summary: punished for his greed, sylus has three months for a princess to kiss him or else his curse becomes permanent OR you are indebted to a talking crow and repeatedly deny his one request of a single kiss
wc: 10.1k
warnings: oral (f rec), fingering, piv, unprotected sex, pronebone, creampie, xav is a pos plot device sorry guys, the servants really like gossip
an: :)
It was a beautiful summer day, the sky crystal clear, a warm breeze carrying the scent of the wildflowers that dotted the landscape. You were free of lessons today, meaning you were free to enjoy the perfect day, your prized golden ball, a gift from your father, the plaything of choice. Up and down, up and down, it fell into your waiting palm, until it went up and then didn't return. You looked up curiously, eyes scanning the branches of the large oak tree that stretched into the bright blue sky, your gaze finally landing on the glint of your ball far above your reach. You huffed, annoyed that it had gotten stuck at all, but also distressed that your favorite toy might never come back down.
Tears welled up in your eyes, unbidden, as you continued to stare at your beloved toy lodged in the branches. Would your father be disappointed in you for losing it? The tears fell faster and faster until you were sobbing upon the ground. It was such a little thing to be so upset over, you knew that, but it meant so much to you.
“What ails you, princess?” Came a voice from high above you, but from whom you could not see. “You cry so miserably, even a stone would be moved to show pity.” A shadowy form descended until the black bird landed directly in front of you, its unnervingly intelligent eyes seemingly looking into your very soul.
You were taken aback. It was talking. The bird was speaking to you. And not just mimicking someone else’s voice, but truly speaking. All thoughts of your ball were wiped from your mind as you stared in awe at the feathered anomaly. It waited patiently for your response, calm as the breeze that flowed through the trunks.
“My ball,” you eventually stuttered out. You pointed where it was still lodged, the crow following the line of your arm to spy the golden bauble. “It’s stuck, and I can’t get it down.”
“No need to cry for that. I will help you, but what will you give me in return if I bring your plaything back down?” He asked, his shrewd eyes fixed on your own.
“Anything you desire,” you responded. “My clothes, my pearls and jewels, and even the crown on my head if that is what you wish.”
The crow tilted its head. “Anything? You should be more careful when making promises, especially to the unnatural. What if I asked for your heart? Or perhaps an eye. Would you give it to me?” Derision dripped from his every word.
You faltered. What nerve this feathered beast had. “I’ll give you what you wish so long as it is within reason, and I maintain the right to deny that which I am either unwilling or unable to fulfill. Does that satisfy you?”
The bird turned your words over in its mind, thinking carefully about your wording before answering that yes, that would do just fine. So up, up, up the bird flew, nudging your precious gift from where it had lodged itself so that it came falling back to earth with a solid thud. You reached out, your hand wrapping firmly around it. The bird landed in front of you once more, his request already decided.
“Thank you, Mr. Crow. What is it that you would like in return for helping me?”
“A kiss,” he answered confidently, not a shadow of a doubt that that was what he wanted.
You had expected gold or other such shiny things, something a crow might find enjoyment in, but reality was so far from your expectations that you were again stunned into silence.
“A kiss, your highness, that is all I ask for,” he pleaded, almost desperate. Why a crow was so insistent on a kiss was beyond you, but you would not grant it. It spoke like a person, so how could you be sure it was a crow at all and not some evil of the forest that only took the form of a crow? What if a kiss would bind you to it for all eternity?
“I cannot do that, Mr. Crow,” you declined.
“Cannot or will not? Your terms were that you could refuse my requests if you were unwilling or unable, so which is it?”
“Will not. My father is considering a betrothal with another kingdom. Whether you are a crow or something else, my kisses are reserved for the one whom I will marry.”
The crow looked disappointed, which you didn't even know was possible for a bird. “I would like to be your companion then. To eat and drink the same food, to sleep in the same quarters, to be at your side, always.”
You acquiesced, but the second the crow looked away from you, you fled back to the castle, trying to put as much distance between you and that unnatural bird as you could. He took to the air, following your retreating figure, squawking at you to wait, to come back, that he meant you no harm, you promised. But you did not listen, did not care to hear one more word the mysterious bird had to say. It shouldn't have had any words to say in the first place.
You didn't stop running until the castle doors were shut firmly behind you. You thought the crow wouldn't have dared leave its home in the forest, but it was waiting for you, adamant that you would hold up your end of the deal.
That night at dinner, you heard an insistent tapping at the window. Your father, the king, heard it as well, shooting a curious glance your way as if to ask if you heard it too. The dining room was not on the ground floor; no one should have been able to reach those high windows. You rose slowly, walking to the covered window to pull back the curtain. There, perched on the windowsill, was the crow from the forest. It stared at you directly through the thick pane of glass, its beady eyes narrowed. Yet, it never stopped the incessant tapping on the window with its beak. You yanked the curtains closed, returning to your seat and ignoring the infernal tapping upon the window.
“What is it?” your father asked, looking between you and the window.
“A crow,” you answered simply, drinking from your goblet to hopefully avoid saying more.
“Why is there a crow on the windowsill? It’s awfully late for a crow to be this active.”
You sighed heavily, telling your father of all that had transpired earlier in the day. How you had lost your ball, how the crow had retrieved it, how you had promised it a reward, and then how you hadn't fulfilled his wish. He looked angry, but not at the crow; no, he was angry with you. “That which you promised must be fulfilled. You are a princess. You cannot make such empty promises. Go, allow him in, and keep your word. He will eat and drink as you do, sleep as you do, and be at your side always.”
Though you greatly disliked it, you did as he said, approaching the window and once again parting the curtains to reveal the disgruntled bird. You scowled at it. Why couldn't it just stay in the woods? Or, better yet, have helped you just to be kind, and not ask for such ridiculous compensation.
You unlatched the window, allowing the bird to fly into the dining room where it perched on the chair across from yours, staring at you expectantly. You walked back to your seat after securing the window, not taking your eyes off the bird.
You didn't speak to the bird, ignoring it as best you could, whereas your father made polite conversation with it, as if there was nothing odd about conversing with a crow over dinner. Your father had called over a servant, requesting that both a meal and a drink be brought out for the bird. “What shall we call you?” your father asked politely.
“Your daughter called me Mr. Crow. That will do fine.”
“Don't you have a name of your own?”
He did, but it stuck in his throat when he tried to utter it. “No. I’m just a crow.” For now.
Your father nodded, not quite satisfied, feeling bad that a sentient creature such as the crow had not so much as a name to call its own. “Mr. Crow it is then.”
When dinner ended, he followed you to your bedroom, and almost followed you into the bathroom as well until you shut the door in his face. You dismissed the maids, insisting that you wanted to be alone. Obviously, the crow was here to stay, so you wanted all the alone time you could get. You scrubbed until your skin was angry and raw, wishing you could scrub the crow itself from both your memory and life. No ball, however sentimental, was worth such a headache.
You exited the bathroom, finding the crow stubbornly waiting for you just outside. You groaned, ignoring it, and it followed you all the way back to your room, making itself comfy on one of your pillows. Your distaste for the creature only deepened. “You're not sleeping in my bed,” you stated.
“Our agreement-”
“You requested the same quarters, not the same bed. It was you who said to word things carefully, no?”
He laughed, beyond amused. You were right, he did say both of those things. “Very well. Where would you have me sleep then, your highness?”
“Don't know, don't care. Get out of my bed.” You glared as you watched him settle himself on your writing desk. You crawled into bed, blowing the candle out to sleep, and hopefully, when you woke up, this would all have been a dream.
“Princess?” called the bird. “You've not given me a place to sleep.”
“Sleep on the floor for all I care,” you grumbled, pulling the covers up higher to cover your ears.
“How do you expect to care for your people one day if you cannot even care for a bird?” The bird goaded, amusement morphing into offense at your continual poor treatment of him.
“You're just a bird!” you spat at him.
“I’m your guest,” he corrected indignantly, pride running hot through his veins.
You shot up in bed, snatching the other pillow that he had been on and tossing it to the floor. “There! Is that what you wanted?” He hopped onto the plush cushion, making himself comfy.
“It is,” he said finally, content with his downy accommodations, even if not so pleased that he was still on the floor and not your bed. Just to add to your obvious irritation, he added, "Goodnight, princess.” He took immense satisfaction in your muffled groan from beneath the blankets you had buried yourself under.
The next morning, you woke from the light streaming in through the open window. You stretched, body still lethargic with sleep. You forced yourself into a sitting position, spotting the now-empty pillow on the floor, the only trace that the bird had been there at all. You dressed for the day, making your way to the dining room to join your father for breakfast.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he greeted you warmly. “Sleep well?”
You hummed in affirmation, pouring yourself a cup of coffee from the carafe.
“And where is Mr. Crow?” he asked, not missing the absence of the newest resident of the castle.
You shrugged. “Don’t know. He was gone when I woke up. The window was open last night for fresh air.”
“You didn't throw him out of the window, did you?” he asked, eyeing you suspiciously.
“No! Of course not!” You wanted him gone, but you didn't want to actively terrorize the bird.
Your father still looked slightly suspicious of you, but let it go without further argument. He finished his food, excusing himself from the table to go to his office. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, telling you to take your time with breakfast and that your lessons had been postponed in favor of getting to know your new friend, absent though he was.
You sipped your coffee, taking in the early morning light. It was calm, relaxing, until that same wretched tapping as last interrupted the serenity. You sighed, placing your mug back on the table and rising from your seat. As you drew near, you could see that it had something in its beak, but you weren't quite sure what until you opened the window.
They were flowers. The bird had woken up early to pick flowers. He angled his head up, as if offering them to you. “For me?” you asked quizzically.
It nodded its feathered head, hopping closer. You took the modest bouquet, curious why he would do such a thing. You had done nothing to deserve such a gesture. “Thank you. They’re very pretty,” you said with a small smile, touched by the effort this must have taken for the small animal.
“Pretty enough to deserve a kiss?” He asked.
You shook your head. “I already told you I won't kiss you.”
Sylus was beginning to think he should have negotiated that kiss before helping you at all. “I’ll earn that kiss eventually, princess.”
You rolled your eyes, turning your back to him and returning to finish your now lukewarm coffee, the crow in pursuit. He nibbled at the spread, but didn't seem keen to eat much. He was a bird, and the phrase ‘eat like a bird’ had to come from somewhere, you guessed. In truth, he was planning and plotting how to get you to kiss him. He only had so much time before this was permanent, and his human consciousness was overridden and forgotten.
Days came and went in the same fashion. The bird continued sleeping on what you had designated as his pillow on the floor, ate every meal with you, and joined you for walks around the garden. He was your ever-present shadow, just as he had requested. Your annoyance with him decreased with each passing day, beginning to grow fond of his company, especially once you got used to his dry humor. On this particular day, he was perched on your chair in the garden’s gazebo, reading over your shoulder. When you had asked if he was even capable of reading, he had merely scoffed at you.
The two of you were reading in silence, and with him still securely perched on your chair, you knew it wasn't him hopping around beneath the table, so what was that brushing against your shoes?
You glanced beneath the table, jerking away with a scream that startled Sylus into the air. He landed on the ground, eyes zeroing in on the offender who had scared his princess so badly. It was just a small garden snake, something he could easily handle. He looked at you to see that you weren't just surprised by the snake, you were genuinely scared. That settled that, then. The snake had to go.
It was quick, but unable to evade Sylus forever, now squirming in his beak. He flew off with it, returning without it shortly, landing on the table. “Are you alright, your highness?”
