#actually what am i talking about. it was only this one guy who cares about my relationship status that fucking much

[heartcircus]

okay but can we talk more about how . quick clown was to take tina under his wing. the fact that it reflected how he came to take ros as an apprentice … ough. the parallels?

first, with bad (jokingly) threatening tina after clowm logged off only for clown to log in at the perfect time, which made bad go immediately silent and back off. like . what is this . december?

but then there was also during the confrontation with pili/ace. clown wasn’t taking it seriously, joking around and having a very light attitude towards the whole thing. when pili said he found clown boring, clown took it in stride. but tina rose to his defense, and pili immediately latched onto her — asking if this was clown’s apprentice, hiding behind the arena’s walls. and it’s like. something clicked in clown’s head because he said she could do whatever she wants. and then he started actually taking the confrontation seriously. and he brought up ros.

sorry im a rospierce (/p or /r idc i just love them as a duo) enjoyer. and i’ve hardly seen anyone talk about it so. here i am. analysing it. all one line.

“you expect me to care what you think. but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? i never cared. i just wanted to put you in the dirt for what you did to ros.”

i remember back in january, feeling slightly disappointed at how misconstrued the fight between pili and clown was advertised, with people claiming it was “toxic yaoi” or “pili proving himself”. and those are interpretations that can be had, especially from pili’s pov! it was framed as if pili was the underdog and clown was the final boss pili has to defeat to gain some respect, and though he ultimately failed, clown never spoke about the reasons why he personally fought pili that day.

i’m sure a lot of people, both in the realm and in the community, assumed it was because pili was obsessed with clown and his deepest desire was to die by clown’s hand. they probably also assumed clown was fighting simply because he was the only one who could. but that’s not the case. sneeg sought out clown before the fight and offered to take pili down, but clown refused him. it was personal to clown. probably because ros was targeted due to her relationship with him.

maybe that’s why he never told anyone why he did it. at the fight. why he purposefully played into the role of pili’s final wall to overcome. because people knowing he cared about ros is exactly what led to her being hunted down and killed in the first place. he doesn’t want to advertise just how important she is to him, because it’s dangerous to be so. and it’s a shame, but also so very interesting, because despite the fact that their relationship is almost entirely private, ros has never once doubted that clown cares about her.

but you can also see that clown seems to be letting those walls down! i mean, he blatantly admitted that the reason he fought pili was for ros’s sake. this was in front of only foolish and tina, who wouldn’t use this information against him, and bad who already knew. but still. i wonder if it’s because of sneeg and zam and ros herself have grown stronger. and he doesn’t feel that he is the only one who needs to protect them.

sorry for the rant/analysis that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. because clown hardly logs in, he doesn’t do a lot of lore. and when he does do lore, it’s hardly talked about because people tend to view it as non-canon because they can’t see him committing to it . but i still think he’s such an interesting character despite that ^^

this is an amazing analysis anon.... woawww my rospierce heart

but yes i agree!!! the whole purpose of the fight did get misconstrued; clown fought because Ros' safety was in jeopardy if he didn't, not to grant pili's wish. he never cared about that, he never cared that pili was obsessed with him and any advance pili tried making clown actively ignored or dismissed (ex. throwing away all the gifts pili gave him). it was all for ros.

i also think clown is the type of guy to hide his relationship with ros as a means of protection like you said. it's dangerous to let people know you have attachments, it's something that can be exploited and used against you. it's happened time and time again on lifesteal, clown's home. it makes total sense for him to want to hide how much he cares for ros in hopes of keeping her out of danger.

clown and ros' relationship is so interesting to me . god i love them so much. they have like undying faith in one another and despite clown not being around a lot and most of their bond being hidden in private, they're unwavering. clown comes back and it's like nothing ever changed .

[quirkwizard]

Mutant Mayhem: A Critique on the Mutant Sub-Arc

Normally, I start this off with some kind of intro to establish what I'm talking about, but I'm not going to lie: I think this might be the worst thing to come out of the main storyline. This may be a surprise to long-time followers of the blog. My dislike of Stars and Stripes and her arc has been well documented, with me calling it the worst part of MHA. As much as I dislike a lot of elements of the Stars and Stripes Arc, I can at least understand what Hori was going for, and it's pretty easy to ignore in the grand scheme of things. With this? I can't understand this.

So I want to put two disclaimers here. First off, I am not an expert on politics, sociology, or anything related to that in any way. I do not know how the events in the manga reflect real world issues, both in Japan specifically and the world at large. What I am is a writer. I am someone who analyzes stories for fun. This is going to be a critique of how the story handles the plot purely from a writing perspective. It will not be a critique of whether it is realistic or comparable to real world events. I'm sure there are other people far more equipped to handle talking about this.

Second off, for the sake of this, I'm ignoring a lot of the character work with Spinner. I actually think that's some strong stuff here. It just happens to be stuck in the middle of an arc that I don't feel uses that well. I know that isn't nearly as important as the first disclaimer, but I like it a lot and I want to give this arc flowers where I can. So, without further ado, let us get into this.

The Major Players

To be frank, Shoji and Koda feel out of place here. Do not get me wrong. I like them both, Shoji especially, but it does not feel like either of them has any place leading an arc. He's such a background character, even among the ranks of 1-A. And Koda is even worse in terms of relevance. Shoji and Koda don't have any real arcs of their own or connections to Spinner to make this feel warranted, let alone satisfying. At least, not that'd tie them into this part of the story. Koda is a kid who was shy that wanted to find his voice and gain more confidence. Shoji, the leading man of this whole arc has... nothing. He was just a quiet, minimalist who helped out where he could.

On the other end of things, there is Spinner. For the whole of this arc, Spinner is reduced a brainly functional monster. Yeah, that's great for his character, but it hurts the rest of the arc and the point it is trying to make. Because the guy who is supposed to be leading this part of the story has been reduced to a drooling moron who can barely string a sentence together. When he does talk, all he can say is that he doesn't even care what his own allies are doing. It makes it come across that Spinner doesn't have any real place in his own arc. It ends up hurting the manga and the story it is trying to tell by actively robbing the key player of his agency.

And then we have the spider guy. I'm not even going to bother remembering his name. We don't know anything about him or why he's doing this. He's only really here to spout out exposition about the discrimination of the Mutants and what they have gone through. So do we get someone who is passionate about fighting for this cause? No, not really. He makes it clear to the audience that this is not his main goal. All he is there to do to keep the revolution going for the sake of All For One. He's not the kind of figurehead that this arc needs. Someone who can act as the passionate mouthpiece to really push what the Mutants want and need. He just ends up being some other stooge that quickly gets defeated without much thought.

So right off the bat, it doesn't feel like these characters have any strong ties or arcs to work with here. It feels like we're dealing with the leftovers. Like all the other characters were busy somewhere else, but needed something Spinner for his story and to get Kurogiri. Shoji and Koda are the only ones left with any kind of panel time, and now he had to throw some stuff together about how there was all this prejudice against Mutants. Because that is all you have to tie them all them together. Okay, sure, maybe the characters aren't really that good for this kind of story line. But maybe the actual writing and build up to make this part of the story will make this arc feel satisfying, right?

The Setup?

Right off the bat, I don't think that this plot line is that well established. Looking back at the series, what examples do we have of Mutant discrimination within the main manga? Maybe a few small moments. A comment about how big the doors are at UA as opposed to other places. Which can imply that other buildings aren't as accommodating for those, but it's never really explored that much beyond that one comment. Gang Orca is a Mutant and is said to be one of the most villainous-looking heroes. Yet I feel like that's a pretty forgettable fact about how minor of a character he is and how aggressive he tends to act around people. If anything, that feels like a bigger contributor to why people see him as a villain. 

A few insults based on how a character looks. Namely, Shoto to the dog Chief of Police, Dabi to Spinner during the car chase to get Overhaul, and Pony to Shoji during the Joint Training Arc. However, none of these are given real focus. They are all either played off like any other insult or even a joke, in the case of Dabi and Spinner. Do you see what I'm getting at? For all the focus it gets as an end-game issue, there really isn't a lot of focus put on it with the story or characters. It's all a bunch of smaller moments. Smaller moments that are few and far between and aren't given any kind of real gravity for when they do happen. There isn't anything that stands out to me that makes me think that Mutants are facing any kind of discrimination in the modern day.

