featuring: FRAT!Sukuna x FEM! LAW STUDENT! reader
warnings: possessive behavior, toxic relationship dynamic(on-again/off-again relationship), jealousy, miscommunication, relationship conflict, breakup/reconcilliation, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, alcohol use, college AU, cheating accusations, brief physical restraint, sexual tension, public confrontation, aftercare, happy ending. SMUT!!! fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, making out, dirty talk, praise kink, make-up sex, exs to lovers, that's about it guys.
synopsis: Breaking up with Ryomen Sukuna is easy when you have a stomach full of cheap liquor and a heart full of white-hot jealousy. Staying broken up with him is entirely impossible.
After seventy-two hours of absolute silence, you find yourself at an enemy frat house, wearing a dress that barely covers you, and staring directly into the furious eyes of the human notification system himself. He thinks you're punishing him. You think he's projecting. But in the quiet interior of his car, away from the flashing neon lights and the thumping bass, the walls you both built over the weekend completely crumble.
masterlist link: zombie'ssummerchallenge26
an: Insert that little woman Atlanta show clip here. Sorry, I fell off the face of the earth. I've been eh, but writing is a form of escape for me, so I will be pushing shit out. This summer challenge is going to be a fun time for me and hopefully all of you who will be reading it !! After this summer, I have some AU ideas for a bunch of fandoms, so keep your eyes out. I hope you all enjoy this fanfic and my hard launch of JJK works on my blog. Also, ignore how the banner has handcuffs; this fic was gonna go another way, and then I completely changed my mind after I already made the banner, and I didn't want to make a new one.
You sat on the edge of your twin dorm bed, staring down at a printed case brief you’d already read four separate times without absorbing a single syllable. The black text was beginning to blur into jagged, meaningless rows against the harsh white copy paper. The words had completely lost their semantic value somewhere around the second paragraph of your second attempt, leaving you stranded in a state of numb, black repetition.
It had been three days since Sukuna.
Three full, excruciatingly long days since you had stood in that dim, suffocating hot, too-loud off-campus house party. You could still vividly conjure the exact sensation of that night–the bass rattling through the floorboards and vibrating straight up into your teeth, the sticky smell of cheap alcohol spilled, the flashing, dizzying red LED lights that cut through the crowd. You had watched him lean down, his heavy tattooed arm braced against the wall, toward the girl he used to hook up with. He was laughing at something she said, his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that used to belong entirely to you. In that exact fraction of a second, you had felt something deep inside your chest snap so cleanly, so clinically, that you didn’t even realize you were emotionally bleeding out until much later.
Three days since you had confronted him, your voice slurred and shaking with a volatile cocktail of heavy liquor and a white-hot anger you didn’t even bother translating into anything reasonable or articulate. You remembered the venom in your own voice when you muttered, “We’re done,” before turning on your heel. Three days since he had looked back at you with an expression that haunted your retinas, a look that made it seem as if you had just reached inside his chest and set something vital on fire.
And then, nothing. Absolutely nothing.
There was no frantic apology text that night. There was no casual, dismissive voice note sent the following morning pretending he didn’t care. There was just a vacuum of silence so complete, so sudden, that it felt less like a lack of communication and more like an intentional, agonizing mockery of your grief.
To cope, you shifted slightly within the massive coordinates of his favorite black hoodie. It was entirely too big for you, the thick, heavy cotton swallow-tailing past your hips and completely consuming your hands within the ribbed cuffs. It still smelled overwhelmingly like him, a bitter undertone of clove, cigarette smoke, and something sharp and metallic. You told yourself you absolutely hated the smell. But you didn’t take it off. You couldn’t bring yourself to pull it off.
A sudden knock hit your heavy wooden door. Once. Then again, a beat later. Then came a louder, significantly more aggressive, frantic rhythm that made your highlighters rattle on your desk and cause your pen to jump right out of your numb fingers.
“Open up!” Your friend’s muffled voice cut through the silence. “I know you’re in there committing academic suicide! Open the door.”
You didn’t move an inch. “Go away,” you called back, your voice sounding scratchy and hollow even to your own ears.
The door swung open anyway. Of course it did. She had zero concept of space when she was on a mission. You can’t even count the many times she had walked in on you changing or in other…less savory positions. She stood in the frame exactly like she always did when she was preparing to aggressively ruin your night for your own personal good. She was already half-dressed for a night out–her hair perfectly curled into bouncy, immaculate waves, her lip gloss catching the hallway light, and her energy levels way too high and alive for someone who supposedly respected the looming concept of law school finals week. Behind her, the dimly lit dorm hallway buzzed faintly with the distant sound of music and other students moving toward a vibrant nightlife you had officially and permanently opted out of.
“How long have you been in this cave?” she asked, stepping inside without an invitation and tossing her small clutch purse onto your micro-fridge.
“Since Friday,” you muttered, eyes tracking back down to the unread case brief.
“I know what day it is. I’m studying.”
She walked over to your desk, crossing her arms as she stared down at the single, pristine piece of paper in front of you. “You’re staring at a paper. You haven’t even highlighted anything.” She narrowed her eyes, her gaze sweeping over the mountain of empty drinks and takeout containers by your bed. “You haven’t left this room in seventy-two hours.”
