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saatorus · 2 months ago

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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

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angelx · 9 days ago

Text

Get Even - Chapter 4

word count: 2.2K

cw: frat prez!katsuki x fem art student!reader, mention of light consensual sexual exploration, loss of innocence (consensual), light power dynamics, angst, emotional manipulation, betrayal, deception revealed, verbal confrontation, emotional fallout, heartbreak, desperation, minor character being an accidental snitch

Three weeks. That’s how long it took.

He could’ve ended the game then—hand over the receipts, claim the win, drive off in his beloved Porsche with the smug satisfaction of victory. But Katsuki Bakugou wasn’t thinking about bets anymore. Not when you were sleeping in his bed, tangled in his sheets, soft skin flushed and vulnerable beneath his calloused hands.

You were always there now. In his room, curled into his side. At his place, stealing clothes you’d never return. Even in the quiet hours while he worked on his mechanical engineering assignments, you were there—sitting cross-legged on his bed, scribbling ideas for your next art project, occasionally sketching him in your sketchbook when your mind wandered elsewhere. The same guy who cornered you at a frat party last month, with a cocky smirk now pressed a kiss to your cheek when you said goodnight, traced circles on your knee while driving, held your hand like it was his lifeline.

And he was always around now.

Studio drop-offs. Post-class pastry runs. Sitting beside you as you finished a charcoal draft while he cranked out engineering formulas, muttering to himself and reaching blindly for the drink you'd gotten him.

It wasn’t official. No one said it out loud. But you were his, and Katsuki didn’t correct anyone who looked at you that way.

He should've walked away. After all, he’d already "won"—in less than a month, no less. But every time he looked at you—really looked—that old smugness cracked, and something softer bled through.

Something guilty. Something real. But you didn’t know that yet.

What you did know was that your body didn’t feel like a stranger’s anymore. Not with the way Katsuki touched you, taught you. Whispered encouragements when you were shy about asking for more. He’d started slow, guiding you through your own pleasure like you were something sacred. He taught you everything.

But the more he gave you, the more you wanted. Craved. Demanded.

It started with soft kisses that turned filthy. With your fingers buried in his hair, your thighs trembling. He would whisper in your ear, telling you how good you were doing, how much he needed you.

Then you changed. bolder. Hungrier. Katsuki taught you everything. Patiently. Obsessively. How to arch your back and press your hips against his to feel just right. How to use your hands, slow and deliberate. How to kiss like a promise and moan like a prayer. How to open your mouth for him—eager, breathless, desperate.

And now? You whispered back, filthier. You learned how to tease him. Torment him. You bit his lip when he teased, you whispered filthy things in his ear that made his cock twitch under his jeans. You’d ride him slow and steady just to watch his composure crack. You’d rake your nails down his chest, then soothe it with kisses, grinning when he gritted his teeth and growled your name. You started talking him through it like he used to do to you—telling him how good he felt, how hard he made you come, how you’d never get enough of him.

One night, you edged him. Pushed him to the brink with your mouth and your hands and your voice, and stopped—just before he could fall. You looked up at him with those wide eyes, lashes wet, lips swollen, your tongue tracing the corner of your mouth like the fucking menace you were becoming. And Katsuki just stared down at you, jaw slack, chest heaving, one hand tangled in your hair like he didn’t know whether to pull you in or push you away before he lost his mind.

He’d created a monster—a pretty little succubus that lived to ruin him. And he was so okay with it.

“Fuck,” he gasped one night, sweat slick between your bodies. “You’re a fuckin’ succubus, y’know that?”

You giggled, all sugar and mischief, brushing your fingers down his abs, and Katsuki was gone. Under your spell. Addicted.

He should’ve stopped. Should’ve told you the truth. But how could he? You smiled at him like he built you a second sun. And maybe… maybe he wanted to be loved like that. Even if it was built on a lie.

The days blurred sweetly after that night.

It wasn’t love—no one dared to say it out loud—but whatever it was, it bled into everything. The way he kissed you like he needed it. The way you leaned into him like he was home. You were always near now, a fixture in his space and mind—wearing his hoodies, curling up on his lap while he worked on a thermodynamics worksheet he half-understood, sneaking bites of his snacks like you had the right.

He still hadn’t told you the truth.

And sometimes, when you smiled too wide or kissed him just because, that guilt threatened to crack open in his chest. But he stuffed it down. Kept pretending. Because pretending felt good. It felt real.

Then came the night of yet another Sigma Vex party.

You didn’t even argue this time. When he offered to pick you up, you said yes. When he threw his varsity jacket over your shoulders before walking into the frat house, you smiled at him so sweetly that his teeth could rot. And when the music thrummed through the walls and neon lights painted your skin, you didn’t leave his side once.

It was like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

You sat curled in his lap on one of the leather couches, your legs draped across his like it was the most natural thing. He had one arm slung over your waist, thumb stroking absent-minded circles into your hip. Your head leaned against his shoulder, warm and light and so real it made his breath catch.

He didn’t care that his brothers watched. Didn’t give a damn about their smirks or side-eyes. You were his. Whether it was fake, temporary, or tangled in lies—right now, it felt true.

You brushed your lips against his jaw. “Need another drink?”

He gave a lazy hum. “Only if you’re gettin’ one too.”

“I’ll be right back,” you teased, slipping off his lap with a soft smile, the weight of you leaving his legs like losing warmth.

And then you were gone—just for a minute. It wasn’t a big deal. You’d come back, sit in his lap again, maybe he'd sneak you into the upstairs bedroom later. That’s what he thought.

But the universe had other plans.

You slipped into the kitchen, fingers curling around two red cups. The music was duller here, muffled behind thick walls. The party felt far away. You poured the drinks without thinking, still smiling to yourself.

Then a presence stumbled up beside you, reeking of cheap tequila and sweat.

“Heyyyy, you're kinda hooot” the guy slurred, squinting. “You’re from the art department, right?”

You turned slightly, confused but polite. “Yeah?”

He blinked. His eyes lit up like he’d just solved a math problem with crayons. “Wait. Wait, wait—you’re that girl. From the last party! Holy shit.”

You froze.

He grinned like this was the funniest thing in the world. “Prez actually did it. I can’t fuckin’ believe it.”

You frowned, your stomach dipping. “...Did what?”

“Oh, y’know—the bet. Back when you ran outta the first party like your ass was on fire? He was gonna lose that fancy-ass Porsche if he didn’t hit it by midterms. But he did! He won! Got in there fast, too—less than a month!”

Your hands shook. Your mouth went dry. The words didn’t compute at first. They sat there, echoing, buzzing around your brain like static. But they didn’t make sense.

“What… bet?” you asked, the words catching in your throat.

Before he could dig the hole any deeper, Kaminari appeared in the doorway like a lifeline. “Oi! Kimura. Shut. Up.”

But Kimura didn’t notice the sharp edge in his tone. “What? I’m just sayin’—it’s crazy, right? Prez really went all in. Said he’d make her beg for it—”

The drink slipped from your hand and crashed to the floor. The silence was immediate.

Kimura blinked. You stood there, the world around you slipping sideways. Kaminari’s jaw was tight, his eyes full of panic, like someone just pulled the fire alarm and everyone else kept dancing.

“Oh, shit-” Kimura muttered. “I fucked up.”

Your vision blurred.

There was a bet. There was a bet. You were the punchline. The game.

And suddenly, every sweet thing he ever did, every kiss, every look, every whispered promise—it all felt like poison sinking into your skin.

He played you. He chose to. And worst of all—you had no idea how much of it had ever been real.

You didn’t mean to storm out like that. But your legs are already moving, fueled by instinct. By betrayal. By the cold slap of reality that hit you like a freight train in that fucking kitchen. The hallway blurs. Laughter and music fade behind you. The buzz of the party becomes background noise to the pounding of your heart.

And then—You pass the living room. He’s still there.

Katsuki sits on that stupid black leather couch like he owns the room, like he owns the night. But when his gaze catches yours—when he sees the fire in your eyes, the betrayal carved into every line of your face—his whole world tilts.

His body tenses. He knows. No, you knew.

And you don’t even stop. You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You just walk past him like he’s nothing—like he never meant anything. And that? That hits harder than any slap could’ve. You slam open the front door.

“Wait—!” his voice tears through the air like thunder.

Then footsteps. Fast. Heavy. You don’t even get two steps into the driveway before he catches up. A warm hand wraps around your wrist, desperate, trembling with panic.

“Baby, wait—let me explain—please—”

You stop. And then you snap. You whirl around, eyes blazing like wildfire, and rip your arm from his grip. The motion is sharp. Violent. Final.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Your voice splits the night. He stares at you—shell-shocked. He’s never heard you yell like that. Never seen you this raw. This hurt. You’re trembling. Not from fear. From fury. From heartbreak. Your voice cracks but you don’t fall apart. You refuse to fall apart in front of him. Not him. Not now.

“You think you could play me?” you breathe, voice shaking as tears finally sting your eyes. “You think you could lie to my face, touch me however you want, make me feel things—only to laugh about it later with your frat brothers?”

He tries to speak—his mouth opens, closes again like he’s drowning. “No—no, that’s not—baby, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off. “Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that.”

"After everything... You did all of this for what? To get back at me for rejecting you once? What? Your shitty pride and reputation got the better of you?"

And then the tears start. Hot and slow, streaking your cheeks without permission. You’re not sobbing. You’re not even making a sound. You just look at him like he set fire to everything you’ve ever built.

Like you don’t recognize him anymore.

Like you wish you never met him.

“Was taking my virginity also part of your bet?” You asked him, but he couldn't give you an answer.

It was impossible for you to believe at this point. “Don’t fucking follow me,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse now. Wrecked. “Just… don’t.”

You turn. You leave. And this time, he doesn’t stop you. He stays there on the pavement, frozen, winded like you just punched him straight in the chest. Because watching you walk away like that—seeing the light go out in your eyes when you looked at him—hurts more than anything else ever has.

Later that night…

Katsuki sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, phone clenched in his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to this damn world. His thumb hovered over your contact—again.

Call Ended.Missed Call (30).

He tried again. Straight to voicemail.

“Fuck,” he whispered, dragging a hand through his hair, chest rising and falling with a panic that refused to quiet. He keeps on spamming your phone with messages you won't even see.

baby, pleaselet me explainplease answer my callsfuck, i'm sorry. i didn’t mean it like this please baby let me explain i didn’t mean for this to happenbaby, please answer the call

Delivered. Delivered. Delivered.

Your phone sat abandoned on your nightstand—screen facedown, volume turned off. You didn’t even glance at it.

You were curled up in bed, blanket pulled over your head like it could shield you from the ache in your chest. Your pillow was already wet with tears. Your fists were balled against your chest, throat raw from sobbing until your voice gave out.

You weren’t ignoring him. You were just too heartbroken to care.

And in that silence, Katsuki was left to sit alone in his room, fingers clenched around his phone, jaw tight, heart sinking lower with every minute you didn’t pick up.

You didn’t need to say a single word.

Your silence screamed louder than anything else ever could.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Part 5 is in the making! will be finished and posted as soon as possible!

