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thequeefling · 4 days ago

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mine, eventually. ~ r. sukuna

fratboy!sukuna x bestfriend!reader

wc: 11k

he’s your slutty frat-boy-best-friend and you’re his sweet, bubbly angel* who has no idea that he’s been in love with you for months. he hasn’t fucked a single soul since he realized his feelings, not one. pretending he’s fine while you curl up into his chest at parties like it means nothing is slowly driving him insane.

!!disclaimer!! best friends to lovers, soft slow-burn, mutual pining, best friends who don’t know how to talk, and a love that’s been there the whole time! angst!!!! comfort!

the rager’s already in full swing by the time you get there.

someone’s shitty bluetooth speaker is blasting throwbacks in the living room, half the frat’s gathered around a beer pong table like it’s the olympics, and the air smells like weed and overpriced tequila. classic friday night.

you don’t even bother knocking. just push open the front door, step over a passed out freshman in a toga, and make a beeline for the couch you always end up on.

and sure enough, he’s already there.

sukuna’s got one arm slung lazily across the backrest, a red solo cup balanced on his knee, and the cockiest smirk you’ve ever seen stretched across his face. his hair’s a mess, his shirt’s riding up slightly at the hem, and his rings glint every time he lifts the cup to his mouth.

you roll your eyes and collapse beside him anyway.

“took you long enough,” he says, nudging your knee with his own. “i was about to send out a search party.”

“maybe i didn’t wanna see your ugly face tonight.”

he grins. “liar.”

and you are. but you don’t tell him that.

because this is your ritual. your thing. it doesn’t matter whose party it is, which frat’s throwing it, or how many people are packed into the house, you and sukuna always end up here. same couch. same banter. same rhythm that’s been beating between the two of you since freshman year.

you lean back, pulling your legs up to sit cross-legged beside him. his thigh is warm where it brushes yours, and you try not to notice it.

“how many girls have you hit on tonight?” you ask, reaching for his drink and taking a sip without asking.

he hums thoughtfully. “define hit on.”

you raise a brow. “sukuna.”

“what?” he says, mock innocence dripping from his tone. “i’m just being friendly.”

you scoff. “you’re incapable of being just friendly.”

“you wound me, princess.”

you shove his shoulder and he laughs, head tipping back, throat exposed. and for a second, just a second, your brain short-circuits.

because sukuna’s hot. like, really hot. the kind of hot that should come with a warning label. tattoos and sharp smiles and sleepy bedroom eyes. he looks like every bad decision you’ve ever avoided on purpose.

and he’s your best friend.

your completely infuriating, manwhore of a best friend.

he’s the guy who once had a threesome during finals week and then showed up to study group with glitter in his hair. the one who keeps condoms in every coat pocket and probably knows the names of every bouncer on campus. the same guy who used to text you from girls’ beds, complaining about how their playlist sucked.

and somehow, despite all of that, you adore him.

maybe because he listens when you talk too much, because he knows all your dumb fixations and lets you rant about them for hours. because no matter how many people he flirts with, he always ends up back here, next to you.

“you thinking about me?” he says suddenly, smirking when you blink at him.

“i was thinking about how many diseases you’ve probably caught from this couch,” you deadpan.

he throws his head back again and laughs, loud and unbothered.

“god, you’re mean.”

“you like it.”

“unfortunately.”

you nudge his leg with yours again, more gentle this time. the party rages around you, but this little bubble, this spot on the couch where it’s just the two of you, feels untouchable.

you’ve known sukuna for almost three years now. met him during your first week at university, at some wild frat party you barely remember. you were tipsy and rambling to someone about your favorite childhood tv show and he cut in just to mock your taste. and never left you alone after that.

he’s been a part of your life ever since. group hangouts, movie nights, drunk phone calls at 2am. he’s there. always.

and somewhere along the way, you started telling him everything. even the stupid shit. especially the stupid shit. like how you spent two hours last night researching the mating habits of deep-sea anglerfish. or how you’re pretty sure your TA is in love with the guy who sits next to you.

you talk, and sukuna listens.

sometimes he teases. sometimes he gets this look, soft around the eyes, like he doesn’t even realize he’s staring. and then it’s gone. back to smirks and sarcasm.

you’ve tried not to think too hard about it.

you’re practically tangled up on the couch, like limbs and laughter and shared space all wrapped into one. sukuna’s arm is draped over your shoulders, loose but protective, and your head is tucked just beneath his chin, warm against his chest. his heartbeat is steady, slow, something grounding beneath your ear that feels like a secret only the two of you know.

it’s not flashy or dramatic. it’s the quiet kind of intimacy that’s grown over late nights and early mornings, over inside jokes and too many half-remembered conversations. it’s the softness behind his usual sharp edges, the way his hand casually rests on your arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you reach up and thread your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. he tenses for a moment, then relaxes, the tiniest smile tugging at his lips. “you’re such an annoying pest,” he mutters, voice low and rough, but you catch the warmth underneath like a whispered promise.

“you love it,” you say softly, the words a little breathless, like you don’t want to break the moment.

the party buzzes around you, loud, messy, chaotic, but it all fades into white noise. out here, pressed close to him, none of that matters. no flashing lights, no drunken shouts, no prying eyes.

just you and sukuna.

and somehow, even after all the teasing and the bickering and the ridiculous banter, this is where the real stuff lives. in the easy silence. in the way your fingers find his hand without thinking. in the quiet understanding that you’re both exactly where you want to be, even if you don’t say it out loud.

it’s the kind of closeness that’s almost too much and not enough all at once, like your hearts are so tangled up they might burst, but you don’t have to do anything about it. not yet.

because this is your truth. your safe place. the quiet love that’s been hiding behind all the noise from the very start.

“you see who maki came with?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“nah,” you say, glancing around. “who?”

“some guy named dan. total finance bro. talks like a podcast.”

you snort. “god. maki deserves better.”

“everyone deserves better than a dan.”

you hum in agreement, stealing another sip of his drink. he doesn’t complain. he never does.

“what about you?” you ask. “eyeing anyone tonight?”

it’s a casual question. one you’ve asked a hundred times. but this time, he pauses.

“nah,” he says finally. “not really feelin’ it.”

you frown. “you? not in the mood to flirt? is the world ending?”

he shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“maybe i’m growing up.”

you snort. “you literally mooned someone from a moving car last weekend.”

he grins. “growing up gradually.”

you laugh, and he looks at you again. and this time… he doesn’t look away.

“you know,” he says slowly, “you’re kind of the only reason i come to these things anymore.”

your heart skips.

you try to play it off. “because i’m the only one who tolerates you?”

“because you’re the only one who gets me,” he says, voice low. quieter than before. “like… actually gets me.”

you blink. your stomach flips.

but before you can respond, someone calls his name across the room.

he sighs and leans back, rubbing a hand over his face.

“hold that thought,” he says, standing. “gotta go break up whatever stupid shit gojo’s doing.”

you watch him disappear into the crowd, smiling as you watch his back muscles flex with each swing of his arms, you understood the appeal, he was a sexy man. in his own little fashion, he thought of you the exact same way, a drop dead gorgeous girl with a heart of gold, but you’d never even guessed he thought of you as such, after all, what would give you any sort of sign that he was into you when the latest rumour was that he was sleeping around with hot sorority chicks every weekend?

the party’s died down hours ago. the house is trashed, half-lit, and still pulsing faintly with leftover bass through the walls. the beer pong table’s been abandoned, someone’s hoodie is hanging from the ceiling fan, and there’s a questionable stain on the rug no one’s talking about.

geto’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with a half-empty bottle of tequila, choso’s sprawled on the loveseat looking like he’s already halfway to sleep, and gojo’s perched on the arm of the couch with a wine glass he definitely didn’t bring himself.

sukuna’s nursing a beer. slouched in a worn-out recliner with his head tilted back, eyes closed, shoulders loose in that i’m relaxed but still kind of pissed way he always gets when he’s overthinking.

he hasn’t said much since reader left.