“I’ve left to get breakfast this morning from the cafe down the street.”
“It absolutely should count. It required physical exertion.”
“Oh,” she said, her tone dropping into a pitch of deep realization. A slow, knowing smile began to spread across her face. “Oh wow. Never thought I’d ever see this day. This isn’t just normal finals “I’m dying from the smell of paper” week depression. This is full-blown relationship depression.”
You didn’t answer her. You just stared hard at the margin of your textbook, which was enough of an answer to confirm her theory.
She let out a dramatic, soul-crushing groan, throwing her head back toward the popcorn ceiling. “No. Absolutely not. I am not letting you do this. Get up.”
“Get up right now. You’re coming out with me tonight.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She stepped closer to the bed, reaching out to grab your wrist to physically drag you from the mattress. The moment her fingers brushed your skin, you yanked your arm back instantly, curling into a tighter ball.
“I told you, I’m studying.”
“You’re rotting!” she yelled back, though there was a soft undercurrent of worry beneath her loud dramatics. “You are literally decomposing.”
“You’re wearing his hoodie like a Victorian wisdom in deep, lifelong mourning.”
You finally snapped, your head whipping up to look at her, your eyes blazing with a mix of exhaustion and genuine hurt. “I said I’m fine.”
The room went quiet for a second. She studied your face, taking in the dark circles under your eyes, the tight, defensive set of your jaw. Slowly, her expression shifted. The teasing, mocking edge melted away, replaced by a soft, genuine concern that made you want to cry.
“You haven’t seen him at all?” she asked quietly.
“No.” You hesitated, your fingers tightening into the heavy fabric of the sweatshirt. “...He hasn’t texted.”
Her eyebrows shot up so fast they practically vanished into her bangs. “Sukuna? The human notification system? The man who literally spams your phone with capital letters if you don’t reply within forty-five seconds? He hasn’t texted you a single time?”
The statement did something incredibly violent and unpleasant to the rhythm of your heart. You looked back down at your notes, the sting of rejection fresh all over again. “He probably moved on. It’s what he does.”
Your friend made a loud, guttural sound, like she was physically rejecting that sentence from the fabric of reality. “Girl, no. Absolutely not. That man is completely, clinically insane about you.”
“He was flirting with someone else right in front of me,” you whispered, the anger draining out, leaving only the raw ache.
“Or,” she countered gently, taking a step closer, “you interrupted a conversation you didn’t fully understand while you were completely blacked out, and you detonated your entire relationship like a grenade.”
You frowned, trying to defend your pride. “I wasn’t that drunk.”
She just deadpanned at you. She didn’t even need to speak. She had been the exact person who had to rub your back, hold your hair away from your face, and whisper comforting words to you while you puked your guts into the communal toilet all Friday night.
You quickly looked away, staring at the floorboards. A heavy silence stretched between you both, filled only by the distant, muffled bass of music three floors down. Then, she let out a slow sigh.
“Please? I don’t want to go to this thing alone.”
“You’ll survive. You know everyone on this campus.”
She walked closer again, her voice dropping into a softer, pleading register. “I’m not asking you to party. I’m not asking you to take shots or dance. Just come out. Give me ten minutes. If you hate it, if it’s miserable, I will personally walk you back to this exact spot. I swear to god.”
“I don’t want to see people,” you mumbled into the collar of the hoodie.
“You don’t have to see people. You don’t have to talk to a soul. Just…exist outside the perimeter of this room for a second.”
You hesitated, the wall of your resolve crumbling just a tiny bit at the edges. But the thought of facing the outside world–of potentially running into him–made your chest tighten. You shook your head. “I can’t.”
That was the exact moment she dropped straight to her knees. Right there on the dusty, unvacuumed dorm floor carpet. She clasped her hands together in front of her chest, looking up at you like she was praying to whatever chaotic higher power governed exhausted, heartbroken law students.
You froze, staring at her in utter disbelief. “What are you doing?”
“Get off the floor, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
“You’re actually insane.”
“You haven’t left this room in three days,” she said, looking up at you with a face full of mock despair and theatrical agony. “If you stay in here any longer, you’re going to become a legal ghost. You’ll haunt future contracts. You’ll whisper tort law at people in their sleep. I’m doing this for humanity.”
A long pause hung over the room. She didn’t move. She didn’t break eye contact. She just stayed firmly planted on her knees, dramatic as hell, entirely refusing to stand up until she got what she wanted. And finally, something in you, something tired and thoroughly annoyed, gave way.
“Fine,” you groaned, tossing your pen onto the desk.
Her face lit up instantly, a brilliant, victorious smile breaking across her lips. “Yes!” she shouted, shooting up from the floor immediately and grabbing her purse. “You are officially my favorite person alive.”
She laughed, pulling you toward the closet. “Now let’s get you out of that hoodie.”
