#fluff imagine

(고르티스).ᐟ M.E x fem!reader IN WHICH — Your boyfriend couldn't contain his excitement when he saw you in his pair of baggy jeans for the first time. He is down so bad. ⤷ ゛ ˎˊ˗ warnings. Kisses, swearing. masterlist

1,2k —fluff.

ᢉ𐭩 Dressing up wasn't really your thing. On a usual day, you'd prefer putting on a random hoodie that's lying on the floor somewhere, some sweat pants, throw on a pair of white sneakers, and call it an outfit.

But today is not a usual day, you and your friends will be going to a music festival your university is hosting and has insisted that you dress 'hip-hop-y'. So here you are right now, checking yourself in the mirror.

You put on a little more makeup than you'd usually wear, style your hair, and wear a cropped red tank top that hugs your body, making your curves visible.

You look hot, especially after putting on some accessories to complete the look.

But just like any other girl, the more you look at yourself, the more you feel that something isn't quite right. You feel like you need to change something, and that's when you decide it's the black sweatpants that don't fit the aesthetics.

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Blurb: You’ve been avoiding Dean Di Laurentis for over a week, and he is taking it about as well as expected. But when his dramatic little rant gets interrupted by the one thing neither of you saw coming, Dean has to prove there is more to him than jokes, charm, and terrible timing.

Warnings: pregnancy scare, fear of being alone, emotional conversation, casual relationship turning serious, anxious reader, dean being dramatic but sweet.

꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs, @legendarychrattgirl

You had been avoiding Dean Di Laurentis for nine days.

Not because he had done anything wrong.

For once.

Your period was late. Not late enough to be certain of anything, but late enough that your stomach had been in knots for days. Every time Dean texted, called, or sent some dramatic Snapchat about your “cruel disappearance,” you turned your phone facedown and told yourself you would answer him later.

Later kept getting pushed back.

By day nine, Dean stopped waiting.

His chin rested on her shoulder, a quiet hum leaving him in relief… reassured that he was home, with her.

That her warmth was there to hold him.

Simon wasn’t consciously aware of his habit. Always reaching for her, touching her somewhere, as if it were second nature. Searching for her warmth to soothe his cold hands.

Calloused fingers. Palms that, more often than he liked to admit, had been covered in blood.

His hands were always cold.

But whenever he got close to ____...

harry collett x co-star!reader (2k)

When the long awaited season three of hod airs, your friends hilarious video reacting to your kiss with Harry goes viral, the fans obsess over your off-screen chemistry and every interview blurs the line between acting and reality.

MATERIALIST

The internet had a habit of falling in love before the writers ever gave it permission.

By the time the third season of House of the Dragon premiered, interviewers barely bothered asking about dragons before bringing up another viral TikTok or a fan edit with millions of views. Harry always admitted he'd seen them. You always claimed you hadn't. Neither of you ever mentioned that after particularly long filming days, one of you inevitably ended up sending the newest edit to the other with an equally ridiculous caption.

The announcement of season three only made the obsession worse.

Ryland always had a hand on you, fingers wandering constantly. Not in a weird, pervy way. No, you didn't think he had it in him to do that at all. If anything, it was wholesome in that awkward way only Grace could do. Physical touch was his love language for sure, and he was extremely touch-starved from being out in space alone for so long. At least, until you woke up a few weeks after him.

When you were working in the lab together, he always had a few fingers in the pocket of your jumpsuit, letting his touch linger a moment as he handed you any equipment. A reassuring squeeze on your shoulder. Two arms around you, pulling in from behind for a hug. Tucking a stray hair behind your ear with a smile, staring back at you with stars in his eyes. Pulling you close at night inside the pod you now shared, holding on tightly as if you would disappear the moment he woke up. Palms on your waist while dancing to the music in the "don't go crazy" room, gently tugging until his head was on your shoulder, muffling a cry. Ryland cried more than you, or as Rocky put it, "more leaky."

Crystal blue waves lap lazily at the warm sandy shore, the soft sound mingling with the laughter of children and the pitchy call of seagulls— but it’s all so relaxing.

Nanami rests his head against the worn pages of his book, eyes growing heavy behind his sunglasses.

“Nap time?” You ask, rubbing your hand up his back, skin warm beneath your palm.

He mumbles as your hand slides up to his head to gently scratch at his undercut. “Hmm… maybe.” He grumbles, “just—“

“Just keep playing with your hair,” you giggle, “I know.”

The moment is so serene, he thinks. A gentle breeze, hot summer sun, and the calming touch of his partner as he dozes in and out of consciousness. It’s his perfect day— and he knows that when he wakes you’ll be perched next to him, your nose in his book and your sunglasses slipping down the curve of your nose.

✮ Is That What You Call It? - Ferran Torres

ferran torres x fem!reader

sy: has ferran gotten to grips with braiding hair yet? or will he still need you—some tutorials—to help make his daughters wishes a reality.

a/n: humour me cause this is the first time writing in months, so, sorry if it’s a lil stiff 🙏🏼 + is football a dying writing fandom or.. ALSO @n0vazsq this is for you.

warnings: nopeity.

you don’t intend to stare, really. promise.

but there’s something admiringly captivating about the way ferran cares for your daughter. the way he brushes the dirt from her knees as she falls; the way he spends hours in the morning designing mickey mouse pancakes—even if, they end up looking like mini elephants.

at the time, as much as it made your heart drop a smidge.. like god help us all, your daughter asked her daddy to help her plait her hair for the first time, he’d hesitated to the point of trembles and eventually, well, succeeded.

now, this is the second time.

they say second times a charm, don’t they?

“does this look okay?” ferran twists the corner of his mouth to whisper. you cock a brow until nodding from the doorway.

natiala, your daughter, sits bright-eyed infront of the mirror and high on a stepping stool with her hands neatly interlocked. she’s watching, carefully, almost ferran’s every move and muscle twitch. her feet also sway slightly in the air, her toes brushing the wood with every bounce of excitement.

its scary. the amount of attention she pays to the smallest of things.

“papà, you forgot this strand,” she lifts up a strand of her hair whilst ferran furrows his brows, subtly peering over to the tiktok tutorial in bewilderment.

following his gaze, noticing the phone, you catch your bottom lip between your teeth to seal a laugh. it’s on its lowest light, no sound and tucked halfway behind the pale blinds.

as if hiding the cheat sheet will make him look any less clueless.

they’re both there for another few minutes. natalia is perched, patiently, the glow in her eyes as she becomes more and more excited for the trendy—although if this were trendy, dear lord—updo, ferran is trying to perfect.

the heart of yours aches as you watch. one shoulder rests on the doorframe, as your arms loosely fold across your chest. she really is her daddy’s copy.

“andd.. ta-da!”

huh.

well…

ferran’s mini hops excitedly, squealing, as joy spreads across her features. she’s bringing the plait over her shoulder, slowly rotating in the mirror to herself and—

“daddy..” she squints, turning entirely to the side as his heart drops to his stomach. “this doesn’t look like rumi’s hair..”

a slap in the face. his face looks immediately rejected. like someone had told him santa wasn’t real. again.

“er,” ferran clears his throat, running a hand through the mullet of his. “little help?”

you laugh but it breaks like a breathy sigh; you plod along to where they stand. “i was waiting for you to say that.”

the long, tanned fingers of his find their way to your hair, combing it through until it he cradles the back of your head to lure you into a warm kiss. natalia gags to herself, muttering, “get a room.”

a snort bubbles from your lips as the kiss breaks, and you direct your attention to the birds nest of her hair. i mean, the only words you could describe her plait were as an inevitabile disaster.

honest work but also pitiful.

as you begin unraveling the artwork—definitely—scammery, you whisper, confidently, into your little girls ear. natalia beams, wiggling her brows.

“watch and learn daddy.”

you smirk. “yeah, watch and learn, baby.”

ferran huffs, trying to seem agitated but he doesn’t have one iritated bone in his body when it comes to you two. as you slowly unbraid natalia’s hair, you bring his fingers to yours, teaching him to weave the three sections of her hair. his tongue pokes out from his mouth, now, really dedicated to not mess it up this time.