And before any of you say anything, yes, there are more notable examples of problems like this in the Vigilantes spin-off. The most obvious one is Kirihito Kamachi. He has the body of a giant praying mantis. He has difficulty living and interacting with others because of how monstrous he is, such as finding a place that can accommodate him. That is a great exmaple... that is not in the main manga. As good as Vigilantes is, it's still ultimately supplementary material. To me, you shouldn't have to rely on supplementary material to support your main story. Because most people aren't going to be reading it. At least, not many people do from what I have seen. Within the main manga, there are only two major examples I can think of. 

The first is the Creature Rejection Clan. A group of people solely dedicated to the exclusion of Mutants on the basis of blood purity. Which certainly sounds bad. The story says they used to be a thing back when the first Quirks came about. Yet they are barely even an organization in the modern times. They are treated instead as a long-dead relic, who are so weak and fractured as to be a joke. The second is the attack on the giant fox woman, which has so many extraneous factors involved that I hesitate to count it. Such as the fact it was done by a bunch of people without any kind of real racial motivation behind it and it was a random attack by scared people during a total societal collapse. So while it was part of the world, it seemed more in the background. Something that happened before with some lingering wounds. A problem with the world that should be dealt with, but not something that is that prevalent.

The Mutant's Madness

We then cut to the current storyline and... we have a horde of thousands upon thousands of Mutants all marching on the hospital with Kurogiri inside of it. All of these Mutants were so disgruntled about the world as is, that they formed a mob of this size. We're told that Spinner was regularly attacked and sprayed with bug spray. We get mentions of these massive hate crimes against Mutants that were never mentioned before. We then get flashbacks to Shoji's history. About how he was beaten and heavily scarred by people that attacked him as child. This is something that happened whenever he interacted with any other people. Hori: Where on Earth did any of this come from?

I want you to think about all the examples I picked out. I did not intentionally cherry-pick those. I tried my best to find all the notable examples of this before the arc. Would any of you assume that would be how Mutants were treated in the setting? I certainly wouldn't. I don't think I'd ever reach the conclusion that the story did. That, not even ten years ago, there were mass killings and public attacks on small children. This took such a drastic turn that I get whiplash just thinking about it. Was this ever implied or set up before? I feel like this kind of violence would have been shown or mentioned until now, but no. This is the first time we've heard about it on this scale.

And introducing a problem this big this late into the story, in the very arc it is relevant in, is sloppy writing to say the least. Realistically, this should be something that affects a large portion of the world and even members of our cast. You would think that if stuff like that was happening, we'd see way more examples of this in the story. Characters like Tokoyami, Sero, Tsuyu, and Mina. All of which could have been used to explore this more, but they have never been mentioned. Could you imagine if we only got passing mentions of what was going on with Himiko? And, outside of her obsession with blood, we never fully understood why she was that way. Only to find out there are thousands of other kids that go through exactly what she did and no one ever talked about it?

And why is that? Why is it never seen or mentioned? Hori tells us it's because the cities aren't as bad. It's out in the country where it's really bad. What?! What kind of explanation is that? Let's ignore the fact that it doesn't make any sense. If you have that kind of acceptable violence even out in the sticks, there would have to be some kind of sign of it in the major cities. The fact of the matter is that this is such a lazy excuse. Geez, Hori, if that was the case, maybe you should have shown us something outside the city then. Maybe then you could have built up this plot point more if you wanted it to be such a major focus of the arc. Why even go to this level of extreme with it? Especially since this level of violence the Mutants undergo suffocates the message so much.

The Mangled Message

My issue with the violence is that it is crippling the narrative the story wants to go for. Having it be this level of violence justifies the Mutants in their revolt. Shoji's whole point is not letting your hatred win and how you need to rise above what people think of you. A good sentiment on paper. If you want to talk about the kind of harm extremists can do to a message and progress as a whole, that is totally fine. Or maybe you could go with how people can be caught up in something that doesn't have their real interests at heart. There are a lot of ways you could go about this kind of message.

But that kind of talk doesn't exactly fly when your lives and wellbeing are in active danger. The Mutants aren't getting side-eyed by some old dude on a porch. They're running from hate mobs out for blood. Hate mobs are so wild and vindictive they will openly attack children on sight with zero moral compunctions about them. Which, yes, is the extreme, but the rest of what we learn doesn't make it seem like it's that far of an extreme. This kind of writing not only makes it jarring with what we have been shown, but it puts the Mutants as a whole in such a terrible position in this world. I can't exactly blame them for fighting back, even if it's aimed in the wrong direction.

When I'm writing this, I keep thinking back to that one line from Shoji. "Spinner, you're about to put us back thirty years." I get what the story is trying to say with that, but it feels so wrong here. Sure Shoji, you can try and be the model citizen that wants to bridge the gap between people. Not stooping to their level and all that. Yet trying to moralize people who feel actively threatened by the world at large doesn't come across the way you think it does. It comes across as tone-deaf and preachy even in the best light. And that's not the kind of thing you want to say about the guy who is supposed to be in the right. It's this weird moralizing that makes this sub-arc so hard to read and enjoy.

What makes it worse is that the crowd feels like such a mindless mob. One that only stopped because they realized they were attacking a hospital. What on Earth did you think you were doing here? Volunteer work? I get that the point is that Shoji's speech and the heroics of everyday people is what stopped them, but come on. It feels like Hori needed to put them in a much worse position morally to make the violence stop. That doesn't really acknowledge the problems that they are going through in a reasonable way. Why not make them stop because they feel like their leader is nothing more than a violent thug? Or the revelation that they are fighting for just to be used by All For One? Not because he cares about them, but because he just wants to build chaos?

This entire issue just feels so bizarre and poorly thought out on so many fronts. It makes me wonder why we're even getting this kind of arc in the first place. On the surface, it fits in with the other villains. Which I get is the point of the villains. They are people with genuine grievances towards society, but go too far with what they will do to get what they want. But at least it felt like the villains were exceptional extremes of the system who were hurting more than they helped. Their issues were a product of the system, but were far more personal. This seems like it's something far more widespread. Something so ingrained in the world that goes beyond any one person. So it feels at odds with how the rest of the villains and issues are set up.

And to be clear: I'm not saying this because I don't think MHA should cover these topics. In a series talking about the issues of society and how people need to work together to make things better, bigotry in any fashion could be something you could easily cover. If anything, I think that MHA Is uniquely suited to talk about this. It's certainly more appropriate to cover it here than other series that try to use its supernatural elements to talk about bigotry. And yes, that includes the X-Men. But to talk about these issues, you need to lay the groundwork. You need to tackle it with some tact. You need to know what you are doing. And Hori clearly doesn't know what he's doing here.

The Rewrite

Now, how would I fix this? This is kind of an awkward position for me to be in. Because I don't think you can fix this arc in and of itself. It's built around a foundation that is shaky at best. I honestly think you'd need a whole other mini-arc just to set this issue up and establish this as an issue for Shoji. At very least, you'd have to put a lot more of a focus on Spinner as a real character. So I think that the best answer is to just rewrite it from scratch.

For starters, you change the people that are attacking the hospital. The horde is not all Mutants. They are instead all followers of the League itself. They are just like Spinner was back when he was following the image of Stain. They are people who think they understand what the League is fighting for or are merely fighting back for their own personal vendettas. They are all people who felt small and hurt. It is effectively an army of Spinners. At least, as he was early on in the manga. And these aren't anywhere near as bad as they are in canon. It can be for whatever ill-thought-out reason there is. Spinner is still leading the charge, still full of Quirks. And while his change in form would tie into his other story, I'm going to try and make it relevant to the rest of the arc.

And you may be wondering how this ties back to Shoji? It doesn't. Again, I like Shoji, but he does not need to play such as a major part of the final arc focused on him. So I suggest we get another student to replace him. Specifically, Iida. Why put Iida here? To be perfectly frank, I think Iida was wasted in this arc. He doesn't have any real ending for the arc we've seen and doesn't add much to the part of the story he is in. All he's used for is a glorified taxi for Shoto to get to his arc. I do have an idea about him and why I am putting him here, but I'd be lying if I said my personal feelings on Iida this arc aren't part of my decisions.

