Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

you can hear the music before you even make it to the door.

it pulses low and thick from inside the apartment, not so much a song as a heartbeat—one that sounds vaguely sticky with bass and stale weed smoke. nobara’s beside you, half-laughing as she adjusts her top, the glitter on her collarbone catching in the hallway light. she knocks once, then pushes the door open without waiting for anyone to answer.

the warmth hits immediately. that crowded, sugary heat that comes from too many bodies in too little space—friction and cheap beer and someone’s expensive cologne worn too strong. there’s no sign of yuji yet, but megumi’s already across the room, dragging a folding chair near the table with his usual blank face like he’s about to mediate international conflict instead of a game of pong.

“you good?” nobara asks, tossing a glance at you over her shoulder.

you nod, but you feel it in your chest—that slight hesitation. the three of them have done this a thousand times. the red cups. the sweat-slick walls. bodies pressing too close. parties aren’t always your thing. you’re not shy , just selective with where your energy goes. you usually prefer something quieter — joints on a dorm balcony, that one café near the library that no one talks in, loud only with the sound of iced lattes and keyboards — but tonight, you let yourself follow.  nobara had insisted, and yuji had texted you three times with blurry, misspelled encouragements, so now here you are, standing in the threshold of a beer-slick apartment, trying not to flinch at the guy who just stumbled out of the kitchen and nearly knocked into you.

“chill,” nobara mutters, grabbing your wrist and pulling you deeper into the room. “you need to loosen up anyway. maybe get laid~.”

you roll your eyes. “thanks for the guidance.”

“anytime.”

you wear black. it clings just enough. shimmers a little when the hallway light hits your shoulder. not the type of outfit that says party girl — just something you wanted to wear, something that makes you feel a little braver than you are. you make it to the living room without stepping in anything suspicious, which feels like a win. someone’s passed out across the recliner with a sharpie mustache already forming. the couch is occupied by two girls sharing a vape, laughing with their heads thrown back. you catch sight of Megumi again, now resigned to a corner with a cup in hand, talking to yuji—who beams when he sees you.

“there she is!” yuji’s loud and warm and unashamed. he barrels through the crowd to greet you, throwing one arm around your shoulders in a sideways hug. “i thought you were gonna flake.”

“i was.”

“harsh.”

“but you lured me in with peer pressure and emojis.”

yuji grins, unbothered. he’s always easy to be around—no pressure, no judgment. just that golden retriever loyalty and a laugh that makes people feel safe. you find comfort in him, in megumi’s steadiness, and even nobara’s chaos. it’s easy here, even if the lights are too low and the music too loud.

then the front door opens again.

you don’t look at first. there’s no need—you’re mid-sip of something suspiciously sweet that yuji handed you, still pretending you don’t notice nobara mouthing hot guys only across the room. but then you hear the shift. the air doesn’t go silent, but it changes. a few voices quiet, laughter dips, and something electric skims under your skin. you glance up.

and that’s when you see him.

you don’t know his name, but you know the type.

he’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in all black like it means something. his hoodie’s loose but the cut’s clean, and there’s a tattoo curling along his hand as he lifts it to drag through his hair. pink strands streaked through dark. sharp jaw. heavy stare. he walks like nothing matters and everything owes him. and he doesn’t smile.

not once.

he doesn’t even pretend.

people part for him without thinking. some nod, some call his name—you can’t really catch it but it’s something with an s , said like a warning and a joke—but he doesn’t stop for any of them. just makes a beeline for the back corner near the cracked window where someone’s passing a blunt. he nods to the guy holding it. says something low.

then he looks up.

at you.

his eyes catch yours like a hook.

no nod. no smirk. just a slow, unapologetic scan from your shoes to your mouth. his expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something—something intentional about the way he looks at you. not like you’re pretty. like you’re interesting. like he already wants to know what your voice sounds like when you’re pissed off.

it’s sharp. too sharp. you look away first, but only for a second.

he’s older. not by much, maybe a year, two at most — but there’s something about the way he holds himself that feels heavier. colder. tattoos climb up the side of his neck and vanish beneath the collar of his jacket.

a girl leans into his side, blonde and drunk, her nails painted something metallic. he doesn’t touch her back.

“god,” nobara mutters when she catches you staring. “don’t even bother. guy’s a dick.”

“you know him?”

“not really. just seen him around. he’s friends with geto. they’re both assholes.” she tugs at her straw, frowning when the drink doesn’t come up. “plus, he’s one of those guys. talks like he’s smarter than you and smokes like it’s a personality.”

your gaze flickers back to him. he’s still watching.

you turn away.

later, you end up outside. the porch light flickers above your head, moths thudding quietly against the bulb. there’s a shallow breeze, warm and heavy. someone’s laughing inside — you think it’s yuji, too loud, full of beer and bad jokes.

you sit on the railing and let your drink sweat between your fingers. it’s cooler out here. you can finally breathe.

and then you hear the screen door creak open.

you don’t need to turn to know who it is. you just feel it.

he walks slow, hands in his pockets. gives you a once-over like he’s bored. like he has nowhere better to be, but still thinks this was a mistake.

“you always stare at guys like that?” he says, low.

you lift a brow. “you always talk to girls like that?”

he doesn’t laugh — not really — but his lip twitches, a smirk threatening. “just the ones who look like they don’t belong here.”

you hum under your breath, sip what’s left of your drink, let the silence stretch. “i could say the same about you.”

he steps closer.

close enough that you can smell the smoke clinging to his hoodie, that sharp tang of weed and whatever cologne he barely remembered to spray. sandalwood, maybe. something darker beneath it. not soft.

you glance up at him. “you got a name?”

“why?” he drawls. “planning to use it?”

you smile— not kindly.

“guess not,” you say, and slip past him to go back inside.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t stop you. just turns his head, watches the swing of your hips, the bare edge of your back in the low party light. the ring on his thumb glints as he lifts the blunt to his mouth, takes a drag without looking away.

his voice is quiet, unheard.

“…fuck.”

— (pov shift) —

she walks away.

doesn’t look back.

doesn’t give him that second glance most girls do, the one where they pause just long enough to be chased — or want to be. she just goes. disappears into the crush of bodies inside like he didn’t matter at all.

and maybe he doesn’t.

he exhales slow, watching the blunt burn down between his fingers. another girl tries to catch his eye near the door, some freshman with cheap lashes and tequila breath. he doesn’t even blink.

that other one though…

he drags the smoke deep, lets it burn, lets it bite at the back of his throat like it might get her out of his head. i t won’t.

he doesn’t even know her name.

but it’s better that way.

still — the way she looked at him. not impressed. not interested. like she could see through him and wasn’t all that taken with what she saw. like maybe she had better places to be.

he hates that.

or maybe he doesn’t.

he flicks the blunt out into the dirt, watches the embers die.

..whatever.

Chapter Text

you don’t see him again until the next friday, when nobara convinces you to tag along to some half-assed pregame at yuji’s dorm.

the place is small— cracked drywall, mystery stains on the armrest cushions, a faint burnt smell clinging to the air like bad karma. megumi’s already there, cross-legged on the floor, half-listening to nobara talk about someone she threatened in her literature seminar. yuji’s in the kitchen, spinning in socks, trying not to drop a case of beer. he lights up when he sees you.

“you came!” he beams, like you’ve just solved a moral crisis by showing up. “yo, come meet the guys—wait, wait, wait.” he points a bottle cap at you. “have you met my brother?”

you blink. “your what?”

he shrugs. “older brother. pain in my ass. you probably saw him at the party last week. looks like he wants to fight everyone all the time? tattoos?”

you go still. your brain conjures him like instinct —

leaned against the wall, drink in hand.

smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

voice like smoke, rough and dismissive.

“…yeah,” you murmur, slow. “i think i did.”

yuji frowns suddenly, something faltering in the curve of his smile. “okay, look. not that i think you’re, like, into him or anything, but—just don’t. okay?”

you lift a brow. “don’t?”

he scratches the back of his neck, sheepish but firm. “he’s not boyfriend material. i mean—he’s not evil or anything, he just doesn’t… care. about many people. about consequences. he’ll act like he does, sometimes, but trust me—it’s not real. he’s always been that way.”

you stay quiet for a second, lips parted like a thought is stuck between them. you want to ask: why? but it doesn’t feel like your question to ask.

so instead, you nod. “okay.”

“okay,” yuji repeats, relieved. “cool. thanks.”

but then you hear it.

the door creaks open behind you — slow and uneven. nobara groans dramatically from the couch.

“ugh. the devil has arrived.”

you turn.

he looks like he hasn’t slept in two days, but somehow still manages to be hot about it. plaid overshirt, rings on both hands, black ink slashed across his arms like afterthoughts. the lip ring glints when he smirks.

“miss me, nobara?”

“like a rash,” she snaps.

his gaze lands on you next.

not in a way that screams i remember you ,

but in a way that says you stood out.

his smirk tilts sharper. “you.”

you fold your arms. “me.”

he doesn’t say anything right away. just lets the silence stretch between you like a drawl — casual, insolent. he looks you up and down once, slowly.

“you always glare at people you barely know?”

you smile, sharp and sweet. “you always act like everyone should care that you walked into the room?”

his eyes glint. “only the ones who do.”

the way he says it is almost lazy — like none of this matters. like you don’t matter. and yet, he’s still looking. still talking.

you step back before you say something meaner. megumi, mercifully, cuts in with a tired: “beer?”

“god, yes,” you mutter, heading toward the kitchen.

but as you brush past sukuna, you feel it.

his eyes drag after you —

quiet, calculating,

like he’s trying to figure out why you don’t melt for him like everyone else.

— (his pov) —

she’s not that hot.

or maybe she is. whatever.

he saw prettier girls last week. and most of them were easier to deal with — sweet, drunk, clawing their way onto his lap. she didn’t even look at him like she cared. rolled her eyes. bit back. walked away.

..it’s nothing.

he’s seen this before; girls who act like they’re better than him just to feel powerful.

still, something about her— itches. sticks.

he takes a long sip of his beer and watches her from across the room. her laugh’s too loud. her gaze too clear. like she sees through people. he tells himself it doesn’t matter.

and then he tells himself to stop looking.

he doesn’t.

Chapter Text

the music bleeds through the walls, low and pulsing, every bass note rattling through the floorboards of the off-campus house. the air smells like weed and cheap vodka, voices spilling over one another in the living room. you weren’t even supposed to be here tonight—yuji had begged you to come, said it’d be chill, just a few people. but “a few” turned into half the damn campus crammed into sagging couches and sticky floors.

you lean against the kitchen counter, sipping something watered down from a red cup, pretending to care about the story maki’s telling to you and nobara. your attention wanders somewhere else for a moment—on him. sukuna. perched lazily in the corner like he owns the place, smirnoff bottle resting against his thigh, head tilted back just enough to expose the sharp line of his throat. his tattoos catch the dim light whenever he shifts. he isn’t laughing with the group around him, not really listening either, but somehow he still pulls the center of gravity his way.

you hate that you’re aware of him. you hate more that he’s aware of you.

his eyes drag over you when he finally looks—slow, and unapologetic, the kind of gaze that strips. it lasts a beat too long before you look away.

later, when the house feels too crowded, you slip upstairs, looking for somewhere quiet, anywhere you can breathe. a door creaks open at the end of the hall.