“left over middle,” you murmur. “now right.”

for the first minute, you’re doing most of the work as his hands hesitate, and he glances into the reflection of the mirror as though he’s expecting you to catch him out. every now and then, he mutters a small “wait, wait,” which earns a soft chuckle from you.

it’s not long until you begin letting go a little more, as he learns to get ahold of the pattern. he doesn’t notice it at first, too occupied making sure he hasn’t somehow tied your daughter’s hair into a sailor’s knot, but by the end of it he’s the one weaving the strands together whilst your fingertips merely hover nearby.

“now this,” you hand him a small elastic; he complies by fastening it at the end of the braid.

you tap her on her shoulder. “look, hun.”

natalia doesn’t need telling twice.

she’s practically bouncing from the stool as she preens towards the mirror, turning her head from one side to the other before a grin stretches across her face.

“papà!” she gasps, twisting to throw her arms around his neck. “i look just like rumi!”

the footballer sighs a laugh of relief, as he goes to cuddle her. “well,” he says dramatically, looking over her shoulder towards you, “don’t sound too surprised.”

“i’m surprised,” you tease.

he rolls his eyes, though the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth never once falters. without thinking, his hand smooths over the braid, flattening a strand that had begun slipping loose before tucking it neatly behind her ear. it’s so instinctive that you don’t think he even realises he’d done it.

maybe that’s your favourite thing about him. that his love and care for the people he loves is never for show.

it’s simply just for who he is when nobody’s asking him to be.

ferran catches you staring, tilting his head. “que?”

“nothing.”

he pouts. “that’s not a nothing face.”

you shake your head, smiling to yourself before reaching up to flatten the stubborn piece of hair sticking out his curls. “i just…” you pause, watching natalia attend her focus back on the mirror. “i think you’re a better dad than you give yourself credit for.”

ferran smirks, pulling you closer by your hand. “is that what you call it?”

your eyes flick towards your baby girl. she’s still turning from side to side, beaming at a braid she’ll undoubtedly ask ferran to recreate tomorrow morning.

you smile. “yeah.”

your thumb brushes over his knuckles.

“i think i do.”

ferran only hums, his gaze following yours as you admire your special little girl. she mutters a song quietly whilst she proceeds to admire herself in the mirror. that’s what she’ll remember when she grows up. not whether her hair was perfect and exactly how she liked it.

but instead, how her daddy never stopped trying until it made her smile.

frat!kuna x reader | college au; fraternity au | fluff, angst & all of the inappropriate stuff | oneshot - 4/4 complete | your brother's warning to stay away from frat guys lingers in the back of your mind constantly — but how can you when ryomen sukuna himself is begging you to help save his english grade? | 11.5k words

₊⟡snippets of his life: sukuna's instagram -> here!

♡₊˚ part 2 | ♡₊˚ part 3 | ₊⟡ epilogue

♡ link to my main [archived] masterlist

♡ looking for more sukuna? here you go!

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in my feelings - lana del rey

die for you - the weeknd / ariana grande

a cold play - the kid laroi

white mustang - lana del rey

⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆. .⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆

You are three steps into the lecture hall when you jolt forward, hand flying to grip Haibara’s bicep before you can face-plant the floor. Some dumb fuck has stepped on the back of your Converse.  

“Who the he–”

A wide but smug grin greets you first, canines glinting under the white fluorescence. Then, sharp red eyes, a double piercing glittering through the skin of his left eyebrow; tattoos peaking out from the collar of his black hoodie, reaching up to his thick neck. He towers over you both, and sticks out like a sore thumb. 

If he wasn’t so smug you would have given in to the blush threatening to rise to your cheeks.

You have seen him before – of course you have. He’s your twin’s frat president. He has pink hair for Christ’s sake. Mostly, he is strutting around campus with Toji, a man of similar height and stature, always with a duffel bag and you only assume they’re both gym rat fratboys. Sukuna has made a name for himself; notorious for throwing the wildest parties.

Cops are called almost every single time. From what your brother has told you, he drinks like a camel; new pledges are terrified of him; and he has no issue getting pussy. The hazing rituals there have probably violated at least ten federal regulations.

“My bad, doll.” Sukuna says lazily, holding his hands up in apology. His voice is like honey.

This is the closest you have ever gotten to him. 

You roll your eyes and continue your conversation with Haibara, traversing across the lecture hall to find a seat on the front row. 

Sukuna’s eyes linger on the back of your retreating frame for a second; had you not been so annoyed, you’re actually kind of cute. The never ending stream of students behind him keeps him moving and he notes that he has never actually noticed you before. How many weeks has it been now? Six? This semester has been dragging.

Soon, he’s not even thinking about you much more. 

He tells himself that he doesn’t care. He’ll absolutely not let something like this bruise his ego. His pride. But his left eye is already beginning to twitch when Professor Melo quirks his eyebrow at the big red ‘X’ over Sukuna’s essay as he walks past and shakes his head. Not even a grade, nothing lettered or numbered – just wrong. 

Is this a joke?

“Some of you… don’t seem to grasp Gatsby and Fitzgerald… and whatnot.” 

He drones on and on and on. Loafer-padded feet wandering the aged carpet over and over.

“Some of you…” He eyes Sukuna again from the front of the classroom. “Haven’t been paying attention when I talked previously about exam technique.”

Sukuna rubs a rough hand over his face. His hands skim over the cool metal of his double eyebrow piercings. His lips are dry as he takes the bottom one between his teeth.

Fuck. In truth, that may have been a lecture he skipped. Sometimes he forgets that attending an academically challenging institution requires you to do academically challenging tasks.

A lot is at stake. He must remind himself of this; when his personal tutor told him of the scholarship which will cover his remaining three years of university, he practically pounced at the opportunity. It would be easy – it’s only two extra classes. Two extra A+’s. A language and a sport.

Doable; he almost leant back in that office chair, hands behind his head with a smug smirk on his face. Sukuna knows he’s athletically inclined; any sport will do. Shit, he’ll even join soccer with Satoru and co just to get this scholarship.

A language? Easy – English Language and Literature is an eligible class for the program. He speaks the language, it can’t be that hard.

The big red X on his essay begs to differ. 

“To that end,” Professor Melo continues. “There are four students who have consistently achieved full marks – they’ll be offering academic support should you need it.”

He peers over his glasses to the front row with a tight smile. You’re sitting in the front row, with a neutral expression on your face, trying not to look too excited about the seventh A+ you have achieved in this class. Head dipped slightly, you’re avoiding Melo’s poignant gaze.

The paper lies idly on the small desk in front of you with the letter in green writing, bright and loud in the corner; your hand moves to slide the essay under your laptop. 

Feeling a pair of eyes boring holes into your back, you turn and see Ryomen Sukuna’s gaze on you, unwavering. He is sitting four rows up, on the right, on his own. 

You look so familiar.

He can’t pinpoint where he's seen your face before, but it is one he recognises. You’re pretty. Dark eyes, doe-like, innocent almost. Your hair is dark and falls over your shoulders, like a black cascade past the swellings of your chest to your hips. Simple as that. 

Though had he not stepped on the back of your shoe earlier, and you turned to face him with an annoyed expression, he wouldn’t have looked around class long enough to notice your face in the first place. But still – there is something. He runs a hand through his hair, wracking his brain; where has he seen your face before?

He almost laughs when he realises that you remind him a little of his housemate. A little dreary in the eyes; same neutral, unreadable expression; sharp jawline; the inclination to side-eye someone without meaning to look judgemental. 

Why do you look kind of like Ch–

“Class dismissed. Go play your rugby or whatever you lot do.”

You might be his once chance of securing that scholarship. You’re out of the hall before Sukuna can catch you, already making a beeline for the freedom of outside. He’s already pushing past disgruntled students, not even bothering with apologies. 

You are no longer in sight. 

He exhales, running a hand through his pink hair. 

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

“And then he came and sat – are you listening?”

Your thumbs are still hovering over the keyboard, brain spinning and contorting on itself over Suguru’s text message.

[13:41]

You free tonight?

Utahime groans. “She’s not even listening!”

Finally looking up at Utahime, your expression is apologetic. You place your phone face-down on the table and hastily rub a hand over your face. Suguru can wait.

“Sorry, sorry. With you now.”

She rolls her eyes, and continues her story about how Choso sat next to her in labs, and let her borrow a pen when she had asked. You suppress the grimace clawing its way onto your face when she starts gushing about how handsome he is, and his tattoos, and his dark hair, and how he’s so dark and brooding, quiet and nonchalant, and the way his biceps pop when–

“I can just … talk to him for you. You know that right?” You say, trying hard not to laugh. “He’s so oblivious, he probably doesn’t even know.”