To start things off, I would make it clear that this is one of the last functional hospitals in the country. This place is integral to treating the most seriously injured and sick. Trying to move any of the patients would likely kill them, including Kurogiri. The heroes wouldn't want to use it as a battleground, but feel forced to because such a valuable target is there with Kurogiri. So the heroes organize a force to help defend the hospital, for which Iida volunteers. And when asked about it, Iida says he wants to protect it because it's about his brother. Both that is what Tensei would do and all he can think about is his brother laying in that same hospital.

And this is where their dynamic would come in. Spinner and Iida are comparable in how they both looked up to a person in their life and how much that warped their perspective. After encountering Stain, both of them changed. Iida strived more to emulate and honor his brother rather than idolize him. He wanted to be the one to build up the rest of his classmates and become a proper hero that can save people. Spinner went from being a fanboy to an idol himself, but a false one. He got the power he wanted, but an empty in the process, with everyone else ascribing things to his actions rather than having any real will of his own.

I'm doing this because, in a series all about inherited wills and legacy, I think that you could do something focusing on inheriting the wrong ideas from someone. That is brought up a few times throughout the series, but I think that some part of the finale could focus on it. It's how your actions have meaning and those actions can spread out to people who look up to you and trust you. These are the roles that Iida and Spinner fulfill. It ties back to what the Mutant Sub-Arc was trying to bring up about how this group of people is being used and radicalized for All For One's cause and not their own, but in a way that doesn't tie it to all the baggage of discrimination and bigotry. 

Iida can talk about how the crowd is misguided. That the League and All For One aren't on their side. Nobody in the crowd cares though. They rather shout about their grievances. About why they are fighting this war in the first place. They all look up to Stain and Spinner as their revolutionaries. They all turned to Spinner looking for his wise words. This is the part where he says he doesn't care. He can give a similar speech as he did in canon, but it can be more to emphasize his own past as opposed to Iida. How Iida is where he is, because he was born lucky with a wealthy family and a strong Quirk.  I think that this would be a lot more personal to Spinner. His whole perspective and life has changed so much that Stain, the man that inspired him, is barely even an afterthought. 

This would be encouraged by a man on a roof seeing it all: Trumpet. Now, I am replacing the spider guy with Trumpet for a few reasons. One is that he's already an established character, and he already has ties to Spinner. Second is that his power of "Incite" could do a lot to explain how the crowd is fighting so well. Finally, I think that it could reflect how All For One is using these people. They aren't here to lead a revolution, but to cause chaos. And I think that works better with a figure like Trumpet. The second a new regime seems to be rolling in, he immediately switches sides to working with All For One. He isn't as staunch MLA follower as people thought he was and merely attached himself to it because it was a means of power. It feels more fitting for someone like him to talk about how he doesn't really believe in this kind of stuff than someone who should be affected by the issue they are fighting for.

So the battle rages on between the two groups. You could also throw in some of the students to help fight with Iida. To me, you could put any of the other students here if you want. Maybe you could have some moment for Jiro or Koda here. They'd be able to use the power of their Quirks to help drown out Trumpet and all of his rhetoric. Maybe you could have people like Sero and Ojiro work as the counterpoint. They don't have great Quirks, but they were still able to make it into the Heroics Course in spite of that fact. Their roles don't matter as much to me as the main conflict between Spinner and Iida. Iida tries to fight back as hard as he can, but, ironically, Spinner's ability to jump and climb between walls makes it hard for Iida to attack him.

That is when the crowd starts closing. The doctors are doing their stand to make sure no one can get in and hurt the patients. This makes the crowd hesitate some. At that moment, Iida gets an order. To stop the crowd no matter what it takes and save the doctors. Even if it means he has to kill Spinner. Everyone thinks that Iida is going to violently charge at and destroy the crowd. But no. Iida doesn't do that. Instead, he uses his immense speed to rescue everyone in the hospital. He is going at such high speeds that he is able to save everyone before they can die and move them to another location away from the fighting. All except Kurogiri, who is under such heavy defense that Iida could not reach him. Everyone is shocked and amazed at this, including Iida, who never thought he'd be able to pull off such a move.

After it's all done, Iida is spent. He used Recipro Burst too much and is now unable to move. Yet he still stands, begging the crowd to not attack the hospital. This is where Iida's arc ends. He gets to be a true hero, focusing on saving others rather than trying to hurt them, and making another speech to stop a raging crowd. The doctors can be out there as well, as I do think that bit is important to the greater themes of the series. And it does work for a moment. Spinner does not care though. He still moves forward. And then suddenly stops in his tracks. Only to reveal Stain had used "Bloodcurdle" on him, leaping from on high to stop the assault on the hospital. 

Yeah, I'm throwing Stain in here too. I've always disliked how Stain's death was handled. I don't mind him dying, just how it was done. Not only did it feel totally pointless, barely adding anything to the final fight with All For One, it felt so inconclusive to his character. There's more that could be done. We have already got the conclusion to All Might and Stain's connections at the statue, so having him die with Toshonori doesn't really fit. To me, Iida and Spinner have some of the strongest connections to Stain. Because they were the ones who were most changed by interacting with him and his legacy as a villain. So I believe that adding him here will add more to the arc and his own character.

This is a point where Stain takes Spinner to task about everything he's done so far. About how this was not his dream and not his goal. That was to flush out all the fake heroes. Not to hurt people who "didn't deserve it". By killing Iida and attacking his hospital, they are all corrupting his mission. This really puts a stop to the crowd. This is their idol, the one who started their revolution. And now he's talking about how their work makes them sick. So now he stands against them. To protect Iida and the hospital. You could even call back to his infamous speech, a dreadful aura falling over the whole Quirk. Yet Spinner starts to move again much sooner, either from losing so much blood from "Scalemail" or having a Type-O blood type, and the Quirk stops affecting him.

He charges up to Iida, ready to cleave him in half. Only for Stain to block the attack to save Iida, dying in the process as his body gets stuck on Spinner's weapon. Only to be tossed aside without a care as Spinner makes his way to the hospital. In this way, it acknowledges the growth of Iida into a "true hero" in the eyes of Stain. It's between these three elements that the crowd stops. The heroic moment of Iida, the death of Stain, and the obvious indifference of Spinner are all what led to them realizing that this cause may not be worth fighting for and stopping the charge. I think that would be a lot more point of a moment. Because now we get the culmination of Iida's character, the ironic death of a major villain, and the final tragic note of Spinner as a character.

And I think having it be this way could make it more fitting for where the two end up. We see Iida start to work closely with Uraraka when helping out the children. Maybe Iida could be working with other kids that are in trouble. He can be the guy who is trying to help out his community and lead like example. Just like what his brother was doing before him. Meanwhile, it could help recontextualize Spinner's ending. I've already talked about this in my rewrite of the ending before, but I think this could add a nice way to present Spinner's book. That he wants to tell the truth of the League and have them be remembered, but not in a way that will radicalize people like him in the future. 

Now, is this a deviation from the main story and what this sub-arc was going for? Yeah, but I don't think that you are losing much by changing the players and context. Here, you can still have the misguided rioters that have close ties to Spinner, but without a lot of the sloppy writing surrounding the Mutant storyline. It also can give more meat to two major characters that felt shafted by the final storyline. Iida get's recognized as a true hero, finally living up goal he had since he fought Stain. Stain himself dies an ironic, but fitting death. He dies at the hands of a follower who idolized him, but did so saving a kid he said was a false hero. Overall, I believe this does more justice to the characters and the story.

[lostpiewrites]

Hello, can I please request a second part of Umemiya, aaaa I loved it. I want to know how he's going to take care of his queen Ume. Maybe Higari told Sakura that Ume can't control himself if his sister Kotoha or, in this case, the reader gets hurt.

a/n : OMGOMG i am glad you liked ittt. 🩷My little blog is growing bigger by baby steps , i am shitting tears rn. 🥹 here we go with the second part. For anyone who is seing this post first , this is a continuation of the first part. You can read it here.

Gangs , Guns , Bitches (Pt.2) 🔪🩸

ft : Umemiya Hajime from Windbreaker.

synopsis : when a boy learns from his mistakes , he grows into a man.

You let go of the hug a few moments after. You were too tired and injured to talk. But you wanted to ask him things.

"Why Ume ?"

It was only plain two words , but heartbreak in your voice was loud and clear. It was plain but damn him if it didn't stab his heart and shatter it into pieces. He teared up.

"I am sorry. I should have explained. From the start."