The outfit was your absolute first mistake of the night, and honestly, you should have known better than to let her have total creative control over your wardrobe. But by the time she successfully shoved a dangerously short, dark knit dress into your hands, you were already halfway resigned to the night, too exhausted from your own internal misery to put up a proper fight. She had crossed her arms, rolling her eyes as she told you to stop dressing like a retired librarian. You held the fabric up by the straps, staring at the sheer lack of material in utter disbelief. “This is not appropriate for a Sunday night,” you said flatly, your voice deadpan.
“It’s perfect,” she shot back without a single shred of remorse, already fixing her own lip gloss in the mirror. You shook your head, gesturing to the hemline. She didn’t even look at you, simply popping her lips as she replied. “It’s fashion. And you’re hot.”
You changed into the dress in the cramped corner of the dorm room, pulling the fabric down and feeling entirely exposed without the familiar, oversized shield of his scent wrapping around you. When you finally stepped out, your friend let out an appreciative whistle that echoed off the cinderblock walls. “Oh, wow.”
She laughed, grabbing her keys. “No, you don’t. Now let’s move.”
“Where are we even going?” you asked, a sudden knot forming in your stomach.
“A party,” she replied casually.
“I know that.” You rolled your eyes, nudging her shoulder. “Who’s?”
She looped her arm with yours, comfortingly but also to make sure you don’t run off. “It’s just this guy I’ve been hooking up with. Gojo.”
“Satoru?” You tilted your head.
“The one and only,” she purred. Your brain immediately supplied a vivid image of Satoru Gojo from your constitutional law and politics seminars, always sitting in the back row, obnoxiously pretty with those bright blue eyes, and had you constantly wondering why he even took the class. You two weren’t friends exactly, just friendly. He was a pretty decent partner for projects, contrary to popular belief.
“He throws parties?” you asked.
“He doesn’t throw parties; he throws events,” she corrected, pulling you forward. “Think of it like pure, unadulterated chaos with a massive budget. Which you would know if your man didn’t hate him so much.”
“Right,” you looked away. That must be why you and he used to stay in while the dorms were empty for Gojo’s party. Enemy frat houses. The dumbest thing to ever have fights over, if anyone were to ask you. “I knew there had to be a reason he always showed up drunk to class.”
“Well, get ready for a really good time. A night without thinking of exes and maybe meeting a new fling. You deserve it, babe.”
The house was already deafeningly loud before your heels even cleared the threshold of the front porch. Neon strobe lights bled through the open, condensation-fogged windows, throwing erratic slashes of hot pink and electric blue across the front lawn that was absolutely swarming with people. It looked as though the very concept of personal space had been systematically abolished for the evening. Red plastic cups littered the grass, laughter cut through the heavy air, and you immediately, wholeheartedly regretted every single life choice that had brought you here.
“This is a mistake,” you said, your voice swallowed by the music. You tried to pull back, but your friend’s grip on your wrist was ironclad.
“It’s fine,” she yelled back over her shoulder, giving you a sharp yank that pulled you through the front door.
Inside was significantly worse. The air was a suffocating cocktail of expensive cologne, cheap vodka, humidity, and way too much collective body heat. It felt like trying to breathe underwater. Everywhere you looked, there were too many moving bodies, too much unbothered laughter, and a suffocating thickness that made you want to claw your way right back out. You stood frozen in the foyer, feeling entirely out of place in the dangerously short dress.
And then–above the roar of the crowd–a voice cut through the chaos like a siren.
Your head snapped up toward the grand, sweeping staircase. Satoru Gojo was leaning casually over the mahogany railing, looking down at the packed living room as if he personally owned gravity itself. His bright eyes crinkled with immediate amusement, and he waved at you with an obnoxious level of enthusiasm, making it seem like you were the only genuinely interesting thing to happen to him all night.
Before you could even think about dragging your roommate away to hide in the bathroom, Gojo appeared at your side. It was slightly unnerving how fast he moved, gliding through the dense crowd of students.
“This is a surprise. I didn’t know you went to parties,” he said brightly, leaning down slightly to match your height, a massive, teasing grin plastered across his incredibly symmetric face.
“I didn’t come out willingly. I was dragged out,” you muttered, gesturing vaguely to your friend.
“Same difference,” Gojo shrugged, completely dismissive of your misery. He took a deliberate step back, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe, assessing the fitted dress. “Wow. Look at you. You clean up well. I never would’ve known you were this hot.”
“I am explicitly not a part of frat culture.”
“Well, you are right now,” he declared, slinging a heavy, casual arm over your shoulders, effectively anchoring you in place. “Legally speaking, you’re officially Gojo’s VIP guest for the night.”
“I did not consent to that designation.”
He just grinned down at you, his eyes flashing with playful malice. “Too late. The paperwork is already processed.”
You glanced to your left, hoping your friend would back you up, but she had already vanished into the sea of bodies, completely swallowed by the crowd. Of course she had. Absolute traitor. Gojo noticed your sudden spike in anxiety and leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping just a fraction. “Stay. Please? I promise you’ll have a good time.”
