Just Imagineeee , Isagi Is A Sweetheart Outside But When In Fcking Sessions He's Super Mean UGHHHH 😫😫😫😫😫😫😫

Thinking about Reader buying those popular “pheromone perfumes” because she finds the videos to be funny and a bit overdramatic. She figures there is no harm in buying one because even if it doesn’t have these crazy effects, she’ll at least have a nice-smelling perfume. It arrives in the mail a few days later, naturally, she’s too excited to hold off and opens the package immediately. The whole time, Sanemi has no idea what’s going on. It’s not unusual for you to get excited over small things and he figures you’ll tell him about it momentarily.

You return to the living room a few minutes later, a smile on your face as you plop yourself down next to Sanemi. "What had you so excited?" he murmurs softly, typing away on his laptop as he waits for your answer. "Oh, just something I got in the mail." You comment offhandedly, leaning a bit closer to him to watch his fingers tap along the keys of his computer. That little bit of closeness is what gets him, fingers faltering a bit as your smell hits him. "You smell really good." The words come out before he can stop them, lavender eyes shooting to look at you. "I do?" your voice is alluring to him.

Instead of answering, Sanemi closes his laptop and sets it down, scooting closer to you on the couch. "Yeah... you do." his head dips lower, nose brushing along her neck as he inhales deeply. You're fighting off a smile, his hands finding your waist as he smells right where you had applied the perfume. "Fuck... what is that?" You shiver at his tone, his voice is raspy, fingers digging into your skin. "It's nothing..." You try, knowing he won't believe it. Sanemi's nose is practically nuzzling your skin as he continues to absorb the scent. "Yeah, bull shit, sweetheart." You gasp as he pushed you back against the couch, the look in his eyes is nothing short of a predator who's caught his prey. "It's a perfume I bought."

You reveal your secret a bit hesitantly, watching Sanemi shake his head. "No, that's you. That's not some perfume." He was confident with his answer, head dipping down to smell you again, a groan vibrating his chest. Your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him away just enough to kiss him. "Do you like it?" You ask as he pulls away, saliva keeping your lips connected. "I fucking love it."

Dealt to a Devil (Dante x Reader)

Needed to write a little something something for this absolute babygirl...In this your Dante's arms dealer. Pretty sure he doesn't have Ebony and Ivory(his staple guns) in the show yet so this is grounds for some fun with an arms dealer he just can't seem to pay on time! Hope ya enjoy~ (This came out to be 8K and I'm already planning a smut scene soo...yay...)

You groan as you hoist the duffle bag you’re struggling with onto your shoulder more, the hefty weight making the strap of the bag dig into you roughly. You had to park further down the street than you would’ve liked and had to hoof it the rest of the way to Dante’s current residence. 

It’s not the nicest part of town but you’re unshaken as you take confident strides down the street. You’ve done business in far worse situations and way shaddier locations than this. And even if you hadn’t you’d fake it… Nobody wants to buy a gun from someone whose shoulders shake and knees weaken at the first sign of shit going down after all. 

 Besides, Dante is a repeat client by this point. Guy goes through guns and ammo like you’d never seen before and he’s usually good for it. Usually…You’ve brought weapons to him for a restock before and he’s been short, or completely broke, and you’ve let it slide…But it’s gotten more frequent the last few months. Him feigning innocence, chirping that you’re overcharging him while giving you a knowing smirk or just plain shrugging his shoulders and waving his hand at you while he examines the pistol you’ve brought him. 

Any attempt at a complaint has fallen on deaf ears, he sloppily scribbles down an IOU on a greasy napkin and shoves it into your hand or he says that you know damn well he’s good for it and that he’ll pay you for it after the fact. 

The last time you dropped off a request for him was the most infuriating though…You’d brought over a fresh supply of his preferred bullets and handgun model only for him to be A.) Flat broke and B.) Completely shirtless when he opened the door. 

He must’ve done that on purpose or saw the opportunity when he got a peek at the bright red flash across your cheeks and how quickly your eyes darted away from him.He got two fucking guns and a months worth of ammo completely free!! His reasoning?! 

“I’d say the sight I gave you makes this a fair trade.” 

You’re not gonna lie to yourself and say you didn’t enjoy what you saw…But still! You’re trying to run a business here! Not a completely legal business but a business none the less! He’s gotta get better about paying you for his guns-your guns! His equipment-your equipment! Fuck…The sight of his shirtless body was still burned into your brain…Plus that little smirk and wink didn’t help either…

Damn him…

You let out a grumbled sigh as you readjust the bag hanging off your arm and use your free hand to grab the handle on the actual bag, trying to alleviate some pressure on your shoulder. With your hands full, you settle on kicking the bottom of Dante’s door instead of knocking, hoping your annoyance might be conveyed in your kicks. Your brows furrow as you hear shuffling from beyond the door but are kept waiting. Foot tapping angrily as the seconds turn to minutes as the noises only grow, the sounds of furniture moving and loud thuds become more rapid and rhythmic. 

“Oh this mother fucker…” Your eye twitches and you swear you can feel a vein in your forehead throb as you glare at the door. Is he really getting it on with someone right now?! You got a rapid barrage of texts and phone calls from him telling you that he needed a restock before the next morning and now he’s keeping you waiting so he can get his dick wet?! Fuck no! Not when he still owes you money from your last few drop offs and had the audacity to fucking wreck your own night! Not that you had plans but it’s the principle ya know?

That’s it! If he’s gonna be this inconsiderate then so are you!

You drop the heavy duffle with a loud thud onto the ground and roll your shoulder a little, rubbing the now sore spot with your free hand before you turn your attention back to the door. You take a slight step back and plant your foot before you lift your right leg towards your chest and slam the heel of your boot firmly into the door, close to the handle but not right on it. The wood cracks and splinters the doorframe, the deadbolt still sticking out from the door and the now broken chain lock on the inside clatters onto the floor. 

You smile proudly to yourself, first time that’s worked on the first try, but you have to hide your grimace as you put your foot back on the ground. Already you can feel a sharp twinge of pain shoot from your heel as you lean back on it so you know it’s going to be an even worse injury in the morning but you bury that for now. With your eyes closed, you pick up the duffle bag and push your way inside the domicile.

You’ve got no intention of prolonging this meeting and you’re not leaving without the money he owes you. 

“Listen asshole, you’ve got three minutes to get dressed and pay me for this shit. I’m not pl-ahck!”

With your declaration interrupted, you’re tackled to the ground and all but pinned to the ground. When you finally open your eyes you see it’s none other than the deadbeat you were just demanding money from that tackled you. Before you can chew him out or even attempt to kick him off of you, your eyes land on a pair of wild eyes, focused and fierce while his mouth flashes a wicked fanged grin down at you.  

“Perfect timing, Doll.” 

In your confusion you’re temporarily stunned as your eyes struggle to focus on the man above you while he throws his attention back towards something else…something far more sinister lurking deeper in the room. Just as you go to prop yourself up on your elbows, you're forced back onto the floor, Dante’s strong frame pressing you down as you as his hand grabs the top of your head, almost like he’s trying to protect you from something. 

“Dante, wha-FUCK!” Your eyes just barely manage to catch sight of a bright blue and black tendril slamming into the wall right next to where the door was, a small crater forming in the wall as clumps of drywall, dust, and grit fall to the floor.Two more tendrils whiz passed the two of you. One going into the opposite side of the door and the other anchoring itself into the floor. In the excitement, you’d closed your eyes to try and protect them from the plume of debris and you barely notice Dante rolling off of you. 

Throwing himself between the tendrils, Dante slides to a stop as he rummages through the duffle bag you’d brought for him. Rolling over onto your stomach, you brace yourself up by your arms before you follow Dante’s unwavering gaze as he aims a gun towards something yet seen by you. 

Eyes trailing, you squint only briefly before a large blue and black swirling mass somehow lets out an anguished roar and launches itself closer towards the now wide open door. You scramble to your feet and throw yourself towards a nearby wall as you watch in horror while Dante looks like he’s having the time of his life. Though that’s short lived.

His aim is true as far as you could tell. One knee to the ground with his other leg kicked out to the side, both arms straight out as he aims towards the creature fast approaching him. A quick huff of air blows from him before he curls his lips into a nearly snarling grin before he squeezes the triggers on the dual pistols you’d brought in your goody bag for him. 

Dumbass…

He knows you don’t keep hot weapons like that in your duffle…Fucking idiot…

His smirk drops when he hears that all too familiar *click* in unison come from the guns in his hands. Just barely managing to dodge out of the way, Dante ducks to the side only for the swirling beast to wrap a barbed appendage around his legs before it slams him into the ground. Normally you’d scold him for dry firing your merchandise but that’s very, very, very low on your totem pole of things to worry about at the moment. 

Throwing the long tail of his red coat out of the way as he swings his arm backwards, Dante pulls out a large serrated knife, throwing it blade first into the still approaching creature. Unseen claws digging into the wooden floor as it screeches to a halt,an unholy guttural shriek leaving a half formed mouth as it recoils in on itself where the blade is dug in. A slimy looking maelstrom appearing on the surface as the weapon slowly sinks into the …flesh? 

Having only a moment to grab his composure as the tendrils weaken, Dante rips his leg from the loosening hold the creature had on him and rushes back towards the duffle bag you barged in with. 

“WHY THE HELL DID YOU HAND ME AN UNLOADED GUN?!” 

His words are laced with disdain as he quickly loads his weapons, not so much as taking a second to even look in your direction as he yells. 

 The reprieve from the fight is short lived as the monster roars back to life, a metallic wail emitting from the intruder, and just as Dante turns to aim towards the beast, he hears a quick succession of gunshots…all coming from your direction. 

“I didn’t hand you shit! You grabbed two unloaded guns from my bag!” 

A flailing tendril flies through the air and trashes wildly. It finds the couch and all but launches it across the room back in Dante’s direction, the attacks seemingly random and without reason. The strong appendages struggle to regain their composure as they slam back into the ground, a newly armed Dante laying into the creature with his own new toys. The casing scattering the floor as he shoots, his boots kicking them out of the way as he closes in on the beast…though the bullets do little to stun it. 

You’ve only got one bullet left when you start to run back to your bag, it’s not far from you but you’d have to run out from behind the small cover you’ve made for yourself behind a tipped over coffee table and run behind Dante to retrieve any extra ammo. 

Throwing yourself from behind the cover, you get half way to Dante before a large tendril slams right infront of your path. Planting your feet, you stop before you hit the arm and trace your eyes to the monster before you. 

The swirling beast slinks back further, its surface still warbling from the bullets entering its body as parts of the flesh slowly split apart…a pair of eyes slowly prying themselves open. First looking in opposite directions, the pure white pupils juxtaposed to the deep crimson scleral, only to then snap into unison as it focused. New sinister eyes landing on your frame as it lets out a deep groan…

Your breath hitches and you can feel your chest tighten. While the creature doesn’t move any closer you can feel the presence growing. A second pair of eyes forming, then a third…then another. Every eye formed has its gaze fixed solely on you. 

 All the while you’re frozen in your stance. Your knees locked as your grip tightens around your gun. For the first time in your adult life your hands are shaking in fear, your heart is racing, and there’s a choking lump in the back of your throat. 

You’re a deer in headlights.

But you’ll be damned if you're anything’s prey…

Steeling your nerves, you raise your gun to aim at your ‘admirer’ but a strong arm forces down your weapon.

Your eyes snap up to Dante who is simply watching the creature, his eyes scanning before he slowly drags a hand up your arm to the back of your shirt. You struggle in his grasp for a second as you glare up at the tall man, your lips curled in a snarl as you practically bark at him. 

“Don’t fucking touch me like that! Let go, Dante!” 

“Shh-”

“Do NOT shush me right now!” 

You’re not yelling, but you are hissing up at him as he tightens the hold he has of you. You can feel his fingers curl into the fabric on the back of your shirt, holding you in place as you struggle against him, having to split your attention between the 6 whatever foot guy holding you and the slimy creature that’s slowly inching forward towards the pair of you. 

“Dante, what the hell are you doing?! That thing clearly doesn’t want to play nice!” 

“Just trust me…Don’t move…” His voice, trailing off with a seriousness you’ve never heard from him. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Dante’s right hand still clutched around one of the pistols you brought over for him, his finger resting lazily on the trigger as he sizes up your attacker.

 A bit of dirt and dust smeared across his cheek, Dante’s eyes are focused on the enemy ahead of him. His finger carefully adjusting then readjusting as he has it wrapped around the trigger, his eyes flicker quickly down to you before he winks at you…Like he doesn’t know you’re on the outside of an inside joke. 

“Want her?” 

“Wait what?!” 

Dante forces your smaller frame towards the creature, his focus trained on the first set of eyes that appeared. Eyes narrowing slightly as another part starts to split apart, this time instead of a horizontal tear, this time it's a tall vertical one that cuts the spaces between the rows of eyes. 

Slowly the flesh splits, the slime spread across the surface pulling apart with stringed bits still clinging to the opposite side before they snap apart. The grotesque display and sickeningly wet audio accompaniments send a shiver up your spine as you turn round to glare at Dante. Your eyes fierce and wide, the little bit of admiration you once held for the man quickly turning to contempt as he offers you on a silver platter to this thing.

The man still has a vice grip hold on the back of your shirt and before you can curse him you feel a cold, mucusuy wetness wrap around your left arm. Your panicked recoil only ends with Dante shoving you closer to the creature, your hair falling infront of your face as you struggle. 

“Go on, take her. She’s right there. Easy meal”

“You fucking traitor!!” 

You practically spit venom at Dante as you reel from the monster. There’s a dull pulsing coming from the tongue as it slowly wraps its way up your arm more, tugging you closer as it opens its new mouth more. Rows of sharp lined teeth just barely visible as the newly formed lips curl outward, a sickeningly sour smell hitting your nostrils and it brings a few tears to your eyes. 

Your feet dragging across the floor, you don’t want to look towards the creature’s mouth as you’re almost certain it’ll be the last thing you see before you die. Instead, you’ve rescinded yourself to taking out the piece of shit who got you into this mess in the first place. 

“DANTE!!” 

With the last bit of strength you can muster, you jerk your head back over your shoulder to look at him, your eye twitching in annoyance before you manage to rip your right arm free of the slimy hold. Your gun is gripped tightly in your hand as you raise it, your eyes glaring at Dante as your sight focuses on him. Your finger curled around the trigger and you would’ve squeezed without hesitation…if you hadn’t been met with Dante aiming his weapon directly back at you. 

Before you can finish him off, Dante flashes you a quick grin before giving you another wink. His aim shifting just a hair to the left, he fires a singular bullet into the mouth of the creature that still has its long tongue wrapped around you, the appendage having made its way clear up to your neckline right before he fires. 

Whizzing right passed you, the bullet strikes right where Dante had been aiming the entire time. Deep in the gullet of the beast was a singular weakpoint, a mound of exposed nerves that typically would never see the light of day, or in this case the light of his dimly lit living room. He wasn’t certain what he was up against until he saw the mouth form on the creature. 

That particular kind of demon is difficult to kill once it grows to that size, the only way to do so is by striking that spot directly. Best way to get a clean shot off? Feed the damn thing, gets it’s guard down and has that weak point exposed. 

Once he saw that the creature had set its eyes on you, well…who was he to pass up an easy win? Man doesn’t usually get those, so he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. And it’s not like he was going to let it actually eat you! He had everything under control…

Or so he’d claim. 

Once the bullet lodges itself deep in the nerves of the foe, another shrill yowl fills the otherwise quiet room. The tendrils strewn about Dante’s living room recoiling and colliding back into the body while the beast quivers and quakes in discomfort and pain. Flesh shaking and shivering around you, you try in vain to rip your body from the deathgrip ensnaring you to no avail. 

“Hold on, Hold on!” 

The sound of a near cackle and heavy bootsteps find their way to your ears, your left arm grabbed by Dante, the man you were aiming a gun at just a mere 30 seconds ago, is now your only life line out of this collapsing heap of slime and unholy flesh. 

 With two strong hands wrapped around your wrist, you flinch at the pure strength behind the hold he has on you. One pull is all he needs to free you from that prison, the slime and mucus from your slowly collapsing enemy still clinging to your shirt and any exposed skin it touched, but it seemed like the worst was over. 

With a shaky and hesitant first step, you pull your foot from the ever growing glob of slime on the floor, kicking your leg to try and get any left over strands of it off of you before doing the same to the other. Wincing as you plant your right leg, you hiss in discomfort as you shift your weight. In the madness of everything, you’d actually forgotten about the heel injury you sustained while kicking in the man’s door earlier. 

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in, your shoulders shaking and your chest heaving as your mind swirls. In the chaos you hadn’t had time to think or question Dante on everything that was going on, you’d simply had enough time to act and react. No thoughts. Just pure survivalist instinct…But despite your indefatigable efforts to maintain some sliver of independence, here you are still clinging to Dante’s arm as he overlooks your attacker. 

A firm hand on your shoulder gently forces you behind him as he steps forward, your hand — for some reason— instinctively reaches out towards his back, but you parish the thought of grabbing hold of him and recoil your hand. Leaning to the side to look around, you’re met with a ghastly sight to your eyes as Dante leans down and pokes the slowly dissolving carcass with his bare hand.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance and wiping his now slimed finger on an already dirted patch of fabric that was ripped off some random upholstered fixture in his home, Dante stands and rests his hand on his hip as he looks over his shoulder. His seemingly softer eyes landing back on your still very slimed—and rather unappealing in this moment—modèle.  

“You good?” 

Whatever care or worry he might’ve been trying to convey is swiftly undercut by the grin on his face and the snicker threatening to slip from his lips at any moment. Before that instance, you might’ve forgotten that the tall muscular man you’d just been rescued by was the very reason you were in that hellish scenario to begin with. The charming and mischievous glint in his eyes nearly chases away pang of rang deep within you…Nearly.

“You absolute jackass!” Ignoring the pain that radiates from your heel, you lunge forward and punch him square in the chest, your balled fist connecting with toned muscles as you seethe. 

He tanks the hit, only offering up a low grunt in response as he watches your almost pathetic display. You’ve seen him fight before now, you know very well what he’s capable of, and you know you’re only doing this because he’s letting you. 

“I can’t believe you! Of all the shitty, low-down, rotten fucking things!” WIth each line comes another rough smack to his chest. After a few more, he’s decided you’ve had your fun and grabs your wrist in his hand again, stopping your blow before it can connect. 

“Alright, alright…You’ve made your point…”

“Oh, have I now?!” Your incensed tone highlighted by your furrowed brow and your pursed lips. 

“Yeah, you have! I didn’t mean to use you as bait but it just sorta worked out that way! I just needed you to drop off some gear for the morning! I was supposed to go deal with this thing then but it sorta found its way to me instead.” In his exposition, Dante drops your hand from his hold and feigns an annoyed glare your way. 

With your arms crossed over your chest, your shoulders shake as you let out a gruff huff that intentionally puffed out your cheeks, a few stringy remnants of the slime still slicked onto your face, but you’re currently none the wiser. Favoring your right foot, you shift your weight to the front of that foot to try and take some of the pressure off your heel. 

“Atleast you admit that you used me as bait…But you’re fucking paying for all the ammo you used tonight, you ass!” 

His gaze fixed to the odd movement of your foot, your typical stance completely out the window as you shifted where you stood, though that could just be due to the whirlwind that was your entrance. 

Typically he would’ve just opened the door to you, you walk in, complain that it’s messier than the last time you were here, drop off the stuff he asked for, and then leave without making him pay the full price. But that’s not what happened here, not by a longshot. So he tries to brush your more casual body language off. 

Wait-did you say pay?! For all that?! No way! Nuh-uh. 

“Huh? Woah woah woah, slow your roll there! I didn’t even ask you to bring that stuff!”

“Oh you fucking lying cheapskate!” You grumble to yourself as you pull out your phone, ignoring the newly formed cracks in the screen as you tap your way through your messages. Holding the device up to his face, he flinches from the sheer brightness of your screen before he looks at it, a new scowl spreading across his features. 

There in plain letters is him saying that he needs a restock before daybreak the next morning, well now it’s this morning, but you get the point! Clearly, he told you to bring a restock kit over and that’s how all this started! At least, your involvement in it that is.

“Boom! Pay up! I’m sick of you stiffing me all the time, man! I do have bills to pay!”  

He pushes the phone in your hands further away, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he thinks. He was hoping you’d just accept another IOU or maybe even let him off the hook like last time…Wait…Last time! 

Rolling his shoulders back, Dante straightens his posture as he looks down at your small frame, your foot tapping in annoyance and your lips formed into a near pout as you glare at him. A soft grin slowly creeps onto his face as he leans down, just enough to remove some of the distance between the two of you. 

“About that…”

Before he can muster another word you’ve got the palm of your hand against his face and force him to look to the side. He got lucky last time! That’s not happening again. No flirting or any other nonsense is gonna keep you from the money he owes you. There’s no way in hell you’re leaving his place and going home empty handed, not after all the BS you put up with tonight. No way. 

“Can it! Look, I’m not leaving here without you paying me at least some of the money you owe me! You’ve got a damn tab, Dante! A TAB! Do you know any other weapons dealer that’s gonna let someone run up a tab!?” 

A low grumble can just barely be heard but that’s not what pulls your attention to him. Nope, it's the fact that when you tried to pull your hand away you couldn’t. A clump of that slime still clinging to your hand and keeps the contact between the two of you. 

“Oh gross!!” You roughly tug your hand back, Dante recoiling and lifting himself back to his full height. 

“Fuck! That hurt!” He all but pouts as he rubs the side of his face, the smallest red mark forming from the abrasion.

“Well it serves you right! This is all your fault! Oh god…this is so disgusting…My whole arm is covered in it!” 

You’d finally noticed the drenched state your left arm is in, the now yellowing slime coating the sleeve of your jacket. It’s so bad that you can even feel the refuse on the side of your neck, and with a cautious hand you reach up to gingerly touch the side of your face…where even more of that gunk is still clinging to your skin. 

“Took ya long enough…”

“You cocksucker! You knew and didn’t tell me?!” 

Another solid punch to his chest leaves him with a splattering of slime on his shirt, he’d managed to avoid such a tragedy up until this point but such is life…

“Oh come on! You had to get it on me?!” 

“Serves you right! Dragging me here in the middle of the night, making me bring more guns and ammo for you that you’ve no intention of paying for, and then to top it all off! You nearly get me eaten by a giant gross slime monster that, by the way, you still have yet to explain to me!” 

With each damning word he’d earned a jab to the chest by your finger, each harder than the last and your voice laced with venom as you speak. Every vowel dripping with hate and every consonant with spite. 

“Ok ok! Point made! Point made!” He has to step back because every time he poke his chest, you step forward, closing the gap between the pair of you. He’s not sure if it’s intentional or otherwise, but you’re doing it anyway and he’s not really in the mood for you to blame him for anything else tonight. 

“Enough with the jabbies, damn…” He rubs his chest softly as you back down, rolling your eyes at his antics because you know for a fact that didn’t hurt him. 

You go to say something else but you’re cut off by the sound of Dante’s stomach growling, your eyes only narrowing when he laughs as sheepishly as he can manage…

“Don’t you dare…” 

“What?! I didn’t even say anything!”

“Oh but you thought something! I am not, NOT, buying you another pizza! You can’t even pay me for the shit you owe me for! I’m not floating you for pizza too!” 

“Well, it wouldn’t really be you floating me if you ate it too, now would it?” 

“Wha-”

“Then it would just be you covering for tonight. And I would get it next time. Maybe…”

“I am not doing this, Dante. I’m not!” You slam your foot on the ground to try and force your point across but that was the worst idea you’ve had all night…yeah, even worse than coming over here in the first place…

The second you slam your foot into the hard surface of his living room floor, a quick yelp leaves your lips and you’re retracting your right foot from the ground. With all your weight balancing on your left leg, you can barely bend down enough to grab at your foot as you force off the boot you were wearing. Clearly you breaking Dante’s door in with that kick did way more of a number on you than you thought…

Hissing in pain, a few small tears prick in your eyes as you carefully rub your hand over the throbbing pain center. Your fingers just barely grazing your heel is enough to force another weak cry from you. You would’ve lost your balance and collided with the floor or that knocked over table, but before you could falter you feel an arm wrap around your waist to support you. 

If the strong arm around your back and the firm hand planted on your hip weren’t enough to turn your cheeks rosie, the way Dante has his head bent down to look towards your ankle will definitely do the trick. He’s wrapped himself around your left side, his hand grabbing onto your right hip like it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

With his head dipped down to try and get a better look, your faces aren’t that far apart anymore. You can see the bags under his blue eyes, the bits of soot and dirt speckling his otherwise pristine white hair, but the most heart throbbing of all is how his lips are just barely parted, a small cut across the corner of his mouth as he look over your wound. 

“Da-Dante?” 

You don’t even realize you're speaking, let alone saying his name in a honestly pathetic voice, until he turns to face you. You must’ve been closer than he thought —or you subconsciously leaned in more—because when he turns to you his nose brushes against yours roughly. 

The blush of your cheeks deepen and you swear you can feel the tips of your ears get hotter, he smells like gunpowder and cheap liquor but somehow that’s the most exhilarating scent combination to you. 

You both pull away as much as you can. You quickly throw your head to the opposite side and he straightens his posture out again, clearing his throat as he brushes off the unintended close contact. 

Dante silently tugs you over to where the couch currently resides and gently, or as gently as he can, drops you down. You thud against the well worn piece of furniture but make no mention of his rough-ish gesture. In his haste to grab you, he’d pressed himself against the worst side of your sill slime soaked fashion ware. 

You peak over your shoulder to look in his direction as he walks away. He’s already resided to removing his coat and his now messied shirt from his body, draping the coat over a chair while tossing the shirt off into the distance, only to be remembered on the rare occasion of Dante doing laundry. 

“You’ll probably have to stay the night. Don’t think you can drive home with your foot all mangled like that.” He isn’t looking at you when he speaks. It would concern you if you’d even noticed…

Leaning into the back of the couch, you stretch out your legs and try to point your toes. No problem with the left foot, but the second you even try with the right another sharp hiss echoes from you and hits Dante’s ears. 

“G-guess Ah-fuck…Guess so…” 

Running a gloved hand through the back of his hair, he sighs as he stares at the nonexistent front door, trying to distract himself. In the excitement, after you’d kicked it open, it had gotten smashed. The split pieces of wood scattering across the floor, his boot kicking a stray piece out of the way as he looked around. 

Seeing as how you’re the one who kicked in his door, you can’t help but feel a little responsible for his new problem...Granted! It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been called over in a hurry! But at the same time, it’s not like he knew things would get that out of hand that quickly…

“With your weight now supported on the couch, you slowly peel off the slime caked jacket and simply drop it to the floor. The residual gunk still plastered on your left leg, neck and partially on your hair. You grimace and nearly gag at the memory, still in the dark about what exactly you walked into. There’s a time and a place for that sort of talk, and while it’s definitely the place, it’s not the time…Not with a mass of slime stuck to your neck and clumping in your hair….Yuck. 

“Hey, Dante…” Your voice is low and trails off at the end, almost like you're embarrassed at having to ask what you’re about to. 

From the distance alone, Dante is pretty sure you can’t see the slight blush on his face. And he’s even more confident that it’s hidden within the shadows of his home. Sure, he’s not opposed to having you stay the night at his place, he just thought it’d be a bit different than this… Maybe have a few drinks at a bar, then you come back to his place, and you both make some bad choices together…Not this whole, you show up for a business thing then get attacked by a demon that tries to eat you and you’re hurt and that’s the reason you stay…

Yeah, he envisioned this a bit differently in his head.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Trying to play it cool, he turns back to face you. He’s met with your body leaned against the side of the couch, your right leg hovering above the ground, and your face cast to the side, like you’re too embarrassed to look him dead on. He somehow hadn’t heard you get up and when he sees your struggling form, he’s already making his way back over to you. 

“I-I just wanted to ask to use your shower…I feel straight up disgusting…” Forcing a laugh, you have to remind yourself that Dante is just a client when you feel him shift your weight. He’s so strong and charming…And he’s easy on the eyes too…With that type of smile you can just see yourself getting lost in…

FUCK!

Shaking your head roughly, you struggle to force all those mushy romantic thoughts away as you lean against him. You don’t actually hear his answer but you do find yourself heading towards where you think his bathroom is. 

Wrong. 

You move past what you were almost certain was the bathroom and instead make your way into his bedroom…

Your eyes dart from the path ahead of you back up to Dante in shock, your pupils wide and your mouth suddenly dry as you enter his room. 

“D-Dante, what are you-”

“Shower is in this bathroom. One down the hall just has a toilet.” 

He doesn’t even let you finish the question, like he knew you’d ask it and already had the answer primed. Sure, he wanted you in his bedroom. But again! These were very different circumstances! 

He sits you on the bed and walks into the bathroom. Trying to amuse and distract yourself, you run your hands over the blanket and sheets and look around the room. The bedding having just been thrown back onto the bed, Dante having not bothered to make the bed this morning…or whenever it was the last time he slept in here. Despite his rather eclectic tastes, the bedroom is surprisingly bare by comparison to the rest of the dwelling. 

He’s from reappearing from the bathroom door, Dante pauses in his tracks while looking over you. In either your boredom or your exhaustion, you’ve laid yourself down at the edge of the bed. Your legs dangle over as your back and arms are stretched out onto the bed. 

Your peace is cut short a slightly fluffy towel landing on your face, jolting up in shock, you look over and see a now, mostly, naked Dante. The only clothes he’s wearing are a pair of light green colored briefs that leave little to the imagination, his white hair still slightly wet and clinging to his forehead and the side of his face as he lazily dries it with a towel. 

You would be blushing like a mad man, but there’s just something about the fact that this man infornt of you is wearing bright green briefs like it’s the most casual thing in the world! 

“Jesus fuck, Dante!” You turn your head to the side and choke out a laugh, the towel in your hands being brought up to your mouth to try and stifle any laughter that dare slip from you. 

With the towel draped over his shoulders, Dante smirks over at you as you laugh. He doesn’t care that it’s directed at him. Usually? Yeah, he might care. But not now. Not this time. Tonight was the first time he’d seen you shaken. 

The first time he’s seen you scared. 

The first time he had to be worried about you. 

So it’s nice to see you slip back into your typical you. 

The you that will yell at him over not paying for the bullets and guns you give him, the you that’ll chew him out over his unpaid bills or the piling up chores. Hell, he’s been bitched out by you over him sleeping off a hangover too long.

 Granted, when you came over it was three in the afternoon and you were supposed to be meeting him to hand over some weapons…but still. The theme of the tongue lashing was his drinking and hangover, not the blatant disregard for your time. 

All in all, he was happy to see the inklings of your true self coming back into view. 

Meanwhile, your ass is laughing so hard you start seeing stars. There’s just something about this fairly jacked, muscular dude you know, where bright green briefs while coming out of the shower. It’s just something so ridiculous that if you weren’t seeing it with your own eyes, you’d never believe it. You were expecting black or red, hell, maybe even a dark blue! Not bright green! 

Slowly turning your head to look at him, you try to get your giggles under control as he watches you with a cocked eyebrow, weight just shifted enough so that it looks like he’s trying to pose. 

“What? Like what ya see?” 

Another choked laugh leaves you while you wave your hand in front of your face, trying to shoo him away or at the very least get him to change positions. 

“I-tech-I just didn’t think you’d be wearing, like, a bright green while we were fighting that thing.”

“Well I wasn’t. Jokes on you cause I went commando during that fight!”

Another cackle leaves you while you look to with wide eyes, an expression of pure disbelief splayed across your face. 

“You did fucking not…”

“Yeee-up!” Sauntering across the bedroom, Dante has his eyes closed as he holds the towel ends over his shoulders, making sure to swing his hips just a little, tiny but more, than he would when he normally walks. Trying to see if he can pull any incriminating or guilty noises from you as he passes by. 