Nothing else needed to be said between you because tears , hugs and unsteady limbs were talking loud enough. He let go of you to inspect your body all over. You were injured , hardly. It was a surprise how you were even conscious at this point. He looked back at the other boys from Furin , asking them to go arrange the nearest hospital for your treatment. His throat was locked up in suppressed need of crying and regret but only his closest friends , 4 kings, understood what was going on with him emotionally. You didn't last long awake and lost conscience again. He then gently scooped you up in his arms in a bridal style , slowly walking out of KEEL's hideout to take you to the said hospital.

During the walk there , the first years were stunned into silence. The 3rd and 2nd years have seen Umemiya lose his temper badly before when Kotoha was kidnapped in the same way as you last year but by another group and she returned home in a better condition than yours. But it was the 1st year's first time seeing their kindergarten-escapeé leader lose his cool and beat people to death instead of trying to talk and making compromises. Sakura was blinking rapidly , trying his ABSOLUTE VERY hardest to not blush in the adorable scene in front of him , he couldn't handle you and Umemiya's relationship at all , esp seeing it firsthand. He first thought that Kotoha was his gf and his poor cheeks were relieved when he learned she isn't but he actually had a gf ? Hiragi chuckled and patted his shoulder.

"You okay there our dearest tomato ? Better get you used to it. Now that the whole school has learned of them , y/n will be in our sight more often. She will now freely visit us at school because other gangs will probably hear about this and learn about her afterwards. Tho i have got to admit , it's only the 2nd time i have seen him like that. It only happened for Kotoha before , but now we have another woman on our 'die but protect her' list."

First years listened in as well even tho the talk was directed to Sakura. The last sentence was a gentle ask between friends , companions... They swore internally that they would help protecting you. Nirei was madly writing things down , opening a fresh page for your infos.

When you guys arrived at the hospital , even the doctor's who have supposedly seen worse winced at your injuries. No one questioned what happened but they saw Furin almost alltogether AND Umemiya , the village's no1 protector , is bringing an injured girl into the hospital in his own arms ? They would definitely treat you like royalty. A group of nurses rushed to bring you a hospital bed and carry you into the treatment room. They sew your wounds , put some ices on the bruises and inspected your body for any broken bones.

Umemiya was in distress , sitting outside of your room with Furin boys beside him and waiting for your examination to be over. When the nurse comes out he jolts up from his seat and goes to ask about you. The nurse reassures him that you aren't in a critic condition , but also tells that some of your knife injuries and bruises would leave permanent scars. He thanks the nurse and sits back down , lowering his head in shame. He failed to protect the dearest people to him from danger , yet again.

After a few days of intense medical treatment and physical therapy , you were now allowed to go back home. Umemiya takes you from the hospital back to your house and stays with you for weeks until everything is over. Helps you apply ointment to your wounds and bandages them back with care. Doesn't let you roam around the house doing chores for a looooong while. Then when everything is over and you don't have to bandage your wounds anymore , he cuddles you and kisses every permanent scar left. You laugh because it's ticklish but he doesn't. He regrets it , a lot... But now that you are still in his arms , he has one more chance to make everything right... Right ?

[navree]

"rhaenys could have ended the war by dracarysing all the greens right there" yes because a distant relation to the throne deciding to barbecue an anointed and publicly positively hailed king and his entire family who is well loved within the city and in multiple other parts of the country for the sake of the succession of a far-away princess no one was ever on board with who hasn't been seen by the populace in literal years, her psycho husband, her three obvious bastards, and two toddlers from the psycho husband would go over super well with westeros and especially in king's landing where scores of the still-cheering population were killed for no reason by that same dragon who would do the barbecuing, because when targaryens act unilaterally without thinking of how the people would react there's never any problem, which is why the storming of the dragonpit and robert's rebellion were actually just collective delusions dreamed up by readers who hate rhaenyra and not key parts of the story and house targaryen's history that directly contributed to their demise and are intrinsic to the plot

truly team black stans are made up of only the most genius and media literate amongst us

[prozacdyke]

Ok fun fact for all of 8th-10th grade the friend group i was in made fun of me dailyyy for not ever being in a relationship and these were people i loved so i took their words seriously and was deeply insecure about it and had that whole “im unlovable” mindset. Im past that now but i still cant even listen to people talk about being in relationships without my stomach churning. Cant wven watch anything that isnt comedy

[flovverworks]

after a billion yrs i added a lil line about my gbf verse.....<3 one day i might flesh it out to something in-universe, but since gbf is so "oh ure from another world? ya that happens..." i....am gonna keep w that..........(also cuz i do think discussing the different ways of magic, moon-enemy & this n that is more fun like this

[hauntingblue]

I

<3

In between arc (kinda) episodes

Pt. 3

[canceriancryptid]

.

wow so apparently 30 tags is the limit, that's cool, not rereading any of that shit, the void can have it and my run on sentences

[saatorus]

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

[apatheticsunday]

Dead Serious Arranged Marriage

AKA "Damian al Ghul and the High King of Infinite Realms, Space, and the Dead are married because of some ritual Ra's al Ghul did when Damian was a baby. The Batfam only find out because Damian casually mentions his husband and they're like?? WHAT???" prompt idea!!

Loosely inspired by this post where Billy Batson & Danny Fenton accidentally get married and Billy spills the beans in front of the JL.

I love the idea of Ra's al Ghul knows Danny because of the Lazarus Pit; maybe Ghost King!Danny came to Ra's and was like, "You know unsanctioned resurrection is forbidden, right? You have to submit an Undead Appeal form in the afterlife. I'm gonna have to confiscate your Goop." But Ra's is a master manipulator and gets Danny to agree to a truce... a marriage with his grandson in exchange for continued use of the Lazarus Pit. Don't ask me how it happened; Ra's "wins" either way because his grandson gets married to a High King and he gets to keep his Goop.

(Because Danny's young, okay? Logistically speaking, he's not going to outsmart an immortal cult leader. Maybe sometime down the road Danny gets tired of Ra's talking circles around him and just, like, punches him in the face or something. Makes "Redemption Arc" Dan take care of it. Who knows?)

But for now, Danny is now married to a literal baby. He's confused as hell how this happened. He's like, omg, am I a groomer now?? Am I one of those creepy ancient kings that get married to 12 year old girls?? What the fuckkkk!!! So, he runs to the Ghost Zone. Goes off-world, maybe he gets swept up in Ghost King duties and totally forgets about it. The thing about the Ghost Zone is that the time dilation is different: a couple of days/weeks/months in the Ghost Zone is actual years on Earth. That's why Danny is still so young despite depictions of him going centuries back (time is even messier because he can actually time travel, too, so there may be paintings of him during the Aztec civilization but only because he was there for maybe a week or two.)

This leads to everybody on Earth thinking he's an Ancient Being. Ra's is elated that his grandson, the heir of the League of Assassins, is married to the equivalent of a God (he doesn't know that 99 percent of the time, Danny's lounging on Sam's couch in sweats and eating cheese puffs, watching melodramatic reality TV with Tucker).

And Damian grows up hearing about this legendary marriage, how this Great Ancient Being is his husband, and is... maybe scared? A little angry, resentful? He's had the choice taken from him from before he could even conceptualize it. He was a kid growing up thinking this All Powerful Being was watching his every move, judging him for not being the best like his Grandfather says, and waiting. He trains harder, learns more, maturing faster than anyone his age. And he's still waiting. Because the High King doesn't show up. Not when Damian's four, six, ten, twelve, fourteen. Damian thinks maybe he's not good enough yet despite vastly outdoing even the most seasoned senior assassins in the League.

Danny comes back to Earth and is like, oh, shit, I need to check on my baby!!! Except when he drops in on the League of Assassins, he's met with an angry, resentful, offended Damian al Ghul who's the same age as him. And Damian's met with.... some guy?? What the hell?? This can't be the High King of Infinite Realms, Space, and the Dead, Ancient Being, etc. He's heard so many stories of his husband, spanning centuries of different culture and in varying dead languages.

Needless to say, their introduction doesn't go great. But Danny wants to explain himself and make amends, and Damian's just baffled enough to listen. ("What do you mean, the Undead Siege of The Great Wall wasn't you???" "Yeah, that was the previous Ghost King. I've never risen an army of the dead before.") But as they talk, Damian begrudgingly accepts that his husband is... actually pretty cool (despite the god-awful sweatpants). Danny's recounting his various tales, usurping the previous Ghost King, and Damian even starts to respect Danny.