You raised an eyebrow, looking around at the absolute circus surrounding you. You let out a long, defeated sigh, the tension in your shoulders giving way just a fraction. Against your better judgment, and mostly because you didn’t want to walk back to the dorms alone in the dark, you stayed. For the next twenty minutes, Gojo led you through the packed house like a seasoned tour guide navigating a war zone. He was surprisingly attentive, using his height to clear a path for you through the sweaty bodies. He kept up a non-stop stream of dialogue about absolutely nothing important–dishing out ridiculous campus gossip, mocking someone’s spectacular failure of a professor who had allegedly broken down and cried during office hours. And for the first time in three agonizing days, the heavy, suffocating knot in your chest loosened. You felt a genuine smile tug at the corners of your lips. You almost laughed. Almost.
“Hey,” Gojo said suddenly, his pace slowing down as you both neared the entrance of the massive kitchen. “Perfect timing. I want you to meet someone.”
“Satoru, no,” you said instantly, trying to pull back.
“Satoru, yes,” he countered, entirely ignoring your protests.
You didn’t get a choice in the matter. He gently but firmly guided you around the corner of the kitchen island, and there he was. Geto Suguru. You recognized him vaguely from seeing him around the political science building–tall, effortlessly composed, wearing a dark button-down shirt. He possessed the kind of innate calm that made the surrounding collegiate chaos feel deeply embarrassed for even existing. Geto looked at Gojo first, an amused, long-suffering smirk playing on his lips, before his dark eyes drifted down to settle on you.
“So,” Geto said, his voice a smooth, low baritone. “This is your arch-nemesis’ girlfriend?”
Gojo let out a loud, dramatic bark of laughter, leaning his elbow on Geto’s shoulder.
You pointedly ignored Gojo, turning your attention back to Geto, who was watching with a knowing look. His gaze lingered on you for a brief, analytical moment. “You’re actually Gojo’s friend? By choice?”
“Honestly, it feels like an insult to my character at this point.”
You exhaled a breath, the banter actually feeling nice, normal, and grounded. But then, the universe decided you had enjoyed yourself for long enough. Deep inside your purse, your phone buzzed. Once. Twice.
Then it began to vibrate continuously, a relentless, frantic stutter against your side. Your stomach dropped into a bottomless, icy pit. Your breath caught in your throat. You turned slightly away from Gojo and Geto, using your shoulder to shield the screen from their sight.
Are you seriously at that white-haired jack off’s party?
The noise of the kitchen suddenly felt incredibly distant, replaced by the loud, roaring rush of your own pulse in your ears. You stepped further back, retreating into a quieter, dimly lit corner near the back of the hallway where the shadows hid your face. You swiped to accept the incoming call, pressing the cold screen to your face.
“What,” you demanded, your voice sharp.
There was a beat of heavy, static-laced silence on the other end of the line. Then, his voice cut through. It was low, incredibly sharp, and laced with a terrifyingly controlled rage that wasn’t actually controlled at all.
You blinked, “Hi to you too, Sukuna.”
“Are you seriously at his place right now?” he growled, the raw edge in his tone bleeding through the speaker.
A long, agonizing pause stretched over the airwaves. You could heart distant sound of wind on his end–he was outside somewhere, pacing. Then, he let out a dark, mocking sound. “So that’s what this whole pathetic act is.”
Your brows furrowed in genuine confusion, the sheer venom in his voice throwing you off balance. “What are you even talking about?”
You heard a sharp, aggressive inhale through his nose. “You break up with me, you completely disappear into your room for three fucking days, and then you show up at his house party?”
“You think I’m stupid?” he snarled, cutting you off completely.
That hit something fiercely hot and volatile in your chest, instantly incinerating the sadness you’d been carrying. “I think you’re completely overreacting.”
“I think you’re sleeping with him.”
The world went entirely still. The air left your lungs, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe. “What?”
A bitter, humorless laugh echoed from his end. “Don’t play the innocent victim with me. Not now.”
“You are genuinely insane,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of the accusation.
“I saw you with him a week ago,” Sukuna shot back, his words dripping with a toxic mix of jealousy and possessiveness.
“You think I don’t know what Gojo does? You think I don’t know exactly what he wants?”
“Oh my God,” you snapped, your voice rising in pitch, reckless and loud enough that a couple walking down the hall glanced your way. “You’re seriously going on about that? Look, I didn’t even want to come here.”
“You didn’t want to come, but you dressed up and went anyway?”
“Because my friend begged me on her knees to leave my room.”
“And yet, you’re still there.”
Your hand tightened around the phone so hard the plastic casing creaked. “You’re not making any sense, Sukuna.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“I don’t owe you a single explanation while we are on a break!” you hissed into the receiver.
Silence. A cold, heavy, suffocating silence stretched between you. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped into a terrifyingly quiet register.
“You’re really going to do this?”
“Make me the absolute villain of this story just so you don’t have to feel guilty about what you’re doing.”
“I didn’t make you anything,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “You did that entirely to yourself when you decided that flirting with your old hookups right in front of me was a great idea.”
“I wasn’t flirting with her.”
“You were literally leaning into her space, Sukuna! Your arm was on the wall above her head!”
“I don’t care what you call it anymore.”
Another heavy pause. Then, his voice sharpened into something jagged and final: “So that’s it, then.”
“You’re getting back at me.”
Your jaw clenched. “I’m hanging up.”