“wrong door, princess.”

his voice cuts low and dry, that mocking curl at the edge. sukuna’s sitting on the edge of someone’s bed, blunt between his fingers, smoke curling lazily around him. you don’t know why you don’t just back out and leave. maybe because of the way his mouth twitches, almost like he wants you to stay. maybe because your pulse spikes when his eyes narrow in the dark.

“didn’t know you lived here,” you say calmly.

“i don’t.” he exhales, leaning back on one hand, smoke curling from his lips. his eyes cut sharp through the haze, fixed on you. “does it matter?”

the way he says it—like nothing matters, like you’re wasting his time—should piss you off. it does. maybe that’s why you step further into the room instead of leaving.

“you’re a dick,” you mutter.

“mm.” his grin sharpens. “and you’re still here.”

before you can fire back, his hand snaps out, rough on your hip, dragging you forward until your knees press the bed between his. he doesn’t give you space to think. the other hand comes up, wide palm clamping around your jaw, fingers digging just enough to angle your face down toward his.

the move isn’t gentle. it’s not romantic. it’s a clear display: he could kiss you right now if he wanted— and he wants you to know it.

he exhales smoke through his teeth, eyes flicking from your mouth back to your stare. the corner of his lip curls.

“what now?” his voice is a low drag, heavy with mockery. “gonna keep playing shy?”

you should shove him off. you should laugh in his face. instead you let your mouth part, the barest slip, and his thumb presses into your chin like he’s waiting for an answer you can’t give—

but he doesn’t wait. his mouth crashes into yours, rough and impatient. it isn’t gentle—sukuna doesn’t kiss like someone who wants to savor. he kisses like he wants to ruin. sharp, biting, punishing you for standing there and letting him reel you in. his hand stays clamped to your jaw, thumb digging into your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you.

you try to meet him with the same heat, but he swallows every protest, tongue dragging rough into your mouth until you can barely think. his teeth catch your lip hard enough to sting, and when you whine, he groans low against you like he’s been waiting for that sound.

then his thigh wedges between yours. it’s slow at first—just pressure, just suggestion—then he drags it up until you’re rocking down on him without even realizing. the friction is immediate, dizzying. his jeans bite rough against the thin fabric between your legs, scraping your skin as he forces your core against the solid muscle. he breaks the kiss just long enough to growl against your mouth, “knew you’d taste good pissed off.”

when his hand slips lower again, cupping your ass, pushing you down harder against his thigh—the press jolts something out of you that you can’t swallow down. a gasp. a sound that makes his mouth curve into a grin against your lips.

“yeah?” he mutters, grinding you down onto him with the hand on your hip. “that what you want?”

your face burns hot, but you don’t stop. you can’t. each slow drag of your hips winds tighter, heat spreading low in your belly.

whilst you follow the rhythm, his opposite hand slides up under your shirt, rough palm spanning your waist, thumb brushing under your bra until he elicits another moan from you. and he does; a muffled sound slipping into his mouth, granting another smirk on his face. “mmm,” he hums, satisfied, grinding you harder into him, “that’s it.” the friction sparks white-hot through your stomach, your hips moving before you can think, riding his thigh.

your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, chasing friction like you can’t help it. your head falls back, breaking the kiss again, but he doesn’t let you escape. his mouth trails along your jaw, teeth scraping, tongue hot against your throat.

“fuck,” he groans, low and sharp, when you start grinding in earnest. his grip on your ass tightens, dragging you harder against him, guiding your pace. all the while, his other palm abruptly redirects from beneath your shirt to your hair. his mouth catches your throat, biting hard enough to sting, his breath harsh against your skin. you can feel him hard under his jeans, pressed against your hip, but he doesn’t let you anywhere near it—keeps you grinding on his thigh like that’s all you’re good for.

his hand in your hair yanks your head back, forcing your mouth open so he can lick into it again, filthy, consuming. you’re wet through your panties, every nerve screaming, and he knows it—even as his own breath shudders ragged.

the friction builds ruthless and unrelenting, his thigh dragging you until you’re clinging to his shoulders, every pulse of heat winding tighter.

“fuck—” the curse slips out when you shift just right, clit catching on the solid muscle of his thigh. your body jerks, and he growls low, tightening his grip.

“look at you,” sukuna snarls against your skin, voice rasping. “so fuckin’ needy. you can’t stop, can you?”

he’s right—you can’t. your hips grind in messy circles, moans spilling into the crook of his neck, shame drowned out by the steady thrum of the party outside.

his hand clamps at your jaw again, dragging your gaze back to his. “open your eyes.” it’s a command. sharp. and when you do, he smirks, cruel and beautiful, watching you fall apart on nothing but his thigh.

the pace builds, desperate, the heat between your legs threatening to snap.

and then— familiar voices. heavy footsteps in the hall. the rattle of the doorknob before it’s gone again, someone stumbling past.

you jolt, breath hitching, pulling back like you’ve been burned. sukuna stills, thigh pressing hot and steady between yours, mouth red and wet, chest heaving.

the door handle rattles suddenly. voices too close in the hall. yuji’s voice, muffled through the wood.

you freeze, pulse slamming in your ears. his name on the other side of the door is enough to sober you. sukuna only smirks, voice pitched low for you alone—
“guess we’re done here, princess.”

Chapter Text

the door shuts too quick behind her. yuji’s voice fades down the hall, and for a second the only sound left is the bass thudding through the walls and the faint creak of the mattress under sukuna’s weight.

he doesn’t move. reignited blunt half-burned between his fingers, smoke curling slow toward the ceiling. his chest rises and falls heavy, lips still wet, jaw tight.

he’s hard. still fucking hard.

sits there with his cock pressing sharp against his zipper, throbbing, a reminder of just how far that went and how fast. he could take care of it—easy, a hand, a few minutes—but he doesn’t move. instead he leans back on his palms, head tipped against the wall, eyes cutting toward the empty doorway like she might still be standing there.

what the fuck was that.

he’s had girls grind on him before, but never like that. never with that sound—half moan, half gasp—when she caught the right angle on his thigh. never with her hands fisted in his shirt like she needed him.

his jaw ticks, chest tight. he hates that he’s replaying it. hates that the image is sharper than it should be, burned under his eyelids—the way her mouth fell open, the heat in her stare when she finally looked at him, the tremor in her hips when he forced her down harder.

he shifts in his jeans, groaning low when the fabric drags too rough against him. it doesn’t help. nothing fucking helps.

he exhales through his nose, sharp. fuck it. let it fade.

but it doesn’t.

a few days later, he spots her across campus. she’s walking with nobara, books hugged to her chest, sunlight catching in her hair. he shouldn’t be watching. he does anyway.

she laughs at something nobara says, head thrown back. their eyes catch for a split second. hers widen—then narrow. she looks away first.

his mouth curves, slow and smug.

the next run-in is questionable.

yuji drags him along to some café off-campus, says they’re meeting megumi. turns out she’s there too, tucked in the booth with them. sukuna slides in across from her, stretching out long legs until his knee brushes hers under the table. she jerks back like she’s been burned, glaring at him.

he smirks into his coffee. “relax. you act like i bite.”

her eyes cut sharp. “don’t you?”

he laughs, low, just for her.

megumi shoots them both a look, but doesn’t ask.

a few days later, he spots her in the library. head bent over a textbook, pen tapping against the margin like she’s keeping time to some rhythm only she knows. sunlight cuts across her cheek through the high windows, catching in her hair.

he’s supposed to be meeting yuji, but yuji’s late—so he wanders, slow, until he ends up at her table. she notices him right away, eyes narrowing like she already regrets it.

“you following me now?” she mutters.

“please,” he scoffs, sliding into the chair across from her, sprawling like he owns the place. “i wouldn’t waste my time like that.”

her mouth presses thin, but she doesn’t tell him to leave. he watches her flip a page, eyes flicking down and back up.

“you look more at home here,” he says after a beat, voice low, casual, though his stare lingers. “better than those parties you let your friends drag you to.”

her pen stills. she looks at him, like she’s trying to figure out if that’s an insult or something else.

he just smirks, leaning back, “what? thought i only noticed you when you were on my lap?”

her glare could cut glass. but she doesn’t deny it.

Chapter Text

its been a week, and with the beginning of spring break— you’ve been coerced into attending another party with nobara, yuji, and megumi. you got lucky last time nobara didn’t notice your disappearance..

the house is already too loud when nobara kicks the door open. she’s grinning like she owns the place, shouting a greeting that no one hears over the bass rattling the walls. yuji follows right on her heels, bouncing with the kind of energy that makes people part around him instead of getting annoyed. megumi trudges in behind both of them, hood up, already regretting everything.

you trail after, letting the current of them pull you along. that same smell of cheap weed and cheaper liquor hits immediately, sticky air somehow NOT clinging to your skin. yuji claims you become immune after enough parties—

“okay, mission one—drinks,” nobara declares, yanking yuji toward the kitchen before he can wander off. megumi mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like kill me, but you laugh anyway, bumping his shoulder.

it feels almost easy. voices rising and falling, nobara’s shrill laugh, yuji already losing at beer pong in the corner. for a second you let yourself melt into it, red cup in your hand, your friends orbiting around you.

then your gaze drifts.

sukuna’s there.

he’s across the room with his crew—choso, quiet as ever, hood pulled low, suguru draped across a couch with a lazy smile, hakari pretending not to be watching everything. they look like they’ve claimed their own corner of the party, not fully in it, not fully out. 

sukuna doesn’t even have to try. perched on the arm of the couch, bottle balanced in his hand, tattoos cutting sharp lines up his throat. the light hits just enough to glint off the rings on his fingers. he doesn’t laugh with the group, and he doesn’t talk much either.

it’s bad enough that your eyes drag to him. it’s worse when his drag right back, pinning you there.

when his eyes cut across the room, it’s deliberate. he doesn’t look away when you catch him, either. that smirk flickers—small, sharp, like he knows you’ll end up here eventually.

it makes you roll your eyes. it makes your pulse trip, too.

something about him feels older. not in years, but in weight. like he’s been sitting in rooms like this for longer than he should have, drink in his hand, leaning back like he already knows how the night ends. you wonder if the ink across his chest is armor, or distraction, or both.

you don’t let yourself stare too long. you look away first.

but the thing about sukuna—it never ends there.

he pushes off from his corner, and strolls towards you, yuji, megumi, and nobara without a word. the moment yuji sees him, his face lights up—like it usually does for everyone—but there’s something different this time, something softer, warmer, that makes your chest twist. he’s still himself, still guarded, but you catch it: a small, rare spark just for yuji, subtle enough that it almost goes unnoticed.

“oh—hey,” yuji says, voice brighter than usual. he grins, almost a little shy. “you came.”

sukuna smirks, his hand landing on yuji’s head with that rare gentleness. “don’t act like i came here for you,” he mutters, voice low, teasing, almost tender.

“he never really comes unless he’s dealing or something,” megumi says, deadpan, eyes flicking to you, like even he notices the tiny shift in sukuna’s energy.