“Yes, quite. Thank you, Mr. Crow,” you said gratefully, smiling at your feathered friend.
“I think my heroics ought to be rewarded. How about a kiss?”
You giggled. He was very persistent about receiving a kiss but would not tell you why, no matter how much you asked. You kissed the pads of two of your fingers, then brought them down on the bird’s beak. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he said, not impressed with your display.
He was even less impressed when Prince Xavier, the crown prince of one of the neighboring kingdoms, Philos, was invited by your father in the hopes of the two of you becoming amiable to a betrothal to unite your two nations. He was seething. It was supposed to be him! He was the one who was in talks with your father, not this boy who hadn't even ascended the throne yet. He would not sit idly by while his would-be bride was wooed by another, condemning him to life as a crow permanently.
Though Xavier was every bit the gentleman he was expected to be, Sylus also knew that Philos was suffering economically. Onychinus, on the other hand, was thriving. How unfortunate that the king had gone missing recently, leaving your father to explore other options for his daughter. It wouldn't last. Sylus would make sure of it.
Already, the young royal was on Sylus’ nerves, sitting in his spot across from you. He made his displeasure known, staring the prince down from his position on your chair, abstaining from the meal altogether in favor of glaring at the nuisance in his seat.
“Is he your pet?” Xavier asked, gesturing to the bird.
You glanced over at Sylus, shaking your head with a smile. “Mr. Crow? No, he's a friend more than a pet.” Sylus puffed his chest out proudly. “He’s usually more talkative than this, though,” you added, somewhat concerned with his new silence.
Xavier seemed confused for a moment before something clicked in his head. “Right, I’ve heard that corvids are wonderful at copying human speech. I hope to hear from Mr. Crow before I have to return to Philos.”
You pinched your lips together, deciding not to tell him that the bird could truly talk and didn't just copy phrases he heard. It almost felt special that he wouldn't talk to Xavier when usually he talked your ear off, his sarcastic remarks never failing to pull a giggle from you.
But his odd behavior didn't stop with his uncharacteristic silence. Cookies and tea were brought out, and before Xavier could take one from his plate, Sylus took it upon himself to snatch one.
“Hey!” you reprimanded, gently pushing him away from the plates, cookie still held in his beak. “What is wrong with you today?” It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but you didn't miss the pointed glare he directed at Xavier.
“He’s quite alright. I don't expect birds to have table manners. Would you like another?” he asked, nudging his plate towards Sylus, which was promptly ignored.
The intention was to anger the other royal, cause a tantrum, but all he had succeeded in doing was endearing you even more when Xavier had actually been kind to him.
Nothing was working. Not dropping a grasshopper on him in the gardens, not pulling the buttons of his coat, not even pecking at his hand when he tried to hold yours. He remained ever so patient. You, however, were losing yours. Xavier might believe that Mr. Crow was just a normal bird, but you knew better.
That night, when the castle was turning in for the night, you were confronting an audacious bird. “What was all that about today? I need him to like me!”
“Why? You're a princess; you have plenty of other options. You don't need anything from Prince Xander,” he dismissed. Based on his tone, if he were human, you would be convinced he would be inspecting his nails, bored, and acting as if the conversation was nothing of import.
“Xavier,” you corrected. “And I do need something from him. A marriage proposal would unite our kingdoms and-”
“And what?” Sylus interrupted. “Drag you into ruin with him? Philos is a failing kingdom, and he would only take Linkon down with it. He intends to use you to gain access to Linkon’s resources.”
The bird's cruel words cut you deeply. “You're just a bird. How could you possibly know any of that?”
He scoffed derisively. “Because he believes me to be just a bird, and, despite what you say, you know that’s not true. He doesn't watch his words around me the way he does with you.”
You were biting your bottom lip, brows furrowed in that oh-so-cute way he loved. He hated that it was born of insecurity, though. “Did he talk to you?” you asked timidly, trusting that he wouldn't lie to you, but still knowing that his answer would likely hurt.
“He did. When you excused yourself from the gardens. Said that ‘my owner’ is a foolish girl looking for love in the wrong places. That she was just a means to an end, and when he married you, the first thing he would do is get rid of me. Which I don't appreciate, by the way.” He saw your downcast face, hating that there was nothing he could do to make it better. “I’m sorry, your highness.”
You shook your head. “It’s not your fault. Thank you for telling me. I believe you, but can you prove it? Something tangible that I can show my father?”
“Consider it done.”
“Come back here, you odious beast!” the young prince’s voice followed him as he took flight from his room, returning to yours, the damning letter clutched in his beak. You were waiting for him by the windowsill, accepting the letter he proudly presented to you. Your eyes scanned its contents, your face expressing your anger more and more.
You were tempted to rip the letter into pieces, but you needed the evidence to show your father, preferably in one piece.
“Will that suffice?” Sylus inquired. “He walked in before I could finish reading it.”
“It’s exactly what I asked for. You couldn't have done any better.”
“I believe my hard work is worthy of a kiss, wouldn't you agree?” You were, in fact, inclined to agree with him this time. Were it not for him, you may have actually ended up betrothed to a man who thought you “foolish and airheaded” and described your dear friend Mr. Crow as “a ghastly thing that ought to be fed to the dogs.”
You nodded at the bird who was waiting for you to refuse him as you always did, but the refusal did not come. You nodded slowly, ever so grateful to the bird that you were willing to accept the one request he so often made. You pushed your hair behind your ear, leaning in to kiss the feathers atop the bird’s head, the bird himself eagerly waiting to be rid of this cursed form.
A knock at the door. It was a maid informing you that your father was requesting you in his office immediately. You smiled at the bird apologetically, his disappointment palpable. His time was dwindling. Already, he could feel the crow’s instincts overriding his conscious thoughts.
“Explain to me why Prince Xavier just stormed out of the castle! What happened?” Your father was livid, more so than he’d ever been with you. “You’re not a child anymore! You have your future to think about. He’s the crown prince of-”
“Of a kingdom on the brink of financial ruin. Here.” You thrust the stolen letter forth, watching your father’s anger at you redirect to the arrogant prince.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you, my dear child. After reading this, good riddance to him. But how did you get this letter?”
“Mr. Crow retrieved it. I left the two of them alone, and Prince Xavier talked to him, told him everything. Mr. Crow wouldn't speak in his presence, so the prince thought he was a normal bird. I asked for proof, and he brought me the letter the prince was penning back home.”
Your father nodded, not thrilled with the methods, but opting to turn a blind eye since it kept his precious daughter out of the hands of a man who only sought to use you. He lamented the disappearance of King Sylus. Regal, successful, and in need of a queen. In terms of a political match, he was perfect. For a love match, your father still thought that you would have made a lovely pair, your personalities balancing each other. Their letters of correspondence detailed likes, dislikes, the state of the kingdoms, policies, everything that was of any importance to a marriage as high-profile as yours would be. But then they’d stopped, and eventually the news reached him that the king was nowhere to be found, having gone off on a hunt and never returning.
There hadn’t been time to build such a relationship with Philos, a fact that greatly disheartened the king. You were of the age where royalty needed to wed, but you were still his daughter, and as any father would, he only wanted the best for you. Instead, he had nearly paired you with a worm.
“When you return to your room, can you inform Mr. Crow that I would like to see him? I want to thank him personally.” You nodded, closing the door softly behind you when you left.
When you returned, Mr. Crow was sifting through your jewelry box, sorting by both types of jewelry and gemstone color. “Well, aren't you nosy?” You teased.
“It’s a terrible mess in here. Have you ever organized it?” he said, his smooth voice echoing from where his entire head was still within the ornate box.
“I have, thank you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
You walked over to your vanity, prying the bird away from your priceless ornaments, a bracelet still dangling from his beak, which you relieved him of with your hand.
“My father wants to see you in his office,” you told him as you began to return your jewelry to its rightful place.
“I wasn't done with that,” Sylus told you, miffed that you were undoing all his hard work.
“You are now. Go, before my father comes looking for you.”
He heaved a great sigh, but set out through the open window. The summer breeze was lovely, but you really did need to start closing them if Xavier was a lesson to anyone.
-𓅨-
It was gone. You dumped out the entire box, sifted through every piece of jewelry you owned, and still couldn't find it. You had lost your mother’s necklace. You were panicking, hyperventilating. Since her death, you had kept that necklace safely tucked away, so how could it have disappeared? Fat tears rolled down your face, a deep ache settling in your chest.
“What’s wrong, princess? Are you hurt?” Mr. Crow’s deep velvety voice called from the windowsill.
“My necklace, my mother’s necklace, I can't find it, and I’ve looked everywhere. Did you see it when you were digging through it?”
“What does it look like?”
You described the necklace in as great detail as you could with your frazzled mind, and, unfortunately, Sylus knew exactly the one you were talking about. It was currently sitting in the tree he had initially taken up residence in, the one you had found him in that fateful day, squirreled away with a trove of other shiny pilfered items.
You would hate him. You would most definitely hate him after this, but he could not, in good conscience, allow you to believe that you were at fault for the loss of something so important to you. He took off from the windowsill, heading straight for the tree, tossing out all of his little treasures in his hunt for the one he should have never taken.
The second he found it, he was high-tailing it back to your room, hoping against hope that you would forgive him. And for a moment, when he landed, he thought you might. You were overjoyed when he placed it in your outstretched hand, until it dawned on you. He knew exactly where to go, and it wasn't anywhere in the palace.
You looked at the bird that you had trusted so much, betrayed. “Did you steal this from me?” you asked, your voice now a hoarse whisper, disbelief coloring your words.
He hung his head in shame. “I did,” he confessed solemnly.
“Why?” You were still crying, and it was his fault. “Why would you take this?”
“Because I can’t help it. I-” he choked on the words. He wanted to tell you that this wasn't him, that he didn't want to hurt you, and that he was losing his real self to the crow instincts, but the terms of the curse wouldn't allow it. “I’m just a crow,” he settled on morosely. He was coming to terms with the fact that soon he wouldn't exist at all, his human soul condemned to rot away, leaving only a crow in its place. It had already begun.
“Get out,” you commanded coldly.
“Princess-” he started, landing on the bed beside you.
In your anger and hurt, you lashed out at him, pushing him away from you. The movement was so sudden and unexpected that he wasn't able to prevent himself from falling to the floor.
You gasped, pushing yourself into a sitting position to lean over the edge of the bed. “Are you ok? I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to—” The tears came stronger now. You had hurt the only real friend you had.
He flapped back up to the bed, staring directly into your eyes. “If you're sorry for hurting me, then kiss it better.”
“What?” you sniffled.
“Kiss it better, and I’ll forgive you.”
Wallowing in your own guilt, you didn't think twice about fulfilling his request, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. When you opened your eyes, Mr. Crow was gone. In his place, face to face with you, was the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes on. A man who was very, very naked.
You jerked away, a scream bubbling in your throat that the man was quick to muffle with his hand over your mouth, pinning you down beneath him so you couldn't run off. “Relax, Princess,” he said. You’d know that silky voice anywhere. You pushed his hand away, needing to confirm what you already knew was true.
“Mr. Crow?” you asked in disbelief.
“Sylus,” he corrected.
“Sy-” you started, and then your eyes widened in realization. “The missing king.”
“In the flesh, your highness,” he grinned. “Been a bird for so long I thought I’d never be human again.”
“You- how-” you stuttered, unable to properly express yourself.
He chuckled at you, the sound so much more attractive now that it was coming from a man and not a bird. “It was a curse. I took something I shouldn't have.”
“Sounds familiar,” you said pointedly.