Mei Mei scoffs. “Trust me, he knows he’s hot shit.” 

You hum pensively. “Well, I don’t think he’s seeing Yuki anymore. I can introduce you guys.”

“Doesn’t matter if he’s seeing her or not… he likes blondes anyway.” Utahime slumps in defeat. “We’ve been friends for how long?”

“Since freshman year.” Mei Mei quips.

The dark-haired girl sitting opposite you throws her hands up in defeat. “Exactly– he would have noticed me by now.”

Perhaps she’s right, but given that she’s only just started crushing on your twin brother because they’re sharing bio labs together, you wouldn’t put it past Choso that he truly has not seen Utahime in that way before.

The fact that you and Choso are twins, is an open (but still guarded) secret; if anyone looked for a little longer, it’s obvious that the two of you are related. The demeanour is the same: difficult to read; dark features; pensive at all times.

You’re not even sure if his frat brothers know you’re his twin sister, or if they think they’re seeing Choso, tattooless, in a wig skipping around campus.

He’s never brought it up to you and frankly, you’re happy keeping it under wraps given his reputation as the campus plug. Not that you wouldn’t shift the mountains and skies for him –  you just like the obscurity.

Your parents will be so disappointed if they know about his (completely unnecessary, by the way) side hustle. 

“You would think that with the amount of parties you guys attend, he would have hit on at least one of you by now.” You joke.

Still your mind is on Suguru, and whether you will keep entertaining him. Is this the year of self-respect? Your frontal lobe is beginning to cook?

While Utahime and Mei Mei are talking about the next frat party they’ve been invited to by Gojo, you pick your phone back up again.

[13:55]

Come over at 8 :) 

Deciding that your frontal lobe can start developing next year, you hit send and think nothing more of it. The conversation abruptly ends and you don’t notice Mei Mei and Utahime have fallen silent with confused expressions twisting their features until you look up. Your fingers stop tracing patterns on the back of your phone.

A dark shadow looms over the three of you. The sun seems to be completely eclipsed by someone’s giant stature.

“Hey.” It says gruffly.

“Uh… hi?” Mei Mei almost laughs. “Can I help you?”

Sukuna raises his eyebrow. “Not you.” 

He then points to you. “Her.”

“Me?” You choke out, hand on your chest. “You stepped on the back of my shoe.”

A deep laugh erupts from his throat. “Got you clutchin’ your pearls, huh? Can we talk?”

He jabs a thumb behind him, somewhere away from the girls. 

You shoot them both a pleading look before you get up and follow him. Mei Mei gives you a sarcastic wave, clearly entertained by the whole thing.

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

Tuition.

That’s what he wants.

Sukuna’s swallowing every last bit of pride to ask you. At least you’re pretty. 

“I mean, I don’t know how much help I’m gonna be. I know Melo said– it doesn’t matter.” You sigh. “I’m not a great tutor.”

“Consider it a favour and I’ll owe you one, yeah?” He says, handing you his essay. More like shoved into your chest. His rings glint under the sun. 

You eye the big red cross across his work and breathe sharply through your teeth. Upon the realisation that he’s probably sacrificing every little bit of his pride to even ask you for help, you concede and mutter a ‘fine’. 

He tells you arrangements will be made on his terms, and is surprised when you throw your head back laughing at his suggestion. You shake your head. Nerds aren’t usually this confident; part of him is slightly turned on at your confidence, the other half questions where on God’s green earth you got the audacity from.

“No no no,” You chuckle. “You asked me for help. We’re going to the library on my schedule – I don’t care if you’re president of Delta Phi or the country.”

Who do you think you’re talking to? You’re so annoying – cute, he relents, but a difficult woman. 

He’s taken aback, hand snaking up to rub the back of his neck. Faintly, you make out that he has said ‘Tsk, brat’ under his breath. 

If your smile wasn’t so sickly sweet, he would have up and left. 

“And you’ll take this seriously.” You say firmly. “I also have sorority duties… I don’t wanna spend loads of time doing this if you’re gonna be fucking around.”

He bites back a snarky reply. “Don’t have a choice but to take it seriously, doll.”

Sukuna is trying to look, sound casual. His hands are fumbling in his pockets now for a cigarette. Putting it in between his lips and lighting it, he takes a long drag. Grey smoke shoots out of his nose. 

He confirms, in a rough voice that the library after classes is fine. 

Before he leaves, he spins on his heels like he has forgotten something and takes large strides back to you. Cigarette half-smoked. In your hand, you’re still clutching his essay, rolled up.

“Oh,” He’s already flashing you that same grin, bearing his canines. Holding his hand out to you, you can just about see his tattoos wrapping around his wrist. “Ryomen Sukuna.”

“I know who you are.” You say coolly, trying not to inflate his already-big ego. “Y/N.”

“Do I know you from somewhere?” He asks, eyes narrowing, head tilted.

You pause. “Class.”

Elsewhere, he tells you. He’s studying you now. Why are you nervous? You grip his papers a little harder; it crumples under the weight of your fist.

So he doesn’t know. 

“No.” You shrug. “We’ve never spoken.”

Sukuna’s tongue runs over his lips, his lip ring moves. Your eyes draw to it immediately. He is good looking… you can see why half the girls in your sorority fall to their knees over him. Still, this guy lives with your brother and you want to keep relations tepid. His eyes are still narrow, sweeping over your face and the fact that your gaze inadvertently flickered down to his lips for a brief moment. Damn. 

To your relief, he really does take his leave this time. His bag is slung over his shoulder once more and he does a little two-finger salute back at you as he goes. 

“See you Thursday, at six.”

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

Just as Suguru’s hips rut against yours one last time before collapsing onto you, he lets out a soft hiss into the quiet room. His hand graces your face for a mere second before he is pulling out. He drags a slender and pale hand across his perspiring forehead. The periwinkle linen bed covers cave in under his weight, the cotton hot with the remnants of sweet nothings, sweat and sex. 

“Something on your mind?” He asks, though his tone is casual and he seems more occupied with finding a clean towel to clean you up with. You can tell he is trying, but now you feel awkward that he might have felt you were not really there when he was snapping his hips into you for an hour. 

You shake your head, rolling over on the bed to face him.

Naked on your side and extended at full length on the bed, you watch as he flippantly grabs whatever towel is at the top of your drawer and comes over to you, gentle hands parting your legs. He hums again, as if to repeat his question. 

“I have been tasked with something… impossible.” You muse. “Well, maybe that’s just me being pessim–”

“Yeah?” He asks, with a towel gently dabbing on the folds as if he was not just roughly fucking into earlier. “Nothing a clever girl like you can’t handle, I’m sure.”

In another life, your cheeks would have warmed into a pretty rosy tint at his smooth talking. Suguru has always been smooth like that; he purrs almost every word which is why so many girls have, in some way or another, landed in his sheets at least once.

You’re not proud to say you are part of that demographic, but you have an understanding and he seems to get you too. 

“Sukuna asked me to tutor him.” You say. “He’s failing English… but please don’t say anything to Satoru or the others… I think his ego’s bruised enough already.”

His slender hands stop moving. They withdraw and so does he from your proximity. You can’t read the hard expression on his delicate features, but from his silence, you can tell there’s something gnawing at him inside-out.

“Is there a problem, Sugu?” You say, head-tilted.

There has never been any indication from him that you weren’t allowed to see anybody else. At one point in time, you had asked him if the two of you would ever become something more and on that night, he told you an answer which not only made you cry for a month straight but also let your feelings for him wither like flowers in frost soon after. That was a long time ago –  sometimes you think about when you used to like him, used to hope for more, and laugh at that version of yourself. 

Finally turning his face to meet your eyes, he exhales softly. You don’t seem concerned, just curious if anything. He sees the way your eyes are desperately scanning his face for any betrayal of his innermost tender thoughts about you, but at the end of the day, it is silently understood that between the two of you, there will only ever be room for jealousy, ego, and biting one’s tongue. 

He’s seen you in ways nobody else has; the vulnerability, the writhing and begging beneath him; the late night talks about the future, the frat, your concerns about Choso’s drug-dealing; his parents; his irritation when some girl has become too clingy for him.

Freshly fucked and still recovering from the jolts and aches in between your legs, you have laid still next to him many times with his hand in yours. 