“You are unbelievable…” You shake your head, only just now connecting the dots. “Wait a second! Did you take a shower?!” You snap your head in his direction, your eyes landing on his back…Gaze trailing up as he’s rifling through his closet for something to wear. 

A low hmm in response is all you get though the sculpted muscles of Dante’s back is enough to keep your attention but once you realize how wrong it would be if the roles were reversed, you turn your head away before you start talking. 

“What a gentleman…Really, ya know it’s polite to let the lady go first?” You scoff and shake your head playfully, a few loose strands of hair falling in front of your face. Your hand reaches up to push it back into place only for your hand to brush against another. A strong, slightly damp, warm to the touch hand that makes you jump as you look back to your right. 

You hadn’t heard him cross the room, the sudden closeness intoxicating and the palpable tension only growing by the second. 

Dante’s bold frame leaning against the edge of his bed, his outstretched arm reaching towards you as he tucks those loose strands of hair back behind your ear. A finger just barely grazing your cheek, staying perfectly still so he can continue as you watch him wide eyed. Your breath hitching for the second time tonight, you swallow a lump in the back of your throat as you watch him carefully. 

“Dante?” 

His eyes flicker before they refocus on you, it’s like he’d been acting on pure instinct or desire the whole time. Like he’d been in a daze until the moment you broke him from that trance. Pulling his hand back, he clicks his tongue before looking away from you. He shoves two things into your hands before he fully stands back up. 

“What’re these…?” Your gaze jumps between his partially retreating form and the fabric folded, well balled, into your hands. The first is a grey tee shirt that while looks like it’d be huge on you, seems like it would fit him snuggly and the second is a part of shorts, ones you know you’ll have to pull the drawstring on but otherwise might not be too oversized on you. 

“You’d need something…for after your shower.” 

“Oh, thank-thank you, Dante. That’s sweet of you.” 

“Well it…it is sort of the least I could do. Seeing as how I did kinda offer you up as bait for that demon.” His voice nonchalant as he speaks, like he’s hoping that if he doesn’t make a big deal out of it that you won’t either at least not right off the bat. 

“De-Demon huh? That…That’s new…” Shuddering as you speak, your fingers dig into the borrowed clothing as you replay the more sinister moments of your night over in your head. 

“Hey, don’t do that.” An callous tone rips you from what’s sure to be a core memory for years. Thinking he was talking about the grip you had on his clothes, you instantly unclench your fists and drop the clothes into your lap as you look up to meet Dante’s eyes. 

“Not the fucking clothes…That…shit.” Nodding his head towards the living room, back towards where the still decaying remains of the demon lay, softly smoldering into the floor as the two of you share this moment.  

Hardly a second passes before you feel one of Dante’s hands press onto yours as he looks down at you. His body bends down just enough to gaze into your eyes before he speaks. 

“Don’t let that shit get to you like that, alright? Just…just don’t, ok?” 

“Yeah. I won’t, D…I won’t.” 

He says nothing but nods his head in a small silent display. He reaches out to you, offering his arm to help you balance as you stand before he assists you to the bathroom. His upper body still bare, you press yourself into him as you walk with your right arm gingerly wrapped around his arm. 

“So…what’re you gonna do about the door?” 

“The hall closet one might fit, just as a shitty place holder till I get a proper one.” Shrugging his shoulders as he walks you, he doesn’t miss the chance to steal a glance down at you. 

It’s not far to the bathroom, stopping just before the threshold of the door,  Dante holds his arm out further to give you a last little bit of support before he leaves you. You limp into the bathroom and before he turns around you reach out, the tips of your fingers just barely brushing against his arm is enough for him to look back over his shoulder. 

The softest smile you can manage etched onto your face as Dante fully turns to look at you again. Standing on your tiptoes, you lean up and press a small kiss to his cheek before you carefully drop back down. 

Taking a hesitant step back, you give another muted smile up at him before you lean against the door as your body sways slightly with it. 

“What was that-”

“You’re sweet Dante, in your own way. When you wanna be…” 

“I’m guessing that doesn’t include when I’m using you as bait, huh?” A teasing gibe as he smirks to you, the corner of his mouth ticking upward with a fang just barely visible beyond his lips. 

A dissatisfied murmur leaves your throat as you close your eyes, your head tilted with pursed lips as you remember the whole ‘hey, eat this chick I know’ bit he pulled earlier, which truth be told, you’re not too keen to let slide that easily. 

“Yeah, that? Not your best moment. Not by a long shot, man.”

“Can’t we be even? Ya know, for the whole you kicking my door down?” 

“Ohhh. I get it. We’re keeping score now are we?” You nod your head up and down like you’re considering his point but you swiftly counter. “You know, you still technically owe me for the whole bank rolling your arsenal for the last like 3 months…” 

“Can’t we call it even for me saving your life? Call it a hero’s gratitude? A bonus if you will? Free guns and bullets if I’m using them to save a pretty girl?”

You shake your head and scoff, your eyes briefly cast down as you bite your bottom lip.

“You are unbelievable, Dante…”

Fearing he soured the mood, Dante ducks his head in a quick, almost apologetic motion, before he turns tail. He doesn’t even get two full strides away from you before you promptly abate his concerns. 

“Hey Dante” The bubbly tone and that mischievous, borderline flirtatious, uptick in your voice as you say his name makes his heart skip a beat. 

Almost too excitedly, Dante throws his head over his shoulder to look at you. His eyes darting up and down over you before landing on your face and he doesn’t miss the quick scan you give his body either. 

“My wallet’s in the duffle, second pouch to the left. Combination for the lock is 4113. Go ahead and order that pizza. We’ll want the energy for later…”

Emboldened by your words, Dante’s eyes light up and a glint of excitement shines in them. Licking his bottom lip expectantly, Dante nods in your direction before he halfway turns back to face you. 

“So, does this mean I get to…” Dante trails off but his eyes dart behind you towards his bathroom, like he’s asking for permission to join in. You quickly cut him off, your hand being held up as you force a glare at the white haired man. 

“Ah ah. Not chance in hell, Dante. Not in the shower, anyway…I wanna get clean before we-”

“Get dirty again?” 

It’s his turn to cut you off, his sharp gaze looking down at you from above as his arm rests against the door frame. His fingers curled around the upper casing, the tips of his fingers roughly rubbing against the wall as he leans forward. 

He slowly goes in for a kiss, his body bending down towards you only for his lips to be met with your finger gently pressing against them instead. 

“That depends….”

“Depends on what exactly?” 

“On how you behave.”

A soft chuckle leaves his lips as he watches you carefully before he nods, pushing himself off the door and its frame, Dante turns his back to you once again to finally give some privacy. 

“I’ll behave then…for now.” And with that, he steps away from the door and makes his way to his closet in search of clothes for himself this time. 

You curse yourself for the low giggle that escapes but you can’t really help it. Not with those playful eyes and that damn charismatic smile he always has manages to perfectly play you with…

Once the door is closed and there's a minimal degree of separation between the two of you, you lean with your back against the door and let out a shuttered yet enthused sigh. 

“Fuck, he is so hot…” 

The second he hears the door click shut, Dante looks over his shoulder to ensure that he’s properly alone with his thoughts. 

“Tonight might not be such a waste afterall…” 

Title: Worth It

Pairing: Itadori Yuuji x Reader

Summary: You meet your old friend, Itadori Yuuji, on a rainy day, and your life becomes more bizarre than you could imagine | Genre: Angst + Fluff with a hopeful ending| Warning: Angst + Horror Elements, swearing, nothing too graphic though| Words: 6.4K

You made your way through the heavy rain, holding tightly onto your umbrella. You were glad you didn’t forget it at home today. The terrible weather was forecast, so it didn’t come as a surprise. Due to the rain, there were fewer people on the street, and even those who were around were in a rush.

You were on your way from your part-time job. Usually, you didn’t get off work too late, but the weather and approaching winter made the world around you look gloomier and greyish. You didn’t mind all that much. It felt almost nostalgic. You used this tour every day from your middle school, too, and you knew the houses and most of the neighbors by heart now.

You would have enjoyed your time in the rain in solitude if you didn’t feel the water entering your footwear and soaking the fabric of your socks. The last thing you enjoyed was wet socks and feet.

Your pace picked up.

Close to your home, you noticed someone standing ahead. You sent them a bit of sympathy for being out in this horrible weather without an umbrella before you started to think about what they were doing and how odd it was that they were there in the first place.

You frowned a bit and glanced at the house they seemed to be turned to, No one had lived there in a while. What could they be looking at?

Only for a moment your eyes briefly turned to the side just as you were about to pass the standing person when you caught something pink.

‘Y-Yuuji -kun!’ you called out before you could think or even verify if what you saw was true.

The tall person raised their head making the pink hair stick even more profoundly from below the red hoodie before turning it to glance at you.

You went to smile brightly, still surprised, you got to see your old neighbor and friend, Itadori Yuuji, before you saw the look on his face and your lips froze mid-smile.

It was the briefest of moments, a second really, but you thought you saw a cold, empty look covering the face of the happiest boy you used to know, almost making you think you were mistaken, and this wasn’t who you thought he was at all.

Impossible that the sunshine-happy Yuuji looked like that, you thought to yourself.

However, whatever darkness had taken over him passed a second later when all of a sudden he offered you a wide surprised smile and raised his hand in greeting while calling out, ‘Y/N-chan, no way!’

You allowed your lips to finish the smile you were planning from before although it must have come off as a bit less enthusiastic because of what happened a moment ago.

Still, you made your way to Yuuji quickly pushing your umbrella above his head, ‘Jeez, only you would think it’s a good idea to walk around in a weather like this, Yuuji-kun.’

The pink-haired boy with an undercut grinned and brushed the back of his head, ‘Yeah, I know it’s careless, but it’s easy to forget when you don’t get sick often.’

‘Lucky,’ you said and showed the boy your tongue. You recalled it was a common occurrence that while you were easy to get cold every year during the flu season, your friend would walk around almost like he was invincible to modern viruses and illness.

Yuuji laughed, ‘It’s good to see you. How have you been?’

You offered him a smile and nodded toward the direction of your house not that far from his childhood one. It has been a while since he lived here, ‘Do you have some time to spare? We can chat a bit away from the rain.’

After his grandfather passed, he abruptly got offered a spot in some private Tokyo high school. You only briefly got to say goodbye as he showed up by your window in the middle of the night breathless and clearly distressed.

Your window opened so abruptly that night that you would have screamed if you had the time to do so.

All you managed to do was to turn around, ‘Yuuji-kun! Where have you been?!’ you demanded stressed that you didn’t know where your friend was even more so when you learned of his only relative, his grandfather’s, passing, and the still unexplained occurrences that happened in school. Your part-time job kept you from coming to the Occult Research Club’s last meeting, so you were in complete dark over what happened, but the state of the school building and several days off were enough to leave everyone to speculate and gossip about something really shitty and spooky happening. It didn’t help that no one could get a hold of Sasaki and Iguchi either. 

You rushed toward your window where Yuuji was kneeling with one knee on the window frame. Part of his body in your room another part out.

He looked shaken but strangely wired making you assume he was in a fight. Yuuji got into those sometimes. He wasn’t searching for trouble or anything. You liked that most of the time he was a pretty friendly guy who got along with everyone, but for some reason, people caught wind of him being strong and every now and then showed up to try him out.

You would call him out for fighting later. Right now, you merely touched his shoulder to gain his attention, ‘Mom heard about what happened to Itadori-san. We’re really sorry for your loss. Do you need something? Anything?’

Yuuji kept looking around your room like he was searching for something before you purposely stood in front of him so you would appear in his life of vision, ‘Yuuji-kun?’

He blinked as if he finally saw you.

‘Y/N-chan…I’m leaving,’ he cut off your attempts at comforting him leaving you to openly stare at him confused, ‘W-what do you mean?’

‘I’m going to Tokyo…,’ he said and sounded like he couldn’t believe it either, ‘to study. I’ve got accepted into this private school.’

You remained looking at the boy before you shook your head. You understood his words and yet they made no sense whatsoever, ‘What do you mean, Yuuji-kun?’

He grimaced and then offered you a goofy smile, ‘It’s just something that I have to do…I just wanted to say goodbye before I go. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea,’ he said and for a second you thought you saw a scar across his face start to open before his hand slapped across it startling you with his odd behavior making you wonder what exactly he had gotten himself into.

‘Anyway,’ he frowned in the direction of his scar before glancing back at you looking like he wanted to say more before he settled for an honest Yuuji grin, ‘Take care, okay?’

Before you could answer he reached out toward you making you wonder if he would touch your face or pull you in for a hug. Instead, he awkwardly petted your head like you were his pet dog and jumped out of your window leaving you with more questions than answers.

To say you were angry was an understatement. Even more so when you learned of Sasaki and Iguchi being in the hospital and shy about revealing anything that happened to them. They didn’t seem interested in visiting the club anymore and your part-time job kept you busy, so you didn’t really spend much time with them afterwards. You were always mostly around because of Yuuji anyway and with him gone the club lost its appeal.

You missed him, dearly. He was easy to be friends with. He was even easier to fall for which was something that stung the most when he left so suddenly. You never got a chance to confess. Not that you would, but his leaving really shattered that idea and forced you to push your feelings away.

But that was months ago, now, now, you were just happy that you saw your friend again, and he was alright. You swallowed your pride and wrote to him on social media a few times, but he only answered once making it seem like he was really busy.

When you noticed the pink-haired boy didn’t react to your offer, only gained a somewhat blank expression, you felt the familiar stab of worry. One which you often nursed in your heart knowing the boy’s grandfather was ill and likely not to make it once he got admitted into the hospital.

‘Yuuji-kun?’ you asked and reached for his arm causing him to flinch, ‘Ah, I don’t have that much time before my train to Tokyo actually. Maybe another time?’

You weren’t quick enough to hide your disappointment causing the boy to panic, ‘It’s just late, and I wouldn’t have a place to stay, you know?’

‘It’s fine,’ you said knowing you couldn’t even muster the ability to pretend it was, ‘Walk me home? I can lend you my umbrella afterward.’

You could tell he was about to protest, probably unsure how he would even give it back to you, but ultimately something in his face got him to nod and smile, ‘That would be great. Thank you.’

You walked together shoulder to shoulder toward your house. It was only a few houses away to fill the silence you answered Yuuji’s previous question about how you were doing what was new in your life and what plans you had for the future. It was odd. You used to know Yuuji inside and out just a couple of months ago, and yet now it felt like he was any other classmate, almost a stranger. He was less than talkative about his own life and rather asked you additional questions or reversed to his favorite topic of movies.

‘Hey, do you still have that Jennifer Lawrence poster I found you?’ you asked on the final step toward your home causing the boy to blink before he grinned looking happy, but still not as you were used to him being. It stung, but you weren’t sure it was your place to say so out loud.

‘Like I would ever get rid of that beauty,’ he said making you laugh grateful that it felt like old times.

You handed him your umbrella and with a fake serious look warned him, ‘You better not lose or break it.’

He offered you a salute to prolong the joke, ‘Understood, ma’am.’

You kept on smiling although some of the joy faded when you finally sighed and said, ‘Take care, Yuuji-kun. If you’re ever around-’

‘Of course, I’ll have to get this umbrella back to you, right?’

You nodded, and he started to walk before calling out, ‘Say ‘hello’ to your family from me.’

You waved at him, ‘Will do,’ before you watched him leave your front porch and street. You were disappointed, but it wasn’t like you could do anything to really change his mind if he wanted to leave.

You still would prefer it if he stayed to chat longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The umbrella showed up in your room a week later making you pull out your phone and quickly write to Yuuji. He has since managed to write to you twice. He used to bombard you with messages not understanding the concept of at work he went unread for two weeks.

You assumed Yuuji wouldn’t respond to this message either, but to your shock, he started to call you almost immediately.

Hesitant, you answered wondering if you shouldn’t have so you wouldn’t seem too eager. You were still upset he was ghosting you, but a bit pathetically you craved his friendship. You were always a bit like that. It was just hard to let people go even if they seemed to have no problem doing the same to you. You just wouldn’t think Yuuji would be one of them too one day.

‘Hi, Yuuji-kun.’

‘Y/N-chan. When did the umbrella appear?’ he practically shouted into the phone.

Appear? You thought to yourself, What an odd thing to say.

You glanced at it sitting by your desk in your room. To be honest, you didn’t notice it when you entered only when you were about to change clothing. A rush of cold caused you to shiver and glanced in its direction and there it was. It was strange that the cold felt coming from your desk and not the door or window.

‘Y/N?!’ you heard Yuuji shout at the other end of the line and remembered his question.

‘Today. Didn’t you stop by while I was at work?’

Given, how little he seemed interested in staying in contact with you, you wouldn’t put it pass him that he just dropped the umbrella off and left. You were almost certain it wasn’t there this morning when you left for school.

Your eyes roamed over it. It was your umbrella. It looked like it. The color was the same and the handle was a bit damaged from being used so often and put on the ground to dry out.

Yet it felt different.

Suddenly, like a 6th sense, you felt the strange urge not to go anywhere near your umbrella or desk for that reason. It was a bit spooky, but you really did not want to touch or even get closer to that part of your room.

Even more so your feet started to take you back toward the door, and your heartbeat picked up rapidly. Strangely, it started to feel like the floor in your room was crocked and everything was falling toward the direction of your desk, and the umbrella. More than that, it felt like your room grew colder and gloomier despite the light that was turned on.

I think I want to leave, crossed your mind as well as hundreds of horror movies you used to watch with Yuuji clinging to his arm and covering your eyes anticipating another jump-scare.

It was only then you realized the Yuuji went dead silent on his end making you question if he was even there, ‘Yuuji-kun?’

His voice came back sounding serious yet panicked at the same time, ‘Wait where you are! Don’t touch the umbrella!’

‘O-okay,’ you said even if a part of you wanted to be mouthy simply because he ghosted you again and then had the nerve to act like he could order you around. Still, you weren’t an idiot and the fact that he sounded this panicked made you think there was probably, (definitely because of how you yourself felt) something wrong with your umbrella.

It was bizarre, but you would have sworn it was as if the item was looking at you. What was worse with each second you felt like there were something like tentacles coming toward you from each direction even when you couldn’t really see them or anything else for that matter.

It’s just in my head, right? Yuuji’s acting weird so I’m making things weird in my head, you tried to convince yourself but given how shaken you felt you were failing miserably.

Your heartbeat was all-time fast and blood pressure high, yet your feet felt hard as rocks and unmovable.

What’s going on? You panicked because it felt like your body became motionless and there was nothing you could do. Nowhere you could move and whatever was reaching for you was close enough to touch you now.

‘Good evening!’ you suddenly heard from your home’s hallway making you jump in shock because you didn’t know that voice, how did that person get inside, why did he sound so cheerful?!

‘Y/N!’ you heard Yuuji’s voice before he rushed into your room coming between you and your desk like a wall of protection from whatever was going on.

All of a sudden the shadowy invisible tentacles disappeared and took most of the scary vibe and whatever fear was keeping you motionless and silent with them.

You blinked at Yuuji’s back taking in his black school uniform red hoodie and pink hair. He seemed taller. More commanding and dangerous now. You sometimes caught him looking like that when he was protecting others, but growing up with him it was easy to forget that and still see him as your friend, Yuuji, whose clothes were always dirty from climbing trees and exploring abandoned buildings.

 He must have grown a bit more.

‘Are you alright?’ you heard him ask and partly glance back at you.

You nodded, and admitted, ‘Yeah, just…spoked?’ You weren’t certain how else to explain what had just happened.

‘No reason to be now,’ said someone behind you causing you to jump a bit and turn around.

A tall white-haired man with a black blindfold raised his palm in greeting, ‘Yo! You must be Y/L/N. I heard a lot about you,’ he then leaned closer to you putting a hand beside his mouth like he was going to tell you a secret and whispered, ‘This one talks about you all the time.’

‘Gojo-sensei! Don’t embarrass me!’ groaned Yuuji behind you as the man showed you the direction outside your room, ‘Do you mind waiting in the hallway for a moment? It will be faster if you’re not around.’

‘Uh, okay,’ you said because what else could you have said when you had no idea what was going on?

You stepped outside and the man waved at you before closing the door to your room. You thought you heard him say something like, ‘She’s cute and polite. Lucky you.’

But that might have been just your imagination. You finally put the phone away from your ear and waited until suddenly every last bit of that spooky negative feeling was gone like it wasn’t there in the first place.

The door opened and the white-haired man exited, ‘I’ll leave you guys to catch up, yeah? I still have some business to attend to.’

‘Ah, okay, thanks,’ called Yuuji at the man while he smiled at you, ‘It was nice meeting you. Stay safe, okay?’

‘Thank you. You too,’ you said as hesitantly as possible because of everything that happened. You must have been still too distracted because you didn’t think you heard the man leave or even open your front door.

You looked at Yuuji who seemed like he wanted to say too many things at once and not really say anything at all.

‘Are you alright?’ you asked hoping to ease his internal struggle.

He blinked at you surprised before he laughed a bit, ‘Yeah, I’m fine. It wasn’t…a big deal.’

You frowned and glanced behind his shoulder in the direction of your desk.

The space where you saw your umbrella just a moment ago was empty now.

‘No umbrella?’ you asked and then glanced at Yuuji who brushed the back of his neck. ‘I’ll get you a new one. Uh, would you like to sit down? I’ll explain what happened, okay?’

‘Are you only telling me to sit down because they do in the movies?’ you asked, and he grinned at you in a way he used to when you were still close friends.

You humored him and sat down on your bed while he took your floor and chaotically tried to explain everything that happened the night you missed the club’s meeting to the past months when he was away. It was hard to follow at times and more than a little unbelievable.

Once the boy was done, he brushed his hair nervously looking at your floor before he glanced back at you, ‘You don’t believe me, right?’

You remained sitting on your bed watching him and trying to piece together things like vessels and eating curse fingers while attending a secret sorcerer’s school.

‘Sounds more like a really good movie plot,’ you admitted after a while.

Yuuji dropped his head back to the ground and mumbled, ‘I know, I know, but I swear it’s true.’

You glanced at your desk thinking about what just happened with your umbrella, ‘Okay, I guess…I guess I can believe you.’

Your pink-haired friend raised his head looking beyond happy that you did before his face fell when you asked, ‘Uh, what happened today?’

He frowned, more angry than just upset, ‘I had your umbrella when I went to deal with this minor curse. But there turned out to be a second one, and it a hold of it. I’m really sorry, Y/N-chan. I swear I would never bring it with me if I knew there was a chance of you getting hurt.’

You nodded quickly, ‘I believe that. Maybe don’t borrow my stuff in the meantime though. It was really scary.’

Yuuji grinned, ‘Deal. But to be fair you were always a bit of a scary cat.’

You gave him a look but internally felt glad you two could joke like this. It felt like old times, and you really really needed those. Especially, after today. Besides, how could you ever hold anything against him when he was this lovable? You were truly in trouble when it came to this boy.

The two of you talked for hours, and you could tell Yuuji was thrilled to have someone he could unleash everything he had been through. A lot of the stuff he said sounded scary, nightmarish even, but having Yuuji around made it seem almost like an adventure.

Almost

‘You’re not really gonna die after you find all of those cursed fingers or whatever. You’re going to figure something out, right?’ you asked at one point and Yuuji paused looking at you for the longest time which made you anxious and forced you to grab a hold of his hand. It was warm and nice, making you wish you never had to let it go, ‘Promise?’

His brown eyes didn’t leave yours as their shade changed with new confidence, and he nodded, ‘Promise.’

You weren’t naïve enough to think it would be enough if it came down to it, but you weren’t pessimistic enough not to believe Yuuji wouldn’t try his best.

His teacher called him shortly afterwards forcing him to leave, but this time he promised to be better at texting you back and apologized.

‘I just…I didn’t really want you to get involved and hurt, you know? I hated it, but I really felt like I needed to keep you away from this stuff,’ he admitted looking shyly away, ‘You’re the only person I have left from my old life. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,’ he paused in your hallway looking at you incredibly seriously with a mixture of something else that got your heart to speed up for a completely different reason than fear of some unknown darkness, ‘I won’t let it.’

You snatched a hold of his ear and pulled it causing him to let out a pained sound, ‘Y/N~! Hurts!’

‘Good,’ you said and let go, ‘Next time don’t make stupid decisions about me behind my back. It really sucked not being friends.’

‘We were friends!’ he tried to argue, but then he must have thought about it and nodded, ‘Yeah, it did.’

Finally, he stepped outside your home and wished your family well again before once again promising to text when he could.

You still felt sad about his departure, but not as disappointed as you did before. Also, it wasn’t like you couldn’t focus on other things when you had a full head of new information about the supernatural world around you. You spent the better part of the night googling everything you could find. You did so with Yuuji the day you decided to join the Occult Research Club, but it felt a million times different to do so now when you knew some of those things were legit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Yuuji remained true to his words and texted you far more often than before. Sometimes he revealed bits of his schoolwork. Other times, he merely spoke about movies and life in Tokyo. You got to know his classmates a bit from his words and some pictures he sent you.

You wondered if you could maybe come visit him trying to decide if that would be something reckless or dangerous or not.

The only downside of you rekindling your friendship was that the feelings that you all so desperately tried to get rid of while he was gone came back in full force. Of course, how could they not? Cursed or not, Yuuji was still the same lovable boy you grew up with and adored. He was easy to love.

It was a whole month before you got to see the pink-haired boy again though. This time he looked even more down than before while standing outside your home waiting for you without any announcement that he would show up surprising you a bit with his presence.

You felt excited, but only until you caught the empty look on his face that you realized something was up.

The weather was gloomy again, but it wasn’t raining just yet, so you still had time to get home. You had a new umbrella. It came in the mail a week after you and Yuuji reconnected your friendship.

‘Hey,’ you called out and touched his shoulder gently not to startle him. It seemed he didn’t even notice you were there in the first place. He seemed properly down and his clothes messy. He definitely got into some sort of fight, ‘Come on in, okay? I’ll make tea and something to eat.’

‘Y/N…thanks,’ he whispered and let you lead him into your home.

He patiently waited by your kitchen table while you worked something out in complete silence. You weren’t sure if he wanted to talk about what happened or even how to ask him. You always found it hard to start hard topics. Yuuji was much better at conversations. He was your extrovert friend after all.

When you saw him cover his face with his palms you simply rushed over and pulled him into a tight embrace. There wasn’t anything else you could really do after all or at least you tried to convince yourself. If he wasn’t in the mood to talk, you could get him to eat and hold him. Maybe it would be enough.

He let you hold him and even held you back. It felt nice. Not like old times, but still nice and reassuring that things would be alright. You were surprised how much you needed him to hold you back too. You didn’t think you were in as bad of a shape as he was. He was fighting curses and other sorcerous. You were mostly just living your every mundane life, and your troubles seemed so small in comparison to all of that.

‘Thanks, Y/N,’ you heard him whisper and nod against your chest while your chin rested on top of his head, ‘You don’t have to thank me for that silly.’

Afterward, Yuuji told you bits and pieces while eating about how messed up his last case was. It honestly wasn’t the type of stuff you wanted to hear while eating, but you didn’t have the heart to stop him. Sorcery and curses were definitely a disgusting business.

Once you finished, you went to your room and turned on a movie on your laptop. It felt easier to fill the silence than talk at the moment. Besides you both always loved to watch movies in your room, so it seemed fitting.

You took spots beside each other on your floor like old times. And as much as you were guilty about it, you felt happy to have Yuuji there.

When you noticed him closing his eyes and yawning, you paused it and said, ‘If you’re tired, we can watch it some other time or by ourselves and just talk about it later?’

‘It’s fine, I’ve already seen it,’ he confessed and brushed his face making you blink confused, ‘So why-?’

‘I just wanted to stay near you for a bit,’ he admitted and offered you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, ‘Missed ya.’

You smiled softly at him, ‘I missed you too. I wanted to do that too.’

You unpaused the movie and when Yuuji’s head fell to your shoulder you let it feeling a sense of warmth enter your body.

How many times has this happened before he left? How many times would it have happened before you would be brave enough to tell him how you feel or suggest you could be more than friends? Maybe you wouldn’t have said a damn thing and kept your feelings to yourself. But his leaving and the life he was living now shifted your world and brought a stop to any possibility of a confession.

When his body grew even heavier you rearranged it and let him rest on your tights while brushing his hair like you did when he came to tell you his grandpa was admitted to the hospital. You felt useless back then too, unable to help him in any other way than to be kind to him and comfort him by holding him.

Your eyes long since abandoned the movie and kept looking at his sleeping face. He seemed at peace now making you wonder how long it has been since he managed to rest properly. Sometimes his texts revealed hints of hardship he tried to hide from you just as you did the same from him. Your struggles seemed insignificant compared to his. How could you bother him with them?

Still, you licked your lips and whispered as quietly as possible, ‘I like you.’

Your body tensed as you realized that was a stupid thing to do and if there was a chance Yuuji was awake you would regret your carelessness forever, but luckily, his breathing remained slow and even, and he didn’t move a muscle making it clear he was asleep.

You sighed in relief and just continued to stroke his hair in silence.

The movie ended and went to start all over, so you moved to turn it off which was when you heard it.

‘If you were smart, you would have stayed far away from him, whore.’

Your body froze with your fingers still mid-air above your laptop. You waited everything around you was silent except for the movie starting again because you never turned it off.

Did I really hear that? You questioned yourself before you heard more.

‘You’re going to wish you did.’

You glanced around your room, but no one was there. For a brief moment, your eyes landed on Yuuji and widened as you caught the red eye right under Yuuji’s closed one looking at you.

For a moment, time stopped as your brain tried to make sense of what you were seeing before a mouth with sharp teeth opened under the eye and it spoke, ‘When I’m out, I’m coming for you personally. I’ll kill everyone you hold dear while you watch and then I’m going to kill you while he watches.’

You felt your heart speed up at such a horrible treat delivered with such a harshness and cold rushed through your spine recalling everything Yuuji told you.

Sukuna, the King of Curses

Even if you knew he was inside your friend, it was still one thing to know about him and another to actually witness him occupying space inside of Yuuji’s body and soul.

You swallowed a bit and tried to speak, ‘Y-yuuji won’t let you get out.’

‘Pathetic fool,’ laughed the mouth and the red eye gained a meaner glow, ‘You’re even denser than you look if you believe the brat has a shot against me.’

You shivered and watched him laugh wondering if you could wake Yuuji up or if him being asleep could allow this curse to break free and actually hurt you right here and now. You felt fear enter your entire body at the idea.

‘What nothing to say? You finally accepted the truth?’

You looked at Sukuna’s eye again. You didn’t try to pretend to be brave or witty enough to tell him something to get him to think or shut him up, but you still felt the need to say something.

‘Maybe if I feel like it, I’ll have some fun with you beforehand. But I promise you, little girl, your connection to the brat will make your death especially gruesome.’

You felt his words enter your soul and curse it with their venom alone. You couldn’t move or speak and felt like the dark shadows were back trying to touch your skin and enter your heart.

‘You’re going to regret ever crossing the brat’s path.’

Sukuna’s mouth started to laugh again cruelly, and the sound bounced off your room’s walls growing louder and louder almost making your ears hurt from their volume and menacing sound before you heard Yuuji inhale a sharp breath in his sleep.

You looked at your sleeping friend and blinked ignoring the laughter and focusing on Yuuji’s sleeping face again. He seemed a bit less peaceful now, maybe disturbed by the noise even if not awake.

Without thinking, your hand started to brush his pink hair again. The familiar motion calmed your rapidly beating heart even if just a bit.

You weren’t brave. At least, you wouldn’t think you were, but somehow you mustered enough strength to glance back at the open red eye and mouth and whisper, ‘It’ll be worth it.’

The laughter stopped and the eye frowned at you. When the King of Curses didn’t say anything, you dared yourself to speak, ‘It will be worth it… Whatever-whatever happens it’ll be worth it to be able to be by his side,’ you glanced at Yuuji’s closed eye, ‘Yuuji’s worth it.’