“Don't interrupt me. As I was saying, I took a gemstone without realizing it belonged to a witch. As you can imagine, she didn't take kindly to it. And as you've come to know over these few weeks, greed is my vice. Told her finder’s keepers, so she said if I act like a crow, then I might as well be one. And then I was one. She gave me three months before it became permanent, only broken by the kiss of a princess.”
“That’s why you wanted a kiss so bad,” you said, staring at the man in awe. “But why didn't you just say that?”
“Another condition of the curse is that I couldn't talk about it. Couldn't reveal any identifying information, but now I’m free, thanks to you, princess.”
“You are. You're also…” your eyes trailed down his toned figure, quickly going back to his face when you saw more of him than you meant to, your face flushing hot.
“Naked? Doesn't seem like you're complaining, though. I don't mind if you look.” He said, thoroughly amused at your obvious embarrassment.
You turned your head away from him, avoiding eye contact. He exhaled through his nose, leaning in to nose at your exposed throat. “C’mon, don't be shy, princess. Won’t you let me thank you?”
Your tongue wouldn't cooperate to answer him.
He hummed questioningly, nipping at your earlobe. “Some time later, then.” He rolled off you into a sitting position, but you stayed put where you were, your eyes fixed on his every movement. “It's dangerous to look at a man like that, princess, especially lying down,” he stated.
You sat upright immediately, looking at him apprehensively. “I’ll get you some clothes,” you told him.
He nodded, watching you exit the room to summon a maid. You returned shortly, still avoiding eye contact with him. He frowned at this. He knew this was a lot to take in, but it’s not like he was a total stranger. You wouldn't even sit on the bed with him, choosing to stand near the door and wait for the maid to return with the clothes you had requested.
The maid returned with a gentle knock, and you opened it just enough for her to squeeze the clothes in, which you took gratefully, tossing them over to Sylus as quickly as you could, not caring if he caught them or not. You were turned to face the wall, determined to not see any more of him than you already had. He was still a king deserving of respect. That, and you had never seen a bare man before. This was highly improper.
“You’ve already seen everything. Might as well enjoy the show,” he teased.
You squeaked out a no, making him laugh. Even listening to the shuffling of clothes was enough to bring a blush to your cheeks. “You can turn around now,” he informed you when he finished. You did, almost laughing at how ridiculous the outfit looked on him. You weren't sure where the maid had gotten the clothes, but they were entirely too small for the large man, the pants' legs barely brushing the top of his ankles.
You covered your mouth to hide the growing smile, but it wasn't nearly enough to mask your mirth. He didn't hold it against you. He knew he looked silly, and it was nice to see your smile back on your face in place of the fear and uncertainty his return to human form had caused.
“Princess, can you arrange a meeting with your father for me?”
“Of course. You could just follow me to his office. I’m sure he’d put aside whatever work he’s doing. You’ve been missing for so long.”
Sylus looked down at his ill-fitting outfit with a grimace. He’d be seen by everyone like this. He almost wished he were still a bird, but it couldn't be helped. “Lead the way,” he said.
The walk to your father’s office was awkward, at best. You had spent weeks talking to the imposing man who now walked beside you, but you didn't know how to talk to him anymore. It wasn't for lack of trying on his part; you were just trying to reconcile that the bird who’d been sleeping in your room was actually a full-grown man, a king, and wondering if it was immoral that you found him wildly attractive even though he had been a bird up until twenty minutes ago.
When you arrived at the large wooden door, you knocked, waiting for permission to enter. You gestured for Sylus to wait outside for a moment, slipping into your father’s office to try to explain at least a little bit and not blindside him with the king’s sudden appearance.
You regaled him with everything that had transpired, his jaw dropping open more and more as you spoke. When you finished, he just stared at you, unsure where to even start. “Is this a joke?” he asked.
You shook your head, opening the door and waving Sylus inside. Your father looked between you and the other king, his brain still trying to catch up to your story. He addressed Sylus first. “Your Majesty, I have been told the most fantastical story I’ve ever heard. You were Mr. Crow?”
“I was, Your Majesty. Cursed by a witch. I can tell the full story if your lovely daughter here hasn't done so already.”
“She glossed over that, but it’s not important right now. So you were a bird, and my daughter kissed you, and that reversed the curse?”
You both nodded. Your father was at a loss for words. He’d never had to deal with anything remotely near the situation he now found himself in. But the more he thought about it, the more something bothered him. “You,” he growled, pointing an accusatory finger at Sylus. “You've been sleeping in my daughter’s room all this time.”
His demeanor completely flipped when he turned to you. “Darling, would you give us a moment alone?” he asked with faux cheer.
You shot Sylus a look, silently wishing him luck, before getting out of that room as quickly as you could. The second the door shut behind you, your father unleashed hell on the silver-haired king, not giving a damn about his status. You rocked on your feet outside, waiting for the lecture to end. You doubted anyone had ever spoken to Sylus like that.
Moving forward from that day, Sylus was immediately given his own room while preparations were made for him to return to Onychinus. He was also given explicit instructions to stay out of your room. You wouldn't admit it to him, but you missed Mr. Cr- Sylus.
It came to a head, and you couldn't take it anymore. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you were striding down the halls to the guest wing. You found him in the drawing room, seated on one of the overstuffed chairs, a book in hand and head propped on one hand.
He saw you enter in his peripheral vision and set the book down on a side table to give you his full attention. “Princess, to what do I owe the honor of a visit?”
“I just…” You trailed off. It was embarrassing how much you missed his company, and you knew he would be smug if those words ever reached his ears.
“If you don't know what it is that you want, then I can't do anything to help you.” Was your pride worth it if he was smug anyway?
“Just thought that we haven't talked in a while.”
“In other words, you missed me,” he said, those crimson eyes seemingly peering into your very soul. Your new shyness around him was as endearing as it was irritating. He had gone from a potential suitor, to a crow, to your friend (still as a crow), to nearly a total stranger again. Did you still view him as a bird? Because he could change that.
“Come here, princess,” he commanded. There was no bite or authority to his words; you could refuse if you wanted, but you didn't. You walked forward, head held high, a facade of confidence you did not possess, not around this man who sent heat shooting to your core with a mere glance.
You stopped a few feet away, but you were still too far for Sylus’ liking. “Closer,” he urged. Again, you stopped short of where he wanted you. He sighed, leaning forward in the chair to pull you forwards by your hips, your body slotting between his knees, his face level with your abdomen and looking up at you. “When I say I want you close, this is what I mean.” His husky voice washed over you, as tempting as the siren is to the sailor.
You braced your hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath your palms. No amount of pushing would separate him from you, though. “This is improper,” you objected, but your voice was thin and brittle, your resolve weak, and he knew it.
“Is it?”
You couldn't tear your eyes away from him even as he rose from his seated position to his full height, not allowing you to put so much as a millimeter between your bodies. He bent low enough to brush his nose against yours. “You still owe me a kiss for chasing off that prince,” he whispered, breath fanning your face.
Your cheeks flamed, but you would be lying to yourself if you pretended you wanted him to stop. You brought your hand up to his face, cupping his jawline and guiding his face forward until his soft lips were on yours. He hummed lowly, reciprocating with movements of his own. He licked the seam of your lips, asking permission, wanting, needing, more.
You parted your lips, and he snaked his tongue into your mouth, caressing your own. You hummed into his mouth, and he tightened his hold on you as if you weren't already pressed flush against his chest. Without parting from your pretty lips, he lifted you into his arms, your legs on either side of his waist. He didn't care if any of the servants were in the halls; he had already reached an agreement with your father. The betrothal hadn't been announced, but it had been decided. You were his, whether you knew it or not. He’d almost lost you to that pompous prince, and he wasn't keen to let you nearly slip through his fingers again.
Upon entering his room, he kicked the door shut behind him, quickly making his way to the bed to lay you down gently. Your lips were kiss-swollen, your eyes wide and waiting.
Normally, Sylus prided himself on his immense patience, but your sweet form beneath him was pushing him to his limits. He surged forward, peppering every inch of exposed skin with kisses, hiking up your gown to bunch around your hips. The warmth of his hands was so much more intense with the fabric out of the way. His lips were glued to your neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin until he found the spot that made you mewl. With renewed effort, he focused on that spot, leaving a dark bruise that would surely let everyone know you were his.
He toyed with the waistband of your panties, hooking his fingers under it and then letting it snap back against your skin. He dragged his hand even lower, feeling the way you’d soaked a wet patch through the thin fabric. He finally gave your spit-covered neck a break, admiring the bruises already blooming. Pride is part of the reason he got cursed in the first place, and he still hadn't learned his lesson, that same vice swelling in his chest as he watched the way you panted for breath, already more worked up than anyone had probably ever made you, knowing he was the one to bring you to this point.
Fuck, you were just so goddamn pretty, even more so when you were under him like this. He prodded at your leaking hole through your cute little panties, cooing at you with faux sympathy. “You’re so wet, sweetie. Why don’t you let me clean you up, hm?”
With slow, deliberate movements, he slid your panties off in time with the maneuvering of his body, lower and lower until he was face to face with your bare pussy.
“Sylus, what are you- ahh!” you moaned loudly, question interrupted when he licked a broad stripe up your dripping cunt, groaning at the taste. So good, you tasted so fucking good. He dived back in, lapping and slurping as much of you as he could, his hums of approval shooting vibrations through your overly sensitive cunt. You clenched your thighs around his head, the sensation of his tongue thrusting into you pulling moans and gasps from your lips.
All Sylus could think about was how to coax more of your sweet sounds out, alternating between pushing his tongue inside and suckling on the sensitive bud at the apex. You wound your hand through his hair, pulling for some sort of stability. The sting of having his hair pulled only spurred him on. With renewed vigor, he pushed a finger into your gummy walls, then a second, curling them as he moved them in and out. It was so much that you were practically screaming his name. You’d never even been kissed before today, much less experienced such ecstasy. Your back was arching against the sheets, your hips canting upward, seeking more of his tongue, his fingers, everything he was willing to give you.
Sylus’ eyes peering up at you with all the conviction of a devotee praying at an altar was the final push you needed for your pleasure to reach a crescendo. Your legs clamped around Sylus’ head as your body writhed under his continued onslaught, his deft tongue lapping up everything your body would give him until you were pulling his hair for even a modicum of relief from the overstimulation.
He reluctantly pulled away, his breath coming in huffs and his face smeared with the evidence of your arousal. His attention was utterly captivated by the sight of your blissed-out expression, your eyes watery with unshed tears, and he almost came untouched at the mere fact that he was the one responsible for your current state, and he took immense pride in that.
He reached towards you to cup your face, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Would you like to continue, princess, or shall we stop here?” he asked.
You could only stare dumbly, still trying to pull your head back down to earth from the high he had brought you to. You wanted it. You wanted him, and you don't think you'd ever have enough of him after this. As his words processed, you nodded, the only response your cottony mind could manage.
“Words, your highness. I want to hear you say it. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you whatever it is you desire. You need only ask for it.”
Warmth flooded your face, and the sincerity of his voice only endeared you further to the king. You hesitated, somewhat shy at verbalizing such a coarse desire. Swallowing thickly, you answered him properly this time. “You. I want you.”
Sylus groaned at your admission, his cock throbbing in its confines. “You already have me,” he whispered reverently, almost in disbelief that his affections were returned. A betrothal would make you his legally, but he wanted everything: your mind, body, and heart surrendered to him the same way he had already surrendered his to you.
