided plastic rose that you had clearly customized.

“I made you this one,” you beamed, your chest puffing out with pride. You were practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s for your desk at work! Because you said your office is depressing! Do you like it?!”

Sukuna stared at the tiny plastic flower. Then, he looked at you.

You had a faint smudge of left over dinner on your cheek. Your oversized shirt was slipping off one shoulder. You were looking up at him with such pure, unfiltered adoration and excitement over a piece of plastic that it actually knocked the breath out of his lungs.

And just like that, it happened.

The stress of the last fourteen hours? Gone. The anger at his clients? Evaporated. The tension in his shoulders, the pounding headache behind his eyes, the overwhelming urge to burn his office building to the ground? It all just melted away, completely washed out by the sheer force of your ridiculous, beaming smile.

He didn’t just love you. That wasn’t a strong enough word anymore.

He looked at you, sitting on the floor surrounded by plastic bricks, offering him a fake flower to make his bad day better, and a single, crystal-clear thought rang through his head like a bell.

I need to marry this girl.

Not ‘I want to.’ Not ‘someday.’ Need. He needed to marry your crazy ass. He needed to lock this down permanently, because if he had to go through the rest of his miserable, stressful life without coming home to you poking your tongue out over a Lego set, he was going to lose his fucking mind.

“Sukuna?” you blinked, your smile faltering just a little when he didn’t immediately respond. You lowered your hands slightly. “Do you… not like it? I know it’s kind of dumb, but—”

“Shut up,” he breathed, his voice thick.

Before you could even process the command, he dropped to his knees right in front of you, completely ignoring the fact that he was crushing at least ten Lego pieces under his expensive suit pants.

He reached out, his large hands gently cupping your face. He didn’t even look at the flower shop. His red eyes were locked entirely on yours, burning with an intensity that made your heart stutter in your chest.

“Babe?” you whispered, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. “Are you okay? Was work bad?”

“Work was a fucking nightmare,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “But I don’t care anymore.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the last of his stress leaving his body. “I love it, baby. It’s perfect. I’m putting it right in the middle of my desk.”

Your smile instantly returned, brighter than before. “Really?!”

“Really,” he chuckled, the sound deep and vibrating against your skin. He tilted your chin up, capturing your lips in a slow, desperate kiss. It wasn’t heated or rough; it was incredibly soft, filled with a kind of overwhelming reverence that made your toes curl.

When he finally pulled back, he kept his face inches from yours. He looked down at your lips, then back up to your eyes.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he said.

It wasn’t a proposal. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of absolute, undeniable fact. He said it casually, like he was commenting on the weather, but the weight behind his words was heavy enough to anchor a ship.

Your brain short-circuited. You sat there, frozen, the tiny Lego flower shop still clutched in your hands. “What?”

“You heard me,” he smirked, his usual arrogant confidence bleeding back into his tone. He leaned in and pressed a loud, wet kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then the sensitive skin just below your ear. “I’m gonna marry your crazy ass. Put a ring on your finger so big you won’t be able to lift your hand to build these stupid little toys.”

“They’re not stupid!” you squawked, your face flushing bright red as his words finally registered. “And you can’t just drop that on me while I’m holding a Lego!”

“I just did,” he laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest, completely ruining your posture. He buried his face in your neck.

You let out a breathless, watery laugh, carefully setting the flower shop down on the table before wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. You ran your fingers through his pink hair, feeling the last of the tension bleed out of his muscles.

“Okay,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Okay, Ryomen.”

“Good,” he mumbled against your skin. He shifted slightly, his knee crunching against a pile of plastic. He winced. “Now, help me up. I think a fucking Lego is embedded in my kneecap.”

“I told you to take your work pants off first!”

“Just kiss me again and shut up.”

BLUE TURQUOISE HAIR - kashimo hajime VII

CHAP 6 <- PREV - NEXT -> tba

TAGLIST <3 : @udktay @tojiswifeyugh @silentfriday @90s-belladonna @torusugar @sixtiesweetheart @whoooisnanaa @lydiaa2littyyy @yyzxiza @ethelia @kurtcobaingirlie @fallen-angelxoxo @number1-luffylover @exorcizst @blizzyblitz @hed0nistt @lovecherishlyy @emluvsgetou @raccoonlover-11 @hajimekashimogf @chososplug @oliviasblogtime @sugusshi @avkwand @ladyhesperus @changbinsalonsblog @aoitoge @tadabzzzbee @zi-uu @im-n-your-walls @katthehatt @vraaii @preciiousmercy @hanaenim @nanamineedstherapy @in-aa @sukugo-gojoroki @luciddream0621 @pawwwginaaa @jester-maker

part 4

find part 3 ,, part 2 ,, part 1

cw: cussing, sick freaky behaviour mentioned, justice is served

a/n: so whos happy now LOLLLLLL

I KNOW maybe some of you want more justice so tulip girl will get her karma,, after this i will make an epilogue for this! stay tunedddd thank you for the support for this <33