“sukuna, man,” gojo starts, words slurring a little, “are you going fucking celibate? you haven’t fucked a chick in damn near two months.”

geto snorts, tilting his bottle toward sukuna. “what, you give it up for lent or something?”

“maybe he got neutered,” choso mumbles into a throw pillow.

gojo gasps. “don’t say that, that’s so sad. think of all the women out there missing out.”

sukuna doesn’t open his eyes. just raises his middle finger in their general direction and takes a slow pull from his drink.

“i’m serious,” gojo continues. “you used to be the first one out the door with some girl pressed up against the wall. now you’re… what, sitting on a couch all night with your weird little bestie and dodging blowjobs like they’re the plague.”

geto leans back, watching sukuna over the lip of his drink. “she’s not just some bestie though, huh?”

that gets sukuna’s attention. his eyes crack open, dark and unreadable. “don’t start.”

“not starting anything,” geto says, smirking. “just saying. you used to be all about the sorority chicks with fake lashes and daddy issues. now you’re glued to sunshine incarnate.”

gojo lets out a bark of laughter. “please. she’s too sweet for him. sukuna’d ruin her. he needs someone who can keep up with the slut energy.”

sukuna’s jaw ticks.

choso blinks at the ceiling. “she did bring cupcakes to the last pregame.”

“exactly,” gojo says, dramatic as ever. “she’s, like, wife-coded. sukuna doesn’t do wife-coded.”

“maybe he’s bored,” geto says. “maybe he’s finally fucked so many girls that his dick gave up and retired.”

that gets a laugh from the others, loud and easy.

sukuna doesn’t laugh.

he doesn’t say a word.

he just sits there, beer forgotten in his hand, staring into the dim space between the couch and the coffee table, jaw clenched, heart beating a little too loud in his chest.

because they don’t get it. they don’t know.

they don’t know how it feels to sit beside someone who trusts you with everything and have to pretend you don’t want to kiss them every time they smile.

they don’t know what it’s like to want something real for once. something soft. something that doesn’t taste like regret the morning after.

they don’t know how long it’s been since he’s touched anyone else. how the thought of it makes his stomach turn. how no one else even registers anymore. how she ruined him for all of it without even trying.

and he’s not gonna tell them.

because they wouldn’t believe him anyway.

so he just shifts in his chair, downs the rest of his drink, and says, flat and final, “maybe i’m just waiting for the right girl.”

it shuts them up for a second.

then gojo laughs again and geto raises his brows like he’s not sure whether he’s joking, and choso mutters something about being too high for this conversation.

but sukuna’s not joking.

not even a little.

the teasing eventually fades, replaced by the quiet clink of bottles and the hum of low music someone forgot to turn off. choso’s officially half-asleep, sprawled sideways across the loveseat with a blanket someone definitely didn’t offer him. geto’s back to nursing the tequila bottle like it personally wronged him, and gojo’s now laying upside down on the couch, legs dangling off the back like he’s trying to cause a scene with gravity.

“so,” choso mumbles, voice thick and lazy. “that mixer next weekend still on?”

“yeah,” gojo says without moving. “gamma’s throwing it with phi sig. should be decent. free drinks and better music than last time. they’re renting actual speakers this time, not just hijacking someone’s spotify on a jbl.”

“can i bring shiu?” choso asks, blinking slow like it takes effort.

“yeah,” gojo says, waving his hand. “he’s in delta nu, right?”

choso hums something that might be a yes or might be the sound of sleep taking him.

sukuna sits up slightly, beer bottle still hanging from his fingers. “can i bring y/n?”

gojo doesn’t even hesitate.

“nah.”

sukuna’s jaw clenches. “why not?”

“you know why not,” gojo says, finally flipping over to sit upright. “it’s a greek-only mixer. she’s not in a frat or a sorority.”

“she’s basically in this frat,” sukuna says, a little sharper than he means to. “she’s at every party. she knows everyone. she’s closer to you assholes than half the pledges.”

geto sighs, not looking up. “that’s not the point. the chapters are paying for the event. they want it to stay within the system. it’s political.”

“it’s bullshit,” sukuna mutters.

“you think i don’t agree?” gojo says, more gently now. “i love her. she’s our friend. but if one non-greek shows up, it opens the door for more, and then it’s a whole thing. alumni get pissy. mixers stop happening. and for what? a night where she already has better places to be?”

sukuna’s quiet for a second.

the air goes still.

because yeah, maybe you do have better places to be. you’re always buzzing around campus, always getting invited to every little thing. somehow you’ve charmed everyone without even trying. the girl who bakes cookies for your friends and brings tupperware to parties. the girl who’ll sit and talk with a drunk freshman for forty-five minutes just to make sure she gets home safe. the one everyone trusts, everyone likes.

but you’re not one of them.

not on paper.

not enough to be invited.

and it stings in a way sukuna can’t explain without sounding like he cares too much.

“she wouldn’t even care,” geto says after a beat. “she probably wouldn’t wanna go anyway.”

sukuna shakes his head slowly. “she would. not for the party. just to be around us.”

“then invite her to the after,” gojo says, too casually. “she can come once the official stuff’s over. like always.”

and that’s what gets under his skin.

like always.

like you’re some shadow they keep waiting in the wings. welcome, but not official. close, but not close enough. always there, always giving, and never asking for anything back.

but sukuna knows you.

knows you’d never say it hurts. never ask for an invite. never press your nose against the glass and say you want in. because you’re sweet. because you don’t want to make a scene. because you think you’re lucky just to be included at all.

and maybe that’s what kills him most.

sukuna doesn’t respond right away. just rolls the bottle between his hands and nods once, like it doesn’t bother him. like it’s fine.

but it does bother him.

because you've been at every party, every hangout, every busted-up couch gathering like this one. you're as much a part of this group as any of them, maybe more. you're the glue, the heart. the one person who always shows up and always makes it better just by being there.

and suddenly you're not allowed?

he gets it. he does. house rules. dumb frat politics. whatever. but still.

he’s never wanted to bring someone to one of these before. never even thought about it. but the second it came up, your name was already halfway out of his mouth.

and now it’s stuck there, burning.

gojo reaches over, clinks his glass against sukuna’s bottle. “next time, yeah?”

sukuna forces a tight smile and tips his drink back.

“yeah,” he lies. “next time.”

the next night.

it’s late when you hear the knock.

past eleven. campus is quiet outside your window, the kind of stillness that only happens after a long day of classes and too much caffeine. your desk light’s still on, laptop humming, a playlist playing low as you scribble in the margins of your notes with a pink pen you definitely didn’t borrow from sukuna and never give back.

you blink up at the sound, confused, and push back from your chair just as the front door swings open without waiting for you.

sukuna steps in, keys jingling between his fingers, sweat clinging to the collar of his black t-shirt.

“jesus,” you say, raising your brows. “you ever heard of knocking?”

he shrugs, already kicking off his sneakers. “you gave me a key.”

“for emergencies. or bringing me food. this is trespassing.”

“it’s not trespassing if i live here part-time.”

“you don’t.”

“i do, emotionally.”

you narrow your eyes, watching as he kicks the door shut behind him and rakes a hand through his sweat-damp hair. he looks irritated. flushed. like he’s been fighting someone or about to.

“you coming from a girl’s place or something?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but the words slip out a little more bitter than you mean.

he pauses, one foot halfway out of his sock.

“something like that,” he mutters.

it wasn't something like that. he'd been running, something he'd been doing a lot lately instead of his nightly rendezvous with his copious amounts of side chicks. after he went non intentionally celibate, he'd started putting the excess energy he wasn't using in basketball to do laps around campus.

but he couldn't tell you that. couldn't just say, 'yeah, i've been running marathons lately because my dick goes limp at the thought of even touching another women.' so he just chalked it up to whatever your mind was thinking.

you blink, surprised he didn’t throw a joke at you or roll his eyes. didn’t make a crack about what kind of position she had him in or if he should shower before sitting on your bed.

instead he just pulls off his shirt and flops down face-first into your comforter like he’s lived here forever.

you stare for a second at the smooth line of his back, the tribal tattoos, the way he exhales like your room is the first place he’s been able to breathe all day.