You would play with his big hands, comment on how pretty they are, trace your fingers across his knuckles and palms.

It is complicated, but the two of you understand that this is all it ever will be.

So when Sukuna’s name tumbles out of your mouth, and you’re watching him with careful eyes, Suguru can’t help but wonder if this proximity to Ryomen Sukuna will change anything.

“No.” He says simply, voice lowering. “Just be careful. He can be… rough to deal with.”

You smile, a sight that makes his heart flutter a little though he doesn’t ever want to admit it. 

“I’m sure a big girl like me can handle a frat guy with a big ego… I’ve been doing it for so long.” 

He finally cracks a smile, a little amused, a little concerned and all the unspoken things in between. “Yeah well, good luck anyway– Ryo’s the same guy who got arrested at the last mixer – you didn’t forget, right?”

“Well, if it makes you worry less, I think he’s quite annoying.”

Still, as you turn away and start searching for the clothes he tore off you earlier in the evening, his mind is on Sukuna and you.

You and Sukuna, probably alone in the library, your room or worse – his room. Suguru drags a hand down his face; bro code is still a thing right? Not that Sukuna even knows about you and Suguru. Not that anybody knows apart from your closest friends.

Hell, he would be burning bridges with Choso if your brother ever found out.

He watches you pull a baby tee over your head, nipples now soft though bitten and slightly red from his teeth earlier, disappearing under the white fabric.

You’re completely in your own world as if he isn’t even there, humming some tune he doesn’t recognise as you find your underwear and his. He’s sitting on your bed now, forearm resting across his knee. 

“Have you done your application yet?” He asks. “Deadline is next month.” 

You wave a hand at him dismissively. “All done– just waiting for the extra credit from Professor Melo for the… tuition.”

The grin you send him is wicked and makes his stomach flip. You’re teasing him. You can see the unease on his face and don’t understand why you helping Sukuna would bother him this much but you don’t want to ask either. 

“Sugu… are you jealous?” You sing. Your hands reach for his, still clutching your light blue thong. “Come on… it’s Sukuna. He can have anyone he wants – why would he go for someone like me?”

Suguru scoffs. “He goes for anyone with a pussy.”

“He also lives with my brother so…”

He sighs in defeat, face softening. “Yeah he’d be out for blood– anyway, I need to shower. I have a date in two hours.”

“Christina?”

He rolls his eyes. “I told you we’re done… I got Serena’s number, remember?”

“Right, right…” You drawl. “Well, I hope you’re more emotionally available this time.”

You sit back, a mocking grin on your soft pink lips before releasing his hands. Shooting you a disapproving look, he finally gets up, grabbing his clothes from the floor and pulling another towel from your open drawer.

“I hope you’re gonna start paying for my laundry pods.”

He scoffs at you. “You gonna start paying for condoms?”

You pout. “You texted me first!”

“Yeah, yeah whatever–”

“Bathroom’s on the left.”

“Been here before.”

“Been here before.” You mock in a high-pitched voice. He can almost hear the stupid smile on your face and he flips you the bird with the same dumb grin before opening your bedroom door.

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

Thursday 18:21.

He’s late.

Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, and Sukuna’s sloppily put-together essay sits neglected on the table before you. Your fingers are churning out hundreds of words, flying over the keyboard and they have been since the clock hit six.

Goddamn this sorority. Goddamn Yuki. Your president wants you to have the flyers for this semester’s party done by tomorrow. Alongside the multitude of other tasks – academic – you have yet to complete.

You’re grumbling to yourself. The party isn’t even until the end of the month – what’s the goddamn rush?

The sky outside is already dark; autumn has rendered most of the trees outside warm hues of orange and brown. In the flickering of street lamps lining the campus, leaves dwindle and fall in the soft breeze.

The library doors fly open, much to the dismay of the students who are concentrating in complete silence. Sukuna takes large strides in, eyes glazing over, smirk on his lips like he owns the place. He sees you sitting in the corner of the room, eyebrows furrowed looking at your laptop. You’re a pretty little thing, tucked away, sleeves of your sweater falling over your hands as you type. The bright light of the library glimmers on your dark hair.

“Sorry I’m late.” He huffs. “One of our pledges set the bin on fire.”

You laugh. “What?”

He shoots you a look and you hold your hands up in defeat. “Right, well, I had a look at your essay.”

“And?”

You don’t mean to, but you start laying into him. He watches your lips as you are explaining how he has misunderstood the book, and Fitzgerald isn’t depicting Gatsby as a mindless simp, and how he covets Daisy’s wealth and identity.

He’s in love with the idea of her, not really her.

And then you start talking about his erroneous use of epistemic modality, and how he actually meant boulomaic modality. In any other circumstance he’d be a tad offended but he’s not concentrating on what you are saying fully.

Sukuna can’t help it but his eyes keep flickering from your dark irises to your lightly-glossed lips. You’re more animated now, using your hands every now and then when you are explaining; sometimes you take your bottom lip into your teeth when you are thinking about what to critique next.

Only when you finish ripping him a new one, a purple pen circling all of his errors and lack of exam technique, you sit back and realise he’s been staring at your damn face the whole time instead of looking at his paper. Heat immediately rises to your cheeks.

To say he isn’t interested will be lying to himself; there is no denying you possess an effortless beauty. You speak like you know your shit. You’re also quiet – in a peaceful kind of way. There’s something curious about you and after thinking hard on it for a few seconds instead of working, he realises it is because you speak to him like you do not give a damn about who he is. 

Other girls would have been fanning their lashes at him, or worse, falling to their knees at even the slightest scintilla of attention. You look at him like you have evaluated him a thousand times already – like there isn’t anything special with who he is.

Yet there’s a timidity there, some sort of diffidence which makes him feel as though you’re holding back. Maybe I do come with a warning sign.

He leans forward on his elbows. “You blushing?” He purrs. Your eyes widen, and then you look disgusted at the notion that you even might be. 

Cute.

“Stop looking at me like that, perv.” You wave his face away. “Were you even listening?”

The clock ticks on in the library. After some time of discussing, Sukuna actually willingly starts drafting something up for you to evaluate. It’s quiet between the two of you, but the silence is not awkward. You do see him steal glances at you every few minutes but you’ve managed to perfect the art of pretending you don’t notice.

He pretends he doesn’t see your doe eyes sweeping over his muscular stature every now and then.

He’s so… quiet.

It takes you by surprise; you half-expected him to have a snarky remark every five seconds but he has been surprisingly tame.

Against the smooth wood, your phone buzzes. The screen lights up. Out of the corner of your eye, as you pretend to type something on your laptop, you see him glimpse at it. Sukuna sees Suguru Geto’s name. He smirks, though a part of him feels a little despondent that you may already be spoken for.

[20:35]

Come over

You are about to text him back when Sukuna’s obnoxious voice drawls. “Boyfriend?”

There is something more in his voice. Thumb hovering over the keyboard, you shake your head. You fail to meet his eyes. “Not like that.”

“But you wish it was like that.”

You shoot him a look. “I don’t actually.”

Sukuna sits back now, feeling his shoulders relax a little in relief. He crosses his arms, not missing that you eyed his muscles hardening and bulging underneath the tight material of his t-shirt. He almost laughs – he should not have felt that ripple of relief when you said that.

“I know Suguru. Decent guy.” He licks his canines, eyes never leaving yours. “Real pretty boy, that one.”

You grimace. “Shut up– show me your paragraph.”

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

The next time Sukuna speaks to you is Friday 20th October. After a gruelling workout with Toji, and then some random sorority girl he was seeing (amongst five others) had called him up, accused him of being emotionally unavailable before calling him an asshole and ending things, he said “fuck this” and skipped class. 

A coffee is all he needs… and then maybe a fat joint with Choso.

He spots you before you even clock his presence; you’re wrapped up in what looks like a guy’s hoodie, paired with a mini-skirt, leg warmers and some Docs. The queue for coffee is long today; tired students are dotted around the café, laptops on tables, typing endlessly to meet deadlines. He almost rolls his eyes, feeling the toll of the week in every ache ailing his muscles.

Mid-terms are fast approaching – something that Sukuna has barely been giving a piece of mind to. Between the mixers, the girls, his frat brothers, gym, he finds he has little time to concentrate fully on his studies. 

His hand rubs his nape, hesitant to initiate anything, before he decides to tap you on the shoulder. 