He wasted no time unfastening his pants and freeing his aching length, the tip raw and leaking. You eyed it warily as he leaned over you and braced his cock at your entrance. With a final glance at you to be certain that you were sure, he began to push in with as much tenderness as he could muster, his self-control fraying with every quiver of your cunt and every whine that escaped your lips.
Your breath hitched at the intrusion, the blunt head of his cock pushing further and further into you until his hips were pressed flush against yours. The new sensation of being so thoroughly filled was enough to have your head spinning before he’d even started moving.
“Is this alright?” Sylus asked, his voice strained with the effort of keeping still.
A breathy “uh-huh” was the best you could muster. Sylus would have chuckled at how you were already fucked out, but truthfully, he wasn't far behind you. His hands drifted from their place on your hips to your thighs to pull your legs snugly around his waist. With his body weight keeping you securely pinned beneath him, he pulled out until only the head of his cock remained and thrusted back in languidly, savoring the way your body accepted his, your tight walls clenching around him tightly.
It took every ounce of his self-control to not let go of all his inhibitions and lavish you with all the carnal attention you could handle, until the only thing you could do was moan his name. Having you like this was a privilege he had begun to think would never be his, but here you were, staring up at him as he worked your body, his thick cock splitting you open and his tongue laving over the soft skin of your throat, the proximity allowing him to hear every gasp and whimper and moan in perfect clarity.
In his impatience, Sylus had neglected to properly undress, a fact he thoroughly lamented now that your fingernails were raking down his clothed back. How he would love for his body to bear the undeniable proof of how good he made you feel. Next time, he supposed. For now, though, he was content to watch you fall apart more and more with every deep thrust into your weeping pussy.
You were so close, he could feel it in the way you clenched around him. His own peak was rapidly approaching; you just felt too good around him, but he was determined to make you cum before he reached his own end. With a deft thumb, he began to rub sensual circles over your sensitive nub, the added sensation making you squeal and tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him in even deeper.
You came undone once again with a shrill cry of his name as the ecstasy coursed through your veins. Sylus’ hips continued to snap into yours as he chased his own high, his pace beginning to falter as the need to release built inside him. Grunts rumbled in his chest and spilled from his lips with every thrust into your pulsing heat. He was so close, and the thought of filling you up, marking you as his, spurred him on, but this tryst was already more of a risk than either of you should have taken. He was already tempting fate enough as is.
He reluctantly pulled out of you, using his hand to stroke himself to completion, his cum painting your folds a creamy white as he groaned out your name. Not “your highness,” not “princess,” but your name. A title so much more intimate than that of your status. Something only those closest to you had the privilege of using. He panted above you, his pale skin flushed and pupils blown out, solely focused on you. If he got this worked up when you were practically still fully clothed, he wondered if he’d last at all the first time he sees you completely bare. For now, though, he pressed chaste kisses across your jawline, compliments spilling freely between each one. “Beautiful” kiss “stunning” kiss “perfect” kiss “mine.” He finally pressed his lips to yours softly after his claim, both of you completely melting into the single kiss that somehow felt almost more intimate than even your prior activities.
You were completely worn out, and exhaustion was quickly taking over. Sylus, always astutely in tune with your body’s needs, smiled fondly at your sleepy form. He rose from the bed, telling you he’d be right back before entering the ensuite bathroom and returning with a wet cloth. He made sure you were clean and comfortable in one of his extra shirts, the material dwarfing you in a way that sent protective pangs through Sylus’ heart.
He crawled into bed next to you, pulling you flush against his now-bare chest. He pressed a chaste kiss into your hairline, whispering a quiet goodnight.
While the two of you were wrapped up in each other and sleeping soundly, a red-faced, flustered maid hurried away as quietly as she could to tell the others the juiciest piece of gossip since a butler had been found to be having relations with not just a maid but also a stableboy.
There had already been talk about the two of you. It had started the second you’d requested a set of men’s clothes and refused to open the door any more than necessary, concealing the rest of your room from prying eyes (you were no fool, and the servants weren’t quite as discreet as they believed themselves to be). Shortly after that peculiar request, King Sylus, who had been missing for the better part of two months, reappeared in the palace from seemingly nowhere and with little explanation. And it did not escape the notice of those who worked closely with you that Mr. Crow was suddenly gone, but surely the two events were unrelated; it would be preposterous to link the two, even if the bird and the king shared certain similarities.
As your interactions with the silver-haired man increased, so too did the servants’ speculation of the exact nature of your relationship. After all, their princess was as pretty as a peach, and the foreign king was certainly easy on the eyes. They all knew it was bound to happen; it was just a matter of when. There was even a betting pool on when the inevitable finally happened, and this pleasantly smug little maid who was fortunate enough to be wandering down the halls at just the right time would be the one to announce the winner.
She chuckled to herself. Margaret would be furious that she lost by only three days. She rushed into the servants' hall, where many of her fellows were gathered around eating, conversing, and generally merry-making. Her giddy demeanor and swift entry drew the attention of those closest to the door. “We have a winner!” she cheered. This, naturally, drew everyone’s attention to her, all of them asking their questions at once. How did she know? Was she sure it was them? Who bet it would only take two weeks?
She explained quickly. The head housekeeper had sent her to do her final check on the visiting king to ensure he was comfortable and did not require anything before the servants retired for the night. Instead, she was met with a chorus of moans and grunts and the sound of skin on skin that only got louder the more she neared the door of his room. And certainly it was you in there with him. There was no one else in the palace that “princess” or “your highness” could refer to.
Squeals and giggles alike filled the room from the younger servants, while those who had lost the betting pool groaned while reluctantly handing over their hard-earned funds to the victor. From that point on, you began to notice that many of the palace staff would sport flushed cheeks and the occasional suppressed grin when they saw you. And not only that, but every time you were with Sylus, it was as if whispers followed you, but when you’d turn to the source, all you would see was an empty doorway with the edge of a skirt swishing just out of view.
Sylus had only chuckled, pulling you into his lap and whispering conspiratorially in your ear. “I think they know, kitten.” You had whined into his shoulder to hide your face, embarrassment washing over you. This, of course, had only made him laugh harder, mirth coloring his tone when he spoke again. “If you can’t handle even this little bit of gossip, how are you going to handle it when we’re married and talk of heirs begins, hm? Then they’ll really know.”
You had smacked him on the chest, huffing about how improper this line of conversation was. “Certainly no more improper than what we’ve already done,” he teased.
That, too, provided even more fodder for the servants’ late-night talks, but nothing had them going near as much as your wedding night.
“Did you see how pretty her dress was?” gushed one.
“Yes! And the way he looked at her!” replied another.
“I want a man to look at me like that,” grumbled one of the cooks.
“Yeah, yeah, who cares, doesn’t anyone appreciate the flower arrangements? Grew those myself, you know,” boasted a gardener, who was now being glared at by the cook.
One of the guards nudged the comrade sitting next to him. “Think those two are having fun right now?” he asked, grinning ear to ear, his implications obvious. He had no idea how right he was.
-𓅨-
“Sy- oh!” you cried out, his cock pistoning in and out of your sopping pussy at a furious pace. The second the two of you were behind closed doors, and finally away from the celebration, he had wasted no time in stripping you of your ornate gown, his lips crashing onto yours with a hunger for you that he would never fully satisfy. From the moment he had seen you, his gorgeous bride, walking down the aisle, his composure had formed the first hairline cracks, which only deepened and spread with every small interaction: exchanging the rings that would bind you to each other forever, the kiss that sealed the union, his hand on your lower back as he guided you through the throngs of people congratulating you on your marriage, all of it was lighting a fire in him he couldn’t put out. Not in public. The cherry atop it all was Prince Xavier’s irritated face in the crowd.
Sylus took great satisfaction that it was he who had you face down in the pillows, bringing you to the gates of heaven over and over, and that that audacious little prince would never touch you thanks to the efforts of yours truly.
The sight of your bare back and your hands fisting the sheets was for his eyes only. The way your ass jiggled with every thrust and the way you writhed beneath him, completely pinned with his legs on either side of yours and his weight pressing into you, for only him to experience. And the way you moaned and cried out his name was for his ears only.
Your name spilled freely from his lips, your proper title forgotten and permanently replaced with “my wife” in Sylus’ frenzied mind. He leaned his body over yours, close enough for his heaving breaths to brush against your face. He trailed a hand across your delicate skin until his palm was pressed flush against your abdomen. “Do you -ngh!- feel me, my love? Feel how deep your husband’s cock is?”
You nodded feverishly. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, Sylus, it’s- ah!- so much!”
“Oh my poor wife,” he cooed, faux condescension dripping from his words. “Can’t take it? Is it too much for you? Should I stop?” Before you could even register his words, he had fully stilled above you.
“No! Don’t stop, please!” you begged, the sudden loss of pleasure somehow more overwhelming than the reception of it.
Sylus groaned, and his cock twitched inside of your tight heat. “What’s wrong, sweetie? I thought it was too much?”
“Not enough. Need more. Please, Sylus, husband, I need you.”
Sylus growled, heat rushing straight to where you were joined. He could bear it no longer. He had waited far too long as it is. His hips rutted into you with a ferocity that spoke of his insatiable greed. His panting breath and grunts mingled with your own moans and cries of pleasure.
Just a bit more, and he’d again feel the nirvana of your cunt pulsing around him. With the same hand that had been pressing into you, he snaked his fingers lower, deft digits rubbing tight circles on your clit. You howled at the added stimulation, hurtling towards the edge that Sylus was so eager to bring you to. “Cum for me, my wife,” he rasped. “Let go.”
With a shrill cry of his name, you were finally pushed to the pinnacle, Sylus following shortly after, his own orgasm triggered by yours. This time, he gave no thought to pulling out of you. His hot cum filled you as his orgasm washed over him. His grunts were low and rough in your ears, so delightfully sinful, and his free arm locked around your waist, holding your body to his tightly as he continued to release into you. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your throat and shoulders, whatever skin he could comfortably reach, as you both came down from your highs.
He pulled out of your spent body with a hiss, eliciting a final whimper from you before he collapsed beside you on the bed. You rolled onto your side to glance over at him just to find him already staring at you, those ruby eyes filled with such adoration. He mirrored your actions, opting to lie on his side to face you directly. He didn’t think he could ever tire of the sight. You, looking so lovely, so completely content. His lovely wife. His Mrs. Crow. His happily ever after.
[ frat!kuna x sociallyawkward!f!reader ] running into the embodiment of your biggest fear disguised as a man— not once, but twice— wasn't bad enough. your best friend telling him that you're mute because you couldn't apologize due to your awful social skills was the cherry on top. as a result, you bite your tongue, even when you're alone. but the state of your tongue is definitely about to worsen, because another run-in with him at a party will change everything.
── .✦ TAGS
18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of nicotine/cigarettes. slight angst. hurt/comfort. MISCOMMUNICATION. slow burn. social discomfort. socially awkward reader. self-consciousness. overthinking. anxiety. social anxiety. making out. rough kissing. neck kissing. dry humping. slang. social media references. (later on… smut. oral (f! receiving). p in v.) -> tags will be updated as series continues.
── [ chapter 1 ] : look at me. (wc: 6.9K)
── [ chapter 2 ] : listen to me. (wc: 8.1K)
── [ chapter 3 ] : ...
── .✦ you prefer reading on Ao3?
art by @/naomiiocha on tumblr (left side) and @/neverisa on instagram (right side)
content: dad!hiromi, mom!reader, domestic fluff, your daughter's name is harumi
hiromi stares at his phone buzzing quietly.
he lets out a tired exhale. it's noon, case files and paperwork are piled high on his desk, emails keep flooding his laptop, and now your daughter's calling. hiromi's jaw clenches—he was already focused and had already reached what you, his wife, would call flow state.
should he let it ring, or should he answer? he did tell the girls that phone calls are reserved for emergencies only. after another moment of hesitation, hiromi picks it up.