“…you okay?” you ask, stepping toward the bed.

he grunts.

“great conversation,” you mutter, crawling up onto the mattress and poking him between the shoulder blades. “what’s with the dramatics, need to talk?”

he rolls onto his side, arm flung over his eyes, voice muffled. “i’m not allowed to bring you to the mixer.”

you blink. “hm?”

you knew of the mixer and you knew you weren't going, you weren't in a sorority.

“they said no,” he says, finally lowering his arm just enough to squint at you. “strictly greek. no exceptions. even though choso’s dragging that freak shiu and he’s barely greek. and even though you’ve been at more of our events than half the guys actually in the frat.”

you go try not to giggle at his display.

“i see,” you say. “it’s fine ryo. i didn’t expect to go anyway.”

“yeah, well, i wanted you to,” he snaps, sharper than he means to. he cleared his throat abit embarrassed before continuing. “was kind of the only reason i was looking forward to it.”

you stare at him, taken aback.

he groans and throws an arm over his face again. “god. it’s so fucking stupid. i don’t even wanna go if you’re not gonna be there.”

you sit beside him, folding your legs under yourself. "hey don't say that, i'm sure you'll get your entertainments worth with what're dumb thing gojos bound to do there."

he rolls his eyes but a smirk pulls at his lips.

“you have to though, right?” you ask quietly. “frat rules?”

he grunts again, bitter. “mandatory attendance. gotta show face, shake hands, do shots with people i fucking hate. can’t just hang out with you like a normal person. it’s bullshit.”

you watch him for a second, hes clearly very upset on your behalf and it tugs at your heart to see him so sad for you.

the frustration in his shoulders. the tension still in his jaw. how tired he looks even though he won’t admit it. and how different he’s been lately, even if he tries to hide it.

it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him leave a party with someone. months since you’ve gotten a dumb flirty text from him at two in the morning about some girl with lip gloss and a sorority pin. instead it’s been this, late nights of cooking and movies at your place, quiet mornings where he'd crash on the couch, showing up sweaty and worn out without explaining why.

you don’t know what’s going on with him.

and you don’t ask.

because he’s still your best friend, he’s still sukuna, you never know what's going on with men like him. not really.

even if you wish sometimes he’d let you see past all the noise and into whatever he’s keeping buried under his skin.

“you could skip,” you offer after a long pause. “say you’re sick.”

he lifts his arm just enough to peek at you. “and miss out on disappointing every alumni watching the insta stories? unthinkable.”

you laugh.

and he smiles, barely.

then closes his eyes again, and says, quieter this time, “just wish it wasn’t like this.”

you don’t ask what he means.

you don’t have to.

you watch him stew for another minute, sprawled on your bed like a kicked dog, jaw tense and brows furrowed. you can tell he’s stuck in his head again, spiraling over something he can’t fix, so you do what you always do when sukuna gets like this.

you get up and go to the fridge.

“what are you doing?” he calls after you, but there’s already the tiniest lilt of curiosity in his voice.

you peek back over your shoulder, smiling shyly. “making you un-grumpy.”

you return with a container of the cookies you baked the night before, still soft from the fridge, the chocolate chips slightly hardened but perfect for biting into. you plop back down beside him and wiggle the container in front of his face.

“i come bearing peace offerings.”

he raises a brow. “what are they laced with?”

“love and all things happy and awesome,” you say sweetly. “now shut up and open.”

you settle onto his knee, the position so familiar it doesn’t even register as odd anymore. you’re perched sideways, comfortably pressed against him as you hold up a cookie to his mouth like you’ve done a thousand times before with different snacks, different moods, different nights.

he sighs like he’s being tortured, but opens his mouth and lets you push a bite past his lips.

and then he goes still.

you try to hide your smirk. “good, right?”

he chews slowly, then nods once, eyes flicking down to the cookie still in your hand. “fuck,” he mutters. “why are these better than the last ones?”

“because i added cinnamon this time,” you say proudly. “i’m a genius. a visionary. a baker ahead of my time. no need to lay it all on me at once.”

“you’re a menace,” he says, reaching for the container and grabbing one for himself. he takes another bite, then leans his head back with a groan. “jesus christ.”

you beam, satisfied. “mood improved?”

he glances down at you, his arm sliding a little more securely around your waist, holding you in place like it’s just instinct. “a little.”

you twist to face him more fully, still sitting across one of his legs, knees bent and shoulder pressing into his chest. “well, i accept your gratitude. payment accepted in the form of continued affection and possibly letting me pick the movie tonight.”

“you say that like you weren’t going to pick it anyway,” he says, but his voice has gone soft.

you don’t move, just rest your cheek lightly against his shoulder. it’s quiet again, in that comfortable, lived-in way. his fingers drift absentmindedly along the hem of your shirt, not even thinking about it, and you feel the shift before it happens.

he sets the cookie down and wraps both arms around you, pulling you fully into his chest.

you blink in surprise as your face smushes into his neck, but your arms slip around his waist anyway, your cheek settling against his skin with a tiny, surprised smile.

this… isn’t unheard of.

but it’s not common either.

not like this.

not this long, not this full-bodied, not this quiet. not this careful.

he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. just breathe in sync, slow and even, held together in the kind of closeness that feels like it means something more than either of you are ready to admit. it doesn’t feel playful. it doesn’t feel casual.

it feels like everything unsaid is pressing in between the space of your bodies.

and still, you don’t pull away.

you stay wrapped around each other, soft and steady in the glow of your little kitchen light. the rest of the world fades out. no frat politics, no mixers, no rules. just your warmth against his chest, the scent of cookies on the air, and his heartbeat pressed right against your cheek.

you smile against him, a little giddy, a little shy, and squeeze your arms around him just a little tighter.

he squeezes back.

"such a softie."

"shut up."

friday night, gamma.

the music’s already shaking the walls by the time sukuna and gojo pull up to the house.

the lights are low, the windows are glowing purple, and there’s a line of girls on the front lawn taking pictures against the greek letters like they’re on the fucking red carpet. half of them are laughing too loud, the other half are posing like they’re about to sell flat tummy tea. it’s a mess.

gojo whistles low under his breath. “god damn. they went all out tonight.”

sukuna says nothing, just shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and follows gojo toward the front door, already wishing he’d stayed in.

inside, it’s worse.

the house smells like weed, body spray, and some kind of mango-flavored vodka someone definitely spilled on the carpet. the bass is pounding. the lights are cycling through seizure-inducing colors. and the living room is filled wall to wall with girls in the tiniest outfits he’s ever seen.

crop tops so small they’re practically bras, skirts that could pass for belts, dresses that ride up with every step. legs, boobs, glitter, perfume. like a scene out of a movie, only louder and stickier.

gojo grins, elbowing him in the side. “this is what i’m talking about, man these chicks are drooling.”

“mhm,” sukuna mutters, eyes skimming the crowd without interest.

gojo keeps going, clearly amped. “look at her, jesus. i could write a poem about that ass. might get it tattooed.”

sukuna hums, tuning him out. lets the words wash over him without meaning. he’s good at that now. nodding, smirking, pretending to be the guy they all think he is.

“oh my god,” gojo says again, eyes glued to another girl passing by in a see-through mesh top. “this one’s not even wearing a bra. she’s doing the lord’s work.”