You wished you could have said it with more confidence and less tremble in your voice, but you were glad you were able to say it out loud at all. You meant it. Every word. As scary as it was and as much as you wish it didn’t come to it, and you weren’t sure you would be able to stay true to your words when the time came at least for now you truly meant it.

‘Foolish girl,’ said the curse before the mouth and eye closed leaving Yuuji’s face his own again.

You let out a loud relieved breath you didn’t realize you were holding and closed your eyes before putting a trembling hand across your chest.

‘That was scary,’ you mumbled before you could stop yourself which was when you heard Yuuji stir in his sleep.

He woke up a second later blinking a few times thrown back probably from his short nap before he must have realized where he was and quickly shot up from his place on your thighs, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to actually fall asleep like that.’

You raised your hands to wave his worries away, ‘It’s no problem. I’m happy you could rest a bit. Do you feel better?’

He cracked his neck to get rid of the stiffness before he nodded and grinned looking genuinely better than he did before which chased away every last bit of fear left by Sukuna, ‘Yeah, thanks, Y/N.’

You smiled even if for a second you glanced at the spot where the eye and mouth appeared.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Yuuji and you quickly met his gaze and smiled wider, ‘Nope. Glad to help. Do you want to watch the movie again?’

Yuuji checked his phone, ‘I think I need to head to the station to catch the last train. I’m not exactly supposed to be here today.’

‘Are you going to get in trouble?’

‘Nah, I’m pretty fast, I’ll make it,’ he said confidently, and once again you went to walk him outside, ‘Hey, thanks, for everything.’

You smiled, ‘No problem. I’m always here for you if you need me, alright?’

He grinned and something took over his features like he was daydreaming about something for a second.

You thought he was going to rush away to catch his train, but instead, he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss on top of your forehead. It happened fast and there was no real time to enjoy the gesture, but you still felt his closeness and touch linger afterward.

You were understandably surprised by his action, but he must have been too since when he leaned away, he looked shocked and his cheeks were red, ‘Shit, uh, I didn’t mean to do that. I mean…I like you too.’

Your eyes widened and you were left completely shocked by his words taking a step back, ‘Oh.’

You would probably curse yourself for sounding so lame, but at the moment you were too stunned to say anything else.

‘It’s fine. I like you too,’ he repeated, ‘I like you too.’

‘Okay, good,’ you managed to say feeling awkward more than anything and wondering if it was supposed to be like this before Yuuji reached over and took a hold of your hand bringing you closer, ‘Thanks for what you said…’

‘You were awake?’ you questioned, but he shook his head, ‘Not really. It’s hard to explain, but I heard you, and I’m glad I did.’

He grinned a little bit teasingly, ‘Looks like you’re not a completely scary cat.’

You rolled your eyes, but after a moment admitted, ‘Trust me, I was scared. But I need to say it. I meant it. You’re…you’re worth it to be around even if it’s dangerous.’

Yuuji looked genuinely happy when he heard you say that and stepped closer squeezing your hand tightly, ‘I’ll come visit. This weekend? No curse business, yeah?’

‘It’s a date,’ you agreed, and he grinned wider at your choice of words.

The poor boy would probably stick around all night if you hadn’t finally told him to go before he would miss his train.

Watching him disappear in the dark, you felt your lips pull into an even wider smile and your heart filled with joy knowing everything that happened and will happen will be worth it.

Because Yuuji is worth it.

Koniec

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

AN: Thank you for reading. English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for the mistakes and lack of clarity in some parts. Have a lovely day. 😊

౨ৎ 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 ┊ just this once, and just tonight. it’s the least he can do for you.

WARNINGS: nsfw, angst, fem reader. takes place 1/2 years after tybw. unrequited feelings, mentions of ichihime. fingering, first time (both ichigo & reader), unprotected p in v sex, alcohol usage (but no dub-con). wc: 8k. AUTHOR’S NOTE: orihime my girl forgive me. . . i wanted to take a little dip into ichigo ever since starting the series and there is nothing i love more than some good angsty smut :> thank you tori for betaing and brainstorming!! @saenora enjoy ♡

One step at a time, Ichigo makes his way up the stairs to your bedroom. He thinks so, at least. It's not like he knows the layout of your house, but the simple direction of "upstairs" given between a yawn and your tipsy humming has to suffice.

Your house is quiet and spacious, dead silent in the night except for the ticking clock hung up on the kitchen wall. Though he's taken notice of the quirky accessories you've put around the living room (he had a chance to when grabbing you water, knowing you'll thank him for it tomorrow morning) and the colorful posters hanging on the walls up the corridor to your room, it barely makes up for the unvacated space. 

A house that’s not yet a home, Ichigo feels, though he wouldn’t dare say it out loud. He's not in the place to do so anyway. 

Perhaps it’s not even an issue - he doesn’t know you that well, after all, only seeing you at school or when dropping by Orihime’s house. Your parents work away from the country most of the time, or so he's heard, so you spend most of the time alone- focusing on school work or the part-time job you picked up at the local flower shop.

You've gotten used to it, Orihime said, yet Ichigo thinks there must be a reason you're staying at her house every other day. Some find peace in solace and quiet, but does it apply to someone like you?

Nudging the door open, he's met with the faint scent of jasmine, a neatly made bed, and various plants sitting atop your drawers and desk. It's very much you. As far as he knows you, that is. It's cozy and warm and you seem to pick up on your surroundings, given the way you relax further into his back and lift your head just slightly.

Ichigo had hoped the crisp night air would be enough to sober you up on the way home, but you're still fairly putty in his grasp when he helps you get off his back and then settled onto your bed. Something akin to a purr rumbles in your throat as he handles you, almost carefully - your senses are sedate but the way he touches you rises goosebumps across your flesh. It's new but welcome nonetheless.

"There you go," Ichigo says, keeping his voice low. He's hoping you'll be fast asleep by the time he goes out the front door. You surely look like it- lashes languidly fluttering atop your cheekbones, the rise and fall of your chest gentle and slow.

It's weird.

He proposed to take you home to ensure your safety, seeing how your lightweight self handled the alcohol consumed back at the izakaya. Orihime was probably the only one looking more worried than amused at your drunken antics (like the angel she is) and asked him so sweetly to bring you home - how could he deny her?

It's common courtesy. You're his friend, too, so it's only natural he took it upon himself to tuck you into bed, hand you electrolytes, and lock your front door with the spare key.

You're Orihime's best friend. And yet, your skin feels feverish but so, so soft against his palm where it fits under your knees as he lowers you onto the mattress.

It's a conscious thought, something more than a fleeting observation. The one he makes of the sliver of pale pink cotton between your thighs doesn’t go unnoticed, either. If anything, his ears suddenly feel like red hot coal and eyes move away so fast he could’ve gotten whiplash.

Clearing his throat, Ichigo fixes your skirt for you, however forward that is. It's the right thing to do - God knows he’d rather have anyone (even a guy) do the same for Karin or Yuzu if they were ever in such a position. It shouldn’t be such a big deal in his head, and he swears he’s not making up excuses, but surely you would've thanked him anyway. (If it wasn't for the cotton in your mouth, of course.)

Most importantly, it makes the blush on his cheeks a little more bearable.

You squirm a little, shifting into a comfortable position that steals a content sigh from your mouth. It's only now that Ichigo notices your eyes have been following him for all this time, glossed over with intoxication. Thick like molasses, your scrutiny sticks to him. Ichigo’s been to hell and back but it’s been a while since anyone peeled back all his layers like you're doing now. You're no demon or evil entity. Your spiritual pressure feels more like a pleasant summer breeze than anything else, but the gentle smile you wear sends a chill down his spine.

He wonders what you're thinking, not expecting such an expression in the first place. You were all giggles and exclaims back at the izakaya and couldn't stay quiet on the way back either, yet now you're so mellow and soft. It's unlike you and what he's used to. What's even stranger is how it renders him still in his seat on the edge of your bed.

"Thanks, Ichigo," You say, breathily. The usage of his first name surprises him a little, but he does not mind, "for, y'know..."

Your words aren't as jumbled as he would've predicted but your voice does trail off as if taken away by the liquor. Ichigo smiles at you, but the bizarre feeling doesn’t go away. Is it something about the proximity? Or the way your hand lays so freely next to his, a nudge away? 

He scratches at his nape and breaks the strange eye contact. Your eyes burn into the side of his face still, he couldn’t miss it if he tried. “Ah, it’s nothing. I’m glad you’re safe.”

You watch his jaw as he speaks, the eyes wandering from the posters on your wall to the photo frames on your desk. ichigo’s observant, but this time, you feel like he’s just curious, perhaps a little sheepish. “Inoue wouldn’t let me live if I didn’t bring you home,” He adds.

It’s partially true but he doesn’t voice the rest out loud. He hasn’t been around in Soul Society for a hot minute now and it’s something to be glad about, but it does make him wonder if it’s his chivalry, manners, or unsatisfied instinct to protect that brought him here, into your room, pinewood and pale pink. 

You snort a little under your breath at the thought of your redhead best friend, fanning you with whatever she could’ve grabbed to possibly sober you up. She’s a sweetheart, cares more than she should about things that don’t need it, but it is a part of her charm. 

Is it why Ichigo’s smiling like this? 

The truth is laid out right in front of you, there is no denying it. A part of you is glad to witness the blossoming of something that would make your favorite person the happiest alive. 

In the unvacated space lives greed. 

Jealousy and desire are primal to an extent that you wouldn’t think could ever apply to you, but here you are. It’s funny Ichigo doesn’t look aware of his input to your silly realizations in the slightest.. But, down to the core of it all, you’re just a girl as well. Young, with a heart aching to be loved. You know it is considered wrong but what they don’t know can’t hurt them. 

You’ve never said a word despite how often you run your tongue. Your choice was always conscious, firm, and made with the best intentions in mind. Tonight, as you lay in your frilly sheets and scent the remnants of Ichigo’s cologne on you with his warmth still so close, your throat tightens with the words that grow heavier, unbearable to swallow down.

“Ichigo,” You say his name again, this time more gentle. The boy glances over and you know now that you did catch him space out, with her in mind. It’s a different look on him, fond with the slightest curl to his lips, handsome on his features when he turns to you.

You enjoy the attention and it’s a shameful realisation. Brown eyes envelop yours with a warmth that you know isn’t directed at you, “Yeah? What is it?”

Adrenaline does it for you - props you up until you face him, stretches your fingers out to wrap around his wrist. It’s unrushed but only because of the alcohol. It puzzles Ichigo all the same, a quirk in his brows and a twitch in his fingers. 

“Can you… stay,” Oh, it’s so, so heavy on your tongue. Doesn’t roll off the way you’d want it to even with the added courage - it’s more of a shaky breath than anything else “Please,”

The silence soughs in your ears, a white noise to blur out Ichigo’s perplexed inhale. His gaze wavers and moves to where your hand guides his, to the soft flesh of your thigh, bare and still so warm as he noticed earlier. Now it almost burns him. 

He says your name in a question and his voice cracks in the sheer realization of your wish, unspoken but shown so forwardly and in a way he wouldn’t have thought of you. He moves to retract his hand, shaking his head, “I– uh, I can’t. Really, trust me, it’s not…”

When Ichigo goes to look at you again, your chest aches with shame. He’s confused but looks mostly worried, if not a little pitiful of your silly, needy wish. Your fingers feel too clammy to keep holding onto his hand, instead grabbing onto the thick denim of your skirt. 

“O-Oh,” You stammer and it feels like a cold bucket over your head, “R-right. Sorry, uhm,”

You worry the plump of your bottom lip between your teeth and stare anywhere else. Your vision is a little distorted, just a tad blurry, the thudding of your heart loud as ever. 

Warmth envelopes your fist and your gaze bounces back. Ichigo’s frowning a little, but again, it’s mostly worry. You don’t particularly dislike it, “Hey, hey. It’s fine. You’re drunk. It’s alright.”

Right, you’re drunk. But not enough to blackout, not enough to lose control over your actions and better judgment. So when the feeling of his hand on yours grows to be too much, your breath catches in your throat and eyes soften. It’s a sliver in time but Ichigo catches onto it.

This time, he’s not as taken aback when your fingers wrap around his. He’s seen it coming by the gleam in your eyes, and though he’s not that much of an empath, he knows what longing looks like. He’s not dumb. Your rings feel cool on his skin as you guide his hand up, from the hem of your top to the swell of your breast- it’s a strange feeling. Entirely new in the way he hasn’t done it before (intentionally, at least), throwing him off because it’s you. You fit in his hand perfectly. Ichigo swears he feels every goosebump against his palm, even through the thin cotton. 

It registers slower than he would’ve liked it to. With a sharp breath, his eyes find yours, asking for something though he knows you wouldn’t answer. You look tongue-tied, shivering against his touch and under his nearly begging gaze.

“Please,” It’s a whisper but bleeds into a whimper. Your fingers around his wrist grow tighter, and his palm presses against your flesh until he feels your thighs part. 

It’s all you say. He shouldn’t have asked for more, but it’s only natural he did - you put him in this place, confused and torn. Ichigo does not want to blame you for it but he wishes he did- it’s easier getting upset than dealing with this pull in his chest. You give him your widest eyes, reminiscent of the look she gives him– it’s just the same. The discernment is unmistakable. It makes him think of all the times he felt eyes on his back, the side of his face as he spoke. Could it be there were always two pairs of them? Could he really not notice it for all this time?

Devotion is a strange thing. It’s unspoken between him and Orihime but it doesn’t make the bond any weaker. It was an unknown feeling - noticing things about her that made his heart race, paying a bit more attention to his appearance whenever they’d see each other. Ichigo didn’t want to spend too much time pondering on it, but deep down, between the crevices of his ribs, he feels it. His heart is full. Stutters whenever she’s around, aches when she is not. It’s a pity it has to come down to this to make him admit it to himself. Neither of you deserve this. The policy of truth is simple: you speak it, you suffer the consequences. As long as Inoue doesn’t hear about this, the pain doesn’t take her under with you. 

What she doesn’t know doesn’t hurt her, but the oblivion has  no power to erase what already happened. It will eat away at you both, rightly or not. 

It’s a sliver in time. A second, two at most - no more than a shaky breath. It’s not nearly enough time to make such a decision but Ichigo operates on instinct more often than not. Right now, you’re here, so pretty and divine in front of him. Your lip shines with saliva, eyes gleam with need, and your legs part, making just enough space for him to fit in between. 

In this moment of time, you’re the prettiest sight he could possibly witness. 

The thought feeds his guilt but makes his heart thump all the same. There’s only so much you can do to fight off desire when it creeps up on you, cunning and ruthless.You couldn’t ignore your own and he’s surrendering, too. (What a strange feeling that is, indeed. After countless fights and not even one desertion, the only time he fully, consciously drops his guard down finally catches up to him. Perhaps it’s the rule of war, one you cannot run from even when once it died down.)

Ichigo’s merciful when he needs to be. When lenient, his hands usually drip with blood, not even one more drop to be shed. Tonight, they’re gentle, slipping under flimsy fabric with a promise of more- an augury of pleasure. 

Your breath dies in your chest, caught in your lungs when Ichigo’s hand squeezes the flesh of your breast. Your nipple stands erect against his rough palm, skin erupting in goosebumps as he groans. It’s a sound you wouldn’t dare wish to hear, but you’re thanking gods when you do. 

Ichigo moves closer, meddles with your space like it’s a magnetic pull. His thumb teases the hardened nub, experimentally pinches it between his fingers. It’s languid but only because he’s unsure. He doesn’t want to give in to greed. Curiosity is a much better teacher. 

“You’re so warm,” He whispers and it feels cathartic to some extent. A weight dissipates from his shoulders now that he admitted it to himself: he wants you. Longs for you, feels it down to his core. “Does it feel good?” 

A hurried nod is enough, for now at least. Your hand slips from Ichigo’s to grab at his bicep instead as his free palm fits under the weight of your chest, then slides down the smooth, soft canvas of your stomach. It ripples under his touch, almost a reflex. Ichigo swears under his breath, heat rushing to his cheeks and below his belt. You’re so pliable, so full of trust. 

He pushes your top up just below your collarbones, though not without a fleeting glance at your face to ensure it’s fine. Cool air nips all over the exposed skin and it’s a small mercy when the warmth of Ichigo’s mouth presses along the shivering flesh. You gasp and writhe, as much as you can in his gentle grip, anyway. His tongue feels heavy where it laps across the skin, suckling where his teeth graze next. When his mouth wraps around one of your nipples, it sends sparks down all the way down to your toes. It’s as pleasurable as it is new. 

“Ichigo,” You moan and it makes his desire run rampant. 

He sucks harder, the other hand wrapping around the side of your ribcage, as if to settle you but bring you closer at the same time. His breathing grows heavier, ragged when he lets go of one nipple to move to the other, repeating his measure of sucking and licking and toying with you until your heart ripples under the flesh. It’s his highest reward when you start to squirm and unceremoniously tangle your fingers in his hair. 

You wish you could feel his lips on yours but it feels like a boundary that cannot be crossed. Not yet, anyway, and you don’t look a gifted horse in its mouth, so the sensation of Ichigo’s shuffling down your mattress and pressing his open-mouthed kisses lower down your torso is where you pin point your focus. It’s the only thing overriding your senses either way - you can’t escape it, the slick and hot feeling of his tongue and the plump of his lips. He bites somewhere around your navel and you keen, toes curling in on themselves. 

Ichigo’s uncertain whether it should bring him this much ecstasy but he’s sure he’s just as euphoric as you are, receiving his caress. His thumbs dig into your sides and along your hipbones as he looks up, hair in your fist and eyes blown with lust. 

A beat passes before he crawls up your body again, a little clumsily but neither of you care. His breath hits your jaw before his head dips to the crook of your neck, mouthing at the thrum of your pulse. Your bodies act as one, strung up with instinct and curiosity strong enough to kill the cat. Whether you get caught in crossfire, neither of you cares. 

Just as your hands move to push up Ichigo’s shirt, he pulls away to take yours off completely, the gathered material getting in his way. You barely wind your arms around his neck before he presses back against you, breathing heavily between feverish kisses to your collarbone and shoulder. 

It’s a lot - the feeling of your chest pressed against his, your hands roaming under his shirt, following the ridges of his hard abdomen. You’re squirming underneath him, inhales quick, exhales resembling more of a whimper than anything else. It’s a lot to take in but Ichigo takes his time nonetheless. He maps out the spots that make your nails dig under his skin, makes sure to give them extra attention before moving to search for more. It’s exhilarating, feeds his ego when you arch into him so beautifully. It’s hard focusing on everything at once but there is no way he misses any of it.

Between bites and wet kisses, Ichigo’s shirt comes off and joins your crumpled top on the floor. He’s not self-conscious in the least, but your gaze sticks to him and it’s making his heart skip a beat. Swallowing thickly, he breathes out a laugh, almost sheepishly, and you return it in a smile. It clears the air, makes it easier to breathe again - lets him see the gleam in your eyes, allows you to take in the reddened sheen of his cheeks. It’s everything you could’ve dreamed of and more, the embodiment of what heaven looks like, you think. 

“Can I make you feel good?” Ichigo speaks, low and ragged. You think it’s endearing that he asks, even when seeing you so restless. His hands are itching to touch, explore places that make you tense up and call for him. The need to possess is strange, but he doesn’t hate it. it must be a part of the intimacy- something about knowing it’s him that grants you this pleasure. It has to be something about the sense of duty, knowing it’s the least he can give you.

“Yes,” It’s more of a breath than proper speech but it’s good enough. “Yes, please, Ichigo, right there…” 

Your hand moves to his, guiding it to the soft cotton of your panties. It’s hot, damp with what the boy can only recognize as arousal, silky when the pad of his finger presses on the soft, plump flesh. The fabric is thin, darkened where it clings to your folds. It’s enough to make his head spin. Your thighs jolt and breath sharpens as his finger dips between your folds and Ichigo feels all blood rush to his cock.

“Fuck,” He grunts, aching against the denim of his jeans. It’s almost embarrassing in a way “You ask me so nicely,” 

You didn’t expect the remark but take it as a praise. Ichigo doesn’t particularly enjoy others prodding at him but will do it himself if given a good chance and you wonder if he enjoys the way you look away, overwhelmed. Not even the alcohol buzzing in your system makes this any more bearable. Instead you focus on him undoing your skirt, first the button and then the zipper, to eventually pull it down your legs. He’s gentle while doing so, fingers lingering on your ankle as his gaze searches for yours. 

“Have you…” Ichigo trails off and it suddenly dawns  on him that it should’ve been asked before he even first got his hands on you. Your boldness could’ve mistaken him, after all, and judging by the way your eyes widen, it did.

You shake your head, gripping the sheets and chewing on your bottom lip. You seem as sheepish as the boy between your legs, suddenly a little embarrassed, hoping it doesn’t drive him away. “N-No, not yet…”

Ichigo knows it shouldn’t, but it goes straight to his cock. The realization that he’s the first to touch you like this, to have his hands roaming your body and spoil you with affection. The mechanism behind the thought is unattainable to him yet, but frankly, he has no time to dwell on it. It flatters him, fills him with something indescribable, knowing you trust him enough to deem him the right one. 

He sucks in a breath, opening his mouth to speak. Are you sure about this? is what he wishes to ask. Please is what your eyes are telling him - dark with lust and sewing right through him. You look like you could cry any second if made to wait any longer. He’s no sadist, really.

Your panties come off next, index finger hooking under the waistband and easing them down the curve of your legs. Ichigo doesn’t mean to stare but it’s his first time around as well, after all, and he’s a little overwhelmed. You’re pretty from head to toe, he realizes, face burning as he exhales shakily, fingers tracing the same path as before, but this time with no fabric in between. 

Wetness collects at his fingertips, coats them from the tip to his first knuckle and makes it so much easier when he presses three fingers against your clit and starts to rub. You’re unaware of his lack of experience and frankly, the way he handles you isn’t giving it away either. Your legs seize up, breath stuck in your throat, and Ichigo figures he’s doing a good job. You’re quick to tell him, too.

“Fuck,” Your voice is small, the small of your back arching off the bed. Ichigo watches every reaction like a hawk, from the parting of your lips to the way your abdomen tightens and hips squirm in place. 

“Right here?” He asks in a breath, almost holding it. It’s unconscious, but his focus is all on you. His hand slides lower and palm presses to the throbbing nub instead, slick finger prodding at your entrance as you nod.

Ichigo’s taking his time with you but it only makes the tension grow tighter, like a string bound to snap any moment. You’re already out of breath before he gets to pleasure you properly. His equally restless, needy expression makes it a little more bearable. One by one, his fingers push inside of you with much more ease than he’d expected. It’s tight and warm, squeezing him down to the last knuckle when the pads of his fingers caress the front of your insides. Each and every movement eases more honeyed sounds from your mouth, makes your grip on him tighten. Your nails dig in his bicep, bare and littered with small scars you wouldn’t ever ask about, voice betraying any inhibitions. You’re moaning in his ear when he goes to press himself against you, mouthing along the curve of your jaw and heavily breathing against your pulse point. 

Every word is washed away with desire, long gone from your head. The feeling of being worked open on Ichigo’s fingers is too much. He’s as gentle as he can be but loses himself in the way your pussy squeezes around him and hips hump against his hand, urging for more. You feel his scent, overriding anything else, hear his ragged breath by your ear. The heat licking at the base of your spine seems familiar but entirely strange at the same time, thinly veiled by intoxication. 

“Ichigo–” You sound almost panicked if he hadn’t known any better. You’re not in pain, not with the way you cling onto him “Think m’gonna..” 

Ichigo feels his stomach flip and suddenly the sound of your slick is the only thing in his ears. The squelch, every little mewl you let out when his fingers press into the spongy spot. It’s obnoxiously loud, though in reality it most likely is not. To him, it’s all that matters. You’re feeling good, you’re barely speaking. 

You almost jolt when he picks up the pace, eyes boring into your face, the euphoric flutter of your lashes. “Do it for me,” He mutters, voice lodged low in his throat, equally as coaxing as it is urgent. “S’alright”

The sensation hits all at once and it’s overwhelming compared to anything you’re used to. It’s different when Ichigo’s easing you through it, groaning when you grab at his wrist and choke out sounds of unadulterated pleasure. Raw and beautiful as you fall apart, Ichigo watches you. A pull in his chest urges him to kiss you, swallow every sound and claim it. Everything else makes him want to watch, shamelessly and greedily, and so he does. 

You slump in his hold around the moment his fingers slow down nearly to a stop. It’s good timing considering you push at his wrist weakly, thighs shaking when you go to close them involuntarily. Ichigo eases his fingers out and it’s only now that the white noise dies down that you hear his breathing, equally as labored as your own.

Your eyes search for Ichigo’s, albeit a bit unsure. Almost shyly. The clarity doesn’t set in just yet as you reach your hand towards him, fingers dipping past the waistband of his jeans. 

He’s slightly flustered but mostly still overwhelmed by making you cum. He wouldn’t have ever guessed it feels this good to give- never would’ve thought you are so beautiful when he brings you over the edge. It makes his heart ache when the thought at the back of his head reappears, poisoned with guilt, but it’s not enough to drive his mind away from the desire coiling in his gut.

“Come here” Ichigo states, a little firmly as he grabs you by the hips and pulls you down to his level more comfortably. “Want to feel you, properly this time,”

His breath is ragged when he speaks, warmth fanning across your face. It’s a lot to take in, but the press of a hard bulge to your bare mound speaks for itself. Your throat feels a little dry when you swallow, clumsily reaching your hands down to work at Ichigo’s belt, then the buttoning of his jeans. He helps you out, fingers brushing against yours until finally, he gets the remaining pieces of clothing off.

Your head is spinning with how quickly it happens. One second you’re coming on his fingers, now you’re trying not to stare at his cock, standing upright, heavy and flushed bright pink with arousal. The sheer size is intimidating but you couldn’t have expected anything less from Ichigo. (Neither did you imagine him any smaller than this.)

He notices your shy little glances but doesn’t comment on it, because soon enough you’re wrapping your small hand around his girth. The touch is electrifying, would’ve made his knees buckle if he wasn’t sat. Ichigo hisses under his breath, the tips of his ears burning. You’re moving languidly, thumb tracing along the throbbing vein running up the shaft and it’s making his stomach tighten.

“Let me,” You suddenly speak meekly. Ichigo blinks down at you, mind foggy with want but he’s quick to shake his head and wrap his hand around yours.

Your expression morphs into something more sheepish, borderline confused. Your fingers almost retract from around his aching cock but he stops you, tightening his hand on yours to keep it in place.

“No, it’s just…” Ichigo’s a little frustrated but only with himself. He breathes out a laugh, shaking his head when you look at him, puzzled and a little hesitant “I’m not gonna last if you do, and I want you,” 

It’s purely symbolic by this point, now that he’s taken the leap and cannot turn back, but voicing his desire out loud makes the loop around his heart tighten. It shouldn’t feel this natural to say it, roll off his tongue so easily, but it does- and Ichigo figures he might as well embrace it. His throat feels tighter with every word but the smile he gives you, a little coy and all the more comforting, makes you relax instantly. 

Your cheeks heat up with the flattery before the meaning behind his words really settles in. It’s one thing to have the boy of your dreams touching you, but another to have him admit his desire. It makes the butterflies caged between your ribs run wild. 

“Then just–” You trail off and hold back a moan, feeling Ichigo’s hand reassume the stroking you’ve been gracing him with a moment before. “C-come here,” You finish between one sigh and another. His palm feels warm on top of yours, tightening whenever you reach the sensitive tip of his cock, his breath growing unsteady. 

It’s tipping along the edge of teasing but Ichigo can’t bring himself to stop, even with a promise of greater pleasures coming. You’re looking up at him like you’re scared to miss any of his reactions- the knot in his brows, parting of his lips. It’s hard to look away when the very thing you’ve longed for is right in front of you, tangible and real. 

Despite his previous words, it’s a struggle to stop you from indulging him. You don’t want to take more than he gives, though, and so you pull away, instead nudging the boy to lay down on his back beside you. He takes the hint but not without a look of surprise and lays back. You enjoy the look behind the amber of his eyes when you climb on top of him, straddling his hips, your heat hovering just above the weeping head of his cock. It’s enough to make Ichigo hiss out a breath, his hands moving to grip the fat of your hips, fingers digging into the flesh. 

“Take your time,” He says, and the tremble at the edges of his words give away his impatience or perhaps excitement. You wonder if it’s his first time as well but the thought is quickly pushed to the back of your mind, too hopeful and bold. As if.

You smile down at him, a little dopily, “M’kay.”

You ignore the shaking of your thighs as you rest your hands on Ichigo’s chest, broad and firm with muscle. The slow rubbing of your pussy along the throb of his length is agonizing, but neither of you complain. You watch breathlessly as Ichigo leans his head back, throat bobbing with a grunt. It’s hot and slippery wet, the way your folds drag against his cock, clit catching on the angry pink tip. You’re moaning so pretty already, he wonders how the hell he’s going to hold back when he’s actually inside you.

He doesn’t regret his statement to take things at your own pace but you are driving him a little crazy. The position you’ve both found yourselves in is hard enough to brace already, and now you’re on top of him, too, about to take a part of him to keep with you forever. The thought makes his head spin. Ichigo wishes he still believed he’s only doing it to show you mercy, but his own enjoyment is too palpable. He tries not to think about it when you lift your hips and wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, lining it up with your entrance, leaking wetness on his tip. 

You drop your hips, inch by inch, and it erases any other thought from his head. It’s so ridiculously warm and tight, feels like you’re suffocating him in the best possible way. There’s not a condom in sight and Ichigo’s not too proud to realize he couldn’t care less. What matters is the feeling of you around him, pulsing with arousal when he bottoms out. Your fingers twitch on his chest and clit presses against the neat trim of his pubes - he feels it all, it’s almost agonizing.

Ichigo has to remind himself to soothe you into it. He rubs his hands up your waist and swallows thickly, watching your chest shudder with a breath and your mouth fall agape. 

“You good?” He asks, but the slow sway your hips pick up is an answer in its own right. You suck in a breath and nod, looking down at him. God, don’t do this. Ichigo twitches inside of you and you feel it all. 

“Mmhm,” Your voice sounds strained. You don’t trust yourself enough to speak proper words, getting used to the feeling of being stuffed full. It’s unlike anything else, the feeling of every ridge and vein of his cock, the tight fit that makes your tummy feel funny. Glancing down to see the boy of your dreams staring right back at you, heavy-lidded and restless, turns your brain into mush. 

There’s not much discomfort. Not to make you stop, at least. You’re greedy and you can only hope Ichigo doesn’t mind, but the groan he lets out when you begin to rock your hips back and forth proves it right. The slide of his cock against the spots that turn your vision spotty around the edges feels perfect. 

It’s quieter than you would’ve suspected. Heavy breathing bounces off the walls and your bed creaks with every firmer movement, your cunt squelches whenever Ichigo’s cock fits back inside of you, stuffing you to the brim. You couldn’t handle any more of it anyway- it’s enough as it is. You’re a little light-headed with the tingly sensation that runs all the way down to your toes, making them curl. You wonder if it feels as good for Ichigo as it does for you, but he’s awfully quiet- trying to swallow down any grunts or sounds of pleasure. 

He’s a little overwhelmed, truly. You feel like heaven, throbbing and swallowing all of his cock. He hopes you won’t be in pain tomorrow- he’s given you enough prep (he hopes so, at least), but you’re starting to ride him harder with every few movements. You drop your hips on him experimentally, rut against him in little circles, then still and whimper when his tip kisses the spongy area all the way up your pussy. Ichigo’s speechless, truly. It almost feels too good to be true- too good for him, like he’s undeserving. He can’t let go of the thought of it being unfair. The way you make it feel so intimate, passionate until it’s hard to take only deems it an ever harder task. 

