lxvebun

[lxvebun]

spring rain

buns notes: this went from a 500 word drabble to a 3.2k word brainrot.

content: Sukuna x gender neutral reader. College au! Sunshine x grumpy trope. Yearning, FLUFF sickeningly sweet fluff. Sukuna had a lip piercing. Mention of smoking once or twice. Little rushed at certain parts, pookies this fic gave me so much eyestrain ejdj. Eng is not my first language let me know if there are any annoying mistakes!

You’re too sweet for someone like Sukuna Ryomen. Too bubbly, too full of color and kindness, like spring in human form compared to someone who seems like he was carved out of storm clouds and shattered glass. And everyone around you makes sure to remind you of that every time your eyes seem to wander off in search of him. Every time you try to catch a glimpse as he walks by or your head turns around at the sound of his voice.

"He's trouble." "He's rude." "He's all bite, no bark. Be careful."

They’re not wrong, necessarily. Almost everyone has either witnessed or been the recipient of his downright cruel insults and sharp tongue. And yeah, it's probably not the best idea to get involved with someone who seemingly gets agitated over the smallest things. Someone who threatens to punch someone's lights out whenever they look at him the wrong way. Someone who comes to lectures with a bloody broken nose and a split lip at least once a month. Someone rumored to be some underground fighter, someone for hire to do your dirty work, throwing punches for cash beneath flickering street lights.

And the thing you hear most often? “You’re too good for him. He’s only going to break your heart.”

Whether that's true or not, you're not really sure. But maybe it doesn't really matter when Sukuna of all people has the special ability to reduce you into a lovesick mess and make your heart feel all warm and fuzzy. When something as small as a brief glance your way or the sound of his voice are enough to errupt a plethora of butterflies in your stomach.

You once read a line at 2am while doomscrolling the night away after another failed attempt at sleeping. It carved itself into the walls of your mind and refused to leave ever since:

“In the right heaven-yellow light, anything looks holy enough to save you.”

You scribbled it in the margins of your notebook, circled it in red, then underlined it so many times the paper nearly tore. It felt like the only way to explain what Sukuna looked like to you in those fleeting golden moments, when the light catches on his lashes and softens the hard edges of his face, casting a halo where no one else seems to see one.

Yes, he’s cruel. He’s cold. He’s careless.

But sometimes, when you catch him in the soft sparkle of the morning sun or in the lull of twilight when everything feels a a little softer, a little more like a dream, he looks like he could be something else. Something warm, something sweet. Like the first crocus pushing through thawed earth, the first beam of sunlight after a cold harsh winter.

You keep this to yourself of course. Keep those thoughts tucked away between the lines of your notebooks, in the quiet corners of your mind. To dream about later when you go to sleep. Because as much as you like to daydream about this theoretical goodness inside of him, try to solve the puzzle that is Sukuna Ryomen, you're very much aware that these thoughts, this fixation on him stem from the puppy crush you’re harboring more than any objective, critical observation. Hell, you’ve barely interacted with him other than stolen glances and brushing past him in crowded hallways.

It's just a silly little crush. Something softer to fixate on than the endless stressful exams and exhausting all-nighters. Nothing more, nothing less and that’s okay. You're okay with that.

However, something begins to shift come spring. Things begin to bloom… a little differently.

ⓘMon march 24. 8:14 AM

Your morning unfolds like a series of unfortunate events. Your alarm, the one time you don't double-check it, betrays you, leaving you to be awakened by your body's internal clock in a haze of sleep and panic before rushing out the door. The air outside bites with an unexpected chill that you would have been more prepared for had you actually had some time this morning, and your favorite café, typically a haven, serves you a coffee so sweet it becomes undrinkable. By the time you reach the lecture hall, it's already brimming with students, each seat occupied or guarded by a strategically placed bag.

Your eyes scan the room, heart sinking, as every seat you gravitate towards has already been taken. Until they land on a solitary empty seat in the back row — beside him.

Sukuna Ryomen.

He’s claimed the seat closest to the pathway, which means that, if he’d let you, you’d have to scoot past him to reach the empty chair and that alone makes you debate whether the floor is really such a bad spot. Your back wins that argument, however.

He’s slouched, arms crossed, head tilted back like he’d rather be anywhere else. There's a bandage over the bridge of his nose and a scratch near his jaw that looks fresh. Angry and red against his skin. He doesn’t look at you when you approach. Doesn’t move his bag either.

“Hey…is that seat taken?” The words come out way more shy than you intended.

His eyes flick toward you. Brief. Sharp. Then away again before he speaks, gruff: “No.”

He doesn't move his bag but he does shift his legs slightly, giving you the space to squeeze past. It’s not an invitation, not really. But it’s not rejection either.

As you settle beside him, you try not to think about how close his leg is to yours, how his broad shoulders nearly bump into you and how despite sitting down he still manages to tower over most. He smells faintly like smoke and something coppery, blood most likely. His presence all in all should intimidate you more than it does. Instead, there's a strange comfort in the closeness (maybe that's just your heart beating a little stronger and convincing than the rational part in your mind). You try to focus on the lecture, on keeping your notes tidy and your mind grounded, but it’s hard when your thoughts are fluttering everywhere. Between the nerves, the curiosity, and the way your heart won’t settle, your handwriting comes out crooked, your fingers a little too unsteady..

When your pen eventually slips from your grasp, surprisingly, he retrieves it without so much as a sigh or a grunt, holding it out to you, his gaze never leaving the front of the room. You mumble something between a thank you and apology and he responds with a barely audible hum.

The rest of the lecture passes more smoothly after that, the flutter of nerves calming down as the minutes pass. Now and then, you can feel his eyes on you, fleeting, when you glance over, he’s already turned his attention back to the front, idly tugging at his lip piercing. You find yourself unintentionally fixated on the subtle glint of the silver metal, eyes lingering longer than they should. He notices, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips, amused, maybe even a little flattered. You're quick to avert your eyes after that. Ignoring the racing of your heart as you try to tune back into whatever the professor was saying.

The lecture winds down without further incident, the professor’s voice finally trailing off into dismissal. Sukuna is out of his seat the instant it’s over, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and heading for the aisle.

You exhale, shoulders loosening slightly as the tension of the hour begins to dissolve. But before you can fully settle into the quiet, Sukuna pauses.

He turns back to you, eyes trailing over your form, Behind him, the tall windows rattle softly in their frames. Rain streaking down the glass in blurred rivers.

He glances at the storm, jaw tightening, then looks at you again. You fail to recognize the glint in his eyes. After a beat, he sighs, drops his bag to the floor, and shrugs off his leather jacket.