So, they keep talking. Keep meeting, learning about each other, becoming friends, and eventually becoming more. Damian originally thought Danny was too stupid for words, but quickly realizes that he's a great strategist, knowledgeable about a vast amount of stuff, and is incredibly loyal. Danny thinks Damian's deadpan bluntness is hilarious, understands Damian's pathological need to be the best (courtesy of the Demon Head's traumatic teaching during childhood), and is almost single-mindedly, unconditionally loyal. He's also incredibly petty, which is also hilarious.

Maybe years pass and they're now lovers, Danny sticking around Earth because he's scared if he goes into the Ghost Zone, he'll unintendedly come back when Damian's 90 or something. So, Danny's there when Talia takes Damian aside and says, "Bruce Wayne is your father. I'd like you to train under him before you become the new Demon Head."

Damian goes and Danny follows. When he worries about Tim usurping the title of Heir, Danny's there to say, "You don't make friends by attacking them, Dami! He's your family, not your enemy." The whole "Damian trying to kill Tim" thing doesn't happen. When he worries about disappointing his Father, Danny's saying, "He's your dad. He missed your childhood so he wants to get to know you - just be yourself." Damian doesn't act violently, aggressively, or is offensively provocative; he's still petty, painfully blunt, and exasperatingly self-confident, but he's also honest and thoughtful.

Damian transitions into the Batfam easier with Danny beside him (invisible, only showing himself while in Damian's room or when they're alone). Because Danny wants his husband to feel accepted, appreciated, and get the unconditional love that he never received while living with the LoA.

Let's imagine several months go by and the Batfam are totally comfortable with Damian. He's truly like their annoying younger brother. So, they're at family dinner, maybe Dick is discussing his relationship with Barbara and Steph makes a comment about when are you going to propose already?? Tim and Jason are ribbing him about commitment issues (Bruce is suspiciously silent, likely knowing that if he says something, his kids are going to verbally tear him apart for his Situationship with Selina).

And Damian says, "Many feel apprehensive to marry. I was not, of course, but my husband was very trepidatious."

The whole Batfam are like... what?? What do you mean the youngest kid of the Wayne household is the first to be married?? (Aside from Alfred, who's since divorced.) Is this even legal???

But Damian just continues on, "Perhaps discussing the progression of your relationship with Miss Gordon would be beneficial. Marriage should be consensual." (Damian learned that from Danny, who had offered to null their marriage in the early days. It was a heated conversation, Danny feeling guilty because he'd trapped Damian into this relationship and Damian feeling betrayed because what do you mean you're leaving me? This is unacceptable! They shared their first kiss after realizing neither one wants to end the marriage.)

And the Batfam, as comfortable as they are with Damian, knows he's a little like a feral animal. He doesn't share things about himself often. They don't want to scare him off by prying, even if Bruce is gripping the table cloth, sweating, and is looking pale. Because his child is literally married and God, please don't let it be to one of those old assassins in the League, please. So, Dick just says, "Uh, yeah. That's - thanks, kiddo, that's... a good idea."

Damian continues to make occasional comments about his husband, but nobody knows who it is. He doesn't use Danny's name. And Danny has to leave to do Ghost Stuff (despite being terrified of losing track of time, but Damian's now living with a loving family so he's kind of okay with being dragged off for his Kingly Duties). So, nobody's ever actually seen Danny.

Until the Joker decides to make his mark on the newest addition of the Batfam. He's already killed one Robin, traumatized the hell out of another, and paralyzed Batgirl. He's eager to add another of the Batfam to his roster.

Joker nor the Batfam anticipate the High King of Infinite Realms, Space, and the Dead to straight up portal Joker's ass into Frostbite's territory (aside from Damian because he absolutely knew what was going to go down the second he saw a glowing green aura illuminate the warehouse). One minute Joker is threatening a civilian Damian, whos' still dressed in his Gotham Academy uniform, and the next he's being violently yanked into a massive swirling void of green.

And who steps out? Ghost King Danny, in full kingly attire, including a wreathy crown of white-hot, broadsword hung on his hip, and a skull mask over his face. The Batfam are scrambling to get Damian's chains unlocked and haul him away from whatever-the-fuck that is. They get Damian unlocked, but he just snaps for them to desist your hysteria, Richard, 'that' is my husband.

(Cue the very tense family dinner afterward. Danny's in Damian's sweater and ripped jeans but the Batfam are just squinting at him like, how is this the same as that Thing from the warehouse?? Danny's totally oblivious, holding Damian's hand and saying, "Mr. Wayne, I love your home! The painted ceiling in that one from on the second floor is amazing, the constellations are actually super accurate!" He forgot that the Batfam had no idea he's visited Damian literally hundreds of times since he moved into Wayne Manor. Bruce looks like he's gained several greys in the last hour.)

(Bonus points if at some point Damian can be seen lovingly feeding Cheetos to Eldritch Monster Danny and the Batfam are just like that's... definitely not pants-shittingly terrifying... Bruce tells himself he's just glad his son isn't married to an LoA member.)

[shinader]

I am so upset with myself because playing YLAD I was picking up so many lines where I was like "hehe Joon-gi Han autistic" and I WAS gonna post about it make a funny little essay but I never got around to it because I'm a lazy fuck. But then Infinite Wealth rolls around and it makes it SO obvious like Joon-gi Han dropped his mask and is just so obviously autistic. Like I could've reblogged my own post like "HA! I KNEW IT!" but no those ramblings are confined to DMs with my best friend who has to deal with me going like ☝️😏 this guy is autistic because I SAID SO! For like. Any character ever. So does that even count? Who knows maybe I'll post it anyway but reframe it as "He was always like this btw" hm. Tons to ponder. But I'm still mad at myself.

[microwaving-tesilid-argente]

.

[gloomwitchwrites]

How about some silliness.....reader/you is superrr drunk from a night out with friends or high from anesthesia and the guys are trying to take care of them and we are all like "get your hands off me or my husband will kick you ass!" Or "omg you're so hot are you single??"...and they are just dying laughing like "I am your husband!"

I just watched one too many tik toks of this 😂🤣

Oh, I love this. I don't think I've actually seen these videos before (at least on TT) but I do know what you're talking about. Maybe I've seen it more in other media? Like movies and television? Anyway, I understand what you're asking for, so I hope you enjoy what I've cooked up!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, established relationship, fluff, mild alcohol use, shenanigans due to drunkenness & anesthesia

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John stands beside you on the passenger side of the car. The car door is open, and all you need to do is slide inside. Instead, you’re arguing with him, insisting that you can get in yourself, and that you don’t need help.

“You just had surgery,” chides John.

“Minor surgery,” you correct.

“It’s still surgery.” John sighs, and then places his hand on your back. “Let me help you.”

“Hands off, sir. You’re not my husband.”

John does not move his hand. “I don’t remember us getting a divorce, love.”

You wave him off and John snorts. “He’ll kick your ass,” you insist. “Punch you right in the nose.”

John’s stern demeanor cracks, dissolving into a wide smile and a soft chuckle. He shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m your bloody husband. You’re stuck with me. Forever.”

“I’m serious,” you say. Turning, you attempt to jab him in the chest with your finger. Everything tilts, and you only hit air.

John sighs, exasperated. “Get in the car, love.”

“No,” you groan, pushing at his chest. You surrender to him, allowing John to help you into the front passenger seat.

“I hope you remember this after the drugs wear off.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

You’ve been out with your friends all evening, and you have no idea what times it is. It’s dark, and you didn’t leave until the bar closed, forcing you to make an exit. Someone called for a car, and you all piled in, dropping each of off one by one.

As you enter the dark bedroom, you kick off your shoes, slightly stumbling to turn on the bedside light. You turn it on, and immediately wince. Vision swimming, you rub at your eyes, and then notice the massive lump in your bed.

“Turn off the bloody light, will you?” mumbles Johnny.

A devious plan forms in your head.

You climb onto the bed, crawling toward him. Noticing, Johnny turns toward you, eyes dreary with sleep.

“What?” he asks just before you flop your entire body onto him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he deadpans.

You wiggle over him, pressing the tip of your nose against his. “You seeing anyone, handsome?”

Johnny arches an eyebrow. “Did you hit your head or something? I am your husband.”