"yes, harumi?" he answers. "i'm at work. is something wrong?"
"i'm bored," harumi mumbles.
that's it. that's the emergency.
hiromi blinks. "...you're bored," he repeats flatly.
"yes."
"dad's at work."
"i know. daddy, watch me play roblox."
"harumi, dad's at work," hiromi repeats again, firmer this time.
"and i'm bored," she retorts, just as firm.
he exhales deeply through his mouth. with his free hand he rubs the bridge of his nose, keeping his irritation at bay.
"harumi," hiromi mutters, "can you bother mama for now?"
harumi turns her camera on and shakes her head. "she said bother you."
of course you did. hiromi takes a mental note to talk with you later about work hours needing to be separated from personal life.
"i'm in the middle of a murder case, princess," hiromi weakly says.
the little girl hums. "okay, but can the murder wait until you see my fairy princess wolf?"
hiromi purses his lips, sunken eyes flickering to the pink pixelated creature on his daughter's screen.
"...okay," he whispers. "okay. let dad see."
before hiromi knows it, they've been on call for three hours. harumi mutters things about her game, squeals when something exciting happens, giggles at her own jokes, then goes quiet again. sometimes she shows him something on her ipad before flopping back onto her bed.
hiromi's eyes would occasionally flick towards his phone to watch her even as his hands are busy signing papers and scribbling notes. whenever she asks what he's doing, he finds himself explaining parts of the case in simpler terms she'd understand.
it's the most relaxed he's felt all day.
and to think he almost just let the phone ring.
on the third hour, harumi turns her tablet off.
"my screen time is over, daddy," she simply says. "my ipad said so."
hiromi hums. "what're you up to next, baby?"
"maybe end the call."
"no—" hiromi clears his throat and straightens up on his chair. "i mean... can't you talk with dad a little more?"
"but you said you have to murder."
"to handle a murder case, baby," he chuckles. "and... i do, but... dad misses his harumi."
harumi tilts her head. "you miss me?" she asks. "silly daddy. we live in the same house."
"i know," hiromi laughs quietly, exhausted. "i still miss you."
"mm, okay," the little girl nods. she crawls under her blanket, and hiromi's heart almost bursts when he watches his baby settle down for a nap. "can you stay until i sleep, daddy?"
he visibly melts. "of course."
you scroll down through your husband's photo gallery, brow raised. there's an insane amount of screenshots of his call earlier with harumi—some of her roblox fairy character, her in-game pets, her smiling at the camera, and several screenshots of her dozing off.
"work-life boundaries, huh?" you flatly say.
hiromi takes his phone away from you, ears tinted red.
"yes," he murmurs. "you cannot redirect our children to me everytime they inconvenience you."
"you watched her play roblox for three hours."
hiromi goes quiet because... well, he did do that.
"she asked me to stay," he says. "so i did. and i'd do it again."
What's the easiest way to get rid of a tenacious man who desperately asks for your hand? Give him twelve impossible challenges, of course, in hopes he'll drop out before finishing them all. But... maybe underestimating the Olympian's greatest hero, the strongest demigod alive, Zeus's warrior, wasn't the greatest choice.
part of the Gods, Heroes, Warriors collection!
pairings: Heracles!Nanami x Nymph!Reader
content/warnings: MDNI 18+, Greek Mythology AU, half mythologically accurate, mentions of Hades!Choso and Aphrodite!Reader, Nanami Kento is pathetic and miserable, also he's massive (like MASSIVE AND THE STRONGEST), fluff and smut, plot with smut, Nanami is desperate to get married, heavy breeding kink, oral (f. rec.), backshots, p in v, size kink, manhandling, size difference, Nanami is not gentle
WC: 7.2k
a/n: gentle suggestion to read this fic before, to not have any spoilers. Heracles Nanami is not super mythologically accurate, because 12 labours were actually given to him by Hera, and he also murdered his whole family, but I didn't want to make an angst out of his story.
art from @/ilameys_1 (IG)
divider by @uzmacchiato
Various types of nymphs walked this world.
Fresh-water ones, who lived in the lovely springs, presiding over the gentle streams and rivers, nurturing the mother nature and singing sweetly to the brooks.
Tree and forest nymphs, who sat highly on the trees and let their tender touch heal the sickly plants. They were of a curious sort, appearing to mortals as travellers and strolling around the forests in a jolly manner.
The lush meadows ones, with their bare feet running between the tall grasses and laughter catching the last rays of the setting sun.
The mountain peaks girls, who shouted and laughed and danced, till their lovely shriek could be heard on the grasslands and in the fields; between the drunken snickers of commoners and gentle giggles of little birdies in waiting.
They weren't goddesses, but of divine descent, playing and jollying with mother nature, bickering with the gods, and letting themselves indulge in love affairs with demigods. Silly girlies, playful and gentle as a sea breeze, with satiny skin and hearty eyes, making the mortals lose their reason. And as lovely as they were, of some poets even comparing them to Aphrodite herself, there was this one, special birdie, who one day flocked to the greatest demigod's mind.
You.
For Zeus's bastard son and the strongest warrior of the Olympus, it was always you.
Since the faithful meeting when he was still just a boy, with nothing to his name, nor without any knowledge of his godly descent. He would remember that day for the next few years, while fighting his way up to Mount Olympus and proving his worth. While dreaming of you every single night, with nothing but shimmering stars and the gentle splashing of a brook reminding him of the kindest soul he's ever met. With benevolent touch and bewitching eyes. The sweet power that helped him lick the wounds, and the lovely giggles following him in dreams every night.
After years of hardships, he finally ascended to heaven and got the recognition of his father. Became the golden child, a precious sweetheart, with a massive combat body compared only to Ares's and the strength of a thousand monsters locked up in the deepest parts of Tartarus. He was a monster himself, some may've said, but with a kind heart and, oh, such handsome looks.
Light hair as if bleached by the Mediterranean sun and deep eyes, thick as hazelnut paste, with the gentleness never seen among warriors. Broad shoulders that could lift a thousand mountains and split the seas, without a droplet of sweat sliding down his curved muscles.
He was nothing but a demigod, but his name and fame spread around the country like a fire. The strongest man alive, the greatest hero, a myth, whose travels and deeds ended up on the pages of local storytellers and curved smoothly within the marble walls of his temples. His journeys spread wide across the long coastlines and mountainous peaks, with the nymphs whispering of his slayers like little birdies.
Of the King of the Thrakian Gigantes, he has killed to free the princess from his clutches. Of the Libyan giant, son of Poseidon, who abused the travellers crossing his land and made them compete in wrestling matches. Of the Prometheus he has freed, and the eagle feeding on his flesh, killed by Heracles himself. His father, Zeus, wasn't merry upon hearing the news, but Heracles was no one if the most dear child of his – thus the Gods and mortals did not feel Sky Father's wrath.
There were lots and lots of myths and tales celebrating Heracles's deeds, praising his half-godly figure and spreading the fame.
What mortals, gods, and other divinities didn't know, however, was why.
Why was he doing all of it?
Why was he trying to achieve an almost godly rank?
Why did he want to sit among the highest ones and praise in glory?
Why?
Because for Heracles, or Nanami Kento as his mortal parents named him, it was always you.
And what would be the easiest way to ask for the precious Nymph's love? Became the greatest, strongest, most praised warrior of the Mediterranean Sea, of course. Was there anything beautiful creatures like you loved more than the fame and glory? Not really.
At least that's what he thought.
Until he finally met you again, high on the Olympus' peak, basking under the flaming sun and dipping naked body in a river. You weren't alone, as other little birdies chirped right to your ear, with soft voices and girlish laughs, glancing at the river's calm waters.
And as beautiful as they were, his pleading eyes were reserved solely for you.
Nanami Kento has never met Aphrodite, but how truly angelic could she be if his heart already raced for a simple nymph? What could she possibly have that you might've lacked?
Did her hair bounce the same way as yours? Were her eyes shimmering slightly as if cursed by the stars? Was her skin soft and plush, with flushed cheeks and lips plumped like the freshest peach, he dreamed of caressing with his own? Was Aphrodite's voice as mesmerising and honeyed as yours, tickling the deepest parts of his brain?
What did her laugh sound like? Was it as bewitching? Could she also sway her hips with the swelling of the ocean's waves? Would she be willing to help him the same as you did?
Was her heart as compassionate as your?
Because that's what Nanami Kento thought – of you, being the loveliest petal, with the tenderness and kindness not seen among any of the patheon's gods.
That's why he approached you with confidence and pride, with eyes never leaving your blooming face and his heart swelling under the single giggle slipping through your cheeks.
He was hopeful and full of anticipation to once again hear your gentle voice soothing his mind.
But when you saw him... oh dear.
"What do you want?" your voice slashed his heart. "Why are you here again?"
Well... maybe, actually, it wasn't his first time meeting you on Olympus.
Not the second and third, even.
The fourth? Maybe fifth.
You stopped counting after seeing him the third time, with the same beseeching look and broad shoulders hunching under your irritated gaze.
The first time he asked for your hand was surprising. You were surprised as to why the strongest man alive wished to marry you?
A simple nymph, bathing lazily under the Greek sun and stuffing herself full of rich olives while days were passing by. You were nothing but a small deity, playing over the rivers and gossiping with other sisters while sipping the sweet wine sneaked out of Dionysus's cellar.
He talked of some meeting years ago, and your healing power, but Mnemosyne could only remember when and where it had happened.
For too many men healed by your powers walked this earth, and too many of them wished to see your slippery figure once again.
Coming back to the same river again and again, in hopes of catching your fleeting shadow or a single melody of your laughter, looming over the waters as men possessed.
The sole look on their faces was truly miserable, but seeing them like that was, well, quite fun.
You liked it and watched them secretly, as their tears and pleadings were drowning in the depths of rivers.
So how surprising was it when one of those sorrowful admirers, driven by an obsession, managed to rise in glory and turn out to be the mightiest's son.
Oh, how problematic he was, following you like a shadow and turning the Mountain upside down, just to ask for your hand. You thought that the first rejection would stop his further pleadings, but when Zeus himself decided to visit your small cottage and beg to finally accept the offering – the highest one too could not bear the misery of his son – you finally gave in.
Did you accept Heracles's proposal? No.
Were you willing to do it? Maybe.
"My love, I've come to ask–" he started, standing over the river's edge and covering the hottish sun.
Other nymphs giggled quietly, and you knew how eager they were to step into your shoes any second. Jealous of having such a man as Nanami Kento wrapped around your finger, ready to plunder the mortal world for a single glance of yours.
"I already said no," you quickly added, looking at his curled shoulder with a sly smile.
"Is there anything I lack, love?"
He kneeled, closing up the distance between you. You rested arms on the river's edge, looking up with doe eyes. He tried, really tried, to not glance at your naked body, with crystal droplets paving their way down the plush of your breasts. But you were nothing if not daring, taking the pleasure in the way his huge palms fisted and hazelnut eyes swirled between wet hair covering your nipples and plush hips swaying slowly in the water.
"You're covering my sun," you chuckled, and he smiled shyly.
"I'll bring you a thousand other suns if you'll ask me to."
