remedyjoys

[remedyjoys]

rough and tough sukuna HELLO COWBOY

he's (not) my man previous | chapter index

pairing: cowboy!Sukuna x rancher's daughter!Reader

content: mdni, fluff and angst, marriage of convenience, family trouble, fake relationships, drinking, jealous gojo

"So, like, is he cute?"

You were staring at the bottom of a martini glass, one of your friends tugging at your arm, and a dress you hadn't worn in months riding up your thighs, too drunk to decide just how cute your husband of two months was.

Of course, he'd probably be a lot less cute when he came home and realized you'd taken his absence as an opportunity to go out and have fun for once.

You were married. Not dead.

And anyway, you needed a drink after discovering it was one of your own fucking family members who'd gotten you into this massive mess by stealing money last night.

"He's pretty hot," You admitted, glancing around the busy club to where a couple of your other friends were dancing with some guys. You wondered if you would be divorced and doing that too in a year.

"I wanna know what he looks like," Yuki whined. "You seriously don't have any pictures of your husband?"

"He's, uh, camera shy." Actually, you were a little concerned he might just snap your phone if you tried to sneak one.

Almost like he could somehow sense you were talking about him, your phone buzzed in your purse, having to set your drink down to unzip it and see he was calling.

"Hello?" You hummed, trying to seem a little more sober. You weren't wasted, honestly too far from it for your liking, but you were sure he could hear the heavy music in the background and make his own conclusions.

"Where are you?" He practically growled, all gruff and grumpy.

"Met up with some friends and we're at some club," You shrugged, fiddling with the napkin that came with your drink. You'd left him a note on the kitchen table saying leftovers on the fridge and you'd be back around midnight. It wasn't like you were a child who couldn't take care of herself. You'd just order a rideshare to his farm soon anyway and sleep tonight off tomorrow.

"You're drinking?" He huffed.

"Is that a problem?" You teased, trying to picture which one of his irritated faces he was making. His brows pushed together and furrowed? The cute little pout he did when he scowled?

"I'll come pick you up," He grunted, and you could even hear his keys jangling in the background.

"You don-"

"Send me the address," He firmly said.

"Fine," You swallowed hard, hanging up on him and having to look up where you were to forward it to him. You apologetically glanced back to Yuki, whose attention was focused on something out of your eyeline on the dance floor.

You opened your mouth to talk, to tell her she was about to find out, but she started speaking first, nudging you with her elbow. "You know that guy?"

It took you two seconds to see who she was referring to.

Satoru Gojo.

Intense eyes glittering as he sat in a booth right by the dance floor, a dark-haired guy and a brunette sitting with him while he sipped a cherry-red drink and watched you. No cowboy hat or boots, dressed in a blue button-up and slacks, cleaned up like he'd never been outside of the city.

"Old friend," You muttered, throat dry.

You turned your back to him, pushing your drink forward. Getting drunk in the same building as him sounded like a disaster waiting to happen.

Especially if Sukuna was on his way to get you.

Nervously counting down the minutes on your phone, hoping to slip out before Gojo came over, chattering with Yuki like your conversation would actually stop him if he chose to join you.

You'd almost made it, figuring there was probably only a few minutes until Sukuna showed up when you realized how badly you needed to pee.

"I'll be right back," You sighed to Yuki. "If a guy with pink hair comes in looking for me, can you just tell him I'm in the bathroom?"

"Sure," She nodded, winking at you before you snuck between a group passing by while Satoru was distractedly by his own conversation to notice.

Or, that's what you thought.

Because instead of your husband waiting outside the bathroom for you, it was your father's ranch hand - and your former friend.

"Satoru," You awkwardly greeted, feeling small in front of him, something about his new clothes and clean hair making him seem taller somehow, more intimidating. He took up too much space in the narrow hall.

You didn't think you could squeeze past him if you tried.

"Surprised you recall my name," He teased, but it wasn't as light as it once was.

"It's only been two months," You excused. Although it felt much longer.

"You're not wearing a wedding ring," He dryly commented.

"I'm still married."

And maybe Sukuna didn't care, maybe nothing about this relationship was real, but it still felt like cheating to even be talking to Gojo.

"Why?" He asked, his face hard, jaw set in a tight line. You knew what he was asking.

"I suppose my father didn't tell you?" You exhaled, picking at your nails.

"Tell me what?" He was grinding his teeth, stepping closer so he didn't have to shout for you to hear him as the next song started playing. It was just like your family, keeping the secrets buried and hoping no one would bother digging them up or squint to hard at the thin layer of dirt they kicked over it.

"They were going to lose the farm," You mumbled, embarrassed at you own starring role in the situation. "Sukuna is helping me get everything sorted."

You weren't positive what power he had to handle your uncle or any part of the money laundering - but you guessed he probably had lawyers and accountants or knew what department to call or talk to after insisting on taking care of it for you. You just wished he'd be the one to call your parents and break the news to them too.

"Christ, you make it sound like they sold you to him," Gojo growled, furious for you.

You just shrugged.

If the shoe fits.

"It's not that big of a deal, okay?" You made a half-hearted effort to defuse some of his anger before it could blow. "It's not like we're, well, you know, it's more like a temporary arrangement."

With ten more months left.

"Then divorce him," Gojo demanded.

"I'm not just going to do that to him," You huffed, rolling your eyes. It might not be until death do you part, but you'd hold up your side of the deal.

"Don't tell me you actually like him," He made it sound like Sukuna was the devil in disguise, like you were sleeping with a demon or something.

"So what if I do?" You challenged, unsure how to cope with the surge of protectiveness pricking at you, the need to defend Sukuna.

"Are you fucking him?" Gojo bluntly asked, and this time, he stepped too close, forcing your back against the wall as a funny sense of deja vu settled over you.

"Would it bother you if I was?" You scoffed, pushing him back with two fingers pressed against his chest.

"Yeah," He huffed. "It would."

"Why?" You asked, a hint of hurt poking out. He could've had you at any point over the last handful of years. But only now throwing a tantrum because he wanted to be the one to fuck you?

"I don't want to lose you."

At all? Or just to Sukuna?

Who, unfortunately for Gojo, just-so-happened to overhear everything.

divider by @/haecunt

a/n: unrelated but take this poll hehe

[remedyjoys]

mwah perfection

strawberry cream

synopsis: your remote internship at gojo enterprises is going rather well, or you think so, anyway. you sort of relish in how incapable your wildly successful boss is with technology, and at every turn you’re there, prompt and available on slack: his sweet IT intern who pushes her hours to help.

it's all very professional…right?

pairing: ceo!satoru gojo x intern fem!reader

tags: modern au, keeping secrets, SMUT!!, thigh riding, unprotected piv, oral (m!receiving), face fucking (who said that?), sorta rough sex but not really, dirty talk, an overall foulmouthed satoru gojo, creampie, semi-public sex, inappropriate workplace conduct...and one extra tag that i won't say cause it'll ruin the surprise ;)

wc: 11k

a/n: um...so actually what happened was...um...uhhhh

masterlist

18+! mdni <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Satoru Gojo 5:27pm Still not working.

the message blinks at you from your computer screen. 

you really do enjoy your job. you like both of them, actually.

your internship with gojo enterprises came up sort of serendipitously, happening upon a listing for a paid remote IT intern right as you found a truly beautiful apartment on the outskirts of shibuya. you needed more income to cover the rent, and it wasn’t like your other workplace required that you use your degree.

and you’ve found there is something delightful about putting your college years into practice, particularly because it seemed for so long like you never would. rummaging through the backend of one of the most affluent corporations in the country thrills you a little bit, as silly at it sounds. curled up in your duvet and splayed about in silk pajamas, you pry open the metaphorical breakers of an economic giant and fiddle with the wires.

you suppose, as different as this line of work is from your other job on the face of things, it appeals to the same sort of animal in your belly that drew you to nightlife. you like feeling in control, enjoy the subversion of being so pretty and young and self assured.

you are delighted, too, by how often satoru gojo needs your help.

he has lost his email password at least three times in the last two months, accidentally deleted his own profile from the internal website, and filed his income tax forms in the shared google drive. 

each time you have been there, fingers flying over your keyboard in your slack dms as you sort through his technological missteps. it’s only made more entertaining by how intelligent he clearly is—you are under no illusion—it seems simply his single blind spot rests securely over your area of expertise.

he is…not what you expected. he seems to respect you far more than you had anticipated a CEO to respect his remote intern. he knows that, as it relates to IT, you know better. there is no denial of his mistakes, no shame, only a brief request sent your way with a hint of playful self-deprecation. you like him. 

this most recent problem has spanned almost all afternoon. he’s been locked out of his internal account, it seems. you bite back a smile as you respond to him.

You 5:27pm Hmm. I’ve scanned backend three times now, and everything seems to be working. What’s the error message exactly?

Satoru Gojo 5:28pm Says I don’t have permissions.

now you really are smiling, responding immediately.

You 5:28pm Oh, well I can fix that here, but that’s something another admin could have done, too. Probably not a system error. It says here the other admin is Suguru Geto. Would he have changed permissions for some reason?

he drafts a few responses to that before going silent. suguru geto has never needed your help and is thus wholly enigmatic to you, though you know he is satoru’s CFO; you also know—certainly not because you poked around in their personal slack messages—that they are close childhood friends. it wouldn’t be the first time one had attempted a practical joke on the other, the workplace often caught in the middle, though you commend geto for his foresight to humiliate gojo in the only way gojo couldn’t fix himself.

after a few minutes you see him typing again.

Satoru Gojo 5:34pm Yeah ok it was him. He just did it to mess with me. I’m sorry to have bothered you! :/

your laugh rings through your apartment.

You 5:34pm No worries!

and this should be the end of it, really. but the part of you that you reckon satoru gojo shares—a joy in flagrant pettiness—compels you to keep your computer open. your digital landscape is quiet for a few moments, your dms empty. you stretch your arms over your head and yawn.

ping!

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm On second thought, can I get your help with one more thing?

You 5:37pm Of course

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm You’re too sweet for your own good. Your shift ended 7 minutes ago.

you enjoy this, too. rare moments when his personality bares itself in the way he writes to you: the sort of harmless flirtation that you doubt he even notices as he types it.

you’ve known enough womanizers to know he’s harmless. still, you bask in fleeting moments of his digital attention.

You 5:38pm What can I help you with?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm Can you make his launch button this link?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm DON’T OPEN IT

you open it immediately.

oh.

oh.

your bottom lip gets caught under your teeth. of course you knew vaguely what gojo looks like, you had sufficiently googled the company when you first came upon the job listing.

and there are pictures of him everywhere, pretty face splashed under headlines like BILLIONAIRE CEO TURNED PLAYBOY?—that article made you laugh, some ten thousand words about a blurry photo taken outside a nightclub, a white head of hair in motion walking out—but still, in all of them he is pressed perfectly into well-tailored suits, hair brushed through and facial expressed tempered, even trained. he looks so professional, so proper, so terribly handsome, but not quite your type. or, really, a stage before your interest.

you like when men like that are disheveled, hair mussed and skin tacky with sweat.

though this photo he’s attached isn’t all that far off.

something stirs, shakes awake between your legs looking at it. you grin with something devious and awful before responding.

You 5:40pm I have to open it if you want me to use it.

Satoru Gojo 5:41pm Is that true?

no.

You 5:42pm Yes?

Satoru Gojo 5:43pm Did you already look?

You 5:43pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 5:44pm You’re fired

You 5:45pm No I’m not.

Satoru Gojo 5:45pm No, you’re not.

with a giddy little grin you do as he asks. it is entirely unprofessional, you know, but you are surely exempt from blame when doing the bidding of the CEO, right?

you link suguru’s login button to the photo, laughing to yourself lightly.

You 5:50pm I did it. 

You 5:51pm I have to admit I’m sort of surprised you’d ask me to do something so childish on your behalf.

Satoru Gojo 5:51pm He started it

You 5:52pm Aren’t you a CEO?

Satoru Gojo 5:52pm Aren’t you my intern?

You 5:53pm My shift ended 23 minutes ago.

Satoru Gojo 5:54pm So then you’ve committed this “childish act” for me out of the kindness of your heart?

You 5:55pm No, actually. I get paid double for overtime.

Satoru Gojo logged off 5:55pm

your heartbeat rings lightly in your ears, you feel like you might have rattled him a little and that delights you to no end.

you wonder what he imagines you look like. surely he could have searched your name, though any photos of your face wouldn’t be attached there. 

there are, of course, ample photos of your face across the internet, most of them behind a paywall, though some of the tamer ones are available for free. but all of them are under a different name.

you had chosen tsukiko, meaning moon child, as your stage name initially as something of a joke. she isn’t an alter ego so much as an exaggerated caricaturization of your femininity, one who feeds on starlight and slinks about in the dark. you delegate the hungrier parts of yourself, the parts that ache and need for things, to her.

your manager at club cabal had spotted you first at a stoplight waiting to cross the street, pin striped pencil skirt down to your knees and shiny black pumps in each hand. you had been looking for months for a full time job, but the market was so saturated by then with IT workers that there seemed to be no space for you. you remember leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the stoplight pole, surely infected with some fifty diseases but you weren’t in a place to mind, when an enormous and glamorously dressed woman approached you. 

you remember so clearly what she said to you, the words cutting through your delirium and sinking sense of defeat: you look absolutely riveting in business clothes.

you barely had the wherewithal to lift your head but nonetheless you had, assessing all six feet of her, draped in fine furs and silk gloves. the whole getup would have looked like a costume on anyone else but she wore it all with such purpose that it looked like the most natural outfit in the world. 

you still cringe thinking about the tactless way you’d simply replied: “huh?”

she had laughed at you, but there was no humiliation in it, she almost seemed endeared to you, amused and halfway pleased by the bleary look on your face. she had handed you an ivory business card, embossed and shiny with her name and her place of work.

長澤長子 (nagasawa hisako)

CLUB CABAL MANAGER

“come to see me if you’d like to make some real money,” she offered, not waiting for your reply before strutting back down the block, coat fluttering in the evening wind like a cloak.

when your savings dipped into the single digits a week later you paid her a visit.

working at the most exclusive hostess bar in tokyo fits you stunningly well. your clients are disallowed from propositioning you, serving you alcohol, offering you drugs, and, most importantly, touching you. you spend your weekday evenings in clothes that could pass as business formal if they were longer—tiny miniskirts and button-ups that urged the plush of your tits to spill out—and entertain the most wealthy business people of the tokyo metropolitan area.

all of them just want someone to talk to, you have come to learn. it helps, naturally, that you arrive to them dripping in sex appeal, but most of your returning clients seem to remember first and foremost the way you speak to them. 

after two years collecting a rather well-to-do roster of exclusive clientele, hisako began operating you out of a private room. 

and there are real, tangible things you have learned from catering to top performers in all fields. you might have majored in math and CS but you know now, too, about the global economy, about agriculture, about the intricacies of factory-owning. 

and you flare bright, a star in spinning orbit, in that subtle performance under the moody lighting of the club. every hand gesture, every curl of your lips, it all means something, and the fine precision has come to excite you. you are untouchable there, a coveted thing, paid to see.

speaking of which, you think, it’s about time to get ready.

you have very few reservations tonight, though you don’t mind much now that you have your own space. you extend your legs across the couch, stilettos hanging off each foot as you tap them to the humming bass of the music. your room sits right off the main hallway, just big enough for a plush, navy couch and a coffee table, wiped shiny between clients. lanterns hang golden and coy at each corner, illuminating your face just enough to provoke your visitors to lean in closer.

you can hear the distinct click of hisako’s heels as they approach your door, and you turn your head on the armrest with a smile to greet her.

“hi baby,” she coos. you sit up and cross one leg over the other, lest she have a client in tow.

“good evening,” you reply with a smile. she leans on the threshold with a conspiratorial grin.

“i have a new client for you. a real big hitter. can you handle him?”

you tilt your head. “are you really asking me that?”

she laughs, full-bodied. “i guess not,” she muses, turning back to send him in. you pull a chilled bottle of sake from a small fridge at one end of the couch and place a glass next to it on the coffee table.

there are about 30 seconds as a client approaches your door when you learn some of the most vital things about them. the weight of their shoes, the sound their clothes make as they walk, whether they make conversation with the other hostesses passing by, all of it is catalogued as you listen. 

the so-called big hitter makes his way towards your door with purpose, though he is in no rush. his footsteps fall deliberately, a hair’s breadth away from heavy but not quite, just fast enough to sound intentional, just slow enough to keep from missing your door. 

the face they make when they enter matters, too. how they assess you, where they look, you cater your posture to their tastes. an interested man is an honest man, you have found, and you learn the most when they want you. 

the door swings open.

fuck.

fuck.

he is so tall he takes up almost the entire doorway, weight leaned on one hip like he’s waiting to be invited in, though surely confident enough to know you will. his suit is bespoke, you can tell from the way it sits just so on his shoulders, and he’s loosened his tie a centimeter or two. he’s one of the most attractive young men you’ve ever seen in your life, which would typically excite you. you love beautiful clients. 

but blinking at you from a few feet away is satoru gojo.

your boss.

satoru gojo.

is at your door.

for one of the first times in your entire career, you have no idea the sort of look pulled across your face. what the fuck are you supposed to do?

you know you have at most one more second before the silence shifts from anticipatory into awkward, and you consume it in full to think. okay. gojo has no clue what you look like, of this much you are almost certain. further, the name on your door is not one he would recognize. by all accounts the person who sits before him has absolutely no relation to his remote IT intern, despite the fact that you’re in fact the same woman. you take stock of his face; if you have any sense left, you think he shows no sign of recognition on your face.

okay. you swallow. refusing him would be a first for you, and by hisako’s description he’s an important client to please. you almost laugh at yourself for that thought; of course he’s an important client to please, he’s something like the wealthiest man in the country. 

what is there to do other than act as though he’s any other customer?

you smile, small and wry, and gesture him inside. gojo nods his head in hello, closing the door behind him and settling gracefully on the other end of the couch. his legs are long and spread so far his knee almost touches yours, almost, and he reclines back into the upholstery like he owns the room. you suppose he could, if he had any interest. he holds a broad hand out to you, smiling sharp and wolfish. he likes you.

“it’s nice to meet you. you can call me satoru.”

if you can push beyond the strangeness of meeting your boss like this, you acknowledge the unique position you have been unceremoniously pushed into. namely, that unlike any other first-time client, you know a great deal about him.

you smile warmly but don’t move your hand to shake his. “it’s my pleasure.”

he wiggles his fingers slightly. “you don’t shake hands?”

“you know the rules, satoru,” you admonish lightly.

he chuckles and lowers his hand. “i guess i was hoping otherwise.”

you move to pour him a glass of sake and feel his eyes trace you as you bend. his irises flit over the swell of your breasts, the arch of your back, though he stays reposed back into the cushions, watching you like a predator. you coach a smile that doesn’t reveal what is becoming clearer to you with each moment: it’s almost fun to have this secret. 

or it would be, if your internship wasn’t on the line.

it may still be, actually.

you cross your other leg over, let the tip of your stiletto hang close to his shin. the muscle of his thigh twitches but he remains still.

“so what brings you here tonight?”

gojo keeps his eyes on you over his glass as he takes a slow pull. he smacks his lips lightly, shrugging. “i wanted company.”

“do you struggle to find good company?” you tease.

he tilts his head back and forth, thinking, before admitting, “yeah, i guess i do.”

“i find that sort of hard to believe.”

the corner of gojo’s mouth tilts up. “and why’s that?”

you roll your eyes lightly. “you’ll have to work a little harder if you want me to stroke your ego that overtly.”

“i’ll work as hard as it takes,” he fires back, only half joking.

your laugh is breathy and real. he communicates himself rather well over slack, you think. all the cheekiness, all the bite, you have felt moments of it in your communications online. though seeing it all from his mouth is a different beast you are, if you can admit it, becoming increasingly elated to face. how fucking hot he looks while talking is not something easily captured online.

“so what do you do for work, satoru?”

you hope that question is convincing. he didn’t tell you his last name on purpose, you think. 

“i run a business.” his eyes are narrowed almost imperceptibly, and it unnerves you, so you bend at the waist again to refill the sip he took from his glass. the tension in his face goes limp watching the curve of your ass.

“what sort of business?”

“oh, it’s all so boring,” he dismisses, sounding almost disappointed that you’d ask.

you scoff and chuckle all at once. “most of my clients come to talk about their work.”

he extends an arm across the back of the couch, fingers a few inches from your neck but still not touching. you let him.

“i think that’d be a waste.”

“why’s that?”

“i could pay a lot less money for someone who doesn’t look like you to listen to stories about my work.”

you breathe in sharply. he’s fun. “you could pay a lot less money for someone you could touch, too,” you add.

his eyes flit a moment to his hand, so close to your skin, surely sensing the warmth of you, but still making no move to actually feel. it seems almost like he gets off on the not-touching, like that inch of space between you thrills him. he flexes all five fingers.

“i find that pretty boring, too,” he murmurs.

“you don’t like fucking pretty girls?” 

your sudden crassness makes him shift, crossing one leg over the other. he liked that. 