“tch. mind your own.” sukuna replies, tone snarky but low enough that only yuji and megumi really hear it. there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

nobara snorts from her side. “oh my god, you’re like the only person who needs a damn invitation and still shows up like it’s your party.”

“and yet,” sukuna drawls, “i make an entrance.”

you his eyes wander as he watches nobara, then megumi, before finally landing a glance on you. it’s brief, almost innocent-seeming.

he leans over the counter toward yuji, voice low but teasing. “what’s the plan tonight? you’re dragging the poor princess into all this?”

you bite back a laugh, shaking your head. “oh, you mean the ‘few people’ yuji promised would be here?”

his eyebrows lift, smug, calculating. “few people, huh? seems… full enough.” his gaze slides over the group, then pauses at yours— just long enough that it’s unmistakable.

he ruffles yuji’s hair, an uncommon delicateness from him, and for a fleeting moment, you see him different— protective, familiar with this brother energy that contrasts so sharply with the rest of him. the warmth fades almost immediately as he straightens, hand brushing a stray hair from his own face, and bringing his drink to his lips.

“don’t think i’m suddenly your friend,” he mutters, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “just tolerating you.”

nobara snickers, “oh, big heart, huh?”

he glances at her, eyes sharp. “watch it, sweetheart.”

and then, just like that, he steps back, giving the group space again, but you feel it — the weight of him, the pull.

later, his eyes find yours across the room once more, a silent dare. the tension coils tighter, the air thick with anticipation, and for a beat, you wonder how long you can resist. when you risk a glance, he tilts his chin, just barely, toward the hallway.

you shouldn’t. but you do.

the noise dulls as you slip away, steps carrying you down the narrow hall. you don’t even check if anyone’s watching. the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, lock sliding into place, and then he’s there.

he leans casually against the counter, eyes scanning the room before settling on you. “so,” he drawls, voice low, “have you been… enjoying this circus?” his gaze flicks to your friends, then back to you, dark and sharp.

you shrug, keeping your voice steady. “depends on what you call enjoying. the music’s loud, the floors are sticky… same as always.”

he smirks, tilting his head. “i could tell from the first party i saw you at—you don’t exactly blend in.” his words aren’t mean, but they carry that teasing edge, like he’s sizing you up. “still don’t.”

“and what does that mean?” you challenge, crossing your arms.

“means,” he says, stepping just a fraction closer, “that someone like you doesn’t come here for the fun. you come… for something else.” he pauses, letting the implication hang just long enough to make your pulse skip. “or maybe you’re just bored of watching from the sidelines.”

you raise an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “oh, so now you’re a psych major?”

“i’m perceptive.” he says, voice low, almost smug. “and i’ve been watching.” his eyes flick to yours, dark and knowing.

you roll your eyes, but your heart is racing. “you mean you can’t stop staring at me.”

he chuckles, sharp and amused, leaning slightly closer. “maybe. maybe i’m just trying to figure out what you’re about.” his smirk grows, that signature cocky tilt.

there’s no response. just the heat of him filling the small space, broad shoulders crowding you back until the sink presses against your hips. his mouth finds yours in the same second his hands find your waist. holding possessively, he’s lifting you up like you weigh nothing before setting you on the counter.

the kiss is hard, messy, teeth scraping. his rings are cold against your skin as his palms spread over your thighs, thumbs pressing into the inside of your knees until your legs part for him.

you gasp when his teeth nip your bottom lip. his hand slides higher, squeezing your hip, bringing your bodies flush to another.

it’s not enough. you roll your hips, chasing friction, swallowing his groan when your body slots tighter against his. he can’t help but increase your pace— grinding you down against the hard line straining under his jeans.

sukuna slowly lowers, his mouth drags down—jaw, throat, collarbone—biting as he goes, like he wants to mark every inch. when he reaches your thighs, he spreads them wider with his hands, biting soft skin until you’re twitching.

“s-stop—” you mutter, though you don’t mean it, your voice breaking when his fingers hook in your waistband.

he pauses just long enough to glance up, eyes catching yours, sharp and knowing. he’s focused on your expression. “that a real stop?” his voice is low, edged, like he already knows the answer.

heat flares up your neck. you shake your head, breath hitching.

his smirk deepens against your skin, teeth scraping high on your thigh. “thought so.” the elastic drags slow, deliberate, down your legs, his hands lingering, teasing.

he smirks against your skin, teeth scraping high on your thigh. the elastic drags slow, deliberate, down your legs, his hands lingering, teasing.

and just as his head dips lower—

“y/n?” nobara’s voice cuts through the door, sharp and suspicious. the knob rattles once. “are you seriously taking a shit right now? i saw you come in here.”

your heart leaps into your throat.

sukuna freezes, mouth still hot against your thigh. then he huffs a laugh, low and mean, the vibration searing straight through you. his eyes flick up, glinting wicked. then— his mouth curls into a wicked grin against your pussy. he doesn’t slow down—in fact, he doubles down, tongue flicking ruthless, sucking hard enough that the wet sounds echo obscene in the little bathroom.

you slap a hand over your own mouth to smother the sound you almost make.

outside, nobara’s voice gets louder. “helloooo? you okay? do i need to kick this door down—”

instead of pulling back, sukuna’s mouth curves into a smirk against your skin. “relax,” he murmurs, so quiet only you can hear. “she’s not coming in.” his tongue drags slow, deliberate, right where you’re trembling for him, and the jolt of pleasure nearly makes your knees knock together.

the moan tears out of you before you can stop it, high and desperate, and he’s already there, slapping his palm over your mouth to smother the noise. his eyes snap up to yours, glittering with cruel delight.

“shhh,” he breathes against your soaked skin, every word vibrating into you. “that’s it. bite my hand if you can’t hold it in.”

you thrash, muffled whines spilling into his palm, and sukuna growls low in his chest, rutting his tongue harder against your clit like he’s trying to rip the sounds out of you. his fingers dig into your thigh, bruising, as his pace turns merciless.

answer her,” he hisses, lips shiny, breath hot against you. “go on. tell her you’re fine. tell her you’re—” his tongue plunges deep, ruthless, and your whole body jolts, “—busy.”

you shake your head frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. he just smirks, yet before you can even try, he buries himself back between your legs, tongue working you raw, covering your muffled cries with his hand while nobara’s voice sharpens outside the door. his opposite hand is at your hip, thumb pressing into your stomach harder, pinning you in place when you try to twist away, your muffled moans spilling helplessly against his palm.

“y/n? the fuck are you doing?”

your lungs seize, your pulse so loud you’re sure it’s giving you away. sukuna dips his head again, this time slower, teasing, and the pressure makes your toes curl in your shoes.

his tongue flicks again, slow and devastating, and your knees nearly buckle. his grip tightens when you try to squirm, forcing you still. “good girl,” he drawls, mocking praise dripping from his lips. “stay quiet and take it. let me hear those pretty sounds in my hand instead.”

your throat feels tight, but you force your voice out, pitched higher than normal. “uh—yeah, just… just putting in a tampon, i had an— fuck— accident, hold on!”

“y/n?” nobara’s tone sharpens, a little concerned now. “are you sure? do you need help?”

you force the words out, muffled into his hand. “no!! j-just… tampon!”

“tampon?” nobara repeats, incredulous. “that’s what’s taking you so long?”

sukuna growls against you, cruel delight rumbling in his chest. he pulls back only far enough to murmur, low and taunting, “good lie. now let’s see if you can sell it.”

he circles your clit with devastating precision, harder this time, dragging another moan from your throat. his palm smothers it instantly, his eyes flashing as if daring you to slip again.

“o-oh my god—— nobara, i bled through, just—hold on!” the excuse tumbles out raw, rushed.

there’s a long silence outside, your pulse roaring in your ears. then: “…ahh. okay, well clean up,” nobara mutters. “well it’s whatever. they went to the other bathroom. hurry up and come dance with me!” her footsteps retreat, fading into the party noise.

you sag with relief—but it’s short-lived. because the second she’s gone, sukuna drops his hand from your mouth, teeth sinking into your thigh as he laughs, cruel and pleased. “fucking perfect,” he growls. “now scream for me.” his tongue dragging higher, hotter, until he presses right where you’re aching for him. the sound rips out of you before you can swallow it down—a soft, desperate moan.

his tongue flicks again, slow and devastating, and your knees nearly buckle. his grip tightens when you try to squirm, forcing you still.  the music outside swells, bass shaking the cabinet against your head, but it’s nothing compared to the rhythm of sukuna’s mouth on you. relentless. devastating.

“fuck—” his voice is low, rough with amusement as he pulls back just enough to talk, his chin wet, eyes locked on yours; before his tongue flicks cruelly over you again, slow enough to make your stomach clench.

you gasp, grabbing at his hair, and he laughs — that mean little rasp. “you’re okay. you can take it.”

your thighs twitch, but he holds them wide, grip bruising, forcing you open for him. his tongue licks deep, obscene, and you choke on a sound that could be mistaken for the bassline thrumming through the door.

“you’re dripping for me,” he mutters, words muffled against you, hot breath searing. “so fucking wet, it’s a mess. filthy girl, letting me do this to you with your friends right outside.” your body bows off the counter, tension wound so tight it’s nearly painful, and he drags two fingers through your slick before sucking them into his mouth, eyes glinting.

his mouth closes over you again, harsher this time — tongue and lips working in perfect rhythm. it’s obscene, like he’s trying to drink you down. your vision blurs, pleasure tearing through every nerve until you’re biting your own hand to keep from screaming. he notices, of course. he always does. pulling back just enough to growl, “i wanna hear it. let me hear you lose it.”

he doesn’t let up, not even when your thighs clamp around his head, not even when you’re gasping his name like it’s the only thing left in your mouth. his tongue flicks harder, faster, drawing you up until your whole body feels like it’s shaking apart.

“that’s it,” he growls against you, voice thick with hunger. “give it to me. come on my tongue, pretty girl.”

the words splinter you open, heat crashing through your stomach, sparking down your legs. you cry out, muffled against your own palm, but he drags it away, replacing it with his hand instead, clamping over your mouth just as the sound breaks loose.

he taunts, watching your eyes roll back as he devours you. “make a mess for me. let me taste all of you.”

and you do. the wave hits hard, pleasure ripping through every nerve until your whole body bows off the counter, your legs trembling helpless around his shoulders. he holds you down, forces you to ride it, his mouth unrelenting until you’re nothing but broken sounds against his palm.

when you finally collapse back against the mirror, boneless, breath coming in ragged gasps, he pulls away with a wet sound, chin glistening. he licks his lips like he just tasted something forbidden, eyes gleaming cruel and satisfied.