You pulled the phone away from your ear and decisively hit the red end-call button, severing the connection. For a long, agonizing moment, you just stood there in the shadows of the hallway, your back pressed against the cool wall, breathing entirely too fast, trying to force the oxygen back into your lungs. The phantom echo of his voice still rang in your ears, threatening to pull you right back down into the dark. But then, you looked back out toward the blinding neon lights of the kitchen. You saw Gojo laughing at something Geto said, waiting for you to return.
The party blurred into a smudge of noise and color almost immediately after that. At some point, your friend materialized from the sea of flashing neon lights, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the heat. Before you could even vocalize a protest, she had firmly wrapped her fingers around your hand and was dragging you toward the epicenter of the house–the packed, chaotic dance floor.
You didn’t want to dance, but the moment the bass hit your chest, you moved anyway, because moving your body was infinitely easier than thinking about Sukuna. So you forced yourself to blend into the crowd, swaying to the rhythm because the alternative was entirely coming unraveled.
You were right in the middle of a breathless laugh at some completely ridiculous animated joke Gojo was shouting over the music when the air in the room suddenly shifted. Gojo’s easy, charming smile vanished in a fraction of a second, his brow furrowing as his bright eyes locked onto the front entrance. “Uh oh,” he muttered, his voice filled with amusement.
He didn’t answer you. He didn’t have to.
Because Sukuna was already there.
He was cutting through the dense, sweaty crowd like a blade, the sea of college students parting for him entirely on basic survival instinct. In the next heartbeat, Sukuna’s heavy, tattooed hand reached out and clamped firmly around your wrist. It wasn’t tight enough to cause pain or bruising, but it was unyielding, an undeniable anchor that made it entirely impossible to ignore him.
“Let go of me,” you snapped.
“Outside,” he commanded, his jaw locked tight as he began to turn.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He didn’t bother waiting for your permission or listening to your arguments. He simply pulled you forward, his grip on your wrist acting like a tether as he dragged you seamlessly through the throng of people. The crowd moved; they knew better than to interfere with Ryomen Sukuna.
“Stop it,” you hissed, a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You’re making a massive scene.”
“You already made one the second you walked through that door,” he shot back over his broad shoulder, not slowing his stride for a single second.
“That is not–that’s entirely different!”
You stumbled slightly over the threshold as he guided you through the heavy front door, the transition from the stifling heat of the party to the crisp, biting night air hitting you like a physical blow. The sudden, stark quiet of the suburban street was almost violent after the hours of deafening music. Sukuna’s sleek, dark car was parked a short distance away, down the curb, the amble glow of a streetlight catching the polished metal of the hood. He didn’t stop marching until he had dragged you all the way to the passenger side door, finally releasing your wrist.
You spun around to face him immediately, your hands trembling with a mixture of anger and adrenaline. “Are you insane? You can’t just barge in and yank me out like that.”
“Get in.” He pushed you into his passenger side seat, shutting the door before you could protest and getting in the driver's seat next to you. His chest was heaving slightly, his jaw flexing as he stared down at you, his deep crimson eyes sweeping over your exposed collarbones and the short hem of the dress. “How much did you drink tonight?”
You let out a harsh, incredulous breath. “Are you serious right now? You track me down, drag me out of a house, and your first question is a sobriety check?”
“Answer the damn question.”
“I don’t have to answer anything you say. I am not your responsibility anymore, Ryomen. We broke up, remember?”
His sharp eyes flicked over the contours of your face anyway, searching for any signs of intoxication or distress, completely ignoring your declaration.
“I said I’m fine!” you yelled, the exhaustion of the last three days finally bubbling over into raw frustration.
A tense, heavy beat of silence passed between you, the only sound being the distant thumping of the party behind you. Sukuna let out a low, sarcastic scoff, his voice dropping into a clipped, biting register. “Right. Totally stable behavior. Sitting in a dark room for three days, putting on a dress that barely covers you, and showing up to Satoru Gojo’s idiotic frat party. Very normal. Very fine.”
“How’d you even know about this?”
“I hate you.” You rolled your eyes, the words tasting like poison on your tongue. “I absolutely hate you.”
“Yeah?” His voice snapped slightly, a rare flare of genuine hurt breaking through his terrifyingly stoic facade. “That’s funny. Because you sure as hell didn’t hate me five days ago when you were wrapped up in my bed sheets, falling asleep with your head on my chest.”
“That’s not fair,” you said, your voice dropping into a much quieter, bruised tone. “You don’t get to bring that up right now.”
Sukuna exhaled a sharp, aggressive breath through his nose, running a frustrated hand through his pink hair, messing up the naturally spiked strands. “None of this a fucking fair.”
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “You genuinely think I’m sleeping with Gojo, don’t you? That’s why you came here.”
“I think you’re trying to punish me,” he stated bluntly, his eyes boring into yours.
“I think you’re projecting your own garbage behavior onto me.”
“I saw you laughing with him through the window.”
“I laugh with people, Ryomen. That’s a normal human interaction.” You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to your lap. “You were flirting with her on Friday,” you muttered, returning to the root of the pain. “You know how that looked.”
“You were. You were close enough to touch her. Your arm was right above her head.”