“i suppose i’m just tired of it now.”

your grin grows. “oh, i see, so you’ve fucked too many pretty girls.”

he shrugs with that predatory smile, running his free hand through his hair to muss it slightly. “the waiting’s the best part anyway.”

“so what do you find not boring?” you ask.

he looks at the ceiling in a show of consideration that makes you laugh. his gaze snaps back to you at the sound, immediately preening with it. “you’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

your scoff only sets him alight further, scooting just barely closer to you, angling his legs so they still don’t touch yours. but you’re tucked further into his side now, noses closer, and it makes something animal inside you flex and bite. your thighs squeeze quickly but you track his eyes as they catch the movement.

“see that, right there,” his hair flops to one side, loose now from its gel in all his fussing, “you’re scoffing at me. do you know how rare that is?”

he seems genuinely delighted, whole-heartedly excited by your diminutive little noise.

“oh i see,” you start, “you like being degraded?”

he scrunches his nose and it’s sort of boyish. “no, honestly, not really. i just have so few people in my life that treat me like a real person.”

you chew on this slowly. “so you…” a coy smile breaks through, “you came to a hostess bar for the humanity?” but you can hardly finish your sentence without laughing again, light and amused but real, and he chuckles at himself, too.

“yeah, i guess so.”

you feel his pointer finger brush the skin at the back of your neck and you shudder, narrowing your eyes at him again. he corrects himself immediately, pulling away, and breathing out, “sorry. i forgot.”

you can see on his face that he means it.

“tell me about your life, little moon,” he says, voice low and quieter as it fans over your face. when did you get so close together? both of your bodies contort beyond reasonable expectation to fit so closely without touching.

you have never felt quite so charmed by a client before. whether it’s because you already feel so familiar with him outside of this room or the appeal of harboring this secret you cannot decipher, but nonetheless you are doing things you would normally never allow yourself. you have never leaned so close before, have flirted so overtly with the breaking of a rule you have historically enjoyed.

you want him to touch you. for so many reasons that is a terrible, life-alteringly horrific idea.

you try to speak with him instead.

“little moon?” you ask.

he points to your door. “tsukiko. moon-child,” he clarifies, but something thinly veiled and knowing tugs at his lips.

you hum. 

“but i guess that isn’t your real name, is it?”

something about the low rumble of his voice tickles at your spine, makes you want to arch into his touch. you’re trying so hard to remember yourself, to remember who he is.

“i don’t think it’s wise for me to answer that question.”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “then answer my other one. tell me about your life.” you hesitate and he grins. “or scoff at me again.”

you smile and push an amused breath through your nose. this is a somewhat perilous trap of a question but you don’t show it on your face.

“wouldn’t that ruin the illusion? peeking behind the curtain and all?”

“what illusion do you think i’m under?”

you appraise his face slowly. you suppose you don’t have an answer to that, so you relent to his other question, at last.

“i’m fairly boring outside of this job, actually.”

“i don’t believe that.”

“i spend all my time here and at home.”

“oh, little moon, such a shame. pretty young thing all alone all the time?”

the teasing lilt of his voice, sweeping in that low whisper of a register, makes your thighs clench again. he doesn’t even look this time, only grins a little bigger to show you he knows.

“i’m around people all the time, people are my job,” you argue.

“that’s not the sort of alone i’m talking about.”

you cannot help but want to play this game with him, you lob the ball back, though your voice comes out a fraction more breathless than usual. “what sort of alone are you talking about then, satoru?”

“well i can’t touch you,” you can feel his pointer finger hover over your shoulder again, intentional this time, running a knuckle so close you can sense it without looking, but still not touching. “but is anyone?”

you’re taking in a stuttering breath in an attempt to respond but he continues, lips closer to the shell of your ear.

“surely someone gets to feel this tight pussy, huh?”

you huff out all your air, fuck you’re so wet and he’s looking at you like you can smell it. what the fuck is happening? you have never, ever reacted to a client this way. and better yet, this is your boss.

but rationality slips from your ears and down your neck, you think, because you only shake your head.

pity drips from his voice like honey, every ounce of power you implicitly relinquish to him a thing he takes on with what appears to be great pleasure.

“surely you must have needs.”

“i can take care of myself, but i appreciate your concern.” your double entendre doesn’t dawn upon you until you’ve already said it and he’s laughing with a lewd sort of tenderness. your face burns and you make use of your remaining faculty, looking away from him knowing he cannot tilt your chin back himself.

“uh huh. and how often are you…taking care of yourself?”

“i don’t have to answer that.” that’s a weak retort and you both know it.

“no, you don’t.”

you try to deflect. “i thought fucking pretty girls bored you.”

“i’m not fucking you, am i? unless you’ve had a change of heart about the touching rule.”

“no,” you reply, as firmly as you can manage, though something below your navel is bellowing for him.

“i figured not,” he admits, leaning just slightly further into you, whispering low and hot into your ear, “it’s enough just knowing how fucking wet you are in that little skirt just from the sound of my voice.”

your mouth drops open in disbelief, head snapping towards his, so close your noses almost bump. “i’m not,” you protest, voice clipped. fucking liar. 

“no?”

“no.”

“why don’t you prove it for me?” he taunts softly.

you squeeze your thighs harder, desperate for any sort of friction, anything, but your restraint is waning with him whispering so sinfully in your ear.

“you’re not allowed to touch me,” you remind him again.

“but you can touch me, can’t you?”

this is a suggestion you’ve heard from a few patrons before but it’s a first to feel so tempted to take one up on it. you search his face for anything to tether to, looking for a reason to refuse, but god he’s so pretty and you want him. he has almost as keen an eye as you do, you think, because he sees the moment your trepidation lowers.

“why don’t you get on my thigh and let me feel?”

his legs uncross and he splays them out, a saddle for you. your eyes drop there, and then to the tent in his slacks as they pull tight across his hips, to his face—wild and manic—and then back again. shit. 

you brace one hand on his shoulder, just to see what he’ll do. he tenses with the contact but doesn’t move, doesn’t make to grab at you. you look at each other a moment longer, both of you waiting for something terrible or wonderful or both, and then you’re swinging one bare leg over his, settling slowly on his pant leg, skirt fanned just to the middle of your thigh.

the pressure of his muscle under your swollen clit makes you whimper as soon as you sit down and a breath punches from his lungs but still he does as you have asked, still he doesn’t touch you. he tilts his head to the side, mouth parted. 

“come on, little moon,” he encourages lowly. “use me.” he punctuates it with a little bounce of his leg and you’re gone.

you start slow, dragging your clit on the warmth of his slacks, surely leaving something shiny and humiliating behind but you can’t find it in you to care. you brace your other hand on his other shoulder for balance, rolling your hips faster now, mewling quietly as he watches with rapt attention.

“you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? that all for me?”

you nod wordlessly but he bounces his leg again. you only barely stop yourself from screaming. “answer me.”

“f-fuck, yes, satoru, f-for you,” you exhale, words stuttering and stumbled as your stomach tenses with your movement. the pleasure whips through your body, coils around your diaphragm and around your hole. you flutter and pulse and surely he feels it, how badly you want to be filled. his fists clench at his sides watching it, cock aching and huge from the looks of it, jumping in time with your little grinds along the fabric.

with each roll you thrust harder, whimpering as the feeling bubbles and smokes inside of you. “fuck,” you whisper, to yourself or to him you do not know.

“fuck you look so fucking—oh that’s it—perfect humping me like a slut,” he groans.

you throw your head back, rolling your hips harder, faster, you need to cum and it’s so close you can taste it, can feel it between your fingers. he takes the opportunity to lean closer to your neck, exhaling slowly on the beating of your jugular.

“i’m so cl-close,” you whine.

he bares his teeth against your skin. “oh baby you really did need it, huh? cumming so fast.”

you nod, all pretenses and attempts at self-possession abandoned. the maw of your heat unhinges its jaw as ecstasy washes over you, hips gone frantic and lost of all rhythm, riding your high as you gush over the fabric of his pants. he moans with you watching it happen, feeling the wet heat spread across his thigh.

with one final sigh you slow to a stop, panting lightly. when you raise your head to meet his eyes again you feel something like sheepishness coiling feverish in your chest but his expression is so open in its wanting that the humiliation doesn’t last.

“fuck,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

with the remaining shreds of your crazed desire you are put upon to slide two fingers past the hem of your panties, collecting your slick where it pools. you raise them in front of his face, shiny and tacky.

“open,” you order softly.

he obeys immediately, gratefully. you press your fingers lightly on his tongue and his eyes almost roll back, half-lidded as he licks your fingers clean, his groaning around them reverberating down your hand. you pull away with a faint pop.

“you are fantastic,” he breathes, as dazed as you are.

you smile something small and honest, slowly disentangling yourself from him to right yourself on the couch again. 

“thank you,” you say, for the compliment and…for everything else, you suppose.

he almost seems nervous now that he’s seen you cum. his cock is still obscenely swollen in his pants, still jumps every time you look at it, but it feels like he’s swallowed his swagger along with your cum. he reaches for his sake cup and takes it all in one swig before standing.

“i’ll…see you again, i’m sure,” he says as he makes for the door. you sort of want to giggle at the absurdity of it all, at this situation you find yourself in. but then he turns back, as if remembering something, and digs through his pocket.

he pulls out a wallet, leather and embossed with the kanji of his name, a tidbit you know but cannot divulge. yes, the fact is slapping you across the face again: this is your boss. 

he throws something to the tune of 150 thousand yen on the table, for the first time looking less than certain about what to do. you think for a moment that he seems like he’s just remembered, there at the threshold and one foot out the door, that this has been first and foremost a transactional encounter. 

when the sound of his expensive shoes walking down the hallway fades into silence—or as close to silence as the club is capable—you hang your head in your hands. what the fuck did you just do?

the next week passes like torture. for the first time in your life you dread going to work, dread seeing him again; even worse you spend equal time hoping he’ll turn up at your private room. satoru gojo plagues you, plagues tsukiko, infiltrates somewhere deeper beyond the character.

to add insult to injury, you are subject to continued messages from him under your real name, a new character borne of necessity under the pretense that you didn’t fuck his thigh last thursday. though you suppose the only benefit to keeping such close contact with him is that you do not have to wonder when he doesn’t turn up for a week after his first appearance; you know he is busy, know he’s working past sunset, and you have the slack receipts to prove it.

he is as hopeless with his computer as he has always been—you suppose a clandestine encounter with a hostess wouldn’t have changed that—and every time he turns to you, endlessly grateful and funny and reverent, somehow, of the ways in which you help him.

like now.

Satoru Gojo 6:06pm Sweet intern

normally you would have logged off by now, but you have the night off from the club, and what better way to spend your evening than with a glass of wine and engaged in a treacherous IT session with your boss and best single-visit client?

you nibble on your lip as you respond.

You 6:06pm Good evening

Satoru Gojo 6:07pm My evening has been terrible.

You 6:07pm More computer troubles?

Satoru Gojo 6:08pm You must think I’m an idiot.

You 6:09pm Definitely not.

Satoru Gojo 6:09pm Helpless?

You 6:10pm Something like that.

oh god. did you just send that? you need to log off. take a week of PTO. do anything other than continue responding while a little tipsy and still fucking horny for him. to his credit, he takes that comment in stride.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm I appreciate your honesty.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm And yes, more computer troubles.

You 6:12pm Do tell.

Satoru Gojo 6:13pm Suguru retaliated

You 6:14pm From your retaliation? It’s becoming a vicious cycle.

Satoru Gojo 6:14pm He logged me out of my Partiful account

you almost spit up wine laughing at him.

You 6:15pm Why is your Partiful account attached to your business email?

Satoru Gojo 6:15pm It’s a business party!

You 6:16pm Go ahead and request the Forgot Password email. It should send to the domain admin (me) and I’ll fix it for you. It’ll be a temp password and then you can reset when you log in again.

it’s an easy fix; so many of his requests are. he is never any less grateful.

Satoru Gojo 6:18pm Thank you thank you!

case in point.

you begin to rise from your bed to refill your glass when another ping! lights up your screen. 

Satoru Gojo 6:20pm Do you live in Tokyo?

you pause. is this…still business related?

You 6:21pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 6:21pm You should come by then.

something skittish pokes from behind your ribs. 

You 6:22pm Come to what?

Satoru Gojo 6:23pm This business party. It’s the company’s 100th anniversary. You can come by the office, meet your poor disciples in person

despite everything that still makes you smile. 

of course, you cannot under any circumstances attend. the moment he sees you in person he’ll know, likely firing you in the middle of the party. and he’ll know, too, that the night you met in person, you knew who he was even though he took great care to equivocate. was that a betrayal on your part? should you have suggested he leave that night when he walked in?

it’s all so hazy now, glossed over with your lust and his, the heat a contagion you haven’t quite baptised yourself of.

his message blinks before you still.

You 6:25pm I’m busy that night, unfortunately

Satoru Gojo 6:25pm I haven’t told you what night it is yet

are you the stupidest young woman on the planet? it is so unfamiliar to feel so out of control, your grip slack where it normally tightens, white-knuckled.

you aren’t entirely ready to concede.

You 6:26pm I just don’t do well with people.

lie.

Satoru Gojo 6:26pm I really would like it if you dropped by. You don’t have to stay for long.

you groan aloud.

Satoru Gojo 6:27pm You’ve helped me so much the last few months

Satoru Gojo 6:28pm It’s next Friday at 7pm. Most people will be there straight from work so business formal is fine. I hope you’ll come

the truth—it descends upon you like wrath, venomous and toothy—is that you have no options. you cannot deny the CEO at the company for which you intern three times. you also surely cannot attend, cannot let him see your face. but the former is a more pressing problem, you suppose. maybe it’s the wine, but you feel your resolve bruising into submission.

maybe this is for the best; you’ve saved enough now that you can stay in this apartment long enough to find another job. and was it really sustainable to continue to work alongside gojo after what happened at the club?

the terrible part of you—you’ll never forgive her—wants to think you would sustain this as long as it was viable. but the rest of you acknowledges that the lifespan has arrived at its bloody, inelegant end.

You 6:30pm Okay

there is something deeply ironic about zipping up a pencil skirt of appropriate length in preparation to go see satoru gojo again. your stockings are sheer and black, catching the light where your foot curves into the lowest heels you managed to find in your closet. no matter how you arrange your gray sweater over your torso you feel sort of crude-looking. you have come to associate this style of clothing so closely with the club that you cannot process your silhouette in the mirror as anything other than whorish.

with a manic sort of giggle you think, oh well. you’re getting fired anyway!

you’ve considered, over the last week, feigning sickness or some personal tragedy, all manner of terrible scenarios which would keep you from the party. but in the first place you suspect, after your couplet of dreadful attempts at rejecting the invitation, that he would know outright you were simply trying to weasel your way out of the obligation. 

and secondly, some naive part of you does want to go. the other coworkers you’ve helped online seemed so excited when they found out you had committed to come: yuuji itadori, a new hire who seems entirely incapable of recalling his passwords, kento nanami, a clearly whip-smart high-level employee who harbors a secret fear of pressing buttons he doesn’t understand, ieri shoko, an altogether efficient young woman who simply cannot remember to clock in and out.

you have put in tangible time of your life to help these people, and in turn have forged something like friendships with them. what you had said to gojo that night is true; other than the club, you don’t encounter people much. there is something embarrassingly exciting to you about solidifying, even if only for ten minutes, these little bonds you find you care a lot about.

the gojo enterprises building is enormous and beautifully designed, you notice, as you walk towards the revolving entrance doors. the scaffolding gleams in sleek gray steel, large windows across swaths of floors cleaned to a pristine shine. the lobby is still full of people, even at this hour, shuffling about in all directions along the marble flooring.

nobody seems to pay you any attention, which soothes your nerves slightly. at least only you and him will know you’re a slut. 

you approach a pretty young woman at the front desk, hair cut recently in an auburn bob that suits her face.

“um…hi,” you begin, resting one hand on the counter. “i’m here for the office party?”

she smiles at you easily, like you aren’t about to be fired and potentially publicly humiliated. “wonderful! it’s on the penultimate floor, so just click the second button from the top.”

you nod and thank her, heartbeat increasingly demanding in the cavity of your ribs. a part of you remembers the way gojo acted that night, how pliable and kind he remained even as he paid you and stumbled out. you’d like to think the man you know—both versions—would spare you the degradation of announcing your misdeeds in front of everyone. it’s not like he isn’t lewdly implicated in such an announcement, either.

but you can’t help the slight tremble in your hands as you press on the button and it chimes, thrusting you upwards.

the last thing you consider before the doors open is that he simply won’t mind, that you’ll laugh about it together. it’s a little startling how much you find you’re hoping that he isn’t upset with you. 

and then the doors slide open.

you are reminded, as you wade through the gaggle of people chatting over champagne, that the only person here who knows what you look like is gojo, and even he might not realize at the outset that you are you. you have no way of recognizing your familiar coworkers, and thus no reasonable way to begin conversation with anyone. you make a beeline for the bar.

you assess the room around you from the far end, nursing your champagne with as much poise as you can manage. this floor has only a few, large desks in an open bullpen, surrounded by even larger board rooms flush with long, dark tables and leather seats. at the far left corner you see two single-person offices with plaques by the doors, surely gojo and geto’s offices, you think.

you cannot see gojo anywhere, though you’re unable to decide whether that’s a relief or a disappointment. you scrutinize the crowd so hard you hardly sense the figure approaching at your side until they’re already there. a deep voice clears its throat.

the man you find when you turn is rather beautiful. hair long and dark around his shoulders, face sharp and fox-like, eyes the sort of keen that might frighten someone who didn’t enjoy observant people so much. you give him a polite smile.

“you’re new,” he says simply.

you shake your head. “only partly.” you hold your hand out to shake and tell him your name. “i’m actually your remote IT intern,” you explain.

the man smiles wider, almost secretive, and assesses you quickly. his eyes rake down your form, across your face, but it isn’t hungry so much as it feels vigilant, void of the voyeuristic heat you’re used to. 

he introduces himself: “suguru geto.”

you grin at him, laughing a little. “it’s great to meet you. i’ve been wondering what you’re like.”

he raises one eyebrow. “that so?”

you realize only now that it’s more difficult than you anticipated to speak with attractive men in a different way than how you talk at the club.

“i just mean that you’ve never needed my help. i only know the technologically-challenged of you.”

he chuckles. “you must know satoru well.”

actually, you go back on your previous thought; you are positively indebted to your time at the club. all your practiced grace and easy charm prevents you from choking on your champagne. just barely. 

“yeah, in fact, i do.”

“are you the one who helps him get back at me?”

“guilty as charged.”

he clicks his tongue in his mouth. “i knew he couldn’t have been doing it on his own.”

you take another sip of your drink. “i really am sorry for my participation,” you assure him, “but when the CEO demands you attach a lewd photo to your launch button i don’t have much of a choice.”

geto’s lips tug up at one corner. “so you saw that photo then?”

heat licks over your nose and you hope the fluorescents cover it. “unfortunately, yes.”

“he’ll be so hurt you said that.”

your eyes widen only slightly, but you know he catches it. you try to imbue your voice with the casual leisure you hope to convey. “don’t tell him.”

he clinks his glass against yours with a small, knowing smile. “you have my word.” and then, over his shoulder as he begins to walk back into the heart of the party, he adds: “it was nice to meet you.”

you wave him off politely, leaning again against the bar.

your attention is pulled quickly towards a broad, blonde man as he approaches the bar, another, much younger man seemingly attached to his hip. 

“no, itadori, you can’t handle your alcohol,” the older man admonishes.

“please? it’s the company party, nanamin,” he pouts.

you smile to yourself. two of your frequent flyers.

“look, you’re an adult,” kento sounds wholly unconvinced of this, even as he says it, “but if you’re asking my permission for some godforsaken reason, then i’ll tell you–”

“wait a second,” yuuji stops. it takes you a second to realize he’s looking at you. “aren’t you our IT intern?”

you sputter in surprise. “i–um…yes?”

yuuji beams. “i knew it! it’s nice to meet you in person.” his handshake is so firm and eager it jostles you a little bit. something lost in his online translation is how frenetic of a thing he is, bouncing about in a constant state of buzzing that endears you to him.

“how did you know it was me?”

“he has a weird sense for those things,” nanami interjects, taking your hand next.

“it’s really nice to meet you both,” you smile.

“thank you so much for all your help. i was just mentioning to gojo how i wouldn’t ever get any work done without you.”

“you said that to gojo?” nanami asks disapprovingly, though yuuji doesn’t even seem to register it.

“i know he wanted to meet you, too. i’ll go get him!” he chirps, bounding off between people beyond your reach, not hearing—or choosing to ignore—your feeble oh no you don’t have to!

you turn back to nanami to find an almost pitying look on his face. you scrunch your nose. “is he that bad in person?”

“he’s…a lot,” he qualifies.

you lean an elbow on the counter of the bar, watch your champagne swirl about in the flute. “it’s sort of strange meeting all of you in person,” you admit.

nanami scans the throng briefly again, quickly muttering into his own drink: “into the eye of the hurricane.”

you have only a moment too little to discern what he means.