Ichigo watches with his heart lodged in his throat as you lean back, gracing him with a full view of your breasts, trembling with every quick breath, and the slow path your hand follows to toy with one of them. Your face contorts in bliss, lashes fluttering before your eyes roll back. It’s raw and almost primal, in a way, despite how sweet you sound with every choked out Ichigo, Ichigo, you’re so good. Too good for this world, and frankly, too good for him - that’s what you are. He can’t take it.

You gasp when Ichigo moves to sit up, the new found angle making your stomach stir. You can almost feel him in your throat, swelling inside of you “I-Ichigo,” You swallow back a whimper, taken aback and delirious with pleasure. 

He wraps his arm around you, fitting himself against you like it’s how you’re meant to be. The thought makes your arousal cling to his base, a sheen of slick forming a ring where his girth stuffs you full. He’s so close it feels almost unfair. His nose nudges against yours and breath meddles together. It’s your own heartbeat that’s thrumming in your ears, but if you focus hard enough, you can pretend it’s Ichigo’s.

“Shh- q-quiet,” He utters, almost hurriedly. His fingers splay out on the small of your back, holding you close, but the other hand soon joins on your other side, gripping your rear so tight you could almost squeal. 

It’s an added leverage and control that lets Ichigo grind into you with little effort. Restraints cut off when he feels your chest press against his, skin clammy against his palm as he presses you further into him, until there’s nowhere left for you to run. It’s the least he owes you. It’s what you deserve, so wide-eyed and open for him, so soft and unconditionally dutiful. Indulging you is what he must do, even when it feels like making love though it really isn’t. It’s only fair in such unjust circumstances. 

Ichigo kisses you like he means it and like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s not his first but it’s the first that feels like this- makes his gut churn and his hands grab you tighter. You moan in his mouth, wrap your arms around his neck, touch his jaw. You’re all over him in the best sense, in a way he’d never think he’d experience, but it’s a slice of heaven on earth.

Your tongue licks at his teeth and he tastes your desire, tender and unadulterated. It’s slow and takes your breath away, hell, steals every conscious thought with it, too. You could melt in an instant if giving it any thought at all.

You take what Ichigo gives and don’t ask. You know better than this.

Ichigo’s breath catches in his throat when your legs wrap around him, almost clumsily, driving him deeper. The drag of his cock against your walls starts to become unbearable, like gasoline to the fire licking at his spine. He’s close and struggles not to notice it’s the close proximity and the taste of your tongue that pushes him to the edge. 

Your mind is foggy when Ichigo pushes himself home a few more times, almost teasingly slow. He’s pulling away from your kiss, lips swollen and wet with spit when he goes to glance between the two of you, where your cunt rubs against him so sweetly, takes him so well.  Being watched like this proves to be too much, your heart jolting and gut tightening, the coil appearing quickly. 

“H-uh, I- Ichigo, gonna cum,” He thinks it’s endearing how you tell him when he can feel your cunt speak for you- hear it, even, with how it squelches with his every thrust, even the most languid.  Still, he kisses you silent, once, then again and again. Each one feels more treacherous than the other. Each one makes you whine louder and louder, despite his intention.

“I know, I know,” It’s more of a rasp than anything else when he speaks, hoarsely and hushed “Go ahead, m’ right here,” 

It’s instinctual to ease you into it like this, when you’re clinging to him so tight. It fills him with a weird sense of possessiveness, even if it only lasts so long as he’s inside of you. Ichigo finds himself struggling holding his own climax back when you’re squirming in his lap like this, your tight heat squeezing him until it’s hard to move at all. He’s shocked at how slick you are, wetter with every thrust but he’s glad, for it makes all the difference (and stroke his ego more than he’d like to admit).

Little throaty grunts start to slip out his mouth as your body grows stiff. You’re quieter, almost holding your breath, and the way you’re looking at him is almost painful. Ichigo would think you are in pain if he didn’t know any better. His forehead fits against yours, mostly to ground him but mainly because he can’t stand this look from you- like this is all you’ve ever wanted. (He knows it is, but he likes to pretend otherwise.) You wheeze and moan all on the same breath, finally cumming on Ichigo’s cock until you’re trembling. He fucks you through it despite how achingly hard he is, trying to hold off his own orgasm. He’s panting against your lips, dragging your hips against his own and adding another layer of white hot pleasure that renders you limp in his grasp moments after.

You’re stunned by the intensity of euphoria that washed over you all at once, still dizzy when Ichigo swiftly pushes you on your back. He stays nestled inside of you, tip of his cock pressing against your cervix, kissing it harder with each of his thrusts, deep and deliberate. He’s not going fast nor is he rough- it’s passionate in it’s rawest form. Ichigo leans forward and shamefully indulges in the warm embrace of your arms, wrapping around his back, your hand tangled in his hair. 

His kisses feel equally as tender as his strokes, growing firmer with every roll of his hips. You’re drinking every word from his mouth and cup his face, keeping him grounded when he’s losing composure. Gonna cum, fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming. You watch Ichigo’s face twist in pleasure, his silhouette caging you in. You’re unsure whether your intoxication comes from liquor or the sheer euphoria seeing him look so beautiful on top of you, but you feel delirious either way. 

Ichigo groans as the knot unravels, blinding and forceful enough to turn his mind blank. He shudders through it, having just a crumble of sanity left to pull out at the very last moment as to not fuck things up more than he already did. He fists himself to completion, a few rough tugs ending in warmth spilling all across your lower tummy, some even landing on the swell of your breasts. (If it wasn’t for the spots littering his vision, he’d notice the small marks he had left, something to leave you with aside from the aching void.) With a few last grunts, each one breathier than the last, he finally relaxes, dropping his head in the crook of your neck.

The air should be thick and heavy, palpable with the realization of what had just taken place. It should feel spoilt and eat away at you like acid. And yet, as the both of you come down from your highs, the afterglow tastes sweet - even if for a few seconds more.

It makes a part of Ichigo want to scream. The other makes him kiss the thrum of your pulse one last time, his forehead pressed to your jaw, almost in a sign of affection. Your fingers run through his hair, absentmindedly and leisurely. Your heart slows down and Ichigo listens, wondering if you feel any different that he does? Is your head full of conflict too, guilt clawing its way back in despite how good it felt to be so close to him? Are you having a hard time like he is?

By the time Ichigo pulls away, your eyes are fluttering close, breathing mellow and soft. It would’ve made him chuckle, but his heart feels a little too heavy, so he only smiles down at you, pushing himself up on arms that feel weirdly shaky. Fatigue is one thing, but emotion is another. 

He’s lucky enough to find a box of tissues on your nightstand, right next to your alarm clock. Angry red numbers read 2:41AM as he reaches for a couple and then begins to clean you up, wiping away any remnants of his spent. It’s weirdly intimate and this time, it brings a sour taste to his mouth. You’re watching him, tiptoeing over the edge of sleep, as he crumples up the tissues in his hand once it’s over with. 

It’s easier to not look at him at all than see his gaze scurrying away from you, absent and full of thought. You’re tired- exhausted, even, barely able to keep yourself awake. The alcohol catches up to you again and so does the weariness from endorphins wearing off and though it’s a bitter thought, you think it’s a small mercy. He’s never been good at hiding when things are troubling him. In a way, he wears his heart on his sleeve, much like you do. It just took him a little longer to notice what you wanted to tell him. A mistake had to be made to let him see inside your mind for what it truly is: full of longing and misplaced love.

Despite it all, you watch as he pulls on his boxers and let him dress you into your underwear and top from before. He handles you gently, carefully, as if you could break into pieces. You wouldn’t like the pity but thankfully, in your delirious state, you take it as affection. 

“Ichigo,” It makes his skin crawl. Unfair, unfair, unfair. How can you say it like this, so soft and hopeful? He glances back to look at you, takes in the sheen across your cheeks, the afterglow that adorns your features. You’re irresistible, but his restraints broke only because of leniency. “Will you stay?”

He smiles at you. In your eyes, half-lidded and shiny with sleep, it looks genuine. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

You fall asleep peacefully despite everything, ignoring the drop in your chest. You don’t take Ichigo for a liar, but this one time, you will not mind nor hold it against him. Everything he’s ever done was for everyone’s best interest. If tomorrow you wake up in an empty bed with his scent fading away from your sheets, you’ll be grateful for whatever piece of him he’s left with you. 

Your house is quiet aside from the ticking clock downstairs as Ichigo dresses himself and checks for his phone and wallet in his jeans’ pocket. He walks downstairs and pays no mind to the quirky accessories you put along the living room as he passes by. Pulls on his shoes, shrugs on his jacket, then fishes out the spare key from the glass bowl by the front door. It’s exactly where Orihime told him. He’ll have to text her once he’s home, he thinks. 

Just like he’d hoped, you’re fast asleep by the time he’s out the door. And though his heart feels full like it has for a long while, it only now begins to grow heavy.

© 2024 grinmjows. do not copy any writing or layouts; do not repost/mention my works on other social media.

raspberry leaves

pairing: poly!geto suguru x fem!reader x gojo satoru [jjk au]

warnings: jjk au! geto doesn't defect and everything is happy :)) cursing, periods, severe cramps, painkillers and mentions of taking more than you're supposed to (three instead of two), lots of talk of pain, mentions of vomiting, passing out, panic, mentions of death, mentions of burning yourself, probably ooc megumi but he's a kid here (probably gojo too but I can't not write him soft), family au!, megumi tsumiki and the twins are here!, probably taking liberties on how gojo's technique works but oops, this is for the girlies with severe period symptoms :'), major hurt/comfort

word count: 12.5k

a/n: drops this and yells "scatter!" and disappears back into seclusion. I did not proofread this :)

Gojo Satoru has never woken up so terrified in his life. 

It’s a horrifying thing; to wake up lurching from your sheets as the love of your life cries out in panic just a few hours past midnight. For a moment, Satoru thinks he’s dying – or that he should be – because as he rips his sheets away from his legs, racing to his feet with his pulse already roaring in his eardrums, he turns to find Geto Suguru crumbling to his knees. The dark-haired man is the one who shouted, his hands fumbling to grasp another figure, their body limp and hanging useless in Suguru’s arms.

It’s your frame, clutched tight in Suguru’s big hands, that steals the breath from Satoru’s lungs. Ripping any semblance of oxygen right from his chest, the Six Eyes user is left stumbling on his feet to reach his spouses as they crumble to the floor – you limp in Suguru’s grip as you fall unconscious. 

Suguru shouts, a desperate cry of your name as he finally sinks to the bathroom floor, urgently scrambling to cradle your weight against him and support your figure. When he’s settled on the ground, a hand carefully cradling your face, Suguru looks up at Satoru, panic in his features and his heart in his throat. For a tense second, neither man speaks, too terrified to properly ascertain the situation. Then, Satoru chokes out a desperate question as he stumbles into the doorframe, clutching the wood until he swears it could splinter beneath his hands. 

“What happened?” 

But let’s rewind a moment, shall we? 

It starts two hours after midnight – well, it starts long before that, but it’s that moment you finally decide to pull yourself from the sheets and stumble into the bathroom. That moment, the one of shortened breaths and a weak whimper, is the one to incite the inferno that will wake Gojo Satoru in an hour or so. 

You’ve been awake for hours. Sleep was a stubborn thing; an obstinate, pig-headed bastard that wouldn’t allow you the mercy of relief even hours after you’ve been awake clutching your stomach and trying desperately not to cry. 

It’s agony. Beginning in your left side and rippling through the entirety of your stomach and down your legs, the cramping sensation seizes you with another tight fist and squeezes. It’s agony, and it’s been keeping you awake for hours. 

Your period is merciless. 

You’ve always had terrible cramps. That was a notion you had grown used to when you were young. Painkillers could only do so much, and you hated to have to take as many as you did just to function near normally. The first day of shark week was always terrible, but this? This was pure agony, and you were nearing your breaking point. 

It festered for hours in your stomach, sending cramps through your form in catastrophic waves and pushing against your belly until you thought you were truly going to die. The urge to use the restroom is horrible, but each time you drag yourself to the ensuite bathroom, you sit there as another wave of agony nearly pulls you to your knees. You’re sweaty and tired, figure quivering as another rippling cramp seizes your legs, and you’ve never wanted anything more than the sweet relief of slumber. 

Nothing seems to help. 

A hot water bottle is pressed against your stomach, the liquid inside near boiling as you clutch it against your bare skin – a bad idea, you know, but the sensation of the burn is nowhere near as terrible as the cramps. You’ve downed three painkillers a few hours ago, probably another bad idea, but you’re desperate now. 

You don’t want to wake Suguru or Satoru. It’s a Sunday night, and you know they both have work early tomorrow morning. They have to get the kids to school too. The four of your children always pile into one of your husband’s nice cars just a few hours past dawn. The kids get dropped off at primary school on their way to work, since it’s just around the corner from Jujutsu High. 

You can’t tear their few precious hours of sleep away from them. 

Not for this. 

There’s nothing they can do – nothing you can do but sit and try to ride out the waves of crippling agony until they finally stop. 

You’ve done this before. These cramps aren’t new. You can deal with them on your own. 

Can’t you?

But as you repress a broken sob, pulling yourself away from the silk of your sheets and into the bathroom once more, you’re not quite sure. 

When you reach the ensuite bathroom, another cramp surges through you and the tears you’ve been desperately withholding finally burst forth. Pressing your weight into the wall as the door slides shut, you click the lock and finally allow yourself to crumple. Your head pushes into your knees as you sob, trying to keep your cries quiet and muffled against your hand as the other clutches the hot water bottle against the throb of your stomach. 

You’re tired. You’re tired and you’re in so much pain that your fingers tremble and your legs shake. It’s awful, and you just want to sleep. 

But your uterus must hate you, because your stomach lurches and you scramble to lean over the toilet as you dry heave. You’ve never vomited on your period, but it sure does feel like you will. 

Your skin itches. From the sweat or the general grime, you don’t know, but you hate it. Your chest shakes with another sob and your fists squeeze tight as you whine out a horrible sound of agony. It’s too much and you wish it would just stop. Leaning back against the wall, you sigh out a choked sound as you curl into yourself. 

“Stop,” you whine brokenly, too defeated to even understand who you’re pleading to. “Please stop.” 

Geto Suguru wakes up a few moments later. 

He doesn’t know what pulls him from slumber at first. His brow furrows as consciousness returns, a deep breath leaving his nose as he sighs and takes in the feeling of body weight pressed into his chest. It’s a muscular figure, long and tall, so it must be Satoru. He’s pressed into Suguru’s stomach, body curled small in a near comical way as he attempts to tuck himself beneath Suguru’s chin. The long-haired man nearly huffs a chuckle as he pries open his tired eyes to see his partner. 

Suguru runs a loving hand over the mess of pale white strands that fall into Satoru’s eyes, his lips quirking upwards softly as he smiles. Satoru nuzzles closer in his sleep, letting out a happy sigh as Suguru runs his nails through the other’s undercut. Then Suguru shifts, turning over his shoulder slowly to find you as his hand reaches out to pull you closer.

But you’re not there. 

Suguru startles. Jolting silently as his heart skips a frightened beat, the sorcerer’s eyes rip open as they dilate. His hand finds an empty bed, the sheets cold and the imprint of your figure long lost. Suguru carefully untangles himself from his lover’s long limbs, his long, dark hair falling into his eyes as he sits upright. 

“Baby?” his deep, tired voice rumbles in question. Where are you? He nearly asks, heart pounding in his chest. Are the kids okay? 

Suguru knew it was weird you had chosen to sleep on the edge of the bed tonight. You’re usually more than happy to bury yourself in between them, cuddling close and nuzzling into their chests as you try to pull yourself even tighter into their embrace. 

But last night, you gently pushed Suguru into your place, offering him a wave of your hand and a lame excuse as to why you wanted to sleep on the outside. Something about not wanting to sleep yet, he remembers. 

He waits a moment, hoping you’ve just gotten up to use the restroom and you’ll return to them soon. The sound of Satoru’s quiet breaths echo through the space, and has to fill the long seconds by tracing his fingers over his lover’s back. Tracing gentle lines over the defined muscles, Suguru sighs softly and tries to calm his racing pulse. 

A minute passes. Then another. And one more – until Suguru isn’t sure how long he’s been waiting. 

Then Suguru cannot resist the swell of panic that ripples through his stomach. 

His heart lurches in his chest as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, too panicked to offer Satoru more than a hushed sound and a stroke over his back when he tiredly mumbles in protest. 

“‘M just gettin’ up for a sec,’” he mumbles quietly, swallowing back the lump in his throat when he sees the light in the bathroom on. “I’ll be back, love.” 

Satoru grumbles something else, but is soothed when Suguru presses a gentle kiss to his brow. 

“M’kay,” Satoru sighs, easily falling back asleep as he snuggles into the warmth Suguru left behind on the bed. If he wasn’t so worried, Suguru would smile, his heart clenching tight in his chest as he watches Satoru curl into his spot with a soft sound. 

When Suguru stands, adjusting his sweats as he quietly makes his way to the bathroom, he pulls his hair from his eyes. Brushing the strands over his bare shoulder, he sighs as he fiddles for a hair tie in his pocket. He doesn't find one, so he simply pushes the dark strands back from his brow, letting them fall behind him and settle against his bare back. 

You’ve always liked it when his hair is loose anyway. 

Suguru knocks on the bathroom door first. It’s quiet, but you should be able to hear it. When you don’t respond, Suguru frowns and tries again. Knocking gently once more, he swallows as another wave of panic curls in his stomach. 

“Sweetheart?” he tries quietly, voice still rumbling deeply from the slumber he was pulled from. “You’ve been in there a while, honey. Are you alright?” 

Still, you don’t respond. 

You want to. Of course you want to. It’s Suguru, and you don’t want to worry him. 

But the waves of agonizing cramps have stolen your voice. All you can do is sit still and breathe. You feel utterly useless. There’s nothing you can do but control the slow pace of your breaths in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from the crippling sensation radiating from your stomach. 

You want to respond – tell him you’re alright, tell him something, but the agony seals your lips shut. It’s horrible and another wave of tears spill from your tired eyes. You hate it. You wish you would stop crying; it’s not helping and it only makes you feel weak. 

“Baby? I’m gettin’ worried.” 

All you can manage is a sad, weak sound in response. It leaves your lips in more a sob than a hum, and you muffle the tears that shiver through you after. 

“Honey!” Suguru murmurs worriedly, trying to twist the handle of the door, only to curse when he discovers it’s locked. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” 

He shifts on his feet, lifting a hand to pull on the strands on his hair to soothe some of his panic. The sound you manage in response is another broken hum, and it only worsens the thundering pulse of Suguru’s heart. His gut twists as he tries the knob again, as if a few seconds will have changed the status of the lock. 

You whine and Suguru swears his heart cracks. His head presses against the door as his eyes squeeze shut, fist still closed around the handle. 

“Can you open the door f’me, sweetheart?” he murmurs desperately. “‘M really worried about you.” 

Your eyes close, the watery burn rendering them useless as you sniffle. You huff around another breath of pain, pushing your head further into your knees. Trembling softly as your skin flushes, you battle against the waves of agony and the flash of heat that makes you feel sickly. Another wave of nausea ripples in your gut, and you remember how awful you must look. 

Your hair is plastered against your head and your neck and you must look a mess. Wearing a pair of oversized sweats and one of Suguru’s shirts, you feel utterly gross. More than anything you want to open the door and let Suguru take you in his arms. Cuddling into his firm chest and feeling his big arms wrap around you would probably feel nice, but you’re all too aware of how sickly you must look. 

You don’t want him to see you like this: sweaty, messy and sick as you curl in on yourself as you weep through another terrible cramp. You just want to sleep – you want it to stop, everything needs to stop. 

Suguru hums out another question, but you don’t really hear it. It’s not until you hear the lilt of panic in his voice and his voice fiddling with the handle of the door do you manage to find your voice. 

“Sugu…” 

He startles. Head darting up to the door in front of him, Suguru breathes a sigh of relief and chokes out your name. 

“Open the door, darling,” he whispers softly. “Please…” 

You shake your head even though you know he can’t see it. Frowning as you sniffle, you lick your lips to taste salt and the disgusting hint of snot. You’re a mess, and you don’t want him to see you. 

“No, Sugu,” you manage to mutter, head knocking back to rest against the wall as you continue to focus on breathing through your mouth. You visibly shiver through another cramp, this time seizing and whining as it echoes through your legs. 

Suguru bites down on his lip, feeling another sliver of his heart crack at the broken sound of your voice. It pains him, your defeated sigh. He desperately wants to comfort you, to bring you into his chest and kiss your tears away. His hands ache to touch your skin, to feel the warmth he knows by heart. Closing his eyes as he rests his forehead against the wood of the door, Suguru sighs and swallows as he speaks again. 

“Why not?” he murmurs worriedly, voice clipping words from fatigue pulling at his figure. “I need t’know you’re alright, my love.” 

“Don’t wan’ you t’see me.”

Suguru’s head tilts and the lump in his throat swells. Heart clenching sadly, one of his hands lifts to rest on the door, as if he can reach you on the other side if he tries hard enough. He knows he can get through this door if he really wanted. It would be too easy for him to splinter the frame with his strength alone, and he has more than one curse at his disposal that could pick a lock smoothly. 

It’s the sound of your voice that holds him back. 

You’re so… tired. You’re broken whisper echoes through the wooden door with a sad coo, and it makes Suguru’s chest ache. 

“My sweet girl…” Suguru whispers, fingers trailing across the wood like they’re desperate to stroke across your cheek. “Why don’t you want me to see you?” 

You frustratedly sigh, cursing the tears that continue to track down your cheeks. No matter what you do, they keep dripping over your skin in tiny rivulets, staining your face with tracks of dried salt. You wipe them away but they’re quickly replaced by another stream. 

You just want to sleep. 

“I don’t feel good, Sugu,” you sigh tiredly, voice quivering around tears. It’s pathetic – how watery you sound. You wish you were stronger. “I look bad and I don’t want wan’ t’keep you an’ Toru awake.” 

You don’t feel good? He nearly questions. Why didn’t you wake me? 

But all he does is sigh softly, fists clenching against the door. For a moment he contemplates waking Satoru, knowing you probably won’t be able to resist them both. Though, when he turns over his shoulder, Suguru sees the bags beneath his lover’s eyes and the tired slump of his form in their sheets. 

Satoru needs his sleep. It’s difficult enough for him to find slumber when the Six Eyes strains him dry. 

Suguru lets him rest. 

He murmurs your name again, his eyes closing as he continues to rest against the door. 

“I’m in love with you, you know?” Suguru sighs sweetly, his lips lifting slightly to reveal a fond smile. “You could never ‘look bad’ to me, my darling.” 

Shifting on his feet and looking up at the ceiling, his shoulders sag as he worries. What if you don’t open the door? He’s considering settling on the floor with his back against the door when he whispers again. 

“And you don’t need t’worry about keepin’ me awake, alright? I want you t’come to me when you’re not feeling good.” 

He pauses once, dropping his hand from the knob as he breathes. 

“I worry about you, honey,” he finishes. “I just need to know you’re okay.” 

You sniffle, feeling the cramp finally seep away to nothing. They’re not over, you can feel another wave rising from beneath the last, but at least they offer you a single moment to reach up and twist the lock. 

It’s too much for you to handle alone. 

You want to bury yourself in Suguru’s strong arms and weep as the pain shivers through you. If there’s nothing you can do to soothe the agony, then at least you won’t be alone. 

“Okay.”

Suguru hears the lock click. 

Gasping softly, he pulls himself upright and reaches down to grip the handle of the door with a skip of his heart. He was pondering waiting outside the door in the fading light of the moon when you whispered the tired word. His chest aches when he twists the knob, pulling the door open to reveal your figure.

You’re curled on the floor, calves crossed and legs pulled into your chest as you bury your head into your knees. Your arms wrap around yourself, one hand clutching the hot water bottle pressed tightly to your stomach. 

Suguru frowns, his heart thumping sadly as you weep out another broken sound. His entire body aches in a way he cannot describe, physically pained at the choked sounds of agony leaving your lips. He’s already on his knees at your side when you lift your head, looking up at him through your tears and your lip quivering in a way he knows you cannot control. 

He’s never seen you look so hurt. 

“Oh, sweetheart…” he coos quietly, putting the pieces together as you shiver through another wave of crippling cramps, hand squeezing tight around your leg – your period. “You’re not alright.” 

“No,” you weep, shaking your head with watery eyes leaking salty droplets down your cheeks, and you suck in a shaking breath as your fists clench. Your brow furrows as your eyelids squeeze shut, unable to mask the pain as it ripples through you. Suguru’s face softens into an expression of pain, frowning sadly. You have a high pain tolerance for your period cramps – he knows that. You’ve had painful periods your whole life, and he and Satoru have seen you conceal the agony in your features for years. 

This is a knife to his heart. 

You can’t conceal the sweat on your brow, nor the tremble of your fingers and the painful gasp of breath you suck in when the pain returns tenfold. 

“It hurts, Sugu…” 

“I know, I’m sorry,” he whispers sadly, desperately wishing there’s something he can do to stall the agony. “C’mere, honey.”

Suguru’s mouth twists into an expression of pain, and he carefully wraps an arm around your shoulders. Pulling you away from the wall, the dark-haired man maneuvers you into his chest as he sits onto the floor. You twist into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his frame as you weep softly into his bare chest, caring little for the tears that stain his skin. Suguru could care less. He’s far too worried about the expression plastered onto your features and the shiver that trembles through you. 

“How long have you been up?” he whispers as he cradles you in his lap, hand stroking over your hair and strong arm wrapping around you. 

You shake your head and Suguru’s frown deepens – if it’s even possible. 

“Haven’t slept yet.” 

Suguru’s hair falls into his eyes as he leans down to press a gentle kiss between your brows. He stays there, breathing through his noses as he continues to lay tiny kisses to your forehead. His eyes screw shut, hand stroking over your cheek as you bury yourself deeper into his embrace. 

Your skin is warm, flushed with heat and your hair sticks to your forehead in a way Suguru knows must make you feel sickly. He carefully strokes the strands away and kisses the skin beneath with a soft sigh. 

“Have you been awake all night?” he finally whispers, voice deep and quietly sad. “With cramps like this?”

You nod into his chest, wincing again and closing your eyes as you sob through another agonizing cramp. Your legs shake as you tuck them into yourself together, trying desperately to push the hot water bottle deeper into your skin. 

“Oh, baby…” he sighs, leaning back to rest against the wall and pull you back into him. He strokes another hand across your face, thumbing the space between your brows when he sees the way they’re scrunched. “Why didn’t you wake me?” 

You sigh and breathe a few times to steady yourself, slowly loosening your fists when Suguru pries your fingers open to intertwine his own around yours. He pulls your hands into his chest, tucking them by his heart so you can feel the pulse of his heart. He hopes you don’t notice how quick it’s beating. He’s still worried. Suguru cannot help the way his heart lurches when you wince. As if each throb of agony is his own, Suguru buries his face closer to your own, clutching onto your hand and not faltering when you tighten your grip to counter the waves of pain echoing through you. 

“You’ve got work in the morning,” you pant quietly, voice still watery and weak. “And you an’ Toru gotta’ take the kids.” 

“Honey…” he sighs sweetly. “You’re in pain… I want you t’wake me if you’re in pain, sweetheart. No amount of sleep could soothe me if you’re hurt and alone.” 

You manage a hum in response, face still screwed shut and Suguru frowns when you muffle another sob as a cramp seizes you once more. 

“Okay, baby… Okay,” he whispers, rocking you into him a little in an attempt to distract you. Now is not the time for a lecture, he supposes.“You’re alright, darling. You’re gonna be alright.” 

He hates the sound of your tears. 

When you shudder through another agonizing sound, Suguru’s face crumples. He’s never felt so useless. You’re in agony, and he can do nothing to fix it. 

“You took your painkillers?” 

You nod again, weeping into his chest and squeezing his hand tight. 

“Three,” you mumble tiredly, focusing on the feeling of Suguru’s warm, bare chest pressed against your skin. It’s grounding and you don’t want to move. “They aren’t working.”

“How long ago?” 

He doesn't want to pester you with questions, but he’s desperately pulling at strings, hoping one will grant him the solution to your pain. 

“Midnight,” you manage. You wince again, and Suguru peppers kisses along your hairline, gently hushing you. You curl tighter into yourself, desperately huffing as the pain continues to swell higher. It feels like it will break at any moment, but it just… doesn’t. The agony continues to rise, as if there is no limit to its torment. The cramping sensation just comes back again and again, until you’re sure that there’s something wrong. How can a period be so painful? 

“It hurts so bad, Sugu,” you cry, reaching the end of your tether. You’re desperate for the ache to stop, but it feels like there’s no  point of end in sight. “I just want it to stop…” 

Suguru feels his stomach twist, heart crying out in a pattern of your name. He pulls you tighter, a wave of his own tears swelling behind his eyes. Your cries chip at his heart, pieces of his soul falling apart in your agony. He wishes he could do something – use some kind of technique to null the pain, to soothe you, anything. 

“I know, honey,” he soothes, cradling you closer and rubbing his finger over your cheek as he murmurs into your hairline. “I’m sorry I can’t do anything more. I’m sorry I can’t take this from you.” 

You shake your head, clutching him tight as you attempt to focus on your breaths again. Hand wrapped tightly around his own, you try to use his touch as a grounding sensation. Eventually, the lulling motion of his finger over your cheek and his lips at your hairline soothe some of the tension beneath your skin. You relax into his touch despite the continuous waves of cramps still panging through your stomach. 

“Just stay,” you weep, lifting your other hand from your stomach to clutch behind Suguru’s head. You hold onto his neck, burying your fingers in his soft hair and desperately inhale his familiar scent. Suguru is familiar – he’s safe. “Please…”

You don’t have to worry about anything as long as Suguru and Satoru are around. 

“Always, sweetheart,” he whispers against you, dropping the hand at your cheek to press your hot water bottle into your stomach for you. “Always. You don’t have t’ask.” 

 His large hand keeps your bottle in place, spreading across your stomach and rubbing soothing circles into your waist with his thumb. His hand is big enough to settle on your stomach and the fabric of your hot water bottle. 

Suguru hates this. He hates seeing you in pain. He hates that all he can do is sit and press delicate kisses to your hairline as you writhe in agony. It physically pains him to be unable to help – to have to watch as one of the loves of his life suffers. 

Suguru buries his nose into your hair and kisses you once more, whispering sweet words of encouragement and humming in an attempt to distract you. He loves you so much, and he hopes you know that. 

“You’re doing so well, my darling.”  

Eventually, the wave passes, and you limply release your intense grip on his fingers and relax into his hold. It’s a slow process. Finally succumbing to some brief glimpse of exhaustion, you slip loosely into Suguru’s hold and trust him to catch you. There will be another cramp soon, but at least this one is over. You breathe out a sigh and look up at Suguru with tears on your lashes. 

Strands of his dark hair fall into his eyes, and Suguru has never looked more beautiful to you. Sitting on the bathroom floor with you three hours past midnight, no shirt and a loose pair of sweats on his hips (ones he’s not sure are his own), and Suguru has never looked so endearing. The way he looks down at you, bangs dangling in front of his dark eyes and full lips leaning down to kiss your face gently; he’s princely. 

Your heart finally slows to an acceptable pace as Suguru leans down, and you close your eyes as he lays a soft kiss to one of your eyelids. His full lips peck sweetly against one, then he leans away to kiss the other. Your eyes well with tears again, but this time you think they’re for a different reason. 

“Hi,” he whispers sweetly, lips lifting to show you that tiny smile of his that makes your heart do funny things. You’re too tired to offer much more than a sigh and a quirk of your lips, but Suguru is grateful for the expression all the same. 

“Hi, Sugu.” 

“Are you feeling any better?” 

You shake your head, sighing quietly as you shift.

“Not really.”

Suguru frowns again, and you’re tempted to lift your thumbs to pull his lips upwards again. Suguru looks so much prettier when he smiles. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” he whispers. “Do you wanna get off the floor, at least? The bed’s much more comfortable and Toru’s gonna start worrying soon.”