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381 notes · View notes

hollowdeath · 1 year ago

Note

Okay I was thinking of writing this myself but like Harry and his crush (who's a talented Potions witch) brews up an aphrodisiac potion into the form of a vapor (inhaled through like an atomizer) and she wants to test it with her best friend (crush lmao) Harry. Idea is a WIP but if you could use it for a smut piece I wouldn't complain 🫣🫣 LOVE YOUR WORK OMFG

Thank you loveee! ❤️

AAAAA thank you for requesting this!!! ive been wanting to write something like this for a while so you gave me the perfect excuse to try it out :D you're the best!

pairing: harry james potter x fem!reader (18+)

summary: you and harry have been working on a project involving amortentia, the most powerful love potion to exist, and when harry tests your device the night before it's due, he has some rather intense side effects.

cw: smut!!! dom!harry, fingering, penetration, breeding

word count: 6k

you and harry had spent the entire semester working together on a project that challenged you to create a new form of an old potion. rather than settling for the obvious ideas like turning felix felicis into gummy candies, you and harry had decided to try something a bit more complex.

you knew right away you wanted to work with amortentia more closely, as you had always been fascinated by the potion and its powerful properties, and harry was more than willing to let you take the reins of the project. he gave insight when he could, and spent a fair amount of time helping you figure out the more complicated steps of the process, but he honestly just loved sitting back and watching you work your magic. literally.

you were by far the most knowledgeable student when it came to potions, and undoubtedly one of the smartest witches harry had ever met. he considered himself lucky that you two had already formed a friendship prior to taking potions together, allowing him to pair up with the most sought after partner in the entire class. more than just your knowledge and skill, harry was just excited to be your partner so he could know you better and see how your mind works.

you were excited to work with harry as well, but not to collaborate on potions and fiddle with mechanics you could never understand. you had looked forward to sitting close to him, reading from the same books, talking for hours, and watching his eyes intently focus as he prepared the ingredients for you. of course you two were friends more than anything, and you never considered yourself one of those girls who would fawn over harry for doing absolutely nothing, but working with him so intimately for the entire semester really made you see him differently. he was funny, he was smart, he remembered every little thing about you, and he always brought you snacks when you were working together. it didn't help that you found him absolutely adorable in big sweaters with messy hair, or felt your heart race when he looked at you from over his glasses, or couldn't keep your eyes off his hands when he was helping you put together your atomizer.

speaking of, your project had actually turned out extremely well for the little experience either of you had in engineering such a device. it was a small, handheld diffuser that transformed liquid amortentia, as well as a mix of other potent aphrodisiacs, into a vapor that could be inhaled for the full effect. harry had actually been the one to suggest the idea, trying to figure out a better way to ingest the mixture while still altering its state. you thought it was brilliant, and were surprised at how smooth the process turned out to be.

however, the presentation for the project was tomorrow morning, and you were still fiddling with a few of the mechanics to get it to work just right. it was hard to know when it was fully finished since testing the product wasn't exactly practical, as the effects would have anyone distracted and unable to focus within seconds of inhaling it. you were a bit frustrated sitting alone at your table in the potions lab, a single light above you as the sun had long since set and night took over. your head was in your hands, staring at the atomizer in front of you, wondering if you should just take the chance and test it since you were alone in the classroom.

just as you were convincing yourself, you heard the door creak open to your right, causing you to jump in your seat. you couldn't make out who was there ar first as your eyes were still adjusting to the dark room around you. you hadn't expected anyone to come in anyway, mostly because it was past curfew and, frankly, who would want to spend their time in the potions lab on a sunday evening?

but, as the figure walked closer to you, you noticed it was harry dressed in pajama pants and a sweatshirt with his slippers scraping across the wooden floors. "harry," you breathed a sigh of relief, your hand resting on your chest. "you scared the piss out of me." you say with a laugh.

harry chuckles, and you notice he's carrying his invisibility robe in one hand, half of his arm disappearing beneath it. "sorry, figured there'd be no one in here," he says with a sleepy voice, setting the robe over his own chair, making it disappear as well.

you sigh, setting your head back in your hands and leaning your elbows on the table. "it's okay, i probably shouldn't be here anyways. this thing has me seeing red, and not in a good way." you complain. harry laughs again, making his way next to you and under the light. your stomach drops at how soft he looks, his hair messy, cheeks flushed, deep voice quietly chuckling as he leans on the table beside you.

"yeah, well, i couldn't sleep knowing it wasn't perfect as well," harry tells you, his eyes fixated on the device. "not that slughorn would notice either way, but…" he trails off, making you crack a smile and chuckle as well.

harry looks down at you, his glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose. "i just know how much it means to you." he says.

you feel yourself blushing and quickly begin changing the subject. "w-well, i think i've got it most of the way there, it's just, um…" you say nervously, picking up the cylindrical vaporizer and examining it in your hands once again.

"just…?" harry provokes.

you let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head as you pass the device back and forth between your hands. "just…that, um, it still needs to be tested, i guess, to see the full effects, y'know?" you try to explain without stumbling over your thoughts.

harry understands what you mean and nods his head slowly. "oh, right…" he says a bit nervously as well, pushing himself off the table to stand up straight and clear his throat.

an awkward silence hangs in the air for a moment as you continue to roll the vaporizer between your fingers. "yeah…" you trail off once again.

harry nervously chuckles, breaking the silence and making you laugh at the sudden tension. "well, then, hand it over i guess." harry casually requests, holding his hand out to you.

you look up at harry in confusion, your eyebrows pinched together as you examine his lighthearted expression. "harry," you try to find your words, feeling yourself still blushing under his gaze. "are you mad? you can't just test this out randomly." you try to explain to him.

harry shakes his head, his own eyebrows pinching together as he lets out an amused laugh. "why not? it can't be that strong," he shrugs.

you give harry another incredulous look, utterly confused at his nonchalant attitude. "are you kidding? this potion is composed of some of the most potent aphrodisiacs in the world, and inhaling them should only intensify the effects…theoretically," you add the last part in a hopeful tone, turning your attention back to the device in your hands.

harry just extends his hand out further, nearly touching yours. "well, we'll never know if we don't test it, now will we?" he asks with a smirk. you hesitate for another moment, still looking down at your hands. of course you were insanely curious about the effects of the project you spent weeks sweating over, and certainly would feel better knowing it actually works as intended before having to present it to the class tomorrow. but you were worried it could affect harry negatively, or that he could have a bad reaction to it, and you weren't sure if you could take that risk.

"just trust me, [y/n]. i can handle it." harry reassures you once more, his voice warm and familiar.

you sigh, carefully handing over the device to harry and leaning back in your chair. he smiles at you, taking one more look at the design of the vaporizer in his hands before bringing the mouthpiece up to his lips and inhaling the mixture. harry holds his breath for a moment before blowing out the vapor slowly, the clouds surrounding him under the dim lighting in a way that makes your heart stop. he looks ethereal with the billowing vapor coming from his lips and nostrils, a soft smile pinching his cheeks.

"tastes amazing," harry observes, taking another look at the design as the vapor fades into the air.

you wait for a few seconds, looking for any sign of behavioral changes in harry as he continues to rotate the device in his fingers. "well?" you ask in a hopeful tone.

harry looks down at you, and for a split second, you swear his pupils expand to the size of his iris before shrinking back to their normal size, blinking rapidly as they do. harry sets the device down and looks away from you, his neck jerking to the side and his knuckles clenching.

"harry?" you ask, concerned, standing from your seat and reaching for harry's shoulder. before you can touch him he jerks away, making a frustrated groaning sound as he did. you're still concerned, but mostly confused as harry's hands reach for the edge of the table and grip it so hard his veins are pulsing. his breathing is ragged and heavy, nearly growling as he tries to steady it. you're momentarily distracted before harry attempts to speak to you.

"it works," he barks out, his voice strained and impatient. you're taken aback at his aggressive change in tone. "what?" you ask again, trying again to reach for his shoulder. "harry, are you okay?"

just as you make contact with his sweatshirt, harry's legs go limp beneath him as he sinks to his knees. his breathing gets heavier as he lets out a pained groan, trying his best to stand up and let go of the table for support. "just," he says between panting breaths. "i have to go," he abruptly turns and tries to leave, his hands grabbing at his hair and face as he stumbles away.

"harry," you call after him. "what's happening? are you okay? is it hurting you?" you try to get some insight on what harry's experiencing, but he keeps shaking his head as he tries to make his way to the door.

"harry!" you finally snap, stepping away from the table. harry stops in his tracks. "our presentation is in 6 hours and you said you could handle the effects. now, i need to know what they are or else i'm testing it out myself." you demand angrily, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

harry turns to you but doesn't dare look at you, his body hunched over as if he's in pain. his hands are still rubbing at his eyes and he seems to be wiping away sweat on his forehead every other second.

"look, [y/n]," harry snaps back. you're again taken aback by his tone; you've never heard his voice so dark and foreboding before, and the sound of him practically growling your name has your mind racing. "i told you it works, okay? isn't that what you wanted?" his words are rushed, as if he's still trying to leave when you have so many questions that need answered.

"i need to know specifics, harry. what does it feel like? was there any physical response? how strong is it? i mean, you really can't let me ask a few questions about something we've been working on for weeks?" you ask.

harry frustratedly walks towards you, his wide strides making you step back towards the table in anticipation. his fists are balled at his sides, his eyes still pointed at the ground. "you wanna know what it feels like?" his voice bellows in the empty classroom, causing you to jump and gasp. you didn't want any prefects to hear you two in the lab and then have to explain why harry was in such a state.

harry comes closer to you, backing you against the table as his eyes stay fixed downward. "you wanna know how i feel, [y/n]?" he asks again, his voice less angry and more impatient, feeling his hot breath fall across your skin. again, hearing him spit your name at you so aggressively only made your mind race faster. you could hardly speak, so you just nodded your head anxiously, still attempting to put more space between you and harry.

for a while only harry's heavy breathing fills the room. you can see his hands still clenched at his sides, nearly shaking from the amount of pressure they're under. just as you're about to turn your head away from the tense moment, harry's eyes meet yours. you gasp again, this time at just how dark they had become since first looking away from you.

harry smirks evilly at your shock, his hands quickly grasping the edge of the table behind you, bringing his body even closer to yours. you were feeling such a rush of every emotion possible it was hard to tell what exactly you were feeling; all you knew is you could feel the wetness pooling between your legs despite fear making your heart race.

"i feel like i could tear you apart." harry's words drip with venom, his body leaning further into yours. you let out a shaky breath, your feet still trying to back up despite the table stopping you. "and i feel like you would let me." harry teases, his smirk growing.

you let out an involuntary squeal as harry's face comes closer to yours, turning away to avoid his eyes. "h-harry–" you try to protest, but he turns your chin back to him before you can finish.

"wouldn't you?" harry asks with a knowing tone.

you try to turn away again but harry doesn't let you, instead only bringing your lips closer to his as his hand fixes itself around your jaw tightly. you struggle a bit in his grasp but he isn't letting you go.

"i see the way you watch me, pretty girl. you may be smart but you're not very clever." harry's lips barely graze yours as he talks, his breath overwhelming your senses as he continues to stare into your eyes. "you'd love for me to tell you all the filthy thoughts running through my head about you right now, wouldn't you, darling? want me to describe every scenario, every position, every sound that comes from these pretty lips?" harry's thumb raises from your chin to your bottom lip as he swipes it across the soft skin.

you're speechless at his blunt attitude, your legs shaking beneath you as you try your best to continue standing. your mind is a mess trying to understand his response. you knew the vapor would be powerful, but you had no idea harry would react like this. you weren't exactly complaining, it was just so out of character for him to be so suggestive and upfront with his desires, let alone his apparent desire for you.

you clear your throat, trying to gain the confidence to formulate an answer to his question. "h-harry, it's the vapor, y-you're not yourself," you try to explain, your voice getting caught. "just…just sit down a-and we can talk about the side effects."

harry's grip on your jaw tightens more, making you wince slightly.

harry pulls away from your face, his eyes still boring into yours hungrily. his glasses are slightly fogged from how close he was to you, but his blown pupils were still clearly visible. he's looking down at you, smirking, chuckling at your pained expression. "you never answered my questions, if i remember correctly."

you can hardly continue keeping eye contact with harry as you felt your cheeks completely flushed and heart racing beneath his grasp. you were trying to keep it together knowing he was under the effects of a powerful potion, but part of you has wanted this for so long it only feels right to let harry have what he seems to want as well. i mean, that's what friends are for, right?

still squirming under the weight of his body against yours, harry grows impatient as he lets his clothed erection just barely rub against your thigh, enough to get your attention. your eyes widen, and harry smiles in satisfaction, humming at your response. you let your body relax despite your thumping heartbeat and rapid breathing, feeling yourself lean into harry as well.

harry hums again with his eyes tracing over every part of your face like he's trying to memorize it. "hmm, that's what i thought. now, tell me, pretty girl," harry starts, his hand tilting your head up to face him more. "what do you want?"

his question left you speechless once again. you didn't expect harry to consider your feelings in the matter; not that it made any difference anyway, you've wanted him just as bad for a long time now. but you were conflicted, was harry actually attracted to you, or would the potion make him act this way towards anybody? would it be wrong of you to encourage his behavior knowing he was under the influence of a potion? did any of that even matter with harry's throbbing erection pressed against you?

rather than answering harry's question, you took a chance and reached for his shoulders to help steady yourself before pressing your lips against his. harry moans into your mouth at the feeling, his grip on your jaw loosening but still holding you in place. his other hand snakes around from the edge of the table to your ass, hungrily grabbing for it and making you gasp.

harry takes this chance to shove his tongue past your lips, pushing you back against the table once more. in one swift motion he lifts your ass onto the tabletop, sitting you down in front of him. both of his hands go to the hem of your shirt, which you help him take off quickly. his lips attached to your neck, his hands already wrapped around your waist, and you nervously watched the door behind harry to make sure no one catches you two.

you start pulling at harry's sweatshirt and he rips it off before you even have the chance to help him. his skin is hot to the touch, and his hair's becoming damp with sweat. "harry," you say shakily as he's leaving a bruise on the side of your neck with his teeth. "you're so warm,"

pulling away and admiring the fresh red mark he's left on you, harry has a slight smirk on his swollen lips, "you should feel my heart," he says with a chuckle, guiding one of your hands to his warm chest. you can immediately feel his racing heart just beneath your fingertips, beating at a pace that couldn't be healthy for him.