Without a word, he steps forward and holds it out to you.

You begin to shake your head, waving your hands frantically, the words "it's okay" barely make it past your lips before you're enveloped in something warm, heavy as he drapes the jacket around your shoulders.

"You can give it back tomorrow," he mutters, eyes avoiding yours, before turning and disappearing down the hallway, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Despite the hectic morning, despite the cold outside, something warm curls in your heart and stubbornly lingers long after he’s gone.

ⓘTue. March 25. 7:45 AM

You’re on time the next day, thankfully. The lecture hall is still quiet, touched with that early-morning calm, and best of all, it’s full of empty seats waiting to be claimed. You make your usual choice: fifth row, right in the middle. It’s the perfect spot—close enough to see the board without squinting, but not so close you feel exposed.

Sliding into your seat, you let yourself relax, Sukuna’s jacket resting on your lap, thumbing idly through your phone while the room slowly begins to fill. The murmur of arriving students builds little by little until—

A knee knocks into yours.

You blink, startled, and look up.

Sukuna.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just nods and settles in the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you, Sukuna,” you say, offering a small smile as you hand him his jacket back

He nods, then mutters, “Ryo is fine.”

He tosses the jacket into his lap with a careless flick of his wrist. You wait for the moment he’ll stand and retreat to his usual seat in the back. But instead, he makes himself comfortable, leans back into the stiff wooden chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back and eyes closed.

For the briefest second, he looks... calm.

Then the bell rings.

A substitute walks in, clipboard in hand, and that peace he once had evaporates instantly.

You notice the change instantly. Sukuna’s jaw tightens, and his whole body shifts, sighing, fidgeting, fingers twitching against the side of his jeans. So maybe one of the rumors was true: his patience...or lack of it.

He chews the end of his pen like it personally wronged him, expression locked in that ever-present scowl.

You try not to notice. Really, you do. You focus on the substitute, who seems nice enough, if a little scatterbrained. He stumbles through the material, backtracks, apologizes, and starts over again.

Sukuna doesn’t make it easy.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The eraser of his pencil hits the desk in sharp, uneven bursts.

Annoying. Erratic. Deliberate.

You glance over once. He’s staring ahead, eyes fixed, unblinking.

Twice. Now he’s looking at you, only from the corner of his eye, like he’s waiting for you to crack first. Daring you to say something

You fold.

"Did that pencil steal your lunch money or something?"

He turns toward you. For a second, nothing. Then the corners of his lips pull into an easy smile, He swings an arm around the back of your chair, respectful enough to not touch you, close enough that you can feel his body heat.

“Just thinking about stabbing it through my eye,” he says.

You blink. “ what a nice, normal thing to think about.”

He shrugs. “Better than listening to this guy. Pretty sure even he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

You snort, quietly, before you can stop it.

It earns you another glance, this one softer. Curious, even.

He leans back again, pencil now resting against his bottom lip instead of tapping the desk.

Something shifts between you two. You both feel it. It’s not enough to name. But it’s something.

Enough to make you feel more at ease, leaning back in your chair more comfortably, not blinking in surprise or moving away when your knees touch nor when the arm around the back of your chair curls a little more around you.

ⓘThu. March 27. 21:13

The next time you see Sukuna is a few days after your last encounter. It's late—just past 9—after a long-overdue study session with a friend. You told her you'd stay a little longer, work a little more, you waved her off with a tired smile, insisting you'd be fine getting home on your own.

When you finally step out of the library, your eyes are heavy with sleep and your stomach twists begging for something more substantial than the coffee and vending machine snacks you've been surviving on. You descend the steps slowly, half-lost in your thoughts until you see him.

Ryomen.

Leaning against one of the stone pillars just outside, a half-smoked cigarette dangling between his lips, the soft glow of twilight and hazy streetlights casting golden shadows across his face. His helmet rests carelessly by his feet. There's a fresh bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw, and even in the dim lighting, you can make out dried blood and new cuts on his knuckles.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You hesitate. Would it be weird to just walk past him without saying anything? Would he even want to talk? It's hard to tell with him, his default expression always seems to hover somewhere between indifferent and vaguely pissed off.

Still, you speak.

“Hey, Ryo...”

Quiet enough to slip by unnoticed if he wants to ignore it. Open enough to invite a reply if he doesn't.

He glances over. Nods. Removes the cigarette from his lips and exhales the smoke sideways, deliberately away from you.

“You're out late.”

“Study session,” you reply, “Trying to piece together what the substitute was actually saying... you know?”

You’re not sure where the sudden courage to crack a half assed joke comes from, but it earns you a real smile from him, small but genuine, as he takes another drag.

“Good luck with that. Didn’t understand shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before you find yourself saying,

“Would you... I could text you my notes, if you want?”

He eyes you—an unreadable glint in his gaze. Playful? Curious? Something else entirely?

“You asking for my number?”

You freeze, caught somewhere between embarrassment and surprise. Before you can stammer out a reply, he chuckles—quiet and low—then fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to you.

It's beat up, cracked at every corner, and struggles to register the taps of your fingers as you enter your number. Still, you manage.

When you hand it back, “Oh—my name is—”

“Y/N,” he says, cutting you off gently, “I know.”

You blink. “How do you know my name?”

He shrugs, eyes drifting toward the sky like he won’t elaborate. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just… suspended. Like the moment is deciding what it wants to be.

He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his boot with a quiet scrape. Then, almost casually, he says, “You headed back to the dorms?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just a few blocks away.”

He considers that for a moment, then picks up his helmet “I’ll walk you.”

You blink again, thrown off. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, cutting off the protest before it can form. His voice is rough, but there's a strange softness beneath it—like the gesture isn't for show, like it matters to him in a way he won’t admit out loud.

You try to fall in step beside him as he starts walking, his strides easy, slows a little when he realises he's going too fast. The night hums around you wind tugging gently at your clothes, the few leaves that have begun sprouting rustling in the trees overhead, the occasional buzz of a streetlamp flickering to life. He breaks the silence after a while

“You always this reckless?”

You glance at him, confused. “Reckless?”

“Heading home alone this late.”

You roll your eyes lightly. “It’s not that late.”

He doesn’t argue, but you hear the faintest huff of disapproval.

Eventually, you reach the familiar path that leads to your dorm. You stop just at the edge, where the lights from the windows spill across the pavement in warm, golden patches. Sukuna slows beside you, eyes scanning the area before landing back on you.

He hesitates for a second—just long enough for you to notice—then nods once.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “You look like hell.”

You laugh under your breath. “Thanks. You’re not looking so great yourself.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He turns without waiting for a reply, but you watch him for a few seconds longer as he walks away—helmet dangling from one hand, bloodied knuckles catching the light, his figure fading into the shadowed path beyond.