“—and he keeps taking my champagne away,” itadori grumbles.

lord help you you recognize gojo’s footsteps as they approach, still as certain as you remember them, and the discs of your spine align in a taut stack, but you do not turn to him.

his laugh is easy, unaware, the low scratch of it only a few feet away now, but you learned that night that he watches when he speaks. he doesn’t see you yet, surely still turned and attentive towards yuuji. “probably because you threw up in his office trash can at the last christmas party.”

“i told you, that wasn’t me.”

“who else could it have possibly—oh.” the footsteps stop, and you feel his eyes fall on you.

when you turn your head, a number of things become obvious at once.

he is as handsome as you remember him. melted a little around the edges, tie loose, suit jacket gone and button-up bunched at the elbows to expose his forearms. his scent makes your thighs clench a little, less perceptible under your reasonable skirt, his hair disrupted by the long day and possibly a glass of champagne. the terror of your present circumstances, and the punch of guilt, too, come fettered to how badly you want him. 

the other revelation—or, you suppose it’s more like a reminder—is that gojo is a great deal like you. you can almost see the way he’s counting the moments in his head, taking stock of the time he can allot himself to think, to decide, knowing that this gnawing silence will at some point grow too monstrous too ignore.

in that time the shock meets his eyes first. they widen and then pinch, flitting across your face and down your body, and you do your best not to preen in the attention. and then his lips part a little, any further salutations stone dead in the back of his mouth, swallowed down. he breathes out once, twice, heavy things you think he wanted to attach to words but couldn’t quite manage to animate.

and you want to say something, want to apologize; you almost want to encourage him to fire you now so you can avoid the anticipation and get home before your feet hurt. 

but then something devious pokes out from behind his teeth, something vital and alive, something like a smirk. his head cocks just so, bearing his large hand out.

“it’s so nice to finally meet you in person,” he says, voice so even you could strike him. 

and this is the final cognizance, thrust towards you between his lithe fingers; he plans to enjoy this. beginning, it seems with a cheeky homage to that night, the shaking of hands you refused him once but cannot deny him now. 

you shake his hand firmly, smiling something only he would identify as divergent from polite. he grazes the inside of your wrist with his pointer finger before your arms drop, posture twitching with the feeling of you despite the mundanity.

you nod your head in acknowledgment. “good to see you, sir.”

his tongue pokes briefly on the inside of his cheek. “i trust nanamin has introduced you around.”

“don’t call me that.” nanami sounds exhausted with him already, weighed down further by what you fear is a flicker of recognition. whatever dynamic flare is crackling between you and gojo, nanami’s eyes narrow, just a moment, like he sees it.

“you let me call you that,” yuuji adds unhelpfully.

and even though you’ve come upon this game in the wake of a monumentally terrible decision—or maybe because of that, you’re unsure one way or the other—you let the other proverbial pleaser drop.

“would you introduce me?” you ask gojo.

both his eyebrows jump, something silent exchanged, but he takes little time to seize the opportunity. he rounds beside you to lay a hand on the small of your back, all but delighted to guide you away, pressing only minutely harder than what would be appropriate. enough to remind you that he can touch you now.

“it was nice to meet you both again,” you offer to nanami and yuuji as satoru shepherds you off, but as soon as the pair looks away gojo is leaning down to your level slightly.

you beat him to the punch. “is this really wise?”

low enough that it’s only for the both of you: “definitely not.” he squeezes your side again quickly. “but i think i’d like to show you off to all your lovely coworkers before i fuck you in my office.”

you suck on the back of your teeth and try your best to glare up at him, but it’s hard when your panties stick so tacky to your mound. he bumps into you on purpose, giving you one, ephemeral moment to feel how hard he is in those expensive slacks. 

“can you even wait that long?”

he drops his hand from your back just to graze the swell of your ass, swipe there once with his thumb. “i already told you, little moon…the waiting is my favorite part.”

with what is clearly no small amount of reserved prudence, gojo stays true to his word. he deposits you about the party, peering at you heavy-lidded as you greet the people you’ve thus far only known over email. every time you steal a glance at him he’s already staring, the weight of his gaze so heavy your knees nearly buckle. you feel more supine than you ever have in your life, soft and watched and wanted.

but surely he must know you’re observant enough to notice he is winding you, slowly, to his office. with each new introduction you are a few feet closer to his door; it’s just shy of torture waiting this way. how long has it been since you’ve been fucked? you choose not to answer that question for yourself, though with each step you feel the gluey swipe of your slick between your legs and you cannot deny that you’re greedy to be filled.

still, you do your best to appear something like normal when you walk through the threshold of his office door, when you hear the metal snick of the lock behind you. 

the panel of glass looking out into the bullpen is so frosted you can hardly see through it, a modern design choice that suits the building, and the rest of the room follows suit; a glass coffee table stacked neatly with books, an enormous desk flush with papers and folders and an intercom system, windows that span the outer wall to boast half of tokyo.

gojo stays a moment by the closed door but gives you no direction, so you simply stand in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind your back and waiting for further instruction. you suppose he likes the look of it, because he makes no move to gesture you anywhere, smoothing a hand over his jaw as he watches you.

“get down on your knees for me, baby,” he says simply.

the air punches from your lungs and you bite down on the inside of your cheek but you find your legs curling under themselves anyway. you can’t look way from his face, that crazed manner of watching you a scorching cloak you don’t want to shed. 

only once you’re on your knees does he approach you, reaching a hand to your face to cup your jaw. with a little tug of your jaw your nose is brushing against the bulge in his pants and you exhale over it. he sighs up at the ceiling as you bring one hand up to cup his twitching cock—god it’s so big.

“you’re not mad at me?” you murmur.

he laughs once, sharp and humorless. “oh i’m fucking furious—ah” he’s cut off by your palm applying more pressure, rubbing him in earnest, and his hips buck into your fingers. his right hand weaves into your hair and grips it like a handle, humming at the way you whine.

“so i have rules of my own now,” he finishes. you still and blink back up at his face. “no touching.” you lower both hands and fasten them behind your back again. 

gojo pulls his belt loose and tugs the zipper of his pants down, aching cock jumping up and out. he’s so red it looks like it hurts, curved up a little and as massive as you thought he was, and with one hand he wraps his long fingers around the base, tugging up once, twice. your lips part as precum pearls at the tip and he grips the back of your head, bumping his slit against your lips to gloss them. when you don’t take more than you’re given he groans low, “good girl.”

and then in one, mean thrust, he’s fucking the entire girth of him into your mouth. he’s so big he bumps halfway down your throat, you gasp and sputter around him, spit pooling already and eyes watering but you’re nothing if not determined, swallowing hard around his tip.

“fuck i knew you’d take it,” he growls.

you try to nod but his length pins your head in place, not to mention each of his hands taking a tight grip on each side of your face to start thrusting into your mouth.

he’s loud, so loud that you have moments of clarity when you worry the party will hear, but he’s so fucking long that mostly you dedicate all your attention to taking him without gagging. with each thrust your nose brushes the neatly trimmed hair at his base and you lave your tongue along the underside of his shaft, feeling a vein there that pulses every time you moan around him.

“that’s it, that’s it,” he lets one hand travel down to your throat and wrap there, not pressing so much as feeling himself as he fucks in and out, “swallow—fuck me—swallow around me again, baby.”

you do and he moans wild and honest, almost surprised at how good it feels, and you’re so desperate for anything that your hips start to rock over your own heels. feeling the wet trail you leave on your shoes is vaguely humiliating but the pressure behind your pulsing clit is almost unbearable and you’re afraid he’ll pull out if you use your fingers, still clung together behind you. gojo looks like a deity with his head tipped forward watching you, brows pinched together and mouth agape, droopy eyes sharpening when he sees the little ruts of your hips.

“you fucking like this don’t you?”

you hum out a pathetic mmhmm around his skin and his eyes almost roll back. forgetting yourself you bring both hands up to claw at the vee of his hips but he catches them immediately, thrusting once with a particular malevolence to tell you to behave.

his thrusts are gaining urgency, losing their rhythm, you know he’s close and you can’t tell if you want him to finish or would prefer it be inside of you. most of all, though, you find you want to please him, so you whine one more time around his cock to hear him mewl something broken and desperate. he does.

“fuckfuckfuck i’m g’na cum, i–”

he can’t even finish his own sentence, hips stuttering and growl caught in the back of his throat as he finishes heavy on your tongue. you swallow it all down like a blessing and the bob of your throat makes him pulse a little more, whispering mainly to himself a breathy: jesus. when you pull your lips away slowly a few webs of spit snap down your chin but you let them glisten there.

gojo can hardly allow you enough time to get to your feet, wrapping his arms under yours to haul you up and over his desk. your hands press over files and polished wood and he bends you into a deep arch with one hand. with no less urgency than before his first orgasm gojo rips your skirt and stockings down to your ankles, groaning low at the damp spot in your panties, on display with your legs spread and hips flared out to him.

he uses one finger to pull your thong to the side and you can feel the filthy slide of your slick as it slips around your folds, down your thighs. you can hear the squelching of his hand on his cock again, jerking himself over the remnants of your spit and his own cum, and you tense your legs waiting for him to breach your tight hole.

he chuckles when he sees the cords of your muscles move.

“oh baby,” he coos, “are you waiting to get fucked?”

your fingers pull in and leave crescent marks on your palms. “please,” you whimper, wiggling your hips, “please fuck me.”

“i dunno,” the fwap of his hand is speeding up seeing you present yourself further for him. “i think seeing you like this is enough to—fuckfuck—make me cum again.”

you drop your forehead to the wood to ground yourself but still your words come out like a sob: “i need you satoru please, please.”

“fuck!” again his hand gets quicker, “beg me again baby. beg me better than that.”

“please satoru i need your cock so bad, i need you to fuck me, i–”

in all honesty you don’t know whether it was you begging that did it or the dissolution of his own resolve, but without warning gojo fits his angry tip at your hole and pushes, hips slapping against your ass as he sheaths himself fully in one go.

you both groan in unison, relief and nirvana and the aching heat with her claws in both of you, and satoru holds your head to his desk as he starts to move.

his thrusts now are not exactly like the way he fucked your mouth; he isn’t testing your limits, isn’t using every ounce of his remaining strength, each grind is calculated, slower than before. it almost feels like he’s pausing after each rut to hear the sound you make and learn. that consideration alone is enough to make you clamp down around him, and a moan claps like thunder from his mouth.

“god it’s like fucking a virgin you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses. 

recovering from the burn of the initial stretch you start to incline your hips back into each thrust, the punches of his tip around your walls even harder as you arch to meet him. your arms reach back to feel for him but he only seizes the opportunity to wind them in one hand and hold them to the curve of your spine. 

“was it worth it fucking embarassing me?” he pants out, beginning to bend at the waist to fuck up into harder, words nearly spat onto the wing of your shoulder. “i’ve spent all—fuck—week thinking about it.”

you mewl and hum into the wood of the desk.

“made me feel like a fucking teenager at the club,” he thrusts harder, the sound of his skin on yours louder in your ears, “made me feel like a fucking creep at my job.”

you…what?

somewhere between your insistent moaning you ask him “what—ah! oh f-fuuck satoru—what do you mean a creep?”

he bands one arm around your torso and shifts upright, holding you to his chest as his hips continue to buck wildly, more erratic, more in it. his lips just barely graze the shell of your ear.

“all this time i’ve wanted to fuck my sweet intern,” your mouth drops open in surprise and pleasure and something else, the mounting feeling of ecstasy scintillating through your body, “thinking you were some fucking hermit,” he spits. your ass is surely red from the snapping of his toned hips but you’re so close and the hot tickle of his breath on your face just might be enough to get you there.

he almost seems to hear what you’re thinking, though, because then his free hand is jumping to your swollen clit, rubbing messy circles over and under the hood. “went to the club hoping to—oh yeah baby, squeeze me like that—get her off my mind just for you to fuck me over again,” he spits, but it isn’t angry, not really, he’s just desperately and pathetically close.

your body catches and locks, toes curling into your heels as you start to come undone, the dull pleasure coming first and then that cutting slice of your high. you shudder and pulse and milk him as it washes over you, about to pull him over the cliffside with you.

“i’m g’na fuck my cum deep in this cunt and you’re gonna have to fucking walk out of here with it dripping out of you.”

and then he’s gone too, rutting quick and thoughtless and then exploding inside of you, groaning deep in your ear and arm tight across your chest. he thrusts lazily through it, plugging you with the ropes of his seed, trying to feel the slosh of it in your channel.

the disentanglement of his body from yours is almost silent save for your shared quiet groaning at the overstimulation, an almost self-conscious kiss pressed to your temple as you redress, and the murmuring buzz of the corporate party still going outside. 

fuck. the party.

satoru takes great care righting your clothing, brushing fingers through your hair. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to—only smiling sort of boyishly as you do the same for him. you try to replicate the easy and rushed tug on his tie from before, the right pleating of his sleeves halfway up his arms. 

really it’s no use. you look like you’ve been railed, you can feel it, and the scent of sex sticks to gojo, supplanting even his cologne. you shrug at him and he laughs softly, muttering a small c’mon as he ushers you back out.

to your surprise and great delight, the party outside seems…normal. people hardly turn when you exit, engaged in their own conversations, a considerable group of them watching yuuji—absolutely plastered now—trying to get nanami to dance. satoru places his hand again on your back one last time and presses there, but it isn’t hungry now. he means it to be comforting, you think, and it is.

or it would’ve been, if your eyes didn’t immediately land on geto, leaned against the wall and watching you both with that serpentine glare. you nudge gojo with your elbow to get his attention.

when they make eye contact suguru only smirks wider. you turn slow and dangerous to satoru, who stands upright like a statue.

“satoru,” you begin, a calm that should frighten him if he’s smart, “what does he know?”

he shakes his head quickly, lips turned down in a dismissal. “nothing.” 

satoru gojo is frustratingly excellent at a great number of things. lying isn’t one of them.

when you return to your apartment that night, legs sore and aching and happy, you flop immediately onto your bed and pry open your computer, single-minded. it only takes a few moments of navigation through the admin channels to find it, a conversation from two weeks after you first started.

Satoru Gojo 3:11pm Hello

Suguru Geto 3:13pm Oh I’m sorry I don’t have any change

Satoru Gojo 3:14pm I need your help

Suguru Geto 3:15pm I’m not a philanthropist

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm I’ll give you 3 extra days of PTO