“knew you’d be sweet,” he says, smug curling in his tone. his hand drags up your thigh, almost lazy, like he’s proud of the wreck he’s made of you.

the bass from the party pounds through the walls again, reminding you where you are — that anyone could’ve walked in. your stomach flips, shame tangling with the molten ache still spreading through you.

your thighs still tremble when he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he hasn’t just ruined you against the bathroom counter. the music from outside feels muffled, like the world’s caught in a fog. your body’s buzzing, overheated, and for a second you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move.

sukuna leans back on his heels, smug satisfaction written all over his face. he looks at you like he knows exactly what he did to you—like he’s cataloging every shiver, every sound you made, storing it away to use later. he’s clearly as hard as a rock.

you force yourself to move. shaky fingers tug your underwear back into place, smoothing your skirt down like that’ll erase the way your skin still burns. you won’t let him see you unravel any more than you already have.

sukuna just smirks, thumb dragging over your swollen bottom lip as if to test how wrecked you are. “better get yourself together, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous.

your breath stutters, but you manage a scoff, rolling your eyes as if you’re unaffected. “oh please.” your voice is hoarse, traitorous, and you hate it.

his grin widens like he can hear everything you’re not saying.

you turn toward the mirror, quickly fixing your hair, wiping at your lips like that’ll hide what just happened. your pulse is still racing, your legs still weak, and inside your head it’s just one endless refrain: fuck. that was good— fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. why did i just let that happen??

but when you glance at him in the reflection, his eyes are still on you—hungry, calculating, like he’s already planning what to do next.

you clear your throat, force yourself steady. “we should—” you start, but the bass from the party swells and cuts you off. maybe that’s for the best.

you slip past him, heat still crawling under your skin, and push the bathroom door open like everything is fine.

Chapter Text

the next morning, your body still feels traitorous. like it hasn’t forgotten.

you tell yourself it was nothing—that you shouldn’t even be thinking about it—but the ghost of his mouth lingers, the heat of his hand holding you still, the way your knees nearly gave out when he told you to stay quiet.

you already dislike that you’re replaying it— and worse, how much your body responds when you do.

by the time classes are done, you’ve almost convinced yourself you’re fine. then you see him.

sukuna’s in the library, of all places. not at a table, studying—he’s leaning back in a chair like he owns the air around him, a textbook open but untouched in front of him. his hair falls loose over his tattoos, his heavy rings catching the light as he flicks a pen between his fingers.

your pulse jumps, and you tell yourself it’s annoyance. irritation. definitely not anything else.

you should turn around. instead, you sit two tables away, pulling out your notes, pretending you don’t notice the way his eyes slide over you once, twice, lingering too long before drifting away.

it doesn’t last.

he stands, moves like he doesn’t have a destination, but ends up dropping into the chair across from you. the chair creaks under his weight, and you don’t look up until his knee brushes yours under the table.

“don’t you have people to bother?” you mutter, keeping your eyes on your notebook.

“sure,” he says, low, amused. “but you’re more fun.”

you roll your eyes, but your pen stalls on the page.

the silence stretches—longer than you expect. maybe it’s the quiet of the library, maybe it’s the fact that he’s not grinning as wide as usual, but your mouth moves before you can stop it.

“do you even… like it?” you ask, softer than you mean to.

his brows twitch. “like what?”

“dealing. all of that. i mean…” you lower your voice further, glancing at the students a few tables away. “do you actually like doing it, or…?”

for a second, something sharp flickers across his face—too quick, but there.

then he leans back, smirking, like you’ve just asked the dumbest thing in the world. “doesn’t matter if i like it or not. it’s not the kind of thing you just drop when you’re bored.”

“so you don’t,” you press, surprising even yourself.

he laughs under his breath, but it’s humorless. “i didn’t exactly get a choice. been doing it too long to stop now.”

the words hang there—heavier than he meant them to. you catch the shift in his tone, the edge of something real, before he drags his smirk back into place like armor.

“why?” you ask, but he’s already shutting it down.

“curious little thing, aren’t you?” his voice dips, mocking again. 

you bristle, but he’s grinning wide now, dangerous and smug, like he didn’t just let a crack slip.

still, you don’t forget it.

you don’t know why you asked. maybe because the library feels safer, quieter, stripped of all the noise that makes it easy to ignore him. maybe because, sitting across from you, he doesn’t look untouchable—he just looks tired.

and his answer… it lingers.

been doing it too long to stop now.

for a second, you’d swear he meant more than he said. but then he smirked again, and you hated yourself for almost feeling sorry for him.

because you shouldn’t.

yuji’s words are still fresh in your head—he’s not boyfriend material. and you know yuji’s right. guys like sukuna don’t turn into something steady, something safe. you don’t bring home someone who sells weed out of his car, someone who corners you at parties with a grin sharp enough to cut.

you’re not even the casual type. you don’t have the time, the energy, the want.

so why is it that every time you catch that glimmer—something unguarded, something almost human—you feel yourself falter?

you don’t even like him, you tell yourself. you respect yourself too much for that.

but your pulse still skips remembering his mouth against your thigh, the way he smirked at you just now, the way he looks like he could swallow a whole room without trying.

it’s messy. too messy. and you don’t do messy.

so why can’t you stop thinking about him?

Chapter Text

the house buzzed with music and chatter, but you didn’t hear it. the warm spring air brushed against your arms as you followed sukuna down the narrow path toward the back of the yard. he said nothing, just kept a hand near yours, guiding you with that quiet, dangerous certainty that always made your chest tighten. small talk flitted between you two—comments about how crowded the party had gotten, how yuji somehow ended up with more people than he asked for—but mostly it was quiet, punctuated by the shuffle of feet over grass and the distant hum of laughter.

“‘isn’t really our vibe.” he murmured, eyes on yours as you stepped onto the creaky wooden steps of the old treehouse.

“not really,” you admitted, shoulders relaxing slightly. “but it’s fine, we should celebrate yuji.”

he smirked but said nothing more, letting the silence swell around you, as you and sukuna reached the top. the little space smelled faintly of old wood and summer air, and for a second it felt like the rest of the world had dropped away.

“this was my spot when i was a kid,” he said finally, voice low, almost nostalgic. “‘spent a lot of time up here alone.”

you traced a finger along the rough railing, thinking about it. the weight of him sitting across from you made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t quite name. you bit your lip, then finally asked, “remember what you said at the library?”

he froze, eyes flicking up at you, a slow, deliberate blink. “hmm?”

“you… don’t really like this, do you?” you said softly, watching him carefully.

his jaw tightens, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. just let his gaze meet yours, sharp, assessing, and there was something in it—a warning, a flicker that made your chest squeeze. “don’t give me that face,” he said finally, voice low and edged with something she almost didn’t recognize. “don’t start feeling bad for me, princess, ‘won’t suit you.”

your lips parted, and you appeared to swallow a sudden tightness in your throat, like a strange empathy bloomed in your chest, but you didn’t argue. instead, you stood, slow and deliberate, and moved toward him. seemingly, without thinking too much about it, you kissed him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

the silence that follows hums, taut, and before you can second-guess yourself, you move. his chair creaks beneath him when you climb onto his lap, the sound loud in the quiet space. he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even move—just sits back, arms tense against the armrests, as though he’s bracing for hesitation.

but you don’t hesitate.

your knees bracket his thighs, warm and solid beneath you. your hands press into the slope of his shoulders, grounding yourself as you tilt your face down. your mouth finds his, and the world narrows into heat and breath.

the kiss is different. longer, slower, pulling at you instead of overwhelming you. sukuna doesn’t usually linger—his kisses are fast, rough, the kind that take what they want and leave no room to breathe. this one stretches, deepens. it tugs you closer. when you open against him, not yielding but matching him push for push, tongue for tongue, he groans low in his chest. the sound is rough, unwilling, but he doesn’t pull away.

his hands twitch at your hips, restless, caught between restraint and instinct. then you roll against him, deliberate, and the sharp inhale that follows gives him away. his chest rises hard against yours, pressing you closer, tethering you in place.

you shift on his lap, the grind of your hips sending sparks between you, heat spreading in waves until it feels impossible to think of anything else. his grip tightens at your waist, guiding you without taking over, subtle but firm. your own hands wander—sliding up the sides of his neck, tangling into the short, rough strands of his hair, tugging lightly until he groans again, softer this time but deeper, almost like he resents the sound escaping at all.

the rhythm between you is jagged, imperfect—mutual. teasing, resisting, feeding off each other’s insistence. you grind lightly against him and feel his body respond, the twitch of his muscles, the way his mouth opens against yours with a flash of teeth and heat.

his hands roam in counterpoint: up your sides, fingers trailing down the length of your spine, then gripping hard enough to make you gasp. he tugs at your hair, just enough to tilt your head, catching your mouth again with a fierceness that makes your pulse skitter.

every kiss feels like a negotiation, every touch edged with control. the messy power struggle that always seems to thread between you is here too, but softer at the edges, blurred by the warmth building low in your belly. and you can feel him, every subtle shiver, the taut pull of muscle under his shirt, the heat of him pressed against you. you lean into it, hands moving over him too, brushing over shoulders, sliding into the waistband of his jeans. your lips part against his, gasps mingling, mingling until the air is thick and hot.

he finally breaks it, and you lean back slightly, breathless, and he laughs—a low, dark sound that vibrates in your chest. “easy there,” he murmurs, pinning you lightly with both hands on your hips, body pressing in close.

you look up at him, pulse racing. “you’re the one dragging it out,” you murmur against him, lips barely brushing his.

his smirk sharpens, half-lidded eyes looking into yours. “slow down. i’ve got you.”

hands moved slowly but with more purpose now, pulling at buttons and sleeves, the edge of your chaos mixing with sudden, brief tenderness. his lips traced your jaw, neck, a mix of bites and lingering kisses, and you gasped softly. he tilted his head back, letting you pull him closer, and for a moment you both lost track of who started what.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

the chair groans under his weight as he leans back, the wood pressing tight against his spine. he hadn’t planned to let you stay perched on him like this, but the second you straddled his lap, knees hugging the sides of the seat, it was over. he couldn’t move you if he wanted to. and fuck, he didn’t want to.

you settle on him slow, careful, your heat sinking down until his teeth grit. sukuna’s hands grip the arms of the chair at first, knuckles whitening, because if he grabs you too soon, too tight, he knows he’ll lose it. he needs to let you find your rhythm, to let you think you’re setting the pace.

god, you feel impossibly tight, impossibly warm, and it’s annoying that the sensation is enough to unnerve him.

he notices everything—the way your eyes flutter shut when you lean forward, the soft gasp you can’t hide when he nips your neck, the way your hair fans across his chest as you move. he’s aware of every inch of you, every subtle movement, every sigh, and it twists something in his chest that he can’t name.

he lets a low, rough sound escape, one of those little groans he usually keeps to himself, and fuck. you flick your gaze down at him, lips tugged into that smug, knowing smile he can’t stand but can’t look away from.

you lean forward, pressing your chest against his, hands trailing up to his shoulders, and he can feel the tremor in your own body. his hands move instinctively, adjusting, guiding, holding you just enough to ground both of you without taking the control away. he mutters something rough—a clipped, half-pleased sound, more groan than words—and you shift, letting him feel the slip of vulnerability in him without him ever having to say it outright.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

your thighs burn from the effort of keeping yourself steady, knees pressed into the chair.

the first slow push down steals your breath—the stretch sharp and full, every inch of him slotting inside until your body has no choice but to mold around him. your head tips back with a quiet gasp, and you hear him curse low, the sound caught between his teeth.