you try to protest, but harry just gives you another hungry but short kiss. "i'm fine, [y/n]. i'm better than fine. it's like every inhibition i've ever had is gone, and it feels amazing. i'm sorry if i've been a bit strong, but, if you could see what i'm thinking, you'd actually be a bit impressed with my restraint…" harry voice is softer this time, his hands finding their way to your back, fiddling with the clasps on your bra. his lips wander from your ear down to your shoulder, sending a chill down your spine.

once harry has your bra undone, he looks back at you for confirmation. you eagerly help him remove it from you, throwing it to the side as harry's eyes become fixated on your chest. "fucking hell, [y/n]." harry curses under his breath before his hands cup your boobs aggressively, making you whimper in response.

it doesn't take long before harry has to press his lips against the soft skin of your tits, with his teeth following not far behind. you instinctively bring a hand to your mouth to muffle the sounds you can't hold back, but harry isn't having any of it. he gives you a stern look before grabbing your wrist and placing your hand in his messy hair. "let me hear you." he states, his voice dark and commanding once again.

once harry's lips and tongue find their way to your nipples, you can't help but start to melt in his hands. whiny moans, gasps, and occasional curses fall from your lips watching harry's eyes flutter close as he enjoys pleasing you. your fingers become entangled in his hair, holding him closer to your chest.

however, harry soon grows impatient again, and your filthy noises certainly didn't help him.

he pulls you down from the table, making sure you're able to stand before quickly turning you around and pressing his erection against your ass. you moan at the feeling and grind against him, making harry's grip on your waist tighten as he lets out his own strangled moan.

you help harry remove your pants as his come off as well. only left in your underwear, harry's arms wrap around you from behind, his fingers softly running across the wet fabric covering your pussy. "fuck," he breathes against your ear, his other arm wrapping across your chest and bringing you further into him. "i need you."

harry's desperate tone sends another shiver across your skin, your mind practically short circuiting at the thought of him wanting you so badly.

harry bends you over the table, his chest against your back as he leaves rushed kisses along the nape of your neck. the cold surface of the lab table makes you gasp, your nipples hardening at the sensation.

"now," harry says, leaving one more kiss just under your ear. "what i want you to do," he continues, reaching for your open notebook across the table as well as your pen. "is be a good potions student, and write down my symptoms." he tells you as he sets the notebook in front of you and hands you the pen. you can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

you're a bit confused and nearly about to protest when you feel harry's fingers hook under your panties and pull them down hastily. you try to look back at him, but a hand quickly grabs your hair from behind and forces you to look back at your notes. "follow the rules, darling." harry's deep voice instructs you with a hint of a threat behind his words.

harry's grip on your hair only makes your pussy throb more. you can feel his other hand resting on the back of your thigh, his fingers running along the wet folds of your pussy, humming to himself at the warm feeling. just as you're about to start writing, you can feel harry slowly pushing a finger inside of you. your moan is strained at the unfamiliar feeling, but harry's tight grip in your hair loosens as he begins to comfort you. "just relax and let me take care of it, baby."

if you weren't wet before you certainly were now. your knees were weakening beneath you, forcing you to lean into the table for more support. you relaxed your body and breathed evenly, trying to shift your focus to the notes in front of you instead. your handwriting is shaky and uneven, biting your lip in an attempt to distract yourself from the desperate feeling growing inside you.

"go on, tell me what you wrote." harry teases. you groan in protest but attempt to speak anyway. "r-rapid, heartbeat," you manage to say before you start writing the next symptom. "d–" you try to speak, but you gasp as harry introduces another finger into your aching pussy.

harry chuckles, tightening his grip in your hair. "hm?" he asks, waiting for you to continue. you try to hold back your moans as you look back down at your notes, your eyes attempting to focus on your writing. "d-dilated…pupils…" you trail off, your eyes rolling back as harry's fingers thrust deeper into you. you can hardly keep your moaning under control and harry's loving every second of it.

"lack of…inhibitions," you breathe out, your handwriting barely legible the more you write. harry deep chuckle from behind you only distracts you further. your stomach is tight and your legs can barely hold you up anymore as you feel your high begin to build. just as it does, harry removes his fingers and leaves you feeling empty.

before you can whine, harry lets go of his grip on your hair and instead grabs your shoulders, pulling you up from the table a bit. holding yourself up with your arms, harry separates your feet with his. you can feel the head of his cock grinding against your wetness from behind.

harry's fingers end up in your mouth, making you taste yourself as he forces your head back to look at him. his eyes are entirely dark, no longer the inviting shades of blue you're so accustomed to. his smirk is evil, and his hair is sticking to his forehead from the excessive sweating. "i want to watch you take me." harry's voice is darker than his eyes, a cold, demanding force that takes what it needs.

with his fingers still holding your mouth open, you let out a pained moan at the overwhelming feeling of harry's cock pushing inside of you. despite his aggressive demeanor, harry remains gentle with you, giving you time to adjust to the feeling and carefully watching your expression. his eyes are practically sparkling with lust watching you lose yourself in the feeling of being filled by his cock.

"fuck," harry curses under his breath again. his other hand grabs for your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like you're the only thing keeping him standing. "feel so good, darling." harry places a messy kiss on your forehead before he begins thrusting into you again, slowly, enjoying every second he's inside of you.

you're nearly crying out in pleasure and desperation with the pathetic sounds coming from you. you can hardly move against harry's grasp, not that you were complaining, but you just needed more or else you would go insane.

you attempt to push your hips back to make harry get the message, and the smirk on his face tells you he got it right away. once he starts thrusting into you quicker, your mind goes blank. you can feel the drool start to drip out of your mouth and over harry's fingers, even down to your chest and the table top. harry is groaning at the sight of you becoming such a mess for him.

"looks like you needed this more than i did, hm?" harry teases, his lips so close to your ear you can feel them. you nod eagerly, your hands reaching for his arm holding your mouth open. you grip onto his forearm for stability, your eyes rolling back into your head at the overwhelming pleasure. he takes his fingers out of your mouth and instead holds your throat tightly. you gasp for air and wipe the drool from your lips.

soon both of your moans fill the room, the air sweaty and the table creaking beneath you. the fear of someone hearing you or getting caught no longer concerns you, if anything it just thrills you even more.

harry then reaches for your notes and pen again. you try hold the pen as well as you could. "i have one more symptom i want you to add," harry says between heavy breaths, becoming worn out and even more sweaty. you whine, but nod your head as you attempt to line your writing up with the rest.

you feel harry bend you further over the table, his chest hot against your back as he continues pounding into you. it's challenging trying to keep your eyes open and focused when you're completely blissed out with harry groaning in your ear.

"obsession," he hisses, his grip on your throat tightening as he picks up the pace of his thrusts.

you try to write out the word, but you can hardly keep your hands steady. your stomach feels tight, your heart starts beating even faster, and you can feel yourself on the brink of your orgasm.

harry chuckles at your pathetic attempt at writing, but moves the notebook away anyway. "good girl." he commends you.

it's enough to bring you over the edge, your mouth dropping open with nasty sounds and eyes rolling back once more. harry groans into your ear as your pussy tightens around him, his thrusting becoming sloppy and tired.

"please," he breathes out just as you start coming down. "please, baby, can i cum inside you, please, please, i need it," harry's practically begging you, as if he even needed to ask.

"cum inside me, harry, please,"

"fuck," he moans again, his voice broken and needy. he's still desperately chasing his high, his hands sliding around to your stomach to feel himself pounding into you. "you're all mine, [y/n], all fucking mine." he growls into your ear. you could nearly cum again hearing harry fall apart behind you.

with a few more stuttering thrusts, harry cums inside you with another broken moan, bending you over the table again as his hands try to catch himself. his cock still fully inside you, you can feel his chest rising and falling on your back as he tries to catch his breath.

harry quickly gets off of you, almost in a rush. you turn to him and see his eyes are wide, his pupils shrinking back to their normal size, his hair nearly soaked in sweat. he tries his best to cover himself up, eventually grabbing for his pajama pants to put them back on. you're a bit lost at his reaction, hoping he didn't regret his actions so quickly.

"u-uhm, [y/n], i'm…i'm, so sorry," harry apologizes, his voice genuine and scared. he's wiping the sweat from his face, barely able to look at you. "i-i didn't mean for it to, f-for me to, um…" he's stumbling over his words, the same nervous harry you were so used to.

you smirked, crossing your arms in front of your chest to cover yourself a bit as well. "what, you didn't mean to fuck me over our lab table?" you ask smugly. harry's cheeks are completely flushed but he's trying his best to hide that from you, his hands covering his face.

"stop." he simply says, his voice meek and quiet. you giggle to yourself and step closer to him, admiring how pretty his sweaty skin looks in the dim lighting.

"hey," you say to him, stopping only about a foot away, completely naked and still shaking a bit. you reach for harry's arm and tug at it, making him uncover his face. he still doesn't dare look at you. "look, it's okay. that potion was extremely powerful, and we didn't know what would happen. as long as you feel alright that's all that matters, yeah? and, y'know, we can still be friends, even if you regret it..." you add the last part quietly, your voice breaking a bit.

harry looks up at you with guilty eyes. he's a bit distracted by your bare skin, but he can't stop looking back into your eyes. "please, don't take this as regret," he says, his eyebrows raised sympathetically. "i-i just, that's not…" he sighs, frustrated, looking away from you again. "it wasn't supposed to happen that way, our first time. n-not that i've thought about it that much," harry nervously interrupts himself, making you giggle once more.

harry looks back at you, his eyes wandering down to your chest. "u-uhm, just, you…if we ever did, y'know…you'd just deserve so much better than that," he tries to explain himself while clearly flustered.

you laugh again. "harry, i clearly enjoyed myself just then, didn't i? i mean, i don't know how it could've been much better." you admit, still in a teasing tone.

harry reaches for your shirt on the floor and offers to help you put it on. as he does you notice his eyes lingering on your chest again. "yes, but, i would've at least liked for you to have a bed to be comfortable on…" he says, knocking his knuckles against the hard surface of the table.

you roll your eyes at harry and reach for your pants as well. "well, maybe we can plan better for next time." you say with a smirk as you slip them on. harry straightens up from grabbing his shirt and looks at you with wide eyes again. "next time?" he asks innocently. you swear you could take him again right then and there, but you hold yourself back. "yeah, next time. if you'd like that." you offer him.

harry gives you that same shy smile he always has, and can barely hold himself back as he steps towards you and gives you a soft kiss on your lips. it's different, not hungry or full of lust, but rather warm and comforting. he pulls away after a moment to look at you, admiring your face in the light. "i'd love to." he whispers to you.

after helping you pack your stuff and clean up the table, harry offers to walk you back to your room with the invisibility cloak. you accept his offer and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, covering you both and walking you out of the lab and down the hallway.

before he leaves you for the night, harry can't help but snag another kiss, still as soft and loving as before with his hand resting on your cheek. you giggle into his lips, laying your forehead on his. "goodnight, harry." you say to him, readjusting your bag with your notebooks. "goodnight, my love." he tells you, unwrapping you from the cloak and leaving you with a swish.

the next morning you two had barely slept, sitting in potions class with matching eye bags and flushed cheeks. you could hardly look at the side of the table you were just bent over last night, and noticed harry smirking anytime he turned his head that way as well. his hands were subtly bumping into yours, as well as his knees, trying anything to get your attention during the other presentations. you just gave him a look, but couldn't help smiling at his gestures.

when it was your turn to present, harry let you do most of the talking and admired how passionately you spoke about the process to create the device. slughorn was more than impressed with your skill and knowledge, and awarded you and harry with top marks for your vaporizer.

"would there be any way to test the device?" he had asked curiously, holding it between his hands and examining it. "no!" you nearly exclaimed, taking it from his hands before he could even try. slughorn gives you a surprised look, but harry pipes up from behind you. "it's entirely too powerful to just try it out casually, sir." he says.

slughorn's eyebrows pinch together. "how so?" he asks. you and harry exchange awkward looks, both blushing and chuckling to yourselves. harry takes the device from you and puts it in his own pocket.

"just trust me, sir."

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tqmies · 2 years ago

Text

In Disguise

Description. Desperate and broke, your trio of nerdy friends offer you a place to stay until you get back on your feet. Things are normal at first until you abruptly come across a camera tripod facing Doyoung's bed. Were your awkward friends really just camboy's in disguise?

Pairing. Kim Doyoung x Yuta Nakamoto x Kim Jungwoo x Fem Reader

Genre. SMUT, Camboy!AU, College!AU, Roomates! MDNI!