A gentle hum slipped through, and you once again traced over his figure. Golden hair and warm eyes. Creamy skin coated by a thin armour and nothing but a white cloth hugging his hips. Muscles so big they seem almost unreal, covering him thickly and massively, making Nanami Kento the biggest and the most powerful man the world has ever birthed. His fingers were long and thick, but always oh so gentle, whenever he pushed a single strand of hair behind your ear.
The most intimate and only gesture you've ever allowed him for.
"I don't want another sun, just move away from this one," your voice was soft, but the words made his shoulders falter even more.
"I'll do whatever you ask me for, my love. Just, could you please rethink–"
You raised an eyebrow. "Why would I do that?"
His sandy eyebrows creased, with a small wrinkle forming between them.
Because he didn't know.
He truly, honestly didn't know why you would be willing to marry him, being sure of nothing but only the fact that he loved you deeply. Maddeningly, almost, verging on following you miserably like a dog if you just asked him to. Ready to shoot a sun down, just to bring you a piece of warmth.
But he didn't want to be like Apollo - drive you mad till death would seem more pleasant than accepting his feelings.
But he also didn't want to let you go, waiting eagerly for the day when–
"Fine," you suddenly said.
What?
"I'm sorry?" he couldn't swallow it, tracing the cunning smile forming on your face.
"I said fine, I'll marry you," you giggled, pushing away from the shore and swimming a few meters back. "But firstly, you'll need to prove yourself to me."
Your naked body swirled, as if melting together with warm water, before swimming closer once again. Kento was still kneeling near the edge, with thick thighs and knees touching the grass. Your wet hands rested on his muscles before you lifted yourself up. But only in half, with crystal droplets dripping down from nipples and hips still hidden under the gentle waves.
He almost burned.
Oh, was he dying?
Was your touch that sizzling, fragrance so maddening, that he truly started to burn from the inside?
He didn't dare to touch you, but hazelnut eyes traced the watery paths carving your skin, oozing down the plush neck, collarbones and swirling between the soft breasts.
You were close, too close, with your nipple almost touching his iron-covered chest and lips tracing the little bobbing of his neck. Kento fought hundreds of monsters, but none of them felt as heavy as your hands on his bare thighs, bearing all of your weight solely on his muscles.
Not because you were heavy – oh dearest, he could lift you up with a pinky if you wanted to – but because the idea of you touching him willingly made him feverishly weak.
"You're very, very strong, right?" came out giggly, sweetly, with a thumb circling his skin.
He nodded, a voice stuck in a throat.
"How strong, hm?"
"The strongest."
"No one can beat you, right?"
His head shook. "No one, ever."
You lifted yourself up higher, with hips slowly surfacing out of the water and knees landing on the lush grass.
Bare and wet, with the softest skin not dared for his touch and alluring eyes never leaving his.
He truly was the strongest, with clenched fists and gaze holding yours, never, ever, sliding lower than down to your breasts.
And, oh, you were having so much fun, watching his crumbling composure.
"Then, should you prove your strength, I will marry you," your eyes shone upon seeing a tremble of his lips.
"Really?" came out in a whisper so quiet that only you could hear it. "You promise?"
You chuckled, slowly, slowly, climbing up his lap. His kneeling thighs between yours, breasts fully pressed to his light armour, dripping heat looming over creamy, bulged cloth wrapped around his hips.
"Mhm, I promise," you nuzzled against his neck, breathing in the musky fragrance that wrapped him tightly. "If you'll finish twelve missions, I will give myself to you," backing up, your arms wrapped around his neck. "Will become your sweet wife. You'll be allowed to do with me whatever you want," your voice was dripping with seductiveness, curling around his neck like a viper, only to finish him off with a poisonous kiss.
And Nanami Kento was more than eager to be killed by those sweet lips of yours.
"What is it? I'll do whatever you want, love."
He should know that the devilish smile that curved your lips was nothing but bad news.
You told him all twelve missions, one more horrendous than the other, with other nymphs' breaths catching in the background and his fists curling right next to your hips that straggled his.
A flimsy, creamy cloth was keeping his cock away from your heat. Feverish and sticky, with honeyed juices already smeared around his bulge, and your eyes not leaving his even for a second.
Hera herself, Zeus's wife, would be more merciful to her husband's bastard child than you were. The twelve labours sounded almost impossible, bizarre, absolutely savage even for a man like him.
But if that was your wish, then be it.
After you finished talking, he didn't say anything for a minute. Stared, with a pale face and furrowed brows. Golden hair caught the last rays of sunshine, basking his face in warm flames.
"Are you willing to–" but you didn't finish, when suddenly, you were gripped by your hips and placed back in the water.
Not a single word left his mouth, when he raised himself, gave you one last glance and turned around, disappearing in the lurking forest before the sun fully set.
Other nymphs quickly curled around you, watching his muscular back with sorrowful eyes.
"Sister, weren't you a bit harsh for him?" one asked.
"Dear, those labours... he may end up dead before finish them all," another added.
You sighed, wondering whether you'd actually gone overboard.
☾ 𖤓 ☾ 𖤓
He didn't visit you the next day.
Or the day later.
He didn't visit you even a week later, and when it prolonged to two, you started to worry.
Maybe you truly carried it too far?
But then, one night, while indulging with sister nymphs in the small, wine-party, one of them mentioned:
"Have you heard, dear? He killed the Nemean Lion."
You stalled, with throat clenching around the sipping wine.
"What did you just say?" you mumbled between the harsh coughs.
She slapped you gently on the back. "Your first labour – he did it. Strangled the lion with his own hands and skinned it for its fur."
It was true that the lion had been quite a trouble and a few gods had already tried to wrestle him, but you didn't expect Kento to do it so effortlessly.
With bare hands.
You didn't talk at all for the rest of the evening, wondering whether Nanami Kento would truly be able to finish all of your unachievable labours.
But after the first one, his next accomplishments came one by one. Sometimes over a distance of a few weeks, sometimes a month. And for this whole time, he didn't show himself even once.
You didn't catch a single strand of his golden hair nor the gentle, hazelnut gaze. Heavy, musky smell stopped following you around, and at some point, you even started to miss the deep voice that came to haunt you in dreams.
That space, dreams, seemed to be the only place where he appeared more human than ever. Long fingers grazed your cheeks and neck before slowly dripping down to your swollen breasts and soft belly. In that other, unfamiliar but at the same time so magnetic world, Kento was bolder than ever – more ferocious, brave, using his massive body to pin yours. Spreading your plush thighs, circling creamy clit with his fingers, warm eyes following every changing expression of your face.
You would wake up wet. Feverish. With pulsing heat and sweat dripping down your spine, before turning on your bed and glancing over the window, as if in a wish to see a piece of this golden hair.
And while you were trying to understand those new feelings, Kento was finishing labours one by one.
After the lion, he killed a Hydra, a monster with nine venomous heads, cutting each one of them with his sword, before dipping the silver into its poisonous blood.
Then he captured the golden-antlered deer alive, the most precious pet of goddess Artemis, before sending it straight to your cottage.
When you saw the animal chewing on the grass surrounding your place and drinking water from the river curling around the house, a deep sigh rolled from your lips. At least the deer looked quite well and indeed rather graceful.
For his fourth labour, he travelled to the land of the Centaurs and captured the Erymanthian boar, solely to return it to the King of Tiryns. It was a, well, sort of a present for a king, whose wife liked you very dearly.
The fifth labour was of the humiliating sort, and you thought that he might take offence. You forgot, however, that a man in love was prepared for all sorts of hardships and degradations, thus cleaning the stables of Augeius in a day was nothing but a pleasure break from killings. The stables were known as one of the biggest and filthiest ones, impossible to clean even in a month, but the idea of you becoming his wife was enough to forget about his ego.
Months were passing by, and the number of labours started to diminish rather quickly. On the contrary, all the little gifts you've asked for were coming one by one, till your deer got himself a precious, Cretan bull from Knossos, and a little hybrid cattle of Geryon straight from a foreign country, who was said to be born of a divine goddess. One day, three golden apples belonging to the Nymphs of the West appeared on your table, and you hid them quickly before the praying eyes would see the stolen treasure. Oh dearest, you were nothing but a simple nymph compared to the reputed Hesperides, with no other goddess but mother Hera having a single golden tree in her garden.
Nymphs started talking. Whispering, gossiping about the possessed demigod who plundered through the mortal realm and played havoc. They knew what his reason was. Everyone knew, together with gods and Zeus himself, absolutely furious over the foolish challenge you've brought upon his bastard son.
What frightened you greatly, however, was the last labour. The one you feared the most, knowing that it could've ended up badly not just for him, but for you too. For your justification, you truly thought that he would drop out (or be dead) after the first mission.
Thus, when the news of Cerberus, Lord Hades's dearest pet, being kidnapped spread around Olympus, you almost fainted.
It was best to keep good relations with all the gods and goddesses, as no one knew when one of them would turn out to be helpful.
However, keeping the especially good affairs with God of the Underworld himself was particularly beneficial, and his rage was the last thing all the deities on the Mountain desired.
And yet, you managed to get on his nerves.
His visit was to be expected, and you tried to prepare yourself. Three animals in your garden, together with golden apples hidden under the bed, only fueled the rage of all the deities disrespected by your challenge. You paced back and forth, looking outside the window, as if expecting the earth to suddenly open up and birth Hades's obsidian chariot to appear in front of your cottage.
But instead, three days after the Cerberus kidnapping, a gentle knock pealed inside the wooden walls.
And as it turned out, it wasn't Hades who decided to place you a visit.
But someone, who you truly, really, didn't wish to see, and maybe standing face to face with Tartarus itself would be a much more pleasant option than meeting–
"Good morning my dear, my I come in?"
–his wife.
Aphrodite, in all her fullness, dressed in a flimsy, rosy dress and whitish sandals, stood right in front of you. With a sweet smile and a single strand of soft hair caressing her flushed cheeks.
"My Goddess," you murmured, opening the doors wider. "Yes, please."
She lifted up misty robes and came inside, looking around your small cottage with a little nod of her head. You didn't have many occasions to face the most beautiful goddess herself, thus your eyes traced shyly every curve, every bump, every flush of her body. Hips hugged by a rosy dress, hair falling over the shoulder, and gentle eyes, currently looking outside the window at the golden-antlered–
Oh dear.
"My Goddess–"
"You know, Artemis really liked this deer," she chuckled, sitting down at the table. One hand placed on her belly, the other supporting a tilted head. "I was rather surprised that your man managed to steal it," she stopped for a minute, before laying eyes on your face. "Well, before he stole Cerberus, too."
You wanted to refuse, he's not my man, but a wave of shame washed over your body. You lowered your head and bit down on lip. "My Goddess, I'm–"
She, however, continued. "I'm expecting, you know?"
Yes.
You've noticed.
From the moment she came inside your cottage and never took a hand off her belly.
Your eyes slowly looked up. "Does Lord Hades know?"
"You see, I wanted to tell him. Around three days ago, I think?" Great heavens. "But then our lovely dog went missing, and I've never seen him so, hm, devastated."
Your knees buckled up, hitting the wooden floor with a faint hump! "My Goddess, I'm so sorry. I didn't expect him to actually do this."
Aphrodite didn't say anything for a second, looking at your trembling body and cheeks burning with shame. You knew how protective she was of her husband. How bizarre, but rather lovely their marriage was, with Lord Hades quite enjoying being walked like a dog by his mesmerising wife. You didn't know that they tried for a child, but it should be fairly obvious – how could the goddess of fertility and her madly obsessed husband not have children?
And you? You somehow managed to ruin such a precious moment.