“praise be,” sukuna deadpans.

gojo laughs, already drifting toward the drinks table like a moth to flame, eyes darting everywhere.

sukuna doesn’t follow.

he stands near the door, shoulder against the wall, letting the party swirl around him. girls brush past him on the way to the kitchen, one of them flashing a smile he doesn’t return. he watches two of them grind against each other like they’re auditioning for attention, and someone tugs on his hoodie in passing, trying to get his attention.

he doesn’t even blink.

because all he can think about is how quiet your apartment was last night.

how your laugh sounded when he tried to talk with his mouth full of cookie. how you looked sitting on his knee, eyes crinkling, fingers brushing crumbs from his shirt.

how easy it was.

how real.

and this? this feels like a joke.

he used to love this shit. the noise, the chaos, the attention. he used to thrive in it. let it fill him up, drown out all the parts of himself that didn’t make sense.

but now it just feels loud.

pointless.

empty.

he pulls his phone from his pocket and checks it without thinking.

no texts.

you’re probably curled up on your couch right now with a mug of tea and some documentary about weird animals. maybe wearing one of your oversized sweaters. maybe thinking about him. maybe not.

he sighs, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes for a second.

wishing, more than anything, that he was with you instead.

meanwhile...

your dorm was quiet tonight.

just the low hum of your mini fridge, the soft whir of the fan you’ve wedged into the corner by the window, and the occasional clatter of your own movements as you putter around your tiny kitchen.

you’re barefoot on the tile, hoodie sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your hair pulled back haphazardly. the playlist you always turn on while baking is playing softly, the comfort stuff, the songs you don’t have to think about. your body moves automatically, reaching for ingredients, measuring out flour and sugar like muscle memory.

but your mind’s somewhere else entirely.

you keep thinking about last night. about the way sukuna looked when he walked through your door, sweaty and annoyed and tired, like the world was grating against him. and how he softened when you sat on his lap and fed him cookies. how he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

that long hug.

you can still feel it.

his arms wrapped around you, your cheek against his chest, the quiet warmth of his body pressed fully into yours like he didn’t want to let go. it wasn’t playful. it wasn’t some joke. it felt like something else. something deeper. something you’re too scared to name.

you missed him the second he left.

you always do.

but tonight, it aches a little more. hell, it aches a hell of a lot.

because you know where he is right now. or, at least, where he’s supposed to be — at that mixer with gojo and the rest of the guys. shoulder to shoulder with every sorority girl on campus. probably surrounded by glitter and perfume and girls in backless dresses.

you try not to picture it.

you try not to imagine him pressed up against someone in a dark corner, hands on her hips, whispering something smooth into her ear. it’s what he used to do, after all. it’s what everyone still thinks he does.

you’ve never asked.

but it’s easier to believe he’s still out there being sukuna, your charming, cocky, slightly feral best friend who fucks around and never gets attached. it’s easier than hoping for something more.

you sigh and lean your hands on the edge of the sink, staring out the window for a moment before pushing off again and turning back to the counter.

if he is out there right now, tangled up with some girl, then so be it. it’s not your business. he’s your friend. he’s always been your friend. and that’s enough.

you shake away the little ache curling up in your chest and reach for the eggs.

he likes custard tarts.

you remember him mentioning it months ago, offhanded, when you were watching some cooking show together and he snorted at a pastry challenge. 'that shit’s easy,' he’d said, and then casually added, 'my grandma used to make those all the time. i could eat like five in one sitting.'

so you’re going to make him some.

you don’t know if he’ll even come by tomorrow, but if he does, it’ll be waiting for him. warm, golden, sweet. something quiet to show him you were thinking about him, even if you won’t say it out loud.

you dust your hands with flour and start rolling out the pastry crust, humming under your breath, praying this suffocating guilt in your chest will soon subside.

back with the man of the hour.

the kitchen is hotter than hell.

bodies packed in tight, music thudding through the walls, the floor sticky with spilled drinks and god-knows-what. it smells like tequila, sweat, and cologne, like every mixer always does. sukuna’s perched at the corner of the counter with a half-empty shot glass in his hand, the burn of whatever cheap liquor they’re using tonight still clinging to his throat.

he’s a few drinks in, not drunk, but warm. loose. not enough to forget, just enough to blur the edges.

“yo,” someone says, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “you still out here slaying or what?

it’s ino, one of the phi sig guys. bleach-blond, grinning like a golden retriever, drunk enough that his words are dragging a little.

sukuna doesn’t answer right away.

he can feel the pause stretching. can feel the weight of it. because he knows exactly where this is going.

“what?” ino says, laughing. “don’t tell me the infamous sukuna went soft on us.”

he’s joking. mostly.

but nearby, sukuna catches gojo’s eyes.

he’s leaning against the wall with a drink in one hand, watching the conversation like a hawk. and when their gazes meet, gojo raises one brow, just slightly. the look is clear.

'just lie to them.'

gojo doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t need to.

because sukuna’s got a reputation. one the frat’s leaned on for years, their golden weapon. their sexed-up, reckless, untouchable president’s right-hand menace. the one who sets the tone at parties, the one who doesn’t hesitate to bang anyone, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t change.

and if word gets out that ryomen sukuna hasn’t laid a hand on anyone in months, that he’s been skipping hookups to hang out with you in your tiny dorm room, baking cookies and trading sleepy smiles? well.

it wouldn’t look good.

not for him. not for the frat. not for the image.

so he swallows the sick twist in his gut and flashes a grin that feels so disgustingly wrong on his face.

“you know how it is,” he says smoothly, rolling his neck like he’s already bored of the conversation. “been busy. but yeah. still getting mine.”

ino laughs and passes him another shot, already leaning in. “anyone good?”

“couple girls from chi o,” sukuna says, shrugging one shoulder. “blonde one — i forget her name. maybe claire? she was loud. pretty sure half the floor heard us.”

ino hollers and claps him on the back, and someone nearby chimes in with a “my fucking guy.”

sukuna downs the shot.

he keeps going.

“hooked up with that junior from zeta last week too. the one with the snake tattoo.”

“mia?” ino gasps.

“yeah,” sukuna half lies, licking his teeth. “she’s got this thing where she likes being choked. like, full hand, no hesitation. freaky as fuck, but she took it like a champ.”

there’s laughter. back slaps. someone throws him another beer.

and sukuna plays along.

he leans into the scumbag act. tells them about how he made her beg. how he didn’t even bother texting her after. throws in some bullshit about how she kept whining for round three and he just left.

and it’s easy, this was how he used to be after all.

his voice is smooth, confident, practiced. he says the words like he’s proud of them. like they don’t taste like ash and piss in his mouth. like they aren’t killing him from the inside out.

because the truth is, he hasn’t touched anyone since he realized he was in love with you.

sure he's fucked those girl before, just not as of late.

no blonde named claire. no snake tattoo. no begging, no choking, no careless sex with strangers who mean nothing.

just you.

just the way you looked at him the other night, eyes wide and sweet while you perched on his knee. just the way you made him feel full with nothing but a bite of cookie and a laugh. just the way your arms wrapped around him without hesitation. like he was someone worth holding onto.

but he can’t say that here.

he can’t be that guy.

so he keeps lying. keeps playing the role. keeps smiling through the noise and the heat and the taste of someone else’s expectations on his tongue.

and all the while, in the back of his mind, he’s wondering what you’re doing right now. if your oven’s still on. if your hands are covered in flour. if you’re thinking about him too.

god, he hopes you are. safe away from this performative monster he's so carefully curated.

later.

things have gone off the rails.

the house is sweltering now, bodies packed in so tight you can barely breathe. music’s still blasting, bass heavy enough to make your ribs shake, lights flickering red and blue and green over swaying heads. sweat slicks the walls, the floors are sticky with god-knows-what, and the air smells like beer, weed, and perfume way too sweet to be expensive.

sukuna’s sunk low into the couch in the middle of the living room, a drink sweating in his hand, head tilted back. his shirt sticks to his skin, his legs are spread, and his eyes are half-lidded, glazed over. he’s a few drinks deep, but not enough to be drunk, just enough to dull the headache that’s been building since he walked in.

choso’s next to him, nursing a blunt, and shiu’s perched on the armrest, scrolling through his phone with dead eyes.

“this party fucking blows,” shiu mutters, not looking up.

“wasn’t it your idea to come?” choso says.

“yeah, and i was wrong. fuck me.”