── ★ come on, give this loverboy a try

gojo satoru x reader , satoru confesses to you a million times, until you finally reciprocate

“Be my girlfriend!”

You’ve heard those words come out of the Gojo Satoru thousands of times.

Maybe more.

No one would believe you if he didn’t loudly announce it every single time, either. He says it like it’s his catchphrase.

Gojo Satoru? Everyone knows him. He’s basically a celebrity.

You? People pass by you and forget you were ever there. People in your class don’t even know your name.

So when he confesses to you, it feels like it has to be a joke. Something for other people to laugh at later.

The first time it happens, you’re sitting outside near the soccer field, doing homework.

You had your headphones in. Favourite song on repeat because you got tired of your playlist. Your pencil continues to move while everyone else is busy being loud.

You don’t notice when someone approaches.

Satoru, however, does not understand the concept of a quiet entrance.

He clears his throat loudly, like he’s trying to interrupt your playlist personally. The sound slices through your music and your attention snaps upward.

He’s standing there with a bouquet, grinning like he’s about to win something.

Suguru is behind him, leaning slightly like he’s waiting for the punchline. Calm face. Patient eyes. The kind of presence that makes you feel like you should brace yourself.

Satoru steps closer and thrusts the flowers toward you.

“Be my girlfriend!”

Then, in a whisper, but still very much part of the performance, he adds. “Please.”

Your stomach tightens.

It happens fast, the way your instincts always kick in with people like him :

This is going to be embarrassing. This is going to be a story. This is going to end with everyone laughing and you trying to disappear afterward.

You don’t even give him a second chance to explain.

You stand up, quick and firm.

“Look,” You say, and your voice comes out sharper than you meant. “Just because I don’t hang other people friends, or because I don’t fit into your loud little world, it doesn’t mean you get to play games with me.”

Satoru’s grin wavers for the first time.

Your hand moves before your brain can talk you out of it.

You slap the bouquet out of his hands.

Flowers scatter on the ground. A couple petals land near your foot, and somehow that makes it feel even more ridiculous.

You grab your backpack and start walking away.

Satoru blinks after you, stunned in a way that’s almost funny.

You didn’t look back. Not because you were trying to be mean, just because you couldn’t handle watching him and his buddies making fun of you.

Behind you, you hear him breathe out—then you hear Suguru’s voice, quiet and practical, like he’s checking whether this went wrong in a way that can be fixed.

Satoru says something under his breath, half offended, half confused.

Then someone has to throw in a comment—Because of course they do.

“Wait—What just happened?”

You keep walking anyway.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Valentine’s Day turns the whole school into a cheerful mess like every year.

Pink decorations. Sweet smells. People carrying chocolates like they’re going into war.

You do your best to ignore it.

You keep your head down, walk faster, and try to stay out of the main hall where everyone crowds together to show off.

That plan lasts exactly until you see the cart.

A rolling cart is coming down the hallway, surrounded by students who look way too entertained by whatever is inside.

At the front of it is Satoru—perfectly dressed, perfectly smiling, perfectly loud even from far away.

Suguru follows behind him, hands in his pockets, expression neutral, like he knows this is going to be a disaster but can’t stop it.

Satoru bounces on his toes and announces. "Thanks for the snacks, everyone!”

People cheer. Someone laughs. Some of them call out.

“Satoru, that’s unfair!”

“Shut up and stop flexing, dude!”

Satoru winks and sticks his tongue out as if he was trying to ragebait everyone.

Then the cart turns.

And you see it.

Mountains of chocolate. Stacked so high it looks like it belongs in a store display, not a school hallway. Different wrappers. Different sizes. Neatly arranged in a way that makes you wonder how long he had to plan it.

Satoru’s eyes swing around the crowd.

And then—directly to you.

His smile widens so quickly it’s almost suspicious.