Suguru Geto 3:15pm What is it

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm You’re not gonna like it

Suguru Geto 3:16pm When do I ever

Satoru Gojo 3:16pm I need to fuck the IT intern

Suguru Geto logged off 3:16pm

~~~~~~~~~~~

to anyone who read to the end dm me you're entitled to a big messy kiss!!

comments and reblogs always appreciated <3 :3

[remedyjoys]

my heart felt so light and fluttery at times while reading this but godddd there’s such a feeling of dread looming in the background for me 😖

faking it

splurge | previous chapter | chapter index

everyone has a price - even suguru geto

synopsis: with no friends and a wallet full of cash, you concoct one last idea to make your final semester one to remember. paying everyone's favorite pretty playboy to pretend to be your boyfriend to complete your college bucket list before you start the life your family is forcing you into. but you might be buying far more than you bargained for.

pairings: broke!Geto x rich!Reader x dropout!Sukuna

content: mdni, angst and fluff, college au, fake dating, pining, yearning, reader is a bit oblivious, sukuna trying (and failing) to flirt with her (again), kissing, touching, awkward intimacy, emotional hurt, loneliness, avoidant reader, revelations and confessions

art by @aransmind !!

Avoiding Suguru was easier than avoiding Sukuna.

You had even less ideas on what to say to him than usual.

What could you say? That you listened in on his conversation and learned something you still didn't think was true?

Suguru said it himself when he agreed to playing along and getting paid - he didn't like you.

So when him and Gojo had gotten interrupted by a waitress, you left before you could hear anything else that might hurt you. Before he could reject the notion of anyone having those sort of feelings for you entirely. Let yourself into the passenger seat of the beat-up car in the back of the lot and waited for Sukuna to come out. Nodded along numbly to him scolding you for not letting him pay while you stared at the window and tried to scrub the entire meal out of your mind.

At least if there was anything you were good at, it was avoiding confrontation.

Getting to your lectures early so Suguru wouldn't be there in time to walk you to them, using work as an excuse not to call him back, sending him one more payment as an apology for missing pre-made dinner plans.

You couldn't imagine sitting across from him and pretending you weren't thinking about another universe where it wasn't such a preposterous thing to have a crush on you.

Sukuna, on the other hand, it seemed you were stuck with.

He never said much. But you felt his stare on your back during your shifts. His presence lingering a little too close to your side when he wasn't working on someone.

His breath on your neck and a casual hand grazing against your body every so often, just enough to make your skin burn and ache for it to drift somewhere past polite.

But he didn't. And you never knew why you expected otherwise.

You readjusted on the stool, rereading the same message from Suguru over-and-over again. You'd typed a reply out a hundred times, all different variations of cancelling tomorrow's trip to the aquarium. Claiming something had come up or pretending you had to attend a lecture. But apparently he'd already convinced his friends to come, and the people pleaser inside you couldn't stand the idea of disappointing a crowd.

You heard the dull thud of footsteps approaching, swiping it all away before Sukuna could see.

"What are you doing?" He grumbled, glaring at your phone as if it (or you) somehow offended him. His next client was late, and you were starting to think it was more of an inconvenience to you than him.

"Just checking the schedule," You lied, sighing and setting your phone down. You'd memorized it days ago, and he rarely changed it anyway.

You wouldn't have to come in the evening tomorrow whether you joined Suguru or not. And surprisingly enough, you didn't have any shifts this weekend either, but you were pretty sure Yuki was covering them for extra cash.

She was currently restocking Choso's snack drawer, draped across the furniture casually, chatting with the guy sitting in his tattoo chair like nothing came more naturally to her. Her boyfriend laughed at something she said, rolling over to press a soft kiss to her cheek, just because, and a painful pit in your chest ripped open.

It wasn't like it was particularly intimate. Just a simple peck. But it was real.

And you were blatantly aware no one would ever kiss you like that.

Where you were comfortable and secure and so wholly in love that every touch was something to cherish, where you would be someone to worship.

Two months from now, you'd be meeting your future husband at polite and planned brunches. A year? You'd be adjusting to a loveless marriage of convenience. Your husband might have affairs, but you couldn't exactly imagine yourself doing the same.

"You've been quiet," Sukuna commented, and you honestly had forgotten he was still standing there.

You shrugged.

It was exhausting to try so hard all the time. Exasperated just to fight against the current life was dragging you towards.

Graduation seemed more like a doomsday clock, set and ticking for the day your life came to a close. Although, you supposed you'd at least have a few extra weeks after that till your lease was up and you'd be expected to return back to your parents estate, trading your apartment for your childhood bedroom, all those things you'd convinced yourself you'd do while you had a chance abandoned and discarded as dreams.

"Just stressed," You murmured, grabbing a rag and window cleaner out from under the desk for a reason to walk away from him.

He made it clear he was just your boss. And you couldn't keep crushing on men who obviously didn't like you outside of a paycheck - no matter which line of it they were on.

"About what?" He scoffed, following you over to the window. You threw him a confused glance before spraying the glass down and starting to scrub.

"School?" You didn't mean to make it sound like a question, but you didn't understand why he bothered to ask in the first place.

"You're stressed?" Yuki chimed in, your focus flickering to her, surprised she'd even been paying attention to you. Much less smiling at you, head tilted to the side and eyes crinkling as she continued talking before you could reply. "You should come party with us this weekend. Relax a little."

"Oh, um, a party?" You echoed, unease returning at the thought of embarrassing yourself in front of someone as cool as her.

"Maybe a couple of clubs too. It'll be fun," She grinned, goading you into it. She elbowed Choso, trying to get him to chime in, but he was distracted sketching something. So she looked over at the man practically hovering over you instead, throwing him her best set of puppy dog eyes. "Shouldn't she come, Kuna?"

He grimaced at her calling him that, but gritted his teeth before his stare settled back on you.

"You should."

It might've been more believable if he didn't look like he was dreading the very idea of it.

"I think I'll pass, uh, I've kinda had my fill of parties lately," You muttered, a weird mix of guilt and disappointment leaving an awful aftertaste in your mouth after you said it.

Part of you wanted to accept. Wanted to risk everything if it meant you could find a friend in Yuki. Desperate for any kind of approval. All three of them were cooler than you. Operated at a different speed. But who was to say you wouldn't find something worse there and you'd lose the one safe space you had in your work? That some fresh new humiliation would happen and Sukuna would fire you? Stop looking at you at all?

"Thanks for inviting me though," You added, eyes glancing down at the floor to make a mental note to mop after everyone else left.

Sukuna grabbed the spray bottle and rag from you, gesturing for you to go sit back down at the desk. You didn't think you'd been doing it wrong, but he was the kind of guy whose definition of right was narrow.

You reluctantly walked back over to the receptionist seat, hopping up on the stool and offering Yuki an apologetic smile.

"Sukuna said you went to one last weekend," She said, walking over to prop her elbows against the edge. Her pretty brows furrowed together as she stole a sucker from the jar you added for clients to take when they were leaving. "Did something happen?"

She was certainly perceptive.

"Sorta," You admitted under your breath. "But it was embarrassing."

"You can't just say that and not tell me," She groaned, peeling off the plastic wrapper. You held out your hand to throw it away for her, and she gave you one of those easy smiles that had you tempted to actually spill your guts.

Lips parting, the words waiting to leave them, to tell someone who was far enough away from the situation to not blame you for what happened.

"Well?" Yuki hummed at you, leaning across the counter, lollipop dangling from her lips as you shifted uncomfortably in the seat. You looked over to where Sukuna was wiping the windows, shoving down the thought that he might be listening in with reassurances that he probably didn't give a shit.

You didn't know how many times you had to remind yourself you weren't friends. That any consideration he had for you was that of a colleague.

"Some girls invited me to go skinny-dipping with them and stole my clothes," You muttered. "It's stupid-"

"Seriously?" Her jaw locked, and for the first time, you felt what it was like for someone to be annoyed for you. You hadn't been able to tell what Suguru was thinking, but with Yuki it was obvious. In the way she scowled and the anger brimming in her voice, like she was indignant at the idea of someone doing that to you.

And yet, you were already trying to come up with reasons to minimize it, to not make it a big deal.

"It's fine," You shrugged, swallowing hard. "The guy throwing the party gave me some of his clothes, and Sukuna's hoodie in my car, so it wasn't like I had to walk around naked or anything."

You only flashed Gojo.

"Did you get your stuff back?" Yuki gawked at you.

"Well, no, but-"

She scoffed.

You were so distracted you didn't notice Sukuna approaching until you glanced up to see him glaring.

"What the fuck?" He was grinding his molars, dark eyes squinting at you with barely-concealed rage. "I asked if you needed me to pick you up."

"I was fine," You argued. That seemed to be your favorite word today.

Sukuna would've made a scene if he saw you. And judging by his expression now? He might've murdered someone if he showed up.

"You were crying on the phone," He shot back, bitter and brutal and blunt.

The harshness in his voice, even if he wasn't angry at you only made you retreat further, heart shuttering itself while a hot lump formed in your throat that threatened to make you cry now.

"Hey, look, it's okay," Yuki interrupted, scowling quickly at Sukuna like she was silently telling him to shut up before turning back to you. Her face softened in an instant, apologetic as she reaches over to squeeze your hand. "Maybe another time then, yeah?"

"Maybe," You muttered.

The tension was still there, oppressing and heavy on your shoulders, a rain cloud content to chase you down. Sukuna opened his mouth to speak, and you waited for the storm. But the bell on the door rang, his client finally showing up, and you plastered your prettiest smile on to greet them.

Yuki offered to close up for you so you could slip out before you could have whatever uncomfortable conversation with Sukuna was surely coming. You wanted to act like everything was still normal, trying your hardest to make your handwriting legible when you left a sticky note that he could leave your glass containers his sandwich and cake were in here after he ate them and you'd just grab them during your next shift.

He texted you anyway while you were getting ready to sleep, asking for your address to drop them off so they didn't clutter up his fridge.

For whatever reason, he didn't seem that pleased when you told him he could just throw both away if it was a problem.

Everything you did just made you feel more like an annoyance.

And when you went to sleep that night, your dreams weren't much different.

Haunted by the feeling of being left behind and lonely. A hand on our waist that disappeared to hold someone else's. Soft lips that grazed over your shoulder just to laugh at you later.

You didn't remember what man it was by the time you woke up.

Unsure what it meant - only convinced that it was your subconscious trying to remind you what you needed to do.

Coming to conclusions about both of them while you got ready in the morning, slipping on a sundress and applying lip gloss as if a polished exterior could hide all the cracks inside.

Sukuna wasn't available. Neither was Suguru.

So why waste your energy wishing they were?

You shoved them down, your worries with it, attempted to set your intentions solely on having a fun day. On making friends.

But when you showed up to the aquarium, and Suguru was there waiting with an easy smirk, pulling you against him in front of all his friends like it wasn't just a performance, all you could think was this can't last.

You couldn't deny it didn't feel nice though.

Being properly introduced to people, all those once-wary glanced turned to smiles, being apart of the joke instead of the punchline to it. Belonging to a group and the giggles while they bounced from exhibit to exhibit, Suguru's hand never straying from your side, sometimes slotted in your own, fingers interlocked and unyielding. He helped you through the awkward gaps and lulls, chimed in when you said something too blunt or came off wrong with a light chuckle and explanation.

Gojo constantly included you, always asking weird stuff and attempting to get to know you without making you uncomfortable, but there was a hint of guilt in his eyes, apology for the party, you guessed.

"Um, I washed your clothes, by the way, I meant to give them to Suguru-" You mumbled to him awkwardly after you all ate lunch in the tiny restaurant built-in that only served a handful of sandwiches and sides, throwing away your empty wrapper when everyone else was still eating.

"Don't worry about it," Gojo waved it off.

Suguru's grip suddenly grabbed your waist, tugging you backwards and nearly stumbling as your back hit his chest.

"Stop trying to steal my girl," He chuckled, and for a brief moment, you wondered what it'd feel like for him to mean it. Where it wasn't accompanied by disappointment you had to choke on just to get by.

"My bad," Gojo grinned, winking at you before walking back towards the group.

Despite everything, you were still having fun.

Slowly warming up to everyone no matter how many slip-ups you made, an unfamiliar fuzzy feeling growing in your stomach by the time you made it to the sting-ray tank, Suguru's hand on your back while yours anxiously reached in to touch one. Listening to him laugh when you scrubbed your hands clean afterwards and admitted it felt weird.

He dragged you into a photo booth, taking cash from his own wallet and pushing it in before you could protest. Selecting the options while you nervously glanced between the camera and him, unsure what faces to make or what to do.

"I've never done one of these before," You admitted, a funny deja vu twisting in your gut and you were once again reminded how handsome he was when the corner of his mouth curved up, sly and surprisingly sweet.

"Guess I'll be your first," He murmured, and then he was pulling you on his lap.

You laughed as the camera flashed, but he was the one you were looking at.

And then his fingers were touching your face, forcing you to meet his eyes, and before you could blink, his lips were on yours.

Your mouth parted open, more out of surprise than instinct, clumsily kissing him back. There were a million things you wanted to savor about the moment, his steady touch, the minty taste on his tongue, the way he murmured your name the brief second he pulled away for a breath. Your wrists delicately looped around his neck, his palm against your spine.

But then the final flash came, and he pulled away.

You were out of the booth first, readjusting the straps on your dress and struggling to collect yourself.

Unsure if you made a mistake or a memory.

Gojo was waiting outside of it, leaning against the side and observing you with a casual grin.

"Have fun?"

"Stop being a creep," Shoko scolded him, cigarette dangling unlit between her lips while she glanced around for an exit.

But she still grabbed the photos when they shot out of the dispenser, probably ready to tease Suguru as he stepped out of the booth behind you.

"You two should get an actual room," Gojo laughed, looking over Shoko's shoulder as she passed him the photos to look at.

"Shut up," Suguru groaned, snatching them from his best friend's hand.

He folded the strips at the tear line, carefully pulling it apart and passing one half to you.

The bitter part of you wondered what he'd do with his. Throw it away?

But a bigger piece was grateful he'd given you the best day you had in years. One where you actually felt wanted somewhere. Where no one had looked at you like you had no place there, where you were included in all the jokes and given a chance.

Gojo was saying something else, and Suguru was already snapping back, both of them going back-and-forth without the argument having any teeth.

You slipped away to the gift shop without either of them noticing.

Browsing around the cluttered shelves and busy aisles to look around. One of them was filled with small hand-blown glass animals, some of them a little goofy-looking, but all still cute. You picked out a couple - a pale yellow seahorse for Yuki, a penguin for Choso, an axolotl that was almost the same shade of pink as Sukuna's hair for the guy you'd been giving your all trying not to think of today.

Maybe you could pick up some gift boxes or something to go with it this weekend to hand out to them on Monday.

You wanted to get something for Suguru, but it took you a few more minutes to find something suitable. Kind of tempted to buy a souvenir for yourself, grab a shirt or a hoodie to hang up, but the idea of finding it years from now in the back of your closet or at the bottom of a moving box felt a little too depressing.

Suguru found you when you were leaving the gift shop, two separate bags hanging off the crook of your elbow.

"Where'd you disappear to?" He murmured, a hand reaching out to brush your hair back, settling on the side of your throat, thumb tracing over the tendon there almost affectionately.

Somewhere in the back of your brain, you wondered who was watching. What the show was for. And then you shut it down, let a grin spread back across your lips as you looked up at him.

"For you," You giggled, holding out the second bag. He took it slowly, another unreadable look behind his eyes as he pulled out the souvenir coffee mug. "They didn't have your name."

He smiled at you.

A real one. Or at least, you thought it was. Soft. Sincere. The corner of his mouth curling up lazily. Letting go of you to grab it, holding it up and reading the neat lettering at the top.

#1 BOYFRIEND had seemed to, uh, on the nose. So you settled on YOU'RE SPECIAL.

He chuckled at it, glancing between it and you with an amused smirk.

"You didn't have to," He murmured.

"I wanted to," You relaxed, unable to stop yourself from leaning into him. "Thank you for today."

"I had fun," He spoke quietly, but it was still firm.

"Me too," You laughed a little. "Some of the girls gave me their numbers and invited me out for drinks with them next week."

"Good," He muttered. "I'm glad."

Even if they were only nice because of him, you were still happy it happened.

"What's in there?" Suguru hm-ed, trying to peek inside the other bag. You pulled it away with a laugh.

"It's for my coworkers," You answered, heat creeping up the side of your neck. "You know, trying to make more friends."

A small frown formed, just for a few brief seconds before he brushed it off.

"You know you don't have to give people stuff for them to like you," Suguru softly said, like he was actually looking out for you. Like what he said was true.

Maybe it worked for him.

But for you?

He was only here because you paid him to be. Sukuna only hired you because of the stupid sandwich you bought him.

Who you were was only defined by what you provided.

Suguru was staring at you.

Well, a picture of you.

His hand on your waist pulling you into his lap. Your pretty giggle caught as you looked up at him instead of the camera. The second where he tilted your chin up and kissed you.

He was still studying all the little details of you he'd spent so long overlooking. He lingered on your words and your laugh. His brain looping how natural it felt to slip an arm over your shoulder.

Even if he shouldn't like you - Suguru wasn't stupid enough to deny that he did.

Whether or not he wanted to, he once again had developed an irritatingly large crush on you.

The first had ended horribly.

You probably didn't even remember meeting him. But it had burned itself in his brain.

The nervous apology you'd given him after you bumped into him like you weren't the one on the floor, so completely unlike your sharp and icy front you put on, blushing and stuttering. He felt his own smile when he stopped, the sharp shiver touching you had almost sent down his spine when he handed your stuff back. Gojo had pulled him away, teasing him for staring at your figure long after you left.

He found your profile the next night, not that it had much outside of a handful of pretty pictures of you and a few cute captions, messaging you something not-quite-cheesy but obliviously flirty. All the chats were deleted now, although he'd never been able to fully erase it from his memory. Your interested replies and inside jokes, the casual hints of wanting to meet up just for you to walk past him in public, to never notice him or acknowledge the nights the two of you would stay up talking. And what did you have to say when he brought it up?

That you'd never thought it was serious. Especially when he couldn't afford to even take you out on a date.

Suguru didn't tell Gojo. Didn't tell anyone. Not about talking to you. Not about you basically calling him broke. If it was up to him, he'd scrub any time he ever mentioned the faintest sliver of attraction he had towards you.

He'd watch you sometimes after that.

How you blocked out everyone else. Ignored the rest of the world in favor of your own. People would whisper - but you didn't give a shit.

Suguru heard the rumors later. Dated other girls and didn't think about the one who rejected him.

Until you stepped back into his life with your shy smile and soft laugh and so easily monopolized his mind.

You were in a word, different. Maybe you changed. Perhaps some private part of your life had shifted and you weren't the same person anymore. Didn't have quite the same sense of humor or harsh edges. Didn't tease him, but never dismissed him either. You never divulged much, didn't offer details of your life, but you listened. Attentive to every single thing he gave of his.

You'd been even quieter than usual yesterday.

And here he was, replaying eating lunch at the aquarium for the thousandth time, how you tried to keep to the fringes of the conversation, watching it play out rather than actively participating.

"They won't bite," He murmured in your ear.

"I know," You muttered, all cute and flustered.

But it took Gojo dragging you in by pestering you with questions to get any kind of real answers out.

"Do you have like, any hobbies?"

"Baking," You answered awkwardly. "Kinda busy with studying and work though. Sometimes when I'm bored, I go feed the stray cats that live outside my apartment."

God, were you even real?

What happened to doomscrolling? Or even binge watching terrible tv?

"Are you any good?" Gojo cocked his head to the side, like Suguru hadn't seen him eat three-day old brownies someone had left on the counter uncovered.

"I'm okay, I guess," You shrugged.

"I expect something sweet next time I see you," Gojo teased, leaning across the table and Suguru was surprised how much he was tempted to smack him for it.

"Do you have any preferences? Cake or cookies or-" You asked, entirely oblivious to the tension sparking behind Suguru's shrewd glare.

"He'll eat anything," He muttered, trying to shut down his own irritation, his own jealousy at the way you were offering to bake his best friend something before him.

"You have any plans after graduation?" Gojo had changed the subject, popping fries in his mouth.

You went stiff, squirming in your chair.

"Um, not sure yet," You answered. You were a bad liar. Terrible at hiding what you were feeling - especially when you were uncomfortable.

"Surprised you don't have something lined up," Shoko added, more of an observation than anything judgmental.

"I work somewhere now," You mumbled, smoothing down your dress in an attempt to soothe whatever was stressing you out. He had traced little patterns on your shoulder reflexively, something inside him automatically responding to the signals you were sending out asking for help. "But uh, not sure what will happen after the lease on my apartment ends."

You didn't elaborate.

He still didn't even know what your job was. Where you lived.

A hundred things he wanted to ask and didn't know how to.

Stuck instead thinking too much about what answers he did have in his dorm, wishing he hadn't taken your check when you discreetly passed it to him outside your car after everyone else had left the aquarium. Uselessly staring between your photo and the coffee you'd given him instead, sitting untouched on his desk.

He had more than enough money now - all thanks to you. Cushioned by your cash and his actual part-time job to be able to afford more than just surviving now. He already paid for his deposit and plane ticket. Would be able to buy furniture for his new place and not just sleep on the floor.

Suguru ran his thumb over the edge of the photo, your pretty face all glossy as it caught the light from the window.

"Cute," Gojo commented over his shoulder, and Suguru shoved it back into his wallet.

He didn't even notice him walking in.

"Need something?" Suguru grumbled.

"Wanna go get a tattoo next weekend," Gojo grinned, like he hadn't chickened out the last two times he said he wanted to get out. "Come with me? I'll pay for yours too."

"Sure," He shrugged. "I'll message the guy."

Did you like tattoos?

He was annoyed at himself for the thought even popping up while he pulled out his phone and scrolled searching for the name at the tip of his tongue.

Sukuna.

He was halfway through typing before Gojo spoke up again.

"Are you gonna post those?" Gojo asked, tapping the edge of the photos sticking out of his wallet.

"No," Suguru mumbled, a sharp stab of bitterness reminding him who he'd have to tag if he did. Who he'd have to unblock.

"Sucks that she doesn't have any social media or anything," Gojo casually chirped, plopping down on his bed next to the desk. "You know, you should really convince her to create an account or-"

"She what?"

The stupid little statue sat heavy in the pocket of your purse, the outline sticking out and staring at you as you glanced between it and the clock a couple days later.

You'd spent your weekend torn between wondering if Sukuna would hate it and wishing you hated him a little more.