Warnings. Foursome (Do I even have to say it?), Unrealistic depictions of sex overall, A little MxM action, Fingering, Oral, Condoms taken off, Plan B mentioned, Voyeurism, Creampie, Degradation, Praise

Word count. 13K (oh...)

Note: This was supposed to be out ages ago but I'm proud (not rlly) to present this mess of a wet dream!

"You have no idea how grateful I really am." You state, placing down your last box into the vacant room. You sigh in relief as your back was literally killing you too much to drag another box up. And that was that the boys had helped you with a majority of it.

"You've said it a million times, I think we know." Yuta teases, opening the box on your bed as he shuffles through it. It was old books you had brought from your place, well a few of the tons you had. Most of them had to go into storage due to lack of room at your newest living arrangement.

Truthfully, you felt really bad about this whole thing, even though Yuta kept assuring you it was alright, all the boys did. But something felt terrible about rooming with your friends for free, and kicking Yuta out of his room at that.

The boys didn't want you to feel weird about sharing a room, so Yuta slept in the same room as Jungwoo for the time being, and that made you feel even worse.

"You can have your room back, I promise I can sleep on the couch."

"Then where would you put your stuff?"

And you had pretty much lost the argument then and there, but you were determined to make up for rent in other ways. You'd clean, do laundry, and cook a few of the meals you had mastered. You could buy groceries and maybe even pay the water bill every once in a while. Not that you planned to stay here for long, only until you found another job, seeing as the one you had rapidly started laying people off.

Which brought you back to square one, Yuta’s bed.

Not like that, get your mind out of the gutter!

"I'm home!" Jungwoo announces as you hear the front door shut, his loudness already alerting you. You heard the loud clank of his keys on the counter, and his footsteps making their way towards you.

"We just finished bringing all the boxes up." Doyoung comments, giving Jungwoo a much deserved side eye.

"Oh I made it just in time then."

Jungwoo came bearing gifts though, handing out bottles of water to you guys. "I got them from one of the tents on campus, here's a shirt too!"

And before you know it, you're being hit in the head with the shirt Jungwoo threw at your face. You throw it off as you jokingly threaten him. "I'm going to crack your glasses in half Kim Jungwoo."

The male cowers in fear as he scurries off to his room, shouting behind his shoulder. "Do you guys wanna see what I'm working on?"

Doyoung jumps up, always eager to divulge in Jungwoo's nerdy projects. "Sure."

"I'm designing a supersonic VTOL fighter jet!" The engineering major says, lugging his laptop towards you all, showing you some prints on his screen. They're blueprints and sketches, and random little notes on the side, but you really can barely tell what you're looking at.

It's not that you were dumb, you were actually a very decent student. But the men in the room with you? Jungwoo was a mechanical engineering major, which said enough. Yuta was pre-med studying to be a doctor, and Doyoung? He's here on a full ride scholarship studying computer science.

So, for lack of better words, you were the dumbest in the room.

Not that you cared anyways, the boys never made you feel less than or anything because of your simple major. You also took pride in it, sure you weren't designing future airplanes or developing software, but it was enough for you.

"Looks cool, but you should widen the wingspan, I see possible blockage through the-" Doyoung starts on with his commentary.

"Yuta! Do you want to help me start cooking?" You ask, the male seemingly uninterested in the plane, and you could relate. He nods and follows you to the kitchen, adjusting his frames.

After checking their fridge for ideas, you start filling a pot with water to boil some pasta in, directing Yuta to start chopping up some garlic. He follows directions well, as one would expect, and does as he's told.

"How did your mid-term go?" Yuta breaks the silence, referring to the grueling test he had helped you with.

"Fine, I got an 80." You reply, measuring out more pasta.

Yuta raises a brow as he places the knife down. "An 80? But we studied all week."

"Yeah but some of the questions were hard, I didn't remember." You say, and you were truly satisfied with your grade. Sure you had studied, but not everyone retained information as easily as your friends, and they were still having trouble learning that you weren't going to get a 100 points every time.

Yes the boys had extreme book smarts, but they lacked a little street smarts sometimes. They were less empathetic and more clear cut, but you knew they meant well. Though it didn't mean their lack of social cues hurt any less though.

Sometimes you wonder how you had even befriended them. Especially Doyoung, who was usually no nonsense and short worded on campus. But it could all be traced back to Jungwoo.

It was back in freshman year, and on your very first day of class. You had rushed in, confused to see that they had already started without you, which was weird seeing as your class wasn't supposed to be in session for another thirty minutes. You had just waved it off as an accident and sat down, right next to Jungwoo.

During a break, he had introduced himself and asked you if you were excited for Math 2414, and inquired about what your major was.

That was when you realized in horror that you were in Calculus, and not Pre-calculus. No wonder they had already begun, it was the wrong class! And you were not trying to take anything beyond what was required for your degree. "So this isn't pre-calculus?"

"No, I took that in high school! You didn't get that out of the way already?" He had asked, and just then did you realize what kind of person you were dealing with.

You had explained the situation to Jungwoo to which he was really understanding, offering to show you your actual classroom for your next class day. You had agreed, and then by some coincidence, you had run into Jungwoo a few days later. Catching up with him and mentioning you were having trouble with a certain concept already, to which he had offered his help.

You had started having sessions regularly, and Jungwoo had invited you to study with his group of friends, which is where you met the others.

Despite them being a little intimidated by you (And vice versa), you had all got along well, and you were thankful for that. Despite not having great social skills, they were actually a lot less complicated to deal with. They spent a majority of their time studying or doing school work, burying their noses in books. And if not? Then they're playing a computer game Doyoung designed, or testing if Jungwoo's rocket model could fly in the middle of a JCPenny parking lot.

They didn't have a lot of drama either, and you were sure they'd be simple enough to live with. Come to think of it, it's always been tidy whenever you've visited. Jungwoo's bed was always made and Doyoung's desk always clean. Yuta's was exceptionally organized too, even donning some expensive looking anime figures in displays on his shelf.

They were such nerds.

You snort to yourself as you pour the sauce onto the plates, food ready to be eaten. Funny enough, you hadn't even had to call the boys. Yuta had helped you but Doyoung and Jungwoo had hounded the kitchen counter and talked your ear off, both excited for a home cooked meal. Apparently, none of them could cook very well and they usually opted for take out, so this was a relief.

"You guys literally had all the ingredients already." You giggled as you sat down on the small table they had in their apartment.

Jungwoo shakes his head. "Doesn't matter if you don't know how to make anything out of them."

"Thank you by the way, this is really good." Doyoung nods, and by the way he scarfed down half of it already, you'd say he's telling the truth.

"Slow down, you'll choke." Yuta says concerned before his expression changes into a different one. "Wait, you should choke! I can finally practice my CPR on a real person!"

"Well if you haven't practiced on a human yet, I don't think I can trust you." Doyoung shoots him a glare.

"You're hindering my first-aid progression." Yuta narrows his eyes as he takes a bite of his food. The air grows quiet as you voice out what had been weighing on your mind.

"So, any plans for tonight?" You ask, wondering what you're going to get up to a Saturday night. You had a long week, especially since you had woken up on Monday to an eviction notice, so you'd say you could use some time out.

"Hm? Probably start looking over my lobotomy notes for my lecture next week." Yuta responds, earning a chorus of acknowledgment from the other males.

"O-okay, Doyoung?" You ask, but you think you can already guess too.

"I'm beta testing this program my friend just finished, probably'll take me all night." He speaks, attention on his food.

You deflate, looking towards Jungwoo. "Nice, and you?"

"Putting my blueprints into a 3D maker and drafting up a scale model of it." He says, and you take note of how he looks excited about it.

This was quite a turn from what you were used to, you had to remind yourself that these weren't your typical college guys. Yet, you could feel your left eye twitching slightly. "Guys! It's a Saturday night."

"Mhm?" Doyoung replies, his eyebrows furrowed, like the day didn't change anything.

You scoff, "So what, no frat parties? No bar hopping?"

You're met with blank looks, the men looking utterly confused as Jungwoo shakes his head, unfamiliar with both scenes. "No?"

You sigh, facing the fact that you're going out solo. You could probably text a few of your other classmates to meet up wherever you went.

"You guys do that, I'm gonna go get laid tonight." You shrug, getting up to put your dish in the sink. "Yuta you can sleep in your bed if you want."

"Wait- Where are you gonna go?" Jungwoo asks, following you to the kitchen with furrowed brows.

You shrug. "I don't know, maybe a club? Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. If I get home before morning then I'll just crash on the couch."

"If?!" Jungwoo's eyes widen at the prospect of you being out all night.

You place a hand on his shoulder. "I have a key, don't wait up."

And he stands there shocked, the other two watching as you head to your room to shower and change your outfit. You had a long night ahead of you.

Even afterwards, when you had stepped out in

You try your best to quietly open the front door, met with only pitch black darkness as you assume everyone was asleep. It was two in the morning, and in their defense, you did tell them not to wait up.

Slipping your heels off, you step quietly towards the couch. You peel your tight dress off and realize you have nothing to change into, and you weren't going to wake Yuta to just grab a shirt. Luckily for you, there was a blanket you could cover yourself with, so you discarded the bra as well, thankful that at least you had worn shorts under your dress tonight. You sigh as you lay down, head still spinning as you come down from earlier.

You had succeeded in your quest of getting laid, thoroughly being manhandled by a guy named Mingyu who went to a neighboring university. The sex was actually pretty decent, but it could've been better. You had wanted someone to bend you into a pretzel and fuck you until your legs were rendered useless for the next week. And he just couldn't provide that. Maybe you'd have to trust in your rainbow dildo from now on.

You brush the thoughts to the back of your mind as you finally find sleep, eyes fluttering shut.

You swear, it felt like you were asleep for all of two seconds when you hear the blaring alarm clock from one of the rooms. Followed by the sound of things being knocked over.

Rubbing your eyes as you sit up, hangover hitting you hard, but your eyes are drawn to frantic looking Yuta running around the apartment out of his room. He moves over a few things on the dining table quickly and you watching confusion.

"Where are they?" He mutters to himself, throwing some things in the kitchen around as well.

Sitting up, you rub your eyes as your vision adjusts. "What're you looking for?"

"Just my- Oh, where is your shirt? Why are you naked?" He rambles, covering his eyes as he turns around.

You hadn't even noticed that the blanket you used to cover yourself all night had slipped down, accidentally revealing at least part of your boobs to Yuta. "I slept like this because I didn't want to barge into your room to grab a shirt, sorry. I'll go do that now!"

You get up and scramble to the room, feeling so shitty at making Yuta uncomfortable. Opening the drawer, you slip on the first shirt that's there. You don't even look at it before you're rushing out and apologizing profusely to Yuta. "It's only my first morning here and I've already flashed you."

"Is that my shirt?" He asks, eyes wide and your look down to confirm that it was, in fact, Yuta's shirt.

"Oh! And I stole your shirt, I'll wash it and put it back! I really am sorry, I'm just so hungover right now." You hang your head in shame as the words slip out.

"No! No, really it's fine." Yuta dismisses as he waves his hands. "I found my keys so I have to go now, see you when I get back!"

And with that, he's out the door, face tinted red.

God, you were a fool! Sighing in defeat, you make your way to your room, slipping off the shirt and trading it out for one that was yours.

What you didn't know was that Yuta was still standing on the other side of the front door, mind reeling as he replays the mental image of your nipples peaking through the fabric of one of his shirts. He didn't think you'd be giving him this much trouble already! It was the first morning!

Back inside, you're gathering clothes to take a shower. Jungwoo opens the door to his room, unexpectedly rushing out as well, saying he had somewhere to be as he's unable to meet your eyes. You had no idea everyone would be so busy this morning. Was it usually like this? You shrug, too tired and ready to be met with steaming hot water as you bid him goodbye.

After your shower, you not surprised to see Doyoung up as well, sitting near the kitchen as he munches on a banana. You can see his computer in front of him displaying some kind of code, and he doesn't look like he got a wink of sleep. Did these boys ever take a break?

"Good morning Doyoung." You yawn, making a bee line for the coffee machine. You grab a K-Cup and try to figure your way around the machine as you fail to notice Doyoung's stare.

"Oh, Morning." Doyoung finally gives a greeting back, thankful that your back is facing him right now with the way the blood was rushing to his face. Now, Doyoung wouldn't say he was a pervert or anything, but he couldn't help the way his eyes were glued to your shorts.

You break him out of his spell when you turn around, coffee mug in hand. You're frowning, "Why's everyone so busy today?"

"It's like that everyday, we rarely see each other in the mornings." Doyoung explains, keeping his composure still as he tries not to let his eyes wander. He's not stupid, he knew it'd be a little difficult to live with someone as hot as you, but he figured he could handle himself.

"Oh that's too bad, I wanted to make everyone breakfast." You speak, turning around to open the cabinets, unaware how Doyoung's eyes shot straight back to your ass. "So, how was your night?"