He steps away from the cart, and for a second you think he’s going to do some grand dramatic thing for everyone’s entertainment.

But he doesn’t.

He walks straight to you, holding a box wrapped in bright paper. Much neater than the chaotic mountain behind him.

He offers it like it’s personal.

“Please,” He says. “Be my girlfriend.”

A couple people nearby gasp and giggle, like they’re watching a cute scene instead of a stressful confession.

Your eyes flick down to the box.

Chocolate.

A lot of it.

You glance up at him.

“…You brought all that,” You say, trying not to sound too annoyed. “And you picked Valentine’s Day to confess.”

Satoru nods enthusiastically. “Yes! It’s romantic!”

Suguru, behind him, murmurs something that sounds like. “Try being sincere instead of loud,” but he says it under his breath, so it might not count.

Satoru keeps his attention on you.

He’s still smiling, but there’s something steady in his eyes now, like he actually wants an answer this time.

You take the box carefully, then lift your gaze again.

“Thanks for the chocolate,” You add, and your tone turns dry at the end. “I’m not dating you though.”

Satoru’s immediately expression drops.

“Hey! Then what’s the point of the chocolate?!”

You shrug before walking away.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

At this point, it’s basically a routine.

Satoru confesses.

You reject him.

He confesses again, because he’s stubborn and dramatic and clearly allergic to the concept of the word ‘no’.

The whole school knows the routine too.

Even people who don’t pay attention to anything else still somehow notice when Satoru is gearing up, because he moves like he’s about to give a performance.

Today, you’re walking past the courtyard with your bag on your shoulder. Quiet day. Low energy. You’re trying to get to class before your patience runs out.

You make it three steps.

Then Satoru appears out of nowhere.

Suguru is with him too, a little behind, looking like he’s prepared for whatever happens next but also hoping it doesn’t become a disaster.

Satoru points at you.

“Please,” He says, loud enough for nearby students to look over. “Be my girlfriend!”

You don’t even turn fully toward him right away. You sigh first, like the sound is a reflex.

Then you look up.

“…Again?” You say.

Satoru grins like you just complimented him. “Yes!”

You close your eyes for a second, just to gather yourself, then open them again.

“We’re not doing this again.” You say.

Suguru’s eyebrows lift slightly. Whether on purpose or no, that kind of spooked you.

Satoru clears his throat, then tries again with the same energy.

“Please be my girlfriend!”

You stare at him.

Then your gaze drops to the flowers he’s holding—except today it’s not like the usual. It’s something small and wrapped,.

You exhale, slow.

“Fine." You say, tired and honest all at once.

Satoru freezes.

His smile doesn’t vanish—It just gets stuck halfway, like the gears in his brain forgot to keep moving.

“Wait.” He says, and his voice drops because suddenly he can’t hear anything except you. “Fine?”

You tilt your head, annoyed at yourself for making this easier than it should be, but committed now.

“Yes,” You say. “You heard me. Now, move.”

Satoru’s eyes widen so hard it’s kind of impressive.

He looks around like someone might have misheard you.

Then he turns back to you, pointing at his own chest like he needs confirmation from the universe.

“…You said yes? To me?”

You nod.

“Yeah. I said yes. Can I go?”

Satoru sputters once, then finally breaks into a ridiculous, bright grin.

“Okay!” He declares, turning to Suguru mid-celebration like they just won the lottery. “See? I did it, Suguru!”

Suguru covers his mouth, trying to hide a smile.

And you—because you’re you—walk forward like you didn’t just become Satoru’s girlfriend after what has to be a million confessions.

Behind you, Satoru jogs to catch up, still acting like you’re the best thing that’s happened all week.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

a/n - this girl who used to liked me just followed me again after BLOCKING and ignoring me 💔

જ⁀➴ jujutsu kaisen masterlist, masterlist

in another lifetime...🤍🖤

modern college au short drabble fluff fem reader performative sukuna 4.3k words

The bell above the shop door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the sound swallowed almost immediately by low, dreamy vocals drifting from the store’s speakers—some lo-fi track you didn’t recognize but immediately wished you'd saved to your study playlist.

Warm amber light spilled from pendant lamps hung at uneven intervals, casting the rows of vinyl racks in a honeyed glow that made everything feel slower as the air smelled of old paper, worn cardboard sleeves, and something faintly like the vanilla candle burning on the counter near the register.