Warmth blooms in your chest again. Different from before. Not just butterflies now, but something steadier. Stronger.

And long after he’s gone, when you're back in the comfort of your dorm you still feel it.

ⓘfri. March 28. 18:37

The weekend has begun.

The hallways are quieter now, the last shuffle of feet fading into the distance as students leave the building, laughing in small clusters, huddling close against the oncoming chill. You linger, trailing your fingers along the railing as you descend the steps, the air thick and heavy with the scent of spring rain—fresh earth, damp bark, and something faintly sweet like budding flowers just beginning to stretch open. Everything smells clean, alive, as if the world has been waiting for this exact moment to breathe again.

You pause beneath the shelter outside the lecture hall, arms wrapped around your bag. A breeze dances past, and though it carries a lingering bite, it’s softened by the warmer undercurrent that always comes this time of year—the promise of growth, of things blooming again.

The rain begins slowly at first, a droplet here and there, before it turned into a drizzle, then into a cloudbreak. It hits the pavement hard, kicking up steam and a stronger wave of that earthy, green scent it's the kind of rain that feels like it’s rinsing the last frost of winter away.

You shrink back beneath the narrow shelter, clutching your bag a little tighter to your body, trying to avoid the areas where rain leaks through. Your umbrella? A long forgotten accessory still sitting on the floor of your dorm. You debate whether or not you should make a run for it or wait it out, although the rain doesn't seem like it's stopping anytime soon

Then you hear it. footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Then, without looking at you:

He steps into your periphery, already damp, rain streaking down the curve of his neck, along the outlines of his tattoo and soaking into the fabric of his hoodie. Earbuds wrapped around his ears, dangling with each step. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches the storm with a sort of stillness that feels different than usual.

Softer.

“You waiting for it to flood, or…?”

You glance up at him, sheepish. “Didn’t think I’d need an umbrella today. Spring’s supposed to be kinder than this.”

A quiet huff of amusement, barely a laugh. He shifts his bag, pulls a weathered umbrella from inside, and opens it with one smooth flick of his wrist.

He hesitates just a beat.

Then, like it’s no big deal he holds his arm out to you, just slightly but you get the idea.

“Come on. I’ll walk you.”

You don't hesitate this time, curling a hand around his arm carefully as step beside him, close beneath the small arc of shelter. The umbrella’s not big and you're pretty sure his right shoulder is getting completely soaked but he doesnt" seem to care. The bruise on his jaw is healing, fading into his skin and the broken skin on his knuckles have turned into white little lines. His normal cologne, natural scent of smoke is softened by the sweet green notes still clinging to the rain.

“Thank you” you murmur.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, quieter:

“Your books would’ve gotten ruined.”

There’s meaning tucked between the words, like always.

When you glance up at him, his ears are flushed faintly pink.

You smile. Something new and gentle stirs in your chest.

Maybe spring is kinder than you thought.

Maybe it just came in his shape.

[lxvebun]

Proof of my imperfection as a human. ✦

18/100

Time: 3 hours

[lxvebun]

spring rain

buns notes: this went from a 500 word drabble to a 3.2k word brainrot.

content: Sukuna x gender neutral reader. College au! Sunshine x grumpy trope. Yearning, FLUFF sickeningly sweet fluff. Sukuna had a lip piercing. Mention of smoking once or twice. Little rushed at certain parts, pookies this fic gave me so much eyestrain ejdj. Eng is not my first language let me know if there are any annoying mistakes!

You’re too sweet for someone like Sukuna Ryomen. Too bubbly, too full of color and kindness, like spring in human form compared to someone who seems like he was carved out of storm clouds and shattered glass. And everyone around you makes sure to remind you of that every time your eyes seem to wander off in search of him. Every time you try to catch a glimpse as he walks by or your head turns around at the sound of his voice.

"He's trouble." "He's rude." "He's all bite, no bark. Be careful."

They’re not wrong, necessarily. Almost everyone has either witnessed or been the recipient of his downright cruel insults and sharp tongue. And yeah, it's probably not the best idea to get involved with someone who seemingly gets agitated over the smallest things. Someone who threatens to punch someone's lights out whenever they look at him the wrong way. Someone who comes to lectures with a bloody broken nose and a split lip at least once a month. Someone rumored to be some underground fighter, someone for hire to do your dirty work, throwing punches for cash beneath flickering street lights.

And the thing you hear most often? “You’re too good for him. He’s only going to break your heart.”

Whether that's true or not, you're not really sure. But maybe it doesn't really matter when Sukuna of all people has the special ability to reduce you into a lovesick mess and make your heart feel all warm and fuzzy. When something as small as a brief glance your way or the sound of his voice are enough to errupt a plethora of butterflies in your stomach.

You once read a line at 2am while doomscrolling the night away after another failed attempt at sleeping. It carved itself into the walls of your mind and refused to leave ever since:

“In the right heaven-yellow light, anything looks holy enough to save you.”

You scribbled it in the margins of your notebook, circled it in red, then underlined it so many times the paper nearly tore. It felt like the only way to explain what Sukuna looked like to you in those fleeting golden moments, when the light catches on his lashes and softens the hard edges of his face, casting a halo where no one else seems to see one.

Yes, he’s cruel. He’s cold. He’s careless.

But sometimes, when you catch him in the soft sparkle of the morning sun or in the lull of twilight when everything feels a a little softer, a little more like a dream, he looks like he could be something else. Something warm, something sweet. Like the first crocus pushing through thawed earth, the first beam of sunlight after a cold harsh winter.

You keep this to yourself of course. Keep those thoughts tucked away between the lines of your notebooks, in the quiet corners of your mind. To dream about later when you go to sleep. Because as much as you like to daydream about this theoretical goodness inside of him, try to solve the puzzle that is Sukuna Ryomen, you're very much aware that these thoughts, this fixation on him stem from the puppy crush you’re harboring more than any objective, critical observation. Hell, you’ve barely interacted with him other than stolen glances and brushing past him in crowded hallways.

It's just a silly little crush. Something softer to fixate on than the endless stressful exams and exhausting all-nighters. Nothing more, nothing less and that’s okay. You're okay with that.

However, something begins to shift come spring. Things begin to bloom… a little differently.

ⓘMon march 24. 8:14 AM

Your morning unfolds like a series of unfortunate events. Your alarm, the one time you don't double-check it, betrays you, leaving you to be awakened by your body's internal clock in a haze of sleep and panic before rushing out the door. The air outside bites with an unexpected chill that you would have been more prepared for had you actually had some time this morning, and your favorite café, typically a haven, serves you a coffee so sweet it becomes undrinkable. By the time you reach the lecture hall, it's already brimming with students, each seat occupied or guarded by a strategically placed bag.