“I wasn’t doing anything. I don’t want anyone else.”
A long, heavy pause hung over the two of you. The tension between you stretched until it felt like a taut wire ready to snap. When Sukuna spoke again, his voice had dropped its aggressive edge, replaced by a quieter, rougher vulnerability that caught you completely off guard.
“I haven’t looked at or, fuck, even touched another girl since the day I met you. Even with our breaks.” He looked away, rubbing a hand on his jaw. “It’s just been you.”
Your defensive expression faltered entirely, your eyes widening slightly as you looked back up at him. “That’s…you don’t get credit for doing the bare minimum in a relationship.”
“I’m not asking for points,” he said, his gaze holding yours with an unwavering, intense sincerity.
“Then why are you even telling me this right now?”
Something in his harsh features softened. Just a fraction, a microscopic shift that only someone who had spent two years studying him would ever notice. “Because I am losing my goddamn mind,” he admitted, his voice raw. “And watching you walk around her like you don’t give a single shit about us is making it a hell of a lot worse.”
“I do care,” you said, the confession barely audible.
Sukuna let out a bitter, cynical scoff. “You sure as hell don’t act like it.”
“I literally broke up with you, Ryomen. That requires caring.”
“Yeah,” he said, a faint, dark smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though there was no humor in it. “For like the fifth time this semester.”
“That doesn’t make the pain less real.”
“No,” he murmured, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “But it makes it a lot less believable that you’re actually gone.”
Silence settled over you both once more, but the atmosphere felt different now. The defensive walls you had both spent three days building were slowly crumbling into the dirt.
Finally, you cleared your throat. “I’m not sleeping with Gojo. Or anyone else.”
Sukuna blinked slightly, the rigid tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction. “What?”
“I went out tonight with my friend from film.”
A beat passed. He processed the words, his chest expanding with a deep breath. “So what, you just–what–you decided to hang out with the most annoying guy on campus instead of sitting in your room thinking about me?”
“I don’t just sit around and think about you all day,” you countered, though your voice lacked any real conviction.
Sukuna slowly raised a single eyebrow, a knowing, smug expression returning to his face. You hated him. In that exact moment, you absolutely, thoroughly hated how well he knew your tells.
“...Okay,” you admitted, thoroughly irritated as you crossed your arms tighter. “Maybe I thought about you a little bit.”
That confession earned a sharp, sudden exhale from him–a sound that was almost a laugh, filled with a profound, heavy sense of relief. “What about your friend?” his tone shifted into something more casual.
“She’s the one with Gojo.”
A genuine, faint smile spread across Sukuna’s face. “Figures.”
“I shouldn’t have said it like that,” you admitted quietly, looking down at his chest. “The breakup on Friday. I was drunk, and I was mean. I knew you weren’t cheating.”
Sukuna’s expression shifted, the hard lines of his face smoothing out into something tender. “Yeah,” he said, his voice unusually soft. A long pause stretched, but it was no longer heavy. Then, he cleared his throat, uttering words you never thought you’d hear from a man as prideful as Ryomen Sukuna. “I shouldn’t have made you feel like you were secondary. I shouldn’t have made you feel like that.”
“Are we still on a break?” you asked, your heart fluttering nervously against your ribs.
His jaw flexed, his eyes dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your gaze. “It’s up to you. If we’re done. Then say it. I want you to do what’s good for you.”
That single statement landed heavier than anything else that had been said all night. It was an open door, a choice laid entirely at your feet. You lean in closer without even consciously thinking about it.
His eyes flickered down to you, dark and intensely focused. “Yeah?”
“You are officially a low point,” you whispered, a tired smile touching your lips.
A pause. Then, a barely audible rasp: “Yeah?”
You reached up, your fingers wrapping firmly into the soft cotton of his shirt collar, and pulled him closer to you. He didn’t offer a single ounce of resistance. He didn’t hesitate for even a millisecond. He simply leaned into your space like a man who had been starving and had finally been offered food. Your lips met his in a soft, deeply familiar kiss that instantly charged with the residual electricity of every single argument that had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t a rushed collision, nor was it careless. The taste of him–faint smoke and mint–was home.
When you finally pulled back just a fraction, Sukuna leaned his head down, resting his forehead heavily against yours, his breath fanning across your cheeks. His hands remained anchored at your waist, the heat of his palms burning right through the thin fabric of the dress your friend had forced you into. The warmth of his mouth was addictive, a stark reminder of everything you had been depriving yourself of for the past seventy-two hours. You tilted your chin back up, your fingers tightened in his collar, sliding upward to graze the warm skin of his neck as you leaned in, implicitly asking for another taste, wanting to sink back into the security of him.
But instead of immediately meeting you halfway like he always did, Sukuna went still.
His large hands shifted against your hips, gently but firmly flexing to keep a deliberate inch of space between your lips. He didn’t pull away completely, but he didn’t lean in either. His eyes, usually sharp, searched your face in the dim lighting that came from the glow of a streetlight. There was a rare hesitation in his features that made your chest ache.
“Hold on,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough gravel against the quiet night. He swallowed, his jaw tight as he looked down at you. “Look at me.”