Dust motes floated lazily through beams of late afternoon sun slanting through the front window as you exhaled, shoulders dropping an inch. ‘Home sweet home…’

A few other customers milled about, a couple near the jazz section and an older man flipping through classic rock with the careful reverence of someone who had all the time in the world.

The store was the kind of place that asked nothing of you except to exist in it.

Exactly what you needed after the week you’d had. Your fingers brushed against the canvas strap of your tote bag as you adjusted it on your shoulder, the familiar weight of your notebook and pens shifting.

The Hangyodon keychain—limited edition, Sanrio’s 50th anniversary; you’d nearly cried when you managed to snag one after dragging Nanami around the Shibuya for six hours—swung gently with the movement, the little fish’s face staring up at you with its permanently vacant expression.

Shoko’s birthday.

Right! That’s why you were here.

You made a mental checklist as you wandered toward the indie section: something she could put on while chain-smoking and pretending to study for her organic chemistry exam. Something with texture. With feeling—because for all her deadpan exterior, Shoko Ieiri felt things harder than anyone gave her credit for.

The vinyls were organized alphabetically by artist, the cardboard sleeves crisp and full of promise as you ran your fingertips along their tops as you walked, the slight drag of plastic covers against your skin grounding you in the moment.

Mitski? Maybe. No, too obvious.

Faye Webster! … She already has that one.

Alex G—

You rounded the corner, and stopped.

No way.

There he was.

Ryomen Sukuna, bent slightly at the waist, his broad back partially blocking the display case behind him as he examined something in his hands. He was wearing a gray Nirvana hoodie—the In Utero cover art faded from what you assumed was actual wear rather than aesthetic artifice—with the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms with black shorts and a cap pulled low over his face, though you’d recognize that build anywhere.

The height of him and the way he seemed to take up more space than should have been physically possible… and he was holding—you squinted, heart doing something strange in your chest—a Clairo vinyl. Sling, the pale blue cover.

The soft, tender, bedroom-pop album that had absolutely no business being in the hands of someone who looked like he could snap a lacrosse stick in half with his thighs. Beside him, propped against the shelf, was another: beabadoobee. Beatopia, the whimsical pink cover with the strange fantasy creatures.

Your brain short-circuited.

What the hell?!

The store’s ambient music seemed to swell in the silence of your shock—some gentle acoustic guitar, a woman's voice humming about nothing in particular.

A floorboard creaked somewhere to your left as the cashier was humming along behind the counter, tapping their fingers against the register in a rhythm only they could hear. You stared for exactly four seconds too long. Long enough to watch him turn the Clairo sleeve over to read the tracklist… long enough to see the concentration on his face—the slight furrow between his brows, the way his mouth moved almost imperceptibly as he read.

Oh, absolutely not.

You couldn’t do this, could not have a run-in with Ryomen Sukuna of all people!

Not here!

Not when you were wearing your rattiest jeans and last night’s mascara smudged under your eyes because you'd been up until 2 AM finishing a paper.

Not when he was wearing that hoodie and looking like that and buying music that suggested he had an inner life you'd never even considered. You’d known him for over a year—if ‘known’ was even the right word…

Sukuna’s circle, that’s what people called it, you’d been dragged in because Shoko wanted another girl around, because you and Nanami were academic rivals in the most affectionate sense, because somehow you'd passed whatever unspoken test let you exist in the orbit of the most infuriatingly competent people at school.

… But you’d never talked to him. Not really, not alone at least.

He was loud in group settings. Cocky, cutting, charming in a way that made you want to roll your eyes and laugh despite yourself. He could back up every boast with grades that didn’t make sense for someone who never seemed to study, with athleticism that left the rest of the lacrosse team in the dust, with a casual confidence that felt like gravitational pull.

And he was big, not just tall but broad in a way that made doorframes seem smaller; made you feel smaller. There was a reason no one ever tried to physically intimidate Sukuna, the way he moved suggested controlled violence, like a tiger that had learned to walk on two legs but hadn’t forgotten what its claws were for.

You’d spent a lot of time not looking at his arms, at the biceps that strained against hoodie sleeves, at the way his hands dwarfed whatever he was holding.

Like that Clairo vinyl.

You shook your head, hard.

Nope. Nope.

Panic flared as he began to turn as you scrambled toward the nearest pillar by the stairs, sliding down until your back hit the wood with a soft thud. You tucked your chin into your knees, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Please just leave. Pay and leave. If he sees me, I’ll never hear the end of it, or worse, I’ll be the one person who knows his secret and he’ll make my life a living hell,” you told yourself, eyes squeezed shut.