Your eyes scan the room, heart sinking, as every seat you gravitate towards has already been taken. Until they land on a solitary empty seat in the back row — beside him.

Sukuna Ryomen.

He’s claimed the seat closest to the pathway, which means that, if he’d let you, you’d have to scoot past him to reach the empty chair and that alone makes you debate whether the floor is really such a bad spot. Your back wins that argument, however.

He’s slouched, arms crossed, head tilted back like he’d rather be anywhere else. There's a bandage over the bridge of his nose and a scratch near his jaw that looks fresh. Angry and red against his skin. He doesn’t look at you when you approach. Doesn’t move his bag either.

“Hey…is that seat taken?” The words come out way more shy than you intended.

His eyes flick toward you. Brief. Sharp. Then away again before he speaks, gruff: “No.”

He doesn't move his bag but he does shift his legs slightly, giving you the space to squeeze past. It’s not an invitation, not really. But it’s not rejection either.

As you settle beside him, you try not to think about how close his leg is to yours, how his broad shoulders nearly bump into you and how despite sitting down he still manages to tower over most. He smells faintly like smoke and something coppery, blood most likely. His presence all in all should intimidate you more than it does. Instead, there's a strange comfort in the closeness (maybe that's just your heart beating a little stronger and convincing than the rational part in your mind). You try to focus on the lecture, on keeping your notes tidy and your mind grounded, but it’s hard when your thoughts are fluttering everywhere. Between the nerves, the curiosity, and the way your heart won’t settle, your handwriting comes out crooked, your fingers a little too unsteady..

When your pen eventually slips from your grasp, surprisingly, he retrieves it without so much as a sigh or a grunt, holding it out to you, his gaze never leaving the front of the room. You mumble something between a thank you and apology and he responds with a barely audible hum.

The rest of the lecture passes more smoothly after that, the flutter of nerves calming down as the minutes pass. Now and then, you can feel his eyes on you, fleeting, when you glance over, he’s already turned his attention back to the front, idly tugging at his lip piercing. You find yourself unintentionally fixated on the subtle glint of the silver metal, eyes lingering longer than they should. He notices, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips, amused, maybe even a little flattered. You're quick to avert your eyes after that. Ignoring the racing of your heart as you try to tune back into whatever the professor was saying.

The lecture winds down without further incident, the professor’s voice finally trailing off into dismissal. Sukuna is out of his seat the instant it’s over, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and heading for the aisle.

You exhale, shoulders loosening slightly as the tension of the hour begins to dissolve. But before you can fully settle into the quiet, Sukuna pauses.

He turns back to you, eyes trailing over your form, Behind him, the tall windows rattle softly in their frames. Rain streaking down the glass in blurred rivers.

He glances at the storm, jaw tightening, then looks at you again. You fail to recognize the glint in his eyes. After a beat, he sighs, drops his bag to the floor, and shrugs off his leather jacket.

Without a word, he steps forward and holds it out to you.

You begin to shake your head, waving your hands frantically, the words "it's okay" barely make it past your lips before you're enveloped in something warm, heavy as he drapes the jacket around your shoulders.

"You can give it back tomorrow," he mutters, eyes avoiding yours, before turning and disappearing down the hallway, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Despite the hectic morning, despite the cold outside, something warm curls in your heart and stubbornly lingers long after he’s gone.

ⓘTue. March 25. 7:45 AM

You’re on time the next day, thankfully. The lecture hall is still quiet, touched with that early-morning calm, and best of all, it’s full of empty seats waiting to be claimed. You make your usual choice: fifth row, right in the middle. It’s the perfect spot—close enough to see the board without squinting, but not so close you feel exposed.

Sliding into your seat, you let yourself relax, Sukuna’s jacket resting on your lap, thumbing idly through your phone while the room slowly begins to fill. The murmur of arriving students builds little by little until—

A knee knocks into yours.

You blink, startled, and look up.

Sukuna.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just nods and settles in the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you, Sukuna,” you say, offering a small smile as you hand him his jacket back

He nods, then mutters, “Ryo is fine.”

He tosses the jacket into his lap with a careless flick of his wrist. You wait for the moment he’ll stand and retreat to his usual seat in the back. But instead, he makes himself comfortable, leans back into the stiff wooden chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back and eyes closed.

For the briefest second, he looks... calm.

Then the bell rings.

A substitute walks in, clipboard in hand, and that peace he once had evaporates instantly.

You notice the change instantly. Sukuna’s jaw tightens, and his whole body shifts, sighing, fidgeting, fingers twitching against the side of his jeans. So maybe one of the rumors was true: his patience...or lack of it.

He chews the end of his pen like it personally wronged him, expression locked in that ever-present scowl.

You try not to notice. Really, you do. You focus on the substitute, who seems nice enough, if a little scatterbrained. He stumbles through the material, backtracks, apologizes, and starts over again.

Sukuna doesn’t make it easy.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The eraser of his pencil hits the desk in sharp, uneven bursts.

Annoying. Erratic. Deliberate.

You glance over once. He’s staring ahead, eyes fixed, unblinking.

Twice. Now he’s looking at you, only from the corner of his eye, like he’s waiting for you to crack first. Daring you to say something

You fold.

"Did that pencil steal your lunch money or something?"

He turns toward you. For a second, nothing. Then the corners of his lips pull into an easy smile, He swings an arm around the back of your chair, respectful enough to not touch you, close enough that you can feel his body heat.

“Just thinking about stabbing it through my eye,” he says.

You blink. “ what a nice, normal thing to think about.”

He shrugs. “Better than listening to this guy. Pretty sure even he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

You snort, quietly, before you can stop it.

It earns you another glance, this one softer. Curious, even.

He leans back again, pencil now resting against his bottom lip instead of tapping the desk.

Something shifts between you two. You both feel it. It’s not enough to name. But it’s something.

Enough to make you feel more at ease, leaning back in your chair more comfortably, not blinking in surprise or moving away when your knees touch nor when the arm around the back of your chair curls a little more around you.

ⓘThu. March 27. 21:13

The next time you see Sukuna is a few days after your last encounter. It's late—just past 9—after a long-overdue study session with a friend. You told her you'd stay a little longer, work a little more, you waved her off with a tired smile, insisting you'd be fine getting home on your own.

When you finally step out of the library, your eyes are heavy with sleep and your stomach twists begging for something more substantial than the coffee and vending machine snacks you've been surviving on. You descend the steps slowly, half-lost in your thoughts until you see him.