"I-it was alright, and yours?" He asks while he clears his throat, already semi-aware of your ventures that you had announced.

"Can't say it was any better." And you leave it at that as you sigh. What could you mean by that? Did you not get laid? With an ass like that?

"Oh.. Well, I have a meeting with my professor in twenty so I have to get going soon." He nods, and you just about lose your mind.

"On a Sunday?"

"Computers work on Sunday's too."

God, what was he on about? "Okay Doyoung, see you later then."

Weirdly, you felt the least your friends could do was amuse you. But so far, you were beginning to realize that they're likely this busy all the time, between their schooling and internship jobs, they were packed.

Speaking of jobs, it was time to start looking.

Eight online job applications later and you're about ready to move to the woods and start living like a cave woman off the grid. No money, no bills, and no rent. Sadly, you were too accustomed to running water to let that happen though.

So you decide to drop off an application at a promising job near you, before hitting the inevitable brick wall. You don't have a printer.

Surely one of the boys had to have one, right?

Wrong, it seemed as you looked into Jungwoo's room. It felt weird to just peep in there, but you didn't want to bother him by texting since you knew he was busy. Unfortunately, you were already aware that Yuta didn't have one either.

Which left you with peeping into Doyoung's room. Maybe if you had just, I don't know, used the printer available at your college campus, you wouldn't have discovered such a life altering sight.

Yet, for some reason, that possibility didn't cross your mind as you swung the door open. And you felt like your jaw hit the floor as you stared ahead almost immediately.

Positioned right above Doyoung's bed, was a camera.

And not just any camera, an ultra HD expensive looking one, and that said a lot seeing you knew nothing about cameras. To make matters worse, it was held by a tri-pod. Could it be any more obvious?

You close the door as you stand, feet plastered to the floor in horror. What the hell was Kim Doyoung doing with a classic porn set up in his room? Kim Doyoung?! The nerdy TA who ran from woman that were just trying to ask him class-related questions? The male who grimaced at any sight of public of public affection? The one who rolled his eyes in annoyance when others made dirty jokes?

That Kim Doyoung was making porn?

Yeah right, you could almost laugh at that.

There had to be another reasonable explanation, right? You had known Doyoung for a while now, and he definitely didn't even seem like a man who was too keen on pre-marital sex, there was just no way he was filming it.

You doubt he even watched porn, that's how busy and wound up he seemed. There was no way on this green earth that he was doing that. But that doesn't explain what the camera was doing there.

You had to find a way to connect this to his nerdy computer job or you were going to go crazy.

You got home around five in the afternoon after dropping off the finally printed application, and picking up a few things, like toilet paper and laundry soap, that you had noticed missing around the apartment. Mostly just buying yourself time to get over the weird thoughts you were having now.

You doubt you'd be able to look Doyoung in the eye without crumbling, so you text your friend Mark if you can crash on his couch, he lives closer to campus anyways. He responds almost immediately with a sure dude, and you decide you'll stop by the house to pick up pajamas.

You don't expect anyone to be home as you unlock the door, but of course, everyone was home. All of them gathered in the living room with takeout boxes as Jungwoo spots you. He holds one up, "We didn't know when you'd be home, but we ordered for you."

You smile as you thank him, opening the box to reveal your favorite dish. You hadn't explicitly told them lately, but they had remembered? That makes your heart swell for your friends a bit as you spot Doyoung out of the corner of your eye. Oh, right.

"Actually, I have to go do this thing tonight." You lie. "So I just stopped by to get some clothes."

"Really? Is everything okay?" Yuta inquires as you nod. And it's as if there's no awkwardness from him after the incident this morning either, so you're grateful for that.

"I'm fine, I'll be home tomorrow." You explain.

"Well, could you spare a minute to eat with us?" Jungwoo pouts, and you find yourself nodding before you can stop yourself. You were always a little weak for him.

If Doyoung notices your odd behavior as you sit by him, he doesn't say a word about it. In fact, everyone seems to go about their business. Everyone filling you in on how busy their days were and asking about what you had been up to.

"Oh, I left the bags by the door, but I bought some stuff we needed."

"You're an angel." Jungwoo comments. "I was scared I was going to have to use napkins instead of toilet paper again."

"That's so gross Jungwoo." Yuta reconciles and you all laugh in agreement.

"So, you'll be gone all night then?" Doyoung asks, bringing your attention back to him. Your eyes dart to his hands, right as he twirls the noodles around his chopsticks. Sure you were still wondering a little about the camera situation, but it wasn’t like that right? Though you can’t help but notice how pretty his hands were.

His fingers were long, and you couldn’t help but imagine how they wrapped around his own cock. If he filmed anything, would he jerk off and beg his viewers to let him cum? Or was he more dominant, shoving his thin fingers into a flashlight as he spoke nasty words, or maybe even in another girl. The visual alone is enough to get you hot and bothered. But you shake yourself out of it, this was the dorky comp-sci major you lived with, you should not be thinking about him like that.

"Yeah, I'm working on a project with Mark, figured I'd just spend the night since we have the class together in the morning." You put together, pretty impressed with how well the lie was coming out.

"Mark?" Yuta raises a brow, the name familiar to him. "Like the hockey player?"

You nod, curious. "You know him?"

"Not really, just know he's a jock."

You catch his implication. "Well, he's not like that. Plus, he's my friend so you guys shouldn't worry, not like I'm spending the night with a stranger."

Jungwoo grows uncharacteristically quiet. "Oh."

"So Jungwoo's being fucking weird, Doyoung might have an onlyfans, and Yuta's saw your boobs?" Mark parrots back as you two sit on his living room couch, he's shifting the lollipop in his mouth from one side to the other as he thinks. His brows furrow in concentration as he cooks up a response.

"Exactly."

Haechan, your friends roommate and fellow hockey teammate, laughs loudly as he enters the room. "And it's only your second day living with them?"

"Told you the losers would be a lot to handle." Mark shrugs, and you roll your eyes. These two didn't have the greatest impression of your other three friends, reducing them down to the nerds everyone thought they were.

"I didn't see you offering me a room," You defend. "Plus, they're super easy to live with so I don't have much else to complain about."

"You could always just share a bed with me." Haechan smirks, and you fake gag. "Your room smells like shit."

"Hey!"

"Anyways, I'd rather live with my beloved nerds than with you two sleazes." You state truthfully, scrunching your nose.

"Doyoung might be slinging his dick on camera, yet we're the sleazes?" Mark giggles, and you hit him in the arm.

"I don't think that's the case but, is there any other explanation?" You groan, stealing a chip from a bag hidden on Mark's side. He swats at your hand as you grab another one.

"He could just be into filming." Haechan offers, joining you two as he pops open a soda. And you ponder if Doyoung's ever been seen with a camera before.

You shake your head, doubting it. "He's never mentioned anything like that."

"Well running from him, and the rest of your roommates, is just going to make them think you're ungrateful. It'd be better to just confront them now and get over it." Mark advises, and the other male agrees.

Haechan places his soda down. "Why does it matter anyways? What Doyoung does in his apartment is no one else's business."

"Well-" You stop yourself as you look down. "I don't know."

"What's up?" Mark says at the shift in your attitude.

You hadn't confronted it yet, but the though of the things Doyoung did on his bed with his camera running? You hated that you wanted to see it. You hated that you ran with the implication of him having a scandalous hobby, and that you wanted a front row seat.

"I don't know, even with those wire-frame's and all, I think he's kind of cute." You admit begrudgingly, leaning back into the couch in embarrassment.

"Oh my God," Haechan sits up. "The thought of him doing that has you all hot and bothered! That's what it is, it's not even about him actually doing it, its about you thinking he is."

"And you're just having trouble grappling with your feelings." Mark shrugs as he pops a chip into his mouth, lollipop stick discarded.

You cover your face with your hands. "Stop.."

Mark sighs, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Don't hate the messenger."

"Okay sure, Doyoung's nice to look at but if anything, I'd be more into Jungwoo." You reveal, and it's true. If there's anyone in the house you'd like in that way, it'd be Jungwoo. You two just had a better connection, even if he'd be acting different lately.

"In a weird science-y kind of way?" Haechan tilts his head before groaning. "Why him when you could have the hottest frat boy on campus?"

"There you go again." You glare, knowing instantly that he was referring to Lee Jeno's crush on you. You know full well the two in front of you were rooting for their friend. They also thought you were too attractive to be hidden behind stuffy scholars all day. And sure, Jeno was sweet, and easy on the eyes, but you just weren't into him. "Stop trying to set me up."

"Worth a shot."

"Anyways, I think instead of just hiding here." Mark narrows his eyes. "You should go home and explain everything, that way you don't continue scuttling around out of nervousness."

"And admit that I thought about Doyoung in that way?" You exclaim, face palming. "Mark, that's a terrible plan."

"You don't have to say all that," Mark crosses his arms in retaliation. "Just talk about Jungwoo's behavior and clear the air with Yuta."

You hang your head in defeat. "Can I at least wait until tomorrow?"

"Nope. Now."

You plead as you caught off guard by his insistance. "But Mark-"

"He said now." Haechan repeats, grinning at your misery.

"Oh so now you two agree?" You scoff in disbelief. Those two loved to argue about everything, but of course they could team up against you.

Mark nods, pointing to the door. "Go before it's past their bedtime."

"Don't be ridiculous Mark." Haechan feigns seriousness before he chuckles. "They have to tuck each other in first."

"You two are so annoying." You mutter as you pack up your bag. Shooting the two endless glares as you slip your shoes on.

Thirty minutes later and you're at the front door of what is now considered your home. Even when it was just your friends, you had never felt this nervous entering it before. You take a deep breath in as you stick the key in the lock, ready for confrontation.

You're met with chatter in the living room, relieved that they were still up, at least you wouldn't be waking them. You close the door behind you quietly as you take your shoes off and make your way to the living room.

You take a deep breath as you round the corner. "Hey, I'm back-"

You freeze in your place at the sight before you. It seriously seemed liked your friends had been abducted by aliens. There was no way the image before you was real. Your eyes widen as your jaw slacks, "What. The. Fuck."

Your met with three pairs of eyes staring back at you, Yuta standing up from the couch first. "I-I thought you were going to be gone all night."

You stay still from shock, brain trying to come up for any reasonable explanation as to why your friends looked liked male strippers right now. "You...You're Yuta?!"

Yuta looks taken aback. "Just with a little makeup."

Just a little? Yuta looked completely transformed, his hair gelled back nicely instead of awkwardly parted down the middle. The black glasses and collard shirts traded out for thick rings and painted nails. He looked like a rock star, and was that a tattoo?

"We can explain." Doyoung awkwardly looks down. Your knocked out by the sigh of him as well. Gone is his usual stern put-together look, instead he's donning smoky eye shadow with layered gold necklaces as his dark hair messily frames his face. He's wearing a sleeveless shirt, and that catches you heavily off guard as he usually only wears loose fitting clothes. He had been hiding those toned arms the entire time?

You take a step back. "How do you plan on explaining why it looks like I just stepped onto the set of Magic Mike?"

Your eyes finally meet the quiet boy who had been on your mind recently, Jungwoo. And to say he looked stunning would be an understatement. He was wearing a cropped shirt that showcased his toned abs as he stood up, the red color of it contrasting to his skin perfectly. His eyes looked striking, and he's wearing dark makeup as well.

You'd hate to admit it, but the sight of the men had you suddenly rubbing your thighs together and trying to stop your head from spinning. What the hell was going on right now? What alternate timeline has you just entered?

"Why don't you sit?" Doyoung suggests, avoiding eye contact.

"Umm, alright." You comply, hesitating. When you look back up with expectant eyes, they start to get nervous.

Yuta sits as well, and you're trying not to drool. "Don't freak out."

You side eye him, this was an unusual reaction. "Right.."

"I'll just come out and say it," He pauses. "We're camboys."

He watches your face for a reaction but you provide none, instead choosing to have an explosion in your mind as you keep your composure outwardly. You turn to face him, calmly. "Oh."

Doyoung repeats. "Oh?"

"I don't know how I'm meant to react to this." You struggle truthfully. One, you were grappling with the explanation that you were right in your assumptions. Two, you were trying your best not to just gawk at them. "Plus, it's none of my business, I just came home to apologize."

Jungwoo furrows his brows. "To us?"

"I kind of already saw the tri-pod facing Doyoung's bed and jumped to conclusions. That's why I was acting distant, and I also flashed Yuta this morning-"

"You what?" Doyoung perks up.

"It wasn't on purpose." You wave your hands around before lowering your voice. "And I wanted to know why Jungwoo's been acting weird lately, and if I did anything wrong."