But you had forgotten one thing. Attached to the strap of your tote bag was a small, bulging Hangyodon plush, the ugly-cute teal fish stared out into the aisle, its bug-eyes a dead giveaway as the heavy, rhythmic sound of footsteps approached.

They stopped right in front of you.

“Y/N.”

His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very floorboards beneath you as you looked up slowly, your neck stiff. Sukuna loomed over you, his silhouette blocking out the shop’s dim lighting.

You stood up awkwardly, your legs feeling like lead, your hands balling into tight fists at your sides but he didn’t move back, instead, he stepped closer, raising a thick arm and slamming his palm against the pillar right above your head.

The sheer scale of him was suffocating. He leaned in, the scent of expensive cologne and something spicy—like cinnamon and ozone—wafted off him. Up close, his presence was a physical weight. “You saw those, didn’t you?” he asked, his crimson eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat as he gestured with his chin toward the bag in his other hand.

You gulped, your gaze flickering from his sharp jawline to the records he’d just bought. Lying to Sukuna was a death sentence for your social life, and he had a way of sniffing out a floral lie from a mile away so you nodded once, a sharp, hesitant movement.

“Don’t tell a soul,” he muttered, finally backing off an inch, though the tension didn't leave the air.

He shoved one hand into his hoodie pocket, the fabric straining against his bicep. “Why?” you found yourself whispering, the adrenaline making you bolder than usual. “Is it a crime to like Clairo? Or… are you just performative because of the hoodie?”

Sukuna paused, his head tilting. A dangerous glint entered his eyes. “Performative? Watch your mouth, brat. I’ve probably been listening to Cobain since before you knew how to read a map.”

“Right. And the Beabadoobee? Is that for your ‘grunge’ aesthetic too?” you retorted, a small, nervous smirk tugging at your lips as he stared at you for a long second, stunned by the sudden bite in your tone. He’d clearly pegged you as the quiet, boring student who followed Nanami around like a shadow.

Then, his chest heaved, and a short, genuine laugh barked out of him. “You’ve got more of a mouth than Kento let on,” he chuckled, the sound deep and surprisingly pleasant. “Fine. You caught me. Just keep it between us.”

The air in the record store felt pressurized, like the cabin of a plane losing altitude as you blinked, staring at the empty space where he’d been standing. Your brain was struggling to process the glitch in the matrix: Ryomen Sukuna had just laughed.

Not a mocking huff or a dry sneer, but a genuine sound that had vibrated in the air between you, before your survival instincts could kick in, your mouth staged a coup.

“Wait.”

He stopped, his momentum dying with a slow, deliberate grace as he tilted his head, the sharp curve of his jaw catching the harsh hum of the overhead fluorescents.

The black Nirvana hoodie stretched taut across his shoulders as he exhaled, the fabric straining against his frame. “What?”

The word was flat, but it carried a jagged edge of curiosity that made your pulse jump. “How did you… well, see me anyway?” you blurted out, the question sounding thin and breathless in the narrow aisle.

He turned then, a slow pivot on his heel as his crimson eyes dissected you once more. They swept over your mussed hair and the frantic heat blooming in your cheeks, pinning you to the spot.

He didn’t answer, instead, his gaze dropped, sliding down your body with agonizing slowness until it landed on your bag. Specifically, on the small, bulging eyes of the Hangyodon keychain dangling from the zipper.

His lip curled in a mix of revulsion and dark amusement. “That hideous fish-lips thing gave you away. It was shaking harder than you were.”

“Excuse me?”

Sukuna took a step forward. Just one, but he was tall enough that it erased the safe distance between you. “You heard me,” he drawled, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating in your chest. “It looks like something a kid would win at a carnival and immediately regret. It’s an fuckin’ eyesore.”

“That’s Hangyodon,” you snapped, your voice climbing an octave in indignant defense. “He’s a classic! He’s myopic. He has dreams of being a comedian and fails at them. He’s—”

“Ugly,” Sukuna finished, deadpan.

“Charming,” you corrected, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. “There’s a difference, but I wouldn’t expect someone wearing a cracked 90s reprint to understand nuance.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Behind the counter, the cashier stopped shuffling papers as the hum of the AC felt like a roar. Sukuna’s eyebrows rose, a silent and dangerous challenge. “You’re really going to stand there and defend a polyester fish while I’m holding Clairo vinyl?”