Ryomen.

Leaning against one of the stone pillars just outside, a half-smoked cigarette dangling between his lips, the soft glow of twilight and hazy streetlights casting golden shadows across his face. His helmet rests carelessly by his feet. There's a fresh bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw, and even in the dim lighting, you can make out dried blood and new cuts on his knuckles.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You hesitate. Would it be weird to just walk past him without saying anything? Would he even want to talk? It's hard to tell with him, his default expression always seems to hover somewhere between indifferent and vaguely pissed off.

Still, you speak.

“Hey, Ryo...”

Quiet enough to slip by unnoticed if he wants to ignore it. Open enough to invite a reply if he doesn't.

He glances over. Nods. Removes the cigarette from his lips and exhales the smoke sideways, deliberately away from you.

“You're out late.”

“Study session,” you reply, “Trying to piece together what the substitute was actually saying... you know?”

You’re not sure where the sudden courage to crack a half assed joke comes from, but it earns you a real smile from him, small but genuine, as he takes another drag.

“Good luck with that. Didn’t understand shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before you find yourself saying,

“Would you... I could text you my notes, if you want?”

He eyes you—an unreadable glint in his gaze. Playful? Curious? Something else entirely?

“You asking for my number?”

You freeze, caught somewhere between embarrassment and surprise. Before you can stammer out a reply, he chuckles—quiet and low—then fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to you.

It's beat up, cracked at every corner, and struggles to register the taps of your fingers as you enter your number. Still, you manage.

When you hand it back, “Oh—my name is—”

“Y/N,” he says, cutting you off gently, “I know.”

You blink. “How do you know my name?”

He shrugs, eyes drifting toward the sky like he won’t elaborate. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just… suspended. Like the moment is deciding what it wants to be.

He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his boot with a quiet scrape. Then, almost casually, he says, “You headed back to the dorms?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just a few blocks away.”

He considers that for a moment, then picks up his helmet “I’ll walk you.”

You blink again, thrown off. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, cutting off the protest before it can form. His voice is rough, but there's a strange softness beneath it—like the gesture isn't for show, like it matters to him in a way he won’t admit out loud.

You try to fall in step beside him as he starts walking, his strides easy, slows a little when he realises he's going too fast. The night hums around you wind tugging gently at your clothes, the few leaves that have begun sprouting rustling in the trees overhead, the occasional buzz of a streetlamp flickering to life. He breaks the silence after a while

“You always this reckless?”

You glance at him, confused. “Reckless?”

“Heading home alone this late.”

You roll your eyes lightly. “It’s not that late.”

He doesn’t argue, but you hear the faintest huff of disapproval.

Eventually, you reach the familiar path that leads to your dorm. You stop just at the edge, where the lights from the windows spill across the pavement in warm, golden patches. Sukuna slows beside you, eyes scanning the area before landing back on you.

He hesitates for a second—just long enough for you to notice—then nods once.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “You look like hell.”

You laugh under your breath. “Thanks. You’re not looking so great yourself.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He turns without waiting for a reply, but you watch him for a few seconds longer as he walks away—helmet dangling from one hand, bloodied knuckles catching the light, his figure fading into the shadowed path beyond.

Warmth blooms in your chest again. Different from before. Not just butterflies now, but something steadier. Stronger.

And long after he’s gone, when you're back in the comfort of your dorm you still feel it.

ⓘfri. March 28. 18:37

The weekend has begun.

The hallways are quieter now, the last shuffle of feet fading into the distance as students leave the building, laughing in small clusters, huddling close against the oncoming chill. You linger, trailing your fingers along the railing as you descend the steps, the air thick and heavy with the scent of spring rain—fresh earth, damp bark, and something faintly sweet like budding flowers just beginning to stretch open. Everything smells clean, alive, as if the world has been waiting for this exact moment to breathe again.

You pause beneath the shelter outside the lecture hall, arms wrapped around your bag. A breeze dances past, and though it carries a lingering bite, it’s softened by the warmer undercurrent that always comes this time of year—the promise of growth, of things blooming again.

The rain begins slowly at first, a droplet here and there, before it turned into a drizzle, then into a cloudbreak. It hits the pavement hard, kicking up steam and a stronger wave of that earthy, green scent it's the kind of rain that feels like it’s rinsing the last frost of winter away.

You shrink back beneath the narrow shelter, clutching your bag a little tighter to your body, trying to avoid the areas where rain leaks through. Your umbrella? A long forgotten accessory still sitting on the floor of your dorm. You debate whether or not you should make a run for it or wait it out, although the rain doesn't seem like it's stopping anytime soon

Then you hear it. footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Then, without looking at you:

He steps into your periphery, already damp, rain streaking down the curve of his neck, along the outlines of his tattoo and soaking into the fabric of his hoodie. Earbuds wrapped around his ears, dangling with each step. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches the storm with a sort of stillness that feels different than usual.

Softer.

“You waiting for it to flood, or…?”

You glance up at him, sheepish. “Didn’t think I’d need an umbrella today. Spring’s supposed to be kinder than this.”

A quiet huff of amusement, barely a laugh. He shifts his bag, pulls a weathered umbrella from inside, and opens it with one smooth flick of his wrist.

He hesitates just a beat.

Then, like it’s no big deal he holds his arm out to you, just slightly but you get the idea.

“Come on. I’ll walk you.”

You don't hesitate this time, curling a hand around his arm carefully as step beside him, close beneath the small arc of shelter. The umbrella’s not big and you're pretty sure his right shoulder is getting completely soaked but he doesnt" seem to care. The bruise on his jaw is healing, fading into his skin and the broken skin on his knuckles have turned into white little lines. His normal cologne, natural scent of smoke is softened by the sweet green notes still clinging to the rain.

“Thank you” you murmur.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, quieter:

“Your books would’ve gotten ruined.”

There’s meaning tucked between the words, like always.

When you glance up at him, his ears are flushed faintly pink.

You smile. Something new and gentle stirs in your chest.

Maybe spring is kinder than you thought.

Maybe it just came in his shape.

[lxvebun]

I accidentally hit post instead of save draft haha haha

Atp it's been up for a while so I think I'll just leave it but damn😖

[lxvebun]

spring rain

buns notes: this went from a 500 word drabble to a 3.2k word brainrot.

content: Sukuna x gender neutral reader. College au! Sunshine x grumpy trope. Yearning, FLUFF sickeningly sweet fluff. Sukuna had a lip piercing. Mention of smoking once or twice. Little rushed at certain parts, pookies this fic gave me so much eyestrain ejdj. Eng is not my first language let me know if there are any annoying mistakes!