“Oh!” You start, tugging your headphones out of your ears; they dangle from the loose collar of your grey hoodie. “Hi…”

He feels the tension in his forehead ease at the polite smile on your face. 

“You here for coffee?” Sukuna says much too smoothly and then wants to faceplant because duh – it’s a fucking café. He looks away from you much too quickly, pretending to eye up the menu as if he doesn’t order the same thing every damn time.

Why does his face feel a little warm all of a sudden? 

You smile politely. “Actually no— don’t like it all that much.”

“What do you usually get then?” He asks. 

The salmon-haired frat president watches as you take your bottom lip into your teeth slightly. “I always get a hojicha with oat milk… you seem like an americano guy.”

Sukuna quirks the brow that is pierced, amused. The two metal bars catch the warm light. “We hang out once and you think you know me, huh?”

“No,” you say. “You just seem the type. Plain and boring. And bitter.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

For a moment you’re unsure if he registers the humour in your deadpan tone. The amused expression on his face falls immediately at your words. You think he might throw something back at you, but he pushes away that weird feeling in his chest and just about manages to mutter a ‘fuckin’ brat’. Still, it takes every fibre of his being not to let the corner of his lips tug up into a smirk, even though he feels it twitching.

A silence falls over the both of you as the queue moves up and up. You’re avoiding his gaze, but every now and then still manage to catch it. He thinks it’s awkward but there is also a comfort in the silence, like he doesn’t have to try and impress you. You accept him as he is – at least that’s what he’s thinking. 

She’s nice enough to tutor you – don’t fuck it up. 

Sometimes it isn’t hard to understand why so many girls fall at his feet; the way he carries himself is intimidating, but that’s mostly from confidence – it’s just the way he is. He almost always looks smug, as if he owns the very land he is standing on. 

All the while you are playing with the wire of your headphones, twirling and twisting it around your fingers, his mind is on whose hoodie that is. It must be Sugurus… right? 

The barista has barely gotten two words out to you before he steps in closer to you, and you feel his hard abdomen press into your back. Frozen, you don’t know whether you’re relishing in it or a bit disgusted by how hot he feels against you. 

“Hojicha oat latte and an americano, thanks.” Sukuna says.

Before he realises what he is doing, his card is already on the reader. The familiar ‘beep’ sounds and you’re finally able to shift on your feet. He can’t help but smile at how flushed your cheeks are – how  unsure you look. It’s kinda cute, he thinks to himself.

“You didn’t have to do that…” You start, looking up at him through your lashes. “But thanks– that’s… that’s really nice of you.”

Sukuna shrugs, one hand gripping the strap of his duffel bag. “Least I can do for taking up your time right?”

His voice is smooth; you almost don’t hear the gratitude in how casually he says it; no ‘thank you’, no obvious displays of appreciation – just something you have to scratch at the surface to fully hear.

His red eyes sweep over the frown on your face. 

“It’s not–”

You press your lips together in a thin line. His head tilts at your pause, and then–

“You don’t need to go out of your way– I would have helped you anyway.”

Sukuna feels his mouth run dry. His pink tongue pokes out and swipes quickly over his bottom lip; his lip ring idly tilts. The barista calls his name before he can think of a snarky response and for a moment he thinks he might have gone soft. 

He watches as you accept the drink with a grateful, genuine, smile. The two of you walk side by side to the door, with Sukuna’s hand still resting on the strap of his duffel bag. For a moment you don’t know what to say, and then he breaks the silence – 

“Walk with me?” 

You’re hesitant, holding your hojicha latte which is beginning to singe your palms. You look so unsure he almost backtracks but then you shrug, and he feels a weight ease off his shoulders.    

He almost lets out a groan. Bro, what am I doing? 

Sukuna asks you about your essays; just simple questions about how you get such high marks and what you usually do to keep them up. What he really wants to ask is what you have going on with Suguru. Maybe what you usually do Friday nights. If you like pizza or  pasta more, or if your preference is Japanese food. But he figures that someone like you would not be caught dead wasting time with someone like him.

He watches you quietly when you press your lips together in a moment of thought before responding to him.

You’re surprised he would even ask those questions in the first place but he must really want this grade.

You don’t realise how far you have walked until the grandeur of Kappa Epsilon’s greek revival facade is getting closer and closer.

“I didn’t think you’d care that much about your grades.” You admit quietly. “Thought your life was just frat and beer.”

He scoffs, humoured. “I mean… yeah it is– but…”

His red eyes glint with vulnerability. For a second he doesn’t want to tell you that he really needs the scholarship, but figures you’re not the gossip type. Or that you even care enough for his business to be in orbit of your daily life. 

“The Masamichi Scholarship.” He exhales loudly. “I really need it… so…”

You hum in acknowledgement and ask no further questions; it is practically a full-ride scholarship and covers everything from travel, study abroads, to tuition fees. Choso has never mentioned Sukuna’s business to you, just that his dad’s not around and his mum practically raised him on her own while working full-time. By the way he is watching the ground and then suddenly his coffee cup has become super interesting, it’s clear he is trying to mask the flicker of shame which crosses his sharp features.

You remind yourself of your privilege everyday – even though Choso rarely relishes in that reality, preferring to sell drugs to dumb college students so he isn’t constantly relying on mom and dad; there is no denying that your parents founding and owning a big pharmaceutical company which prides itself on researching and manufacturing synthetic blood plasma, has opened many doors for you and your brother.

“We’ll get you that grade.” You say. “I’m sure we will.”

“You know… you kinda remind me of Choso. You know him? He’s my frat brother. Real serious… holds the fort together.”

You bite your lip, and clear your throat to stop the laugh from tumbling out your mouth. “Yeah… Yuki’s kinda dating him.”

He nods, eyes absentmindedly on the horizon. Then, he laughs, “They were fucking so loudly the other week that Toji left the house.”

“Dude–”

Of course he has to ruin it – just when you think he’s acting more tame. You want to throw up. The hot drink in your hand has turned lukewarm now, and there is still more than half to go. You thank your lucky stars that your sorority house is just down the road.

“Well, I turn down that street now.” He says. “See you around?”

You’re barely one foot in the front door when a familiar blonde is flying down the stairs to greet you.

“Dude, is that Sukuna?” Yuki laughs in disbelief as Sukuna walks off into the sunset. She has a hand on the curtain, drawing it back with her face almost smooshed up against the frosty glass. “Did he just walk you home?”

“Uhm… yeah?” You say. “It’s not that deep.” 

Finally, the tall blonde pulls away from the window and the curtain swooshes back into place. She has a dumb smirk on her face, arms crossed against her chest now.

“You’ve got game, girl.” She teases. “Geto and Sukuna? You’re being spoiled.” 

You roll your eyes, already making way for the stairs. “Oh my god, it’s not like that with Ryo. I’m just tutoring him.”

“Ryo?” She laughs. “Oh my god. I can’t wait to tell ‘Hime and Mei.” 

“Just don’t tell Nobara – she’s gonna run her mouth.” You warn. 

You can still hear Yuki giggling to herself like a schoolgirl at the bottom of the stairs. It’s not like that with Ryomen Sukuna – you tell yourself that you have more self-control than to become one of his girls. You’re already heavily involved with Suguru – you don’t need another one; Choso will surely kill you. Or them. 

Notes, books and your laptop are discarded now across your table. Your bag, open where you threw it near the door, has your college lanyard half-hanging out and some crumpled flyers you absentmindedly accepted yesterday afternoon.

The room is dark, warm, and quiet except for the hushed sound of Blood Orange’s music playing on your speaker. You lie on your back in bed, sheets still warm from your tossing and turning, body heavy against linen.  

In the dark, light dances across your face as you scroll on Instagram. Nothing too special; a post from Satoru Gojo (more like a thirst trap), shirt pulled up by his teeth, bearing his chiselled abs — classic mirror selfie. In the background, you can just about spot Suguru’s very built back, half-caught in the mirror.

His long black hair is tied up, out of his face. Your tongue runs over your lip as you tap on the comments and read the hundreds of comments eating it all up. He’s somewhat of an internet celebrity on your campus.

@ dani_kappapsi: My legs are SPREAD omg 🤤🤤

@ kent0_nanami: Do neither of you wear clothes anymore? 

That one makes you laugh a little.