“At least my fish has a personality,” you countered, your heart hammering against your ribs. “What’s yours? ‘Brooding guy in black’? How original. Groundbreaking, really.”

He moved, hovering over you, his shadow swallowing yours. You could see the fine, pale scar cutting through his right eyebrow and the way the light turned his irises into pools of molten garnet. “You talk a lot of shit,” he murmured, leaning down until his breath stirred the stray hairs at your temple, “for someone whose hands are still trembling.”

“I’m cold,” you lied, the word catching in your throat.

“Sure you are.”

His hand came up as your breath hitched, certain he was about to tilt your chin up or push you back. Instead, his long, calloused fingers brushed past your shoulder, his knuckles ghosting over your collarbone.

The contact sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your toes. He hooked one finger around the keychain, lifting the plush until it was level with his eyes.

Up close, you saw the silver ring on his middle finger and the faint, rhythmic way his thumb rubbed against the band—a restless, nervous habit that felt too human for a monster like him, “Myopic,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a secret. “So he’s blind, ugly, and a failure.”

“He’s relatable,” you whispered.

Something flickered in his expression—a hairline fracture in his mask. It wasn’t a smile, but it was close enough to be terrifying. “You’re weird,” he said as he let the keychain drop. His hand lingered, his thumb catching on the strap of your bag for a second too long before he pulled away, leaving your skin burning in the wake of his touch.

He held your gaze until the air felt too thick to breathe, then, he turned and headed for the door as you watched the way his broad shoulders moved, the easy, predatory confidence of his stride.

He had to duck his head to clear the frame. At the threshold, he stopped one last time as he looked back, his eyes tracing over your frozen stance, your fingers still white-knuckled on your bag, your lips parted in a silent question.

A faint, genuine softness touched the corners of his mouth. He ducked his head, a sharp and quick motion to hide the ghost of a smile as he stepped out.

The bell above the door chimed and the cold night air rushed in to fill the vacuum he left behind as you stood there, your skin tingling and your heart performing a frantic, ridiculous rhythm against your ribs.

“…Weirdo,” you breathed into the silence.

You quickly moved to the counter, grabbing ‘Punisher’ by Phoebe Bridgers for Shoko—the perfect blend of haunting and clinical—and a copy of ‘Loveless’ by My Bloody Valentine for yourself as the cashier, an older man with thick glasses, grunted as he scanned the items.

“Busy day for the young ones,” he muttered, his voice gravelly. “That big fella who just left... nearly knocked over my jazz display with his shoulders. Friend of yours?”

“... Something like that,” you murmured, sliding your card.

“Right. Twenty-five even. Have a good one,” he said, sliding the bag across the counter. You tucked the vinyls into your tote and pushed through the door, expecting the cool afternoon air to clear your head.

Instead, you stopped short, Sukuna was leaning against the brick wall of the shop, arms crossed over his broad chest as the fabric of his sleeves were bunched up, highlighting the sheer mass of his biceps and the casual power in his stance.

The vinyl bag dangled from one finger, swinging lazily. He looked like he’d been waiting for a while.

“You,” you said.

“Me,” he mocked.

“You’re still here,” you noted, finding your voice. “Waiting to threaten me again? Or did you realize Clairo has a B-side you missed?”

Sukuna let out a huff of air, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Careful. You’re getting comfortable, and we both know you were vibrating like a phone on silent back there.”

“What are you—”

“You come here often?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Just asking.”

You hesitated, clutching your bag a little tighter. “Yeah. It’s quiet.”

“Hm. Figures,” he said, his eyes lingering on your face for a second too long, the tension between you thick and strangely heated. The vinyl bag swung from Sukuna’s finger like it weighed nothing, his gait a lazy, predatory slouch that screamed: ‘have detention every Friday and I’m proud of it.’

“You’re going the wrong way,” he said, glancing up as the sunset caught the sharp line of his jaw, highlighting the faint, irritated twitch in his cheek.

“No, I’m not. My apartment is in this direction.” You pointed over your shoulder at a cluster of gray brick buildings, already taking a step to leave… but you didn’t get far as his hand landed on your lower back—firm, unyielding, the heat of his palm searing through your shirt, steering you around like you had never actually had a choice.

“Who said anything about your apartment?” Sukuna kept his eyes forward, but that smirk was sharp enough to cut glass. His fingers pressed slightly, a silent command. Walk. “I’m hungry. You’re coming with me.”