You’re too sweet for someone like Sukuna Ryomen. Too bubbly, too full of color and kindness, like spring in human form compared to someone who seems like he was carved out of storm clouds and shattered glass. And everyone around you makes sure to remind you of that every time your eyes seem to wander off in search of him. Every time you try to catch a glimpse as he walks by or your head turns around at the sound of his voice.

"He's trouble." "He's rude." "He's all bite, no bark. Be careful."

They’re not wrong, necessarily. Almost everyone has either witnessed or been the recipient of his downright cruel insults and sharp tongue. And yeah, it's probably not the best idea to get involved with someone who seemingly gets agitated over the smallest things. Someone who threatens to punch someone's lights out whenever they look at him the wrong way. Someone who comes to lectures with a bloody broken nose and a split lip at least once a month. Someone rumored to be some underground fighter, someone for hire to do your dirty work, throwing punches for cash beneath flickering street lights.

And the thing you hear most often? “You’re too good for him. He’s only going to break your heart.”

Whether that's true or not, you're not really sure. But maybe it doesn't really matter when Sukuna of all people has the special ability to reduce you into a lovesick mess and make your heart feel all warm and fuzzy. When something as small as a brief glance your way or the sound of his voice are enough to errupt a plethora of butterflies in your stomach.

You once read a line at 2am while doomscrolling the night away after another failed attempt at sleeping. It carved itself into the walls of your mind and refused to leave ever since:

“In the right heaven-yellow light, anything looks holy enough to save you.”

You scribbled it in the margins of your notebook, circled it in red, then underlined it so many times the paper nearly tore. It felt like the only way to explain what Sukuna looked like to you in those fleeting golden moments, when the light catches on his lashes and softens the hard edges of his face, casting a halo where no one else seems to see one.

Yes, he’s cruel. He’s cold. He’s careless.

But sometimes, when you catch him in the soft sparkle of the morning sun or in the lull of twilight when everything feels a a little softer, a little more like a dream, he looks like he could be something else. Something warm, something sweet. Like the first crocus pushing through thawed earth, the first beam of sunlight after a cold harsh winter.

You keep this to yourself of course. Keep those thoughts tucked away between the lines of your notebooks, in the quiet corners of your mind. To dream about later when you go to sleep. Because as much as you like to daydream about this theoretical goodness inside of him, try to solve the puzzle that is Sukuna Ryomen, you're very much aware that these thoughts, this fixation on him stem from the puppy crush you’re harboring more than any objective, critical observation. Hell, you’ve barely interacted with him other than stolen glances and brushing past him in crowded hallways.

It's just a silly little crush. Something softer to fixate on than the endless stressful exams and exhausting all-nighters. Nothing more, nothing less and that’s okay. You're okay with that.

However, something begins to shift come spring. Things begin to bloom… a little differently.

ⓘMon march 24. 8:14 AM

Your morning unfolds like a series of unfortunate events. Your alarm, the one time you don't double-check it, betrays you, leaving you to be awakened by your body's internal clock in a haze of sleep and panic before rushing out the door. The air outside bites with an unexpected chill that you would have been more prepared for had you actually had some time this morning, and your favorite café, typically a haven, serves you a coffee so sweet it becomes undrinkable. By the time you reach the lecture hall, it's already brimming with students, each seat occupied or guarded by a strategically placed bag.

Your eyes scan the room, heart sinking, as every seat you gravitate towards has already been taken. Until they land on a solitary empty seat in the back row — beside him.

Sukuna Ryomen.

He’s claimed the seat closest to the pathway, which means that, if he’d let you, you’d have to scoot past him to reach the empty chair and that alone makes you debate whether the floor is really such a bad spot. Your back wins that argument, however.

He’s slouched, arms crossed, head tilted back like he’d rather be anywhere else. There's a bandage over the bridge of his nose and a scratch near his jaw that looks fresh. Angry and red against his skin. He doesn’t look at you when you approach. Doesn’t move his bag either.

“Hey…is that seat taken?” The words come out way more shy than you intended.

His eyes flick toward you. Brief. Sharp. Then away again before he speaks, gruff: “No.”

He doesn't move his bag but he does shift his legs slightly, giving you the space to squeeze past. It’s not an invitation, not really. But it’s not rejection either.

As you settle beside him, you try not to think about how close his leg is to yours, how his broad shoulders nearly bump into you and how despite sitting down he still manages to tower over most. He smells faintly like smoke and something coppery, blood most likely. His presence all in all should intimidate you more than it does. Instead, there's a strange comfort in the closeness (maybe that's just your heart beating a little stronger and convincing than the rational part in your mind). You try to focus on the lecture, on keeping your notes tidy and your mind grounded, but it’s hard when your thoughts are fluttering everywhere. Between the nerves, the curiosity, and the way your heart won’t settle, your handwriting comes out crooked, your fingers a little too unsteady..

When your pen eventually slips from your grasp, surprisingly, he retrieves it without so much as a sigh or a grunt, holding it out to you, his gaze never leaving the front of the room. You mumble something between a thank you and apology and he responds with a barely audible hum.

The rest of the lecture passes more smoothly after that, the flutter of nerves calming down as the minutes pass. Now and then, you can feel his eyes on you, fleeting, when you glance over, he’s already turned his attention back to the front, idly tugging at his lip piercing. You find yourself unintentionally fixated on the subtle glint of the silver metal, eyes lingering longer than they should. He notices, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips, amused, maybe even a little flattered. You're quick to avert your eyes after that. Ignoring the racing of your heart as you try to tune back into whatever the professor was saying.

The lecture winds down without further incident, the professor’s voice finally trailing off into dismissal. Sukuna is out of his seat the instant it’s over, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and heading for the aisle.

You exhale, shoulders loosening slightly as the tension of the hour begins to dissolve. But before you can fully settle into the quiet, Sukuna pauses.

He turns back to you, eyes trailing over your form, Behind him, the tall windows rattle softly in their frames. Rain streaking down the glass in blurred rivers.

He glances at the storm, jaw tightening, then looks at you again. You fail to recognize the glint in his eyes. After a beat, he sighs, drops his bag to the floor, and shrugs off his leather jacket.

Without a word, he steps forward and holds it out to you.

You begin to shake your head, waving your hands frantically, the words "it's okay" barely make it past your lips before you're enveloped in something warm, heavy as he drapes the jacket around your shoulders.

"You can give it back tomorrow," he mutters, eyes avoiding yours, before turning and disappearing down the hallway, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Despite the hectic morning, despite the cold outside, something warm curls in your heart and stubbornly lingers long after he’s gone.