“everyone’s just trying to fuck each other,” choso says flatly. “like aggressively. it’s like a brothel in here.”

“with worse lighting,” shiu adds.

sukuna doesn’t say anything. just watches the way two girls are sloppily grinding against each other on the floor, their drinks spilling down their arms, mascara already halfway down their cheeks. somewhere across the room, someone’s moaning against the wall like they’re getting railed in public, which, honestly, they probably are.

he’s halfway through zoning out again when it happens.

a blonde drops into his lap like a stone.

he barely registers her until she’s already straddling him, arms looped around his neck, tits pushed up and glittering under the party lights.

“found you,” she purrs, loud in his ear. her voice is syrupy sweet, her lips glossed thick and shiny. she presses a wet kiss to his cheek without waiting for permission, then trails her mouth down to his neck.

his body locks up. 'ew.'

she smells like candy and sweat. her lashes are so fake they look heavy. her nails scrape his shoulder through his shirt like she’s trying to get a grip.

“you’re sukuna, right?” she asks, already moving her hips in his lap. “heard you’re fun.”

he wants to shove her off.

wants to grab her wrists and tell her to get the fuck off him, now. because nothing about this feels good. nothing about this feels right. she’s too close, too loud, too much. and all he can think is 'this isn’t you.'

but then he glances up.

and he sees them.

those same frat guys he took shots with earlier, ino and the rest. watching him from across the room with wide eyes and cocky grins. waiting. expecting. this was what they wanted, wasn’t it? the infamous sukuna he had bragged about not even an hour earlier. the legend. the sex god. they’re watching like they’re about to take notes.

and across the room, posted near the kitchen with a drink in hand, gojo is watching too.

his eyes lock with sukuna’s. one raised brow. jaw tight. a warning in his expression.

'don’t fuck this up. just pretend.' he mouths.

this is his job, after all. the frat’s bad boy, their wild card, the one who never slows down. his reputation isn’t just his anymore — it’s tied to the frat’s image, to the hierarchy, to the ego of every guy in this house who needs him to be that guy.

so sukuna doesn’t shove her off.

he lets her kiss his jaw. lets her whisper something slutty in his ear, lets her press her tits into his chest and grind against him like they’re already alone.

he lets her act like she owns him.

his hands rest loose on her waist. one slides down to her thigh, just for show. not tight. not real. just enough to make it look like he’s into it.

his skin crawls.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t speak. he just sits there, dead behind the eyes, playing the part.

choso side-eyes him, a brow lifting. shiu’s halfway through another drink, watching the scene with a quiet kind of judgment.

sukuna doesn’t flinch.

but inside, he’s somewhere else entirely.

he’s thinking about you.

your dorm. your stupid cozy couch. your face lighting up when he told you your cookies were perfect. your hands brushing against his. your warmth.

the way you held him like you knew.

and now he’s here.

pretending.

surrounded by noise and bodies and fake gold glitter. kissing strangers in front of an audience, playing the role of someone he hasn’t been in a long time.

and all he wants is to be home.

with you.

the girl’s hands are everywhere.

on his chest, sliding under his shirt. in his hair, tugging hard like it’s supposed to be sexy. her mouth is hot and wet on his neck, and she keeps saying shit in his ear he can’t even hear over the bass rumbling through the floor.

he doesn’t want this.

hasn’t wanted this from the second she crawled into his lap.

but now she’s pulling him up off the couch, dragging him by the hand through the throng of sweaty bodies. she’s laughing, shrieking something about going upstairs, or maybe back to her place, either way, her grip is iron and her intentions are clear. and people are watching.

he can feel the eyes on him.

guys slapping him on the back as he passes, grinning, nodding, giving him looks that say that’s our guy.the same ones who were cheering earlier when she straddled him like a chair in the middle of the party. girls whispering, side-eyes thrown like confetti.

and gojo.

gojo’s standing near the bottom of the stairs now, cup in hand, watching sukuna get dragged toward the front door like some kind of prize.

they lock eyes.

sukuna hesitates for a beat.

gojo steps forward and claps a hand on his arm, grip tight for a second. he leans in, expression unusually serious beneath the usual shine of his grin.

“sorry, man,” he murmurs under the music. “i shouldn’t have made you do all that shit.”

sukuna doesn’t say anything. just nods once, jaw clenched.

“you’re a good soldier,” gojo adds, half-joking, half-sincere. “but you don’t gotta burn yourself out for the frat.”

sukuna’s too tired to respond. the girl’s tugging on his arm again, fingers clawed around his wrist like she thinks he’ll vanish if she lets go.

they step out the front door into the night.

the air outside is colder than it should be, sharp against his sweaty skin. it hits his lungs too fast. makes him dizzy.

she turns to him immediately, mouth already open. “so i live, like, five minutes away. unless you wanna go to yours? my roommate’s out, so—”

her hands are on his chest again. fumbling with the hem of his shirt, nails dragging over his stomach like she’s mapping him out with zero permission. she presses herself into him, mouth seeking his again, clumsy and insistent.

and that’s when it hits.

the disgust.

the wrongness.

the way it makes his skin crawl, makes his stomach twist. not because she’s unattractive, not because she’s done anything “wrong” by frat party standards — but because she’s not you.

and this? this isn’t him.

he jerks away from her touch as she snakes her hand over the bulge in his jeans.

“stop.”

she blinks, confused. tries to laugh it off, like maybe he’s teasing. “what?”

“i said stop,” he snaps, stepping back. “jesus fucking christ.”

her face falls.

“you can’t just—” she starts, but he’s already shaking his head.

“go." he almost yells. "go home,” he says sharply. “alone.”

her jaw drops like she’s about to protest again, but he’s not listening. he turns, already walking, the cold air slicing through his clothes, his breath fogging up in the dark.

he doesn’t look back.

the sounds of the party are muffled now, swallowed up by the night. but they still echo in his head. the music, the laughter, the voices cheering him on like he’s some kind of fucking mascot. the fake moans and the fake smiles and the way it felt to be watched like he owed everyone a show.

he lights a cigarette with shaking hands.

his stomach still feels sick.

and all he can think about, as the taste of cherry lip gloss lingers like poison, is how right it felt to be on your couch. how warm your kitchen was. how soft your hands were when you brushed his hair back from his forehead like he was something worth caring for.

he walks faster.

because if he doesn’t get away from all this now, he’s not sure he ever will.

his footsteps echo off the pavement, sharp in the emptiness, and his lungs burn with every breath. the cigarette is still between his fingers, barely smoked, the ember flickering weakly in the dark.

he can’t stop shaking.

his skin feels wrong. like something’s still crawling on it. like her hands are still there. he rubs his neck with the heel of his palm, hard, like he can wipe it off. the gloss, the heat, the fakeness of it all.

his stomach lurches.

he stops walking and bends forward instinctively, one hand on his knee, the other bracing against the cold brick wall of the nearest building. he spits once onto the sidewalk, tastes bile and tequila and something rotten.

he breathes through his nose.

in, out, in, out.

think of something else.

think of anything else.

but all he can think about is you.

the way you'd light up when you'd spot him on campus, how you'd always gravitate towards him at parties and hang outs. your stupid soft hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hands covered in flour, smiling like he was your favorite part of your day.

and god, all he wanted to was erase his entire past to start a clean, virgin slate with you.

he almost let some stranger girl touch him in a way he wishes only you would. he let her sit on him, kiss him, grab at him, and he didn’t stop it. didn’t stop it until it was nearly too late.

and for what?

some frat reputation?

gojo’s approval?

a bunch of guys who only know his name because of the stories he used to make up?

he could fucking vomit.

he dry heaves once, hard, and his whole body folds in. he grips the edge of a trash bin like it’ll keep him upright, knuckles going white. but nothing comes up. just air and guilt and the way your name sits on his tongue like a bruise.