You dug your heels in on instinct but the pressure on your back didn’t budge. If anything, he pulled you closer to his side, herding you past the intersection like you were a stray cat he’d decided to keep.

“I’m— what? You don’t just abduct people for food, Sukuna.”

“It’s lunch, dumbass.” He said it like you were the one being difficult, thumb tapping an impatient rhythm against your spine. “You look like you haven’t eaten in twelve hours, and I’m feeling generous. Don’t make me fucking regret it.”

Your stomach chose that exact moment to betray you with a low, embarrassing growl as Sukuna’s smirk widened into a full-on, jagged grin—all teeth, no mercy. “That’s what I thought.” He gave your back a light shove, just enough to stumble you forward a step. His laugh was low, rough, right by your ear. “Move it, short-stack.”

“Short-stack?” You twisted to glare at him, but that only made his hand slide to your waist, steadying you—or restraining you, hard to tell. “I’m average height.”

“For a middle schooler, maybe.” He didn’t let go, nor did he slow down. His thumb traced a lazy circle through your shirt like he had all the time in the world. “Keep up. I hate waiting.”

"You hate everything."

“Not true.” He looked down at you, dark eyes glinting with something dangerous and amused. “I like Bea’s music.”

The restaurant was three blocks away. You already knew you weren't getting out of this—not with his hand a warm, heavy brand on your back, not with the way he matched his long stride to your shorter one like he’d been walking beside you for years.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“And you’re still walking with me.” His fingers squeezed once, quick and almost gentle, before his palm settled flat again. “Shut up and let me buy you food. You can insult me after you’ve got carbs in you.”

Behind you, the gray brick buildings shrank smaller and smaller. Ahead, Sukuna's shadow stretched long in the dying light, and his hand never once left your back.

The ramen shop was a hole-in-the-wall joint squeezed between a laundromat and a graveyard for old books. Inside, the air was thick and humid, smelling of roasted pork bone and ginger as the sound of boiling water and the clack of wooden spoons on ceramic filled the cramped space.

Sukuna didn’t ask, he just barked an order at the lady behind the counter: “Two tonkotsu, extra chashu, and a side of agedashi tofu. Make the soup spicy as hell on one of ‘em.”

“I didn’t say I wanted spicy,” you hissed as he nudged you toward a booth. “I know. That one’s mine.” He slid into the seat, his knees knocking against yours under the small table. “Sit.”

He leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the vinyl booth as his hoodie rode up, revealing a strip of toned stomach and the waistband of his boxers.

You looked away so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash, staring intently at a chipped soy sauce bottle. “Weirdo,” he said.

“Real original.”

“Both things can be true.” He tapped a rhythm on the table with his knuckles. “So… You’re friends with Shoko.”

“Obviously? She’s the one who introduced me to you and the rest of the guys.”

“And Kento.”

“We’re... adjacent. Academic rivals with benefits!”

You paused, seeing his eyes widen. “Not those kinds of benefits, you pervert! We proofread each other’s essays. It’s a symbiotic relationship based on mutual suffering.”

Sukuna snorted, the sound rough and mocking. “Nerd shit. Absolute fucking nerd shit.”

“You’re literally holding a Clairo vinyl, Sukuna.”

His eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine irritation crossing his face. “We’re not talking about that.”

“Oh, we absolutely are.” You leaned forward, feeling bold in the steam-filled room. “How many Beabadoobee albums are there?”

“Three.”

“Wrong stupid. Four, if you count the Our Extended Play EP, which you should, because it has Glue Song on it.”

Something flickered in his dark eyes. “You actually know her music, or did you just Google that to piss me off?”

“I know music. Some of us don’t just wear band shirts for the aesthetic.” You gestured vaguely at his Nirvana hoodie to tick him off.

“I already told you—”

“What’s the name of Beabadoobee’s cat?”

He stared at you, his mouth slightly open. “Miso,” you continued, deadpan. “She has two. The other one is named Kimchi. Unlike someone I know who tries to act like a delinquent while listening to bedroom pop.”

The waitress appeared with the tofu—golden-brown, crispy cubes soaking in dashi. Sukuna didn’t break eye contact as he grabbed a pair of chopsticks. “You’re fucking insufferable.”

"You bought Beatopia.”

“I bought it for the production quality, you brat.”