“that’s it… fuck, just like that.” his voice rumbles beneath you, a rough edge in the way it rolls out, almost like he’s commanding without meaning to.

you steady your palms on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the heat beneath his shirt. his gaze is heavy, following the way your mouth parts, the way your brows pinch as you adjust. he squeezes tighter at your hips, pulling you down the last fraction until you’re seated fully, stuffed in a way that makes your pulse quicken.

you shift—just a little—and his grip tightens. “easy. don’t rush it,” he murmurs, the words clipped but not unkind, like he’s giving you both a second to catch up.

the first roll of your hips drags a low groan out of him, his head tipping back against the seat. his hand slides up your spine, warm and grounding, before trailing back down to anchor you. you start moving again, tentative at first, small circles that make him twitch inside you, then bolder once you feel the friction catch in the right spot. the intimacy slips in through the cracks—the way his fingers spread across your stomach like he wants to feel everything, the way his voice dips lower, not just rough but almost reverent when he mutters, “fuck, you feel good.” sukuna’s jaw clenches, crimson hues flicking up to catch yours, daring you to keep control even as he starts to lose his grip on it. his reaction feeds you—the way his chest rises sharper, the guttural sound that slips when you grind down just right.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

every thrust, every press of you against him, is a reminder that this isn’t just physical. it’s different, too sharp and too consuming to be casual. he catches himself thinking you could wreck him—not completely, not forever, but enough to make him question the way he’s always done this. this wasn’t really like the others.

every movement pulls something raw from his chest. a groan, a muttered curse, the scrape of his breath against your neck. he hates that he can’t swallow it all down. hates how easily you wring it out of him.

the heat between you builds steady, waves cresting and breaking with each roll of your body against his. your hands slide into his hair, tugging lightly, and he smirks.

with his hands clamped down on your hips, he drags you harder against him, and the chair creaks beneath the force.

the rhythm quickens, sharper now, your body moving with a confidence that drives him insane. despite your effort you moan, shivering at the vibration of it.

and fuck, he feels it too clearly. every grind, every drag, every breath you steal from him. this isn’t casual, not anymore. it’s raw, consuming, and slipping too far into something he doesn’t let himself want.

but he can’t stop. not when you’re moving like this, not when your lips are dragging over his throat, not when his body is giving him away with every groan he can’t hold back.

and somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought claws at him—you could wreck him, and he’s letting you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

you can’t hide the way he affects you. you press harder, move quicker, chasing both his release and yours, caught between the dominance in his touch and the freedom of being on top of him. the tension builds, snapping tight, and when it breaks, it’s messy and overwhelming, your body clenching around him until he’s groaning into your skin, pulling you down to meet his thrusts until he spills deep inside.

the room is thick with heat, the sound of your breathing filling the silence. his grip lingers at your waist, grounding, but his voice is quieter now, edged with something he can’t quite hide.

he rasped, back arching, every muscle taut as he guided you, controlling only what he could manage, letting the rest collide between you.

afterwards, silence crashes down. you lean back slightly, chest heaving, hair falling over your face. his hand lingers on your hip, fingers trembling just a little. you let yourself pull your clothes back in place slowly, without a word, without looking at him.

the heat of him still clinging to your skin, the faint smell of his cologne mixed with sweat, lingers long after your movements have stilled. the treehouse creaks softly beneath you, a reminder that it’s small, confined, and precarious, and yet nothing has felt heavier or more immediate than the weight of his body pressed against yours just moments ago.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

you shift, sliding slightly off his lap. he doesn’t move to stop you; he doesn’t say anything. the quiet stretches, thick and almost ominous, and you notice—the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes darken, like he’s calculating.

you pull your underwear back on, careful and deliberate, and he leans back in the chair, hands gripping the armrests, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but is stopping himself. his gaze flicks toward you, sharp, and you can feel it under your skin. you see the small signs—the shallow breath he takes, the slight flush on his neck, the way his chest rises hard under your fingertips just by moving.

his hands hover for a moment before brushing over your hair, tucking a stray lock behind your ear, then briefly straightening the position of your shirt. you notice the small care, but when your gaze flicks up to him, it’s like he’s miles away. his jaw is tight, eyes darkened, calculating, like he just completed a thought he doesn’t want to share, yet can’t entirely shake. there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a faint hum of focus in the way he watches you move, and you feel a strange mix of warmth and distance at once. fingers smoothing over your skirt, you straighten the hem, and exhale quietly, as if releasing a fraction of the tension that’s been thrumming in your chest.

the air in the treehouse is thick, carrying the faint scent of wood and the last traces of your shared heat. you catch yourself noticing it—the way his sleeves are rolled up, the sharp line of his collarbone, the tilt of his shoulder—and you suddenly shake your head. you can feel the pull, the spark of empathy for him, for the parts he keeps tucked away, but you don’t feed it. not yet. you’re aware, maybe too aware.

he watches you straighten yourself for a few more seconds, still tucking and adjusting his own clothes with that almost absent-minded care, and then finally leans back, eyes narrowing slightly as he exhales. he pulls out a weed and paper, rolling it between his fingers with that precise, calm motion, before lighting it, and dragging in a long inhale.

“don’t make this a big deal,” he mutters, voice low and rough, like it’s almost a warning, almost an attempt to stake ground.

you swallow, feeling that familiar twist of frustration coil in your stomach. you’re pissed, partly at him, partly at yourself, because you know you still want some part of this—you want him—but you also know it’s not what’s good for you, not right now. you sling your purse over your shoulder, and step toward the ladder, feeling the faint ache of your heartbeat where you can’t ignore it.

the walk down is quiet. you hear the party in the distance—muffled laughter, clinking cups, the low hum of music—and for a moment, you almost wish you could get lost in it, forget the intensity of the treehouse, forget the way he pressed against you, the way you pressed back. but you don’t.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

and somewhere in the treehouse behind you, he exhales sharply, jaw tight, fists pressing into the armrests. the pull of your absence settles in, and for the first time since you climbed onto his lap, he’s not entirely sure how to respond.

Chapter Text

the morning sun filters weakly through your blinds, dust specks swimming in the light. you should feel more rested than you do, but your body carries something heavier than sleep deprivation. so you lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the faint scent of last night lingering—wood, sweat, and something that’s unmistakably him. your fingers trace the edge of the sheet, tugging it lightly over your arm as if control over this small piece of fabric can somehow stitch back the tight coil of your chest. when you push yourself up, the sheets are tangled around your legs, the air faintly cool against your skin.

you remember the last moments in the treehouse: the heat of him, the press of his body, the way his hands had lingered just enough to feel present but not attached.

you sit up, brushing hair from your face. he’s not here. he won’t be. and you can feel the pull of empathy for him, for the distance in his gaze, the small care in how he straightened your shirt or tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. a warmth blooms briefly, but you push it down. 

coffee helps, but only barely. the campus feels too bright, voices rising and falling around you in scattered conversations as you cut across the quad. leaves scuff beneath your shoes, brittle and curling, their colors dulled in the shade of buildings.

your first class doesn’t hold you. you sit near the window, scribbling down lines of lecture notes, but they look foreign on the page, like someone else’s handwriting. the professor’s voice is steady, even animated, but it turns to background noise. every so often, you catch yourself drifting, remembering the exact cadence of his words that night, the flatness behind them, the way it didn’t match the warmth of his hands.

you shake it off— refocus, underline, write harder.

when class finally ends, you find nobara waiting just outside, arms folded and earrings flashing. she’s impossible to miss, impatiently scrolling her phone until she catches sight of you.

“there you are,” she says, falling into step beside you before you can even greet her. “you look like you didn’t sleep.”

“i did,” you answer, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder.

“not well.” she cuts a side glance at you, sharp but not unkind. “so? what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you reply, too quickly.

she snorts, looping her arm through yours like she’s claiming territory. “liar. you’re always weird when something’s bothering you. i’ll get it out of you eventually.”

you laugh, but it comes thin. “i’m just tired. it’s okay.” nobara narrows her eyes but lets it drop— for now.

the dining hall hums with chatter, trays clattering and the smell of fried food thick in the air. yuji spots you both before you spot him, half-rising from his seat to wave you over like he’s signaling a rescue team. megumi sits beside him, hunched over his plate with the look of someone who regrets all his choices but doesn’t bother to leave.

“finally!” yuji beams as you slide into the seat across from him. “you guys took forever. i thought i was gonna starve to death.”

“you had fries the second we walked in,” megumi mutters.

yuji ignores him, leaning across the table toward you. “you’ve been quiet. what happened? bad dream? bad grade? bad date?” he stretches out the last word, grin wide and teasing.

your fork pauses over your plate, heat rising unbidden. “none of the above.”

nobara smirks into her drink. “she’s hiding something.”

yuji gasps like she’s revealed a state secret. “no way. it’s about a guy. definitely. who is he?”

you laugh, shoving at his shoulder. “drop it. it’s not what you think.”

nobara lifts her brows at you knowingly, though she doesn’t push. yuji pouts but is easily distracted by his food again.

megumi, quiet as always, studies you for a beat too long before lowering his eyes back to his tray. he doesn’t say anything, but something flickers behind his gaze — suspicion maybe, or recognition.

the conversation turns, carried by yuji’s endless energy and nobara’s sharp wit. they complain about professors, trade half-serious plans for the weekend, argue about who’s the worst at keeping a study schedule. it’s noisy, warm, grounding. you let yourself sink into it, smiling when you can, nodding when their voices grow too loud around you.

still, when the group disperses, and you’re walking alone again across campus, that hollow feeling creeps back in. the laughter lingers in your ears, softening the edge of it, but the weight hasn’t lifted.

your phone buzzes once in your pocket. you pull it out, half-hoping— and when it’s not him, you almost feel relieved. almost.

the day stretches on, lectures and hallways and the scrape of pen on paper. everything moves as it should, and you move with it, but there’s something unsettled beneath your skin. you’re not unraveling; but you can feel the threads pulled taut, waiting.