Jungwoo looks taken aback. "What? No, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Are you sure? You've been acting off since I've moved in." You respond, trying not to ogle your friends abs. It was proving to be harder than you thought as you forced yourself to look him in the eye.

Yuta and Doyoung exchange a knowing glance that you miss as Jungwoo stutters for an explanation. "I'm sorry, I've just been stressed."

And you just nod, the tense atmosphere in the room suffocating you. "Maybe I should go."

"Are you bothered?" Yuta asks, stopping you. The rest of the boys look genuinely worried, and you feel terrible. Your silence must've come off wrong.

"What? No, this is your house! You can all do whatever you want." You admit genuinely.

Doyoung shakes his head. "We could've at least let you know before hand-"

"No, really, it's fine." You reassure him as you make eye contact with the two other boys. "Also, your secrets safe with me, I won't say anything."

"We know you won't." Yuta nods. "We trust you, and we're sorry we didn't say anything sooner, we just didn't want things to change."

"Nothing has changed, alright?" You smile. "Everything's normal."

Everything was far from normal as the days progressed. Sure, the boys seemed a little more loose around you, knowing they didn't have to hide their nighttime activities from you anymore.

But you, on the other hand? Let's just say you were having a hard time not opening a incognito tab on your computer to search for your friends content. Though you knew their accounts wouldn't be easily traceable, likely not having their real name attached to it at all.

It still didn't stop you from wanting to look though.

"If you zone out one more time, I'm kicking you out of my apartment." Haechan voices in annoyance, noticing your lack of attention on some crazy story he was telling you today.

"Yeah, what has you so spacey?" Mark asks, returning to Haechan's bedroom with a water bottle in his hand.

They were unaware of the events, as you had kept your mouth shut, as promised. But it was beginning to grow harder to keep everything to yourself, especially with the way you'd been feeling lately. So with Mark's curious eyes on yours, the words spill out like a waterfall. You recalling everything that had happened to your closest friends, including how badly you wanted to know what the others were up to behind the camera.

Haechan looks gobsmacked, mouth agape as he takes in your words. "..Jungwoo has abs?"

"Is that all you got from that?" You voice frustratedly, they were insufferable.

"I'm never seen him in the gym a day in my life!"

"You don't go to the gym Haechan!"

"All three of them?" Mark repeats, in utter shock as well.

You nod back. "I don't know if they film together or what but-"

"You wanna see it." Haechan finishes for you. "You pervert!"

"I'm not a pervert!"

"You're a pervert. Pervert, pervert, pervert!" Haechan continues in a sing-song voice as you feel your eye twitch. You don't know why you told these two, not like they could offer any useful insight.

Before you can retaliate, Mark's shushing his friend. "I know how to fix this."

You listen because, really? How could Mark possibly know how to solve the inner turmoil brewing inside of you? What could make it all go away?

You admit. "I'm all ears."

"You need to get laid." He states, and your brows fuzz.

"Uh..." You trail, trying to figure out the nicest way to shoot him down.

"Not by us!" He responds, almost reading your mind, then turning around and pretending to puke in Haechans mini trash can. How mature. He comes back to his senses as he stands up again. "Come to a party with us and get fucked. It'll take your mind off of them, and anyways, I think this is just caused by sexual frustration."

Haechan pipes in. "He's right, you're just suffering from lack of dick."

"I slept with this dude named Mingyu like a week ago-"

Haechan stops you. "Shhh, Mark is always right! Right Mark?"

"Right!" And it's so strange how the two have been suddenly agreeing lately.

So you, almost unwillingly, find yourself attending a party with them that very night. Dressed in your tightest fitting dress and your nicest pair of lingerie. After about thirty more minutes of talking to you, they had you convinced your reeling horny thoughts were coming from sexual deprivation. You're sure they had brainwashed you, because seriously, you just had sex! This plan was dumb, but what else did you expect?

Though now, you're feeling stupid as your two friends subtly nudge Lee Jeno in your direction. God, you should've known those two were up to something.

You sip from your red solo cup as Jeno continues to shyly sell himself to you. He's telling you about his volunteer hours, his stellar sports stats, and his love for animals. If you didn't know any better, you'd say he's interviewing for a job, and not just attempting to grab a hookup.

Your heart somewhat aches for the boy, he definitely was trying to make you his girlfriend sooner or later, and it was almost sweet. But even if you weren't currently enthralled by the idea of your roommates, you still wouldn't have seen yourself giving Jeno a chance. He wasn't really your type anyways.

Jeno excuses himself to pour another drink as you shoot glares at your two friends from across the room. Not that Haechan sees it though, he's too busy trying to feel up some poor girl who fell for his pick up lines. Mark looks intimidated though!

You pull out your phone in an attempt to discourage any others from approaching you, and are met with a notification from Jungwoo. You open the message accompanied by his cute little contact photo and try not to smile.

It reads, Hey! Doyoung attempted dinner, you should come join us.

Granted, the boys had no idea where you were or that you were being forced into yet another mission, but you just stick your phone back in your purse and scan the room again.

While Lee Jeno may not have been your type, looking for something far too serious to even let you consider sleeping with him, Liu Yangyang seemed to be just what you were searching for. With your luck, he'd throw you off to the side the next morning. You're relieved by the fact that's he's not known to be one for committing.

You're about to approach him when Mark meets your eyes, sending you a silent don't, basically reading your mind. God, why did they have to play wingman? And curse Mark for reading your mind! So you stay rooted in your place as Jeno returns, handing you a drink that you won't even be drinking from.

Doyoung's dinner would probably be more entertaining that this right now. "Hey, sorry. I think I'm actually gonna head home, I'm pretty tired." You let out, interrupting whatever Jeno was saying.

There's a flash of disappointment in his eyes before he smiles. "I can drive you home."

Your eyes dart to the beer in his hand, passing him a fake smile. "I'll manage, but thank you for offering!"

You ignore the silent pleas and texts from your friends as you exit and get into your car, thankful that you hadn't taken a sip of anything at that party.

A few minutes later and you're back home, deciding to ring the door bell so you're not faced with another situation.

Yuta opens it, smiling as he welcomes you home. You grin back as you slip off your shoes, starving for whatever you could find. "Is dinner ready?"

But your question is answered as you walk into the kitchen to see instant ramen packets scattered across the counter top as Jungwoo holds a bowl, and Doyoung frantically scrubbing at a burnt pan.

Doyoung pushes up his glasses with his shoulder as he's still elbow deep in the sink. "Dinner didn't exactly go as planned."

You giggle. "I see that."

"Want some ramen?" Jungwoo perks up, gesturing his chopsticks towards you when you nod.

"Promise you'll cook for us tomorrow?" Yuta asks, watching as the charred food doesn't let up from the pan. You make a face as well as you shake your head.

"Promise," You say, swallowing your noodles as you sit next to Jungwoo. "Sorry I was out, Haechan and Mark are trying to set me up."

Doyoung somewhat stiffens at the names. "Yeah? Take it that didn't go well?"

You sigh. "Well, he's an athlete and he's nice enough,"

"But?" Jungwoo finishes, knowing you weren't done. Well, he was downright hoping something was wrong with this mystery athlete, truth be told.

Good thing he was right. "But, I don't think I'm into him."

"Why not?"

"No particular reason," You lie, managing to avoid eye contact with the men that were your roadblocks to anyone else right now. How were you supposed to manage a decent lay while thinking about the three hottest guys you've ever seen at home?

Even now, without their makeup and sultry clothing, you think they look attractive as ever. God, you had it bad. With those stupid collard shirts and wire frames, you think they've never looked better.

"I think I'm going to lay off the parties for a few days anyway, midterms are in a week." You continue, knowing the men in front of you had been preparing for them these past couple of weeks already.

"Right," Doyoung nods, sleeves still rolled up as he dries his hands. "Wanted to warn you by the way, we're going to be filming on Tuesday."

"Got it, I'll study at Mark's." You pass, already planning in your head how to get Haechan's loud mouth out of the room long enough to get work done.

Jungwoo looks bothered though. "Or you could stay?"

You look up from your bowl. "Hm?"

"I've been thinking," Jungwoo starts. "This is your place too, you should be able to go about your business while we film. It's not like I haven't done homework while Yuta recorded a fleshlight clip in the next room."

His boldness paired with his vulgar language — which you were definitely not used to — catches you off guard.

"I wouldn't want to bother-"

"No, he's right." Doyoung stops you. "We can't send you off everytime we have something to do, unless it makes you uncomfortable?"

You pause, you shouldn't even be considering this! Not just because of your lack of self control, but also, wouldn't this be dangerously pushing boundaries? "Oh but Yuta doesn't even have his own room right now-"

"Look, if Yuta ever needs to push something out, he can use my room. Or you could just come chill in mine while we wait." Jungwoo offers.

But goodness, being in the same vicinity as any of them when they're doing such sinful things? How were you supposed to hold back? You'd be expected to talk to Jungwoo while Yuta moaned up a storm in the other room?

"Oh, I don't know." You answer, wanting to drop the topic for now. It wasn't getting any easier to talk about it anyways.

"Why do you seem so nervous about it?" Yuta leans in, eyes meeting yours.

You subconsciously lean back, he was definitely onto you. Too bad it was a little hard to fake that you didn't fight the subconscious urge every past night to google their names. "Oh, uh-"

"We'll drop it," Jungwoo shoots a glare at Yuta. "Sorry."

"It's fine!" You smile, pretending to be preoccupied with your ramen. Though your mind is on anything but those stupid noodles right now.

“No we won’t.” Yuta smirks, ignoring Jungwoo entirely. “What has you so worked up, rubbing your thighs together below the table?”

You’re caught off guard at his openness. “W-what?”

“I bet it’s not that athlete, is it?” Yuta leans, tone seductive, and something you had never heard before. And you'd be lying if you said you didn't want him to bend you over the table in front of you.

You avert your eyes, wondering why everyone else had gotten quiet all of a sudden. You couldn't confront this right now, no you wouldn't! "I'll be in my room."

And with that you make a quick way for your temporary bedroom. Ignoring Jungwoo's call for your name as you close the door behind you. What the hell were you going to do now?

Yuta knows he messed up, bad. Things had been tense in the house for the past few days, and you were more skittish than he had ever seen you. He wondered if you were spending time at Mark's place again.

That was Jungwoo's biggest nightmare, in all honesty. He wasn't sure what the nature of you and Mark's friendship was — and he didn't even want to think about it. You were gorgeous, you could have anyone you wanted! He had no doubt that your friends would fuck you if given the chance, if they hadn't already. He knows it doesn't matter who you're sleeping with, but it does make him feel jealous.

Doyoung remains indifferent, at least on the outside. He goes about his day as Yuta and Jungwoo lose their minds over how to return to their normal selves again. It affects him as well though. You were really close to all of them at one point, how had that changed in less than a week?

Doyoung just knows he wish things had went differently.

The sound of the front door opening alerts everyone in the house. Jungwoo's quick to jump up, greeting you at the front door. You smile back as you remove your shoes. You try to keep your composure as you ignore the men in front of you being dressed up. Ah, you forgot it was a filming day. "Today was so stressful."

"Really? Do you maybe wanna watch something in my room with me?" Jungwoo suggests, hoping he can attempt to ease things. "It'll help you relax."

You shrug, though you don't if you could handle the close proximity. It's already taking everything in you right now not to jump his bones in this hallway. "Why not?"

He mentally celebrates in his head, "I'll grab some chips and meet you in my room."

You nod, walking to your temporary room to change. Today really had taken a toll on you, and on top of it, you forgot you were coming home to your roommates alter-egos. Not that you were complaining, because you definitely weren't, but it had slipped your mind. At least Jungwoo wasn't being awkward anymore. Things were going back to normal, right?

You change into shorts and a simple t-shirt and make your way across the hall. You push open the door and see Jungwoo settled already on his bed, the tv already on. You and him to have movie nights in his bed during sleepovers, so this wasn't unusual. Finally, something was normal again. Even if now you were sexually attracted to him. Geez, could you get your head out of the gutter?!

You two watch the movie for a few minutes as Jungwoo starts to shift in his spot. You begin to grow concerned. "Everything okay?"

Jungwoo brushes you off. "I'm fine."

You furrow your brows. "Alright.."

It only takes a few seconds for him to break as he shoots up. He couldn't ignore it's presence, especially not with you in the room. The insinuation of the little red light on in the corner, as the two of you sat on his bed? It was taking his mind to places it shouldn't go. "I left my camera on my desk, its facing this way. Let me just put it up."

And with that he scrambles to his desk, shutting off the camera and tossing it in one of his desk drawers. He's frantic, and his mind is racing with how little you must think of him right now. "Sorry."

You shake your head. "Stop apologizing, it's fine."