Both of them.

They had each reached out a few times, but you never really knew what to say when it felt like you just stuck your foot in your mouth every time you talked.

Even bumping into Suguru in the hall Monday morning was more awkward than it would be with just an acquaintance, struggling not to blush and stammer when he said he'd been thinking about you, when he asked if you could call him tonight or meet up after you got off work. That he said something important to talk to you about.

He didn't seem upset. No, his face was more warm than usual, his voice softer, a hand squeezing your shoulder while he talked. And for a short second?

Suguru leaned in like he was thinking about kissing your forehead again before someone shouted his name and you mumbled that you had to get to class.

Maybe he wanted more money from you. Needed help with something. He would probably offer to check one of the other boxes off your list in exchange for cash. Another transaction to be made.

You attempted not to think about it at all through your shift. Considering how hard Sukuna was staring through you, he was more than enough of a distraction.

Still, you kept your conversations focused solely on work, putting his dinner in the fridge without a word. Got into the rhythm of checking out customers and cleaning up, talked with Choso for a few minutes before he headed out to meet up with Yuki. You gave him both of the gift boxes, mumbling under your breath you'd just picked up some little trinkets for them.

It was busy enough that you didn't have to deal with Sukuna until you were closing up. He kept looking at you though, but you figured whatever words he was holding in were better left unsaid.

"How was your weekend?" He eventually grumbled, as if making small talk physically pained him.

"Good," You mumbled, mopping up the last few spots while he cleaned up his station, the last client already gone and the cash register counter. "How was the party?"

Probably more fun without you.

"I didn't go," Sukuna grunted.

You paused as you set the mop back in the bucket.

"Why?" You asked, curiosity slipping out before you could contain it.

Sukuna stared hard, the slit across his brows and the piercing by them practically twitching before his frown broke for him to reply.

"You weren't coming."

You couldn't think of a single thing to say to that.

Just went back to completing your list of tasks, his voice in your hand saying the same thing over and over again.

You didn't get him. Didn't know what to make of that or this or whatever this weirdness hanging between you was.

Struggling to make it out of your shift unscathed, waiting for him to go to the backroom to clock out, leaving his gift box with a small handwritten note attached with a ribbon on his desk and shoving your leftover containers he surprisingly saved inside your purse before hurrying out the door.

You heard his footsteps before you had even unlocked your car. Heavy and hard on the damp pavement, a light drizzle coming down and making loose strands of your hair stick to your face.

"The hell are you running away for?" Sukuna grunted, his hand holding you car door closed when you went to grab the handle.

"I'm not," You huffed.

"You are," He argued, and then he pulled the tiny axolotl out. "The fuck is this?"

"I thought you'd like it," You pouted, although that wasn't completely true. It just reminded you of him, not that you'd say it at risk of sounding idiotically cheesy and sentimental.

You weren't dumb enough to think he'd care. You were only stupid enough to still want to show him you did anyway.

"Did I say I didn't?" He frowned, and you froze, too flustered to figure out what that meant.

"I don't understand you," You bluntly mumbled under your breath.

"Have I not made myself obvious enough?" He rolled his eyes, stepping closer until your back was pressed against the cold metal of your car.

"What?" You tried to breathe. Tried. But it felt like he'd stolen all the air from your lungs just by being close.

"I like you."

[remedyjoys]

faking it

iou | previous chapter | chapter index

everyone has a price - even suguru geto

synopsis: with no friends and a wallet full of cash, you concoct one last idea to make your final semester one to remember. paying everyone's favorite pretty playboy to pretend to be your boyfriend to complete your college bucket list before you start the life your family is forcing you into. but you might be buying far more than you bargained for.

pairings: broke!Geto x rich!Reader x dropout!Sukuna

content: mdni, angst and fluff, college au, fake dating, pining, yearning, Geto is a bit of an asshole, reader is VERY awkward lol, making out, seven minutes in heaven, skinny dipping, secondhand embarrassment, emotional hurt, protective Geto + Sukuna

art by @aransmind !!

Something Gojo threw was probably a bad idea for your first party in hindsight.

You had to park blocks away, pulling Sukuna's hoodie off and setting it down on your passenger seat after folding it neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles before checking your reflection in the mirror one last time. Your skin still smelled like him, but you couldn't bring yourself to spritz more perfume over your clothes, like his scent was some shield to protect you from the snakes and vipers out tonight.

The second bad idea was the expensive bottle of wine in the blue gift bag, glitter tissue paper sticking out the top.

But you couldn't fight everything that was engrained inside you, the polite and practiced habits, trained to be grateful, thankful for anyone who put up with you.

Drunk partygoers passed by while you locked your car, slipping your keys inside of your purse and clutching it and the gift bag against your chest while you stepped out into the street, narrowly avoiding tripping in the holes in the pavement as you walked alone up to the house it was obviously being hosted at.

A few people sober enough to see you stared, but none of them were the one you were looking for.

You had to squeeze past a tight throng of bodies to get through the door, music and voices all mingling on top of each other, familiar panic squeezing everything inside your chest, organs straining against your rib cage the longer you looked around and couldn't find Geto.

A girl you recognized from your labs noticed you when you walked through the living room, giggling and nudging her friend to point out out.

She wasn't the only one.

Now that you were inside, it felt like everyone was snickering the second they realized you were here.

Gojo found you first.

"You made it," He leaned down to talk to you, excited enough to disarm you, help ease the worst of the apprehension. "Come on."

You followed him there, grabbing the edge of his shirt to not lose him in the crowd, watching him wave off other people before the dim hallway turned into the tile of the kitchen, all bright wallpaper and expensive appliances, cups and alcohol littering every surface, but not nearly as many people congesting it.

"What's that?" He asked, gesturing to the bag before you uncomfortably shuffled on your feet and held it out for him.

"It's uh, nothing, really. Just something to thank you for inviting me," You answered, waiting for him to grab it so you could look away.

"I'd never say no to present," He winked, laughing as he ripped out the tissue paper and glitter got on his jeans and scattered across the floor. Gojo proudly held up the wine, twisting it around to read the label before grinning. "Thanks."

You nodded, not sure what to say to keep the conversation from dying.

But Gojo was the kind of guy who could talk to a wall without getting bored.

"What's your handle?" He asked, looking over his shoulder at you before putting the bottle up on a high shelf, like he already decided to save it for something else. He pulled out his phone next, typing something into it just for his eyes to flick back up expectantly for your answer.

You blinked at him for a second, glossy lips parted before you realized that most likely looked stupid.

"Oh, like on Instagram or-?"

"Any of them," Gojo laughed again, pouring you a beer from the tap on the counter before walking back over with an easy smile.

"I, um, don't use social media," You admitted with a shrug, hating how much of a loser it made you sound like. You sipped your beer instead, cringing at how bitter it was and still drinking more so you didn't seem rude.

"Seriously?" He cocked a brow up, scrunching his nose like he couldn't believe it.

"I don't really have many friends," You mumbled, barely keeping yourself from frowning at thought you didn't actually have any friends. "Just thought it'd be kinda embarrassing to create an account if I don't have people to add."

"I could be your first," Gojo gladly offered. He didn't miss a beat. Didn't make you feel like a loner. Just volunteered.

You opened your mouth to stammer through a response before a warm hand suddenly pressed against your spine.

"Hey," Geto murmured in your ear, soft and smooth, sinking into your skin.

You froze. Brain malfunctioning at the warmth and how close he was, lips grazing just barely against your skin.

"Hi," You breathed.

He sighed, but it was more of a calm exhale, not holding any disappointment or disapproval. You looked back at him just to pause again at the way he was looking at you, half-lidded and hazy, loosened up by however many drinks he had.

"Let's put your purse somewhere safe," He gestured down at it, taking you upstairs and pulling out a key from his pocket to unlock a door, grabbing your purse and walking inside with it before coming back out to lock it again.

"Oh, um, thank you," You breathed.

Geto didn't say anything else, but you let his hand guide you back out into another living room, smaller than the first, but with less people crowding around. He took the seat in the corner of the couch, pulling you down next to him, one of your legs half on his lap, his hand over your skirt.

"Satoru texted me that you were here," He said, all that confidence he just had simmering down to something softer, more unsure now that you were almost alone. "You could've called me."

"I didn't want to interrupt if you were talking to your friends," You mumbled shyly, glancing around the few other people too drunk to pay attention to you.

Paying Geto didn't make you feel like less like an inconvenience to him.

Even if he was in a good mood tonight.

"You're supposed to be my girlfriend," He reminded you with a chuckle.

"Oh," You laughed with him, but even that sounded clumsy. You hurried to finish the rest of your drink, leaning over to place it on the edge of the coffee table. "Yeah."

Geto was just a good enough actor to sell the scene for the both of you.

"I've, um, never had a boyfriend before," You confessed, not sure what saying it would do, but hoping it'd make you look less inept rather than more.

He frowned at that, but before he could say anything, Gojo made his second appearance, leaning over to wrap an arm around each of you and squeezing you together.

"You look good together," He teased, winking at Geto.

You wondered if he meant it, or if maybe it was some inside joke. One you were secretly the butt of.

"Don't you have some sorority girl to make out with?" Geto rolled his eyes, brushing his arm off with a light huff.

"Relax," Gojo hummed, the dim yellow lights bouncing around in his eyes, carefree, shoulders rolled back like there wasn't anything weighing them down. "I just had a small suggestion."

"Sure you do," Geto dryly replied, his hand on your thigh suddenly squeezing. Probably just for show.

"There's a closet over there with your name still on it," Gojo goaded, almost sloshing his drink over the rim of his solo cup pointing over to a small wooden door.

"What?" You didn't get it.

"See how cute she is? You've never played seven minutes in heaven, have you?" Gojo's teasing wasn't mean-spirited, it was oddly sincere, in his own way. His attempt at being considerate rather than condescending.

"I haven't," You admitted, chewing on your lip.

Did it seem desperate?

It wasn't like you actually wanted to be stuck in a confined space with a guy you knew didn't like you.

You just sort of expected Geto to shut it down.

But then Geto was grumbling and getting up, guiding you over to it while Gojo cheered and drew every state that wasn't already focused on you over.

The door shutting felt like the lid to your coffin closing.

The light hanging overhead was white but dim, barely giving off enough light to dispel the shadows..

You hadn't pictured being locked in a closet with your pretend boyfriend to be so embarrassing.

He was still glancing at the thick door, his mind still on the other side of it. You pushed aside the shoes littering the floor to sit down against the wall, underneath all the coats hanging up. Knees to your chest, not particularly caring if Geto got a peek of the lacy panties underneath your skirt when he was uninterested in the rest of you.

You studied the floor, counting the scuffs in the wooden grain just so you wouldn't have to look up at him. You were surprised when he sat down in front of you, glancing at him with wide eyes.

"What are you doing?" He murmured.

"I-I just figured-" You started to stammer only to abruptly shut yourself up when he reached out to graze his thumb against your cheek. It wasn't adoring. Not dazed or dripping in desire. Just curiosity. Like you were a puzzle he couldn't quite piece together.

He was softer like this. All those harsh edges and high-strung worries you shared dulled by the alcohol in his system. What was in yours had only left that faint tingle of warmth in your chest and stomach, but when he tilted his head to the side and stared at you, you couldn't help but question how much of that feeling was from him.

"We still have six minutes left," Geto shrugged, scrutinizing the way your mouth was parted in shock, how wide your eyes were when he leaned in and brushed his lips against your own.

"Geto-" You breathed when he pulled away, his nose still grazing against yours.

"You should at least get the full party experience," He murmured, pulling back and swiping his thumb over your bottom lip.

"You don't have-" You started to dismiss, but then he was leaning in again, the taste of beer and cherry lip gloss on your own lips and something faintly sweet on his.

And then he was tugging you into his lap, not really enough for you to actually straddle him, but your legs awkwardly swinging over to one side and his arm wrapped around your back to almost cradle you against his chest.

His tongue tracing your teeth, exploring your mouth, while his palm pressed down through your thin shirt, the heat of it practically branding you. Geto took the lead like he did with everything else, sucking on your bottom lip before leaving a trail of soft kisses over your jaw and down your throat, chuckling at the way his teeth skimming over your tendons made you gasp.

You had to remind yourself you were paying him for this.

That as much as it tasted real, he never would've touched you if you hadn't paid him.

You stiffened in his lap, and he immediately noticed, pausing to look at your face to see what was wrong. "You okay?"

"Yeah," You lied.

You didn't want to ruin the moment - even if it was fake.

He went back to kissing your neck, his sturdy fingers taking your jaw and tilting it so he had better access, his canines sinking in as he sucked hard and you squirmed in his arms.

"Just got a remind them you're mine," He murmured.

Yeah, that was supposed to be the point, wasn't it?

A loud knock on the door startled you, Gojo's perky voice calling out from outside that the time was up and for Geto to come out with his pants on and zipper up.

You hurried to stand, brushing off your skirt and wiping at your lips, even more flustered than you had been when you showed up.

Geto pulled open the door with his usual unreadable stare despite the onslaught of teasing from Gojo, the other stares glued to both of you walking out, the whispers being spread.

But then Gojo laughed, and the tension broke.

A handful of people approached, guys and girls, all of them talking and giggling, switching from subject to subject, mostly stuff you were clueless about or happened in classes you weren't in. A few times, you tried to interject just to get talked over, standing on the fringes and watching him get swallowed up by the group. Silently listening and nodding and trying to laugh at all the right times, even when all you got was an eye roll or flat-out ignored.

You slipped away while he was still distracted.

No real goal in mind. Just squeezing past people and looking through all the rooms. Giving yourself a house tour since it wasn't like anyone else would show you.

You might've just left if some of the girls from before hadn't found you about to grab a second drink from the kitchen, Suguru standing at the counter and chatting, while you clung to the shadows.

"You're Suguru's girlfriend, right?" A blonde one giggled, lips pursed together and eyes all big and bright.

"Um, yeah," You swallowed, preemptively setting the cup down at the counter while they all exchanged looks.

"We're about to go skinny dipping out back," She added, pointing at a glass door. Thick blinds covered it, making it almost impossible to see through to the backyard.

"Yeah, you wanna come with us?" One of the other ones grinned, tossing her hair back.

You glanced behind you, but Suguru was distracted taking another shot, too absorbed in another conversation to even notice. "Sure."

It was the worst idea yet to think they had anything other than bad intentions.

But you wanted to believe them. Wanted to ignore the feeling screaming at you in your gut when you followed them out to the pool and let them guilt you into stripping after they took off their clothes.

Convinced that since they jumped in, it was safe.

The second your clothes were piled up and you were in the water, they were all scrambling to get out, laughing at you when they snagged your clothes and ran off, leaving you naked and freezing in a pool just feet away from a house full of people.

As if the night couldn't get more embarrassing, Gojo found you. Lipstick stain on his neck and red solo cup in his hand, blue eyes hazy as he stumbled outside and you reluctantly called out his name. His reaction was slow, sliding around the greenery until he noticed you in the pool.

"What's up?" He slurred, almost falling in to join you when he walked over and bent down. His eyes went wide the second he noticed your absent clothes, the way your hand was covering your chest to barely conceal your breasts.

"Some girls stole my clothes," You muttered, giving him the short version of events, breath hitching and hot tears forming in the corner of your eyes, but you refused to blink and let them fall. "C-could you help?"

"Shit, okay, sure," He frowned, brows scrunched together in shock for a second before starting to strip off his clothes.

"What are-" Your voice died when his underwear hit the concrete, turning into a squeak as you glanced away.

"Wear mine," He offered, getting in the pool with you.

You scampered out before you had more company, dripping water without even a towel to dry off, definitely flashing Gojo as you hurried to pull his t-shirt over your head and slip on his boxers.

Looking like you just fucked Gojo was better than being naked.

"Thank you," You murmured, looking back at him where he was content to lounge in the pool, nude or not.

"Course," He hummed. "Suguru's in the kitchen if you're looking for him."

All you wanted was to get your keys and go.

Call this whole stupid idea off and return to receiving the cold shoulder from the rest of the school. Clearly, you were wrong to think they'd ever see you as a real person.

You hurried through the kitchen. Didn't spare a glance for anyone else despite the jokes you knew were directed at you. Just headed straight for the upstairs bedroom where Geto had locked up your stuff for safe-keeping. You tried the knob just to make sure no one else had snuck in before pulling out a hair pin and bending it into a straight line, sticking it through the small keyhole and jiggling it around until you felt the pins inside start to unlatch.

There were a few odd perks from being kept under lock and key your whole life. Including learning how to pick them.

It only took thirty seconds for you to get it unlocked, pushing the door open and sighing with relief when you saw your purse still on the bed. It only took a second to realize it was probably Gojo's room, the blue comforter and the photos of him plastered on the wall. A couple sets of keys were on the nightstand, a wallet you guessed was Geto's. For a moment, you considered shoving cash in it for tonight's payment, but you decided against it. You'd give it to him Monday and cut everything off clean. This was it.

You were about to snatch your stuff and go, but you paused again, glancing around the room over to the open closet, clothes on the floor and barely any on the hangers, hurrying over to get Gojo something to wear too.

Geto was standing behind you by the time you grabbed everything and turned around. Leaning against the doorframe and studying your soaking wet frame, the oversized clothes hanging off them.

"Where are you going?" He asked, his voice strained.

"Home," You sighed, tossing Gojo's clothes to him. "Gojo's going to need those. He's in the pool."

"So come with me," Geto offered, broad shoulders basically blocking the way out. "What happened?"

"Some friends of yours invited me skinny dipping," You muttered, staring at the floor while you talked. A hard lump had formed in your throat, making it even harder to get your words out. "They took my clothes and left me in there. Gojo gave me his."

There was something about the way he watched you that made you feel like you were on trial, that he constantly wavered between the verdict depending on what you said, the way you blinked, how you moved.

You didn't look up at him.

Couldn't.

"Will you at least let me walk you to your car?" He eventually asked, and in the edges of your vision, you are watched his knuckles turn white from gripping the clothes so tightly.

"If you want to," You quietly answered, wondering if that had a cost too.

You waited for him to come back when he went to give Gojo his clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed and feeling like a pet that had been left in the rain, cold and shivering as you held your own arms, rubbing little circles into your own skin trying to soothe yourself.

Your phone buzzed in your purse, only pausing to dig it out and see a few missed messages from Sukuna asking if you would come in tomorrow.

The second you opened it and the message was marked as read, he called, your thumb hesitating to answer.

For some reason, it felt more mortifying for him to know about how awful the night had gone when he'd seen how nervous you were earlier.

He scoffed the second you picked up.

"What time do you want me there?" You quietly spoke into the speaker before he could speak first.

"Are you drinking?" He huffed, his way of asking if you'd be hungover in the morning.

"I only had one beer like, an hour ago," You answered, but the taste on your tongue was a different kind of bitter now. "I'll be fine."

"Having fun?" He wryly asked.

"Um, no, not really," You murmured, voice small, watching a water droplet hit Gojo's floor from where you were still dripping.

"The hell are you doing there then?" He asked. The real question was why the hell had you even shown up? Just to have your own personal pity party?

"I'm about to leave," You sighed, sniffling and rubbing your face with your other hand. Streaks of makeup were left on it, mascara and eyeliner and glitter all sticking to your fingers.

"Are you crying?" He bluntly asked, and you hadn't been, but the question splintered the last of your shield, getting choked up trying to stop yourself from crying.

"No," You grumbled, sniffling hard in your attempt to hold it together.

"Liar," He huffed. "Do you need me to pick you up?"

"No," You repeated, wiping your eyes again, refusing to let yourself break in a house with all these other people.

"Text me the address and I'll be there." It sounded more like a demand than an offer.

"I can drive myself," You protested, just for Geto to show back up in the doorway. You paused, uncomfortably shifting before talking into the speaker. "Look, I'm leaving now, okay?

He made a disgruntled noise, hanging up before you could. What were the odds he'd throw a fit if you didn't text him when you got home?

Geto cleared his throat across from you.

He was staring.

"Sorry, it's just my boss," You mumbled under your breath before shoving your phone back in your bag.

"Calling you now?" Geto asked, as if he cared what the answer was.

"He just asked if I could come in tomorrow," You sniffled again, recollecting yourself. If you couldn't cry over the phone with Sukuna, you certainly weren't going to do it in front of Geto.

You didn't need to add crybaby to the list of terrible things he thought about you.

It was awkward walking down the stairs and out through all the strangers who still didn't like you onto the street. He didn't say much, just studying you how he always did.

Didn't it get boring?

It wasn't like there was anything he'd find interesting about you.

"Which girls did it?" Geto eventually grimaced.

"It doesn't matter," You breathed. You knew better than to engage in any kind of retaliation. It happened. You'd live. Why dare them to do something like it again?

"You can tell me." You couldn't, not really. If you did, then you'd just be hurt when he wouldn't do anything about it either.

You kept your mouth shut.

Just let him walk you the rest of the way to your car. He'd commented the first time he saw it that he was surprised it wasn't pink. And actually? You used to have one. Until it kept getting vandalized. Small stuff, usually, gum stuck to the side, little dents and dings you suspected were intentional, but then someone keyed it, and you had to get something more inconspicuous.

It was just another unfortunate facet of life.

Geto wasn't the kind of guy who'd give you pity points anyway.

You figured he'd just walk off now that he'd finished his work, free to have whatever fun he wanted.

Convinced that he'd be gone by the time you opened your door. But he didn't budge, standing behind you more like a bodyguard than a boyfriend.

"Have a good night," You murmured, unlocking you car without looking over your shoulder. Slipping into the seat and about to shut the door before he suddenly grabbed it, the breeze on your exposed skin making you shudder again.

"I'm sorry," He abruptly apologized, brows furrowed and flustered as he slotted himself between you and the door to keep you from what? Slamming it shut with his fingers still there? "I was a shitty date tonight."

"It's not your fault," You shrugged. His real friends were there. You'd never expected any more from him than the occasional arm around you or a peck on your cheek.

Making out was certainly more than enough.

The image you had in your head for how you wanted tonight to go never would've come true anyway.

"You should at least call me an asshole," He spoke slowly.

"Why?" You quizzed, tilting your head to the side. There was another brittle wind, and you turned away from him to grab Sukuna's hoodie from the passenger seat, pulling it over your head to warm up.