You blinked, your eyes meeting his. The intense focus in his gaze was almost overwhelming.
“I’m not doing this if you’re exhausted, or if you feel like you have to just because we made up,” he said, the words coming out slow, deliberate, and fiercely serious. Sukuna was a man who took whatever he wanted without asking, but right now, with you, he was holding himself back with a terrifying amount of restraint. He needed to be certain. “I don’t want you regretting this tomorrow morning. If you’re still angry, if you need space. I can wait. Don’t just give in because we’re not fighting anymore, baby.”
He was giving you a way out, putting his own massive pride aside just to ensure you felt safe, felt certain.
You let out a soft, shaky breath, the last remnants of the wall around your heart completely collapsing. You slid your hands up from his collar, cupping the sides of his jaw, feeling the rough texture of his skin and the sharp line of his cheekbones beneath your palms. You looked directly into his eyes, leaving zero room for doubt.
“I want this, Ryo,” you whispered, your voice steady. “I want to kiss you. I want you.”
A profound, violent wave of relief cracked through his expression, his eyes darkening as the heavy restraint he’d been holding onto completely snapped. He didn’t waste another second. His hand slid from your waist up to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling deep into your hair, burying his mouth against yours with a desperate, crushing intensity that told you exactly how close he had been to losing his mind without you. The desperate hunger of the kiss didn’t break, not even when he pulled you right onto his lap. Sukuna’s hands gripped your waist tightly, effortlessly moving your body enough to grant some stimulation that made your head spin.
You let out a soft gasp into his mouth as your thighs straddled his hips, the dangerously short dress riding up as you settled securely against him. The steering wheel pressed slightly against your back, but you barely noticed it over the heat of his body. Sukuna’s hands gripped the undersides of your thighs, anchoring you firmly to him, pressing you down into his lap so hard you could feel every rigid line of his frame.
The kiss deepened instantly, turning into a messy, possessive battle for dominance that you had no intention of winning. His tongue parted your lips, tasting you completely, taking in the breathless, needy sounds you were making against his mouth. His large hand slid up the bare skin of your thigh, his touch hot and electric against your skin, before wrapping around the back of your neck to tilt your head back, gaining a deeper, more punishing angle.
His mouth was relentless, bruising your lips in a way that felt like he was demanding a total surrender that you gave him willingly. A shiver ran through your body as he pressed his rough hand to the curve of your ass, adjusting your position on his lap so you felt him fully, felt where his cock was hardening beneath you. Your breath catching in your chest from the act.
When he finally tore his mouth away, he didn’t go far. His lips dragged roughly down the sensitive skin of your jawline, his hot breaths panting heavily against your neck before he buried his face into your shoulder. His chest was heaving violently beneath you, his heart hammering like a trapped animal against his ribs as his grip on your ass tightened until it was almost bruising.
“Fuck,” he growled, his voice a ruined, low vibration against your collarbone. He moved his hands to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin as if he were trying to convince himself that you were actually here, malleable and yielding in his arms. “I missed you. So fucking much.” He captured your lips again, his tongue piercing catching in your mouth, cold metal against your hot tongue.
Your hands slipped under his shirt, grazing his toned stomach, gaining a sharp hiss from him as his grip tightened on your body. His hand removed itself from your hip, moving the front of your dress, tugging it slightly higher. His fingers dragged down, softly toying with the growing wet patch of your panties, giving you some friction but not enough to ease that growing ache in your lower stomach.
Sukuna slowly pushed your panties to the side, gliding his fingers through your folds, easing two of his fingers inside you, curling them a bit. Knowing exactly how you like it and how to take you apart. You break the kiss with a soft whine, your face falling against his neck, leaving small hickies as his fingers worked within you with skill.
“You don’t know how much I thought about this while you were mad at me.” His voice is low and velvety, vibrating against your ear.
You pressed against him, arms wrapping around his neck. You tugged at his shirt, wanting to feel more skin, more heat, more of him. His other hand traveled to your chest, knowing exactly where to touch, teasing your hardened nipple through your dress. The wet noises filling the otherwise quiet space in the car, every second of it, heightened your pleasure. His mouth traveled, lips leaving a stinging trail of hot kisses down your jaw and neck, making sure no part of your skin was left untouched, unmarked. His fingers were poking just right at that spot that had your thighs shaking, so desperate to finally cum.
He pulled back, capturing your lips again, tongue licking into your mouth, you inviting him in just as messily as he wanted. Your fingers moved from his shirt to his hair, tugging him closer to you. He moved his thumb to the side, dragging lazy, firm circles on your neglected clit.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmured against your swollen lips. “All of you.” He pulled his fingers out, causing you to whine at the loss of pleasure.
Sukuna mockingly shushed you, lifting you with one arm as he tugged his pants down, wincing when his hard cock bounced against his lower stomach. He reached down to glide his cock along your wet folds, smearing your arousal and his pre, using it as lube. The man let out a shuddered breath, his head falling back at the attention. You kissed his jaw as you slowly rocked your hips along his thick length, letting his tip rub up and down your cunt, stimulating your clit.
“Fuck,” he whispered, breaking the kiss to look down at where your bodies met; his voice strained.