'you’re not even mine.'

he reminds himself of that again and again. you’re not his. you’ve never kissed. never fucked. never even admitted how you feel.

you’re just friends. best friends, maybe. roommates in a different life. partners in crime when things are light.

but he knows what this is. knows what’s happening to him.

you’ve ruined him.

your gentleness. your kindness. the way you hold his face when you’re teasing him and don’t even realize it. the way you hug him like he’s worth something. like you see him, all of him, and still choose to stay.

and now he’s here. shaking and fucked-up in the street, gagging over the ghost of a girl who doesn’t matter, while you're sitting at home in your dorm when you could of been here with him, that way, he'd never of let another girl get close, he's speaks the night sitting on the porch, with you.

he sinks down onto the curb, elbows braced on his knees, cigarette hanging limp from his fingers. his vision swims, hot and sharp, his head tipping back to stare at the stars he can’t even see through the city haze.

he should’ve stayed with you.

he should’ve just stayed home, with you.

his hands are trembling when he reaches into his pocket. he fishes blindly past his lighter, crumpled receipts, a folded-up flyer someone handed him earlier, until his fingers close around metal.

your dorm keys.

he pulls them out slowly.

they sit in his palm, warm from his body heat. a pink little charm you’d added dangles from the ring, a squishy cartoon animal he never bothered to learn the name of, even though you told him three times. it jiggles as he stares down at it, breath catching in his throat.

he clenches his fist around them.

tight.

like it’ll keep him grounded. like it’ll make you real again.

the night presses in around him. too quiet, too still. but that ache in his chest, the sour twist in his gut, it all starts to blur the second he stands up and starts walking.

your apartment smells like vanilla and nutmeg.

you pull the tray from the oven with slow, tired movements, fingers twitching slightly through the worn edges of your oven mitts. you place it carefully on the cooling rack, your shoulders drooping.

they turned out perfect.

golden brown, smooth custard centers with just the right shimmer. they look like something out of a recipe book. the kind of thing you’d proudly serve someone you care about.

someone who promised he’d come over this weekend.

someone who’s probably in a stranger’s bed right now.

you press your lips together and exhale through your nose, eyes fluttering shut.

that ache in your chest still hasn’t gone away. it’s not sharp anymore, not like earlier, when you imagined his hands on someone else, but it’s still there. dull. tight. like a bruise that refuses to fade.

you try to distract yourself. start wiping down the counter. humming softly. pretending.

and then—

bang.

a clatter at the door. a commotion, keys fumbling against the lock. your head snaps up, heart slamming into your ribs.

before you can move, the door bursts open.

a heaving sukuna stumbles inside.

he’s wild-eyed, flushed, sweaty, like he’s run the whole way here. his shirt’s wrinkled, his jacket half-zipped, one sleeve rolled up and the other down. his hair’s a mess. his knuckles are scraped.

he looks terrible.

and he looks right at you.

for one beat, just one, everything stops.

your eyes meet, and it’s like all the oxygen rushes back into the room. the ache in your chest disappears, the weight behind his eyes fades, the tension that was tearing both of you apart evaporates the second you’re locked into each other’s gaze.

you smile first. a smile he so dearly loved to see.

small. instinctive. like it slips out before you can stop it.

and that’s all it takes.

sukuna moves fast, like something in him finally gives out, and suddenly he’s in front of you, arms wrapping around your body like he needs you to breathe. his chest crashes into yours, hard, and his arms hook tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

your hands flutter up, half-startled, and you steady yourself against his shoulders.

he’s holding you like he’s drowning.

“jesus,” you laugh softly, trying to ease the weight, “what, some girl give you blue balls or something—”

you don’t finish the sentence.

because his grip tightens.

his arms squeeze harder, fingers fisting into the back of your hoodie like he’s trying to climb inside of you.

his face buries into your neck. and then you hear it.

a sniffle.

not a dramatic one, not obvious, not loud, but small and choked off, like he’s trying not to let it out at all.

your breath catches.

his body trembles once, a subtle shiver that passes through him like a quake, and suddenly your joke feels cruel, your smile falters, and your heart lodges somewhere in your throat.

your voice drops, softer than you’ve ever used with him.

“ryo…”

you pull back just enough to see his face.

his eyes are glassy. rimmed red. lashes damp like he’s been holding it in for a while. and when he blinks, slow and heavy, a single tear finally falls, trailing down the sharp angle of his cheek.

your heart cracks clean in two.

like your body just knows, like it feels his pain before you can even register it, your own eyes burn immediately. you try to hold it in, but it stings anyway. wells up fast, like your chest doesn’t know how to hold all the ache that’s suddenly there.

he sees it.

his lips twitch, and he forces out a quiet, watery chuckle. “of course you're that kinda person” he murmurs, voice thick. “the type to cry when someone else cries. like it’s a reflex or something.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “i've only done it for you.”

that makes him go still.

your hand lifts to his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye, and your voice trembles with the weight of it all. “because i care about you, ryo. so much. more than i can even explain.”

his breath stutters.

and for a second, he doesn’t say anything.

he just looks at you, like you’re something he’s been waiting for his whole life. and then he smiles, soft and small and cracked open, and leans forward until his forehead is pressed to yours again.

you close your eyes.

you fall into each other like instinct.

your arms wrap around his neck again, and his circle your waist. tighter this time. not desperate. just sure.

you still don’t know why he’s crying.

he hasn’t told you anything. hasn’t explained the bloodshot eyes or the tremble in his hands or the way he stumbled through your door like you were home.

but none of that matters.

because he’s sad.

and that makes you sad.

so you hold him. and he holds you back.

"y/n. i love you."

you freeze.

like your whole body forgets how to move.

his voice is quiet, broken at the edges, low and raw like it got scraped out of his chest just for you. you feel it before you even fully process it. like the words ripple through your bloodstream faster than they hit your ears.

you pull back just slightly, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere in your throat.

“h-huh…?”

his gaze is already on you. steady. not flinching. his brows are pinched like he’s terrified, like he’s bracing for the worst, but his hands never leave you. they stay right where they’ve been, one at the small of your back, the other cradling your side like he’s holding something fragile.

“i love you,” he says again, firmer this time. “i think i’ve loved you since the first time you told me about some weird show you liked and forgot to breathe because you were talking too fast. i didn’t know it then, but—fuck, y/n. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

your eyes sting.

you’re not sure if you’re breathing.

his thumb rubs absent circles at your hip. his voice is shaking.

“i haven’t touched anyone since i figured it out. haven’t even looked at anyone like that. i tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. i told myself i could just be around you like normal and it’d pass. but it didn’t. it just got worse. everything felt worse without you.”

you press your lips together, hard.

your chest is aching so sweetly it almost feels like pain.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly, eyes flicking over your face. “i know this is a lot. i just—i couldn’t keep lying. not after tonight.”

you open your mouth, then close it again.

you’re not even sure what expression’s on your face, shock? relief? some impossible mixture of everything you’ve ever felt for him suddenly rising to the surface all at once.

but eventually, finally, your voice comes out.

quiet.

“say it again.”

his brows lift.

you lean in closer, eyes shining. “please. just say it one more time.”

he swallows.

and then he breathes it like a vow.

“i love you.”

you surge forward, arms around his neck, and kiss him like it’s the only thing you’ve been trying not to do for months.

and this time, he doesn’t tremble.

he melts.

like he’s been waiting his whole life just for this.

your lips part from his just enough to breathe.

his eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way your fingers feel curled into the back of his neck. and you watch him for a second — the way his lashes tremble, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s never been kissed before.

and then you say it.

soft.

barely more than a whisper.

“i love you too.”

his eyes open slow.

like he needs to see your face to make sure it’s real.

and when he does, when he sees the truth of it in your eyes, your smile, the way your hand lingers over his heart like it belongs there, he laughs.

it’s small at first. breathless. disbelieving.

then you start laughing too.

and it bubbles out of both of you, giddy and bright, like it’s been waiting there under the surface all this time, the kind of laughter that spills into kisses, that makes your foreheads knock together, that leaves you smiling so wide your cheeks ache.

you’re both a little teary still. a little overwhelmed.

but it doesn’t matter.

because when he kisses you again, deeper this time, fuller, with both hands cupping your face like he’s never going to let you go, it’s not heavy. it’s not hard. it’s not desperate.

it’s just good.

it’s just right.

like the floodgates have finally opened, and everything you’ve both been holding back comes pouring out in warmth and wonder and wonder and wonder.

you’re still holding the edges of each other when he pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.