His jaw clenched, glancing down at the fabric you were drowning in before looking back into your eyes.

"I should've stayed by your side," He said, all his muscles still locked tight like something was annoying him.

"I shouldn't have come," You awkwardly laughed, anxiously rubbing the back of your neck under the soft material of the hoodie. "Honestly, this whole thing was a terrible idea."

Geto hesitated, watching every raw emotion flicker across your face. Regret and embarrassment all rolled into a painfully tight lump bobbing in your throat.

"You didn't do anything wrong," He forced the words out, frowning at whatever expression you were wearing.

You couldn't help but giggle at that when it felt like everything you did had been wrong.

"Well, thanks anyway," You managed a tight-lipped smile, before looking down to dig through your purse for cash. You'd stopped to withdraw extra on your way here, counting the bills one more time before holding it out for him to take. "Let's just call this whole thing off, okay?"

"What?"

"All I really wanted was to make some friends, and I just thought since everyone likes you, maybe they'd give me a chance if you liked me too," You shrugged, holding out the cash further for him to grab just for him to stand there and stare. You didn't want to look at him anymore. "It was stupid of me."

"It's not," He quietly said.

"I appreciate you trying," You thanked him. You didn't want to sound pushy, didn't want to shove it at him, but he didn't move.

"Let me try again."

"What?" You once again didn't understand. Weren't getting the what or why behind it.

Did he just want more money?

"The aquarium was on your list, right?" He asked, thin brows furrowed together.

"I mean, yeah, but-"

"Skip your lecture on Friday and we'll go. I'll help you make some friends, okay?" He spoke firmly, like he'd already come to some decision in his head about you.

An insecure sliver if you wondered if he just pitied you too much to hate you anymore.

"You will?" You heard yourself ask, waiting for him to say nevermind.

"Yeah," He nodded.

This time though?

You couldn't bring yourself to get your hopes up.

Being late for work was one of the few firsts you hadn't planned on.

Your body was exhausted, muscles sore like you'd slept wrong, blinking back exhaustion as you rolled over and squinted at the sun cutting through the curtains. You were yawning when you grabbed your phone out from under your pillow, but someone might as well have dunked your head underwater when you tapped on it and realized you'd be at least fifteen minutes late at best.

Scrambling to get ready through the sleepy haze, hastily scrounging through your closet for a fresh pair of jeans and not bothering to change out of Sukuna's hoodie or even put on makeup, only deodorant before grabbing your phone and keys to get out the door.

Sukuna was waiting for you when you got there.

Arms folded across his chest, gaze slinking over your jeans and his slept-on hoodie drowning you.

"I'm sorry," You pushed your lips together, rubbing your eyes for the thousandth time since you woke up.

Sukuna poked the hickey you'd forgotten about.

"Shitty night?" He cocked his head to the side, and you couldn't discern what was burning behind his eyes. It wasn't like he was the kind of guy to care about professionalism enough to be bothered by the bruise poking out underneath your collar. Choso and Yuki came in with them all the time. Was it irritation that you were late then?

"Yeah," You sighed, shrugging as you say your purse down. "I'm sorry I didn't have time to make your lunch this morning."

He scoffed, and you stopped breathing for a second.

Wondering if maybe this was the moment you were no longer worth keeping around.

If you'd get to add fired to your list of experiences.

But then he pushed his hair back, running his fingers through the stray strands, flashes of silver his rings catching the light as he sighed.

"Whatever, guess I'll have to take you to lunch then."

[remedyjoys]

Soft Spot I

Pairing - Emperor Caracalla x Reader ( x eventually Geta)

Word count - 3.4k

Summary- Sometimes, being nice to the wrong person can change your whole life

Warnings- their Roman emperors in 200 AD... so like warning in general but for this chapter metions of enslavment and blood but nothing graphic

Soft Spot II - Masterlist

It was a hot and windy night upon Palatine Hill, the air thick with the scents of the bustling city below. You lay in your less-than-comfortable bed of straw, the rough fibers scratching against your skin. The all-consuming heat wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. Suddenly, a loud crash shatters the stillness, jerking you from your slumber.

As the kitchen headmistress, you have been granted the privilege of private quarters, if one could truly call it a privilege. Your room was small and cluttered, its walls grimy with the residue of countless meals prepared in the bustling kitchen down the hall. The flickering light of a lone candle cast dancing shadows across the uneven floor.

Despite your title, you were no more happy than any other slave. The weight of expectation lay heavy on your shoulders. Any joy you once found in cooking had been long overshadowed by the responsibility of managing everyone around you. With each meal, you felt the pressure to ensure everything was perfect or fear facing the punishment.

Trapped between the chaos of the demanding patricians and the struggle to maintain order among the other slaves, especially when nobody was ever happy with their assignments. A kitchen master or two has met unfortunate ends in the past at the hands of angry slaves sneaking in during the dead of night to slit their throats and sometimes worse. To avoid such fates, it was simpler to give the head of the kitchen their own room, complete with a lock to keep out vengeful workers who, for some reason, blamed you for their circumstances.

Your job wasn’t so bad despite the constant dirty looks and threats to your life. You had your own quarters, and while most of the female slaves had to attend to the lady patricians upstairs, some of the more unlucky ones were sent to serve the males as concubines. Luckily for you, working in the kitchens kept you far away from any male patricians with wandering hands and bad tempers—or, gods forbid, the Ceasers.  Your days were filled with the clanging of pots and the sizzling of food as you supervised the preparation of meals for the entire palace. It was a demanding job, but it kept you away from the more dangerous parts of the palace.

  You groggily rise from your slumber after hearing another loud clanging. If someone was messing around in the kitchen and they weren’t caught in the act, you would be ultimately blamed for whatever was missing, and as much as you hated having to report it to the master of slaves, if you didn’t, it would be you in their place instead. On Palatine Hill, it was kill or be killed; it was the only way to survive as long as you had.

  Slipping out of bed, you throw on one of the tunics you’ve had for years. It’s falling apart around the sleeves and far too tight around your hips, but it’s the last thing your aunt gave you before she left this world, and you can’t bear to part with it. You slide on your sandals, which are also slowly falling apart, but you need them to avoid the dirt of the lower levels. Before you go, you reach under your mattress to grab the small knife you had stolen from the kitchen years ago and place it up your sleeve using your palm to hold it up and out of view; slaves in the palace weren’t allowed to have any weapons, but in a place like this, were everyone saw fit to just take whatever they wanted you needed something to protect yourself, gods, forbid the noise in the kitchen was an assassin sneaking through the kitchens to get the Ceasers they would have no problem cutting you down to get to the Ceasers and who were you in this palace in this world that anyone would save you over the ceasers.

If it was a guard poking around down there, He would take one look at the knife, and you would be punished or, worse, killed. The guard’s transgressions would be forgotten, all blame being put on you.

You shift the knife further up your tunic, the fear of being caught and swiftly punished haunting your mind as you make your way to the door, trying your best not to make a sound. As you open it, you can still hear the sounds coming from the kitchen as you creep closer, knife held close, the sounds becoming louder. You can almost hear a soft sort of muttering. You silently pray there isn’t more than one person. There was only so much you and the tiny knife you carried could do, and with no sense of training, they’d probably cut you down before you could even draw your blade; perhaps it wasn’t too late to run back to your room and hide till morning punishment be dammed your about to turn around when the gods make your choice for you as your foot makes contact with some chicken bones some fool left in the hall; The loud crunch echoed through the dimly lit hall, cutting through the muffled sounds of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen. Instantly, all noise from that direction ceased, creating an eerie silence.

There was no turning back now; whoever was in the kitchen had to be aware of your presence. With your heart racing, you cautiously crept forward, each step deliberate and silent, straining to catch any hint of movement or sound that might betray their location. The air felt heavy with tension as you navigated the hallway.

As you round the corner and step into the massive kitchens, you brace yourself for the sight of a horde of bandits ready to ambush you. However, to your astonishment, the kitchens are entirely deserted. The large stone hearths, usually crackling with the warmth of a fire and filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, stand cold and silent. You scan the dimly lit room, each shadow dancing eerily in the flickering light of the few burning candles.

With cautious steps, you traverse the vast expanse of the kitchen, the echo of your footfalls a stark reminder of the absence of life. Large wooden tables, typically cluttered with pots and ingredients, sit untouched, their surfaces coated in a thin layer of dust. Not a single soul is present, and the silence is unnerving, as if the very air holds its breath, waiting for something to happen.

A chill runs down your spine, and you ponder whether the madness that often haunts the ancient castle has decided to linger a little too close for comfort this time.

Worried and restless, you decide it’s best to retrace your steps and head back to your room, hoping the familiar surroundings will soothe your spirit and shield you from the lurking darkness that seems to envelop the palace.

Then suddenly, a strange, quiet mumbling echoes from within the pantry, sending a shiver down your spine. With a shaky hand, you grip the small knife in your palm, readying yourself for whatever awaits you behind the door. Taking a deep breath, you take slow, deliberate steps toward the pantry, your heart racing.

Cautiously, you nudge the door open with your foot, instinctively raising your hands to shield yourself from an unseen threat. However, upon stepping inside, you’re met with an unsettling emptiness—just shadows and the faint scent of aged wood. Doubt creeps in, making you wonder if you are losing your mind.

You scan the space meticulously, eager for any sign of life that could confirm your sanity. As despair sets in, your eyes fall upon something unusual: a pair of golden sandals peeking out from beneath a wooden table laden with assorted cheeses and oils. The table is covered with a cloth, its corners lifting slightly as if disturbed. It becomes clear that someone had been here, perhaps reaching for a small wheel of cheese, shown by the noticeable bite mark taken from it.

You’re about to yell at the slave who has decided to take liberties with the Emperor’s cheese, putting you all at risk. But suddenly, a realization halts you in your tracks: only someone of immense wealth could afford to wear sandals in such immaculate condition.

If the individual below is indeed a Patrician, confronting them could spell disaster for you, as their status comes with considerable power, and they could punish you just for looking them in the eye. On the other hand, it might be just a drunken slave, desperate enough to steal the sandals, willing to risk their life for a mere scrap of cheese.

You find yourself at a crossroads, ready to accept whatever punishment awaits, which will probably be far preferable to some gruesome fate at the hands of a drunken patrician. You begin to resign when a soft sniffle echoes from beneath the table, catching you off guard. You freeze, unsure of how to proceed. Gathering your courage, you lean down slightly, peering into the dim shadows beneath the heavy oak.

“Uhm, excuse me, are you alright?” you venture, your voice barely above a whisper. There is no immediate reply, but you notice the foot, tucked in the expensive shoe, scrunch back as if it has become aware of your presence. Tension fills the air, mingling with the aroma of stale bread and kitchen spices.

“I mean no offense,” you continue, attempting to soften your words, “but this part of the kitchen is meant for the kitchen slaves only. If you need something, I can find a slave to bring it to your rooms.” Your voice carries the weight of concern as you await a response, but only silence lingers.

With hands trembling, you gather your courage and lift the edge of the tablecloth, revealing the cowering figure curled up beneath. He lies in a tight fetal position, body trembling slightly, head buried deep within the shelter of his arms.

A part of you screams to drop the cloth and retreat to the safety of your room, to erase this moment from your memory and pretend it never happened. Yet, no matter how hard you try, your empathy refuses to fade away. The turmoil within him pulls at your heart; despite the anger and resentment that Rome has instilled in you, you can’t bring yourself to feel anything but pity for this broken soul hiding away beneath the fabric.

“C-can I help you? Are you alright?” The figure shifts slightly, and you catch a glimpse of pale blue eyes peering out from behind the table, rimmed with tears that add a shimmering quality to his delicate features. “N-no... nobody can help me,” he responds, his voice quivering as he tries to hide his face from view.

“Perhaps I could try,” you offer gently, your heart aching at the pain reflected in his gaze. “If you tell me what ails you, I might be able to help.” He sniffles, burying his face deeper into the shadowy ground, mumbling something too faint for you to catch.

“I’m sorry, I can’t quite hear you. Maybe if you sat up, I could understand you better,” you say softly, hoping to coax him out from his hiding place beneath the table.

After a moment of hesitation, he begins to unfurl, slowly propping himself up but remaining hunched, his posture reflecting his despair. Now, with his full form visible, you find it impossible to neglect the striking beauty he possesses. His eyes, a haunting pale blue, are still glistening with unshed tears that create streaks against the pale makeup caked over his skin, struggling to conceal his blemishes. His reddish-orange hair, tousled and unkempt, crowns his head, giving him an air of chaotic elegance.

Atop his head rests a crown of laurel leaves, askew and slightly battered, hinting at a position of importance or honor. It’s a stark contrast to the turmoil evident in his countenance. His clothes, rich in fabric and style, suggest wealth far beyond what you could imagine, likely worth more than all the food in the kitchen combined. As he sits there, a beautiful but tragic figure, you can’t help but wonder what events led him to this moment, hiding under the table, burdened by an invisible weight.

You lock eyes with him, his gaze heavy with uncertainty. For a brief moment, it feels as though he’s trying to decipher something hidden within you.  You hesitate, unsure of how to break the silence, hoping he will find the words first.  Yet, he remains transfixed, his expression a blend of confusion and contemplation.

You feel the weight of his gaze shift, his eyes drifting down to focus on your breasts.  A wave of unease washes over you, prompting you to finally speak up before his thoughts take a more dangerous turn.

“Before you said something, dominus, I couldn’t quite hear.” Your words seemed to snap him out of his trance, truly noticing you now before going back to his glossed-over look, seeming to remember his troubles. “You wouldn’t understand,” he whines, putting a pout on his lips.

You let out a chuckle before you could stop yourself. “Oh, um... my deepest apologies, Dominus. I just... I forget myself,” you say, looking down. But it’s too late; he begins pounding his fists into the stone floor.

“See, you’re just like everyone else! They laugh at me! I can hear them all whispering about me. They all think I’m some fool!” he yelled, continuing to beat his knuckles into the concrete. Tears welled up in his eyes; he seemed more sad than angry.

Frightened, you shrunk back, preparing for his anger to turn on you, but he simply continued to beat his knuckles bloody while mumbling to himself.  

Terrified but unwilling to leave the poor man alone to beat his knuckles to the bone, you get up to find something to stop the bleeding. At the sight of you rising, he slows his assault on the stone to watch your movements.  You grab a bottle of vinegar and some cheesecloth before returning to kneel beside him.  He has stopped hitting his knuckles against the ground, his eyes following your every movement.

“Can I help you with that?” you ask, reaching out to take his bloodied hands. He shrinks back, pulling into himself.

“Please, I just want to clean and wrap it. These floors are filthy; they could get infected. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” you whisper, trying to convince him to let his guard down and allow you to help.  At your words, he seems to relax slightly and lets you take his hand.  You give him a small smile, hoping to offer some comfort.

“Alright, this might hurt a bit, but it will only be for a second,” you say as you pour the vinegar on his knuckles.

He winces as the vinger makes contact with his knuckles. You quickly wrap it up before tending to the other hand, his eyes never leaving you. “We’re all set. I’m no professional, but I’ve tended to my fair share of kitchen accidents, and I still have my hands, so that must be a good sign,” you say, trying to lighten the tense mood.

When he suddenly interjects with a playful, “What’s your name?” his voice lingers in the air, laced with a hint of curiosity. He looks at you with a dazed, crooked smile that seems to dance on the edges of his lips, catching you off guard with the abruptness of his question. Despite your surprise, you respond, revealing your name in a soft whisper. His smile widens at your answer, and he chuckles softly, “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

He reaches out, gently entwining a finger around one of your loose locks of hair. The gesture is intimate, almost tender, making your heart quicken. “And you, Dominus, what is your name?” you ask, his eyes sparkling with mischief you had not seen in them before.

“You do not know my name?” he asks incredulously as if the very idea of you being unaware of his identity is the most astonishing thing in this surreal encounter. You shake your head, feeling a hint of embarrassment creep up your cheeks. “No, I’m sorry, Dominus. I’m the headmistress of the kitchen. I don’t ever serve, let alone leave the kitchen. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” you say, your voice softening as you instinctively bow your head respectfully.

Just as you begin to lower your head, his hands reach out to gently cup your face, stopping you mid-bow. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver through you, and his expression shifts to one you can’t quite place. “I think I like that,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.  You’re too nervous to pull away from his touch and make him feel slighted, but not wanting to spend a moment longer under his heated stare, you decide to try coaxing him out again.

“Would you like to come out now, Dominus?” you say, holding your hand out to him. He waits a moment, staring at your outstretched palm, before removing his hand from your chin to take hold of your hand. You carefully pull him out from beneath the table.

Pulling him to his full height and releasing his hand as quickly as you had grabbed it, he would be intimidating if he weren’t looking around like a lost, confused puppy. “I can’t remember my way out here,” he said, furrowing his brows in a pout as he scanned the area as if trying to recall the path.

“No need to worry, Dominus. I can lead you to the stairwell,” you replied, grabbing a candle from the tabletop to help guide your way through the winding passages. As you began to walk out of the pantry, you turned back to see him standing there with a solemn expression.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, stepping back in front of him.

“Will you walk with me back to my chambers?” he said, grabbing your hand again and holding it to his chest. You almost wanted to cave to those pleading blue eyes, but your logical side knew better. You couldn’t forget the wandering looks he had given earlier. Going anywhere near his chambers would leave you vulnerable. As tormented as he seemed now, you didn’t want to see his mood swing in the other direction.

“I’m sorry, Dominus, but I’ve never left the kitchens; I wouldn’t know the way,” you say, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in your stomach. You hope your words will be convincing enough to sway him. He gives you a look that mixes disappointment and confusion, but after a moment, he reluctantly drops his hand from your chest. However, he still holds onto yours, his grip a little tight, as if he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

Taking this as a sign, you gently begin leading him out of the pantry and through the bustling kitchen. The warm scent of freshly baked bread lingers in the air, a stark contrast to the late hour. You move slowly, careful to match your pace with his drunken, staggering movements. As you reach the base of the stairwell that serves as a passage for the servants to come and go.

You try to urge him forward with your hand, but he remains still, his gaze fixated on the archway above. “Everyone up there is mean. I want to stay down here with you,” he pouts, a hint of stubbornness creeping into his voice. You bite your lip, suppressing the urge to chuckle at his childlike demeanor, well aware that laughter might only frustrate him further.

Instead, you smile gently and say, “I promise you, the people down here are just as mean as the ones up there, and it’s quite late, Dominus. You really should get some rest.” You lead him up the creaking stairs to the landing, where soft light spills through the windows, illuminating the worn stone steps.

He pauses, contemplating your words, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he drops your hand, his expression shifting to one of resignation. “Goodbye, pretty girl,” he whispers, a touch of vulnerability in his tone before he begins to shuffle drunkenly back toward his chambers.

As you watch him disappear down the dimly lit corridor, a sense of bittersweet longing washes over you. Once back in your bed, with straws poking you uncomfortably in the back, you realize that you never learned his name. A sigh escapes your lips as you try to shake the thought from your mind, knowing you’ll probably never see him again. You’ve never ventured beyond the kitchens, and for the strange man, this night will likely fade into a blurry memory, just another drunken escapade amidst countless others.

==================================

Authors note ; this is like the second fic Ive written I stopped for a long while but my favorite freaky gingers and all the people writing about them have inspired me to get back to writing and trying to improve my craft so please be kind but constructive criticism welcome! anywho i hope you guys enjoyed this sorta set up chapter I have a whole storyline I want to play out that I haven't really seen in other storys oh and this wont really follow the galditor storyline but I swear if you stick with me I have a plan anyway I enjoy and lemme know if you guys want part two!! or anything you might like to see requests are currently open!

[remedyjoys]

|| ludere ||

Pairing: Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Caracalla is very used to getting what he wants. You prove difficult for him. (Prompt request)

Word Count: 2.6k

Tags and warnings: Reader is a little bratty, Caracalla secretly likes it, suggestive at the end but no smut, no use of Y/N.

Masterlist || Join the Taglist!

Caracalla is very much used to having anything and everything he desires handed to him with as little as a petulant wave of his hand.

The finest wines, the most luxurious of robes, animals from faraway lands, whatever his impulsive mind decides upon. It is his.

You, however, do not seem to follow Caracalla's lex terrae. How it drives him mad.

And yet, he cannot seem to stop himself from wanting more.

It has become a game of cat and mouse, and you, little mouse that you are, are always able to outwit him at every turn.

He is determined to catch you, no matter how long it takes. Caracalla might be impatient, but he is also very stubborn.

It is early morning, and you have been roused from sleep by your husband already earnestly vying for your affections. He pulls you into his arms, leaning in to kiss you. You tilt your head, and he catches your cheek instead.

A sullen little sigh escapes him.

"Wife, do not be cruel," he murmurs.

You cannot help yourself, even at such an early hour; he is so sweet in his fervour. As apology, you turn your head again, pressing gentle kisses to his jaw and down his neck. He gasps, but before he can reciprocate, you are already wriggling out of his grasp.

"My sweet boy, any more of this and you will be late," you say, feigning a tone of concern.

Caracalla is not to be deterred. He reaches for you again, and you take his hands in yours, pressing gentle kisses along his wrists.

"Your brother will wonder where you are, if you take too long," you continue.

"Let him," Caracalla retorts dismissively, freeing his hands from your hold.

You place your hands on his shoulders, in an attempt to keep him in place.

"But the Senate will be lost without your judgment," you insist. "They will not be able to manage without you."

He pauses, and you hide your smile. You have him.

“You are right,” he says with a heavy sigh.

You nod as he ducks forward to kiss you on the lips. You pull away soon after; a little too quickly for his liking, if his expression is anything to go by.

“I will miss you,” you tell him sadly with a little pout, and that is enough to appease him. For now, at least.

“I will miss you more,” he replies sincerely, as he reluctantly pulls away from you.

You watch him leave, sitting up to blow a little kiss to him before allowing yourself to fall back against the pillows once more. You cannot help but smile to yourself when you hear the groan that escapes him as he leaves to dress for the day.