Slowly, you sank down in one smooth, antagonizing motion, gasping as he filled you. His weeping tip pressed nicely against that spot in you that had you seeing stars. His eyes fell shut, his black-painted nails dug into your hips.
“You feel so fucking good, fuck, baby.”
You moved your hips slowly at first, grinding in lazy circles that had him shaking beneath you. The friction was perfect, the rhythm was desperate. The windows of the car had fogged up. He let go of the tight grip he had on your hips, wrapping his arms around your body in a crushing bear hug, meeting your movements with his own thrusts. Your moans got louder, and your thighs were twitching.
“Gonna cum f’me?” He breathed out into your ear, his voice as rough as his thrusts were hard and deep. The tip of his cock kissing your cervix in an intoxicating manner. Sukuna moved one hand and lewdly spat on the tips, taking them to your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts, smiling as he watched you writhe against him. “There we go. Look at you. Always taking me like the good girl you are.”
Any words were stubbed out right away from how good you felt. The only way you responded was with rough nails digging into his shoulders.
“Come on, make me happy.” He chased your mouth, teasing your warm tongue, mimicking fucking with his tongue. “Wanna feel you make a mess.”
Your body spasmed, back arching as you came hard, walls fluttering around his cock. The sound that left Sukuna’s throat was raw, desperate as he held your hips in place and thrusted deep a few times before he stopped; his hips stuttered as he held you down on his cock, spilling into you with a broken moan.
The car was filled with the heavy, labored sound of both of your breathing, your chests heaving together in a ragged, synchronized rhythm that gradually began to slow. You collapsed completely onto him, your energy entirely spent, your bodies warm and slightly sticky with sweat as your clothes clung to your flushed skin. Sukuna held you impossibly close, his large hands flat against your back, pressing you flush against the solidness of his chest. His arms wrapped around your body protectively, sealing out the rest of the world. The intense warmth radiating from him, combined with the steady, rapid heartbeat beneath your ear, grounded you in a way nothing else could. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, your cheeks burning hot and your hair slightly damp and sticking to your skin.
“You’re amazing,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated straight through your chest. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his lips brushing through your hair with a tenderness only shown to you.
For a few quiet minutes, he just held you, his large thumb tracing soothing, slow circles into the small of your back, letting the adrenaline completely fade from the car. The only sound was the faint hum of the car’s engine and the distant, muffled bass of the party you had completely forgotten about.
Slowly, Sukuna shifted beneath you, his hands moving down to securely grip your hips. “Come on,” he whispered against your ear, his tone gentle as he carefully lifted your weight. He eased you backward, guiding you off his cock with a wince and over the center console, lowering you carefully back on the leather seat so you could finally stretch out your aching legs. The coolness hit the warmth of your thighs, your skin erupting into goosebumps. He placed himself back into his boxers, fixing his jeans before attending to you.
Sukuna reached over and popped open the latch of the center console, rummaging through it for a moment before pulling out a handful of clean napkins he always kept stashed away. He shifted his large frame in the driver’s seat, turning fully toward you. He leaned across the console, his eyes softening as he looked at your flushed face. Without a word, he took one of your hands, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, before lowering his hand to your lap.
With a meticulous, surprisingly delicate touch, Sukuna began to tend to you. He used the napkins to gently dab at your skin, carefully cleaning up your inner thighs where sweat and the remnants of your intimacy dripped out of you. His calloused fingers brushed against your sensitive bare skin, his movements soft and not rushed to clean. It was sweet. He was thorough, making sure you were clean enough to wait until he got you to a hot shower.
He tossed the crumpled napkins into a small trash bag in the door pocket, then reached over to grab his heavy black hoodie from the back seat. He shook it out and gently draped it over your legs like a blanket, tucking the thick cotton edges around your hips to shield you from the chill.
“Better?” he asked, leaning in to gently cup your face, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone.
You nodded softly, leaning into his touch, your voice a sleepy murmur. “Yeah. Thank you.”
Sukuna gave a genuine, soft smile, tugging at the corner of his lips. He gave your cheek one last, gentle squeeze before finally turning back to the steering wheel. He slotted the key into the ignition, the engine purring to life, and shifted the car into drive. He kept one hand firmly on the steering wheel, but his other hand reached blindly across the console, his large fingers searching for yours until your hands were tightly intertwined over the leather armrest.
“Let’s go home,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand as he pulled out into the quiet street, leaving the party–and the last three days of silence–completely in the rearview mirror.
tags!!! @ilovecats13579 @egapterces @dabisburntdick @chefysawesomeideas @disidoesthings @renaaart @negativity4you @magicalfestsandwich @desperatewaitingangel @numberonemoontrash @privvqr0 @alixezae @orangehope3 @man1cslut @satsumapeels @missmultifandom09 @masyabnr @obsessed19 @creepyicee @iswearimover5feetall @guroz222 @charlisflyingangell @mangiswig @notlilly07 @thecastingovershadow @mimicechoes-b @picunsapple @urmom223444 @qualysworld @cherubvado @amelia-styles @slutforabbyanderson @wishesofficial @covenisms @vanillaparfumes @poseidon12345