You figure now is the best time to try moving, so you nod. There’s probably only a few minutes between these waves of terrible cramps, so you’ll take the moment you have to get back into bed. 

“M’kay,” you sigh tiredly. Suguru's expression softens for a reason you don’t understand, but the sorcerer fondly smiles as he thinks of the same sound Satoru had made just minutes before. 

“Alright, love. Let’s get you up, alright?”

You nod again, allowing Suguru to unwind his limbs from yours. He softly chuckles when you whine as his fingers unlace from your own, but readjusts his grip to carefully pull you to stand. He holds his other hand out, tenderly helping you stand. 

“Careful…” he whispers. “Go slow, baby.” 

Your head spins as you stand and you lift a hand to press against your temple. The rolling tide of nausea in your stomach had quelled for the time being, but the tremble of your legs is still too apparent. You step forward shakily, reaching out to grasp Suguru’s outstretched hand with a grateful smile. He returns the look with soft eyes and nods sweetly as he allows you to step out of the bathroom first. 

When he’s certain you can stand on your own, Suguru turns over his shoulder to turn off the bathroom light and shut the door. 

But he only gets so far. 

Suddenly, you inhale sharply. Freezing in place, your body curls inwards on itself as a blinding swell of cramps overtakes your form. This one is sharp and crippling, radiating down your legs until even your calves feel weak. Your body is suddenly too hot, and the air is far too cold. Shivers trickle down your spine and you feel that all too familiar bolt of stifling panic strike through your chest. It runs through the entirety of your figure, sizzling beneath your skin and striking each nerve it passes. You feel that terrible curl of your stomach and the waves of oncoming panic filter through you.

You sway on your feet. 

Something’s wrong. And it’s making you panic. 

You open your mouth, lip quivering as you attempt to croak out a plea of Suguru’s name, but nothing comes. Some tired, broken whine leaves your lips instead – a desperate cry for help, for Suguru.

When Suguru turns around, head whipping over his shoulder sharply, he expects to see you headed towards his side of the bed. Instead, he’s met with your body swaying slightly as you pant and shiver. Suguru thinks his heart stops. 

Then your body stills, and you crumple. 

“Baby!” 

Suguru throws himself forward, just managing to grab your figure as it goes limp. He sways, shifting your weight into his arms and panicking as you continue to sink into the floor. Your body is dead weight in his hands, still shivering but cold and unmoving. 

He’s going to be sick. 

His stomach curls as bile spills onto the back of his tongue, and Suguru can hear his heart pound in his ears. The lump is back in his throat, swelling until he can barely suck in a desperate breath to calm his panicked heart. Fuck, he’s never been so scared. 

“Baby, oh fuck!” he cries, voice no longer quiet and delicate. Suguru openly shouts, desperately trying to carefully maneuver you to the floor, but his mind is screaming thousands of things at him at once. All he can hear is the roaring in his eardrums. His eyes scan over your limp figure and Suguru swears his heart cracks. He can feel it; deep within his chest, a splinter finally cleaves open. 

“Oh my god, okay,” Suguru chokes out, carefully cradling you as he sinks to his knees. “You’re alright, okay? I’ve got you, honey.”

He doesn’t know what to do. His heart is pounding and his soul is openly weeping. There are tears welling in his eyes and dragging down the pristine skin of his cheeks. 

Suguru doesn't know what to do. 

“Okay,” he whispers frightfully. “Okay…”

You’re laying on your back, facing the ceiling, and the way your blank expression stares back at him makes him nauseous. 

“Sweetheart?” he calls carefully, brushing a hand over your cheek to push hair away from your face. “Baby, c’mon…” 

You don’t respond. There’s not even a twitch in your brow or a flick of your fingers. You’re unconscious. Suguru’s heart accelerates again, pounding until he thinks it might burst from his bony rib cage. He turns over his shoulder with a broken cry, calling for the one person he so urgently needs. 

“Satoru!” 

His voice is panicked, shouted with a guttural cry and he thinks it might echo through the house, but Suguru vaguely hopes he doesn't wake the kids. 

“Satoru, wake up!”

But Satoru is already awake. 

Lurching forward in the bed, the Six Eyes user is already throwing the sheets away from his legs as he scans the room. His technique is activated, and Suguru can feel the familiar curtain of Infinity wrap around his body. 

“Suguru?” Satoru calls as he stands, his body tense and prepared to fight. “What happened? Are you alright?” 

Suguru doesn’t have the chance to respond, because Satoru steps forward and his crystalline eyes find his lover’s hunched figure crouched in the doorway of the bathroom, bent over the body of their wife. You’re limp on the floor, hair sprawled out beneath you as Suguru cradles your head and glances up at his partner with desperate, fearful eyes. 

Satoru thinks he’s dying. 

It’s the only possible explanation for the lack of oxygen in his lungs and the stuttered pulse of his heart. His legs wane at his knees, nearly propelling him into the floor, but Satoru manages to keep himself upright as he throws his hands forward to brace himself on the bathroom doorway. 

“What…?” Satoru whispers breathily, voice uncharacteristically quiet – uncharacteristically weak. “What happened?” 

His Six Eyes are activated, flickering over every crevice of your form. They’re urgent, desperate to find the source of your pain. When they find nothing, Satoru swallows back a sound of desperation. 

“She passed out,” Suguru whispers plainly, panic evident in the quiver of his voice. “She started her period early, Toru. She’s in so much pain…”

Satoru feels his knees wane again. His heart can’t take much more of this. She’s in pain? His soul cries. 

“She’s been laying on the bathroom floor crying,” his lover mumbles, stroking a hand over your cheekbone as a tear drips into his mouth. “I shouldn’t have asked her t’get up – she was weak and I didn’t think –”

“Suguru.” 

The dark-haired sorcerer stops. Lifting his head to stare up at Satoru, Suguru frowns. 

“This isn’t your fault, Suguru,” Satoru whispers, trying desperately to keep himself calm. His heart is in his throat and his pulse roars, but he cannot allow himself to weaken. Suguru needs him – you need him. 

“She’s not waking up…”

Satoru sucks in a breath, his hands curling into the doorframe and gripping the wood until he thinks it will splinter beneath his grip. And it might. Satoru has to be mindful of the strength he uses. 

‘She’s not waking up.’ The phrase echoes through his head until it’s the only thing he can process. You’re not waking up. His wife isn’t waking up. 

“Is she…” Satoru doesn't even know if he can say what he wants to know – what he needs to know. The words make him ill. “Is she breathing?” 

Suguru chokes out a desperate sound. He hadn’t even considered…

And he doesn't want to. 

His hand seizes one of yours, wrapping tightly around your fingers as he pulls it into his chest as he did before. He pleads for you to wake up and feel his heart pulse against your fingers again, just as you had minutes ago. He delicately thumbs over your pulse point, hand sliding down your neck where he cradles your cheek. 

Suguru openly weeps when the thumping beat of your heart races beneath his fingers in greeting. 

“Yeah…” he sobs out weakly, pushing his forehead into your chest. “Yeah, she’s breathing.” 

Satoru sags in relief.

“Okay,” he covers his mouth with one of his palms, trying to suppress the broken sound that nearly leaves him. “Okay, that’s good.” 

Before either man can ascertain what to do, there's rustling at the doorway. It’s a quiet sound, just a soft coo and the creak of the door as it slides open. Satoru’s head whips around, his fingers twitching to activate his technique when he falters. 

Because seven year old Fushiguro Megumi stands in the doorway: his son. 

Megumi’s clutching a plush dog, one that looks remarkably familiar to his Divine Dogs. The soft, dark fur is cradled in his hands as he hugs the stuffed animal to his chest. The plush nearly conceals him entirely, and his dark, spiky hair pokes out over the red mark on the dog’s forehead. It’s a matching toy – the dark one was a gift from Suguru while the white counterpart came from Satoru. They were presents (custom-made plushies) ordered by his fathers when Megumi successfully summoned his Divine Dogs for the first time. 

Satoru still whines when Megumi prefers the dark stuffed animal to the white one. But Satoru doesn't know that Megumi snuggles the alabaster-coated dog when he’s gone on long missions. The boy barely goes anywhere without it until his father comes home. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Megumi tiredly mumbles, one of his hands lifting to rub at his eyes as he yawns. His too big shirt, one of Satoru’s shirts from their youth, hangs over his frame and covers his knees. You were the one to tuck your son into bed last night, and Satoru doesn’t have the moment to fondly think of his boy asking to wear one of his dad’s shirts to bed. 

Satoru sucks in a quiet breath, quickly glancing over his shoulder at Suguru. His husband is still on the bathroom floor, bent over your unconscious figure, but he looks up at Satoru with a silent nod. He’s alright. You’re alright. 

Satoru sighs and turns back to Megumi, suddenly glad the ensuite bathroom is hidden from the doorway to their bedroom. He doesn't want Megumi to see his mother unconscious, or his fathers’ panic. He doesn’t want Megumi to see him scared. Satoru is his father – he needs to show his son that everything is going to be alright. 

Swallowing down his tempered fear, Satoru tries to conceal the quiver of his voice when he responds to his son. 

“It’s –” Satoru stops. He can’t say ‘it’s nothing.’ Because it’s not nothing; and he won’t lie to his son. “It’s alright, Megumi.”

That’s what he decides to say instead. Satoru breathes through his nose deeply as he tries not to turn back over his shoulder to check on you again. 

“Mama’s just having some cramps, she’ll be okay.” 

Megumi nods. He knows what Satoru means, because Geto Suguru would be damned before he raised a son that thinks menstruation was ‘gross.’ Megumi doesn’t know everything – he’s still a kid, afterall. He does know, however, that his mother is plagued with terrible pain once a month, and that it’s completely natural to talk about it. 

Megumi toddles on his feet, the fatigue of the early morning hour making him uncharacteristically soft. He’s usually quite stoic for a kid, exhibiting the same, blank sort of look impassively. But no matter how quiet, you and the boys are well-adept at deciphering your kid’s feelings by now. 

With sleep tugging at his eyes, Megumi paws at his tired lids and yawns sweetly. Shifting his balance again, the boy looks up at Satoru with a tiny, sweet frown.

“Mama’s hurting?” he pouts, bottom lip sticking out slightly. His fists tighten around his stuffed dog, eyes shifting around Satoru to try to get a glimpse of you. Fortunately, Suguru has already readjusted you in his arms and you’re both hidden in the ensuite bathroom. 

“Yeah…” Satoru coughs to conceal the tremor of his voice. “Yeah, Mama’s hurting a little. But she’s strong, remember? She’ll be alright, her cramps will go away soon.” 

He doesn’t know if his words are an attempt to convince Megumi or himself. 

 From behind Satoru, Suguru strokes another thumb over your cheekbone. He inhales a shaking breath as he feels the frightful warmth of your skin. 

“C’mon…” he whispers in the tiny space that separates you. “Wake up, sweetheart. Let me see those pretty eyes again.” 

Swallowing thickly, Suguru’s throat bobs as a tear begins to leak down his cheek. 

“Please.” 

He’s lost. Suguru doesn’t know what to do other than count the seconds since you’ve gone still in his arms. Each one feels longer than the last, but Suguru continues to count them. He doesn’t know why he does it. Perhaps some part of him thinks there is a certain point at which he’ll need to call for help. Is there a distinct period of time that has to pass before you need medical attention? 

Suguru curses himself for not paying enough attention to Shoko’s basic first-aid lessons. 

Satoru’s head flicks over his shoulder, crystalline-blue eyes finding your face as his heart clenches again. He’s conflicted. More than anything, he wants to drop to his knees at your side, just as Suguru has. He wants to clutch your remaining hand and feel the pulse of your heart as a reminder that you’re still there – still breathing. His heart hurts; torn between lingering at your side and comforting his son.

But then Satoru remembers the way you look at your kids. He recalls the fond crease of your eyes when you beam down at them, smiles shining and hands drawing them into you for an embrace. You love your kids more than anything, even though you’ve only had them for a few years now. Even though they’re not your biological kids, even though they’re not babies, and despite not even wanting children before them; they’re your pride and joy. 

Satoru finds the strength within him to smile fondly. He knows you would be pushing him in Megumi’s direction if you had any semblance of consciousness right now. 

Satoru tries not to frown at the reminder of your state. 

Turning on his feet, Satoru steps away from the door, even as his heart cries out for him to return to your side. The remainder of his heart calls for his son – his boy, who is beginning to worry about his mother. It’s evident in the way Megumi shifts on his feet, fiddling with the soft fur of his stuffed pup. 

When Satoru drops to his knees in front of Megumi, he spreads his arms wide in an invitation. He doesn’t expect Megumi to accept; he rarely does. Satoru is affectionate, it’s a sentiment clear as day, and Megumi usually prefers to avoid physical touch. He’s shy that way. 

So Satoru is fondly surprised when Megumi toddles tiredly on his feet as he leans into his father’s embrace. Wrapping his arms tight around his son, Satoru stands from the floor with his heart beginning to return to a normal pace. Having Megumi in his arms is a comfort that soothes some of his rampaging nerves. The knowledge that the rest of his family is safe is a notion that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. Satoru knows he won’t find sleep for the rest of the night if he doesn’t peek into the girl’s room later to ensure they’re sleeping peacefully. 

“It’s alright, Gumi,” Satoru whispers softly, stroking a hand through the spiky strands of the boy’s hair. Megumi rests his head on Satoru’s shoulder with a sigh. “Why did you wake up so early, bud?” 

Megumi wraps an arm around Satoru’s neck, the other still cradling his pup between them. He closes his eyes and sighs sleepily once more as he mumbles in response. 

“Heard Dad yell,” he tiredly whispers. He fiddles with a strand of Satoru’s white hair before he sheepishly continues. “I was scared…”

Satoru tries his hardest not to tease the boy. He knows it’s in his nature to make light of situations with humor, but Satoru also understands that this, perhaps, is not the time. Despite wanting to make Megumi feel better by laughing off the problem, Satoru also remembers the horrible strike of panic that had bolted through him when he heard Suguru yell. 

Waking up to Suguru crying out for you as you collapsed was horrifying, and Satoru can only imagine how frightening it was for Megumi. 

“Oh Gumi, I’m sorry,” Satoru whispers, rocking on his feet in an attempt to comfort the boy. Even though Megumi isn’t a baby, Satoru cannot help the instinctive sway of his feet as he runs a hand through his hair. “Dad didn’t mean to shout, pup. He was just worried about Mom.” 

Megumi nods softly, snuggling closer to Satoru’s chest in a way that makes the father’s heart ache. 

“Can I… Can I help?” Megumi quietly questions, words spoken only for his father to hear. “Mom always makes me feel better when I’m sick.” 

Megumi mumbles something else; something that sounds like ‘don’t wan’ mom t’feel bad,’ but it’s muffled into Satoru’s neck and he barely catches it. 

Satoru smiles despite the panic still roaring in his chest. The way Megumi calls you ‘mom’ and Suguru ‘dad’ has always made him a little emotional. It took more than a year for Megumi to truly grow comfortable in your makeshift family, but eventually the boy’s cautious exterior melted away into what he really was: a kid looking for a home – a family. He was abandoned for God’s sake, Satoru knows the kid was guarded when he found him. And he had every right to be. 

But in just a few short years, Megumi has begun to call Tsumiki and the twins his sisters and on rare occasions, he’ll call Satoru his father. However, he knows those nights will always end in Satoru smothering him with affections and playful teases so he refrains from doing it often. Satoru does not take offense; he knows Megumi is shy. 

“Yeah, she takes good care of us, huh?” Satoru murmurs fondly as he rubs a hand over his son’s back. 

Before Satoru can reassure Megumi further, he’s interrupted when Suguru lets out a relieved sound over his shoulder. It’s a strange sort of combination of a sob and a gasp, but Satoru hears it all the same. 

“Sweetheart…?” Satoru hears Suguru call, voice brighter but still wavering through the short syllables. 

There’s a muffled sound of shuffling, then a groan and a cough before Suguru is concealing his tears in your neck. 

Satoru exhales with relief, shoulders sagging as his eyes slide shut. He rubs a hand over Megumi’s back in the hopes the boy doesn’t see the fear slowly seeping from his father. 

Inside the bathroom, Suguru clutches your hand tight to his chest, squeezing it thankfully and burying his face in your neck as he bends over you. Blinking slowly, you huff a choked breath and shakily reach upwards to lay your palm over Suguru’s head. Tangling your fingers in the mess of loose, dark hair you sigh deeply through your mouth. It’s a relief to feel Suguru bent over you; his weight presses into your chest and grounds you as you come back to consciousness. Though you’re still dizzy and a bit panicked, the feeling is beginning to leech from your limbs like poison from a wound. 

Waking up was startling, and there’s a lingering sense of fear buzzing beneath your skin. It frightens you, and you clutch tightly onto Suguru with a tremble. The pain still twists in your stomach, but it’s nothing compared to how you felt before you passed out. 

“Suguru…” 

His name comes out in a sort of pleading cry, not unlike a frightened child, but you cannot help the way you long for his comfort. Tears leak from your eyes, another wave of salt that you find you cannot control. 

Suguru responds to your call with a sweet coo, pressing a wet kiss to the skin of your throat and rumbling deep within his chest to reassure you that he’s still there. Brushing your hair from your eyes, Suguru leans away to peck your temple and stare down at you with relief painted across his features. 

“You’re alright, honey. ‘S okay,” he whispers warmly, soothing the tension in your brow and brushing your tears away. When your eyes crack open, staring up at him with waning fear and confusion, Suguru huffs a laugh and smiles widely. “Hey, pretty girl.” 

 Your lips quiver upwards into a sort of sad smile, but Suguru is happy to see it despite the exhaustion in your features. Squeezing his hand, you look up at the dark-haired sorcerer as his hair falls into his eyes. 

“Wha’ happened?” 

Suguru looks over his shoulder, mouthing something you can’t hear, but you know he must be talking to Satoru. The muffled sound of his voice barely reaches your ears as you wade through the stream of your consciousness. You fight to keep Suguru in focus, and fortunately manage to cling to the waking world as sounds finally return to your senses. Something that sounds like “she’s alright, Toru,” rings through the bathroom, and then there’s the sound of Satoru replying but you can’t hear it. Your heart calls out for your other husband, and you squeeze Suguru’s hand in question. 

“You passed out, darling,” Suguru looks back down at you with a sad smile. He hushes you when you wiggle, trying to sit upright. “Careful, love, careful. You scared the shit out of me, you know?” 

Shooting him a sorry glance, you allow Suguru to gently lift you to a seated position every so slowly. He leans you against him, his thick thighs on either side of your hips as he lets you rest against his chest. You nod slowly as he delicately pulls your hair from your face and wraps his arms around you. 

“Sorry.”

Suguru shakes his head with a hum. 

“Don’t apologize, baby,” he whispers. “I’m just glad you’re awake. Are you feeling alright? How’s the pain?”

You slouch into his chest, wrapping your arms around your waist and nodding as your eyes slide shut. 

“‘S not so bad. Where’s Toru?”

Suguru’s heart clenches sweetly, feeling warmed by your desire for Satoru. He adores the two of you with his entire being, and watching both of you always strikes a fond chord within his chest.

“He’s taking care of Gumi,” Suguru murmurs, looking down at you with a lovesick expression you cannot see. When you sit up straighter, Suguru accommodates your position with a scooch of his hips and his arm falling into your lap. 

“Gumi’s awake?”

“Yeah,” your husband responds quietly. “I think he heard me shout when you fell. He came in a few minutes ago, and Satoru’s comforting him.”

Suguru sounds a little guilty when he mentions his outburst. He’s not embarrassed by any means; it was a cry shouted in overwhelming fear, so he feels no bashfulness for the tone of his voice. He does, however, feel guilty that he managed to wake his son in the process. 

“He’s worried about you, I think.”

We all are, he almost finishes. 

You sag into Suguru’s chest, weight sinking into the warmth of his bare skin as you slide your hand over the arm that is wrapped around you. Just as you begin to speak, Satoru peeks his head through the doorway. His body is twisted, obscuring Megumi’s view inside the bathroom. When he finds your gaze, Satoru visibly softens. 

“Hey, sweet girl,” Satoru rumbles, a fond smile spreading across his features. “You feeling alright?”

You nod tiredly, resting your head against Suguru’s clavicle.

“That’s good. We were really worried, honey.” 

Your sigh through your nose, trying to give him an apologetic look, but the fatigue is beginning to pull your eyelids downwards. Satoru’s gaze softens even further, if at all possible, and he continues. 

“Can Megumi come in? He’s worried about you,” Satoru reiterates his partner’s words, clearly holding the boy against his chest as he speaks. 

You’re about to nod, more than happy to cuddle with your son, when Suguru interrupts. Stroking a hand over your hip, the long-haired sorcerer hums. 

“Let us come out, love,” he responds, already beginning to shift you in his lap. “We can talk about this in bed. I think everyone’s a little tired right now.” 

You nod in agreement, feeling the ache of your muscles cry out for rest. Your arm trembles weakly when you lift your hand, and you frown at the lack of strength in your limbs. Suguru hushes you sweetly as he shifts you to sit upright as he stands. 

“You’re exhausted, baby. It’s normal.” 

Satoru murmurs his agreement on the other side of the doorway, already beginning to step away to set Megumi in the middle of your massive bed. He ensures the boy is comfortable as he stands upright, stretching his shoulders and turning to watch as Suguru hoists you up onto his hips slowly. Satoru figured he wasn’t going to let you walk after what happened the first time you tried. 

Suguru’s hand is carefully cradling your head and the other wraps beneath your hips, keeping you stable and pressed against his big frame. The sorcerer is incredibly strong from the years of exorcizing curses and teaching students, so carrying you to the bed, despite your muffled protests, is an easy venture. 

Setting you on the bed gently, you shift quickly to face Megumi as you lay back against the sheets. You nestle quickly into Suguru’s previous place in bed, already reaching out for your son as he nuzzles forward to latch onto your front. 

“Hey, hun,” you whisper kindly, brushing dark strands from Megumi’s eyes. “What’s going on, Gumi?”

The boy looks up at you, still clutching his Divine Dog plush, and frowns. Your head tilts in confusion, and you watch as Megumi makes himself comfortable in your arms, cuddling close to your stomach and closing his eyes. You don’t protest, heart warming sweetly as the boy snuggles close. He doesn’t usually cuddle like this, so you’ll take every opportunity to hug him as you can. 

“Dad said you’re feeling bad,” he mumbles into the stuffed dog now pressed between you. “‘M gonna make you feel better. Like you do when I’m sick.” 

You smile. Heart full, your eyes slide shut as you lean forward to press a gentle kiss to the tired boy’s forehead. He mumbles something else, but he’s fading fast. Soon he’s lost to slumber, and he snoozes peacefully in your embrace. 

“Thank you, Megumi,” you whisper as you press another soft kiss to your son’s forehead. Looking up at Satoru with tears brimming in your eyes, you find the white-haired sorcerer is already looking at you. There’s fondness spilling from his smile and a sweet gentleness in his expression, and he looks utterly lovesick. 

“Hey,” Satoru murmurs. 

“Hi.” 

The Six Eyes user steps away for a moment, nodding at Suguru who whispers that he’s going to step out to get you water and your medicine. Satoru knows he’s also going to check in on the girls, so he gives Suguru a smile and a peck on the cheek as he slides around the bed to your back. 

When Satoru climbs into the silken sheets, he immediately presses his bare chest into your back and wraps his strong arms around you and his son. Pressing his soft lips to the nape of your neck, he pulls you and Megumi into his chest as he relaxes. You feel the familiar tingle of Infinity wrap around you and smile tiredly. Satoru is always protecting you and your family. The technique easily wraps around you and Megumi in addition to Satoru, and you know the sorcerer will easily adapt it to cover Suguru soon too. 

That’s just Satoru; he’s always looking out for his family. 

When you sigh deeply and snuggle back into your husband, Satoru presses another gentle kiss to your neck and you feel him shake. 

“Toru?”

The man shivers again, and when you shift, turning slightly to see his face, your face crumples as you find tears leaking from Satoru’s eyes. He looks utterly relieved, but his mouth still twitches in a sad sort of way and his sky-blue eyes shimmer with salty tears. For all his silly teasing and childlike humor, Satoru rarely looks so… scared. He’s always so strong – the strongest. But there are truly rare circumstances in which Gojo Satoru is confronted with true fear. 

Circumstances in which he remembers how vulnerable his family can be. 

“Oh, Satoru…”

Satoru buries his face in your neck again, concealing his tears as he calms down. 

“I was so worried, baby. Oh my God,” he mutters into your skin. “I woke up and you were on the floor and Sugu was crying…” 

You pull his hands tighter around you, careful not to wake Megumi. Stroking gentle circles into the muscle of his forearms, you coo a soft sound to soothe him. 

“‘M alright now. Just a little bit of pain, it’s mostly gone.”

Satoru nods, clinging to your back as he finally grounds himself through the gentle touch of your fingers on his skin. He pulls you closer, seeming as though he’s trying to fuse his body to yours with how tight he binds himself to you. It’s the soft contact of your skin against his that soothes the beat of his heart and loosens the tension of his muscles. The tingly feeling that lingers on his skin where you press into him leaves trails of prickled nerves in their wake, as if physical contact between your bare skin incites a biological reaction beneath his flesh. 

With you in his arms, tightly wrapped in his embrace where he can feel the pulse of your heart against his chest, Satoru finds serenity. 

You’re here. And you’re safe. 

Satoru chews on his lip as he sighs. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, tucking his chin into your neck and dropping a hand to rub his palm over the side of your stomach. It’s uncanny, you think, that he already knows exactly where it hurts without you mentioning it. Satoru pays far more attention than people give him credit for. “I’m sorry I can’t do anything more to take it away.” 

You shake your head, fatigued eyes closing as you focus on the feeling of Satoru’s big hands and the gentle circles he massages into you. 

Satoru continues in a voice uncharacteristically weak for the Strongest. 

“You were… alone and in pain,” he mumbles, guilt seeping into his tone as he frowns. “And I didn’t even know – we didn’t.” 

Satoru carefully pulls your hair away from your neck to press a kiss to your bare shoulder and then one more against the skin of your throat. He inhales a wave of your familiar scent and flutters his eyes closed as he sinks into your back. 

“I don’t want you to suffer alone, my love.” 

You stroke a contemplative finger over his arm, humming quietly as you shift Megumi in your arms. 

“Okay, Toru,” you whisper as you find the mirth in your exhausted figure to tease him. “You want me to wake you up at the ass crack of dawn when I’ve got cramps?” 

Satoru muffles a small chuckle into your neck and you enjoy the feeling of his chest shaking with the feeling. 

“Yeah, baby. Even then. Especially then.” 

You huff a breath of laughter through your nose, only stopping when you swiftly inhale as another cramp seizes your abdomen. It’s strong, but nothing like the ones you were having earlier. You can manage these. Satoru leans up on his elbow when you stiffen, lifting his other hand to check the hot water bottle Suguru had returned to your stomach. 

When Satoru pulls the bottle away, his brow furrows and he hisses when he finds faint hints of inflamed skin where you’ve pressed it too tight to your belly. It’s too hot and too close, he realizes. It’s burning you. 

Satoru nearly sits upright quickly, his frame leaning over yours as he gasps faintly. 

“Honey…” He’s on the verge of scolding you, but he sees the way you wince through another cramp and decides against it. Satoru looks back down at the hot water bottle and the way you clutch it tightly to combat the waves of throbbing in your belly. 

“This is burning you,” he states it obviously. 

“Hmm,” you respond in agreement. “Feels nice.” 

Satory looks down at you with pain in his features, face twisted into a frown and his crystalline eyes a shade duller. 

“Baby, it’s hurting you – How can…?” 

Satoru trails off. He thinks about how terribly you must have been aching to continue pressing something that was burning you into your skin. How agonizing were your cramps that the pain of the burn was comforting? 

Satoru lays back down, a frown on his lips as he wraps his arm back around you and lays his palm over the hot water bottle. If you’re going to keep it pressed into your skin, then he can make sure it doesn’t get too warm by leaving his hand against it.

“My god, baby… I’m so sorry,” he whispers. He can’t even comprehend how agonizing this must be for you. Satoru kisses your nape again. He apologizes again, and you almost miss the silly Satoru who would typically be teasing you right now. “I’m sorry I can’t do anything.” 

You yawn, finally feeling exhaustion begin to drag you beneath the slow, rocking waves of slumber. Pushing yourself deeper into your husband’s embrace and squeezing your son tight once more, you sigh out a few more words before you finally sink into sleep’s warm hands. 

“You are doing something,” you murmur, pulling his hand up to your mouth to kiss it tiredly. “You’re here, Satoru. I don’t think I can do this alone anymore.” 

When Suguru climbs back into bed on Megumi’s other side, he kisses the fond smile on Satoru’s lips and teases his partner about the stars in his eyes. The crystalline-eyed sorcerer refutes Suguru’s quip by reaching out to gently slap his bicep, but it’s all in mirthful adoration. Suguru leans over to press a tender kiss to your sleeping brow and then one to his son’s, before he settles behind Megumi and sighs contentedly. 

“She’s sleeping?” Suguru whispers, voice barely carried through the quiet night. He stares down at your face, the peaceful expression on your lips far more comforting than the limp, placid look of unconsciousness he remembers. Satoru watches his husband watch you, adoration swelling in his heart like an ebbing tide. Unbound by all but the moon, Satoru swears his heart only grows fonder each time he truly takes in his partners. 

“She’s sleeping,” he confirms sleepily, still staring up at Suguru with warmth in his chest. 

“Good.” 

Suguru’s response is sighed out thankfully, his shoulders deflating with the tension easing away from his muscle. He wraps his arms around Megumi and pulls himself closer to the boy, smiling when he easily cuddles into his father. Not often does Suguru have the opportunity to snuggle his son, so he eagerly grins as Megumi’s sleeping form curls near. 

“She’s early,” Satoru mentions plainly from across Suguru. “She wasn’t supposed to start until next week.”

The dark-haired sorcerer nods, recalling the date he marked in his phone. He and Satoru both kept track; it was easier that way. At this point, though, Suguru is certain he doesn't need his calendar to know these things. Your anniversary is ingrained in his memory, as is every one of your important dates. The three of you have spent more than a decade together, this kind of instinct was certain to develop at some point or another. 

“Yeah,” Suguru sighs. He twists slowly to glance tiredly at the clock on his bedside. “She took some painkillers at midnight, can you write that down? If she wakes again she can take some more.” 

Satoru nods, a hand already reaching for his phone on the nightstand behind him. It was second-nature to jot down the time you took medication. You always tried to keep track yourself, but sometimes noting the time slipped your mind, and you were left trying to recall the last time you took them. Satoru easily adds the time to his notes, and marks the date in his calendar to adjust your future schedule later. He checks that there’s still a bottle of your preferred painkiller in his nightstand drawer and a granola bar to eat when you take them. 

When he sets the phone down, he looks back over at Suguru, who sleepily stares down at your sleeping face. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, but Satoru can see where Suguru has slid his around yours, pressing two of his fingers into the pulse point of your wrist. 

He’s counting your heartbeats – making sure you’re still breathing. Because Suguru remembers the way you crumpled all too clearly. 

Sighing a shaking breath as he familiarizes himself with the gentle thump of your lifeline, Satoru slides a hand around you and his son, and he lays it across his lover with a sad smile. Suguru looks up with tired eyes, the dark bags beneath his lashes barely visible in the night hour. They match the ones beneath your eyes and probably Satoru’s too. 

“Hey,” Satoru mumbles. “She’s alright, Sugu.” 

Suguru nods, finally sinking into the mattress and pressing a final kiss to Megumi’s hair as he makes himself comfortable. Satoru does the same, delicately squeezing the hand still wrapped around yours and cradled sweetly at your chest. 

“We’re alright,” Suguru confirms, eyes finally sinking closed as he falls back asleep with part of his family in his embrace. “We’re alright.” 