Jungwoo covers his face with his hands as he leans against his desk. He breaks, "I can't keep pretending this isn't weird."

You had no idea he was losing his composure as well, you had thought you had been the only one blowing it out of proportion. But you didn't want him to feel ashamed. So you assure him, "I don't mind."

He moves his hands. "You don't feel weird?"

"Can I be honest, Jungwoo?" You ask, it was now or never. One more second of this back-and-forth and you were going to explode.

He meets your eyes. "Please?"

“It turns me on.” You blurt out, admitting the truth. And you can't believe it had came out so easily.

Jungwoo’s shocked as he fumbles over what to say next. “What?”

It was too late to go back now, you had to say it. “I think it’s hot, Jungwoo, I think you’re hot.”

Were his ears deceiving him? He prayed you weren't messing with him. “Really?”

You giggle as you stand to your feet and he starts to feel stupid. “Mhm."

You continue to walk up to him as you place your hands on the desk behind him, effectively caging him between you. You had no idea where this boldness came from, but its likely he was drawing it out from you.

And he can't believe his circumstances. The girl he's been utterly in love with is leaning over him, in those tiny little shorts, telling him that he was the hot one? “So if I kissed you right now, you would-”

You stop him mid-sentence as you bring your lips to his. It's reliving almost, the way your mouths slide together in synch. You had waited far to long for this to let him think he would take the lead. You wanted it far too badly.

He kisses you back, head dizzy with how much he wants you. Though he's laced with a feeling of uncertainty that he just can't shake off because what was this? Was this just a hook-up, oh he was getting ahead of himself. This was a kiss, who knew if you even wanted to sleep with him!?

He debates telling you right there, not letting another second go by where you don't know about his feelings. But he's scared, terrified even, of your reaction. So he savors the kiss, putting his hands around your waist to grab your hips and pull you closer together, if that was even possible.

You can feel your heart rate increasing as you lose your breath. You pull away slightly for breath as you and Jungwoo meet eyes. He's showing no signs of stopping though. Pulling you back in to meet his lips as gentle as possible, before kissing you with the hunger of a starved man.

He's devouring you, and he's not sure if he intends to stop there. He doesn't want to stop there, but he's completely blank on what you want. He separates, "We should stop."

You're hazy, drunk on the kiss as you eyes don't leave his lips. "Don't wanna,"

He stops you before you can go in again, squeezing your hips. He couldn't get enough of you, his body was craving you. "I don't know if I'll be able to control myself."

You smirk, hunger in your voice. "Then don't."

He groans, you had no idea what you were doing to him. How long he had dreamed of this moment. "I need to know what you want."

The statement has a double meaning, almost daring you to spill out about feelings that he's not even sure you had. Was he ultimately just hurting himself? Likely.

Though you only catch one meaning, "I want you inside me."

And he'd be stupid to deny you that. He tries to formulate a response but you don't give him a chance. You lean closer, brushing your sex on his semi-hard on, "Need you inside me."

"Fuck," He rasped, as he moves his knee between your thigh. You moan out in ecstasy, feeling slightly embarrassed. He had barely even touched you and you're bitching like a dog in heat.

You lick your lips. "Jungwoo, I-"

The door swings open as Yuta and Doyoung peek in. Yuta shakes his head as he crosses his arms, Doyoung standing in complete surprise. The two of them stare as if they caught you doing something illegal.

"Well, what do we have here?" Yuta speaks as he takes in the scene before him. You and Jungwoo hadn't even bothered to separate, too caught off guard to even have time to think about hiding what you were doing.

You swallow hard. "We were just-"

"Just grinding on each other like horny teenagers?" Yuta finishes, smirking as he knows he couldn't have walked in at a better moment.

"Yeah, thanks for the invite Jungwoo." Doyoung comments sarcastically, and you're left confused.

Jungwoo immediately catches on. "No that's not what we were-"

Yuta doesn't buy it. "No use in lying about it."

"I'm sorry, what?" You ask, unmoving.

"Yuta thinks we're filming." Jungwoo elaborates, sighing.

"You're not?" Yuta asks, and Doyoung looks intrigued.

You shake your head, "We were just kissing anyways."

"Jungwoo's boner says otherwise." Doyoung snorts.

Yuta crosses his arms, "Were you really gonna fuck her without us?"

The words hit you, without us? Who was us? Yuta and Doyoung?

You stutter, flabberghasted. "Y-you guy's would've wanted to watch?!"

Yuta shrugs. "I'll be honest, that's more of Doyoung's thing. He likes to watch, he's into those cuck things. I, on the other hand, would've wanted to join."

Yet again, you're phased by the casual talk of this all. A few weeks ago you never would've thought your friends were so, nasty. The guys who avidly avoided woman, the guys who go all shy when you got too close, the guys who would rather be studying than anything else. You don't think you'll ever get used to how they talk now.

Blinking, you speak. "You want to fuck me?"

Yuta brushes hair out of his face. "Are you serious?"

"W-what? Why are you acting like it's a stupid question, you guys have never shown attraction to me." You state, moving off of Jungwoo, and he winces as the loss of contact.

Doyoung groans. "I don't think we could've been anymore obvious without downright saying it."

Was that true? Had you missed all the signs? "I had no idea."

Yuta scoffs, quirking his head to the side condescendedly. "Look at her face, she's telling the truth, she really had no idea what she was putting us through. And here I thought you were being a tease on purpose."

"A tease?"

"Oh come on, flashing me. Walking around the house in tiny shorts and no bra under your t-shirts." He names and you see how that could look.

You mutter. "Flashing you was an accident."

"Well it's no accident how bad I want to fuck you." Yuta replies boldly, walking closer. "So are you in?"

Doyoung pipes up. "If you don't want to, you can walk out now. I promise, thing's wont be weird, we'll be fine."

You think over Doyoungs words for a minute, before looking back at Jungwoo. "I-"

You turn back to the other two. "I want to."

Yuta smiles, and Doyoung speaks again. "Are you sure?"

Jungwoo grabs your hand in his. "We're not trying to pressure you-"

"Jungwoo, I've wanted this for longer than you'd think." You admit, pressure off of your shoulders.

Yuta breaks the moment, pure lust in his eyes. "Get on the bed."

You do as told, laying down on the bed in excitement at the thought of what the three men are going to do to you. You had no idea what to expect.

Jungwoo settles on one side of you, rubbing you through your bottoms. “Thought you were too good for me, honestly. I’m little loser Jungwoo, and here you are, a sopping wet mess under me.”

“Told Jungwoo I wanted to fuck you the day we met.” Yuta reveals, seated on the opposite side. Yet, you're too caught up on his words.

“Really?”

“Yeah, baby. Told him we should get you in a little video too, what would you have said then?” He responds, and you flutter at the nickname.

“I had already thought of the title.” Jungwoo smirks. “Slutty college girl gets her tiny hole stretched by nerdy math tutors.”

“I’d pay to see that.” Doyoung comments, eyes locked on you.

“Of course you would.” Yuta teases, gaze full of pure lust.

You feel fuzzy already. “I-I would’ve said yes!”

“Are you sure?” Jungwoo asks condescendingly. Just because he wanted this as bad as you didn't mean he couldn't have a little fun. “I was just the nerd, remember? The nerd who watched you leave to get fucked by another guy while I was right here.”

You moan out at his vulgar words going straight to your core.

Doyoung takes a seat in the chair by Jungwoo's desk, seemingly content with watching. “We were all right here.”

Yuta grins, hands pulling at your shirt. “I would’ve pounded you into my mattress the minute you asked.”

You whine, the feverish desire taking over. “Wa-want that so bad.”

“Yeah? Want me to fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow?”

You nod, overtaken with sheer desire.

Jungwoo suddenly leans down to capture your mouth in his, distracting how Yuta takes over and tugs your bottoms completely off. You shakily grab run your hands through his hair and he shivers when you touch him and gets slightly more aggressive with the kiss. He wants to be as close to you as he can, even if just for now.

You feel the air hit your bare cunt as you moan into Jungwoo's mouth. He smirks a little as Yuta shakes his head. "So wet just from a little kissing, who knew our friend was such a slut for us?"

You buck your hips off the bed, to which Yuta forcefully pushes your thighs back down. You're barely able to let out a yelp of surprise as the other male continues to meld his mouth with yours.

He’s clearly trying to keep the kiss going for as long as he can, he seems to be enjoying himself way too much. But you can't say you're complaining.

Jungwoo pulls off, moving his plush lips down to your neck as Yuta teasingly runs his fingers numbingly slow through your slit. "P-please stop teasing- umph!"

You're cut off as Yuta pushes a finger into you, quickly followed by another. He's agonizingly slow once again and you can barely handle yourself, "'S too much- too-"

"Oh so you want to give orders but when I follow through, now you're taking it back?" He moves his fingers inside you. "If you can't take my fingers, how are you supposed to take my cock?"

You moan at the thought of it, not knowing what he looked like under the belt should be considered pure torture, every other part of him was so alluring.

Jungwoo brings your attention back to him as he pulls your shirt up just enough to unclasp your bra, sliding both off with ease as you were too distracted to do it yourself.

"Your nipples are already so hard." He teases, though he goes to pinch one and that has you writhing. "Oh, they're even prettier than I imagined."

He continues to fondle one before putting his mouth on the other, sucking as Yuta continue to piston his fingers in and out of you, going faster by the minute.

You felt so good already, so overwhelmed that you weren't sure it could get any better, but oh were you so wrong.

You feel the familiar coil beginning to form in your stomach, unable to hold in your whines. "Don't stop, please,"

He doesn't, in fact he goes even faster. The pace matched with Jungwoo's mouth still on your boob makes you go dizzy fast.

Before you know it, you're feeling the coil snap and your release dripping out. But you were a fool if you thought they were going to stop.

Yuta continues to finger you damn near to heaven, Jungwoo's tongue jutting out to graze your nipple as he talks you through your climax.

But you're already halfway gone, "Want- want you inside,"

Yuta pulls his fingers out of you, and you clench around nothing as you whine at the sudden emptiness. Yuta doesn't seem too intent on giving it to you so easily though, "You want me inside?.. And what if I don't think you deserve it? What if I make you beg for it?"

You can feel tears well up in your eyes. "Please, please I'll beg. Please Yuta, I can't go another minute without your dick in me!"

Yuta smirks, satisfied with your response. He stands from the bed and pulls his shirt off, following by unzipping his pants. You watch intently as he does so, finally able to see his abs and that tattoo in all of its glory. You could feel yourself throbbing at the view.

"Condom," You whisper, almost like an afterthought, looking at Jungwoo. "Do you have any in here?"

Jungwoo nods, gesturing to Doyoung who sits by the nightstand. "Top right drawer."

Doyoung follows, throwing a package towards Yuta as he catches it before ripping it open with his teeth. Fuckkk that was so hot.

He wastes no time in sliding it over his length, positioning it outside your entrance. You hope he's about to enter but instead, like the tease he is, rubs your clit with his tip gently. Your body already trembling and he wasn't even inside yet.

"Beg," He commands as he continues his previous actions.

"Please! Oh please Yuta-" You chant his name like a mantra as he smiles down at you.

"Don't worry, I'll give you want you want." He speaks, pushing the plush head of his dick past your walls. "Not gonna stop till you're sore."

He continues to push himself farther in as Jungwoo rubs his thumb over your clit, how were they so in synch? Had they done this before?

Yuta finally bottoms out inside you, hissing as you clench around him. "Pussy so fucking tight for such a whore."

You groan as he starts to move, thrusting into you as you babble. Jungwoo's eyes land straight on where your tits bounce, obsessed with the view. God, he was gonna bust in his pants.

You can hear the slight tap of the headboard creaking as it hits the wall behind you, Yuta reaching up to grip it as leverage while he slams into you, and you're trying your hardest not to drool on Jungwoo's pillow.

The younger male smirks before he pulls you into a kiss, silencing your moans for the minute as his tongue explores your mouth.

You whine into Jungwoo's mouth as he continues to sloppily kiss you. Yuta never falters as he watches from behind, he never knew he could enjoy watching you so much. He's borderline obsessed with seeing you two make out while he's inside, he can't get enough.

Doyoung can't see as well from where he sits, but the sounds make up for it. The room filled with the sounds of your muffled moans and skin meeting skin, accompanied by Yuta's heavy groans and pants.

He's doing everything he can to not take his dick out and start palming it, convincing himself to just wait for his turn.

Yuta moved in and out of you, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure throughout your body. You cried out as the pleasure became almost too much to bear, body quivering beneath him.

He doesn't let up though, too keen on seeing your pretty face all scrunched up. You were shaking as his movements started to go deeper and deeper into you, there was no way you were going to survive this.

"You feel that baby?" He groans. "Feel how hard you make me?"

You just nod, too focused on the task at hand.