Chapter Text

four days.

that’s how long it’s been since the treehouse. since he’d last seen the reader, since their lips conjoined with tenderness, since the heat of her thighs around his hips, since the way she smoothed her skirt down like she was reclaiming something he couldn’t touch. since those words left his mouth—don’t make this a big deal—and hung in the air like smoke he couldn’t clear.

he tells himself he hasn’t been counting, but the number is carved sharp somewhere in the back of his mind, ticking louder with each morning.

the day runs on autopilot. he wakes late, pulls on a hoodie, throws a protein bar in his bag. campus is buzzing when he cuts across the quad—voices overlapping, the slap of sneakers on pavement, frisbees arcing through the air. he moves through it like a shadow, headphones in but no music playing, jaw tight.

class is the same blur it always is: lectures that slide past him, notes he doesn’t take, the scratch of pens and the click of keyboards from people who actually care. he doesn’t. not really. but today the boredom feels heavier, his mind snagging in flashes—her laugh, the sharp line of her jaw when she tilted her head, the way she didn’t linger.

his phone buzzes on the desk. maya.

a casual hook-up from last semester. easy, uncomplicated. the kind of girl who doesn’t ask for more than he’s willing to give.

heyy, been a minute. are u gonna come thru tonight?

he stares at the message, thumb hovering. once, he would’ve said yes without thinking. distraction, release, routine. but the thought makes his stomach clench, not in hunger, not in need—just in disinterest. he imagines her mouth, her hands, her laugh, and it lands flat, dull, like chewing on ash.

his mind drifts—unwanted, unbidden—back to her (you). the way she shifted in his lap, grounding him in a way that unsettled him. the faint line between irritation and desire in her eyes.

he clicks the screen off, shoving the phone back into his pocket. not worth it. not tonight.. not tomorrow— not ever.

the day stretches on. he deals a little, makes cash, smokes in his car between runs. every drag feels thinner, lighter, like it’s not cutting deep enough. he tells himself he doesn’t need her—doesn’t need anyone—but the thought keeps circling, quiet and persistent, like a fly he can’t swat.

by evening, yuji’s buzzing his phone. some party across town, people he half-knows, half-tolerates. he thinks about ignoring it, staying in, but the silence of his room feels sharper these days, pressing against his ribs. so he goes.

the house is crowded, music pulsing through the walls, sweat and beer thick in the air. people call his name, dap him up, slip him bills. he moves through it with practiced ease, the mask pulled tight.

and then she’s there—not her, but maya, weaving through the crowd with that familiar sway in her hips, that too-bright smile plastered. she presses close, hand brushing his arm, voice syrupy in his ear.

he lets her. because why not? this is what he’s supposed to do. what’s always worked before.

“been missing you.”

he looks at her. really looks. and feels—nothing. not even the faint flicker he expected. just the dull hum of a scene he’s already played too many times.

she laughs too loudly at something he doesn’t remember saying. presses a cup into his hand. her thigh brushes his when they sit. she leans close, perfume sharp and sweet, hair grazing his jaw. her hand slips over his knee, creeping higher, nails dragging light trails over the fabric of his sweats.

his body should respond. it always has.

but this time—nothing.

he feels the warmth of her hand, the pressure of her thigh against his, but it lands dull, flat, like touching something through glass. he tips back his drink, searching for a spark, a flicker. it doesn’t come.

her hand slides higher, bolder now, palm grazing where he knows he should already be straining. but he isn’t. not even close.

“you’re more quiet than usual tonight,” she teases.

he smirks, the practiced curve of his mouth, but inside his chest something shifts, uneasy. because it’s not her. it’s not the scene. it’s not enough.

his mind betrays him, dragging up flashes he didn’t ask for: a low groan escaping his throat when she ground against him, the sharp focus in her eyes, the way she didn’t give in. the heat of her mouth, slower, deeper, not rushed.

he curses under his breath, jaw tight. because maya isn’t her, and no matter how close she presses, how bold her hand gets, it doesn’t matter.

not when he remembers the way another girl’s eyes had cut straight through him, as sharp as glass. not when the memory of her still lingers like smoke he can’t clear.

maya leans back finally, a faint frown tugging at her lips when she realizes he’s not meeting her halfway. “maybe you’re just out of practice,” she jokes, masking the edge in her voice.

he shrugs, dragging a hand over his mouth, reaching for another drink.

“maybe.”

his jaw tightens. his chest feels heavier. because the truth slides in, unwelcome and sharp: it’s not enough. she’s not enough. no one here is. his body knows it. the hollowness of this moment screams it.

all he can do is pull away, reaching for a drink he doesn’t even want. the music pounds louder, people laugh around him, and for the first time in a long time, sukuna feels the absence of something he can’t name.

Chapter Text

two weeks pass like a tide you don’t notice retreating until the sand is cold again.

you keep yourself busy— and that’s what you tell nobara when she asks if you’re coming out this weekend. papers pile on your desk, the smell of coffee clings to your sleeves, and your headphones stay in long after the music stops playing. it’s easier that way.

your dorm feels different now. not empty, just quieter. the air doesn’t hold the same static hum it used to, the one that came from too many nights spent overthinking, from texts that never came, from the ghost of a voice that still lingers in your head when the lights are low.

today, you woke early. sometime before the sun, you got up to brush your hair, and unintentionally stare at your reflection until your own face looks like a stranger’s. there’s nothing visibly wrong— no heartbreak bruising your skin, no obvious sign that something ended— but you can suddenly feel the weight of what you’re pretending didn’t happen sitting just behind your ribs.

in class, your professor’s voice blurs with the hum of the projector. someone’s pencil rolls off a desk, and the sound jolts you back. you take notes that don’t mean much, words scrawled like static.

at night, you try to sleep early. instead, your mind wanders.
the way he used to look at you flashes in pieces— the roughness of his voice, the heat in his stare. you hate that it still reaches you, that something so brief carved itself into the rhythm of your thoughts.

it’s fine. he was just one of those things that burn bright and then vanish.

still, you notice him everywhere. not really him, but what reminds you— a hoodie someone wears in passing that’s the same color, the flick of a lighter in a stairwell, laughter that carries the same lazy rhythm.

the next afternoon, you’re walking through the student union when you hear it. his name.
you’re not even sure who says it— just a flash of conversation between two people behind you, something about a party suguru threw, and how sukuna didn’t show. you don’t turn around. you just keep walking, eyes on the floor, pulse loud in your ears.

it shouldn’t matter. it shouldn’t.
but it does.

nobara corners you later that week, slamming her books down on your desk.
“you’re coming out friday,” she announces, no room for argument. “you’ve been in hermit mode too long. you’ll rot.”

you try to protest, but she waves you off, grinning. “it’s just for fun. one drink, some music. you need it.”
and maybe she’s right. maybe you do.

friday night comes fast. your room smells like your perfume again, soft and floral, something grounding. nobara’s sitting cross-legged on your bed, swiping lip gloss across her mouth and talking about nothing in particular.

you feel oddly calm. maybe detached. maybe ready.

the party hums in the distance before you even reach the door — bass slipping under it like smoke, voices layered over each other in drunken harmony. the air inside is thick with warmth and the sharp bite of alcohol. your body adjusts slowly, as if remembering something it forgot how to do.

nobara disappears into the crowd within minutes, laughing with someone you don’t know. you hover near the kitchen, drink in hand, eyes tracing the golden haze of string lights tangled along the ceiling. it’s all noise, and yet you feel miles away from it.

you’re halfway through your drink when you feel it — the prickle of awareness that makes you turn.
he’s there.

sukuna.

across the room, by the wall, half-shadowed under the dim light. he’s not smiling, not even pretending to. instead of a drink there’s a juice in his hand, but he doesn’t touch it. his eyes find yours, and stay there.

the noise of the party fades. your heart does something strange — not quite a skip, more like a recoil. you blink, but he’s still looking, unblinking, unreadable.

you don’t move. neither does he.

it lasts maybe five seconds, maybe five minutes.

someone brushes past you, laughing, and the world rushes back in — the bass, the chatter, the sound of glass clinking somewhere behind you. when you look again, he’s gone, or maybe just swallowed by the crowd.

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

the night blurs after that. music, bodies, small talk that barely lands. nobara finds you eventually, tugging you toward the door, and you let her.

outside, the air is cold, the kind that smells like rain.

still, as you walk home, you feel his gaze on you like an afterimage — faint, persistent, impossible to shake.

Chapter Text

control.

he’s always been good at stopping before the edge. that’s what he tells himself, anyway. it’s a lie that tastes clean on the tongue.

two weeks. no drinking, no weed to smooth out the noise. the first few days were easy, or maybe he just wanted to believe that. he liked the sharpness of it— the way the world burned again, edges slicing instead of blurring. he thought maybe this would fix it, this emptiness that rotted beneath everything he touched.

it doesn’t.

instead, the quiet grows teeth. he feels it when he’s alone in his room, the hum of the fridge, the distant murmur of someone’s laughter in the hall. he can’t stand it. the ceiling feels too close. his pulse drums in his throat like it’s trying to get out.

he tells himself it’s control. that this is strength.

that he doesn’t need anything— not smoke, not noise, not her.

her.

fuck.

he doesn’t say her name. not even in his head. it makes it worse when he does, like his body knows something he doesn’t want to admit. when he closes his eyes, she’s there anyway.

he remembers that night too clearly. the way she’d left him standing there, something hollow collapsing in his chest. the way he’d wanted to call after her but didn’t. because what would he even say? come back? stay? i didn’t mean it?

he meant it.

at least, he thought he did.

he told himself he didn’t want her to catch feelings. but the truth— the truth is uglier. he didn’t want to feel anything either. he’s not built for it. not for wanting, not for softness. not for the way her laugh made something ache behind his ribs. even if he could, he wouldn’t be good for her.

so he quit everything.

cold turkey, just to see if he could still own himself.

he sees her once— not close enough to speak, but close enough to know he still wants to. she doesn’t notice him. or maybe she does and chooses not to. he watches her cross the street, sunlight tangled in her hair, a flash of paint on her fingers. she’s with someone— nobara, maybe. they’re laughing about something.

his stomach twists.

he pulls out his lighter without thinking. stares at it until it burns brighter. crimson eyes watch the fire fade into the air, his finger releasing the ignition.

control.

it’s a joke.

he’s all teeth and nerves.

he keeps thinking about the way she looked at him, right before she walked out— eyes steady, soft but certain. like she knew something he didn’t.

and the thing is— he’s always been the one who gets to decide. when things start, when they end, who gets close and who doesn’t. that’s how it’s supposed to work. he draws the line, people obey. simple. predictable. clean.

but this? she doesn’t play by his rules. he can’t read her anymore— can’t tell if she’s angry, or done, or if she still thinks about him when it’s quiet. it drives him insane. every silence feels like punishment. every glance she doesn’t give him feels like proof that he’s losing.

that’s the part that eats at him the most.

he’s losing.

she slipped past him somehow, past the part of himself he thought was untouchable. now, no matter what he does— no matter how much he pulls back— she’s still there, carved into the softest part of him. the part he swore didn’t exist.

so he keeps pretending that he’s in control. keeps clenching his jaw, keeps his hands steady, keeps saying no when his mind screams yes. he tries to convince himself that wanting her doesn’t mean needing her.

but he knows what it feels like to lose control— and this is worse. this is being powerless in his own skin.

the thing about control is that it’s only real when there’s nothing left to want.

he wants.

he wants her.

and that ruins everything.

Chapter Text

“one more!” nobara pleads, clasping her hands like she’s in prayer, eyes sparkling with mischief. yuji follows behind her into your dorm, already laughing, like he knows she’s going to win.

“please,” he adds, dragging the word out like it’ll help his case. “it won’t even be that bad. everyone’s going. you’ve been hiding for, like, two weeks.”

“i went friday,” you protest weakly. “that counts.”

nobara gives you a look — that knowing one, part disbelief and part sisterly judgment. “friday was a funeral compared to this. besides, who said you get to rot in here again?”

“it’s a sunday!” you argue, gesturing toward the window like the day of the week is an actual reason.

“okay?” she says, already halfway through your closet. “now—what should she wear?”

yuji laughs, holding up a top like he’s found treasure. “this one.”

you stare, unimpressed. “absolutely not.”