ⓘTue. March 25. 7:45 AM

You’re on time the next day, thankfully. The lecture hall is still quiet, touched with that early-morning calm, and best of all, it’s full of empty seats waiting to be claimed. You make your usual choice: fifth row, right in the middle. It’s the perfect spot—close enough to see the board without squinting, but not so close you feel exposed.

Sliding into your seat, you let yourself relax, Sukuna’s jacket resting on your lap, thumbing idly through your phone while the room slowly begins to fill. The murmur of arriving students builds little by little until—

A knee knocks into yours.

You blink, startled, and look up.

Sukuna.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just nods and settles in the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you, Sukuna,” you say, offering a small smile as you hand him his jacket back

He nods, then mutters, “Ryo is fine.”

He tosses the jacket into his lap with a careless flick of his wrist. You wait for the moment he’ll stand and retreat to his usual seat in the back. But instead, he makes himself comfortable, leans back into the stiff wooden chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back and eyes closed.

For the briefest second, he looks... calm.

Then the bell rings.

A substitute walks in, clipboard in hand, and that peace he once had evaporates instantly.

You notice the change instantly. Sukuna’s jaw tightens, and his whole body shifts, sighing, fidgeting, fingers twitching against the side of his jeans. So maybe one of the rumors was true: his patience...or lack of it.

He chews the end of his pen like it personally wronged him, expression locked in that ever-present scowl.

You try not to notice. Really, you do. You focus on the substitute, who seems nice enough, if a little scatterbrained. He stumbles through the material, backtracks, apologizes, and starts over again.

Sukuna doesn’t make it easy.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The eraser of his pencil hits the desk in sharp, uneven bursts.

Annoying. Erratic. Deliberate.

You glance over once. He’s staring ahead, eyes fixed, unblinking.

Twice. Now he’s looking at you, only from the corner of his eye, like he’s waiting for you to crack first. Daring you to say something

You fold.

"Did that pencil steal your lunch money or something?"

He turns toward you. For a second, nothing. Then the corners of his lips pull into an easy smile, He swings an arm around the back of your chair, respectful enough to not touch you, close enough that you can feel his body heat.

“Just thinking about stabbing it through my eye,” he says.

You blink. “ what a nice, normal thing to think about.”

He shrugs. “Better than listening to this guy. Pretty sure even he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

You snort, quietly, before you can stop it.

It earns you another glance, this one softer. Curious, even.

He leans back again, pencil now resting against his bottom lip instead of tapping the desk.

Something shifts between you two. You both feel it. It’s not enough to name. But it’s something.

Enough to make you feel more at ease, leaning back in your chair more comfortably, not blinking in surprise or moving away when your knees touch nor when the arm around the back of your chair curls a little more around you.

ⓘThu. March 27. 21:13

The next time you see Sukuna is a few days after your last encounter. It's late—just past 9—after a long-overdue study session with a friend. You told her you'd stay a little longer, work a little more, you waved her off with a tired smile, insisting you'd be fine getting home on your own.

When you finally step out of the library, your eyes are heavy with sleep and your stomach twists begging for something more substantial than the coffee and vending machine snacks you've been surviving on. You descend the steps slowly, half-lost in your thoughts until you see him.

Ryomen.

Leaning against one of the stone pillars just outside, a half-smoked cigarette dangling between his lips, the soft glow of twilight and hazy streetlights casting golden shadows across his face. His helmet rests carelessly by his feet. There's a fresh bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw, and even in the dim lighting, you can make out dried blood and new cuts on his knuckles.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You hesitate. Would it be weird to just walk past him without saying anything? Would he even want to talk? It's hard to tell with him, his default expression always seems to hover somewhere between indifferent and vaguely pissed off.

Still, you speak.

“Hey, Ryo...”

Quiet enough to slip by unnoticed if he wants to ignore it. Open enough to invite a reply if he doesn't.

He glances over. Nods. Removes the cigarette from his lips and exhales the smoke sideways, deliberately away from you.

“You're out late.”

“Study session,” you reply, “Trying to piece together what the substitute was actually saying... you know?”

You’re not sure where the sudden courage to crack a half assed joke comes from, but it earns you a real smile from him, small but genuine, as he takes another drag.

“Good luck with that. Didn’t understand shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before you find yourself saying,

“Would you... I could text you my notes, if you want?”

He eyes you—an unreadable glint in his gaze. Playful? Curious? Something else entirely?

“You asking for my number?”

You freeze, caught somewhere between embarrassment and surprise. Before you can stammer out a reply, he chuckles—quiet and low—then fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to you.

It's beat up, cracked at every corner, and struggles to register the taps of your fingers as you enter your number. Still, you manage.

When you hand it back, “Oh—my name is—”

“Y/N,” he says, cutting you off gently, “I know.”

You blink. “How do you know my name?”

He shrugs, eyes drifting toward the sky like he won’t elaborate. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just… suspended. Like the moment is deciding what it wants to be.

He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his boot with a quiet scrape. Then, almost casually, he says, “You headed back to the dorms?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just a few blocks away.”

He considers that for a moment, then picks up his helmet “I’ll walk you.”

You blink again, thrown off. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, cutting off the protest before it can form. His voice is rough, but there's a strange softness beneath it—like the gesture isn't for show, like it matters to him in a way he won’t admit out loud.

You try to fall in step beside him as he starts walking, his strides easy, slows a little when he realises he's going too fast. The night hums around you wind tugging gently at your clothes, the few leaves that have begun sprouting rustling in the trees overhead, the occasional buzz of a streetlamp flickering to life. He breaks the silence after a while

“You always this reckless?”

You glance at him, confused. “Reckless?”

“Heading home alone this late.”

You roll your eyes lightly. “It’s not that late.”

He doesn’t argue, but you hear the faintest huff of disapproval.

Eventually, you reach the familiar path that leads to your dorm. You stop just at the edge, where the lights from the windows spill across the pavement in warm, golden patches. Sukuna slows beside you, eyes scanning the area before landing back on you.

He hesitates for a second—just long enough for you to notice—then nods once.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “You look like hell.”

You laugh under your breath. “Thanks. You’re not looking so great yourself.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He turns without waiting for a reply, but you watch him for a few seconds longer as he walks away—helmet dangling from one hand, bloodied knuckles catching the light, his figure fading into the shadowed path beyond.

Warmth blooms in your chest again. Different from before. Not just butterflies now, but something steadier. Stronger.

And long after he’s gone, when you're back in the comfort of your dorm you still feel it.

ⓘfri. March 28. 18:37

The weekend has begun.