@ fushigurotjjj: so you guys are taking mirror selfies instead of hitting gym with me and ryo 🙄

@ cara0503: omg is that the guy from your class @lils_arturrr

@ lils_arturrr: @ cara0503 YES AHAHHA he’s so fine

With a final snort, you go off it and continue doomscrolling. Yuki’s post comes up next, a pretty snapshot of her from above, 0.5 angle, holding an iced coffee with her lips puckered.

Your index and thumb drag the post, zooming in on the corner of the post where you can see your brother’s worn-out combat boots; it’s out of focus, like he was mid-step, but it is Choso for sure. You can’t stop your thumbs from flying over the keyboard with a dumb grin on your face. So they are still seeing each other.

@ Y/Nkm0: Very subtle ;)

@ utahiiiime: ur so pretty

@ m3im3i: Sexy fit mama 

@ noba_kugi: whose shOE IS THAAAATTTTTT 👀

And then in her likes, you notice Sukuna’s handle. Of course, you have seen his socials before – you just never bothered to interact. For a second your thumb hovers over his handle @ ryomen.sukuna and then you think fuck it and press down on it. His page is surprisingly

… mature? 

You have seen his earlier posts before; quick snapshots of his parties; people shit-faced with traffic cones on their heads or lugging them home; . By his freshman year of college, his photos become more poignant, defined: His travels are mostly documented – a lot of his friends, and then a photo of his infamous red Hellcat which has everyone creaming their pants.

Your eyes widen at the amount of likes and comments his posts get; he’s actually… viral? Still, as you go through his socials you cannot help but admire. He does have a god-like body and he is incredibly handsome. There is a hard edge to him, yet the times you have interacted with him, he hasn’t been.. Awful. 

You wonder if that is yet to come.

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

The two of you have spent maybe three sessions together now. Two weeks have gone by in the blink of an eye. He still does not have your number. He still does not know your last name. He also actually isn’t stupid – which is the most surprising thing. A small part of you is proud when the next piece of work he gives you to read is just slightly better than the last week’s.

But in class, there is a silent understanding between the two of you; he’ll nod your way or send you a shit-eating grin. When you’re in a good mood, you’ll give him a shy wave.

Sukuna does not want to admit to himself that he likes it when you notice him. Something in him melts a little; he relishes in it when he’s in a good mood. Though, there have been times he has walked into class with a dark rain cloud over his head, headphones snug over his Arc’teryx beanie, and he doesn’t even bat an eye your way.

Sometimes he dumps his bag in the empty seat next to you and Haibara, and sits on the next free one. Haibara has started looking at you quizzically, but you tell him that it’s nothing. There’s an unaddressed comfort in his presence, even if it is one seat away.

He has confetti in his hair today. Remnants of whatever happened the night before. You’re not sure you want to know, given that he gave you all that detail about your brother and Yuki just last week.

Still, a trembling hand reaches out to pluck it from his salmon strands, and he watches as you draw your hand back; a blue piece of tissue paper, from that dumb confetti cannon Satoru graced last night’s all-greek mixer with. Frats only.

“Good night?” You tease, holding it between your fingers. 

He huffs and snatches the damn thing out of your hand. His hand briefly touches yours for a second. The bit of skin that skimmed his fingers feels searing.

“Fucking Gojo and his confetti, man.”

You giggle quietly.

Two essays and plenty of feedback for him to work on later, the document on your laptop reaches forty five pages just as Sukuna throws his pen down and drags a hand across his tired face. 

Your phone buzzes on the table. Face down, you can both just about see the sliver of bright light against the wooden tables. He sees you eye it absentmindedly but you make no effort to pick it up.

“What’s the deal with you and Suguru?” He asks suddenly. More like blurts out before he can control his mouth. 

The question takes you aback a little bit – it’s not a matter you thought he would be interested in. You reckon that his curiosity boils down to 

You shrug. “Met him at my very first mixer last year. Thought he was cute–”

Sukuna swallows. You see his jaw tick for a second but then it’s gone.

“—didn’t think much of it at the time but he gives me attention and I guess I liked him a lil bit for a few months and–”

There it is again. 

“—but it is what it is, I told him that I’m not gonna date him properly if he ever changes his mind… like, if he’s gonna treat me like he has other options then it goes both ways—”

You stop, realising you yapped more than you should have about Suguru Geto. His eyes are narrowed slightly, scanning your features for any sort of emotion reminiscent of regret or sadness or longing but he realises there is none of that. Just a peaceful acceptance of what has played out.

“And now?” 

When was the last time you saw Suguru? The week before, perhaps? In all honesty, between the sessions with Sukuna and the late night studying, and gearing up for the biggest frat party Kappa Epsilon has ever held, you haven’t given him much thought. 

You realise you have spent more time with Sukuna than you have Suguru as of late.

“I don’t like him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He almost looks satisfied with your answer, but he leans back with a hand on his head. “So it’s just sex?”

“It’s really nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“Humour me.”

You raise an eyebrow but relent. “Yes, there was a time I liked him. I don’t anymore. I guess he’s just… available.”

Sukuna hums like he understands – and he does in his own way. He just doesn’t understand why someone as unimpressed and quiet as you would ever stray into the likes of his kind of people.

“Satoru’s birthday…” He casually mentions. “You going?”

Your response is immediate. “Not if I can help it.”

“Won’t be that bad.” Sukuna shrugs, eyes flickering to meet yours. “I’ll be there.”

He is grinning now; the corners of his witty mouth pulled up sharp like the Cheshire cat. Work has long been abandoned now; papers strewn over the table and your laptops with squiggles from your red pen. His essay, half-corrected and the Great Gatsby, open on page eighty three, face down on the wooden surface. Its spine is bent and wrinkled.

“God.” You groan, rolling your eyes and shoving his face away from you. “Miss me with that.”

He almost recoils at your touch, not expecting your open palm to go directly on the side of his face. His skin feels hot.

Snap out of it.

Before he leaves later that night, you hastily jot down your number, not thinking much of it, and hand it to him between your index and middle fingers. 

“In case you need study advice.” 

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

The walls of the Delta Phi garage thump incessantly; Toji has cranked up the music and the bass is so heavy that Sukuna feels his head might explode with another push of the barbell above his head. He throws it back onto the rack with a deafening CLINK!

Choso stands in the spot behind Sukuna’s bench, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Bruh, stop asking me to spot if you’re gonna throw it back like that.”

Sukuna ignores him and sits up, exhaling loudly. His breath is hot. Raising his hand, he wipes the perspiration from his forehead. The black bands inked on his bulging bicep glisten with sweat.

Toji is still doing bicep curls in the mirror, his muscles straining and veins bulging across his skin. The scar running down the corner of his mouth twitches. He scowls through the ache and raises an eyebrow at his pink-haired friend when he spots him staring.

“You good, bro?” He pants. The dumbbells in his hand drop to his feet. Sukuna is his best friend – his ride or die – and he knows him inside out; it isn’t everyday that he has a conflicted look in his eyes.

“Y’know Y/N?” Sukuna finally asks. “Real pretty… dark hair. Kinda mean.”

Choso pauses. He doesn’t say anything. 

Mean? 

Why was your name being brought up? 

Sukuna doesn’t want to admit to his boys that since you handed your number to him that day, he’s been texting you at odd hours of the night, or indeed for most of the day about literally anything that might be essay related. Some of the questions, he finds as he types them out, aren’t even about English Lit or Gatsby anymore. Just a simple ‘Yo did you see what Shiu was wearing in class today?’.

Slowly and slowly, the messages went from ‘wdym about elaborating my point?’ to ‘listen to this album’.

You never took him for a gossip, but admittedly, he can be pretty funny. Sometimes you are up at 2am texting this stupid pink haired frat boy about music, and that’s when you both realised the other person listens to the likes of Jeff Buckley. 

When the fuck did that happen? 

And Yuki’s been catching you cheesing at your phone like Toji has almost caught Sukuna grinning at whatever song recommendation you have sent his way.

Toji hums. “Think I saw her in Yuki’s car the other day.”

Upon the mention of Yuki’s name, Toji’s eyes flicker over to meet Choso’s hooded ones. The corner of his mouth tugs into a slight smirk. 

The beefy man starts again. “Same sorority, right? Barely see her at mixers though.”

“Why?”

Choso’s deep voice cuts across the music. Sukuna has craned his neck back to look at him now; he can’t decipher Choso’s expression. 

The black band across his nose wrinkles and his face is relaxed again. 