“absolutely yes,” nobara says, snatching it from him. “black looks good on you.”

you sigh, deciding it’s easier not to fight it. the resistance melts somewhere between nobara’s plotting and yuji’s fake fashion commentary. by the time megumi knocks on your door, your bed is buried under outfit options, half of which nobara has already vetoed.

half an hour later, the verdict’s in. you’re in black — simple but sharp, something that clings just enough to remind you that you have a body worth noticing. nobara beams when she sees the final result, like she’s just won a makeover show.

in between their antics, megumi knocks on your door and steps inside just in time to see the chaos — clothes everywhere, nobara beaming like a stylist on caffeine, yuji lounging on your bed.

“you ready?” he asks dryly.

“almost,” nobara says, stepping back to admire you. “oh my god. you look like heartbreak.”

“wow,” you say, flatly. “that really helps.”

yuji grins. “no, like—dangerously good. like, people are gonna regret things tonight.”

“fine?” megumi offers, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

nobara gasps. “fine? megumi, she looks insane.”

you shake your head, staring at your reflection. the outfit’s simple: black on black, the kind that hits quiet and confident. not too much. just enough. you look… different. sultry.

“it’s fine,” you murmur, but nobara’s grin says otherwise.

yuji flops back onto your bed, scrolling through his phone, half-distracted. you don’t pay it much attention — you’re too focused on your reflection, on the way your pulse feels unsteady for no reason you can name.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

(sukuna’s pov.)

his phone buzzes once, lighting up the dark of his room.

yuji: party at nobara’s friend’s place. u should come.

he reads it without reacting, thumb hovering over the screen.

sukuna: on a sunday?

yuji: yeah. everyone’s coming tho

sukuna: everyone?

yuji: yeah, basically everyone that i know

sukuna: i’ll think about it

yuji: that’s a yes.

he tosses the phone onto the nightstand, runs a hand over his face. there’s no point in going. but eventually, he picks up his keys anyway.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

the party hums with a low kind of energy — not wild, just warm and hazy, like everyone’s trying to forget that it’s a sunday night. the bass thuds against the walls, soft lights flicker from the kitchen, and laughter spills out of every corner.

you follow nobara and the others inside, the faint chill from outside still clinging to your skin. your outfit feels heavier now under the house lights. you don’t know if it’s confidence or nerves, but something keeps your chest tight.

nobara disappears first, claiming she’s “networking.” yuji’s already greeting people left and right. megumi stays near the wall, nursing a drink like it’s an obligation. you hover near him for a while, fingers tracing the condensation on your cup, pretending not to look for someone you shouldn’t be.

and then, there it is—

the kind of sensation that prickles under your skin before you even see him.

you glance across the room, through the haze of colored lights and moving bodies. he’s there. leaning against the far wall, half-shadowed by a dim lamp. sukuna. no drink, no cigarette, nothing to distract him. just stillness.

and for the first time in weeks, you feel it again— the tension, the pull, the strange gravity that keeps you circling each other no matter how far you try to drift.

you hate the way your breath catches. hate that part of you that straightens, that becomes suddenly aware of how you’re standing, what your hands are doing, how the neckline of your top dips just enough to catch the light.

his eyes meet yours. and stay there.

the world doesn’t stop, but it might as well.

he doesn’t look away. not when someone talks to him, not when a girl touches his arm, not even when you break the eye contact first. it’s like he’s daring you to look again.

so you do.

and every time you do, he’s already looking. it makes your pulse stutter. makes your thoughts slip somewhere between irritation and curiosity. you tell yourself you don’t care. that he doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing he still has that effect on you. still, there’s that tiny thrill— the power in knowing he’s the one staring.

nobara finds you again, linking her arm through yours. “you’re so quiet,” she teases. “someone here catch your eye?”

you smile faintly, eyes flicking to the other side of the room. “hm. not really.”

the music swells. someone spills a drink. the night blurs, but his gaze doesn’t. it follows you through the crowd, lingers over every step, every laugh, every stranger who gets too close.

when you finally decide to leave, his eyes track you all the way to the door.

by the time you leave, your head feels light. the music’s too loud, the laughter too distant, and still, you can feel his eyes on you as you walk out.

like he’s memorizing you again.

and you pretend you don’t like it.

Chapter Text

back inside, sukuna is at the edge of the crowd, quiet at first, nursing a drink which was forced into his hands. but, the tension in his shoulders loosened, and yuji, ever the oblivious instigator, slides a fresh drink into his hand.

“finally,” yuji says, grinning. “you’re letting me loosen you up. took long enough.”

sukuna smirks, a little, and tilts the glass back. the burn travels down his throat and settles in his chest. it’s warmth, distraction, fuel. he matches yuji’s laugh now, allowing himself to get caught up in the reckless energy of the room, the fluidity of motion, the way everyone else is lost in the music and the chaos.

“you’re actually not that bad at this,” yuji teases, bumping him lightly. “i thought you’d be stiff the whole night.”

“i’m only stiff about a few things,” sukuna mutters, tone rough but amused. his eyes catch the light of the ceiling bulbs, glinting, reflecting, blurring. the buzz in his head sharpens everything—his thoughts, his senses, the lingering pull toward your absence.

they move from the bar to the kitchen, grabbing bottles, passing cups. yuji cracks jokes, lifts a toast, spills a little, and sukuna laughs. really laughs. loud enough that someone nearby glances over, surprised at the sound coming from him. he’s loosened in ways he rarely allows, and the presence of his little brother makes it easier, safer, somehow, to let it all go.

the alcohol rolls through him and ignites a tension that’s been simmering beneath his control. he’s usually precise, measured, the master of his own space. now, he’s spilling and laughing and letting it happen.

“you’re getting sloppy,” yuji teases, handing him another drink.

“maybe,” sukuna admits, voice low, slurring slightly, “but who gives a fuck?” he tilts back his head, letting the liquid burn down, tasting sharp and sweet all at once.

as the night wears on, the room tilts in on itself. voices merge into a dull roar, the music thumps in tandem with his pulse. he drinks faster, drinks harder, and soon he’s laughing at jokes he doesn’t remember, leaning on yuji when he stumbles slightly, feeling the warm press of the room around him.

megumi finds him eventually, noticing the tilt in his posture, the glass trembling in his grip. “you need a ride?” he asks quietly, calm in contrast to the chaos.

sukuna laughs, a ragged sound. “fuck no. i’m fine. just… walkin’ it off. yeah. walkin’ it off.”

megumi doesn’t argue. he waits as sukuna shifts, leaning heavier, needing support. eventually, he sighs and allows megumi to guide him out, the cold air hitting like a shock, sobering in a way that’s harsh but welcome.

they move down the quiet streets, lights casting long shadows, the city hushed except for their steps. megumi’s quiet presence is steadying. “you’ve been… weird lately,” he murmurs after a long pause. “is it about her?”

sukuna freezes mid-step, confusion mixing with a spike of panic. how does he know? how the fuck does he know this?  “what? no. we… what do you mean?”

“i could tell. you know,” megumi says, shrugging, voice low. “you’re… distracted. ‘can’t read you. so… you and her? stop talking or what?”

the words hit harder than expected. sukuna swallows, mind spiraling, alcohol and emotion tangled together. “no. yes?— it’s not like that.” it seemed as if a light bulb turned on within his highly intoxicated mind. 💡 “take me there. i just… need to see her. please.”

megumi hesitates. “that’s not a good idea.”

“please,” sukuna insists, grip tightening on megumi’s arm. “i’ll be fine. just leave me there. i need—i need this.”

finally, megumi sighs. he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text: you have a visitor. i’ll make leave him if it’s too much, just let me know.

the air in the car is thick with quiet. megumi drives with that calm, unflinching gaze, his hands steady on the wheel as though he’s used to people falling apart beside him. sukuna slumps against the seat, half-buzzed, the alcohol biting at his system like it’s trying to remind him that he’s still alive, still feeling, still capable of thinking too much. he doesn’t say anything at first. just lets his eyes drift to the dark streets, the dim glow of streetlights, the way the campus stretches like a living organism outside the windows. everything feels distant, yet unbearably close.

megumi doesn’t look at him, not once. not until they’re turning onto campus.“you know she might not open the door,” he says finally. “might not want to see you.”

sukuna huffs a humorless laugh.

he’s been sober for nearly two weeks. no smoke curling in the air, no heat of a joint lingering between his fingers, no quick buzz to ease the quiet gnawing of thought. he’s done more than that, actually—he’s focused on work, on the patterns of what he can control, the lines he can draw around himself and stick to. and yet here he is, leaning over the edge of something he doesn’t even fully understand. something that has nothing to do with control. something that refuses to be calculated.

he thinks about you, inevitably. can’t stop. not for the life of him. you’ve been around the group, yes, laughing at lunches, joking with yuji, rolling your eyes at nobara’s prying, moving through the days with a rhythm that doesn’t require his interference. not that you needed him. and he hates himself a little for that. hates the twist in his gut that remembers the press of your body, the taste of your lips, the quiet insistence in your eyes that seems to command more of him than any word ever could. so he swears under his breath, leans his head back, presses it against the headrest, feels the alcohol warm his veins and do nothing to soothe the ache.

campus is a ghost at this hour. lamplight spills in pale pools across the sidewalks, moths flickering in and out. the air smells damp, metallic, charged with the aftertaste of rain. every sound feels magnified—the crunch of gravel under his shoes, the scrape of his palm against the brick wall, the low hum of the fluorescent light above the stairwell.

he climbs too fast, shoulders brushing walls, his breath ragged in the silence. the hallway stretches out before him, lined with closed doors, each identical, each locked against him.

until he finds yours.

his fist hovers. falters. then knocks—harder than he means to. uneven, loud.

silence.

“hey,” he mutters, voice raw. “it’s me.”

inside, you freeze. your chest tightens, breath catching as you glance toward the door. curiosity drags you toward the peephole before you can stop yourself.

he’s there. shoulders slouched, head bowed slightly, knuckles still pressed against the doorframe.

“i… i know you’re in there,” he calls out, voice low, bouncing slightly off the walls of the dorm. no answer. just the faint rustle of leaves, the distant hum of an AC unit, the steady thump of his own heart. he mutters curses under his breath, running a hand through his hair, trying to force order into the chaos of wanting you, needing you, hating that he’s here.

the hallway stretches, narrow and quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. he leans against the wall, eyes scanning for movement, for the faintest sign that you’re watching, that you’ve noticed. every step he takes is careful, deliberate, yet weighted with the kind of desperation he refuses to name. he repeats your name like a prayer, a curse, a spell he doesn’t trust himself to finish.

his thoughts spiral. why is he here? why does he care so much that you’re not answering? he hates himself for feeling exposed, for the ache that presses at his chest like a hand, for the flush of embarrassment that heats the tips of his ears. he tries to convince himself that it’s just the alcohol, that it’s just weakness, that he doesn’t need you, that you don’t need him. and yet every lie tastes like ash.

he knocks, once. twice. a third time, louder, more insistent. “come on… i’m not… i’m not doing anything stupid… just…” the words trail off, and he swears again under his breath. he leans forward, resting his forehead lightly against the door, letting himself breathe. every instinct tells him to run, to hide, to abandon this stupid, aching vulnerability. and yet he waits. 

you stand rooted behind the door, every muscle pulled taut, torn between twisting the handle open and keeping it locked.

outside, he lingers. he doesn’t know how long, doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. only that he can’t leave.

and you—you can’t move yet.

his forehead rests against the wood, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut. the silence is unbearable. he swallows hard, words dragging out of him like something he doesn’t want to admit but can’t hold back.