“Lucky me.”

Johnny blows raspberries. With one good shove, he flips you onto your back on your side of the bed.

“Go to bed. You’re drunk.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Your liquor-addled brain tells you to do it.

Across the bar is danger, the kind you want to play with—to sink your teeth into. Why resist temptation when it’s clear that the masked man across the bar can’t seem to take his eyes off you? Every time you glance in his direction, his gaze is focused and intense, daring you to approach him.

Which is exactly what you do.

He follows your every step, even if there is a slight sway in the way you walk. As you approach, he leans back in his chair, legs widening as if in welcome. It’s easy to reach out, to place your hand on his shoulder, to straddle his thighs, and stare into his eyes.

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” you slur. “Plan on going home with anyone?”

“I am,” the masked man replies.

“And who might that be?”

“My wife.”

You turn in his lap, looking around at all the other patrons in the bar. “Don’t see her.”

“Course you don’t,” he chuckles. “Because she’s sitting in my lap.”

You blink. “Is she?”

“You’re my wife,” he whispers.

“I am…aren’t I?”

He shakes his head. “I’m cutting you off.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

The alcohol is an enabler. You shouldn’t have had as many drinks as you did, but this is a party, and you’re not the one driving.

Why not have a bit of fun?

“Hi.”

Kyle arches an eyebrow. “Hi,” he replies, drawing out the greeting in slight confusion.

You cozy up next to him, shoulder brushing against shoulder.

“So,” you begin, head tilting toward him like you’re about to whisper all your secrets. “I’m going to be a bit bold…”

“Go on.”

“But I think you’re cute. Wanted to know if you’re seeing anyone.”

Kyle’s single raised eyebrow becomes two. There’s a long pause, so long that you notice the absence of conversation.

Kyle’s confusion cracks, becoming a wide smile, followed by his adorable, familiar laughter. “You’re taking the piss, love.”

“I’m not joking.”

He laughs harder, clutching his chest like he can’t breathe.

“I’m your husband,” he manages to say between wheezing breaths.

“I know,” you reply. “Just checking to make sure you’re still loyal.”

He waves his hand in the air before him. “You’ve had enough. Give me that.” He plucks your beverage right out of your hands.

“Excuse me,” you protest, but Kyle is already downing it.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@fern-reads @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

@saoirse06 @glassgulls @ravenpoe67 @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@voids-universe @iloveslasher @talooolaaloolla @sadlonelybagel @haven-1307

@itsberrydreemurstuff @z-wantstowrite @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic

@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie @kadeeesworld

@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff

@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

[i2sunric]

𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌 (s.jy)

PAIRING: nerdy!jake x reader (f)

SUMMARY: well, it’s not your fault that your boyfriend is perfect, good at school, kind enough tutor you in math and so skilled in bed chem.

WARNINGS: smut. freshman college (they’re 19), jake lives with his parents, grinding, dirty talking, pet names (baby, jakey), manhandling, overstimulation, protected sex (wrap your willies guys), missionary, doggy, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 18th April 2025.

WC: 2.7k

TAGLIST: (permanent) TAGLIST: @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @enhamonsterghoul @star-hoon @slut4hee

Jake’s room smelled of books, fresh laundry, and that faint scent of cologne he always wore— clean, crisp. It smelled like home. 

His desk was cluttered but organized in a way that made sense only to him: thick textbooks stacked neatly, a cup overflowing with pens and mechanical pencils, and his laptop open to what looked like an impossibly complicated physics simulation. 

You, on the other hand, were sprawled across his bed, your maths textbook abandoned beside you as you dramatically flopped onto your stomach.  

"Jake," you groaned, voice muffled against his pillow. "I’m going to fail this test, you have to accept that."  

You thought that after high school, all you problems would be resolves. What you didn’t expect, though, was to be forced to take an extra curricular trigonometry lecture that made you want to smash your head against the wall.

Jake, who was sitting at his desk, barely looked up. "You’re not going to fail," he said. "You just need to focus."  

"I have been focusing," you argued, rolling onto your back and stretching out like a starfish. "For, like, fifteen minutes."  

"Exactly," he deadpanned, finally turning to look at you. "That’s not nearly enough."  

You pouted. "But I hate math, it’s stupid and unnecessary. When am I ever going to need to find the limit of a function in real life?"  

Jake sighed, closing his book with a quiet thump. "Math is everywhere," he said, pushing his glasses up his nose, a habit of his that you found way too attractive. "It’s in physics, engineering, technology, everything that makes the world work."  

You rolled your eyes, sitting up. "Okay, Professor Sim, but I don’t want to make the world work.” You scoffed, “i just want to pass this stupid class and never think about numbers again."  

Jake gave you a pointed look. "And I want to make sure my girlfriend doesn’t flunk out of college."  

You grinned, crawling off the bed and walking over to him. "Speaking of your genius brain," you murmured, sliding into his lap without hesitation, straddling his thighs as his chair rolled back slightly from the sudden weight. "How’s your project going?"  

Jake tensed for half a second before exhaling, hands automatically settling on your waist to steady you. 

"It’s going well," he said, though his voice was already shifting, lower, rougher. "But I’ll never finish it if you keep distracting me."  

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "I’m just curious," you purred, looping your arms around his neck. "Tell me what you’re working on, baby."  

Jake sighed, but you could see the way his lips twitched, like he knew exactly what you were doing and was helpless against it anyway.  

"Fine," he said, adjusting his glasses again. "I’m designing a new type of microprocessor, something that can process data faster and more efficiently than the ones currently in use..."  Blah blah blah. 

You weren’t really listening, if you were being honest. 

You liked hearing him talk, loved the way his voice got all passionate when he explained something he cared about, but the actual words? They went right over your head.  

Instead, you focused on the way his hands, so warm and steady, were resting on your waist. Absentminded, like he wasn’t really paying attention, he traced slow circles against the fabric of your sweater, fingertips dipping just beneath the hem to brush against your bare skin.  

You bit your lip, shifting slightly on his lap. "Mmm, keep going."  

Jake didn’t seem to register what you were doing at first. "Right, so,  the idea is that instead of using classical bits, ones and zeroes, you use qubits—"  Again more smart words. 

You rocked against him, slow, almost imperceptible, but enough. Jake inhaled sharply, fingers digging into your skin.  

You smirked. "Go on," you teased.  

His jaw clenched. "You’re evil."  

You hummed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "No, I just really like hearing you talk, baby."  

His hands flexed on your waist, like he was debating something. Then, as if giving in, he exhaled a low chuckle. "You’re such a fucking brat," he muttered, and the way his voice dropped made heat pool between your thighs.s

He moved one hand up, running it along your spine, pushing your sweater up just enough to expose more of your skin to the cool air. The other hand slid lower, gripping your thigh as you ground against him again.  

"You’re not even listening, are you?" he murmured, his lips grazing your ear now.  "Not really," you admitted, breathless.  

His grip tightened, guiding your movements now, encouraging you to move against him with more purpose. "You just like teasing me, huh?"  

"Mmh," you hummed, pressing another kiss to the corner of his lips, then his jaw, then his throat. "I like how worked up you get."  

Jake let out a soft curse under his breath, his hips shifting up just slightly to meet yours. "You’re lucky I love you," he muttered, voice strained.  

You grinned. "I know."  

Then, finally, he broke. His lips crashed against yours, his hands gripping you tighter as he deepened the kiss, swallowing the little sounds you made as you melted into him. 

His glasses pressed against your cheek, cool against your flushed skin, but neither of you cared.  

"You drive me crazy," he murmured against your lips, his breath warm, his hands wandering. "Always so fucking needy."  

You whimpered, rolling your hips again, and he groaned "Jakey," you breathed.  

He exhaled shakily, then kissed you again, hungrier this time, like he couldn’t get enough. "You should be studying," he muttered between kisses, even as he ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your sweater higher.  

You smirked. "Make me."  

And, oh, he did.

Jake groaned against your lips, his grip on your waist firm as he lifted you from his lap, standing up with you in his arms. 

Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, and you buried your face in his neck, feeling his pulse race under your lips.  Your core pulsated with need, and he could feel it even through your shorts. 

"You’re gonna be the death of me," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration and desire as he carried you across the room.  

Jake pushed your math book on the floor, and he laid you down, his body pressing against yours as he kissed you again,, like he’d been holding back for too long. 