In the morning, you awake to two Divine Dogs guarding the foot of your bed. The white one sits with its side pressed against the dark one, and both face the bedroom door. You awake alone in bed, but you can hear distant voices quietly chatting in the hall. The little pups’ ears are perked upwards, diligently listening to the conversation outside. 

When you sit up, the white one flips his head over his shoulder, happily sticking his tongue out in a joyful expression. He pants and his tail thumps against the floor as you beckon him closer. 

“Good morning, pup,” you laugh as it wiggles excitedly when you scratch behind his ears. The dark-coated one quickly follows soon after, eagerly joining his brother for scratches. “What are you two doin’ here?” 

The pups tilt their heads with that silly, tongue-out expression, as if communicating their eagerness. You stifle your laughter and carefully stand from the sheets, making your way into the kitchen with the dogs on your heels. 

When you enter the living space, you find Suguru on the couch with the twins on either side of his lap. They’re eagerly leaning over one of Suguru’s books, excitedly murmuring amongst themselves as their father reads aloud. It’s one of his novels, and you chuckle knowing that the girls were probably the ones to pick it out for him to read. 

Tsumiki is at the table, leaning over some kind of puzzle, and her brother is at her side. She looks up as you come in, offering you a gentle smile and a nod before she goes back to her puzzle. Megumi sits on his knees in the chair, spiky hair unkempt as always and a look of concentration on his face. 

Before you can speak, Satoru is pressed against your back, greeting you with a gentle hum.

“G’morning, sweetheart,” he coos, pecking your cheek and sliding a croissant into your hands and holding a glass of water in his other. “Eat up. You can take some medicine when you’re done.” 

He always makes sure you eat before you take your medicine. Your heart thumps happily beneath your ribs, and you smile in return, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips and thanking him. 

“Thanks, love.” 

Satoru hums and slides his free hand over your waist to squeeze your hip. He opens his mouth to say something, but the twins interrupt him. They gasp, standing from Suguru’s lap and eagerly racing over to greet you. 

Suguru chuckles, but still gently chides them as they race into the kitchen. 

“Careful!” 

Nanako and Mimiko crash into your hips with eager sounds, each grabbing you around the waist and crying out.

“Mama!” They cry worriedly, scrambling to hug you as they bury their faces in your legs. They start pushing you towards the couch with little hands, earnestly murmuring things you cannot make out. You look up at Satoru with a confused furrow of your brow, and your husband only chuckles and holds his hands up in a gesture of ‘i’ve got nothing to do with this.’ 

When you reach the couch, the girls scramble to make you sit beside Suguru, who is all too eager to wrap an arm around your shoulders to accommodate your arrival. 

“Good morning,” he hums as he pecks your temple. 

Nanako is already sliding a blanket into your lap as Mimiko climbs onto the couch, depositing herself at your side and snuggling into you. 

“Good morning,” you respond, watching with a fond smile as the girls make themselves comfortable in your lap. “What’s all this?” 

Suguru chuckles, reaching out to gently ruffle Nanako’s hair as she smiles. The girl looks up at her father with a beaming grin and snuggles closer to you when you wrap an arm around her to keep her stable. Your husband leans closer with a smile, murmuring quietly for only you to hear. 

“Megumi told them you were sick last night,” he fondly whispers. “I think it worried them.” 

Your head tilts in an expression of tenderness, and you give Suguru a knowing look before you lean down to kiss both your girls on the forehead. 

“Good morning, girls,” you rumble happily. “I’m alright, sweethearts. Megumi and your dads took very good care of me.”

Mimiko wiggles closer, snuggling into you and her sister with big, worried eyes. 

“Really?” her tiny voice murmurs. “Megumi-nii said you were hurting.” 

You can almost hear the pout in her voice without looking down at her. Giggling happily, you stroke a hand over her head and squeeze her close. 

“He even brought out his puppies!” Nanako quickly adds, squirming as he attempts to find the two Divine Dogs. “He said we couldn’t come in to see you because you needed to rest.” 

The two Shikigami have already returned to their owner, sitting on either side of Megumi’s chair with wagging tails and their tongues still sticking out. The boy is absentmindedly petting one while he focuses on the puzzle, shyly avoiding your gaze as if embarrassed. 

Your heart clenches sweetly again, and you turn to look at Satoru with a knowing smile. The sorcerer returns the look as he steps into the kitchen for your painkillers, ruffling Megumi’s hair as he goes. The boy lets out a muffled sound of discontent, but he doesn’t fix his messy strands. 

“Did he? That’s very sweet of him.” 

You and Suguru do not mention the faint pinkness of Megumi’s round cheeks. 

When you lean into Suguru’s side, the croissant in your hand warm like your lover’s body heat, you sigh happily. The cramps are a faint memory now, even though you know they’ll return soon. For now, you can savor the warmth of your family. 

“You’re taking the day off then, I suppose,” you look up at Suguru with an arched brow. Suguru smiles, leaning his head into yours to rest there. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, cuddling close to you and the twins. “We all are.” 

You suppose you can deal with the consequences of their unscheduled departure from work and school later… You’re far too warm and content now. When Satoru returns, sliding a glass of water into your empty hand and two painkillers into your other, he patiently waits as you take the pills. Then he sets the glass on the side table beside the mug of raspberry leaf tea he brewed for your cramps,  and then he eagerly dives into the limited space left on the couch. 

Scrambling into the twins’ space, Nanako and Mimiko giggle happily as Satoru presses kisses over their faces and squirms onto the couch. He plops Mimiko into his lap so he can sit at your side, laughing when the girls squeal happily. As you settle, you see Megumi look up from the table, shyly glancing away from his sister. Tsumiki gives him a knowing look as she climbs from her chair and eagerly walks over to Suguru. 

Suguru is too happy to allow her the tiny portion of space on his other side, and Tsumiki slides onto the couch, her side pressed tight to Suguru’s. She offers you a good morning and laughs when the twins attempt to squirm away from Satoru’s tickling fingers. 

Eventually Megumi stands from his place at the table, looking over at the couch as he debates something internally. A moment later, he stands in front of Suguru, shyly shifting on his feet as he looks at the only empty space on the couch. 

Megumi doesn’t need to say anything, because Suguru is already lifting the boy into his lap with a smile. Saving his son the embarrassment of shyly asking for the affection he usually avoids, Suguru chuckles as he deposits the last member of his family into his lap. 

“We could all use a day off,” he murmurs into your temple as he kisses you sweetly. 

You sigh happily, soaking in the warmth of the morning sun and the laughter of your family. 

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” 

The moment is only interrupted when Megumi’s Divine Dogs, only pups at this age, launch themselves onto the couch, eager to join the snuggles. The seven of you dissolve into laughter as you try to maneuver the excited puppies, and you can’t ask for anything else. 

“Megumi!” You laugh, trying to brush white dog hair from your face. “Control your summons!” 

The boy only laughs happily as the dark-coated puppy wiggles into his lap. 

No, he doesn’t think he will. 

bonus:

gojo, looking down at reader and geto: you're so cute and pretty

reader, sleepily: I could beat the shit out of you

geto, nodding along: she could

gojo, lovingly: I know

a/n: no I am not back to writing just yet :')) I wrote this in a pain induced haze while having some terrible cramps so if you have terrible periods like me, this one is for you! this is purely based on my experience with cramps, and everyone is different, but I just wanted to write something for me :") I've never passed out but I've felt like it and I know it's super scary so I hope this can provide some comfort for you if you need it <3

ALSO this was written as comfort for jjk 236 :'))) bc everyone in this fic deserved better and I refuse to acknowledge canon

NOT ALLOWED ! izumi miyamura x reader

summary : bumping into the boyfriend of a really really jealous girlfriend would make your life hell

warnings : bullying, emotional distress, loneliness, confrontation, negative self-perception, crying/tears, conflict, physical anger.

word count : 3.4k

a/n : first fanfic of my bby ! luv him, and sorry it’s quite hate on Hori… if you don’t like it leave kindly pls !!

-> pt1 -> pt2 -> pt3

The final minutes of lunch break ticked away as you made your way back to the classroom. Your stomach felt hollow, not just from lack of food, but from the emotional toll of the day. The bento box in your bag was now empty, its contents disposed of in a moment of quiet desperation.

As you approached the classroom door, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable discomfort of returning to a room full of people who either ignored or misunderstood you. But nothing could have prepared you for the sight that greeted you as you stepped inside.

There, perched on your desk as if it were a casual meeting spot, sat Hori and two of her friends. Their laughter rang out, echoing in your ears like a taunt. Your eyes widened as you noticed their careless postures, their bodies sprawled across your carefully organized notebooks and textbooks.

For a moment, rage flared within you, hot and bright. Your father's voice echoed in your mind, reminding you of the self-defense moves he'd taught you "just in case." Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, fingernails digging into your palms.

But you caught yourself, forcing a slow, deep breath. 'No,' you thought. 'That's not who I am. That's not who I want to be.'

With deliberate calm, you approached your desk. The girls' chatter died down as they noticed your approach, but they made no move to vacate your space.

"Excuse me," you said, your voice quiet but firm. "I need to get to my desk."

Hori looked at you, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. "Oh, it's you," she said, her tone dismissive. "We're kind of in the middle of something here."

You felt your jaw clench, but you maintained your composure. "Please," you said, "my things are there. I need to prepare for class."

Reluctantly, the girls slid off your desk, moving aside with exaggerated sighs. You approached, your eyes taking in the disarray of your usually neat workspace. Pencils rolled to the floor as you set your bag down, and you noticed with a sinking heart that the corner of your math notebook was bent, the pages crumpled.

With quick, efficient movements, you began to straighten your belongings. Your hands trembled slightly as you smoothed out the creased pages, a lump forming in your throat.

As you worked, you were unaware of the pair of eyes watching you intently from across the room.

Miyamura sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on your every movement. He noted the tension in your shoulders, the careful control in your actions that spoke of suppressed emotion.

'She's upset,' he thought, watching as you meticulously reorganized your desk. 'But she's trying so hard not to show it.'

He observed the way you gently caressed the bent corner of your notebook, as if apologizing to it. The care you took with your possessions struck a chord with him, reminding him of how he treasured the few things that were truly his own.

Your movements became more agitated as you searched through your bag, eventually pulling out the now empty bento box. Miyamura's brow furrowed as he watched you tuck it away with sharp, angry motions.

'She didn't eat,' he realized with a pang of concern. He remembered seeing you sitting alone during lunch, but he'd assumed… what? That you preferred solitude? That you were okay?

As the final bell rang and other students began filing back to their seats, Miyamura found his gaze still drawn to you. He watched as you took a deep, steadying breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle.

In that moment, Miyamura felt a strong urge to reach out, to say something, anything that might ease the obvious pain you were trying so hard to hide. But before he could act on the impulse, the teacher entered, calling the class to order.

As you sat down, your eyes briefly met Miyamura's. Then you looked away, your face resuming its carefully neutral expression.

Miyamura turned to face the front of the class, but his mind remained on you. He couldn't shake the feeling that something significant had just happened, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

As the lesson began, the classroom settled into its usual rhythm. But for Miyamura, and unknown to him, for you as well, something had shifted. The air seemed charged with unspoken words and unrealized possibilities.

The final bell of the day rang, signaling the end of classes. You gathered your belongings slowly, watching as your classmates rushed out, eager to start their after-school activities or head home. You took your time, preferring to leave once the hallways had cleared a bit.

As you made your way through the now-quiet corridors, your mind wandered, replaying the events of the day. The confrontation with Hori, the loneliness of lunch, the frustration of finding your desk occupied - it all swirled in your thoughts, leaving you feeling drained and hollow.

You were so lost in your musings that you almost missed the voices coming from a classroom you were passing. The door was slightly ajar, and as you approached, snippets of conversation drifted out.

"Did you see that weird girl today? The one who bumped into Miyamura?"

Your steps faltered as you recognized your own description. Against your better judgment, you paused, listening.

"Oh yeah, what a freak. Who does she think she is?"

"I know, right? Always so quiet and creepy. No wonder she doesn't have any friends."

"Bet she did it on purpose just to touch Miyamura. As if he'd ever look twice at someone like her!"

The words hit you like physical blows, each one cutting deeper than the last. You stood there, frozen, as tears welled up in your eyes and began to silently roll down your cheeks. Your expression remained oddly blank, shock overriding your ability to react outwardly to the pain you felt inside.

You were about to hear more when suddenly, everything went muffled. Warm hands gently covered your ears, blocking out the cruel words. Startled, you gasped and jumped slightly, turning around quickly to face whoever had approached you so silently.

Your eyes widened as you found yourself face to face with Izumi Miyamura. He stood there, hands still raised from where they had been covering your ears, a look of surprise and concern etched across his features. His eyes locked onto yours, and then widened as he noticed the tears streaking your cheeks.

"I… I'm sorry," he said softly, lowering his hands. "I didn't mean to startle you. I just… I didn't want you to hear that."

You stared at him, unable to form words. Your mind raced, trying to process this unexpected turn of events. Why was he here? Why did he care?

Miyamura shifted uncomfortably under your gaze, clearly unsure of what to do next. He glanced at the classroom door, then back at you, his expression a mix of anger and sympathy.

"Those girls… they don't know what they're talking about," he said, his voice low but firm. "You shouldn't listen to people like that."

You blinked, more tears escaping as you did. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, a small, choked sob escaped your lips.

Miyamura's face softened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, offering it to you hesitantly. "Here," he said. "Um… do you want to go somewhere and talk? Or… or I could walk you home if you'd prefer?"

You stood there, frozen in indecision, the handkerchief clutched in your trembling hand. Miyamura waited patiently, his presence a stark contrast to the loneliness you'd felt all day.

In that moment, standing in the quiet hallway with Miyamura, you felt something shift. It was small, barely perceptible, but it was there - a tiny spark of hope in the darkness that had surrounded you for so long.

You looked at the handkerchief in your hand, then back at Miyamura. His kind gesture had caught you off guard, leaving you feeling both grateful and uncomfortable. You took a shaky breath, trying to regain your composure.

"Thank you," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You dabbed at your eyes with the handkerchief, the soft fabric absorbing your tears. "But… where's Hori? Shouldn't you be with her?"

Miyamura's expression shifted, a mix of surprise and something else - was it sadness? - crossing his features. "Hori had a student council meeting," he explained. "I was just heading home when I…" He trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards the classroom where the girls were still talking.

You nodded, understanding. A moment of silence stretched between you, filled with unspoken words and uncertainties.

Finally, you mustered up the courage to speak again. "That's very kind of you, Miyamura-kun, but I… I should go home." You held out the handkerchief, intending to return it.

Miyamura's brow furrowed. "Are you sure? I really don't mind walking with you. After what those girls said…"

You shook your head, cutting him off gently. "No, it's okay. Really. I wouldn't want you to be seen with someone like me. And if Hori saw us…" You let the implication hang in the air, remembering the morning's confrontation all too vividly.

Miyamura fell silent, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you want to look away. But there was something in his gaze that held you there - a deep understanding that you couldn't quite fathom.

In his mind, Miyamura was transported back to his own past. Your words echoed his own thoughts from not so long ago: "Don't be seen with someone like me." "You shouldn't hang out with me." He remembered the fear of dragging others down, of being a burden. The pain of isolation and the belief that he wasn't worthy of friendship or kindness.

As he looked at you, Miyamura saw a reflection of his former self - the quiet, withdrawn person he used to be, always trying to fade into the background. He felt a strong urge to reach out, to tell you that you were wrong, that you were worth so much more than you believed. But the words stuck in his throat, held back by the memory of how hard it had been for him to accept such truths about himself.

Instead, he took a deep breath, his gaze softening. "I understand," he said quietly, the weight of unspoken experiences heavy in his voice. "But… are you sure you don't want company on your way home? Just… just as far as you're comfortable with?"

He didn't reach out, didn't push, but something in his stance conveyed an openness, an offer of companionship without pressure or judgment.

You stood there, caught off guard by the unexpected kindness in Miyamura's eyes. Part of you wanted to retreat, to stick to the familiar safety of solitude. But another part, a part that had been quiet for so long, whispered that maybe this was a chance worth taking.

As you looked at Miyamura, you found yourself at a crossroads. Whatever choice you made next would change things, for better or worse. The question was, were you brave enough to find out which?

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Okay," you said softly, your voice barely audible. "Maybe just… just to the school gate?"

A small smile touched Miyamura's lips, a mix of relief and something warmer. "Sure," he nodded. "To the school gate."

As you both were about to take a step, a loud voice suddenly echoed through the corridor.

"Miyamura!"

You froze, recognizing Hori's voice immediately. Your heart rate spiked, panic setting in as you heard quick footsteps approaching from behind.

Miyamura tensed beside you, his eyes widening slightly as he glanced over his shoulder. He turned back to you, conflict clear in his expression.

"I…" he started, but you were already shaking your head.

"It's okay," you whispered, taking a small step back. "You should go."

Miyamura opened his mouth as if to protest, but Hori's voice called out again, closer this time.

"Miyamura, there you are! Who were you talking to?"

You could hear the curiosity and slight edge in her tone. Without waiting for Miyamura's response, you turned and began to walk away, your steps measured and deliberate despite the urge to run.

"Oh, no one," you heard Miyamura say behind you, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of something you couldn't quite identify. "Just thought I saw someone I knew, but I was mistaken."

You felt a pang in your chest at his words. 'No one.' That's what you were, weren't you? No one of consequence, no one worth mentioning. Even though you knew Miyamura was trying to protect you, the words still stung.

As you rounded the corner, you heard Hori's skeptical reply fading behind you. "Really? I could've sworn I saw you talking to someone."

You didn't stay to hear Miyamura's response. Instead, you continued walking, your pace quickening slightly as you made your way down the stairs and out of the school building.

The cool afternoon air hit your face as you stepped outside, a stark contrast to the warmth that had briefly blossomed inside you during your conversation with Miyamura. You clutched your bag tighter, realizing you still held his handkerchief in your hand.

As you approached the school gate, you paused, looking down at the small piece of fabric. It was a tangible reminder of the brief moment of kindness in an otherwise difficult day. Part of you wanted to run back and return it, to see if that spark of connection could be rekindled. But the memory of Hori's voice, the fear of another confrontation, held you back.

With a deep sigh, you tucked the handkerchief into your pocket and pushed yourself through the gate, starting your solitary walk home. The weight of the day's events pressed down on you, but somewhere, buried deep beneath the hurt and loneliness, was a tiny spark. A spark of something that felt dangerously like hope.

As you walked away from the school, you couldn't help but wonder what might have been if Hori hadn't appeared. Would you and Miyamura have talked more? Would you have found a friend in him? Or was it all just a fleeting moment of kindness, never meant to last?

These thoughts swirled in your mind as you made your way home, the school and Miyamura fading into the distance behind you.

--

The walk to Hori's house was filled with her cheerful chatter, but Miyamura found his mind wandering. He nodded and hummed in response at appropriate intervals, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the girl he'd encountered in the hallway - her tear-stained face, her quiet resignation, the way she'd walked away without looking back.

As they entered the Hori household, the familiar routine began. They called out their arrival, slipped off their shoes, and made their way to Hori's room. The house was quiet; Hori's younger brother was still at his after-school activities, and her parents were at work.

"Make yourself comfortable," Hori said, gesturing to her bed as she set her bag down. "I'll go grab us some snacks."

Miyamura nodded, settling onto the edge of the bed. He looked around the room, taking in the familiar posters, the neatly arranged desk, the photos of Hori with her friends. Everything was as it always was, and yet…

Hori returned with a plate of cookies and two glasses of iced tea. "Here we go," she said brightly, setting them down on the small table. "So, what should we do? Study? Watch a movie?"

Miyamura shrugged, forcing a small smile. "Whatever you'd like," he replied.

Hori tilted her head, studying him. "Is everything okay? You've been quiet since we left school."

For a moment, Miyamura considered telling her about the girl, about the cruel words he'd overheard, about the way it had stirred up memories of his own past. But something held him back. Instead, he shook his head. "Just tired, I guess. It's been a long day."

Hori nodded sympathetically. "I know what you mean. That student council meeting dragged on forever." She launched into a detailed account of the meeting, peppered with complaints about certain members and jokes about others.

As she spoke, Miyamura found himself watching her, really looking at her. He took in her animated expressions, the way her hands moved as she talked, the passion in her voice as she described her ideas for upcoming school events. She was beautiful, vibrant, full of life. Everything he'd always admired about her.

And yet, for the first time, he felt a disconnect. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered, 'Would she understand? If I told her about the girl, about my past, would she really get it?'

The thought startled him. Of course, Hori knew about his past, about the bullying and the loneliness. But did she truly understand? The memory of her angry outburst that morning, the way she'd pushed the girl, flashed through his mind.

"Miyamura? Are you listening?" Hori's voice cut through his thoughts.

He blinked, realizing he'd completely lost track of what she was saying. "Sorry," he mumbled. "What were you saying?"

Hori sighed, a hint of frustration in her voice. "I was asking if you wanted to help with the cultural festival planning. The committee could use some extra hands."

"Oh," Miyamura said, trying to refocus. "Sure, I guess. If you think I'd be helpful."

Hori beamed at him, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. "Great! You're the best, Miyamura."

As she pulled away, Miyamura felt a twinge in his chest. It wasn't the usual flutter of happiness he associated with Hori's affection. Instead, it felt almost… hollow.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of homework, idle chat, and shared snacks. But through it all, Miyamura couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. His responses felt mechanical, his smiles a bit forced. And all the while, his mind kept drifting back to the quiet girl in the hallway, wondering if she'd made it home okay, if she was as alone as she seemed.

As the sun began to set, Miyamura gathered his things to leave. Hori walked him to the door, wrapping him in a tight hug before he left.

"See you tomorrow," she said, smiling up at him.

"Yeah," he replied, managing a small smile in return. "See you tomorrow."

As he walked home in the fading light, Miyamura found himself grappling with unfamiliar emotions. The warmth and comfort he usually felt after spending time with Hori was muted, overshadowed by a growing sense of unease. For the first time since they'd started dating, he wondered if there was a part of himself - a part of his past - that Hori could never truly understand.

And with that thought came another, more troubling one: was the love he thought he felt for Hori as deep and unconditional as he'd believed? Or was it possible that, like the fading sunlight, it too was beginning to dim?

now you suck

Ⓡ kicxvu all rights reserved. please to not plagiarize, repost, or translate !

taglist :

@ilovecandys2010 @zhvakinnn

₊✩‧₊ ⎯ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. it's your final year of UA High, an achievement that should be celebrated and joyous, but you couldn't believe just how much has changed in such a short amount of time. one thing you never thought you'd have to deal with is the potential of losing your best friend and being powerless to stop it.

content // spoilers for ch.362 through 424 of the manga (this is how i'm coping), aged up to 18/19 + end of senior year @ UA, teeny bit of angst mixed with emotional comfort & fluff, reader is in the support department (w/ an unnamed quirk), reader & bakugo are childhood friends, talks of ptsd/trauma/regret and nightmares about death, mentions of medical issues & therapy, emotionally vulnerable and sickly sweet confessions, extremely soft bakugo (maybe ooc? but trauma changes people's outlooks soooo), idiots in love, best friends to lovers. wc // 5.7k + crossposted to ao3 『 k.bakugo masterlist 』

tagging in the beginning to prevent spoilers if you wanted to avoid them; @slayfics @maddietries @starieq @liluvtojineteyam @jays-adventure3 @simp-plague @queenpiranhadon

War…is over.

For now.

The media wouldn’t stop playing the coverage on repeat, leaving you unable to escape the scene that will haunt you for the rest of your life and forcing you to realize how vulnerable you are as a human being.

((spoilers below the cut))

You knew the second that Bakugo popped out of the shell of UA’s fortress through a grainy livestream that something was wrong. The way he staggered out, covered in blood with a mangled arm…your heart sank. You had no clue what happened moments prior in that bubble, only the heroes inside knew the truth at the time. Watching Midoriya’s awestruck tears flow as they worked together to save All Might from All for One’s grasp didn’t fill you with hope like others around you - it filled you with fear, a deadly reminder of how dangerous hero society is and the sacrifices it entails. How your duty as a support technician, and as a best friend, wasn’t even close to enough to help him in such dire straits.

Your calls and texts to him went unanswered...as expected. He probably doesn't even have his phone on him. Rumors spread over the course of the week following Shigaraki and All for One’s demise about what happened on the field when the cameras weren’t rolling.

Did you hear about that Bakugo kid? How’d he even get up after all that? You mean from being clinically dead? Yeah, I heard Edgeshot saved his life on the fly. His heart exploded! No, he was punched and it ruptured. But he saved All Might’s life! That was so cool to see. Deku helped, too. He wouldn’t have made it in time without him. A lot of the other students went through a lot of shit…and they expect them to go back to school?

UA was 'kind' enough to give all students a two week break from classes with dorms and buildings open for access as needed. Two weeks to recover from everything that's happened...it was a joke.

You lost count of how many nights you woke up sobbing from nightmares about Bakugo’s death within the past week, ranging from surgery complications to being left to die on the battlefield alone, unable to reach him in time. Your therapist reiterated in your session that this is all a normal response, even when the events didn't directly happen to you and resembled a form of survivor's guilt. It only worsened your negative outlook on society as a whole, knowing full well that they’ve saved Japan today, but there will always be evil lurking and stewing in the shadows, waiting for the next greatest hero to bring to their knees.

The hospital barred anyone outside of the immediate family to see patients, no matter how much you begged every front desk associate to let you see him. You didn’t want to resort to sounding desperate, but you gave in by the end of the week, stopping by Bakugo’s family home to talk with his parents. To your surprise, Mitsuki was home and answered the door. Not more than a second passed before she was scooping you up into a hug, her shaky hands clutching the back of your shirt as if you were her own daughter returning home for the first time in months.

“Hi sweetie,” she greets, her voice hushed and somber; an entire 180 from her normal demeanor. She lets you go, moving her hands to your shoulders as she invites you inside.

You spend some time catching up with her before asking the inevitable question lingering in the air. “How’s Katsuki? The hospital wouldn’t let me in to see him.”

Mitsuki’s eyes glisten, tears pooling in her eyes as she shakes her head and swallows harshly. “He’s a tough ass kid. Surgery went as good as it could’ve, but…” she trails off, wiping the lone tear rolling over her cheek. “Why don’t you come with me this afternoon to the hospital?”

You bite your lip, hands curling in on themselves as they rest on your knees. “But they told me—”

“Screw that!” She interrupts, standing to her feet. “You’re comin’ with me. You are family to us.”

Your stomach cartwheels as the hospital comes into view from the backseat of the Bakugo family car, Masaru driving the three of you through the visitor’s parking lot. Mitsuki glances in the rear view mirror, catching the nervous twitch in your lips as you stared out the window.

“Dear, could you give us a minute?” she asks Masaru, motioning him to go on ahead. He nods in acknowledgment and leaves the car to head to the lobby.

“Do you wanna talk before going inside?”

How the hell did she know you were nervous? She’s known you for a good chunk of your live, it’s not too far fetched she’d be able to analyze your emotions like she does for her own son.

“I'm...” you say meekly, fidgeting with your jeans. “...trying to stay positive, but I’ve had so many nasty nightmares and I don’t know what to expect. I've only heard rumors at school about his condition.”

Mitsuki reaches to the backseat and gently takes one of your hands in hers. “Honey, it’s okay. You’re allowed to be scared. Shit, I’m terrified for him and all the other kids…this isn’t something everyday people experience, so it’s unfair to expect yourself to have standards on how to feel. He's alright, I can promise you that.”

You sigh, her words giving you a sense of comfort. “Thank you.”

“And if I can say one thing,” she adds, squeezing your hand to grab your attention. “That kid adores you, he’s just a stupid boy who doesn’t know how to say it.”

The laugh that bubbles up from your belly is genuine, a thin layer of anxiety dissolving at the thought of him getting embarrassed by his mom’s words. Nodding, you let go of her hand and open the car door, signaling you’re ready to go inside.

“Katsuki! You can’t be up and roaming around!”

Mitsuki’s heels click against the marble flooring as she scampers to Bakugo’s side down the hallway, Masaru trailing behind her when she catches a glimpse of him hobbling into a room that isn’t his own. You stay back, peering from around the corner to avoid being seen if he happened to glance your way. A few minutes pass before you faintly hear Masaru say, "Come on, let's get you back to your room to rest," and the sounds of their footsteps retreating down the hall.

It's almost embarrassing how long it takes you to work up the courage to follow after them - what's the big deal? Your best friend is physically here, not some ghost or a walking corpse from your nightmares. You knew in your heart what it was that kept you frozen in place, a feeling you've long shut away, burying it within the depths of your heart to keep yourself sane.

Love.

And it scared the shit out of you, especially now. 

Retreating back to the lobby, you mindlessly scan the vending machines as a distraction until a hand touches your back. You jump at the contact and turn to see Mitsuki and Masaru standing behind you.

"We're heading home for a few hours to make some dinner and come back with leftovers for Katsuki. I told the nurses you're with us, so keep this pass with you." She hands you a visitors badge and you tuck it in your uniform pocket. "I'll bring you some dinner, too, dear. Don't waste your money on snacks. Now go see him, he could use some time away from us."

You've got a chance to be alone with Bakugo to talk with him about...everything, and you're frozen in the goddamn lobby. It takes a bit of kicking yourself in the ass to get moving, but eventually, you begin to warily make your way back to the patient wing. 

A vague memory of standing at UA’s entrance comes barreling to the front of your mind, the day that the hero courses all left to prepare for the war torn city streets with the pros. You’d stood to the side, passively blessing everyone with good luck and your best wishes as they prepared to depart. When Bakugo shuffles away from his parents, he spots you in the crowd and approaches you with a straight face. Just when you’re about to say something, he grabs you by the shoulders, spins you around and pushes you toward a set of hedges nearby. Not completely out of sight, but enough to hide from the majority of the congregation of friends and families.

“Kats?” You question, confused by him secluding the two of you from everyone else.

“Not another word,” Bakugo warns, cornering you in the darkness of the wall and bushes. He hesitates before reaching for one of your hands, warmth flooding from his palm into yours. His other hand scratches at the back of his neck nervously, eyes upturned to the sky as he speaks lowly. 

“Wanted to say thanks for supporting my dream of bein’ a hero all these years. Don’t go worrying about me while I’m out there, alright?”

Before you could interject, his back was to you and marching over to join the others. 

His words rang in your head every night, repeatedly taunting you about the feelings that rattled your ribs from how fast he made your heart beat.

You should have told him then.

The walk up the stairs to his floor fills you with unexplainable jitters that you've never felt before - were you dreading the conversation? Are you scared he wouldn't reciprocate your feelings, despite Mitsuki's words from earlier? Or...afraid to see the damage in person?

You find his name on one of the patient plaques, taking a deep breath as your knuckles tap on the hollow door. His voice follows soon after, "Yeah, come in."

Your hand lingers on the door handle for a moment before you convince yourself to go inside.

‘Come on, it’s Katsuki. He's your best fucking friend. He knows everything about you and vice versa. Don’t be a damn coward and make it weird.’

The door slides on the track at a snails pace, revealing your face bit by bit to Bakugo as he stares in your direction. Imagine your surprise when his eyes widen upon seeing you, mouth open to say something, but nothing comes out. You shut the door and walk over to the right side of his hospital bed.

“Hey Katsu—”

The words refused to come out as you took in his current condition - a full arm cast, a brace around his waist, oxygen tubes through his nose and multiple bandages covering his pretty face. The window sill is lined with various vases of fresh flowers and 'Get Well Soon!' cards. It's overwhelming, the lump in your throat hardening at the sight, unable to stop the lightning bolts of anxiety zapping the color from your face. Bakugo snaps you out of it when his left hand reaches across the bed and grips your wrist, pulling you closer to him.

“Stop analyzin’ the damage and c’mere already.”

Before you could react, he’s using his free arm to wrap around your shoulders, tucking you against him as tightly as he could manage. “Was wonderin’ when you were gonna come visit me.”