“i don’t even know what i’m doing here,” he mutters again, voice low, frayed at the edges. “wasn’t gonna come. wasn’t—” his fist tightens against the doorframe.

you lean against the inside wall, arms folded tight across your chest, but your gaze doesn’t leave the peephole. he’s right there, close enough you could open the door and he’d practically fall into your space.

“i don’t want this to be a big deal,” he says finally, voice thin, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “told you that. meant it. thought i did.” his shoulders sag, the fight draining out of him. “so why the fuck does it feel like it is?”

silence hums in the hallway. he breathes heavy, uneven, each exhale fogging the space between him and the door.

and then, softer: “just—say something. anything.”

but you don’t. you stay rooted where you are, hand still pressed flat against the wood, heart in your throat.

the minutes stretch. he paces slightly, swaying, muttering, rehearsing explanations that will never come out right. he tries to imagine any other scenario where he wouldn’t care, where he wouldn’t be standing here, drunk and ridiculous, caught in the pull of your absence. nothing satisfies. nothing compares. the more he tries to rationalize, the more the truth gnaws at him: he wants you, in every twisted, painful, intoxicating way he refuses to admit.

and then, after what feels like hours but is only moments, the door opens.

you are there. standing in the frame, eyes level with his, shoulders squared, holding yourself steady against the quiet of the dorm hallway. he blinks, surprised, the blush rising faintly to the tips of his ears. he hadn’t expected anything. hadn’t planned for your presence, for your calm, for the way the air seems to shift simply because you’re there.

he swallows, voice barely above a whisper. “i… uh… can i…?”

you raise an eyebrow, but don’t speak. the silence stretches, a living thing, tense but not violent. your hands find his shoulders, steadying him, and for a moment the world narrows to the warmth of your palms, the press of your eyes, the subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath your gaze.

he stands still, too aware of the blush crawling up his neck, the slight tremor in his hands, the ridiculous, aching pull of wanting something he doesn’t think he can have. your hold is quiet, unjudging, grounding, and it anchors him in a way nothing else has tonight.

“come in,” you say finally, voice low, matter-of-fact, dry but not unkind. he nods, wordless, stepping inside.

the dorm is dim, shadows pooling in corners, the faint hum of campus life filtering through the walls. you guide him gently to the floor, setting him down with careful precision. he doesn’t protest, doesn’t stumble; he simply sits, leaning back slightly, taking in the room—the smell of books, fabric softener, the faint residue of your presence.

“sleep,” you murmur, not indulgent, not coaxing, just stating a fact. he nods, letting himself settle, the warmth of your hands lingering briefly on his shoulders before retreating. the tension between you hangs thick, unspoken but palpable, every heartbeat echoing in the quiet room.

he stares at the ceiling, the dim light brushing across his face, ears still flushed, chest tight, mind spinning with what he shouldn’t want, shouldn’t feel. he thinks about the two weeks since the treehouse, the absence you imposed, the way you’ve moved through life without him, the group lunches, the quiet boundaries you’ve set. it should hurt more. it should sting. but it doesn’t in the way he expected. it presses, hums, reminds, but it also excites, terrifies, and pulls at him all at once.

your pulse thrums in your ears. his words scrape at something raw inside you, equal parts ache and warning.

he closes his eyes, lets the floor hold him, the faint warmth of your hands echoing against his shoulders, the quiet breathing of a dorm room that has become something more than just a room tonight. every sound—the hum of the fridge in the hall, the faint buzz of a distant streetlight, the creak of the building settling—anchors him in the moment, in the truth he’s been avoiding.

the blanket you drape over him is warm, grounding. he mutters, “i… didn’t mean to… fuck up… or… i don’t know. i just… can’t… it’s too much… i’m stupid.” he swears under his breath again, muttering fragments of thought, half-confessions, half-reassurances, a litany of self-inflicted torment. yet the embarrassment fades into something softer, almost bearable, almost comforting. he knows you won’t indulge him beyond this—won’t give him more than what is necessary—and yet that is enough. that restraint, that quiet insistence, that presence without indulgence, grounds him more than any vice ever could.

and in the quiet, in the charged stillness of your presence, he finds a kind of peace. not relief. not closure. not satisfaction. just the raw, electric weight of being held accountable by someone he cannot ignore. and it is enough. for now.

Chapter Text

the world arrives slowly.
not all at once — but in quiet fragments that don’t quite fit together. first, the light. thin and gold, filtered through half-drawn curtains, trembling across the floor. then, sound. the faint hiss of running water, the whisper of fabric, a soft clink that could be a mug meeting a countertop. everything muffled, as if he’s hearing it through glass.

sukuna doesn’t move. he feels weighted down by the kind of heaviness that lives in the bones, a pulsing ache that hums behind his eyes. his cheek rests against something cool — the floor, maybe — and for a while, that’s the only thing he’s sure of. the air smells faintly of coffee and paper. something floral, too.

his lashes flutter open. the room is a blur at first, too bright for his tired eyes to catch all at once. when the world steadies, he sees color— soft yellows of the sun peeking through the bound bleeding together on the wall. a desk cluttered with stationary, open textbooks, a chipped mug with paintwater clouding inside. it feels too intimate, too gentle, too much like something he shouldn’t touch.

and then, she moves.

his gaze shifts, half-conscious, toward the window. she’s there, framed in sunlight, her silhouette loose and languid in the glow. one shoulder bare where her sleeve’s fallen. her hair catching the light like strands of spun glass. she hums under her breath — not loud enough to be a song, just the rhythm of someone thinking.

he wonders if he’s dreaming. it feels like it. everything feels too soft, too careful to be real. he’s not supposed to wake up to something like this — not after the things he’s done, the words he’s thrown at her, the distance he’s forced between them.

he tries to piece the night together, but it comes in broken images — the burn of alcohol, yuji’s laughter, megumi’s voice low and steady beside him, the blur of pavement under his shoes. and then nothing.

a deep ache tightens behind his temples. he blinks again, the movement sluggish. she turns slightly, her profile haloed in gold. her fingers brush her hair back, slow and unaware. he wants to speak, to ask where he is, to say something stupid like sorry or thank you or how did i get here, but his throat won’t move. it’s dry and heavy, full of unsaid things.

for a brief moment, his chest feels light — a fragile, trembling peace that belongs to the half-awake, half-asleep. his pulse slows. the pain recedes. he doesn’t have to think. he just watches the morning move through her.

the sunlight shifts again, and the edges of her start to blur. his vision softens, his body sinking deeper into the floor.

it doesn’t feel right, this quiet domesticity, this light that doesn’t belong to him. it feels borrowed. it feels like mercy he doesn’t deserve.

his mind tries to make sense of it— what happened last night, why his head hurts, how he ended up on her floor— but the thoughts slip away before they land.

and before he can reach the thought of why am i here, sleep drags him back under, quiet and deep.

the last thing he knows is her voice — low, distant, humming. and then nothing at all.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

the morning finds you before you’re ready for it.

the air feels different — still, but charged with something unspoken. light spills across your room, slow and hesitant, crawling over the floorboards until it touches the mess at your desk, the half-finished canvas propped against the wall, and finally, the outline of his body near the foot of your bed.

you haven’t spoken a word since last night. you don’t even know what you’d say.

he’s still asleep, sprawled in a graceless sprawl across the rug, his arm bent under his head, one leg stretched out. the sight should feel absurd— him, here, in this space that doesn’t belong to his world— but it doesn’t. it just feels fragile. temporary.

you study him in the quiet. the faint twitch in his jaw. the uneven rhythm of his breathing. the furrow in his brow that never seems to leave, not even now. his hand curls once, as if caught in a dream he can’t escape. for the first time, he looks like something real — not the sharp, untouchable version of him that the world sees, but a person. just a person.

you remember last night in flashes. his voice outside your door, slurred but desperate, words tumbling over each other. the way his knuckles brushed against the wood. how long you stood there, trying to decide. when you finally opened it, his eyes had gone wide— unfocused but so full of something raw you didn’t know what to do with it. 

you’d told him to sleep. that’s all. you couldn’t deal with anything else.

the coffee on your desk’s gone cold. you drink it anyway, letting the bitterness wake you up.

the silence stretches until he stirs — a low groan that drags through the room, rough and human. his fingers flex, pressing against the rug before he sits up slowly, his movements sluggish, disoriented. his head hangs low for a moment before his gaze drifts upward, meeting yours.

it’s silent, he takes a minute to break the silence.

“shit,” he mutters, voice hoarse. his hand runs through his hair. “i said too much, didn’t i?”

you tilt your head slightly. “you said enough.”

the words land softly, not a forgiveness, not a wound.

he exhales through his nose, long and tired, and leans back against the wall. the light hits the side of his face— bruised by exhaustion, by alcohol, by something deeper. “i’m not usually like that.”

“i know,” you say. and you do. that was the most human you’ve seen him.

he glances toward the door, as if realizing the absurdity of the situation only now. “you shouldn’t’ve opened the door,” he says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “could’ve been anyone.”

“it was you.”

he looks at you, startled. for a second, something soft breaks through the haze. he opens his mouth, closes it again, and looks down.

you reach for the glass of water on your nightstand and hand it to him. his fingers brush yours briefly — warm, rough, trembling just a little. he drinks, then sets it down beside him.

“thanks,” he murmurs.

you nod. “your head still hurting?”

“yeah.” he huffs a small, humorless laugh. “guess i deserved that.”

you shrug. “probably.”

he looks up at you then, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth — the first real expression you’ve seen from him since he showed up at your door. for a moment, the air feels lighter.

but it doesn’t last. it’s not supposed to.

the quiet between you stretches again, long enough that it stops feeling uncomfortable and starts feeling fragile instead. the kind of silence that feels alive — like it’s holding something between you, something neither of you are ready to name.

he stands eventually, slow and uncertain, still piecing himself together. his movements are careful, deliberate, as if he’s afraid of breaking something invisible. he lingers near the door, hand resting on the frame.

there’s a flicker of hesitation — something in his shoulders tightening, something in his jaw working — like he wants to speak but can’t find the right shape for the words.

finally, he says, “thanks.”

it’s quiet, but this time, it sounds like more than that.

you nod once. “you should go get some rest.”

he hesitates again, like he wants to argue, then just nods and steps out.

when the door closes behind him, the quiet doesn’t leave. it deepens.

the space he’d occupied feels heavier now, even empty. you look at the floor, the faint imprint where he’d slept, and for reasons you can’t name, your chest aches.

the light’s stronger now — full and golden, crawling across the rug, it brushes against the spot where his hand had rested. you breathe in, slow. the air smells like coffee and smoke and something you can’t quite let go of.

you don’t know what happens next.
you just know that something has shifted.

and this time, it feels like neither of you can pretend not to notice.