His hands roamed, slipping under your sweater, pushing it up over your ribs. You arched your back, helping him, and he pulled it off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.  

"Fuck," he breathed, eyes raking over you. His glasses had slid down his nose, and he pushed them up absentmindedly before leaning down to kiss you again.  

His hands moved with practiced precision, knowing exactly where to touch, where to squeeze, how to make you shiver beneath him. 

His fingers brushed over your thighs, pushing up the fabric of your shorts before he hooked his thumbs in the waistband and dragged them down along with your panties,leaving you bare beneath him.  

"You really don’t like making things easy for me, do you?" he murmured, fingers tracing up your inner thigh. 

You smirked, breathless. "Where’s the fun in that?"  

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, but it was strained, like he was barely holding himself together. 

He sat back for a second, pulling off his sweater in one swift motion, revealing the toned muscle beneath. 

His skin was warm under your fingers as you reached up, running your hands over his stomach, his chest, feeling him tense beneath your touch.  

"Condom," he muttered, reaching into the drawer of his nightstand.  You groaned, letting your head fall back against the pillow. "You always do this."  

"Yeah," he said, tearing the foil packet open with his teeth, "because I’m not stupid."  

You pouted. "I’m on the pill."  

"And I like knowing you’re safe." He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours, his glasses sliding down again. "Quit pouting."  

You sighed dramatically but let him roll the condom on, watching as his long fingers worked quickly.  

Then he was over you again, lips on your neck, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he lined himself up.  "You have to be quiet," he murmured, his voice rough as he kissed along your jaw.  

"Or what?" you teased, just to test him.  

Jake exhaled sharply, then pushed into you in one slow, deep stroke. Your breath hitched, your fingers gripping his shoulders as your back arched off the bed.  

"Or I’ll make you," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.  

Your eyes fluttered shut as he started moving, slow at first, like he was savoring every inch of you, but then he set a pace that had you struggling to keep quiet. 

He knew what he was doing, exactly how to angle his hips to make your breath stutter, exactly how to roll his hips so you were gripping at his arms, trying so hard not to moan too loudly.  

His glasses fogged up from how close he was, the heat between you making them useless, but he didn’t stop to take them off. 

You did it for him, reaching up with trembling fingers and sliding them off his face, setting them aside on the nightstand.  

He thanked you with a warm smile. 

His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, met yours as he thrust deeper, harder, stealing the air from your lungs. His hand came up, covering your mouth as you let out a soft whimper, muffling the sound.  

"Shh," he murmured, his voice like gravel against your skin. "Don’t want my mother hearing how good I’m fucking you, do you?"  

You shook your head, but your body betrayed you, your nails digging into his back as he snapped his hips into you again. It was all too much.  

You clenched around him, your thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. Jake cursed under his breath, feeling you squeeze around him, and his grip on your hip tightened as he sped up, chasing your release.  

"Come for me," he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear. "I wanna feel you."  

That was all it took. 

Your body tensed, pleasure hitting you like a tidal wave as you bit down on his hand to keep from crying out. Your vision blurred, your fingers digging in his skin as you came undone beneath him.  

Jake groaned, his movements faltering for half a second before he found his rhythm again, his thrusts rougher now, more desperate. 

He grabbed your leg, hooking it over his hip, pushing deeper, hitting that spot that had you gasping against his palm.  

He hadn’t slowed down. His rhythm was deep, fast, relentless. the bed creaking under both of your weight, the headboard softly hitting the wall in time with his thrusts.

You were still whimpering from your second orgasm, your thighs trembling around his waist, your nails digging red crescents into his shoulder blades. Your breath hitched, another moan slipping past your lips before you could stop it. “Jakey! oh—” 

His hand came up instantly, covering your mouth again, palm warm and firm.

“Quiet,” he hissed against your cheek. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

Your body arched off the bed beneath him, mouth smothered by his hand, eyes rolling back from the sheer pressure, the stretch, the heat. Your muffled cries only made him thrust harder.

“You like this, huh?” he breathed, watching your every twitch, every gasp, every time you tried to cry out under his hand. “You like when I fuck you like this.”

You nodded desperately, the pleasure building again even though your body felt like it couldn’t take more. Your skin burned, your thighs ached, but none of it mattered. Jake was everything— all you could feel, all you could hear, all you could take.

You released against him, hard, back arching as your whole body seized up and shuddered. Your vision blurred. You felt tears sting your lashes, your voice cracking beneath his hand as your second orgasm ripped through you.

He grunted, letting his hand slide away from your mouth only when your cries became soft gasps His lips found yours in a hungry, breathless kiss, tongue sliding into your mouth like he couldn’t stand even a second of distance.

“Shit,” he panted, pulling back just a little to brush his hair from his eyes. He kissed your jaw, your throat, sucking a mark just below your ear before whispering, “Turn over for me.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Jake, I can’t—” 

“You can,” he said firmly, kissing you again. “Just one more, baby, you’re doing so good.”

And because it was him uou obeyed.

You turned, limbs shaky, chest pressed to the mattress, ass in the air as you grabbed onto the pillow and buried your face into it. Jake groaned softly behind you.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he muttered, dragging his fingers over your lower back, down to your ass, squeezing firmly. “Messy and fucked out… all for me.”

You felt him line himself up again, the blunt head of his cock sliding through your slick folds before pushing into you in one hard thrust that had you biting into the pillow to stifle a scream.

“Oh my God… Jake.”

“Shhh,” he hushed you, hand curling around your hip to pull you back into him, setting a brutal pace that left your legs shaking, your voice broken into helpless sobs. “You have to be quiet.”

“I can’t,” you cried into the pillow, half-laughing, half-sobbing from how good it felt, how completely he wrecked you. “Jake— it’s too much—”

“You’re taking it so well,” he said, voice strained, one hand gripping your waist while the other slid up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades to press you further into the mattress. “So fucking good for me.”

His thrusts grew rougher, deeper, dragging cries from you no matter how hard you tried to bite them back. You fisted the sheets, knuckles white, body trembling as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot over and over again until your legs gave out.

Jake leaned down, chest against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured, “You pretend to be all innocent, all shy in front of everyone… but in here? With me? You just want to be ruined.”

You moaned, louder than you meant to, and he growled, his hand flying to your mouth again, fingers pressing your cheek into the pillow.

“You don’t listen,” he hissed, thrusting harder, until the sound of skin against skin echoed through the room. “You want my mother to hear how desperate you are for my cock?”

You shook your head wildly, sobbing beneath his hand as he slammed into you again, and again, and again, until your entire body clenched and your mind blanked. One last orgasm crashed over you, white-hot and dizzying, tearing a scream from your throat that was completely muffled by his palm.

Jake groaned into your neck, biting your shoulder as he came hard, his body collapsing against yours, twitching with aftershocks as he held you tightly, his breath loud and shaky in your ear.

You both stayed like that for a moment, tangled, gasping, hearts pounding like they wanted to leap out of your chests.

Jake pulled out gently, sighing contentedly as he rolled to the side and took the condom off, tying it quickly and tossing it into the bin beside the bed.

He turned to you immediately, pulling you into his chest, wrapping his arms around your exhausted body. Your skin was damp with sweat, your legs trembling, your eyes heavy with sleep and satisfaction.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing, your bodies tangled together, sweat-slicked and trembling.  

Jake finally lifted his head, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed. He looked wrecked, but somehow, still devastatingly handsome.  

"You okay?" he murmured, pushing your hair out of your face.  

You nodded, still catching your breath. "Mh.. It was so good.”

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "You are a menace."  

You smirked. "You love it."  

"You’re exhausting," he muttered, but his arm was already tightening around you, pulling you close.  

You grinned, snuggling into his chest. "You love that too."  

Jake sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Yeah," he admitted softly. "I really do."

[p1astr81]

friend is just a word

In which: you’re drunk off your ass and accidentally mistake formula one driver for a friend.

Pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

warnings: excessive alcohol consumption, not proofread😵‍💫

an: TYSM FOR 600 FOLLOWERS🥳🥳🥳

The music was blasting, light flares obstructing your vision while you tried to stumble back to your friends on weakening legs. The drink in your hand kissed the rim off the glass every now and then, but you hadn’t spilt any of it.

Your shoulder bumped into another, and you went to apologize, but your thoughts were thrown off by his familiar face.