Sukuna shrugs. “She’s helping me out with English.”

However, Toji sees past the facade; there’s a curiosity in Sukuna’s tone that isn’t usually there when he mentions other girls.

Usually it is not important whether any of the other guys knows someone; girls come and go, a motto Sukuna has lived by since freshman year. Shit, it’s something the whole frat house lives by.

“Yeah?” Toji grins. “She looks sweet.”

Sukuna only hums in response, pushing away the thought of your dumb smile as he lies back down to do another set. He sets his hands shoulder width apart, thumbs turning over the cold metal. It is rough and punishing on his skin. 

“C’mon bro,” He huffs to Choso. “Spot me.”

Something in Choso’s chest tightens but nothing further about you is said.

He feels nauseous.

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

Saturday nights at 9pm are almost always reserved for quiet nights in; sometimes the gym with Nobara and Mei Mei when you’re feeling particularly energised and they have a rare night in. Tonight however, you have been convinced by every girl in the sorority that Satoru Gojo’s birthday is the most important event and your attendance is mandatory (‘food poisoning’ the year before just about saved you). 

“You do realise Cho will kill me if he sees Suguru or anyone hit on me.” You were deadpan, arms crossed, standing in the doorway of Mei Mei’s room having been summoned just five minutes prior.

Mei Mei looked at you with her eyebrows raised; she was halfway through doing her makeup, half of her face shaded while sitting in front of her vanity. 

“Geto knows better than to do that to you – I wouldn’t worry really.” She said way too smoothly. 

From her bed, Nobara sat up, eyes wide and pleading. “Come on, you can’t miss it. Please please please ple–”

Throwing your hands up in the air, you had let out an exasperated groan. “Fine! You’re all annoying as fuck– ugh!.”

A red solo cup has been occupying your right hand since you stepped foot in Zeta Psi – a very palatial house that you are more than familiar with. Though tonight all of their banners have been replaced by shittily photoshopped, and absolutely massive, tapestries of Satoru’s dumb face and his name. There are some messily hung fairy lights adorning the ceiling, tied from one balcony bannister to another overhead. Someone’s actually hired a DJ for his birthday this year, unlike the last, where they just hooked up Toji’s playlist to a massive JBL speaker according to Yuki. 

Everyone is sweaty and the room smells sticky, like beer on the floor. A faint but sickly smell of fruit, like the sweet scent of strawberries, hangs thick in the humid air, from students hotboxing the house with their corner shop vapes. You keep shoulder-checking everyone but the heaving crowd is too intoxicated to notice you, bumping along to the heavy beats and swapping spit with whoever is unfortunate enough to stand close enough.

You spot Suguru almost immediately, leaning against the wall at the far end but his other half, his hyperactive white-haired puppy, isn’t with him. His slick long hair is tied up today, half-up half-down. Adorning an all-black fit, you swallow the lump in your throat seeing how good he looks; Suguru dons a cool smile on his lips as his slender fingers drum on the side of his plastic cup, matching the beat of Yeat’s ‘Loco’.

His broad shoulders faintly hitch in a cool chuckle at something beefcake Toji is yapping about in his gruff voice. On instinct, feeling someone’s gaze from across the room, Suguru turns his head to see you in the crowd, alone, with a red cup in your hand.

He swallows hard, eyeing the exposed cleavage from the cowl neckline of your top. You do look good tonight. Raising the cup to his lips, the sharp taste of vodka washes down his throat though his eyes are still on you over the rim on the cup. 

If Choso wasn’t here tonight he would have had you up against the wall already. Memories of the last time he saw you still play like a looping movie as his eyes skim over your entire being: His hands on your waist, gripping the curves so hard that a hand mark was left; his soft lips leaving a wet trail from your jaw to the heat between your legs; the way you writhed in his touch – he knows you inside out.

You give him a polite nod, subtle, but he catches it and returns it. He watches as you turn away and disappear amongst the sea of drunk students, dark hair swaying against your lower back.

Almost immediately, upon entry, you had lost sight of Nobara and Mei Mei. They got dragged off somewhere by Megumi and Yuji as soon as you pulled up to Zeta Psi.

Breaking your staring competition with Suguru, you can just about see a familiar head of long blonde hair and a very sharp nose perched on the lap of your brother on the couch elsewhere in the room. His thick arm is wound around her waist lazily, and in his other hand a half-smoked joint is pinched in between his index and thumb.

He spots you weaving through the crowd straight away and gives you a little two finger salute; twin telepathy, it almost makes you roll your eyes. He looks so cool now, lounging back onto the couch like he wasn’t calling you last night, kicking his feet and giggling at the fact that Yuki brought him some homemade cookies.

The room is neon-soaked and you’re starting to feel nauseous; whatever was in your cup is tasteless now. 

Under his gaze, you manage to slip into the kitchen where Nobara is shotgunning a beer while Nanami, arms crossed and serious as always, has a hint of a proud smile on his lips, and Megumi, Yuji and Utahime are cheering her on.

“God, it stinks out there.” You mutter, joining the group. “I haven’t seen the birthday boy yet.”

“Ah, Y/N,” Yuji laughs, throwing an arm around you. “He’s probably upstairs with a girl right now.”

You make a face which only makes him bellow a deep laugh. 

“I’m surprised you turned up… you’re never at these things.” Nanami says in his deep voice, his eyebrows raised at you. 

You eye the tall blond, who seems to be nursing a beer. It’s barely touched but you gather that as always, he is keeping a watchful eye on everyone. 

You shrug. “Can’t miss King Gojo’s birthday – clearly.”

Nanami manages a reserved chuckle. 

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

Now six tequila shots in, the room is starting to wobble around Sukuna as he keeps a loose arm slung around… what’s her name again? Nevermind, he shakes the thought out of his head. Whoever she is, has been eye fucking him all night from the dancefloor and can’t stop touching his goddamn waistband. 

He’s been rock solid for the last ten minutes but it’s still too early to leave. His thin white t shirt clings to his back in the heat. The scrawls and squiggles on his tattoos glisten with a light sheen of sweat under the neon strobes. 

The air around him is charged; he feels pledges he’s never even talked to before dap him up as he brushes past them, trophy in arms.

“C’mon…” She begs. “Let’s just go back to mine.”

Sukuan tilts his head back in a deep laugh. “Party’s barely started, doll.”

She whines and lightly slaps his hard chest, manicured nails flirtatiously tapping at his skin. “But I want you now.” She says.

He almost gives in; something about the way she has one hand practically down his waistband, nails barely skimming his already hard cock, has his mind elsewhere – no longer trying to stay sober long enough to celebrate Satoru’s birthday. Sukuna snakes his hand further and further up her waist until he’s almost able to grab the swell of her breast.

But then you. 

And you look so good.

He finds you with his great height, red eyes skimming over the sea of people in front. Barely, just barely, you slip out of his sight into the kitchen. The back of you is almost unrecognisable had he not caught a brief glimpse of the side of your face which is wan, eyes hooded with fatigue from the long week. You look different – in clothes he doesn’t usually see you in; something about your skimpy black top and bare shoulders that he never usually sees, even in his buzzed stupor makes him drag a wet tongue over his bottom lip. Everyone else drowns out; you said you wouldn’t be here, so why is he seeing you now? 

This isn’t your scene. 

“Yeah– uh– I’ll see you in a bit, babe.” He mutters over the loud music, already letting the blonde in his arms go, and pushing his way through the crowd. Over the loud music, he can just about hear her frustration, throwing a tantrum in the middle of the dance floor but he keeps pushing on until the faint yellow light of the kitchen is warm on his face. 

You’re under Yuji’s arm, chanting Nobara’s name with a grin as she shotguns another beer. As if on queue, the light and conversation, even the music, bent subtly to Sukuna’s presence. He’s magnetising, moving like he has always belonged in the spotlight. Nobara sees him first, and she holds up her empty and squished beer can with triumph, calling Sukuna’s name as he steps foot in the kitchen. 

“There he is.” Yuji grins, going in to dap up Sukuna. “How’s it been, man?

Sukuna mirrors his grin, canines glint under the kitchen light. But he’s not even looking at Yuji, he’s looking right at you. Kento is next, giving Sukuna a firm pat on the back. His eyes remain on your small figure; you cower slightly under the weight of his gaze. 

“Usual.” The tip of Sukuna’s tongue skims the apex of his canines. “Having a good time, Y/N?”