“Sure. I’m sure the pastel pink cover art looks great next to your collection of... I don’t know, brass knuckles and skulls?”

He shoved a piece of tofu into his mouth, chewing with deliberate, slow movements. “You’re not going to tell anyone.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. I’m not a narc.” You took a piece of tofu for yourself, the outside crunching satisfyingly before the soft center melted on your tongue. “I just think it’s funny, the scariest guy in school, the guy who made the varsity captain cry in the locker room, likes songs about being tired of being pretty.”

“Terrorizing the lacrosse team is a hobby,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “That’s rich coming from someone whose favorite emotional support fish is blind.”

“He’s not legally blind, he’s myopic! He just needs a little help navigating his tank!”

“He’s a lost cause. Just like you.”

The ramen arrived then, huge steaming bowls that smelled like heaven as Sukuna broke his chopsticks with a sharp crack. You watched his hands—large, scarred across the knuckles, but oddly precise as he swirled his noodles.

“... Okay,” you said, blowing on a spoonful of broth. “Real question. What's your favorite Bea song?”

He chewed a slice of pork, taking his time. You expected a deflection, maybe a “shut up and eat.” Instead, he looked at the table and muttered, “See You Soon.”

You froze, noodles dangling from your chopsticks. “That’s... actually a deep cut.”

“I told you I knew her music. Don’t act so shocked.”

“Yeah, but See You Soon? That’s a B-side single. That’s for people who actually feel things, Sukuna.”

“I feel things,” he snapped, though his ears were turning a faint shade of pink. “For example, I feel like if you don’t shut up, I’m going to start charging you for the entertainment value of this conversation.”

“I’m just saying. I had you pegged as someone who only listened to heavy metal or the sound of bones breaking.”

“My playlists would give you a fucking stroke. It’s a mess.”

“I bet it is. Okay, Clairo. Favorite track?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Amoeba.”

“Solid choice. Not her best, but solid.”

“Then what’s her best, genius?”

“Slow dance, obviously. If you disagree, you’re objectively wrong and your taste is trash.”

Sukuna laughed, it was low, rough, and sounded like gravel being kicked around—entirely too attractive. A few people at the counter turned to look, due to how loud and obnoxious it sounded. “You’re annoying,” he said, but the ‘mean’ edge was gone, replaced by something that sounded suspiciously like fondness.

“Takes one to know one.”

The bowls were soon empty, the salty-savory warmth settling in your chest as Sukuna wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—normally gross, but on him, it just looked... rugged.

He leaned back, his eyes tracking over your face, lingering on the dark circles under your eyes as he stood up abruptly, tossing a handful of crumpled bills onto the table—way more than the check.

“I’m not taking your charity—”

“Shut up. It’s not charity, it’s a bribe so you don’t tell the wrestling team I like bedroom pop.”

He was already out the door before you could argue. Outside, the air had turned crisp as Sukuna was a few paces ahead, his shadow long against the pavement.

He slowed down, waiting for you to catch up. “Am I going the right way now?” you teased, falling into step.

“I know where you live.”

“... That’s not creepy at all.”

“I pay attention, you idiot. Hangyodon gave you away weeks ago.”

You walked in silence for a block, your bags bumping together with a soft thud-thud rhythm. When you reached your building, you stopped at the steps. “Thanks, Sukuna. For the food… and for being a semi-decent human for an hour.”

He shrugged, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. “Don’t mention it. Literally. If I hear one word about this at school—”

“Your secret’s safe.”

He turned to leave, but stopped after two steps as he looked back over his shoulder, the streetlights reflecting in his eyes. “Hey.”

“Eat more. You look like shit.”

“Wow. My hero.”

“I’m serious.” His jaw set.

“If you keep showing up at the shop looking like a stiff breeze could kill you, I'm gonna have to keep buying you food. Consider it community service for the myopic fish. Someone’s gotta look out for you since you’re clearly failing at it.”

A laugh bubbled up in your throat, genuine and bright. Sukuna’s expression softened for a split second—a crack in the mask—before he turned away. “Thursday,” he called out, not looking back. “Same time. Don’t be late or I’m eating your portion too.”

“I didn’t say yes!”

“You’re already thinking about the gyoza, don’t lie!”

You watched him disappear into the shadows of the street, the scent of cinnamon still lingering in the air as you clutched your vinyl bag, a small, ridiculous smile tugging at your lips.

“... Total weirdo,” you whispered.