To a mere bystander, it would look as though you have no love for your husband, but it is not so at all. It is not that you do not want him. On the contrary. You adore him, desire him more than anything in this world. But there is a darker side to your adoration. One that cannot help but tease him, make him wait and beg and squirm. It makes you want him all the more. How you adore the chase, because when he finally catches you - when you let him catch you - it is all the sweeter for it.

It is not long before Caracalla returns. He is now dressed, but not yet made-up. You have already risen and been assisted in dressing, now putting the finishing touches to your attire, when Caracalla all but throws himself into the chair that sits by his vanity table.

“You will assist me,” he tells you.

You cross the room to him, where his little pots of powders and creams are scattered haphazardly all across the table. He owns more than you do, you muse.

“Where is your usual attendant?” you ask, searching through the pots to find the right one.

“I tire of her. She does not have your gentle touch,” he replies.

His tone is shy, almost uncharacteristically so. You smile fondly at him. Finding his favoured pot of crushed red ochre and a brush, you gently tilt his head up.

“I will not disappoint,” you reassure him kindly.

“You never do,” he replies with such sincerity that your heart flutters against your ribcage.

There is a gentleness to your husband that is rarely seen, except by you. How privileged you are.

“Hold still for me,” you say, patting the brush into the powder and gently blowing away the excess.

He obeys as best he can. He has always been a fidgety thing, but you know how hard he is trying to be good for you.

You light stroke the brush across his cheeks, just enough to bring out the colour in his otherwise pale face. He has not closed his eyes; instead watching you with rapt attention as you work. Eventually he begins to fidget once more, lips dropping open as his breaths become shallower.

You do not have much time, you are quick to realise.

As if on cue, his hands wander to your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your stola. You do not react, having been on the receiving end of his unruly affections many times before. You admire your work instead, gently tilting his head from side to side to ensure you have not painted him unevenly.

Satisfied, you turn your attention back to the table beside you. Not one to be ignored, Caracalla tightens his grip, fingertips leaving little indentations in the fabric. You hum to yourself, pretending you do not notice.

“Carissima,” he murmurs.

The little quiver in his voice is unmistakable.

“Hm? Whatever is the matter?” you ask nonchalantly, picking up and setting down each little pot in turn.

He swallows thickly. You cannot help the smile that touches your lips. How easily he falls prey to his own urges.

“Must we finish this now?” he asks.

You turn to look at him. The quiet desperation in his face makes him all the more beautiful, you think.

“My darling boy,” you coo, “You are the one who asked for my help, are you not?”

His fingers flex against your stola as he nods.

“Yes, but-” he starts, but falters.

You tilt your head to one side, smiling sweetly, almost pedantically at him.

“But what?” you prompt. “Tell me what ails you so.”

Caracalla squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment.

“You will kiss me,” he commands softly.

It is more akin to a plea. You do as he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. He whines as you part. It is not what he wanted. You know that.

“Again,” he insists.

Gently, you reach down and pluck his hands from your dress, kissing each one in turn.

“You must not distract me, my darling,” you tell him, your tone almost apologetic. “Allow me to finish.”

Caracalla looks as though he is on the verge of tears. Reluctantly, he nods, and you place his hands in his lap. You give his thighs a quick squeeze before you straighten up again, revelling in the sharp gasp that passes his lips.

Pretending to have not heard him, you find the pot of colour he uses for his lips and the accompanying brush. You run your finger around the rim of the pot’s lid slowly, deciding whether or not if this is a good idea.

If Caracalla is difficult now, he will only become more so after this. You smile to yourself. It is a fun game, you must admit.

You position him once more, your hand beneath his chin. His own hand reaches for you for a brief moment, before he seems to think better of it.

“Open,” you command in a murmur, not at all missing how his pupils dilate at one little word.

He does as you ask, letting his lips part enough for you to paint them.

He has returned to fidgeting in his need for you, his rings clattering together as his fingers fret with the fabric of his robes.

You feign ignorance, focused on the task at hand. You press ever so slightly too hard at the corner of his mouth, and he gasps.

“Apologies, my darling,” you mutter. “Are you alright?”

He hums softly in reply.

“I am almost finished,” you say softly. “You have been so good for me.”

The tiniest whimper escapes him at your praise. You smile as you take a step back, admiring your work.

“Beautiful,” you tell him, and the natural blush that graces his features renders the powder useless by comparison.

You move to turn when he stops you, fingers tight around your wrist.

“Was there something else?” you ask innocently.

Caracalla looks up at you, wide-eyed and trembling. His painted lips part for a long moment, before he finally closes them with a little shake of his head.

“No,” he replies, his voice little more than a rasp. “Thank you.”

You place a soft kiss at the crown of his head, sidestepping his hands as he impulsively makes to grab for you again.

"I am afraid I must leave you now, my love," you tell him forlornly. "I have matters of my own that I must attend to, and the Senate will soon be fraught with worry over your absence."

Caracalla is fighting a losing battle with himself, you can tell by the distraught look in his eyes. He allows you to leave, and a small part of you feels remorseful for the teasing you have subjected him to.

But how worth it the end result always is, you remind yourself.

Dinner is a rather quiet affair that evening. You take your usual place at Caracalla's side, and he is quick to regale you with the events of his day. He does not tell you that he has missed you, but it is evident in how he speaks. How his hands linger close to you.

You return the favour in kind, fleeting touches across his skin and whispered words in his ear that cause goosebumps to rise in their wake. It is not long before he is squirming.

How much further can you push him, you wonder.

You must take your time. Caracalla is easily flustered, but he is not one to be quiet about it. One wrong move, and he will have no qualms with exposing your little game to the entire room.

You continue as you are for a while, not daring to press too hard too soon. It is not long before the rustling of fabric catches your attention, and you glance under the table. Caracalla's leg is bouncing, as it is prone to doing when he is feeling overwrought.

Your hand drops to his thigh, in what you hope masquerades as a comforting touch. His eye catches yours as you do so, and you give him a warm smile, playing the role of adoring wife perfectly, as you always do. It is not hard after all; you do adore him so.

Your hand remains there for a time, and Caracalla eventually becomes distracted once more. Only when he lifts his cup of wine to his lips do you dare to take your little game another step. You let your hand slide up further, until it reaches the very top of his thigh, and squeeze.

Caracalla splutters into his cup, trying not to choke on his mouthful of wine. Geta turns his attention to him from across the table.

"Are you quite alright?" he asks.

"Oh, you poor thing," you say before Caracalla can answer, lifting your hand to gently rub his back. "You must have taken too much wine at once."

Caracalla turns to you then, bright gaze narrowing into a glare. You would be concerned, if it were not for the splotches of blush that have spread across his face. You give him an innocent smile, pressing a light kiss to his cheek, before deciding to give the poor man a break. For the rest of dinner, at least.

As you suspected, Caracalla's patience quickly wears thin with your incessant teasing. You are surprised that he has managed to last as long as he has.

It is late, and you have both retired for the evening, although sleep is far from Caracalla's mind. He has you settled in his lap on the bed, as you gently run your hands through his soft curls, his golden laurels long since abandoned. The lantern candles are beginning to burn low, and yet he has still to take what he wants from you. Like a wisp of incense smoke in the air, you always seem to evade his grasp.

“You are a siren, I am sure of it,” he murmurs, as you once again divert his hands from their path to your chest.

He whines, and you cannot stop the breathy laugh that escapes you.

“I am?” you ask. “I have no knowledge of this.”

“You lure me into your clutches with your sweet song, before sending me to my demise, again and again,” he continues, his hands changing direction to grip your hips.

You let out a little gasp at his touch.

“Surely you do not think so lowly of me,” you say, head tilting to one side, as if he has hurt your feelings.

“On the contrary,” he replies.

His fingers press deeper against your skin. He is sure to leave little bruises, and he seems pleased by this. He looks up at you then, eyes wide and full of awe.

“I think so highly of you that I cannot stand it.”

You trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips, nails gently scratching his skin. He lets out another whine, louder this time. Your smile widens.

“Kiss me,” he commands, one hand sliding up along your back to press you closer to him.

You lean back, just enough to make him work for what he wants. His hand begins to tremble slightly from exertion.

“I would love nothing more, but…”

You trail off, tracing little patterns across his chest with a sigh.

Caracalla huffs, his patience having entirely unravelled. It is a dangerous game you play.

“You will not deny me what I have asked for,” he says lowly, temper flaring.

You meet his gaze, your eyebrows raised in a look of sympathy.

“I do not recall that you asked,” you reply airily. “Rather, you made demands of me."

His eyes narrow at your words. You refuse to look away, instead leaning in until you are mere millimetres away from giving him what he wants.

“One little word, Caracalla,” you whisper, your breath ghosting against his lips. “That is all I ask of you.”

His eyes widen. The brilliant blue almost entirely swallowed up by his pupils, dilated now at your words.

How you wish you could laugh, but you dare not move.

Caracalla’s tongue darts out nervously to wet his lip.

"Please," he says in a choked breath.

"Please what?" you press in a teasing manner.

You cannot help yourself. To have him like this, so desperate, wanting, desirous of you - it is addictive.

Please, will you kiss me?" he asks in a soft, trembling voice.

You are quick to relent. You are only human after all, in spite of Caracalla's accusations. You kiss him, and all too quickly, he is pressing himself up against you and pushing you down onto your back. What little restraint he had left is now gone; his need for you entirely overwhelming his senses.

"You will drive me to ruin," he murmurs, as he leaves biting kisses along the length of your neck.

Only a sharp gasp escapes you in response; the urge to tease him has left you entirely. You want this as much as he does, and you will not deny yourself, or your poor husband, any longer.

It is not a loss on your part, as your robes are carelessly thrown to the floor; it is most certainly a victory for you both.

TAGLIST 💖: @glassbxttless @lover-rep-fanfic @punkrockmlchael

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[remedyjoys]

|| venenum paradiso ||

Pairing: Geta/Empress!Reader

Summary: Geta has some very traditional views that are not to your tastes. You decide to put him in his place. (Request fill)

Word count: 4k

Tags and warnings: Smut (not explicitly described, but still obvious!), period-typical sexism, bickering, submissive Geta, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(I wrote a little blurb a while ago and decided to make it in a bigger fic. I had to scrap the original idea because I was getting way too into the lore, and let's be real, we're not here for that, we're here for Geta smut. Also read up a Lot on sexuality in Ancient Rome, and wow, did they have Opinions.)

Masterlist || Join the taglist!

Of all the men you have encountered in your life, your husband is perhaps one of the most frustrating at times.

It is not often that you argue, you are patient enough that you are willing to agree to disagree on many matters. But there are occasions when it feels as though you are on the brink of war with him.

He is stubborn, infuriatingly so, and there are times when it takes everything in your power to hold your tongue.

However, even you, diplomatic and gracious as you are, have your limits.

Geta holds certain views that are...traditional, to say the least. You are not of the same mindset.

It had started over a passing remark. A mere flight of fancy that you had had late one night, as you had laid together in bed. Of being brought to release by your husband's mouth. At worst, you assume he will think nothing of it.

How full of surprises he is.

He is rather quick to remark that he does not believe a man of his rank and status should subject himself to something so...unbecoming.

It is not so much his words, but the manner in which he says them. As if his archaic opinion is fact. How your blood boils. Then, an eerie feeling of calm washes over you. You hum in response, teeth clenched behind a tight smile.

Oh, you are most certainly at war now. And you, you will be the victor, you are certain of it.

He does not notice at first, as on the surface, you are treating him no differently than any other day.

Eventually, it starts to click into place. You will not stay long in his embrace, you shy away from his touch, you turn your head with a tight-lipped smile when he tries to kiss you.

“Wife,” he demands one night as you are readying yourself for bed. “You are angry with me. Why?”

You lay down your hairbrush on the table, turning to face him.

“Whatever has led you to that conclusion?” you ask in turn, in an unassuming tone.

“You have been treating me with disdain for the better part of two days now. I tire of it,” he tells you, with all the grace of a spoiled child.

“Surely you are imagining things,” you say airily.

“Do not insult me,” he spits.

You give him a look of feigned surprise. “As if I would ever do such a thing.”

“You will tell me what I have done,” he insists.

You brush past him on the way to bed, slipping under the covers.

“You will figure it out for yourself,” you reply. “Goodnight.”

You turn your back to him, leaving him to stand there and process your words. It is a while before he joins you. You feel his hand hover near you, but you ignore it under the pretence of sleep. Eventually, he moves away, and you cannot help the smile that creeps onto your face as he lets out an irritated sigh.

His mood only worsens from there. When you wake the next morning, he is already dressed for the day ahead.

"Did you sleep well?" you ask with a yawn.

Geta glares at you with tired eyes, but does not allow himself to fall prey to it, turning his attention to more pressing matters.

"I trust you remember that we are to attend a banquet tonight," he tells you. "I will have you by my side, as my loving wife."

You do not miss the warning that lingers in his words.

“Would you have me any other way?” you ask, the very picture of innocence.

He does not reply, instead reaching across the bed to kiss you before he leaves. You conveniently choose that moment to get up, leaving him to stumble and fall onto the bed as he misses you entirely.

The quiet snarl that escapes him is quite the reward, you must admit. Embarrassed, he storms out, leaving you alone to your morning routine. You smile to yourself. Perhaps you should not be enjoying this as much as you are, but he does make it so easy for you.

You do not see Geta again until early evening, as he is kept busy for much of the day with meetings with senators and patricians. When you arrive at the grand hall, he is already seated and deep in conversation. You cannot help but notice how decadently he is dressed, in robes of the richest reds and golds, adorned with the most beautiful jewellery, and golden laurels sit atop his fiery hair. It is far too much, even for an event such as this, and you bite back a smile. Geta only dresses in such a manner when he is upset. And judging by the look he has now levelled on you, he is furious.

He quickly schools his expression into something more fitting of a loving husband as you draw near, taking the fawning and flattery of the surrounding crowd in your stride as always.

"Wife," he murmurs, with a smile that is reminiscent of a shark.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it.

Your attention wanders as he does so. He attempts to pull you towards him, but you do not budge.

"Come, you will sit by me," he says pleasantly.

You shake your head, slipping your hand from his tight grasp.

"Oh, no, I could not possibly interrupt your conversation," you reply, "Please, you must stay with the senator."

Geta opens his mouth to argue, but you have already turned away. Caracalla has been watching the entire scene unfold before him from across the table with rapt attention, and he grins at you.

"Gentlemen, if you will excuse me," you say politely, with an incline of your head.

You take the seat next to Caracalla, who in turn looks to his brother to find him seething. Never one for subtlety, Caracalla giggles loudly, turning his attention to you.

“My dear sister, whatever has your poor husband done now?” he asks, inelegantly swirling the wine around in his cup before taking a drink.

His voice carries far enough across the table for the guests to glance up curiously. Geta looks as though he wishes for nothing more than to throw himself across the table and strangle his brother.

You smile as you pat Caracalla’s arm in a good-natured manner.

“Now, now. Is it not enough for me to sit by you and enjoy your company?” you ask innocently.

His eyes are on you then, his gaze sharp and scrutinising. A wide smile slowly breaks out across his face.

“Of course,” he replies, almost giddily.

He leans in to you, his voice dropping low enough that only you can hear.

“What games you play,” he whispers slyly.

You laugh then, your eyes drifting to where Geta sits. To a mere bystander, he would look the very image of a man deeply engrossed in political conversation, but you know him better than anyone. He is clutching the cup in his hand with such ferocity that his knuckles are have lost all colour, and his jaw twitches from clenching so hard.

You are beginning to feel pity for him. But he must learn.

You are rather quickly distracted once again by Caracalla, who is making quite a spectacle of himself by reaching over people who are trying to eat to acquire food for Dondus. She is perched on his shoulders, her little hands clutching at his messy hair to balance herself.

He unceremoniously falls back into his seat, arranging his spoils in front of him. He lifts a grape up and Dondus greedily snatches it from him, pawing at it before she bites into it.

"Would you like to feed her?" he asks, holding out some walnuts.

"Of course," you reply, taking one and holding it out to the little monkey.

Dondus sniffs at it for a moment, not as familiar with your scent, before she takes it from you.

"What a sweet girl you are," you coo at her.

"Isn't she?" Caracalla agrees proudly, as he scratches under her chin.

The evening continues to pass as pleasantly in Caracalla's company. He regales you with stories, making you laugh until there are tears in your eyes. You have almost forgotten about your husband.

Almost.

As if on cue, Geta rises from his seat.

"Excuse me," he announces to the table. "I must withdraw for the evening. Please, stay and enjoy yourselves."

You watch him leave, his agitation evident in how he holds himself.

Caracalla tilts his head closer to you. "Do you think he has suffered enough?" he asks mischievously.

Not quite, you think to yourself.

It is another hour or so before you retire for the night as well. As you had suspected, Geta has returned to your chambers and is very much awake, pacing back and forth across the length of the room, as he has likely been doing since he returned.

"You finally grace me with your presence, Augusta," he says.

Beyond the public's prying eyes, he only ever calls you by your title when he is angry with you.

"I thought you would be asleep by the time I returned," you reply.

You cross the room to your vanity table, sitting down to begin your nightly routine. Geta drags the chair out to stand in front of you, demanding your attention. You look up at him. He is seething. You, by contrast, are quite unaffected.

"You seem to have forgotten your place," he says through gritted teeth.

He will not be ignored.

You tilt your head with a feigned look of confusion. "And where, exactly, is that?" you ask.

"Wherever I wish it to be," he replies. "If I want you by my side, you will be by my side."

He bends down, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly as he looms over you. His expression is glowering, his intense eyes made all the more so by the flickering lantern light.

"If I command you, you will obey," he says lowly.

There is a side to Geta that will rear its ugly head when he has been slighted. It craves power and control, and will not rest until both are firmly in its clutches. In the beginning, it was persistent, constant, as he was terrified of allowing you to see him for who he truly is. With time and patience, you were finally able to tame the raging beast, to prove to him that you would not hurt him, that you loved him.

The beast is raging once more, but you are no longer frightened of it. You are more than equipped to put it back in its place.

You merely smile in response. He does not like that. He straightens then, drawing himself up to his full height. His stubborn petulance is almost endearing, if not growing a little tiresome.

“You will kneel for your Emperor,” he commands.

You cross your legs as you look up at him with a serene expression. Even with the advantage of height between the two of you, he looks like a little boy in the midst of a tantrum.

You feel powerful. It is intoxicating.

“If you wish something of me, husband,” you say, “you will ask nicely.”

Geta’s eye twitches at your words, biting the inside of his cheek in irritation.

“I will do no such thing,” he says at last.

“Oh, you will,” you reply, your voice light and airy, as if you are discussing something as mundane as the weather.

You stand up, not bothering to push the chair back, uncaring of the close proximity between the two of you. Your hands slide from the arms of the chair and up along his stomach, his chest - light, teasing - before they fall at your sides once more.

“Because I tire of this discussion, and I am quite certain you have had more than enough of this argument of ours."

You hold his gaze.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” you ask.

Geta laughs, but it is without a trace of humour.

"At last you admit it," he says. "You are angry with me."

You tap your finger to your chin, as if in contemplation.

"What was it that you called me? 'Unbecoming', was it?" you ask.

Geta blanches. Now he remembers, and too late he is.

“Wife-” he starts, but you shake your head to silence him.

“No, I quite understand," you say readily, as if you truly agree with him. "I can only imagine how unbecoming it would be, to have me in such a manner.”

You lean in closer to him, your breath ghosting along his ear. He shivers.

“Beneath you, undressed and unmade, entirely at your mercy and in the throes of pleasure,” you continue.

You let out a pitiful little sigh.

“How…vulgar,” you finish, pulling away from him.

Geta watches you carefully. For once, he is without words. He swallows thickly. His eyes dart to one side for the briefest moment before meeting your gaze once more.

“This is a fool’s errand,” he says through clenched teeth.

It would sound threatening, if the waver in his voice wasn't his undoing.

“Then I am a fool,” you reply simply. “But I am a fool of my convictions.”

You try to brush by him when his hand suddenly lashes out, grabbing your arm. You stop quickly in your tracks, your heart beating at a racing pace. You keep your expression as neutral as you can manage.

“Oh, by all means, you may command me again,” you murmur. “But the victory will not be as sweet, I assure you.”

You have him there. Gently, you pluck at his fingers. To your surprise, he lets go as easily as that. For a moment, you watch each other, as if neither of you can dare to look away. To show weakness. Time seems to slow.

Geta is the first to break.

“What do you want of me?” he asks.

You pretend to think about it for a moment, before fixing him with a determined stare.

“Kneel," you reply simply.

Geta’s eyes widen, his expression a mixture of exasperation and anger.

“How dare-“

“Kneel, or leave me,” you say, as if he had not spoken. “Those are your choices.”

He opens his mouth again, and you wait for the inevitable chastising for daring to suggest that an Emperor commit such a lowly act that was to come.

But it does not.

Without breaking away from your gaze, Geta slowly sinks to his knees in front of you.

Surely the Gods have called you to them earlier than planned. You were insistent on breaking his resolve, but you had no idea that he would actually listen to you.

You must be dreaming. And what a beautiful dream he makes. His dark eyes are fixed on you; small, shallow breaths falling from his trembling lips.

Truly, he is a sight to behold.

Slowly, you reach out a hand, your touch light as you hook your fingers under his chin.

“Good boy,” you murmur, and the shudder that runs through him at your words will surely stay with you until your last mortal breath.

"What would you have me do?" he asks in a whisper.

You do not answer. Instead you run your thumb gently across his chin, back and forth, back and forth. He is trembling under your touch, you realise with a smile to yourself.

"What was it that you would have had me do?" you ask in turn.

You lean in closer to him, your grip on his chin tightening ever so slightly.

"When you came here, and so crassly asked me to kneel for you," you continue. "What was it that you desired of me?"

You drag your fingertips along the column of Geta's throat. He swallows thickly, and you feel the sensation against your skin.

"I…" he begins to say.

His voice cracks, and he falters.

“I wished to have you as you have me now,” he says at last, his voice rough.

“Go on,” you insist. “What was I to do?”

His tongue darts out to wet his lip. Shame burns at his cheeks. How it amuses you to see him like this.

“Is it not enough that you have humiliated me-” he starts, his temper flaring up once more.