He keeps going, "Look how hard Jungwoo is, he's leaking all over his bed."

You'd love to see, but you can't bring your eyes steady enough to look towards him. Jungwoo lets out a quiet whine at Yuta's words, clearly embarrassed.

"Don't get all shy Jungwoo." Doyoung interjects. "It's cute seeing you so worked up."

You moaned, despite the words not being directed towards you. Doyoung voice mixed with Yuta hitting your g spot brought you directly to another realm of heaven.

Yuta felt his body tremble as his release began to build, his mind spinning as his pleasure reached its peak. He couldn't believe he was really getting to have you like this, in all his wildest dreams come true. His fingers dug into your hips, anchoring him to you as the orgasm started to take over.

You separated from Jungwoo as you started to feel the falter in the others thrusts while feeling a similar build up, managing to sputter out a "Are you close?"

He nods, "Are -shit- you?"

You can barely respond before Jungwoo's bringing your lips back to his. He never wanted to stop kissing you, he couldn't.

You suddenly felt your orgasm rush through her body, your entire body trembling with pleasure. You clung to Jungwoo, fingers digging into his arms as the intensity of the moment hit you.

You gasped as you came, body shaking with the intensity of it, breathing heavily as the pleasure slowly ebbed away.

With a deep growl, Yuta followed as he gave one final thrust and released into the latex. Mind incredibly hazy as he collapsed beside you onto the bed. Breathing heavy as you will your eyes not to close.

He stares at your fucked out face, proud of the little number he did on you. He knows this was likely his first and last chance to see you like this, so he was going to relish in it.

Though, others didn't seem to agree with the slower paced approach, Doyoung moving the other male out of the way to climb onto the bed.

Surprisingly, you try to push yourself up. Though, you're still too unsure to ask for what you want. "Can I..."

"Can you what?" Doyoung mocks after you don't respond for a few seconds. "Closed mouths don't get fed."

Who knew he could be so mean?

"Can I ride you?" You blurt out.

He smirks. "Is that what you want?"

You nod, "Fuck, please Doyoung."

He laughs, leaning back on the head board as he slips his pants down. "Be my guest, if you think you can still hold yourself up."

You place your hands on his shoulders as you wobbly throw your legs over Doyoungs lap before pausing, "W-wait,"

The others immediately halt, awaiting your words.

"Jungwoo's still so hard, and he hasn't touched himself. I should help him." You let out, starting at the male who you started this all with.

"Yuta's got it." Doyoung speaks, while the other male composes himself. "Right?"

The oldest smirks, wordlessly reaching over as Jungwoo's face grows red. He wraps his hand around the base of the youngers shaft and starts moving, kitty licking the tip as Jungwoo moans out.

"D-don't stop, I want to see you and Doyoung." Jungwoo gasps, locking eyes with you before squirming at Yuta's actions. It's not like it was the first time they had done this, but it felt so different every time, especially now that he was taking him wholly in his mouth.

You grow wetter at the sight of your roommates getting each other off, now you see why they like to watch so badly. Yuta looked so pretty with his mouth full of cock while Jungwoo moaned like a bitch in heat and clawed at his bed sheets. Not to mention that Yuta had grown hard again, his own hand snaking down to touch himself.

Doyoung lines himself up, his tip pushing past your walls as you slowly sink down. The stretch burning slightly even though you had been fucked already. You couldn't help but hiss, he was just too big.

You bounce a few times as Doyoung digs his nails into your hips. He's more quiet than Yuta, but less composed. You weren't sure he'd have much to say if he could manage to talk. The most you catch from him are quiet groans and deep breaths.

His eyes don't leave your cunt, directed towards where your bodies meet. He's never felt anything so good, not even his state of the art toys his viewers brought him made him feel this way.

“Need it off.” You mutter, reaching below you towards Doyoung’s cock. He hisses as you pry at the tip, harshly pulling the rubber condom off. You throw the item across the room, bringing your hand back to sink down on him as the other boys watch in awe.

Jungwoo's quick to intervene, “But-”

“We’ll get her a Plan B.” Yuta reassures him as he comes up for air, and you take notice of the way Jungwoo’s face falls for some reason.

You continue bouncing as Doyoung grabs one of your boobs in his hands. You bite your lip at the feeling, mind already halfway to mush as you continue to spear yourself on his cock. “Feels so good.”

He growls as he meets your hips at an animalistic pace. He finally gains the reserve to speak. Teeth gritting, “You feel better than I imagined, slutty pussy dragging me in.”

Jungwoo pushes Yuta's head down farther as the other teases, while the other gags at the action. The sounds of slurping register in your ears as you look back that way. You almost cum at the sight.

Jungwoo's face twists as he releases into Yuta's mouth, the latter swallowing it without a qualm. Jungwoo can feel himself growing hard again though. The squelch of your body parts melding together has Jungwoo's head spinning even though he already came.

Yuta snarks as he gets onto his knees, pushing his dick into the youngers face. "Your turn, put those pretty lips to use."

Jungwoo's eyes never leave your body as he opens his mouth. Now, if you thought Yuta looked good like that, nothing compared to how Jungwoo looked. So pliant and content to be helping his friend out.

Doyoung brings your attention back to him as he grabs your jaw, "I'm giving it to you so good that you're shaking yet you're staring at them instead?"

You shake your head, grinding down harder on Doyoung's dick as you stop bouncing, knees growing sore. "I'm sorry-"

He scoffs, grip tightening on your jaw. "No you're not."

"I-" You huff, hearing Jungwoo's pretty noises echo in your head as you fight every bone in your body to turn and look.

"Shut up," He cuts you off. "Look at me when I'm fucking you."

You nod as he thrusts up into you. You whine as he holds you in place, using you like a flesh light of his own design. All you can do is take it, feeling his tip kiss your insides with every thrust. Felt like he was rearranging your guts.

He pounds into you with such vigor that you wonder how he has the strength for it all. You try your best to meet his thrusts but he hardly gives you time to.

You would've never guessed the unbothered Kim Doyoung would be into fucking this rough. The more you know, you guessed.

You shout out, "I'm cumming!"

His speed doesn't falter, and he continues fucking you through your second orgasm of the night. He continues as you whimper at your sensitivity, hoping he was close.

"P-pull out," You sputter out, suddenly reminded that you two were going at it raw.

"I will," He responds, before he's moaning out. "Fuck, lift up."

"O-okay." You say, pulling yourself up slightly as his cock springs back onto his abs, covering his stomach in his release.

"That was so hot." You admit, sitting on the bed.

He blinks, "Yeah?"

You barely manage to turn as Yuta shoots his load out onto Jungwoo's face. His face looking ethereal as licks some of it off of his lips.

Yuta's about to say something when Doyoung speaks, "Yuta, lets go take a bath."

Yuta looks confused, not catching the others hint. "Now?"

Doyoung rolls his eyes, "So we can clean up."

"You're hard again, aren't you?"

The other shoots him a glare, clenching his teeth. "Let's go."

He basically drags the other out of the room as you two watch in confusion. Yuta bids, "See you later."

You stay quiet, unable to move without your body aching. Though you feel sudden energy to keep going as you look beside you.

Jungwoo leans over you and brushes your hair out of your face, and it feels more apparent that its just the two of you in the room. “You okay?”

“I’m a little sore, but I’m fine.” You admit, wincing a bit as you move your legs in an attempt to sit up. Jungwoo shakes his head as he stops you though.

“If you're not feeling okay-" He starts but you quickly shut him down,

You tilt your head. "But I've waited so long for you."

However, you can barely focus on his words as you take in his disheveled appearance. God, you wanted to kiss him so badly. Again.

He grabs your chin gently, lifting it up to kiss you more, and you can almost taste Yuta on him. He takes his time as you feel the urge to press up against him, ignoring the pain in your legs that the others left in their wake.

“Baby, don’t tease me there.” He whines, stopping the kiss.

Yet you don’t cease your actions, wanting to hear more of his needy voice. “I want you so bad, Jungwoo.”

His eyes meet yours, hesitance behind them. “Really, are you sure?”

“Unless you don’t to-”

“No no, I want to.” He responds, meeting your lips again. He’s more sure of himself this time, hand snaking to touch your cunt.

You're one hundred percent sure you were in love with Jungwoo. But who was counting?

Before you knew what was happening, he was throbbing inside you. Your cunt spent from the other two, but so willing to take him in as well. He was much bigger than you imagined, but once he was inside you, it was like he lost all semblance of control.

You almost wanted to laugh, what happened to the Jungwoo that was being almost mean to you earlier? Was he so drained that he forgot?

He had you in missionary, long slow thrusts pressing into you as you whimper. He caged you under him, hand holding yours as he used the other for balance. He went in for another kiss again, soft like he was scared you were going to break.

Being with him felt different, of course the others felt good but there was a clear line drawn in the sand with them. Yuta was a performer, he got off to the others looking at him put on a show. Doyoung didn't seem like he was focused on you as much either, and was more about himself.

But Jungwoo? He seemed to be worried about you and only you.

"You're so pretty." He mutters, looking into your eyes.

"P-pretty?" You ask, his length still bullying into you.

"I think you're gorgeous." He confirms, wanting to go in for another kiss.

"Jungwoo..." You wrap your hands around his shoulders as you pull him closer. "I think I like you."

He looks shocked at this, pausing his strokes. "Really?"

You smile, "Yes, really."

"But I'm just me." He avoids eye contact. "You're out of my league and I'm just this dork who studies mechanics! And are you sure you like someone who films himself-"

You interrupt him with a kiss, slipping your tongue past his mouth as you only pull away when you need air. "I don't care about any of that, I like you."

He smiles, "If you hadn't noticed, I've had a thing for you since that day in class when you sat next to me. I was so bummed you weren't even in that class and was just hoping I saw you again."

"Well, I'm glad we found our way back to each other."

"Me too." He speaks before pressing his face into your neck, mumbling as he continues his actions.

You two continue in almost silence, basking in pure love for each other as only small whimpers echo throughout the room. Everything that needed to be said already had been. You two were definitely going to have a long talk after this.

Living with the boys was no longer temporary, it was now your permanent place of residence. Especially since you had packed up your things and moved into your boyfriends room, granting Yuta access back to his room.

Things had been going well. Midterms went smoothly, Jungwoo was great (The sex was too), and you had landed that job you applied for!

You had even made an appearance in your boyfriends job, with masks of course, but nonetheless his viewers ate it up. Now they even sent comments in begging you to start your own channel, but you think you're far from that.

Things weren't awkward with the boys either, in fact, it feels good to have everything open in the air. There weren't any secrets anymore and things just felt like they were almost back to normal.

Breaking the news to Mark and Haechan was definitely... a scene. Mark was heartbroken on Lee Jeno's behalf while Haechan was more worried about how he was the only friend who hadn't gotten to tap that. To which Mark corrected that he hadn't either, which just led to a mess of a conversation.

People were definitely caught off guard when the news of you together broke. Many thought the pairing was funny.

Those like Haechan and Mark thought you had gone mad. And Jungwoo's studious admirers shuddered at how he could be with someone as provocative as you. Ha! If only they knew.

Jungwoo placed an object in front of you, proud of his efforts. "Here it is, the finished scale model."

You pick up the small jet in your hands, giggling at its design. "I love it, it looks like a tiny plane."

"It's a fighter jet!" Doyoung corrects as he joins you both in the kitchen.

You roll your eyes, "I'm aware, I helped paint the stupid thing."

"Stupid?" Jungwoo gasps dramatically.

"That's not what I-"

"Nope." He stops you. "Too late, the damage has been done."

"Jungwoo, don't be dramatic." You plead, though his eyes are already bulging out of his head.

He places his hand on his chest as he pretends to be hurt. "I'm going to go cry and throw up in my room."

"Dear lord," You begin before he runs off to his room. You've grown used to his antics by now. "Guess I have to go reassure him now."

Doyoung snorts, "Gross."

"Not like that, you pervert!"

"Who said I even was talking about that! You made it all dirty!" He retorts back when Yuta enters the room.

"Contrary to popular belief, we don't just fuck every chance we get."

"Tell that to my ears! You guys keep me up most nights, it's so annoying." Yuta complains. "The walls are thin, you know!"

You giggle, walking out of the room to find your sulky boyfriend as you shrug. "Deal with it."

The two watch as you're out of sight, Doyoung pouring himself water for his tea. He notices the look on the others face as he pats him on the shoulder. "You ever regret it?"

"Regret what?"

"Not telling her."

Yuta sighs, looking down before he shakes his head. "No. Jungwoo makes her happy, and that's good enough for me."

Doyoung chuckles, "We could switch rooms, if you want."

"It's all good, It's not that bad."

"You like listening don't you-"

"I'm going to slap you if you finish that sentence."

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