A deep sigh rolled over before she helped you stand up. "Please, it's fine, dear. Don't worry," you sat next to her, still too embarrassed to look up.
You groaned, covering face with hands. "I really thought he would drop out after the first one! This foolish man!"
Aphrodite giggled, resting her hearty face on a hand. "He's just a man, after all. A desperate one at that – the most dangerous type. My husband is quite similar, although I would rather not test how far he would be able to go to grant my wishes."
You answered with a chuckle before finally looking at the goddess's face.
Oh, she was so, so beautiful.
"What I mean is, I'm not mad at you, dear. Rather amused, I must say. I'm glad your man is ready to go through such hardships, just to–"
"He's not my man," you quickly added with a deep sigh. "I promised him my hand under the condition of finishing all twelve labours. I just didn't know that he'll actually–" you groaned again, and Aphrodite laughed. "I'm sorry for ruining your surprise. Lord Hades surely will be overjoyed."
She hummed, circling with fingers the plush of her belly. "Yes, well. Tears will be shed, I suppose. My husband cries more often than I expected, but it's fine," you were almost sure that she bit her tongue, before saying I like him that way. "Cerberus is back and healthy, so you shouldn't worry. I guess your... Heracles took him only for a simple walk."
You sighed with relief, seeing amusement dancing in the goddess's warm eyes.
"Well, I guess he'll come back soon for his reward," she chuckled, slowly standing up. "I'd better go before Choso stalks me out. He doesn't know about the baby yet, but tends to be rather overprotective," you accompanied her till the doors, tracing the bloom that has spread over her cheeks. Oh, she really must've loved him dearly. "But please, next time give me a warning before my husband comes back home crying. In case I'll have other plans for that day."
You nodded with shame before she waved you goodbye.
As much as you adored Aphrodite, she truly was the most beautiful but terrifying goddess in the whole pantheon.
☾ 𖤓 ☾ 𖤓
So you've expected him to come the same evening.
But when he didn't, something panged in your chest. Oh well, maybe you should be relieved after trying so hard to get rid of him. Maybe after finishing all twelve labours, he decided that your hand was, in fact, not worth a bean. Maybe during his travels, he met another woman (a princess even?) and decided to marry her instead. Maybe–
"Sister..." one of the nymphs called, and you quickly collected wits.
The evening was of the warm sort, with the river's water nuzzling your bare skin kindly. Little droplets reflected the warm rays of the sunset, with a mix of orange, purple, and pink spreading over the forest. Birds were slowly going quiet, letting the crickets step in shyly and prepare for the symphony that was soon to spread near the river's bank. First fireflies, too, were timidly floating your way, with a gentle buzz of their paper wings.
You looked at her, seeing that she, in fact, was glancing somewhere over your shoulder. With an open mouth and eyes big as porcelain plates. "I think you have a visitor."
Your head turned, gaze immediately landing on the figure emerging slowly from the forest.
Heracles.
But this time he looked... oh.
"Good grief," the nymphs gasped, seeing the approaching monster.
Because no other word could the describe the man who has set his eyes on you.
With lion's skin draped over his shoulders, bulgy scars slashing naked arms and torso, swirling over pecks, thighs and even neck, as if some brute tried to cut him to pieces. Golden hair was still slightly marked by the crimson hues, as though the blood still gripped it mercilessly.
What shocked you the most, however, were his eyes. With no trace of gentleness from months before, rather filled with something... predatory. Beastly, maddening, with a gaze fixed on your frozen figure, still dipped in water.
Before you knew, other nymphs quickly flew away with terrified gasps, burdened by the heaviness of the atmosphere he spread around.
"Kento–" you whispered, as he came closer.
But before you could finish with a foolish question of what happened to you? His massive body steeped in the water. Gentle waves nuzzled him only till the ribcage, and you choked, when muscular arms lifted you up and sat on the shore.
Crystal droplets dripped down your breasts, nipples, down through the plush belly, naked heat, when he gazed up at you from below. With pledging, possessed gaze, focusing on nothing but your face.
"Tell me you want it," came in a whisper, quickly dissolved by the first melody of cricket's.
"Want what?"
His palms curled around your waist, face nuzzling against the softness of your belly, before he sighed deeply. "Me. Tell me you want me. You want everything that will happen the second you give me your consent."
A shiver dripped down your spine, and your lip trembled when his muscular arms tightened up. Something warm, feverish, started to coil in your stomach every time his breath hit your skin.
"And what will happen, if I may ask?" you knew that playing with fire would end up badly, but you wanted him to say it.
All those filthy, nasty, messy things you dreamed of every night and knew he did too. You could feel it, right now and before, with your legs still dipped in the river and feet poking something hard.
He looked up, with a dark hazelnut gaze, taking in your cunning smile. His arm lifted, thumb grazing the lower, slightly opened lip. "In details?"
You giggled. "Of course."
Fat finger pushed inside, landing right on your wet tongue. Plush muscle welcomed him warmly, with lips wrapping around it and giving a gentle suck.
His brows furrowed, and another arm pulled you closer to his dipped body, moving your hips right over the edge. Gaze still fixed on your face, but he could feel the heat of your cunt on his chest. From this perspective, you looked nothing but divine, with wet hair curling around your shoulders, plump lips sucking wetly on his thumb and eyes, fucking hell, looking down at him with a sly amusement.
"Tell me," you whispered, taking his thumb out and nuzzling cheek against his calloused hand. "My answer will depend on it."
He raised an eyebrow. "I thought finishing the twelve labours was enough."
The arm curling around your body suddenly dropped down, with long fingers tracing the smoothness of your tummy, thighs, circling, pinching, smoothing wet skin, before going down... and down... and down.
Till your breath hitched and lips once again fell open.
"Hm? Did you lie to me, my love?" he whispered, with a big thumb plastered to your puffy clit. "Have you deceived me?"
You didn't answer, but instead spread legs a bit wider, inviting his massive body in. He chuckled, seeing your hips hovering over the edge and creamy cum dripping straight to the river. "They do say to never trust a nymph," his eyes glanced down, thumb placing small circles on your clit. "Did you deceive me, then?"
Your head shook. "T-tell me," slipped almost beggingly. "What will you d-do-"
His arms shifted, with big palms landing under your thighs and pushing them up, till you folded easily like a leaf. Your back hit the soft grass, knees pushed against the breast, while his massive body was still dipped in a river.
Now, with your bare heat right in front of his face.
"Firstly," he dipped down, placing gentle kisses on your inner thighs. "I will work on your pretty cunt till you'll be nothing but a whiny mess," his teeth dipped into the fat of your belly pouch, before licking it sweetly. "Then, I'll stretch you out on my fingers, getting hard over your moans and maybe dragging my cock against your legs," lips traced down, through the mound of your cunt, right till the drenched folds. With two fingers, he spread them open. And groaned. "Fucking hell."
"A-and then?" you whimpered feeling his warm breath on your clit.
"And then you'll go on your hands and knees, spreading yourself nicely like my good wife," he gave you the first lick. Long, sweet, heavy, plastering his tongue to your trembling clit, till a pitched moan bounced from the river. "Gods, you taste so good, my sweet fucking wife."
Theoretically, you weren't even engaged yet, but this word, combined with his deep voice, somehow made you even wetter. Spongy tongue once again swirled around your clit, with lips sucking, grazing, ravishing it madly, as if Nanami Kento waited for this moment at least a millennium.
For finally feasting on your honeyed juices and swallowing all the precious moans that slipped past your lips. The sugary mmm Kento, and, sososo good, or, p-please put t-the finger in.
He was spreading you wide open, with your hips hovering over the river's edge and his nose grazing your clit. You trembled every time his hard cock nudged your feet, with wet pads smoothing its leaking head.
Your finger curled around his golden hair, pushing him closer, deeper into your cunt, riding his tongue with a starved desperation to release the knot that already fastened in your lower belly.
And when his long finger pushed inside, your pussy clenched.
"Fuck, my love, you're still so tight," he grumbled, looking up at your falling breasts and arched back. "So beautiful," floated in a whisper, before he lifted massive body up and slowly came out of the water. "My beautiful, beautiful wife, does it feel good?" long fingers curled inside your tight walls, sending another shiver down your spine. His lips wrapped around your wet nipple, sucking on it with a gentle hum. "Mmm, so sweet, you're so sweet everywhere."
"K-Kento, it f-feels so–nghhh–good, so so so good," a pitched whimper slipped through when he added another finger.
He pumped your squelching pussy, with lips sucking on your nipples and eyes looking up every few seconds, just to take a pleasure in your ever-changing expressions. Slightly lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, single strands of hair stuck to your forehead, and fingers still curled in his hair.
You looked beautiful, mesmerising, folded as if ready to be bred, with rolled belly and lifted thighs. He could already imagine your fat ass hitting against his abdomen and drenched cunt swallowing cock. Your back curved in the most delicious arch, and knees biting into the lush grass.
Oh, he could already think of sweet tears that will roll down your cheeks and soft belly pouch being slowly, slowly filled with his cum, till you'll be begging, whining, crying for him to take his cock out and–
"K-Kento, I'm gonna–" you whimpered, feeling his fingers pumping you faster. Lips sucked on your nipples as if he wanted to milk you out.
It felt overstimulating, feverish, too much, with his massive body almost fully lying between your thighs, pinning you into the ground.
"P-please let m-me–"
"No, my love. You won't be cumming in any other way but on my cock."
He took out his fingers and flipped you on your belly. Big palms traced the fat of your ass before lifting your hips up – just as he promised. With your chest stuck to soft grass and dripping cunt opened up widely, looking like the prettiest, the juiciest fruit he'll ever tasted.
You couldn't see his cock, but, well, could definitely feel it. The moment he took drenched, creamy robes off, it sprang up and nudged right against your hole. Sticky and feverish, with a pulsing head sliding through your dripping cunt, collecting all the cum that Kento's fingers dug out. A tremble washed over your body, feeling the fatness of his shaft and single veins curling around its length.
It felt so... heavy. He didn't even put it in yet, but you could already feel its heaviness dragging between your folds, with its head nudging your desperately fluttering hole.
"You want it, right?" He asked, spreading your ass cheeks and spitting heavily right between them. Fat spit slid down to your pussy, before he pushed it right inside. "Say it, my love. Tell me how much you want it."
"K-Kento, I want it s-so bad, please," your hips rolled against his cock, glazing it with saps. When he didn't move, you tried to reach for it and push it in yourself, but he locked both of your hands on your back. "Kento!"
"I asked you a question. How much do you want it?" his voice was low, stern, as if he was tired of all the bullshit you gave him for the past few months. "Do you want me to push inside?"
"Y-yes!"
"Do you want to feel me here?" his fingers circled your tummy, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Mhmm, yes yes yes," you cried and he chuckled.
His cock, finally, pushed slightly, slowly inside, with sticky head catching on your entrance. "Do you want to get bred? Hm? Get stuffed so full, till you'll be feeling it in your throat?"
It was filthy, disgusting, nasty, but, oh, did it make you tighten around his cock like a little slut. Crying, moaning, and choking, while he pushed further, stretching your clamping walls and sliding through the creamy cum that stuck to his length.
You knew the strongest man alive would be well-hung, but when the head of his cock grazed your cervix and he still tried to thrust inside, something inside you broke.
"P-please, Kento, it's too muc–"
But your dear, gentle, always so careful hero turned out to be nothing but a filthy, possessed beast. You expected to hear his kind voice, sorry pleadings, maybe even a soft hand smoothing your bulging belly.
But instead, you felt it between your shoulder blades, as he pressed you harder against the grass. With his full weight hovering over your trembling body, heavy breaths nuzzling your neck, and cock thrusting deeper.