The hallways are quieter now, the last shuffle of feet fading into the distance as students leave the building, laughing in small clusters, huddling close against the oncoming chill. You linger, trailing your fingers along the railing as you descend the steps, the air thick and heavy with the scent of spring rain—fresh earth, damp bark, and something faintly sweet like budding flowers just beginning to stretch open. Everything smells clean, alive, as if the world has been waiting for this exact moment to breathe again.

You pause beneath the shelter outside the lecture hall, arms wrapped around your bag. A breeze dances past, and though it carries a lingering bite, it’s softened by the warmer undercurrent that always comes this time of year—the promise of growth, of things blooming again.

The rain begins slowly at first, a droplet here and there, before it turned into a drizzle, then into a cloudbreak. It hits the pavement hard, kicking up steam and a stronger wave of that earthy, green scent it's the kind of rain that feels like it’s rinsing the last frost of winter away.

You shrink back beneath the narrow shelter, clutching your bag a little tighter to your body, trying to avoid the areas where rain leaks through. Your umbrella? A long forgotten accessory still sitting on the floor of your dorm. You debate whether or not you should make a run for it or wait it out, although the rain doesn't seem like it's stopping anytime soon

Then you hear it. footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Then, without looking at you:

He steps into your periphery, already damp, rain streaking down the curve of his neck, along the outlines of his tattoo and soaking into the fabric of his hoodie. Earbuds wrapped around his ears, dangling with each step. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches the storm with a sort of stillness that feels different than usual.

Softer.

“You waiting for it to flood, or…?”

You glance up at him, sheepish. “Didn’t think I’d need an umbrella today. Spring’s supposed to be kinder than this.”

A quiet huff of amusement, barely a laugh. He shifts his bag, pulls a weathered umbrella from inside, and opens it with one smooth flick of his wrist.

He hesitates just a beat.

Then, like it’s no big deal he holds his arm out to you, just slightly but you get the idea.

“Come on. I’ll walk you.”

You don't hesitate this time, curling a hand around his arm carefully as step beside him, close beneath the small arc of shelter. The umbrella’s not big and you're pretty sure his right shoulder is getting completely soaked but he doesnt" seem to care. The bruise on his jaw is healing, fading into his skin and the broken skin on his knuckles have turned into white little lines. His normal cologne, natural scent of smoke is softened by the sweet green notes still clinging to the rain.

“Thank you” you murmur.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, quieter:

“Your books would’ve gotten ruined.”

There’s meaning tucked between the words, like always.

When you glance up at him, his ears are flushed faintly pink.

You smile. Something new and gentle stirs in your chest.

Maybe spring is kinder than you thought.

Maybe it just came in his shape.

[lxvebun]

Lover

[lxvebun]

early mornings

[lxvebun]

Its most likely going to be posted tomorrow. It's almost finished but I have such a migraine I cannot get myself to stare at the doc any longer 😖 Heres a lil crumb <3 !

More highschool/College au Sukuna brainrot coming tomorrow pookies<3

[lxvebun]

More highschool/College au Sukuna brainrot coming tomorrow pookies<3

[lxvebun]

Angel, Marius misses you </3 come back

Download it download it download it down- rn

The upcoming cards look so soft i'm going insane

[lxvebun]

The upcoming cards look so soft i'm going insane

[lxvebun]

imagine not liking nanami and this is what he’s up to 🍅 🥖 [old drawing]

[lxvebun]

i love you visible brushstrokes. i love you glue warped scrapbook pages. i love you awkward poems. i love you junk journal with faded receipts. i love you poorly composed journal layout. I love you unintentionally blurry photographs. i love you asymmetrical beading. i love you curling freeform crochet. i love you fingerprints on pottery. i love you reused materials. i love you improvised instruments. i love you mistakes. i love you bravery to make it anyway. i love you creativity that hasn't been wiped clean of every drop of humanity and sanitized and commodified.

[lxvebun]

I'm having so much Arthur brainrot😩🩷

Content: Arthur Morgan x gender neutral reader. FLUFF! Maybe angst if you squint. Use of the nickname sweetheart. Eng is not my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes<3 drabble format

"You're too good for me, Arthur."

A statement you made offhandedly, through a sleepy voice and sweet smiles, as Arthur slips out of your tent to get you breakfast, braving the cold morning air that sweeps over the meadow for you so you can stay nestled under the quilts, warm and comfortable. Your words are soft, filled with nothing but tender affection

And yet, it makes him nauseous. Stops him dead in his tracks. He should be taking it as a compliment—it was obviously meant to be one—but the thought of you believing that something as simple as getting you breakfast in bed, taking care of you, is too much... just upsets him.

(He'd give you everything good and beautiful in the world if he could)

He’ll never understand how the stars aligned to bring you to him, or what kind of red string of fate ties someone as kind and bright as you to an outlaw like him. But he’s grateful, and that gratitude has a way of bleeding into everything he does. He's making damn sure that that red string doesn’t fray.

"Don't say that," he mutters, shaking his head as if to shake off the weight of your words. "Whatever you think i'm doing that is too good for you... is barely scratching the surface of what you deserve."

"Arthur-"you begin, more than ready to lecture him but he interrupts.

"It's true. Besides, my name and the word good do not belong in the same sentence, sweetheart."

He never fails to try and remind you of that, the words spilling from his lips with ease. Spoken over a thousand times already. But honestly at this point you're not sure who he is trying to convince more, you or himself. Does he actually believe he is as bad as they come or does admitting that there is something good, something soft inside of him feel too vulnerable?

(You'll have to live with the fact you will never know the answer to that)

"You’re a good man," you say quietly, your voice softening as you see him shake his head. "At least, you are to me. That counts for something, doesn't it"

Silence settles between you, your words fading into the stillness until it's replaced by the morning song of birds and a quiet rustle of the leaves. He breaks it after a few minutes.

"I try. For you, I really do." His voice is barely a murmur, so low it seems to dissolve into the hum of the world around you.

"I know, Arthur"

You do.

[lxvebun]

POV: you’re trying to teach him his name but he still doesn’t get it

[lxvebun]

GO VARESA GO!! 🤍🐮🩷 I had to draw her, SHE'S THE CUTEST! A character with horns, pastel colors, she loves food and her signature weapon is so magical girl coded...?? Girl, we could be BESTIES!!!

[lxvebun]

Hello again it's been a hot minute since I stepped inside Tumblr :3

I see you've redecorated the place 👀

ANGEL! YOU'RE BACK!

I missed uuuuu<3 I hope you've been doing well !!

I don't recall if you were around for my Simon, Leon and Silent hill hyperfix but yeah, my blog has been overhauled a little🤏🙂‍↕️