“you’re it for me.”

and you smile.

because he’s it for you too.

you’re both still smiling, flushed and warm and tangled up in each other, when he suddenly sniffs the air.

his nose scrunches. he blinks. then his head slowly turns toward the counter behind you.

“…wait.”

you already know what’s coming.

he sniffs again, exaggerated and dramatic, eyebrows lifting higher with every inhale. “is that—?” he gasps, stepping around you to look.

“your favourite?” you finish, barely holding back your grin.

his eyes go wide. cartoonishly wide.

“you made them?”

you nod, biting your bottom lip, and gesture toward the cooling tray like you’re unveiling the secret ingredient in a baking show. “fresh from the oven. made them for you, actually. figured you might come by after—”

you don’t even finish the sentence before he lets out the softest noise, like a choked gasp of joy, (very uncharacteristically cute for him.) and practically tackles you in a hug.

“you’re so cute,” he says, spinning you around like it’s instinct, like you’re weightless. you squeal, laughing into his shoulder, clinging to him as he twirls you once in a giddy circle. “you made me custard tarts? i could eat you up right here, i swear to god.”

“ahh i see, so you're gonna eat me and the tarts? someone's getting greedy.”

“absolutely.”

you laugh breathlessly, hands braced against his chest as he sets you back down. “god you perv, did you have to ruin it?”

“sorry, sorry,” he mutters, grinning like an idiot.

he leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet, then cups your cheeks like you’re something precious and kisses you again, deeper, like he can’t help it, like you’re his favorite dessert.

“always wanted to thank you like this,” he murmurs against your lips. “for all the stuff you do for me. the baking, the hugs, the late-night pep talks. all of it. i just never had the guts.”

you giggle, your hands sliding up his arms as you melt into him again.

and as he dips you backward like he’s about to marry you right there in your tiny kitchen, you decide the tarts can wait just a little longer.

my 2k special i hope you liked it 😎

#this was so beautiful #im gonna sob #sukuna x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna angst #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader angst #sukuna x reader fluff #jujutsu kaisen #i love him sm #fanfic reccomendation

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thequeefling · 5 days ago

Text

⸝⸝ wait for me — f. toji

fem reader implied ! — wc : 3k

fluff , angst with a kinda happy ending? maybe a little suggestive (not sure)

a/n : i’ve never wrote a oneshot/fanfic before so if this isnt that good i’m sorry !!!

you and toji’s relationship wasn’t that easy. actually, it didn’t even sound like a relationship at this point. was he really your boyfriend? or just some guy you fucks around with you when he wants to. you assumed he saw you as just a warm body to pass by on, like a multiple answer choice on a test. but you didn’t know the truth—at least not yet.

it was normal for toji to come by your apartment here and there to stop by, maybe have a small talk or just to use your shower after he got back from a mission, drenched in blood and sweat. he usually didn’t need any help either, so he didn’t bother letting you know he was here, but it’s not like you could do anything anyway. he was definitely too strong for you to just kick out, and too damn stubborn. he always thinks hes right, and it frustrates you. so damn much.

but once again, here toji was at two in the morning, knocking on your door. you had just put megumi to sleep (megumi had been staying with you ever since you and toji had gotten together), until there was a big fist banging at your apartment door, which made you groan but you eventually got up from the bed to see who the hell was at the door at two in the morning.

it shouldn’t surprise you that toji is here.

you open the door carefully, peeking your head out just enough to see who it is, a sigh leaving your lips once you recognize the familiar figure and face.

“lemme in, i need a shower,” his thick voice cut through the awkward silence as he stepped closer to the door, causing you to open it more and just stare at him. disappointed.

“megumi was waiting for you, y’know,”

“yeah, yeah.. just lemme in, will ya? i told you i need a damn shower,” he grunted, trying to push his way through your apartment door but before he could even step foot inside you stopped him, your hand pressed against his chest which caused the blood on his shirt to be placed on your palm now. he looked down at you, his gaze softening for a moment before it hardened, yet he stopped.

“i think you should go find a nearby hotel for the night,” you sighed, pulling your hand away from his chest and stepping back a bit to create a good amount of distance between you two.

“hotel? tch, you think i can afford that shit? them damn hotels make you pay fifty bucks for one night. i ain’t doing that,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes but still not moving one bit until you gave him permission to come inside.

you let out a sigh and crossed your arms over your chest, which caused a small smirk to appear on toji’s face, that stupid scar curling up on his lip. he liked when you looked like this—all mad and tired, although, he hated it at the same time because it was directed towards him. “fine. just hurry up.”

he knew you’d eventually agree.

he chuckled and leaned down to place a kiss on your forehead that felt fake but it was definitely there, walking inside your apartment and settling all his stuff down on your kitchen counter—which included his bloody weapons.

“clean my weapons, yeah? it’s the least you can do while i go take a shower.”

a scowl appeared on your face but reluctantly you nodded your head and walked into the kitchen, grabbing his bloody weapons with a disgusted look on your face, scrubbing the blood and.. was that flesh? hell, it doesn’t matter, it was disgusting either way.

you heard the water from the shower turn on as you continued to clean off his weapons, hearing the sound of him groaning—probably from how tense his muscles were after fighting curses and sorcerers all day. you felt bad for a second, but then remembered he was a piece of shit. he never tried to make time for you and his kid, so why should you try to make time in your head for him? well, that’s because you're better than him. you know love, and you know you love him, unfortunately.

you finished washing his weapons and placed them on a rag to dry off, which is also when toji got out of the shower, stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his hips. usually you’d be blushing like crazy because he was almost naked, but right know that’s the last thing you cared about. you were still tired and still frustrated. he saw the look on your face and sighed, walking over to you until he stood right in front of you, glaring down.

“why do you look so pissed? you ain’t happy to see me?”

“why would i? are you even happy to see me?”

“tch. no.”

is the response you would’ve got, but instead, it was different this night.

“yeah. kinda,” he sighed, usually the small towel he had in his hand to ruffle and dry off his hair, walking past you and towards the fridge to probably find a beer or something to eat. “got any beer?”

“no, i don’t have any beer. ever remember i got a kid here?” you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest once again and leaning against the counter, glaring him down yet you couldn’t help but feel a little warmth in your heart. maybe it was the fact he was here, and he was safe.

“tch.. whatever. you’re boring,”

“no i’m mature.”

“same thing,” he chuckled, grabbing some leftovers you cooked and putting it in the microwave, then facing back towards you once the food began to heat up. “you mad at me?”

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes to what he said, letting out a mocking chuckle and shaking your head—proving how disappointed and frustrated you were. “obviously. you didn’t call or text me for two weeks. i thought you were dead.”

“i wouldn’t die on you and you know that.”

“you can’t promise that, toji! you’re not invincible, y’know?!” you yelled, raising your voice uncontrollably which caused him to sigh, walking over to you and placing his hands on your shoulders in an attempt to calm you down.

“stop yelling. you don’t need to yell,” he said calmly in contrast to your loud, angry voice. you sighed, looking down and clenching your fist at your sides. you wanted to yell. to scream, to slap him until he understood, anything. you were just so frustrated. with everything.

“hey, look at me,” he mumbled, snapping you out of your frustrated trance, using one had to gently grab your jaw, forcing you to look up and make eye contact with him. “i’m here, okay? i don’t got another mission until next week. well, at least that’s what shiu told me. alright?”

“that doesn’t make the problem any better.”

“i know, but i want you to just calm down.”

“calm down, how can i calm down, toji? do you not realize how much you frustrate me?” you snapped, not being able to catch your words or your hands until you push him back, just letting all the pent up anger out and on him.