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“I have done no such thing,” you reply. “I have held no sword to your throat, no poison to your lips. I am but a woman before a God.”

You move closer still, your lips dangerously close to brushing against his.

“Though I did not know that Gods could be broken so easily,” you whisper with a wide smile.

You feel him lean in and you quickly pull back. He loses his balance and his hands reach out, pressing against your thighs to steady himself. You step out of his range entirely and he falls on all fours with a snarl.

You are enjoying yourself far too much.

“Please, finish your tale,” you say as you sit down once more.

Geta clenches his fists, but does not move.

“I would…I would have had you undressed. On your knees and entirely at my mercy,” he spits.

“Quite the picture you paint,” you muse. “But I wonder…”

You reach forward, your hands plucking the delicate laurels from atop Geta’s head. You gently twirl them back and forth in your grasp, admiring the craftsmanship of each detail.

Geta looks as though he wishes to squeeze the life from you. He does not move.

Without breaking his gaze, you gently place the laurels on yourself.

“I wonder if it would be as pleasurable as you say,” you finish with a mischievous smile.

You crook your finger in a pedantic manner at him, beckoning him closer to you. To your surprise, he obeys, crawling the short distance between the two of you.

You run your hand gently through his hair. His eyes slip closed at your touch. You drag your hand down to the base of his neck, where your grip suddenly tightens and you wrench his head back. A sharp hiss escapes his throat, but he does not move to stop you.

"You will undress," you tell him. "And you will not keep me waiting."

Geta looks at you with wide eyes, as if wondering where you have been hiding this side of yourself. You are wondering that yourself.

You hold his gaze, looking down the length of your nose at him from where you sit. Unblinking, unwavering. Daring him to defy you. The very image of an Empress.

Geta moves to stand, and you shake your head.

"Surely you can manage from where you sit," you say airily. "I have been witness to you doing so in much worse states."

He starts slow, dropping each piece of jewellery to the floor with a loud clatter, in the hopes of irritating you. You, by contrast, are thoroughly enjoying yourself. Finally, he begins to remove his robes, leaving them in a scattered heap on the floor.

He looks up at you again, feigning an air of disinterest. It does not fool you. The flush that runs from his neck to his chest speaks volumes. You lean forward, running your hands from the curve of his hips up across his torso to his chest, your fingertips skirting just shy of the places he desperately wants you to touch.

"How long do you intend to shame me like this?" he demands of you.

His voice is strained, choked even. He has never looked more beautiful to you than he does now.

"My dear husband," you coo, "You act as though this is torture."

Geta glares at you, and you laugh, a soft breath of a sound.

"You will give me what I want," you tell him, leaning back in your chair. "And we will have no more of this silly argument."

He opens his mouth to speak, when his gaze drifts downwards, to where you have begun dragging your stola up along your legs. You part your thighs, unable to hide the smile on your face at the sight of Geta's mouth dropping open.

"Wife," he manages to whisper, his mouth dry.

"Yes?" you ask innocently. "Whatever is the matter, husband?"

Geta has entirely given up on trying to remain angry with you. You know that look on his face all too well. He is a starving man, and you, you are a banquet laid out for him to indulge in.

You hold out your hands to him, and he tentatively takes them, allowing you to pull him closer. You can feel him trembling against you.

"I will show you what to do," you tell him in a patronising tone. "But you are a quick study, I am certain you will not disappoint me."

You place your hands on his face, nails gently scratching at his skin. He shivers, a soft moan involuntarily escaping him.

"Do not keep me waiting," you warn with a roguish smile.

You presume he will drag things out further, continue to argue, dress himself and storm out in a rage - but he surprises you, rough hands pushing at your thighs to give you exactly what you want from him.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips at the feel of his tongue against you. He is frantic, messy, pathetically inexperienced in his movements. But oh, how filthy he feels against you.

You drag your hands through his hair, gripping hard as you press yourself closer to his mouth. He groans then, and the vibration of it has your eyes rolling back.

You have never felt pleasure quite like it. It vexes you that he has kept an experience such as this from you for so long. All because of something as pitiful as his pride.

As you had suspected, Geta is indeed quick to learn, and he finally finds a rhythm that soon leaves you shaking against him. It's so much, too much all at once, and you try to press your legs closed, but his hands hold firm against you, keeping you open and pliant for him. Gods, how you adore him like this. As wanting and hungry as he has left you.

"That's it," you tell him, a tremor in your voice as your nails scratch at his scalp. "Good boy."

Your words elicit another moan from his pretty throat, and the sound of it, his mouth, his tongue, his desperation, has you falling from the precipice you have been so precariously dangling from. Your climax hits you like a shockwave, leaving you trembling and breathless against him. Geta does not stop, not until you release your grip on him.

He slowly sits up, still kneeling between your legs as he looks up at you. He has the audacity to look pleased with himself, but it is you who has truly won. After all, you were finally able to wear your prideful husband down to seeing how ridiculous he has been, even if he will never admit it.

He runs his tongue across his lips in a crude attempt to clean himself up, his dark eyes almost black with desire. You let out a breathless laugh, allowing yourself to slump into your chair.

"Surely you have something to say to me, do you not?" you ask, propping your chin against your hand.

Geta briefly breaks your gaze, a heavy breath escaping him. This is torment for him, and you know it. Knowing how desperate he is for your touch in this very moment, and here you are, demanding that he tell you that you were right.

How you revel in it.

"Wife," he starts.

It is an attempt to warn you, but he is so choked up in his need for you that it falls flat.

"Husband," you reply with a lazy smile.

"What would you have me say?" he says, words all but catching in his throat as you lean forward to take him in hand, touching precisely where he needs you right now.

"Tell me that I was right," you reply, stroking him in the exact manner that has him arching into your touch.

"You were-" he begins, stumbles, "Gods-"

"Say it," you murmur, "And I will give you exactly what you desire."

"Please," he whispers desperately, placing a hand on your cheek. "Wife, I-"

"Say it," you hiss, your touch teetering just on the edge of too much.

"You were right," he gasps, "You were right, I was wrong, just please, please-"

Never have you seen him in such a state. He is mesmerising, his eyes glassy as he aches for release.

And who are you to deny him, when he begs so prettily?

"Such a good boy you are, Geta," you whisper in his ear, and just like that, the sound of his name falling from your lips in such a sultry tone has him falling apart, unravelling in your grasp.

Geta all but collapses into your arms, a trembling mess.

It takes him a moment to return to himself, shaky little breaths escaping him as you hold him. Eventually, he rights himself, looking up at you. All of his rage, his fury, all of it has been washed away. He kneels before you not as a merciless Emperor, but as a mortal, who has been thoroughly put in his place.

You lightly brush your nose against his, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"Well?" you ask. "Have you quite learned your lesson?"

Geta attempts to glare at you, but the fight has truly left him. He places his hands on your face, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.

"Perhaps...I will reconsider my opinion on the matter," he replies, almost shyly.

It is difficult not to feel smug, you must admit.

After all, you have won.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[remedyjoys]

cannot stop thinking about robert pattinsons crooked, toothy smile in mickey 17

[remedyjoys]

the fact that sex played such a huge role in Mickey 17 isn't just a fun hot little addition to a good movie about antifascism - it's intrinsic.

They want your sexuality repressed unless you're procreating the "right kind" of babies.

Nasha wants Mickey to be able to grow old with her so that she can suck him off for the rest of her god damned life. Nasha wants to know the name of every sexual position so intimately that her sopping wet boyfriend and her can use the names as a secret code in public. Nasha wants to have sex to feel ALIVE and full of joy. Nasha is going to break federal law to have a threesome with her boyfriend and his clone and she's gonna be high as a fucking kite when she does it. Sexual expression IS resisting fascism because the joy of fucking connects us and gives us something to fight for. Nasha is a hero and her sexuality is intrinsic to it.

[remedyjoys]

I’ve said it already but Nasha is the character of all time. Girl found out her boyfriend had a clone and her first thought was to have a threeway. She kissed both of them in front of an anti-clone officer and told him to suck it. She even gives him this look when they meet in the movie:

Girl looks like she’s about to eat him alive while he looks like a prey animal. I love her.

[remedyjoys]

Positive affirmations

- I'm still good meat

- I'm perfectly good meat

- I taste fine

[remedyjoys]

nerd!gojo always holds his hand over yours when you jerk him off. he guides your fist up and down on his cock like he's doing it himself and the whole point of your hand being there is null and void. he might as well be masturbating.

you get upset about it one day, sitting back on your heels and giving his cock a gentle squeeze so he slows down. he looks at you with wide, hazed eyes, glossy with lust and need and everything else that makes him so fucking pretty! "why'd you stop?"

"you could do this yourself," you nod down to where his larger hand wraps around your smaller one, still closed around his weeping cock. "you're doing all the work, toru."

you try to loosen your grip and pull back, maybe suggest some other way of getting him off together, when he tightens his grip and forces your hand to still on his cock. he's a little red in the cheeks, long lashes fluttering under his glasses as he musters up the words he needs.

"i like holding your hand, is all."

[remedyjoys]

taking nerdjo’s glasses while you’re riding 🥸

cw. 18+. semi public sex. sub undertones. breeding kink.

“—ohhhh fuckkkkk,”

he doesn’t understand it— any of it. he doesn’t understand how he, of all people, managed to get you. the it girl on campus— with pretty hairstyles and cutesy nails, flocks of both girls and boys crawling after you for the slightest bit of your attention, is somehow interested in the least known guy around— the lanky, socially awkward physics teacher assistant with fading digimon stickers glued to the back of his worn down computer.

gojo assumes he’s experiencing one hell of a good dream. that’s the only way to explain the insatiable feeling of wet heat enveloping his aching dick. it’s the only way to explain the pornographic sounds of skin slapping echoing in this empty library. it’s the only way to explain why his balls are begging for release with each grind of needy hips rocking against his own.

he doesn’t want to wake up. he feels the cheap fabric of carpet beneath his fingernails from digging them into the floor. his knuckles are turning white from how hard he’s clenching. there’s an abnormal tightening of a knot in his guts begging to be snapped. he can feel beads of sweat forming at his hairline and his foggy glasses are slipping past his nose bridge uncomfortably—

but he doesn’t want to wake up.

planted on the heels of whatever latest trendy shoes you own, you’re riding his cock as if he were your lifeline. god you feel divine— your folds swallowing him into your cunt with such ease and precision, walls clenching down the moment he’s balls deep. he can feel your acrylics scratching at his undercut with one hand while the other holds your body steady down his thigh.

gojo doesn’t think he’s breathing, and frankly, isn’t sure if he wants to. you’re reckless— moaning freely in the emptiness of the establishment and right into the shell of his ear as if your birthright, careless of the thuds of heavy textbooks hitting the floor. there’s a crease in your brows and your jaw hangs slack, glossy lips parted as they release the hymns of your cries,

“—so deep, can feel you in my stomach!”

your tits bounce in clockwise motions. you’d freed yourself from your top sometime between the flirting behind bookshelves and his pikachu drawls dropping down to the floor. the sound of your pussy squelching with every bounce is a memory he wouldn’t forget even on his death bed— cunt so wet he can hardly feel his own dick in you.

the pad of your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and you lean forward to catch it between yours. he’s frozen stiff— the slip of your tongue in his mouth, your overwhelming sweetness invading his senses. he’s moaning pathetically, growing some security in the muffled sounds, so overstimulated by this insatiable pleasure that his arms start to feel weak.

your tongue swipes at his lips before nibbling on the flesh, “—taste so good,” he feels your lips mouthing against his own, and wishes he was able to focus for a split second on what you told him, but the ache in balls are a telltale that this euphoric dream is drawing to an end.

he squints his eyes shut. he tries to focus on the latest chapter of his latest obsession manga and theories he’s conspired. he recalls the sneak of his wrinkly old professor’s ass crack from his early lecture. he thinks back on this auction he’s seen online for retro limited edition video games. did he ever end up submitting that biochem lab assignment due—

“gojo.”

he snaps his eyes open. he didn’t realize he’d clenched his entire facial muscles until the moment he was able to see you again— only releasing those muscles feeling tightness in his cheeks (amongst other places)(read: his cock).

you’ve slowed down your pace. you’ve switched your movements from bounces to grinding. he can feel his tip prodding at your gummy walls. your breath fans his cupid’s bow and he’s only now noticing how close in proximity you both are. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, and he’s positive you can feel his stomach clenching against your own.

he begins to feel more of your body weight on his, a feeling he definitely wants to get accustomed to, as you shift from your feet to your knees. your hand on his thigh trails upwards past his trail of hair, sliding up past the ridges of his abs, over the planes of his chest and meet at his nape with its other duo. there’s an aroma of vanilla and cherries exuding off you—

heisenburg’s uncertainty principle. star wars mandalorian culture. the roswell ufo incident. fucking neon genesis evangelion’s a cruel angel’s thesis—

“you don’t like me?” you ask him, all doey eyed like. it doesn’t sound like a legitimate question, but his ‘huh’ does draw more into a whine when you intentionally clamp down on his dick. he doesn’t miss the mischievous glint in your eyes.

gojo bites down on his lower lip, fiddling with a loose thread on the carpet. his body releases a shudder at the chills creeping up his spine when you trace a finger down the slope of his neck, “w-what?” he asks weakly, huffing as his toes curl in his socks.

this time, you cock your head just barely to the side, and he watches your gaze trail from his lips to his eyes and back to his lips. despite the agonizingly slow pace, you never stop riding him. his cock is still graced by your warmth, still snatching his soul through his slit. your lashes bat twice before glancing back up at his eyes.

“you don’t like me.” you’re not asking this time, your tone dripping in seduction and like a fool, finds himself swayed. you’re teasing him— he can see it in the way the corner of your lips quirk into your infamous smile. you’ve got him wrapped all around your pretty finger— he knows it and you definitely know it.

as if he was anybody to not like you. your ass cheeks clench when you drive your body forward, gripping on his cock so tight he can feel the wind knocked out his lungs, “no! are you, ngh, crazy— of course i do—”

“because i like you.” it falls short of a whisper, but the vibrations of your words against his lips shoot right to his heart and balls, and he knows his blotchy cheeks are now flushed red for an entirely different reason.

he answers faster than his mind can process, his stomach jumping with butterflies and an oncoming orgasm. your eyes won’t leave his— like a deceiving siren baring deep into his soul and rendering him vulnerable before consuming his entire being. not too far from his reality, hips bucking upwards as desperately as possible to emphasize his immediate answer, “i like you too—”

“you won’t look at me,” gojo hadn’t realized he shied away from your gaze, pouring his entire focus on not spilling both his heart and cum right into you, “talk to me.”

“i-it’s just, um,” he tries to flick his eyes back onto yours, but you’re still staring so intensely behind siren eyes and still rocking your hips. your fluids drip past your cunt and down his sack, before staining the carpet, “i’m a—mmph, nobody and you’re— well, you’re you,” he feels a hot tongue glide over the accumulated sweat on his neck and humps up again, “y’re just so pretty and every time i look at you i get the urge to c-cum but,” your teeth sink into his jugular before nibbling and he whines, throwing his head back, “i want— need you to cum first. . .”

there’s a beat of silence for a while. you’ve even halted your grinding altogether. he prays to god he didn’t mess up the one good thing that’s happened to him in all his twenty one years of living. you’ve even popped his now bruised skin from your lips— hovering right over the mark you left on him. pleasure licks at his limbs feverishly, back arching in hopes to dig even deeper (if possible) in your pussy.

you pull away from his neck and the tip of your nose is back to grazing his own. your usually styled hair is now a mess, your skin dampening from moisture and your lip gloss now swapped for your and his saliva— your overall classic, picture perfect image completely abandoned,

and he doesn’t think you’ve looked any prettier.

“so,” you draw out, freeing a hand from his locks to graze over the throbbing love bite at his neck. gojo sniffs, pushing his foggy glasses back up on his bridge with the back of his hand, and you caress the throbbing flesh, “the problem is when you look huh. . .?”

his neck is suddenly released from blissful torture and he feels his frames coming off his face from no effort of his own. his vision slowly fades and his pupils dilate to accommodate to his now poor quality of sight, “what are you—”

and his breath hitches. he can only make out your shape through your sinful curves but there’s no mistake from your silhouette— your hands, now holding his glasses hostage, press at his chest, “trust me,” you apply firm pressure from your palms to his upper body, and he feels himself sinking into the floor, back meeting the dirty carpet.

trust you? he’d lay his life on the line for a woman like you.

his fingers spread as his palms face the sky, and his breath staggered. the bookshelves, windows and study rooms are all blurry as fuck— which is both off putting and extremely risky since library hours were still valid at this time, but despite it all, it felt as if he could see you clear as day. gojo would usually never put his academics on the line, but he couldn’t deny the thrill of possibly getting caught having sex with the finest girl in school in a public library had his cock twitching incessantly.

god, he is just so happy to be here.

your fingers slide his glasses atop your nose bridge, and your cheeks split into a cheeky smile, hips beginning to roll back into their previous tempo. he feels your hands grabbing his own, before resting them at your hips. he’s a greedy man, and since the opportunity may only come once in his lifetime, he slides his hands further to your ass., and with a gulp, grabs the flesh greedily. damn— it hardly fits in his palms.

there’s a symphony of moans coming from you both when you lift your hips up, and it’s downright disgusting how turned on he gets at your essence trickling down his shaft and past his balls. your pussy lips drool and latch onto his tip tightly, before entirely releasing him and slipping your hand between your thighs. you kneed his nuts, fondling the testicles between your digits expertly and his back arches off the floor, “shouldn’t be an issue anymore, yeah?” you hum.

“y-yeah— oh god, yes,” gojo nods dumbly, toes curling in his socks as you proceed to stroke his cock. his tip is weeping in pre cum blended with your own wetness, and the faster you flick your wrist, the tighter his stomach contracts. he’s lasted quite some time now, considering this being his first time and all, but there’s only so much a man can hold back. his fingernails dig crescent moon shapes into the mounds of your ass as his hips chase after your touch with every stroke. “w-wait, fuck, i’m gonna cum—”

“yeah?” you encourage him, hunching just over his weeping dick, still holding him at his base. you drag his tip in between your lips, back and forth, while your other hand feels him up at his abs. “where do you wanna finish? on my face?” he whines, mindlessly humping and your smirk deepens as you slowly sink down, “on my tits?” gojo shakes his head, and feels drool coming from the corner of his lips. his limbs are on fire and his groin feels like it’s on the verge of explosion, “on my ass?” you’re about halfway down, “or. . . inside?”

“please,” he doesn’t care if he’s begging. snowy lashes bat open as his teary unfocused eyes adjust to the dimmed lights. even your silhouette is sexy, “please lemme cum inside, i-i’ll do anything.”

“hmm, anything?” you purr, knees finally hitting the floor as you straddle him once more. he lets out a guttural groan at the familiar feel of your silky walls entrapping his cock. his mind is fucking hazy and despite never having consuming alcohol, he feels drunk.

“yes,” he pleads, rolling his hips impossibly deeper into you, euphoric pleasure shooting in his bloodstream, “a-anything you want, i swear,” at the sudden intrusion, you let out a loud gasp when his tip bumps into your cervix and drop your body forward, arms giving out.

chest to chest, skin to skin, your lips hover over his as your back dips into an arch, forcing a penetration deeper in your guts. your palms are pressed flat onto the floor at the side of his head, and he can make out his glasses sitting lazily on the ball of your nose. he slides his hands up your sides, kneading at every inch of your flesh, before sliding back down to your ass.

“even my homework? assignments?” you tease breathily, a strangled moan ripping out your throat when his knees push up and fucks into you. your body jerks forward as his feet plant to the floor, hands still gripping on your ass.

when he snaps his hips up, you roll yours down, and the matching intensity sends his brain haywire. he’s desperate for release, forcing your hips down as he nudges his cock languidly into your cunt. his jaw falls slack and he nods again, dumbly, “ngh, for the rest of the s-school year,”

“that easy with you?” you giggle, but is easily interrupted when he leans forward to catch your lips in a messy kiss. there’s a shit ton of saliva involved, some even escapes past your mouths and down your jaws, but he couldn’t care any less—you tasted heavenly. he wishes he had the time to eat your pussy, he’s positive you taste holier down there.

“it’s your world.” gojo moans, snaking his hands from your ass to wrap around your upper body. now caught in his embrace, you let your head fall limply into the crook of his neck as he works his dick in and out of you. he means what he said— it is your world, and he’s nothing more than a happy servant. “i’ll do it all— bring your books to class, rub your feet— i’ll bark if you need me to— just, please, please, please let me cum inside.”

your moans vibrating from his neck run straight to his ears and fuels him further. he’s thrusting relentlessly— there’s no set pace at all, and he’s so close to finishing he’s completely forgotten about wanting you to cum first. he finally understands why everybody obsesses over sex— he never wants to let you go.

your head pushes up from his neck, nosing at his jaw. he feels your hands cradling his hair, and your lips pressing kisses at the corner of his mouth. his heart skips a beat— he revels in the attention you’re giving him, even if it’s just for the moment. he knows he won’t ever be this lucky again, so he might as well enjoy the ride while he’s here.

“you wanna breed my pussy?” you bite your lip, each stroke in your cunt jerking the glasses down the slope of your nose. despite the dense flog clouding the lens, he can feel your eyes on him. he nods desperately, tightening his hold on you, and the new angle has your clit dragging against his pelvis, “mmph— okay, yeah — put a baby in me, freak.”

and so he does. he thrusts as spurts of cum shoots inside your womb. his balls tighten as his hips rut, arms clutching onto your body with every fibre in him. you smell good, feel good, look good— and your cunt milks him dry for whatever he’s worth.

his orgasm feels short of an eternity yet simultaneously a second, his soul having transcended into an outwardly dimension. and it’s only when you scoot your ass upwards, sliding a hand between both warm bodies, that you collect his cum on the pad of your fingers. he blinks hazily, zeroing his focus when he sees you pop your fingers into your mouth.

“mhm,” you hum at the taste. he’s panting heavily, body riding a euphoric high he’s yet to come down from. you don’t seem to mind, leaning forward to catch his lips once again. and he lets you, moaning at the taste of himself on your tongue. when you pull away, there’s a thin string of cum induced saliva pulling at your lips. “‘s my world, right? want my pussy in your mouth.”

and he instantly hardens.

[remedyjoys]

ugh i hated him at the start of this and was like girl no don’t fall for him 😵‍💫 but the slow burn was so good!!

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

[remedyjoys]

Since you guys like my male name list, here are some vintage girl’s names from old historic documents, recently updated:

(Sorry I listed the name origin/individual’s place of birth on some and not others.)

[remedyjoys]

[remedyjoys]

art x physical therapist!reader

(this is so goofy but i had to get the idea out of my brain 😭)