The tears are swiftly building on your waterline, threatening to downpour all over your cheeks and stain his hospital gown. It takes every ounce of willpower not to say 'I didn't think I'd ever see you again.'

“They wouldn’t let me, I’ve been trying for a week. Your mom convinced them to let me in,” you explain as you lay one of your hands over his heart, thumbing over the fabric and feeling the freshly raised scar tissue underneath. “I’ve called and texted you, but figured they didn’t let you have your phone.”

“I don’t even know where it is,” he huffs. “Ma probably has it, or it’s dead on my desk in the dorms.”

Bakugo’s fingers run through your hair, playing with it absentmindedly in silence, sighing to himself. “I’ve got so much shit runnin’ through my head that I can’t think straight.”

“Yeah...I thought that would be the case.” You pull yourself away from his embrace, shifting to the opposite side of the bed before settling in to the chair by the window. "What's going on?"

He pouts, extending his left hand in your direction. There’s a hint of pink under his bandages that begins blooming down his neck when he mumbles, “Want you closer.”

You pick up the chair to scoot it forward as Bakugo groans aloud, shaking his head and patting the empty space next to him in the hospital bed.

“Kats, there isn’t enough room for both of us,” you laugh, unable to hide the drag of your lips curling into a smile at his flustered expression. He stares at you for a moment longer, asking 'please?' with those beautiful ruby eyes of his.

How can you not give in to him?

As gingerly as you can, you slide under the thin blanket on the bed and up against his left side, his arm raised to make room for your body to mold into his. You’re terrified to touch him, treating him like a porcelain statue and stiffening in his embrace.

"M'not gonna break if ya touch me," he comments, patting you on the back for assurance. Reluctantly, you lay your head against his chest and drape your arm over his midsection, settling in and getting as comfortable as you could in the confined space, careful to avoid all of the wires and tubes hooked up to him.

"I'm not used to you being touchy-feely for more than a minute at a time," you joke, smiling when you hear the click of his tongue against his teeth in response. 

"My damn parents are the only ones I've been stuck with, gimme a goddamn break!"

A few minutes pass before you two carry on the conversation again, Bakugo clearing his throat awkwardly before letting go of the breath he was holding. "How...are ya holdin' up?"

Truthfully? You weren't, hoping that the light purple pockets forming under your eyes and lifeless hair were not dead giveaways of your mental status.

"I've...been better. What about you?" you reply, blatantly lying through your teeth. It wouldn't be fair to lay out all of the traumatic shit you've thought about over the last week when he's in the hospital recovering from the actual traumatic events.

"It's...lonely here," Bakugo mutters faintly, almost too low to hear. "An' I can't sleep. The nurses are nice, though, same with the therapist they sent in yesterday."

"They made you see a therapist straight out of surgery?"

"Right? S'what I said. Didn't talk much, though. Basically gave me the rundown of UA supplying all the students a therapist next month. Don't think it'll do much for me, not like I can undo all the shit that happened, but Ma talked me into goin' later on."

"Can't hurt, even if it's every once in awhile."

"...Yeah."

You trace some of the creases in his hospital gown idly, savoring his presence and the sound of his voice. Bakugo fidgets with the material of your shirt, wanting to avoid dumping all of his thoughts on your shoulders, but the weight is too much for him to hold onto any longer. 

"Izuku's...quirkless again. I don't know how to feel, but I cried like a damn child when I overheard him talkin' with All Might about it. Gave me a perspective that I never thought about before all this shit went down."

"And what's that?"

"...I robbed him of his dream."

You wish, more than anything, that you could go into Bakugo's head and pluck out all the guilt he still harbors over his and Midoriya's childhood together. It's not like Midoriya held it against him anymore, and Bakugo knew that, but he couldn't shake those demons loose that reminded him of his past self.

"You didn't. He knew the costs of One for All and agreed to it, it's not your fault."

"I know, but I feel so fuckin' shitty for treating him like he's dirt for so long."

"It's not stupid to feel," you say, feeling his body tense and relax beneath you. "But Katsuki, you need to forgive yourself. You can't let this eat away at you forever, it's been over two years since you apologized."

His heart aches at your words, knowing you're right, but he couldn't forgive himself...not yet, anyways. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, even next month, just not right now.

"...thank you," is all Bakugo can say, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from getting choked up about it for a second time. Silence falls upon the room, letting the two of you simply co-exist for a moment of peace. It had been a long fucking week, and being in the same room, let alone touching one another, was a luxury you didn't know if you'd ever have again.

"I'm out of commission for a bit, but that's not a concern to me right now. I know I can come back from this shit and stay on track to bein' number one. There's somethin' else that's been on my mind since..." he trails off, the hand on your back moving to your shoulder to tighten his hold on you. "...I fought Shigaraki in that damn fortress."

You rest your hand atop his on your shoulder. "You don't have to talk about it if it's stressful."

"No, I need'ta tell ya before I chicken out 'cause I didn't say it when I had the chance." He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, twisting the strands in his finger as he bit his lip nervously. He's thankful you aren't currently looking at him, else wise all his cover would be blown before he spoke one word about it.

"The second he broke my arm, I didn't think about the pain, all I could think about was seein' you again. And then some otherworldly shit happened, the weirdest fuckin' out of body experience. I didn't believe in any of that junk until now."

Hearing him recollect the memory of his untimely death resurfaces all of the dormant fears lying in your mind from your nightmares. You screw your eyes shut to keep them away, to shield you a little longer from the pain they inflict upon you. Bakugo was right here, right now, with you. He's not an illusion or a figment of your imagination...he's here.

"...are you shaking?" He asks, hand cascading down your back to calm your nerves. You hadn't noticed that you were trembling, focused on doing your damndest to keep it together and let him spill his guts freely. "Do you want me to stop talkin' about it?"

It's muffled against his hospital gown, but you're able to squeak out a measly 'no.' He pats your head tenderly and shuts his eyes before continuing.

"I remember focusin' on rushing in and getting hit a second time, but this felt...different. There wasn't any pain, and when I came to, All Might's vestige ghost was there. He didn't say anything when I talked to him," Bakugo pauses, inhaling deeply to compose himself. "He led me back to UA and took me to the support wing's workshop. You were testing somethin' with Goggles, giggling away like an idiot with her."

The tears welling up in your eyes were inevitable at this point - was he insinuating that while he was skirting between life and death, he thought about you?

"And then I was outside, lying in the grass at our favorite spot down by the river. You'd dropped your fuckin' popsicle in the dirt, whining about how much you wanted it. I made fun of ya a bit before givin' you mine, but you insisted we share it instead. It was...nice. Everything felt warm and peaceful. When I actually woke up to Jeanist and the others, they kept sayin' I was revived and needed to go to the hospital. That's when I jumped in to help Deku and, well, y'know the rest."

Your body shivers, the hiccup you were desperately holding in coming to the surface in a muted sob. He silently lets a few tears fall, too, the bandages growing saturated with saltiness and stinging the open cuts on his face. His stomach was in knots, but shockingly, he welcomed the foreign feeling. To him, it only confirmed what he felt was true. He didn't know jack shit about love, but was more than confident that he could untangle the complexities of it with you.

"I was knockin' on death's door and you led me back home. Before I left, I was gonna tell ya how important you are to me...now more than ever."

You pray that Bakugo can't feel, or hear, how hard your heart was beating against your sternum, hammering away at his unexpected confession. The whirring of the medical machinery accompanied his words hanging in the air, swirling in tandem with the thoughts in your head.

Do it.

Say it.

Take the chance.

Cautiously, you attempt to sit up and haphazardly slip on the sheets, colliding foreheads with him while trying to catch yourself. Instead of scolding you, Bakugo bursts out laughing, a few stray tears falling from the corners of his eyes. "Y'coulda said something instead of head butting me, brat."

"Like you gave me a chance to say shit!" you scoff, poking him in the chest playfully. When your eyes meet, reflective hearts are bouncing between your gazes, faces lingering dangerously close to one another. "I've...been waiting to tell you something, too."

"Yeah? An' what's that?"

Your vision begins to blur, eyes falling shut as the gravity becomes too much to bare any longer. Your left hand glides up his chest, finding purchase on his collarbone while your lips rest plush against his. Electricity races through your veins and time stands still, all the clichés about love coming to the forefront of your mind and how true they proved to be in the moment. You barely notice when Bakugo's free hand threads through your hair and settles at the nape of your neck, melding the two of you into a deeper first, and definitely not last, kiss. When you part, it's not met with gasps for air, but with breathless sighs of bliss. You're pulling away only to gravitate back into his orbit, unable to resist his advance when he lurches forward to steal a second kiss. Your lips quiver against his as the words in your heart beg to be released, unable to cage the emotions thrashing around in your chest.

"You have no idea how many nightmares…I had about you not coming home…or that it was too late…to bring you back to life in the hospital,” you mutter between delicate kisses, finally having the strength to lean back and lock eyes with him. “I'd be standing at your goddamn grave like a widow whose husband returned from war in a casket, vacantly staring at the ground while the rain soaked through my clothes. The roses always had thorns that cut my hands open. It changed every single night, a new version of losing you before getting the chance to say...," you stop, attempting to swallow the pain long enough to confess, but your voice betrays you and cracks as you blurt out, "that I love you, Katsuki, and—"

He dreamily exclaims, "I love you, too," before the realization hits that he said it out loud and not in his head. It catches you both off guard and sends him into an adorable panic, the previous pink hue to his skin growing deeper by the second.

"S-shit," he stutters, squeezing his eyes shut and scrunching his nose to hide his lovesick expression. Your run your finger along his jawline, careful not to catch any of the bandaging, and stop at his chin to coax his attention back to you.

"I want to be the loudest person that you can hear cheering for you in a crowd when you save a little kid or capture a villain." Your hand cups the right side of his face while you continue to pour your bruised heart out. "To be your number one fan at signings and promo events that an agency is going to force your grumpy ass to do, the one who picks up your broken pieces when no one else is around. I want to give you everything because you deserve nothing less than that."

For the first time in his short life, Bakugo is speechless. What did he ever do to deserve your endearment? He wasn't one to shy away from expressing what was owed to him through blood, sweat and tears - like working hard on an assignment and deserving nothing short of a 100% passing grade - but this was unlike anything else. He truly didn't know why you were so captivated by his energy, even before these confessions came stumbling out into the open. What about him appealed to you in such a way to make you desire him so deeply?

"I—" he struggles to find the words to say, searching his brain incessantly for something to match your sweet sincerity. "I'd be happy sharin' popsicles with you by the river for the rest of my life if that's what it came down to. I don't need money or fame as a hero, bein' with you is more than enough for me."

In the past, something so sickly sweet would make Bakugo gag and be an immature jackass over the sentimentality, but now? He wouldn't admit that he enjoys the warmth blossoming in his chest and how it gives him stupid ass butterflies, especially when it comes to you. It struck at the most random times; when you'd laugh at his dumb jokes, toss him a smile in the hallway between classes, sit on the countertop while he cooked dinner for you two in the common room kitchen, fall asleep during your movie nights on his shoulder and drool on his shirt...the list kept growing exponentially until it kept him up at night, yearning to be by your side whenever you two were apart. 

He should've known the moment you approached him on the playground over a decade ago, joining him on that rusty swing set out of nowhere and started talking his ear off about the dandelions by the riverbed. 

Fuck, he was smitten as hell for you.

Your eyes well up with crocodile tears, lower lip wobbling and unable to stop the fat droplets coating your lashes, staining your strawberry cheeks and dripping down your neck. 

"T-thank you," you choke out, wiping your palms over your face to erase the tears. Bakugo chuckles under his breath, reaching to cradle your cheek in his hand. 

"So, do I still gotta ask you?" he jokes, smiling awkwardly as his eyes dart to the ceiling. 

You don't know what he's referring to. "Ask me...what?"

"...Seriously?" Bakugo lets his hand fall from your face. The blank expression on your face confirms you are absolutely clueless to what he means.

"Fuck, fine." He rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders dramatically before shifting in the bed to re-position himself. He leisurely tilts his head forward and into your space, close enough for his breath to fan over your lips as he speaks. "I want ya to be mine."

"Didn't sound like a question to me," you tease, lovingly nuzzling your nose with his.

"Shut the fuck up...wanna hear ya say it."

Uh oh, gravity is kicking in again.

Your lips part with half-lidded eyes as you purr, "I'm already yours, Katsuki," before melting into him, sealing your promise with another kiss. He tries to control it, but the tiniest moan floods out of him when he experimentally swipes his tongue across your bottom lip, ferociously flaring your cheeks into a deep scarlet flush as you reciprocate. Instinctively, he moves his right arm to cradle you closer and is met with searing pain, jolting away from your lips unexpectedly.

"Fuck!" he shouts, out of breath and wincing at the pain burning into his shoulder. "Sorry, s'my fault for trying to move the damn thing. Wasn't thinkin' and forgot where we are."

The sparkle in his eyes dim as he cast his gaze downward to analyze the cast. His shoulders slump and he shakes his head, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I was never good at timin', but dammit, I wish I could hold ya properly."

"No, no, it's alright, we've got plenty of time when you can."

Bakugo exhales while shifting his weight to readjust, making room for you to lay on his chest and tucking you back under his good arm a second time.

"Promise me somethin'," he sighs into your hair. "No matter how awful shit gets in the future, don't lose faith in me or the others over some dumbass villains and let it sour your outlook on the world."

Wow, were your feelings that obvious?

"It's...not that." Guilt trickles down your spine, goosebumps prickling up your arms from pinpointing the negative associations you've built up in your head. "Of course I believe in you, Kats, but it scares the shit out of me that this all happened before any of you had the chance to be pros. I know you said you're not worried about it, but I am."

He knows you're right, you have every reason to be concerned over the state of the world and what that means for the future after everything that's happened this year.

"I have hope," he starts, letting his head fall back against the stack of pillows. "Doc told me my right arm is dead in the water 'cause of all the bone segments they had to join together in the surgery, but the possibility of it healin' isn't out of the question."

Your heart sinks in the pause of conversation. How could he have such a positive outlook after being legally dead?

"I refused a prosthetic and wanna try rehab first. M'not gonna let it ruin my approach to bein' a hero. The real challenge is my heart, but that's not—"

"Wait, what's wrong with your heart? I thought Edgeshot patched it up?" you interrupt, turning up at him with your brows scrunched together. It might be a silly question, all things considered, but Edgeshot was a masterful surgeon with a high success rate in his field...everything should be fine, right? 

His heartbeat kicks up in tempo under your cheek - that can't be a good sign.

"He did...but it's not that simple, sweetheart. I've gotta take it easy for at least six weeks, maybe some meds to keep things stable. Shit sucks, considering I'm used to training daily, but it's not impossible to deal with. I can handle it. Plus, I got you an' your gadgets on my side."

"And you're telling me all this, but are worried about my feelings and Izuku being quirkless instead of yourself?"

Damn, you hit the nail on the head. Bakugo smirks, laughing to himself. "Heh, yeah. Guess so."

"Typical Katsuki, silently caring about everyone else before himself." You snuggle into him, a yawn falling out of you as you pull the blanket up to your shoulders. "Stop making me like you more and go back to grumpy, please."

"Only if ya promise to stick with me." 

"Like you have to ask. I promise."

He places a kiss to the crown of your head. "Good."

Your eyes fall shut, the rhythm of Bakugo's heart beginning to lull you into a tranquil, and much needed, sleep. Before you pass out, you drowsily slur, "Everything's gonna be okay. You're the strongest person I know...love you, Kats."

Pearlescent tears pool at the corners of his eyes, the ones that escape rolling over the gauze on his face and soaking into the material once more. All the pain, worry, and relentless thoughts about failure temporarily fade away into nothingness, offering him peace and a sense of safety to drift off to dreamland. He closes his eyes, lips upturned into a smile as he whispers, "Thank you...love you too, princess. Sweet dreams."

The door to Bakugo's room creaked open a half-hour later, Mitsuki and Masaru returning with dinner as promised. "Hey kid, we're—"

She stops herself, putting a finger to her lips and turning to Masaru, signaling for him to quietly shut the door. They can't help but jointly smile at the sight before them, the two of you are snoring away on the hospital bed together, cozied up under the sheets and out like a light. 

"Reminds you of us, doesn't it? I had a feeling seeing her would help him relax," Masaru says, lightly stroking Mitsuki's back. "Why don't we come back in a bit to see if they're up?"

She nods and hands the containers of mabo tofu for him to take while she approaches the hospital bed. Her palm glides over Bakugo's cast, thumb tracing over his right wrist as her mind wandered back to memories of him as a little firecracker of a child; chasing butterflies in the backyard, playing super heroes with Izuku, and his toothy little grin anytime he was excited about something. Nineteen years flew by, and Mitsuki couldn't be prouder of her bombastic hero. Before turning to leave with Masaru, she affectionately pinches Bakugo's cheek, light enough not wake him from his slumber. She peers over at you, admiring how much you've grown, too.

'If anyone's gonna take care of my brat, it's you...thank you.'

The two of them leave you to enjoy each other's comfort. 

The hurricane has passed and there's sunlight shining on a new future. The will be storms to come, but society has been given a chance to heal, all thanks to the next generation of pro heroes sacrificing their youth to challenge the status quo. Things won't be easy, that's for damn sure, but it's gonna take something stronger than the depths of hell to keep Katsuki Bakugo away from his dream - and you. 

written in a frenzy while listening to epiphany // evermore & semi-proof read through my own tears, so apologies if it's just a bunch of mushy ramble. i have a bunch of other projects to work on, and am shifting back to them, this just was in my head and i needed to get it out. thanks for reading. <3

she won't go away— a sukuna fic

art creds to to_0fu (twitter/x)

pairing — college sukuna! x reader

synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.

wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)

warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.

“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.

Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”

Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience. 

Ryomen Sukuna.

The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.

And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”

She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.

You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.

You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—

Freshman Year

It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered.  You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.

And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:

“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”

Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself. 

You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.

But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.

You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—

“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”

A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji. 

“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”

Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—

Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back.  You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.

This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.

And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.

“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”

“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”

Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”

“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”

“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”

That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”

He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”

Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts. 

“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.

You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”

But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”

“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.

 “I’m annoying because I want to pass?”

”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”

 That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”

“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.

“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”

Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.

“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes.”

He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—

“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”

Your blood boils.

What the fuck is his problem?

You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”

“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.

You blink. “What?”

“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”

“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”

“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.

Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”

“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”

You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

Oh, you hate him.

“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”

“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”

You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.

“I swear to god—”

“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”

Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”

Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”

“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”

“Yep.”

“You specifically?”

“Yep.”

Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.

“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.

His smirk widens.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval. 

“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.

“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?” 

For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.”

He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”

You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”

Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”

At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.

You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”

His smirk drops.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then—

“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”

You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.

“…Okay?”

“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”

Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”

Sukuna smirks.

“Good girl.”

–

You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.

“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”

And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.

No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.

“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”

Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.

…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”

“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”

“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”

Your mouth falls open.

Did he just—

“I— You—”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.

“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses. 

“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”

Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”

“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?” 

Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”

“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”

“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”

“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”

“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”

You want him to get hit by a bus. 

Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”

“Because this is a group project—”

“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.

“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”

“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”

“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”

He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”

“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”

“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”

“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?” 

You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.

“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.

“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”

You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”

Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”

“What?”

“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”

You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”

Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”

Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.

“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.” 

You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.

–

You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”

Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”

Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”

Your eye twitches. “Yes.”

“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”

You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—

Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”

You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”

“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”

—

It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.

“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”

The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”

His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?” 

Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”

Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.

“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”

You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.

“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.

–

The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—

The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—

His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”

“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.”  You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge.  And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–

Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist.  Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.

–

By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.

Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.

Sukuna barely acknowledges you. “You look like you’re already halfway there.”

You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.

And then—

Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”

Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.

Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”

You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide. 

“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”

“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.

He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”

You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”

“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.

You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”

Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare. 

“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”

“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”

You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”

“Shhh!”

You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”

“Yes, you—”

“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent.  And then—

“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.

Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.

Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him. 

"The hell? Why?"

"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.

The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.

"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"

And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.

"I do this every day because of you!"

The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.

Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning. 

(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)

You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.

But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.

–

The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”

"Shut up."

For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

"You formatted this wrong," he says.  Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius."  You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"

"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”

“Ugly.”

“Sexy.”

"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen." 

It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.

Then—

"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”

You flip him off.

He grins.

–

The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.

“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.

“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”

“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”

He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”

You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?” 

Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.

“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”

You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—

Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”

“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.

Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”

Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”

No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”

You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:

“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.

–

It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.

You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

[8:37 PM] Yuna:

pls tell me ur free next friday night frat party at Theta house i need a plus one u owe meee

You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry. 

“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”

“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.

“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”

He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.” 

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.

“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.

“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.

You glance up. “Huh?”

“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”

He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”

Still, you hear your voice soften slightly. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”

He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”

“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you.  You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.

–

“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.

The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.

“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.

“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.

You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”

“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.

“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”

“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”

You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”

“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.

The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window. 

Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.

You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.

Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”

He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.

“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”

You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.

“You look nice, though.”

You freeze mid-step.

“…What?”

His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.” 

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”

Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I try.”

You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”

“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”

You blink. “Distracting?”

He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

“Once,” you insist.

He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.

“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.

“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable.  You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.

“Shit—”

You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”

You snort. “You walked into me.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow. 

“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”

“Who said you couldn’t?”

You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”

“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.

“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”

“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”

“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.

“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”

You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”

You blink. “Yeah, why?”

“You know him?”

“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”

“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”

You groan. “Yuna—”

“Just fuck him.”

“What is wrong with you?”

She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.

sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx

You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.

“You good?”

You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”

He grins lazily. “Still here?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.” 

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”

“Yeah, me. Shocking.”

“You know where I live?”

“You told me. Last week. After lab.”

You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”

“Ew.”

He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.

You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”

“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”

“Freak.” 

He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.

“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”

“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house. 

You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”

“Other side,” he says, without slowing.

“What do you mean other side?”

“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”

“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”

“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”

“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.

“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re such a dick!”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.

He scoops you up like it’s nothing.

Bridal style.

Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.

“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”

“Put me down!”

“No.”

Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—

His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—

God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”

“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there. 

“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.

“Hey—what are you—”

He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”

“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.

“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.

“I’m not looking.”

“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.

“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”

“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”

“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—

Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”

He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.” 

You scoff. “So romantic.”

A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.

“You’re welcome.” 

And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.

“Get home safe, dumbass.”

You turn over your shoulder.

“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.

–

It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—

There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”

“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.

"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—

You exchange numbers.

It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:

You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse?? Sukuna: not to me 😏

And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.

You: where u at bruh wtf im already here

There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?

Sukuna: gym

You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.

It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.

You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long You: YOU CANT SEE ME Sukuna: can feel it tho You: ew Sukuna: ur welcome

You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.

“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”

He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.

“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?

You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.

“What?” you say, defensive.

“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort.  And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.

“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”

His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.” 

A beat.

“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.

And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”

And one day you realize—

You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.

–

The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned. 

Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.

You cross the street.

He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."

"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."

You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."

"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."

You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name.  The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.

You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”

You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”

He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.

“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.” 

You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”

“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this. 

When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.

The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.”  Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”

You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—

“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”

You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.

“Freak.”

He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.

–

The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.

“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him. 

“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”

Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”

“It’s…marginally cleaner.”

“Uh-huh.” 

He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”

“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”

“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”

–

But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.

“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.

“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”

“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”

“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”

You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”

“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”

You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”

You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort.  But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”

“Because I’m not disgusting?”

“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.

“Dickhead.”

“You’re welcome.”

The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.

“Stop stealing my candy.”

“You ate my gummy worms last week.”

“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”

“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”

“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.

You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.

“You're staring.”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”

“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”

He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”

It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.

And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”

You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.

He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”

That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.

“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. 

“Fuck—Sukuna—”

“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.

“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.

His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth. 

“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”

Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.

“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.

And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.

“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever. 

His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”

He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.

“I came here to study!”

“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.” 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.” 

He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.

“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”

“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.

And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.

It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.

“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”

“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.

Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky.  “That was–That was not studying.”

Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”

And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.

–

You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”

“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”

“Then it’s mine now too.” 

He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”

“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“No.” He squints. “Why not?”

“That’s intimate.”

He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”

“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”

He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.

“SUKUNA—”

“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”

“I can’t walk!”

“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”

“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.

You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.

“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.

“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”

“You should get bent.”

“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”

You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”

“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”

“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”

“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.

–

The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.

“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”

“I was faking it.”

He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”

“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.

Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.

“Oh shit.”

You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”

“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”

“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.

“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.”  Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”

“It is now.” 

You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”

“I swear to God—”

Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”

“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”

Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.

Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.

“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”

“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”

–

It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.

And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!” 

You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.

Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.

The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.

“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”

His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”

“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”

“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”

“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”

“You were laughing with her!”

“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”

“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”

He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.

“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”

He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”

“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”

Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.

“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.

–

Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.

“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”

“I make sexy typos.”

“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.” 

He glances up. “What?”

“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.

“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”

He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.

“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”

You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”

“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.” 

You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I’m good.”

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.

“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.

–

it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.

“Behave.”

“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”

Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”

“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”

“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”

“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.” 

You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur. 

He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”

He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”

You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”

“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.

a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!

also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3

tags: @tracysdemise @perqbeth @fushiguroooozzz @bowlware @yuunice @xxstormyprincessxx @bnbaochauuu @beabamboo @erintaro @altgojo @sugurulefttesticle @minascasket @rinofcike @captainquake42 @pinkpookiebear @hellowoolf @clp-84 @yit-tk @nessca153 @domainofmarie @crunchyholo @emochosoluvr @sukubusss @being-blue-is-better @nikilig @syubseokie

Switchin’ Up Positions

Summary: OP men and their fav positions 👅

feat: Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Kidd

cw: f!reader, NSFW, spitting, biting, bruises, idk what to tell you this is a freaky fic

a/n: ignore how I already posted Zoro’s section. it’s NOT my problem… and i edited it bc it was highkey cheeks. Also if this is rushed… i don’t care

Zoro: ✨Riding✨

As a swordsman, he is constantly aware of what and who his back is facing towards. It’s been engrained in him since he was a young child to never leave area unguarded.

And as much as he trusts you, there’s nothing stopping an enemy from breaking down the door and stabbing him in the back while he’s balls deep in your cunt.

You’re the one who proposed the idea… and he shot it down immediately. He saw it as relinquishing control and hated the idea with every once of his being.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it… when he’s on top of you, he’s never able to fully focus on you, his ears straining as they listen for enemies outside the door, waiting to attack him while he’s pounding your pretty wet pussy.

So after a few night of thinking, he begrudgingly made his way to your quarters and muttered something along the lines of, “I guess we can try it if you really want…”

And it’s been smooth sailing ever since. He still had complete control, one hand constantly gripping your hips to guide your pace. And he was able to pay attention to you fully and completely.

He found subtleties that he had never noticed before because he was too busy being paranoid. The way you would mewl just barely when his fingers curled and twisted in your cunt. The way your thighs would twitch when he pressed down on your tummy while also thrusting in.

Riding quickly became his go to.

~

He tastes of sake.

It’s as if he’s trying to consume you, his tongue jamming down your throat and his teeth clacking against yours. Zoro took everything he did to the extreme, and kissing was no different. He may not be super experienced or skilled, but he was hungry, and that more than made up for it.

“C’mere…” Zoro wraps an arm around your waist and drags you down onto the bed, rolling you on top of him and running his hands up and down your bare legs. You’re wearing a skirt… far too small for his liking. And watching you dance and twirl with others all night pissed him off. Sure, Zoro denied your numerous pleads to dance, but that didn’t mean that another man could fucking dip you, your head nearly touching the ground like that one guy had done.

Now the two of you are alone on the Thousand Sunny, the night still too young for the other Strawhats to retreat.

Zoro kicks off his pants and boxers in a swift movement, his cock sliding out to rest against his stomach, precum beading the tip. He looks up at you expectantly, a stupid smirk on his lips.

God, you hate that you know exactly what he wants.

Zoro grabs your skirt, bunching it up around your waist to watch as you hover above him, your fingers hooking in your panties to pull them aside. He licks his lips at the sight of your pretty pussy, a small string of arousal connecting your folds to the fabric of your underwear.

His hand slides to up and down your thigh, soothingly, before he brings his thumb down to your clit. Rolling his thumb with familiar practiced movements over your pearl, he watches with amused eyes as you suck in a harsh breath, your face flushing as you lick your lips.

“Put it in?” You huff softly, bracing your palms on Zoro’s bare anbdomen and rocking your hips forward to rub against Zoro’s length. His mouth twitches and he curses softly under his breath.

Zoro scoffs in response, using his freehand to pop open your blouse. He trails his fingers down the expanse of your stomach before circling around to unclip your bra, freeing your breasts to his hungry gaze. “Why are you asking my permission. It’s yours. You put it in.”

Your nose wrinkles at his expression, he’s looking at you as though you’d asked the dumbest question he’d ever heard. You click your tongue, but lift yourself off of him. Grabbing his twitching cock and giving it a few good pumps to spread his precum across his length before positioning his fat, pink tip against your leaking hole.

Zoro twists his hand in your hair and tugs you down for a kiss, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip. You’re dizzy just from his mouth, it’s astounding how you’re ever able to survive his cock.

You can hear Zoro hiss into your mouth as you slowly yet surely suck him inside of you. He’s snug, his tip scraping your walls with every small movement.

“Fuck… you’re good.” Zoro murmur quietly, breaking the kiss to watch your pussy eagerly gobble him up, your hips shimmying to accommodate his cock as it bullies its way into you.

“Zoro…” You groan softly, leaning back to brace a hand on his thigh, your back arching towards him, your tits laying tantalizingly close to his mouth.

“You want it? Yeah, I gotcha, just hold on.” Zoro plants his feet on the mattress, one large, calloused hand moving to grab your hip while the other paws at your breast, squeezing and rolling your areola. between his thumb and forefinger. “Use those pretty thighs and help me out, how about it?”

Zoro starts out with a brutal pace, never one to ease into anything. He enjoys the feel of your nails biting into his thigh while the other rests on his navel to brace yourself. Your face is all screwed up, your nose wrinkled and your lips parted as he drills into you. You work to match his pace, but you don’t contribute much. It’s alright though, Zoro likes it that way. He loves having complete control, adjusting how fast you move and how deep you take it. His favorite thing to do is grab your hips and hold you up until just his tip is inside of you, and then watch as you squirm and roll your hips, desperate for the rest of his cock to fill you up.

Zoro leans forward, sucking your tit into his mouth and pressing searing kisses and bites down the valley of your breasts.

Your eyes meet his piercing grey gaze and he can feel your pussy flutter around him. God, everything got you wet, didn’t it?

Your brows furrow, a pout making its way onto your face as you pant, strangled whines and moans slipping past your lips.

“Shit… fucking…” Zoro closes his eyes and drops his head back against the pillows, he can’t even look at you without getting the urge to cum. Your pretty flustered face and those fluttering eyelashes always did him in.

He has to end this quick before he accidentally cums first.

Zoro wraps an arm around your back, tugging your chest down again him. His lips attach to your shoulder as he adjusts his hips, allowing his cock to ram against your g-spot with each brutal thrust.

He continues to bite and suck along your neck and shoulder while his eyes focus on your thighs watching them twitch and shudder as your ass bounces up and down with each thrust.

“You… gonna cum?” Zoro chokes out as he feels you clamp down around him. It’s more of a statement than a question. He’s fucked you enough times to know your body better than he knows his own. Snaking a hand down to grope and massage your thigh, he drops his head back once again, willing his orgasm away for a few more moments.

Zoro’s wasn’t one to talk during sex. He was way too concentrated to try and string together sentences. But he knew that you absolutely adored the sound of his voice, the way it would drop an octave when he was aroused. And in emergency’s he knew that his voice could bring you to the edge with only a few sweet croons.