“do you not realize how stressed i am? i’ve been taking care of a kid that’s not even mine while you go out, killing— whatever! and drinking beers, probably fucking other chicks, and doing whatever you do!”

“that’s not—“

“shut up, toji! i’m not finished,” you snapped again, smacking your hand against his chest which caused him to flinch, but he shut up. he didn’t say anything nor did anything as you continued to yell at him.

“the only helpful thing you give to me is money for bills and groceries, that’s it! i’m taking care of megumi like i pushed him out of me, and you’re his goddamn father! i drive him to school, i feed him, i take care of him, i clean the house, i do everything! worse part about it, i don’t even have anyone to help me. i don’t even have you, toji. do not realize how cold the bed is when i go to sleep at night? how empty the table is when megumi goes to bed? how quiet the living room is when megumi is at school?”

he just stared at you as you continued to ramble on about all your stress and frustrated, feeling the guilt swell up in his heart yet his face stayed emotionless as if he didn’t care. he tried not to, but he always did. too damn much.

after you finished your yelling session he just continued to stare at you as you stepped back, catching your breath and leaning against the counter, less angry now.

“..you’re thinking too much about it,” toji muttered and before you could yell again he already smacked his hand on your mouth to shut you up permanently, glaring down at you. “just go to bed. you’re tired, and i am too.”

you glared up at him, feeling tears swell up in your eyes but you didn’t say anymore. pushing his hand away, you stumbled out the kitchen and towards your bedroom, slamming the door behind you. toji stayed in the kitchen, silently cursing to himself for making you cry yet he didn’t attempt to chase after you cause he knew you needed some time to yourself.

he took the food out of the microwave and sat at the dining table, all alone. now he knew what it felt like. to eat all by yourself—yearning for someone who won’t come. he grumbled quietly as he continued to push the fork in his mouth, his free hand clenching on the table until he eventually finished the food, standing up from the table and not bothering to clean the container or even put it in the sink. just left his leftovers on the table, and walking to the bathroom to do god knows what. what do men even do anyway?

while toji was occupying himself in the bathroom you were in your room sobbing quietly into your pillow, your tears more filled of anger than sadness, shaky body clinging up to the wall while your blanket covered your cold, vulnerable body. everything was a mess. your life, your relationship, even your kid that wasn’t even your kid.

eventually an hour later you had managed to fall asleep due to your constant sobbing, which caused your body to fall weak and fall asleep, thankfully. toji was sitting on the couch, drinking some soda you had in your fridge and flipping through tv channels, unable to get you out of his head. he couldn’t help but remember your teary eyes and frustrated face, all the anger pointed to just him. only him. as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t like seeing you angry, especially not at him. he still remembers the day so clear—where you were smiling and laughing, kissing him so sweetly, excited to go on dates, only for it to be ruined. what went wrong? he doesn’t even know.

unable to control it any longer, he got up from the couch and made his way down the hallway, stopping right in front of your shut door. he was tempted to knock, but he assumed you were already asleep so he just carefully peeked open the door, looking through the crack to see you curled up in your bed, tear stains on your pillow and your pretty eyes peacefully shut. a small curled up on his lips, but he immediately hid it. closing the door, he walking over to the bed and looking down at you, feeling a familiar warmth spread across his cheeks. you were still so beautiful in his eyes. as beautiful as the day he met you. after the passing of his wife he thought he’d never be able to find someone to love him again, and when he did, he took advantage of it, and he hates himself for it. hates himself for taking advantage of your sweet nature and pure kindness. he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on your forehead, his lips lingering a little too long before pulling back and carefully getting in the bed beside you, careful to not wake you up.

but of course, as soon as he was getting comfortable you had stirred away.

your eyes barely peeked open as you looked up at him, seeing him sit beside your weak and tired body, although the look in his eyes didn’t seem so harsh this time. it looked soft and loving.

“..why are you in my bed, toji?” you murmured, your voice slightly cracky and deep from just waking up, slowly sitting up and looking at him, face to face.

“i wanted to check up on you,” he answered simply, watching as you sit up in your bed. you looked so cute when you just wake up.

“tch.. why do you care?” you scoffed quietly, adjusting yourself and sitting beside him, your shoulder brushing up against his.

“stop acting like i don’t give a shit about you. you know i care.”

“do you really,”

“yes, i do, y/n,” toji snapped lightly, looking over at you only to be met with an avoiding gaze, seeing how you flinched and crumbled slightly under his loud voice.

he let out a sigh and shook his head, his hand slowly coming out to gently grab ahold of your jaw so you’d look up at him, his thumb brushing over your flushed cheek. “i care a lot. i know i’m a dick sometimes, but i care so much about you and megs. i just.. wanna let you know that.”

you felt your eyes swell up but you refused to cry in front of him. you had to show him that you’re better—that you’re stronger than him. you huffed under your breath, forcing yourself to look away and push his hand off of your jaw.

“if you really cared you’d stay,” you muttered quietly, fiddling with your fingers in your lap, feeling his gaze staring at you. intense, deep, loving.

“you and i both know i can’t,” he mumbled, forcing himself to look away from you so he wouldn’t be met with your hurt gaze, clenching his fist in his lap. “if i could, i would. i’d kill everyone on this shitty ass planet for you. for you and megumi.”

you rolled your eyes at that, yet couldn’t help but feel a slight longing and a bit of hope in your heart that maybe he was being sincere, because his voice sounds so convincing yet his actions said otherwise. “yeah?”

“hell yeah. i would. i’d do anything for the two of you, because i lov.. i.. i care about you both,” toji trailed off, feeling the words he wanted to spit out get stuck in his throat, his fist clenching slightly more to the point his knuckles were slowly turning white from hard hold he was holding back from just spilling out all the emotions and words he had bottled up deep down in his heart.

“..i love you too, toji,” you whispered, catching on to what he was gonna say, feeling your cheeks slightly burn up just from saying those words.

“yeah. just— go to sleep. you’re gonna need it,” he sighed, shaking his head and slowly laying down, his back facing you, refusing to say anything more.

you let out a sigh and just mumbled a small “okay”, rolling over and laying on your side, back facing him as well. you felt like you felt like you wanted to cry again but you held it all back, just shutting your eyes and forcing yourself to go to sleep, to forget all about it.

once the morning came by toji was already up and out of bed before you even woke up, but he hadn’t fully left yet. you slowly woke up, looking beside you to see the bed empty—once again—a small frown forming on your lips before you forced yourself to smack out of it, rubbing your eyes and getting out of bed, heading outside.

but when you came outside the bedroom toji was there. he was just standing there, eating an apple as if he was waiting for you to wake up. your eyes widened slightly until he recognized you, causing your eyes to relax and a warmth spread across your cheeks, approaching him.

“you haven’t left yet?” you whispered, in which he responded with a chuckle, shaking his head and throwing the eaten apple into the trashcan.

“you want me gone already? damn,” he teased, flicking your forehead lightly before you smacked his bicep as a get back, grumbling under your breath.

“you know what i meant.”

“yeah, i know. i was waiting for you to wake up so i could say goodbye properly,” he sighed, walking towards the door as you followed behind him, slowly opening it and then turning around to look back at you.

“i- i thought you didn’t have another mission until next week?”

he sighed, feeling slightly guilty for lying to you, taking another step towards you and placing his hand on your cheek, rubbing it gently. “shiu called.. it just came up. i’m sorry.”

“it.. it’s fine.”

you both stood there in awkward yet comfortable silence before he let out a sigh and leaned down to press his lips against your, gently and slow, waiting for you to adjust. your eyes widened but you allowed it, kissing him back before he pulled away, slightly breathless. “i’ll see you next week. okay? i love you.”

“okay, i love you too. be safe, please,” you mumbled as he stepped back, opening up the door more and stepping out, but before he shut it, he made eye contact with you one last time.

…

“wait for me, yeah?”

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#toji fushiguro #toji x reader #fushiguro toji #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #one shot #fanfic #fluff #angst

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