If his face was familiar, he had to be a friend. Right?

A hand of yours gripped onto his shoulder for stability. He eyed the hand with a raised brow, but neglected to verbally question it.

It felt like your brain was trying to communicate with you, but it couldn’t penetrate the fog caused by the alcohol. “I didn’t know you were here!” His brown hair flopped when he flinched away from you, your voice far too loud for his ears to bare. “How have you been?! I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“Uh, good. I guess?” You didn’t catch his nervous glances.

“That’s amazing! You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I got that call back about the job with sky sports.”

He raised his brows in interest. “Oh really? What for?” His head cocked to the side.

“A second interview! I didn’t even know they did second interviews. I thought it was just one and done!” You laughed, an irregular high-pitched sound.

By now, Oscar was quite sure you weren’t aware of who he really was. Just that you thought you knew him. “Probably so they know you won’t bother the drivers.”

You feigned offense. “What! I would never do such a thing!”

Ironic, Oscar thought, you’re kind of doing it right now. But he didn’t really care. He actually found it kind of amusing.

He chuckled. “No, I’m sure you’d never bother them.”

You folded over in laughter. He didn’t even know he said anything funny. “Oh, you are too funny, Oscar!” You pretended to wipe a tear.

Strangely, that action might’ve brought you to your senses.

“Piastri.” Was the only word you spoke. It sat on the fringes of inaudible.

The panic that washed over your features was too humorous. He couldn’t not grin.

And then you went white. “I’m so sorry. I thought- oh, god.” You hid your face behind your hand. “I did not mean to bother you. I thought you were one of my friends.”

Oscar only chuckled. “I figured. No worries. It was pretty funny to watch.”

Maybe, just maybe, a part of him was glad it was him and not some other random guy in the bar.

“I’m gonna- yeah I’m gonna go back to my actually friends now.” You rambled. “Sorry!” A squeak.

The conversation didn’t end when you left, because then he had to return to his own party. Lando made fun of him for it.

“Awe! Osco finally found a girlfriend!” He teased, earning a head shake from Oscar.

“She was just drunk.” He waved off.

But lando wouldn’t let up. The whole night, he made off handed comments. He pointed her out anytime he saw her. And at one point,

“I’m gonna go talk to her. Be a wingman.” He flashed Oscar a toothy, mischievous grin and winked at him. Before Oscar could object, he was off.

You were laughing your ass off at something one of your friends said when a slightly slurred, British voice interjected. “Hey girls!” He greeted the group, a bright smile, before turning his gaze to you. “Hi.” He repeated, trying not to laugh at your overly shocked expression. “You see that guy in the blue shirt? Yeah, he wants your number but is too much of a pussy to ask for it himself, so here I am.” He explained with copious amounts of amusement.

Your brain took a minute to catch up with him. “Uh, uhm- yeah. Sure. I guess. Uh.” You scrambled to find something to write on and write with. “I have no paper.”

“Right.” Lando handed you his phone, open to the notes app. He couldn’t stop grinning as your fingers fumbled to type in your number, and when he said his goodbyes, and when he returned to Oscar.

“Got it. You can thank me by making me your best man.” He shrugged, too cocky for how easy the situation was.

“Yeah, whatever.” Oscar dismissed, but he took the number and saved it in his phone anyway.

He made a mental note to call you tomorrow, after your inevitable hangovers faded away.

[stealingyourbones]

Danny, being a halfa, falls under the strange category of people who can converse with the dead and act in their names. Most mediums simply convey messages. It was rare for someone to be able to fulfill a ghost’s dying request and have that act tied to the ghost’s core.

Honestly it’s annoying.

He doesn’t get any alone time anymore for homework or hobbies. The dead are constantly pestering Danny to help with their desires - which, sure, it helps them move on which means they’re out of Danny’s hair, but come on!! Give a guy a break! Just because he doesn’t need as much sleep as a fully living person doesn’t mean he can go without entirely!

“No Scott,” Danny repeated for the fifth time, “I am not flying to California tonight. Do you know how far that is? Literally the other coast of this massive continent. Meet me there in August like everyone else on the list.”

Spending the first spring break of college creating a map and calendar for Last Rites was not something Danny expected when he moved to Gotham.

Why did this city have so many ghosts?! It was ridiculous. And he thought Amity Park was bad? At least the ghosts here were mostly Shades. Not visible to anyone unless they were also dead-adjacent or had The Sight or a bloodline curse or a magical amulet… you know what? There were enough of those in this curse ridden city, why couldn’t these ghosts go find one of those people instead? Danny was exhausted.

So exhausted he didn’t notice the vigilante dropping down from the rooftop.

“Hey there kid, you alri-”

“Yeah yeah,” Danny waved a hand dismissively at the voice without looking up. “Wait in line like everyone else. But honestly you’d be better off coming back tomorrow when I’ve had some sleep.”

“Think maybe you outta get started on that sleep now, bud?” the voice behind him spoke in a calm careful tone.

One Danny had heard all too often since dying.

His head jerked sideways to stare wide-eyed at Nightwing, who tensed just a little as if expecting Danny to run or fight. Instead he let out a groan and slumped onto the park bench, rubbing his eyes to ease the burn of fatigue. He’d been coming out to this park at the corner of campus each night to keep the Shades from mobbing him all day long in classes, but they’d spread the word around Gotham that he was here and his precious spring break had become a non-stop line of requests and arguments. Made sense he’d caught the attention of one of the Bats. Should have expected it sooner.

Danny ignored all the voices around him and looked at Nightwing directly as he prattled off his usual list when someone caught him talking to thin air.

“No, I’m not hallucinating. I got all my Rogue Gallery immunizations the day I checked onto campus. I’m not schizophrenic. The only meds I take are for adhd and the occasional Tylenol. I’m not a danger to myself or others. Unless they attack me first.”

Nightwing nodded along, but tilted his head at the end.

“I’m talking to the dead,” Danny answered the unspoken question in a tired monotone, waiting for the usual skepticism or plea for help with lost loved ones.

“Oh. Okay then.”

“What?” That wasn’t expected.

“No yeah, that makes sense.”

Danny was sure his jaw was on the ground. “You… you believe me?”

“Well sure,” the hero shrugged and chuckled. “I can’t see ghosts myself but I know a couple magicians who work with one, and my little brother Robin has a ghost on his team - she’s actually visible most of the time so I don’t know if that’s a special skill or something else going on. But I’m glad you’re okay and don’t need any emergency medication. I know a couple 24 hour pharmacies that would help but it’s nice when they’re not needed. We don’t get a lot of mediums around Gotham holding court at night so you really can’t fault me for checking in.”

Danny was still floating in the relief of not being questioned or doubted. That hadn’t happened since Jazz found out his secret. She’d had plenty of questions about his halfa status, of course, but never called him crazy for talking to things others couldn’t see. Even Sam and Tucker would forget sometimes and give him strange looks before realizing he was dealing with a Shade, Wisp, or Memory.

He didn’t realize he was wobbling until Nightwing’s arms shot out to stabilize him.

Danny blinked up at the pretty face that was trying not to chuckle, held by strong arms, and so far past tired he might be getting delirious after all because his brain seemed to have lost its filter and he said out loud,

“You actually believe me. I think I love you.”

Then the horrifying embarrassment hit at the same time as Nightwing’s laughter. Which… sounded delighted rather than mean spirited?

“Well now it’s your turn to wait in line, cuz that’s the fourth confession I’ve had this week!” They both devolved into snorts and giggles, Danny still relying on those arms for balance, but when they’d caught their breath the vigilante said, “Come on, you’ve really got to get some sleep. I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”

Ignoring the whispers and grumbles of the Shades was easier with someone walking beside him.

This is so incredibly cute oml. It’s so rare to see the bats actually go with the flow and god it isn’t done enough. 12/10 immaculate, glorious.

The entire plot I can see so clearly in my mind dude:

Danny chatting to Nightwing as they walk to his dorm

Nightwing asking some casual questions about ghosts and Danny asking about vigilante work.

Nightwing informs the Bats of Danny as he might be a valuable asset in the future.

Nightwing helps free shades with Danny and he realizes why Danny is so incredibly tired all the time.

Nightwing managing to stumble into Danny every day of his break, slowly getting to know each other more and more and becoming really good friends (perhaps lovers 👀).

Wonderful stuff man ty for the ask!