“You guys know each other?” Nanami’s deep voice cuts in. 

“I’m helping him with class.” You say, cheeks flush with embarrassment. Everybody is looking between you and Sukuna now, eyebrows raised like they know something you don’t. With his big hand, Sukuna ruffles up your hair like you’re some lost puppy and chuckles slowly. You don’t want to admit that his touch makes your stomach drop. 

“I don’t bite – right?” He asks you, smirking.

You swat his hand away. “Leave me alone.”

“Oh, it’s like that?” Yuji jokes, wiggling his eyebrows. You shoot the pink haired kid a disapproving look. 

“It’s not like anything–” Sukuna says smoothly. “Like Y/N says, just partnering in class.”

There’s something else in his tone though. 

You hurl the rest of your tequila and slam down your cup onto the countertop. “I need some air.”

Much too quickly, Sukuna gushes out that he also needs air and follows you out to the garden. Nanami has already shot him a weird look, and exchanges a glance with Nobara like there is an unspoken agreement about how weird he is acting because since when does Sukuna follow any girl anywhere? 

But when Megumi is suggesting that they should find Gojo and play beer pong, soon the thought of you and Sukuna flitters away like autumn leaves in a restless wind.

Sukuna rubs a hand over his face, the October wind hitting his large stature with full force like a truck into a brick wall. It is sobering, feeling his skin freeze over. The alcohol is just about there, enough to make his vision a little blurry. Enough to make his vision of you like a hazy dream.

He finds himself digging into his backpocket for a pack of cigarettes as you lean up against the wall, a string of fairy lights flickering blue and red and green lights over your delicate features. 

The tequila went straight to your head.  You blink hard – once, twice, and a third time to make sure you’re still seeing straight and you are just about.

Sukuna is leaning on the wall next to you now, taking a long drag of his cig. He exhales after a second, and you feel the warmth of his body bleeding into your space. 

The air feels thick, like something is hanging in it; you think it might be the alcohol. 

Sukuna thinks you look pretty.

The words are on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t want to word vomit. He’s looking at you now from the corner of his eye, wondering if you have seen Suguru yet.

“Can I have one?”

He hears you ask quietly, looking at him through your lashes now. Your cheeks are still faintly pink from alcohol. With a surprised scoff, he reopens his carton and pulls one out with his tattooed fingers. It doesn’t sound unkind – he just doesn’t expect it from you.

He swallows, unsure of where the sudden anxiety is coming from and holds it up in front of your lips. His knuckles barely graze your bottom lip. 

You’re still looking up at him, unaware that you look as though you are completely at his mercy. The eye contact is unwavering. Your doe eyes make him feel like the party isn’t even happening inside; the world revolves around you now.

“Open.” Sukuna murmurs, his own cigarette hanging out between his pink lips. 

Unsure what possesses you to listen to him, your glossed lips, pious, barely part, but the thick filter of his menthol Seven Stars slots right between, delicately. His hand pulls away slowly to fetch his lighter from his back pocket. 

Gaze still unbroken, the sight of your dark eyes, just lightly droopy with the haze of alcohol and the smoke, makes Sukuna’s mouth run dry. You see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He can feel his heart hammering in his ears, though it might be the beats from inside – he isn’t sure anymore.

In the searing glow of the small flame, you light the end of the cigarette. Sukuna has a large hand cupped over yours, shielding the light from the icy wind. His skin feels so warm against you for a second, like putting your hands straight into fire that will burn you eventually. Orange flickers across your face and then it is gone. 

You take a drag, then exhale the grey smoke through your nose. Each drag feels slow and deliberate as you tilt your head, curiosity pooling in your gaze.

“What are you looking at?” You ask.

The question sounds so innocent coming from you, but Sukuna has never felt as charged as he is right now. There’s something else hidden under the sweet innocence in your tone, heavy and tense.

“Didn’t know you smoked.”

His voice is gruff. You shrug, finally breaking eye contact. The ash at the end of his cigarette is flicked carelessly into the frost-bitten snow. 

“Drunk cigarettes don’t count.” You say.

“You’re drunk?” He asks, voice lowering. “Is that why you’re out here with me?”

For a brief second, you think he is flirting with you. Hell, he flirts with everyone – but he could literally be anywhere else but here right now, and he’s still here with you instead. It isn’t lost on you – but you don’t want to lean on it too heavily. You’re unsure what he wants. 

Sukuna’s red eyes glint at you. He tilts his head back, and a cloud of opaque smoke puffs up into the night air. For the first time tonight you can see the patterns of black ink stretch out of the collar of his top as his neck muscles relax and tense in his movements. 

He faces you again, but his gaze flickers from you to the cigarette in between your nimble fingers, to the exposed skin on your chest and then your bare shoulders. 

The smoke flutters out in a thin stream from your nose again and he feels an unfamiliar ache going straight from his chest to his manhood. He swallows hard.

“I wasn’t even gonna come.” You scoff lightly. “I guess it’s not too bad.”

“Are you glad you did?” Sukuna asks. He doesn’t like how soft your voice sounded then.

“Guess I’ll see how the rest of the night goes.” You say casually. 

You have already finished your cigarette; the butt discarded on the cement before he can say anything else. He flicks the butt below him and saunters in behind you. 

You’re chugging down another cup of jungle juice that the new pledges made, at Satoru’s behest. The two of you were practically swept up in his long arms as soon as you entered the house, tugged to the dance floor before any protests could be heard. 

“Oh my god, he’s so drunk.” You’re laughing to Sukuna, under the weight of one of Gojo’s heavy arms, and your salmon-haired partner has been trapped in the other. His sharp face flush against Gojo’s forearm as the latter pours something pink-coloured into his mouth. 

Sukuna almost chokes from the volume of liquid, some of it spilling out of his lips as he swallows with a grimace. It burns his throat on the way down. 

You don’t know what possesses you, but you reach over and wipe his chin with the back of your hand, leaving him awe struck. 

The birthday boy is gone, completely off his head from whatever the hell he has been sniffing from Choso, and a mix of alcohol that people have been shoving down his throat the whole night. He could just about slur your name out, pointing out that he hasn’t seen you in months. 

“Alright, alright, slow down there, cowboy.” Nanami appears, chuckling, prying a red plastic up out of Satoru’s firm grip. “You’re gonna be in hospital before they can bring the cake out.”

The white haired man only cheers, both hands shooting up in the air in celebration. Someone appears behind him, both hands lifting him up above the crowd and you can just about see that it is Toji, his arms big and thick, swollen with muscle. Satoru is still hooting and hollering. 

Sukuna’s closer to you now, his chest hot against the side of your arm. He’s looking down at you, restraint hiding behind his dark gaze. 

From across the room, something in Suguru’s chest shatters, like a stone against glass. 

The unmistakable mop of faded pink hair juts out above the heaving sea of people, and then you – you’re standing there, slowly bopping to the music like the rest of the room doesn’t exist around you and Sukuna. You aren’t touching him, but you are so close you might as well have your arms slung around the taller man’s tattooed neck. 

There is no way he should be feeling like this –  not for you, not for any girl. Girls come and go; girls today, girls tomorrow. Though he has someone tugging on his belt loops now, flush against his chest and his slender and pale hand resting on the curve of her ass, he feels his breathing grow heavier and heavier. Unable to tear his eyes away from you and Sukuna, all he can do is watch and swallow the lump in his throat.

Under the weight of Sukuna’s gaze, you start moving your body, gently swaying to the music, completely unaware of Suguru across the room staring daggers into you two. In a brief moment of drunken fuck it, we won’t remember anyway, Sukuna’s hand takes yours and he is laughing at how wobbly you are as he spins you on the spot. You could collapse with how the room seems to spin around you; colours meld together like the world is bleeding in the heat of the frat house. 

People are singing happy birthday, like a drone, over the loud music to Gojo who is crowd surfing above. 

A stupid grin makes its way onto your face, all tension now disappearing from the effects of alcohol. You can barely hear Sukuna egging you on, telling you to dance for him, but in the blur you catch his lips moving and the thought of kissing him crosses your mind once.

Sukuna’s hand doesn’t leave yours, but you never feel him much closer again that night. 

⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆. .⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆

♡₊˚ part 2 | ♡₊˚ part 3 | ₊⟡ epilogue

♡ link to my main [archived] masterlist