You give a small, weak nod, a whine tumbling out of your lips, “Fuck… yeah… ‘m gonna cum, Zoro. You’re gonna make me cum… please…”

His lips quirks at your needy voice, god, you were so sweet to him. “The hell’s stopping you? I wanna feel you cream my cock. Come on… do it already. I’m getting bored.”

His words did unimaginable things to you, the low rasp could bring you straight to the edge. Within moments your gummy walls are clamping down around him as your grind your hips roughly down against his throbbing cock.

“Ah… shit, baby… I can’t-“ You coo weakly, burrowing your face against Zoro’s neck as he continues to rock your hips, his navel bumping against your clit with each steady movement, causing your thighs to tremble and sharp hisses to escape your lips.

Zoro does his best to ease you through your orgasm, but eventually he has to hoist you off of his cock and set you down on his thighs so that he can pull out in time. Grabbing his blushing cock, he finally allows his orgasm to tear through his body. Zoro’s eyes squeeze shut, his body tensing as he shoots hot ropes of cum onto your stomach. He can feel the evidence of your orgasm dribbling out of your leaking pussy and pooling on his thighs.

“Fuck you’re so messy…” He drawls as a wrack of pleasure shoots down his spine.

-

The two of you lay in your mess, dozing in and out of sleep until you eventually grow uncomfortable, your mixed cum beginning to dry on both of yours’ body. Zoro didn’t seem to mind in the least, his muscled arms wrapped tightly around your body, keeping you trapped as he snores softly.

“…Zoro.” You huff, tapping his cheek.

No response.

“Zoro.”

Nothing.

“Zoro!”

You smack his cheek, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to catch his attention. His eyes shoot open, searching the dark room for the cause of your yelling. “Hell’s your problem, woman?” He scoffs, raising a hand to his face and wiping sleep from his eyes.

“I feel gross. Let’s shower.”

“I don’t need a shower, I’ll wipe myself off with a towel or something.”

“God, you’re gross.” Sitting up on Zoro’s chest, you glare down at him. “Come on, just keep me company at least.”

“How about you ask the guy you were dancing with to shower with you.” Zoro grumbles, turning his head to the side to avoid your annoyed gaze.

“You’re still mad about that? You’re so stupid. Dancing doesn’t always have to be romantic.”

Zoro scowls at your insult, “You’re the stupid one, that guy’s dick was practically waving in the wind and begging for a hug when you asked to dance with him.”

“Oh shut up. I’m sorry, okay? I’ll never dance with anyone else ever again.” You tease, crossing your arms over your chest. Zoro’s gaze lazily slides to where your tits are being pushed up and squished together and his scowl slowly melts into a smirk.

You glare at his expression, but there’s no real heat behind it, that hungry look in his eyes has returned, his nap seemingly replenishing his energy. Perhaps there was only one way to get him clean.

“Shower sex?”

“Deal.”

~

Sanji- Missionary

Let’s be lowkey, Sanji’s default vanilla

He does NOT pull bc he’s such a freak, and when he finally gets together with you, he’s definitely clueless. He’s gotten all of his knowledge of intimacy from romance books and poems for sure

He’ll go along with anything you want, but his go to will always be good old missionary

He likes to see your face, to know that he’s making you feel good, but most importantly, he wants you to look into his eyes and see the undying devotion he has to you

He’s SO talkative, literal yapaholic in bed

He likes being able to lean in and let your soft moans and whispers fill his ear as he rocks gently against you, soft praises tumbling past his lips as his arms hug you tight against him

He's constantly searching for reassurance and praise, he wants you to tell him that he’s doing great, that he’s making you feel good. And in return he’ll whisper the sweetest nothings in your ear as he eases you through your orgasm.

He absolutely adores the feeling of your arms wrapped around his shoulders and your face burrowed against his neck. He can cum just from feeling your bare legs lock around his waist, and it’s happened numerous times before.

Sanji would never admit it, because it’s a little perverted, and Sanji is definitely NOT perverted, but he also loves missionary because he can feel your breasts squished against his chest. He loves sliding a hand down and caressing and kissing the fat, never pinching or biting, he wouldn’t want to bruise your pretty skin.

~

“Are you ready for me, love?” Sanji murmurs, his fingers continuing to pump in and out of your leaking pussy, your first orgasm of the night steadily dribbling over Sanji’s wrist.

You give a small nod, grabbing for your lover’s wrist and intertwining your fingers with his shiny, slick, ones. Sanji ducks his head down, kissing your knuckles and lapping up a mix of your cum and arousal. “Please, Sanji… need you.”

He could cum just from your words alone, but instead he gives a mute nod and leans back on his haunches. Sanji stares down at you with bated breath as he massages your thighs with deft fingers. “God… you’re beautiful. I’m gonna make you feel good… I promise… I promise…”

Grabbing your hip with one hand while the other guides his flushed cock to run along your slit. The cook’s breath trembles just slightly and he has to bow his head, his eyes squeezing shut tightly, “I could never get tired of you… you make me feel things that I’ve never felt before… I need you…”

“Sanji…”

Sanji knows that tone, you’re getting impatient. He gives an apologizing murmur, his face flushed in slight embarrassment as he finally rocks forwards, stopping once he’s half way in, his cock easing you open and stretching you perfectly. “You’re so perfect… I love you… I couldn’t live without your touch… You feel so good… so so good… please.”

You love Sanji with every bone in your body, but during sex, he could get a little preoccupied with praising your body that he nearly forgets he’s inside of you somehow. With a soft laugh, you cup his face with your hands and tug him down to your mouth, your tongue darting out to run along his bottom lip, “Shhh, Sanji. I know. Just feel me, yeah?”

Closing his eyes with a shudder, Sanji melts against your mouth, his chest pressing down against yours as he begins to rock his hips into you with slow, firm, thrusts. “…Sorry… y’ feel good…” He mumbles against your lips, his words muffled as he speaks into your mouth.

You go to respond, but instead, a soft moan is torn from your lips, eliciting a shiver to travel down Sanji’s spine. His mouth begins to wander, as it always does when he’s inside of you, and he trails soft, ghosts of kisses across your jaw and down your neck. “I love you… you complete me… y’ make me… ngh… so, so happy-“

Sanji is never one to be aggressive during sex, he obviously comply if you asked him to but he prefers soft, yet firm movements as he rocks against your pretty, puffy pussy. He wants to make love to you, make you feel beautiful and wanted.

“Sanji… you feel so good… faster?” You murmur softly, your back arching against his so perfectly as you gasp and coo against his ear.

Sanji very nearly whimpers at your soft question, your voice just too pretty, too sweet, to be asking anything of him. You were an angel, perfection incarnate, and Sanji would be a fool to deny you anything.

“Of course… legs around my waist, love, wanna feel you hold onto me.” Sanji purrs, licking the shell of your ear, eliciting a delectable squeak from your lips. Your ankles easily hook around the curve of Sanji’s spine, your thighs squishing against his hips and causing a weak groan to sound from Sanji’s throat.

You can feel Sanji’s stomach tensing as he moves, sliding his cock out to the tip before snapping his hips forward, making your eyes roll back and your back to arch as if offering yourself to the heavens.

The bed creaks beneath your body as your toes curl, your hips rolling to meet Sanji’s movements. “Good?” Sanji murmurs, his stubble tickling and scratching your collarbone as he slides his lips across your shoulder.

“…yeah. It’s good-“ You gasp, twisting beneath Sanji’s hands. Sweat dots at your forehead and you can feel your orgasm approaching, glancing at Sanji, you know he’s not far behind.

Sanji grimaces, his eyes meeting yours for a moment before they quickly dance away to watch himself piston in and out of your wet pussy, he listens to the squelches of your body as it practically begs for him. Sanji shudders at the sound, his shoulders bunching up as he listens to your body.

Everything about you is perfect in Sanji’s eyes. You could gut him like a fish and he would thank you before preparing himself into a dish for you to eat. You hold Sanji’s heart in your hands and he trusts you completely, knowing that you’d never break it.

“Damn it, angel.” Sanji hisses, running his hand down through his hair before catching your lips in a passionate kiss. “Please cum. Please, please. I wanna see you cum, angel. Wanna feel it- feel you.”

God, you can’t believe what Sanji’s words do to you. You bury your face again sanji’s neck as your hips buck up against his, searching for your release, “Come on…” You mumble impatiently, your face twisted; your nose scrunched and your brows furrowed.

Sanji leans forward, pressing feather-soft kisses to your furrowed brow and scrunched nose. His hand slides down your navel and lower, rubbing firm circles against your clit. His other arm wraps around your neck, tucking you firmly against his chest as his pace begins to stutter, shuddering breaths escaping his lips.

You writhe so sweetly against him, your heels digging into the small of Sanji’s back. He watches with rapt attention as your orgasm washes through you, reveling in the feel of your nails digging into his shoulders. Sanji feels as though he’s staring at an angel as your lips part, your lashes fluttering and your throat bobbing.

Sanji very nearly cums inside of you, too enraptured with the sounds and sensations he’s caused you to make. You’re mid orgasm when Sanji suddenly pulls out, his eyes widening and his breath catching in his throat in a panic as he coats your stomach with sticky cum.

Normally Sanji would never cum on you. As much as he absolutely adored the sight, something about it made him feel strange, as if he were defiling a priceless artifact. Usually, he would use a condom, or jerk himself off into his hand, or your panties on special occasions- your hand on really special occasions.

“Shit- sorry, sorry, angel.” Sanji groans, pulling back to sit on his haunches. His eyes glued to the sight of your covered not only in your own cum, but his as well. It makes his heart pound faster.

You hold a finger up, needing a moment to catch your breath, your thighs twitching from the pleasure. Finally you open your eyes and look up at him with a sweet smile. Catching his embarrassed face, you quickly think of ways to reassure him.

Sliding your index and middle finger across your navel, gathering up Sanji’s mess. Sanji watches, struggling to keep his eyes from rolling back as you bring your fingers to your lips and slowly lick up his cum.

Letting out exaggerated coos as you suck on your fingers, you grin at him. His face is beet red, and he sniffs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a groan.

“You taste as good as your food, baby.” You hum, your fingers pulling away with a pop.

~

Ace: Against The Wall

Ace is a straight up show off

He loves to throw his weight around, and casually display his strength as if it were normal

Another thing about Ace is that he’s impatient. He wants what he wants and he’ll take it as soon as possible

That doesn’t change during sex. Ace loves picking you up and throwing you around, his hands exploring your body as he shoves you against a wall. At first it’s simply because he was too lazy and impatient to make his way to a bed, he’d simply drag you into a spare closet or pin you against a door

But he soon realized that he preferred a good old wall instead of a bed. He likes the way you giggle when he hoists you up, your thighs wrapping around his waist (or in some cases his face), he over the way you cling to him, too weak to hold yourself up and relying on Ace to keep your from falling

Sometimes Ace likes to pretend his legs give out, he likes the adorable look of panic on your face before Ace quickly snaps his hips up, adjusting your weight and burying himself deeper inside of your walls, gravity helping to sheath himself deeper inside of you

You stopped letting Ace eat you out against the wall after a situation during a storm. A violent wave sent the ship rocking and Ace had gone careening backwards, falling straight on his back… with you still on top of him. It was a horrible experience as the two of you had made your way to the infirmary, Ace happily holding his two missing teeth in his hands as you waddled, a wound on the inside of your thigh that suspiciously looked like a bite mark.

You haven’t seen Ace in weeks. He’s been on some excursion, fighting someone or other. He hasn’t left your mind in the time he’s been gone. You thought of him while cooking, while fighting, damn it all, you even thought of him while cleaning the toilets. Ace is your other half, and it’s like you can physically feel it when he’s apart. When you can’t hear his laugh or feel his touch. It hurt.

But that doesn’t matter anymore because Ace is back. The ship has been a flurry of activity this morning, preparing his welcome back feast. Ace had arrived back home in the middle of the night and had been spending most of his time back in the infirmary before passing out from exhaustion. He hadn’t bothered to say hi to anyone, too tired to think of anything but sleep.

But now was the time to celebrate the return of the Fire Fist.

You’re rummaging through yet another closet, Marco having asked you to search for tablecloths, but for some reason you can’t find them anywhere. You’d prefer if there wasn’t any sort of party, you’d much rather have a quiet day with Ace, just him and you. Yet, you suppose that was slightly selfish, the rest of the crew wanted to see the safe return of their crew mate as well. Just as you’re about to give up on what you think is the third closet, your eyes catch on a hint of fabric poking out from the bottom shelf.

With an annoyed gruff, you brace your hands on the wall and hoist yourself up, standing on the bottom ledge and praying it doesn’t snap under your weight as you stretch your arm out, your fingers just barely brushing against the cloth.

Just as you manage to hook your finger in a fold, you hear the familiar squeak of the closet swinging shut. A curse escapes your lips as you twist around in an attempt to reach for the door, but in the process, your foot slips and you go tumbling towards the floor.

You yelp, bracing yourself for the pain that’s sure to follow, but it never comes. Instead you feel a pair of arms wrap wrapping around your chest, tugging you backwards away from the shelf. Hold on… those arms… they feel a bit too familiar.

“Clumsy girl.” Ace muses with a chuckle, pressing a sloppy kiss to your cheek and tightening his hold around you, “Y’miss me?”

Spinning around, a grin already on your face, you meet the familiar eyes of one Portgas D. Ace. His silhouette just barely visible in the dim light of the closet. Adrenaline still pounds at your chest, but it’s mixed with excitement as you wrap your arms around Ace’s neck. “You scared me.” You scoff, a playful pout on your lips as you tug him down for a light kiss.

You’re expecting some banter in return, but instead; Ace lets out a groan as if he hadn’t drunken water in weeks and you were the sweetest of nectar. Suddenly his hands are slipping up your shirt to press against your abdomen, walking you backwards against the shelf as his mouth practically devours yours.

“Jump.” Ace pants softly, hooking his hands beneath your thighs.

-

Ace is thrusting into you with reckless abandon, the shelves creaking and groaning with your weight as the ledges dig into your back. Mouthing at your throat, Ace coos quietly, “Missed you so, so much, pretty girl. Yeah? You miss me too? You’re sucking me in right now.””

His hands devour your body, his fingertips warm to the touch as he pushes your shirt up around your neck. Ace pulls back for a moment to watch your tits bounce with thrust. His freckles glow faintly as he licks his lips.

Your quiet coos and moans surround Ace, your eyes kept focused on the door as if physically willing any crewmates from walking in on the two of you. You distantly pray that they can’t hear the sound of Ace’s skin slapping against yours.

But Ace is decidedly not trying to be quiet.

If anything, he’s louder than normal. A stupid grin on his face as he lets out low groans and cries of passion as if he’s in some cheap porno. You scowl at him, your stomach flipping as Ace brushes against your g spot. “Quiet!” You hiss, your scowl broken by a sweet gasp as Ace drives his hips up while tugging yours down.

Ace grins madly, throwing his head back and letting out a long, loud moan. “God… I missed you so much…” He cries out, grabbing the shelves and shaking them, objects wobbling and clattering together, “I can’t believe I’ve gone so long without your pretty body… your pretty little pus-“

You grab the back of his neck, a scowl on your face as you tug him into a deep kiss. Ace chuckles against your mouth, your lips finally managing to shut him up for once. You grab his hand, prying his fingers off of the shelf and guiding his palm to cover your breast.

“…missed you.” Ace finally murmurs against your lips, his voice much softer as he rolls your nipple between his fingers, his hand massaging the underside of your tit.

“Shit- Ace… missed y-“ You’re barely able to get your words out before Ace is slapping a palm over your mouth, pausing in his movements and bracing his knee against the shelf to hold you up as he reaches behind him to grab the doorknob. Your brows furrow in confusion, you hadn’t heard anything, but a few moments later you hear the sound of a pair of footsteps making their way down the hall.

Ace grins wildly, holding a finger to his lips. You know that mischievous look on his face. Shaking your head, you glare at Ace, already knowing what he’s planning. He quirks his head, pouting his lip in a false questioning look.

There are voices outside the door, some dumbasses chose this particular hallway to have some stupid conversation while you’re getting fucked balls deep only feet away.

Adjusting his stance, Ace grab your hips and begins to move once again, careful not to let his skin slap against yours. Biting his lip, Ace grins at your annoyance, using his freehand to massage your thigh while the other keeps its hold on the door.

You can feel him pulsing inside of yours, his tip ramming against your g spot with each thrust. It feels good. Too good.

Bringing your hand to your mouth, you bite down, your breath shuddering. Ace guides your head down against his shoulder, pressing featherlight kisses to your ear.

“Come on… good job being quiet, baby.” Ace whispers softly, resting his chin on your shoulder. His words are sweet and smooth, each thrust sending your heart beating out of its cage. “Gonna cum when there’s people right outside? I swear you’ve been gripping me even tighter since they showed up.”

Your hand moves away from your mouth to grip at Ace’s shoulder, your face is pressed firmly to his neck as your thighs begin to tremble from the strain of keeping quiet.

“Ace…” You groan, your words muffled as you grind your hips down against Ace, your clit bumping against his navel with each buck of your hips.

“You know I love your voice, but you gotta keep quiet.” Ace murmurs, “Can you be quiet, or do I gotta stop?”

With a firm shake of your head, your thighs tighten around Ace’s waist. You’re so close, you think you might actually start crying.

-

It feels like an eternity as you wait for whoever’s outside to leave, Ace continuing his steady thrusts into your wet pussy. He whispers quietly to you, his lips brushing against your ear as his filthy words flood your brain.

But finally, the sound of voices fades and you nearly sob in relief. “Faster.” You snap impatiently, too frustrated to try and be nice.

Throwing his head back, Ace lets out a laugh, “Yeah… yeah I can do that.”

Your brain positively melts as Ace bucks his hips into you with reckless abandon, each roll of his body causing his cock to drive straight against your g spot.

Shuddering moans and cries fill the closet as you writhe in Ace’s arms, squirming as you chase after your orgasm.

“You gonna cum, pretty girl? Yeah… me too.” Ace pants, “So you better make it quick before I accidentally cum inside.”

You click your tongue at his teasing but you can’t deny the excitement at the thought of Ace cumming inside of you. Fucking his seed up into your cunt and putting a pretty baby in your stomach. You know that Ace has… difficulties with the idea of fathers, but you can’t help but think he would be a great one.

Before you know it, you’re thrown into an orgasm, your back arching as you throw your head back. Ace just barely manages to cup the back of your head in time, stopping you from bashing yourself against the shelves and probably giving yourself a concussion.

Your thighs tense and your whimper, pawing at Ace’s chest as you slam your hips down against Ace, chasing after your orgasm.

Ace curses, turning his head to the side at the sight of your pretty face. Your cheeks are puffed out adorably, your lips pursed and your brow furrowed in concentration. Glancing down, his eyes catch on the small flame that had burst on his foot. Ace flushes in embarrassment, stomping it out.

Ace hauls you off of him, holding you up against the wall as he pulls out, your pussy tries to cling to his cock, and it practically breaks Ace’s heart. With a grunt, he cum over his hand, careful not to get any of his mess on your clothes.

“I want…” Ace pants, stooping down to grab his boxers and wipe off his sticky palm, “I want you to go to the bedroom… I’ll meet you in about fifteen minutes, ‘kay?”

He lowers you to the floor, pinching your shaking thighs playfully, “You’ll make it there alright?” He teases, wiping up any evidence of orgasm with his underwear before tugging your pants back on. Ace goes about fixing your clothes, buttoning your shirt, zipping your pants and fixing your mussed hair.

Once he thinks you look presentable enough, he quickly tugs his own pants back on, throwing his boxers to a corner and silently promising to grab them later (he won’t).

Pressing a kiss to your cheek, Ace opens the door and shoves you out with a smack on the ass, “See you soon, sweetheart,” He coos, walking in the opposite direction. He sends you a stupid wink before turning the corner.

~

Kidd: BACKSHOTS!!!!

BACKSHOTSBACKSHOTSBACKSHOTS FACE DOWN, ASS UP, THATS THE WAY WE LIKE TO FUCK!!!

Guys I may or may not love backshots as much as I love Kidd

Kidd loves every position as long as he’s able to see your body jiggle and move. He especially loves hitting it from the back in any way; doggy, prone bone, face buried in the pillows and your hips wiggling around, throwing your ass back against him like the needy thing you are

He’ll bend you over anything, a desk, a bed, the railing. Hell, if you’re flexible enough, he’ll make you bend down and touch your toes while he plows your shit

One of his favorite things to do is make you grab your ass and present your pussy to him, showing off the way you drip and leak for his fat cock

Kidd uses any jewelry you have to his advantages. Bracelets? He’s forcing them above your head while you practically suffocate in his pillows. Anklets? He’s tugging your legs apart until you’re nearly doing the splits as he bullies his dick into your tiny cunt. But his absolute favorite piece of jewelry that you wear are waist beads.

Even if you’re completely and utterly exhausted, too tired to move or even cry anymore. He’ll take control of your waist beads and force you to keep throwing your ass back against him, the fat jiggling and practically begging for him to slap and fondle

Let’s be honest, Kidd’s fucking feral. He licks and bites his way down your spine, leaving a path of red kisses in its path. By the time he’s done with you, you’re absolutely covered in Kidd’s lipstick. Red pigment smeared down your spine and across your face.

~ Metal clatters against the ground as your body is roughly shoved down against the cool metal of Kidd’s work table. Your bikini top has been haphazardly tugged up around your neck, the strings all tangled, showing off your pretty tan lines. Your skin tingles from the temperature as you lift your head to look behind you. Kidd grins wolfishly at your lustful gaze as he toys with the strings of your bikini bottoms.

Kidd isn’t quite sure what’s come over him, he’s seen you in a bikini hundreds of times before, damn it, he’s seen you naked even more. But the sight of you lounging on the deck of his ship, your skin shiny from tanning had made his heart jump to his throat. You had been sleeping on your stomach, the slope of your spine and the curve of your ass on full display for the crew to see.

He had been working in his workshop when he had caught a glance of you through the window, your tits squished against the floor and your lips pouted slightly in sleep. Kidd hadn’t even realized what he was doing before he was activating his devil fruit powers, latching onto the silver bracelet he’d bought for you and tugging. You awoke to your hand being tugged by a seemingly invisible string. You were bleary from sleep but you already knew what was going on.

Your captain was waiting for you.

And that’s how you’d been practically dragged to the workshop, your feet stumbling over steps and nearly sending you crashing into the railing. The crew snicker and whistle at the sight of your hand being dragged by an unseen force. They knew exactly what Kidd wanted.

You’re barely able to get the door to the workshop open before Kidd is grabbing the back of your neck and tugging you into a bruising kiss. His hips rut against your thigh as he drags you towards his desk, haphazardly sweeping his hand and sending his little ‘projects’ (deadly weapons) flying. Sliding a hand to your shoulder, he slams you down against the table, hoisting your hips up onto the surface so that your toes just barely graze the ground.

“You’re lucky I didn’t go out there and fuck you in front of the whole crew.” Kidd snarls, his hand groping your ass, his touch rough enough to make you flinch as he swats your thigh. Your hips jolt, your body jerking against the table as a sharp keen escapes your lips. “Maybe I should make an announcement, huh? Call everyone in here and make ‘em watch you cream my cock like the slut you are. How’s that sound?”

He chuckles, reaching down to poke and prod your hole through the bikini bottom, pinching your clit and rolling the nub between his fingers, watching the fabric grow damp with your arousal as your feet twitch. You twist around to look at him, your thighs clenching at the sight of your lover; he’s practically drooling at the sight of you laid out across the table. His bottom lip caught between his teeth as he kicks your legs apart, stepping forward and rutting himself against your clothed pussy, earning a gasp from your lips.

“What’s got you all worked up?” You tease, rolling your ass back against Kidd’s raging hard on. Even through his clothing, you can feel that one prominent vein on his cock that never fails to drag you into orgasm. Arching your back, you wiggle your hips in the way that makes Kidd’s eyes roll back as he attempt to hold himself back from fucking you hard and deep.

Kidd snarls, his eyes locked onto your ass as if entranced. In on swift movement, he tugs the string of your bikini, the fabric falling to the side to give your captain a wonderful view of your messy cunt and puckered asshole. “Tch. Show me.”

This was Kidd being nice, giving you a few moments to prepare yourself, because there are many things that your captain is, but patient is definitely not one of them. When Kidd had first asked you to expose your weeping hole to him, you had been an embarrassed, blubbering mess. Arguing and telling him that it was weird.

But that was then, and now it was like second nature as you ease a knee onto the table and reach your hand behind you, sliding your pointer and middle finger between your dripping folds and sliding them apart to reveal your pulsing hole to Kidd, arousal steadily dribbling out of your cunt and over your skin. Sliding your digits inside, Kidd watches with rapt attention as you scissor your fingers, preparing your tight pussy for Kidd’s above average cock. More slick drips down your wrist as your ass shakes, your knee jerking and your head dropping down against the table.

With a growl, Kidd unbuttons his pants and you can hear his fat cock slap against his abdomen as he watches your fingers eagerly “Whaddya need, baby?” He croons, his voice sickening sweet as he wraps a hand around your hair and tugs your head back up. Hoisting your back against his chest, Kidd licks up into your mouth, biting your lip and stealing the breath from your lungs. His other hand travels up your navel, across your stomach before grasping the fat of your breast, tugging and twisting. It’s painful, his fingers pinching and flicking your areola as if it were a toy, making you squeak and squirm against him. Yet your hand continues to work at your pussy, it was better for both of you if your cunt was plenty stretched by the time Kidd entered you. Once Kidd lost his patience, there wasn’t much that you could do to stop his from entering you.

You try to respond, your chest fluttering as you try and fail to catch your breath. Kidd’s mouth chasing yours every time you try and pull away. “Mph- Kidd… can’t-“

It’s not until you fear that you might actually pass out, black spots dancing in your vision, that Kidd finally pulls away. Lipstick and saliva smeared across his lower face, and most likely yours as well. “I said, whaddya need?”

You pant, tears dotting your lashes as Kidd finally releases his bruising hold on your tit, his hand sliding to your shoulder and shoving you back down against the table. “Fuck… fuck me, Kidd… shit.”

Kidd catches your wrist, stopping your hand from continuing its ministrations against your pussy, before slamming it down by your face, your eyes linger on the sight of your shiny fingers, strings of arousal coating your skin. Without a moments hesitation, Kidd aligns his twitching length with your entrance and bottoms out inside of you. One moment he’s outside of you, and the next he’s balls deep, his tip very nearly kissing your cervix.

A mix between a relieved groan and a chuckle fills your ears as you let out a ragged cry of pleasure, a sharp jolt of pain coursing up your spine before it melts away into a blissful throb. Your back arches and your hips jerk back against Kidd as he massages your ass, his attempt at comfort. Slowly dragging his cock back, the ridges of his vein catches on your ring of muscle and you shudder, a soft coo sounding from your mouth. Kidd pulls back until his tip is just barely lingering inside of you, his gaze focused on the sight of your pussy all stretched out around him, your arousal coating his cock and dripping over his balls.

You shimmy your hips enticingly, whining with need and impatience as you look at him over your shoulder, “Come on. Hurry up.” You huff, looking up at him with flushed cheeks and pouted lips.

Scowling at your order, Kidd scoffs and rolls his eyes, but the sight of your pretty face makes his heart jump, he secretly loves it when you’re bossy, “Yeah, yeah. You always say that shit and then cry and beg me to slow down a few minutes later. You’re annoying you know that?”

You open your mouth to shoot back an equally sharp retort, but all that comes out is a choked cry as Kidd’s hands move to grip your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh as he hauls your ass back against him, beginning his punishing pace.

Your core aches with each brutal thrust. It’s painful, the pleasure coursing through your body just enough to make it worth it. Or maybe the pain is what making it feel so good? You’re not quite sure that it even matters.

“Fuck, you love it when I treat you like this. You probably couldn’t even cum if I’m not at least a li’l mean, huh?” Kidd teases, his teeth baring as he ducks his head down. Starting at the small of your back, his mouth attaches to your skin, sucking and biting and licking his way up the curve of your spine, leaving a mess of saliva, bruises and lipstick stains in his wake. You taste of sun tan lotion, coconut oil, and sweat. It’s making Kidd’s knees buckle with how good you feel on his tongue.

“You talk… way too much…” You bite out, dropping your head in your arms as your eyes squeeze shut, your head buzzing with pleasure.

“Good thing my teeth are as sharp as my tongue.” Kidd snarls, biting down on your shoulder. His canines dig into your skin as he feasts on your pretty figure. As if to punctuate his point, Kidd thrusts into you, purposefully pressing his tip to your cervix and making you keen in a mix of pain and pleasure.

Stars dance in your vision as you very nearly wail, your body writhing on the table as you attempt to wiggle away. It’s in vain as Kidd grabs your hips and drags you back. “See? I ain’t all talk.”

Kidd snakes a hand around your front, his fingers digging into your abdomen as if searching, “I can feel myself right… here.” Kidd sounds triumphant as he massages the slight bulge. He groans as he presses down, your gummy walls closing in around him as he resumes his thrusts. “Maybe I should put a baby up there one day, how’s that sound, babe?”

You bite your lip, unable to respond anymore for fear that you might let out a sob. Tears dot your lash line, your face splotchy and your breath shuddering. Each rock of Kidd’s hips send electricity up your spine. “I-“

Kidd cocks his head, leaning forward to peer at your face. He grins rakishly, wrestling you into a chokehold and brushing your hair past your ear. He presses a kiss to your cheek, “Are you gonna cry? Go ahead, you know I don’t mind.” Kidd grunts, snapping his hips. He’s close, both of you can tell, he’s struggling to keep his rhythm, his hips stuttering every few moments.

“‘m not… gonna cry.” You choke out, the metal beneath the two of you has grown slick with sweat and condensation. Each time Kidd thrusts his cock into you, there’s a squeak as your skin rubs against the table. You can’t help but giggle at the stupid sound, your cheek pressed against Kidd’s bicep as your eyes roll back.

“God, you’re so sweaty. What’s your problem?” Kidd gruffs, but you can hear the hint of endearment in his voice. “Just cum already, yeah?”

You turn your head, your tongue lolling out in search for Kidd’s mouth. Grinning at your fucked out expression, Kidd eagerly accepts your tongue into his mouth.

You bite down on Kidd’s lip as your orgasm washes over you like a wave. Your entire body jerking and twitching as your hips chase after Kidd’s cock, sucking him in deeper and deeper.

Kidd watches with bated breath as tears slip down your cheeks, your cries and moans quickly swallowed by his eager mouth. He continues to thrust impatiently into your creamy pussy, dragging you through your orgasm while chasing after his own.

Your cum is creating a foamy ring around the base of Kidd’s cock. His face burns and he allows you to kiss him one final time before he pulls back, blood coating his bottom lip from how hard your teeth had dug in.

You feel empty as Kidd finally drags his dick out of your cunt, your hole pulsing with his absence. Kidd grunts in annoyance as he jerks himself off, his bicep flexing around your throat as his own orgasm washes through him, his cum painting your back.

“I’m gonna cum in your pretty pussy one day, and it’s gonna be the best day of our fucking lives, I promise.” Kidd grunts, releasing his hold on you and running a hand through his hair. He steps back from between your legs, admiring the view of your body on display for him to see.

The lipstick marks on your back are partially covered by his cum, oil and sweat still lingering on your skin as bruises form on your ass. Your thighs tremble, your fluids coating your folds and dripping down onto the table.

-

You wake up in Kidd’s arms, your body aching as you lounge across his lap, your nose nestled against his neck. He’s toying absentmindedly, one hand tinkering with a small trinket (bomb), while the other massages your thigh.

Your body feels as though it’s been through the wringer, your thighs aching and your core throbbing. There are bruises on your hips from the table repeatedly digging into your skin.

“Hi.” Kidd grunts, barely soaring you a glance.

“…Hi.” You croak, clearing your throat as you sit up to peer at Kidd’s little invention. You smooth a hand through your hair, groaning as your hands run down your face.

“I told you you’d cry.”

big bro sukuna because im a sucker for sibling au

Part 2 | Part 3