Nanami Kento was anything but gentle.
"Fuck, forgive me, my love. But I think I deserve a little treat after everything you put me through," and before you could protest, he shoved his length.
Fully.
Till his balls smacked against your cunt and big hands pulled your ass to his hips. Till you moaned in a mix of pain and pleasure, feeling his massive weight in your belly, lungs and throat.
"Fuck," he groaned, tilting head back, trying not to cum right that second, with your walls locking him in a deadly clutch. "My love, baby, dear, ughh, you need to relax," he moved, sending a shiver down your spine.
But how could you relax, if his girth was already smudging your womb? Dear heavens, how could you relax if every move of his was brushing this spongy spot inside?
"Kento, p-please move s-slower–ahhhh," you moaned, gripping the lush grass crumpling under your trembling hands.
It seemed, however, that he was already gone, with his thrusts quickly changing from gentle waves to aggressive crushes, dragging his pulsing cock through your pinkish walls. You felt him everywhere.
His hands on your ass, gripping the jiggly fat and pulling you over and over and over on his cock, somehow thrusting it even deeper. Smooching your pudgy womb, kissing plump g-spot, scratching feverish walls with even more sticky cum dripping down the grass. You've never been so drenched before, feeling his length moving inside without any obstacles. It was smooth, delicious, electrifying, with his fingers slowly sliding between your folds and finding the pulsing clit.
And when he pinched it? Dear gods, your hips started meeting his thrusts, with your hole accommodating him even deeper, sweeter, swallowing his fat cock and clamping down as if desperately trying to milk it dry.
Nothing but filthy squelching filled the evening air, and your moans tingling his ears like the loveliest melody.
Oh, and you looked exactly as he imagined. With swollen lips and tears swirling in the corners of your eyes. His name slipping every few cries, and eyes trying to look back at his massive, sweaty body.
His broad chest breathing heavily and lidded eyes, taking in the way your cunt sucked him in.
"Fuck, my love, you're so–nghh–I can't longer, fuck," he rambled, quickening his pace, with every thrust going straight to your womb. "Do you feel good, tell me dear, is it good?"
You could barely whimper, feeling the knot in your belly slowly, slowly, untying, and eyes rolling back. Thus, nothing but simple, "Mhm, K-Kento, gods, feels so, nghhh, mmm gonna c-cum," could slip away.
His fingers played with your clit – rolling, pinching, slapping it gently with your gluey juices sticking to his fingers. He lifted them up, licking the skin clean. "So sweet, fuck, you taste so heavenly. My pretty, pretty wife will eat your cunt out every fucking morning. Spread you wide on the table and fill with cum before the sunrise," his fingers went back to your clit, already feeling the spasmatic clenching on his cock. "Like it that much, love? Your pussy is swallowing me so nicely. Can't wait to see you swollen with my children, heavens."
"K-Kento, please, let me cum–mhmmm."
"Can't wait to be bred, huh?" he chuckled, but you pushed your hips out, meeting every single thrust.
"Yes, yes, yes, I can't wait t-to, ahhhh, fuck cum inside me."
Your words seemed to ignite something within him, because the next second, his reddened tip got glued to your womb, as if sucked in by your muscles. Fingers still circled your clit, harshly, with a pinch, till your thighs started shaking and feet curled. A quivering cry escaped your clenched throat, and Kento finally, finally, started cumming.
Or, well, flooding you with his seed, till your head spun and lower belly started to swell.
"Fuck, my love, you better pray it takes," he mumbled, resting his wet forehead between your shoulder blades.
He came deep, filling every corner of your trembling cunt with warmth, planting his gluey seed right inside your womb. It felt heavenly, maddeningly good, with his fingers still working on your clit and gathering all the watery cum that gushed right against his palm. Long tongue traced your sweaty back, soft lips placing gentle kisses right down your spine.
He thrusted gently, keeping his softening cock inside as if trying to make sure that not even a droplet of his cum will land anywhere but inside your womb.
"I meant it," he muttered after a while, before changing your positions. You lay spread on his chest, with his cock still nuzzled inside. "I want to have a family with you. A big one."
"How big?" you mumbled, too tired to even lift up your head.
"Ten?"
Oh dearest.
Your eyes somehow looked up, tracing the completely stony expression of his face.
"You must be joking."
"Not from such affairs, my love," his fingers gently nuzzled your back – a touch completely different from the violent thrusts of his hips.
"Not even the oldest gods of this pantheon have that many offsprings."
He looked down with a warm smile before placing a single kiss on your forehead. "Then it seems that we need to set up a new tradition."
And after going back to your cottage and getting stuffed full in every possible position, you started to regret that the strongest man alive with the stamina of a thousand bulls, was supposed to become your husband.
And for the dessert, as the last fic from this collection, we're getting the most heartbreaking angst, aka Satosugu as Alexander the Great and Hephaestion.
I got a request for the second part of Hades!Choso, and because it's my fav fanfic from this collection, I will be making it (that's why you got the preview hehe) :) It will be posted here, where I'll be adding all my other historical, myths, tales based fics.
+18. mdni. fem!reader. college au. fluff, smut. based on this post.
a/n. thank u so much for 2k followers! here's a little gift, I hope y'all like it <33
he does it so often it’s muscle memory at this point.
you could be on your way out of his room for your lecture—car keys in hand, already halfway to the hallway—when his voice cuts across his room where he is seated in front of his pc. he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“give me a kiss before you go.”
not can i get.
not come here.
just like you forgot something essential. like walking out without your phone. or without kissing him…right now.
you sigh, already turning around.
he doesn’t even look up from his screen until you’re right there, tilting your face up, and then he leans in—quick, satisfied—like there, that’s better. now you can leave.
he smirks, gaze turning back to his game. “i’ll pick you up later to grab lunch.”
you roll your eyes despite the thrumming of your heart as you walk out of his room.
you’re on the couch of his family home, legs tucked under you while you scroll on your phone, the tv playing something you’re not watching.
he drops beside you with a heavy thud, the entire cushion dipping toward him so you naturally slide into his side with one arm immediately hooking around your shoulders, dragging you into his side.
“c’mere, gorgeous,” he mutters, already pulling you against his chest. “give me a hug.”
“you’re literally already hugging me.”
“yeah,” he says, squeezing tighter anyway. “but you need to put your arms around me too.”
you giggle, hands sliding across his back as he sinks on the couch with you, going limp against you, letting out a long, grounded exhale like you’re a human weighted blanket.
you’re in the frat kitchen when he’s passing through on his way to grab a drink as you cook ramen for movie night, his movements lazy and loose-limbed. he pauses, opening the cap of his drink as he looks at you, eyes stopping on your cherry tainted lips. then holds eye contact.
“…kiss.”
you scoff, arching a brow. “that wasn’t even a sentence, ‘kuna.”
he waits, shrugging one shoulder as if to say the words are irrelevant because the outcome is inevitable because you end up leaning over the counter to peck his mouth.
“good,” he nods, the corners of his lips tugging up, like you just completed a task correctly, and keeps walking.
you watch him dumbfounded, not knowing whether you want to kiss him again or smack him across the face.
you’ve barely made it out of his room after a heated makeout session—your lips swollen, brain still foggy and very much late for your morning lecture—when he catches your wrist before you can escape.
he’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, looking completely unbothered by the chaos of your schedule.
“hey,” he rasps, tugging your arm just enough to throw you off balance and back toward him
“what?”
“kiss.”
he says it with a flat, monotone delivery, but his gaze drops to your mouth, heavy and dark and you know that what he is thinking is anything but flat.
“you just—”
“kiss.”
and you do it again, because apparently that’s your life now.
you barge into his room, door wide open as you hold a paper above your head, the biggest grin on your face. sukuna doesn’t even blink at the thudding of his door against the wall.
“i did it! i passed the last interview for my internship!” you exclaimed, excitement and happiness dripping from your voice.
sukuna is already on his feet, arms open as he kisses you briefly, nose brushing as you bounce on your toes, unable to contain your joy.
“congratulations, baby. i knew you would kill it,” he says like it was obvious, a grin on his own on his face as his hands settle on your waist. “give me a hug.”
and you hug him, tight and full of enthusiasm while you ramble his ear off about the place you will be making your internship, how it would look on your resume and so on.
he just hums, face already nuzzling your hair, pressing a tiny peck on your hairline, arms holding you tight against him.
you’re both in his room, supposedly studying together but you are the only one actually trying to do work.
sukuna is…present. yeah. that’s about it.
you’re halfway through reading a paragraph when his foot nudges yours under the desk but you ultimately decide to ignore it. he nudges again, harder this time.
you keep reading, starting again because he distracted you from reading your notes when the chair beside you creaks as he shifts.
“…give me a hug.” his voice says that he is demanding rather than asking but you are too busy with the words in front of you to care.
you don’t look up, highlighting a sentence on your notebook. “i’m studying.”
“so am i.”
“you’re on your phone.”
“i’m studying you.”
you finally glance over, unimpressed, blinking slowly at the sight in front of you.
he’s already got one arm lifted expectantly, eyebrows raised like well?
you stare at him for three whole seconds before scooting your chair over so he can wrap himself around you from the side.
he hums satisfied, using your shoulder as a chin rest while he goes back to scrolling his phone and you just sigh, eyes going back to your notes, unconsciously leaning your head against his because you are just as needy of affection as him.
thirty seconds later—
“…kiss.”
you know there is no way back from this habit when he does it mid argument.
you’re mad. like—actually mad. so mad that sukuna actually shuts his smart mouth as he looks at you —arms crossed, pacing his room while he sits on the edge of the bed as you rant about something he definitely did.
“and another thing—”
“kiss.”
you freeze mid step, fingers twitching against your arms.
“…what?”
“kiss,” he says again, like it’s going to fix the fact that he forgot your anniversary dinner or ate the last of your snacks or whatever crime he committed this time. whatever.
“i’m literally yelling at you right now.”
he furrows his eyebrows. “and?”
“i’m mad at you, sukuna!”
he shrugs because what has that to do with him having a kiss? “…still. kiss.”
you stare at him in disbelief when he pats his thigh once, like he’s calling over a cat.
you hate that it works. you hate that you march over anyway. you hate that the second your lips touch his he grabs the back of your neck and pulls you closer.
and you hate even more that when you pull back, he looks smug.
“there,” he mumbles, pecking your lips once for good measure. “you feel better.”
“i don’t.”
“…hug?”
and definitely his favorite time to ask for a kiss is this.
his tongue is lapping at your folds, thoroughly gathering your sweet juices and spreading them along your slick pussy, suckling at your clit when he feels your thighs tremble around his head.
he looks at you from under his eyelashes, fingers playing with your nipples as your twitch below him. he knows you are near.
“kuna—please! i’m close.” you moan sweetly, head thrown back as you push him back to you, grinding against his face and he smirks, loving seeing you this needy.
he complies, pressing his tongue flat and starting to messily make out with your pussy, slurping, sucking and completely smitten with every sound you make.
when you come, he cleans you up until you are practically dry, kissing your thighs.
he looms over you, bracing his weight on his forearms, trapping you between his chest and the mattress and he looks down at you with that insufferable, heavy-lidded smirk, his thumb reaching out to trace your lower lip, dragging a bit of your own moisture across your skin.
“give me a kiss, baby,” he rumbles, his voice dropping into that low, scratchy register that vibrates straight through your chest. “taste yourself on me.”
“you’re obsessed with telling me what to do,” you whisper, though you’re already tilting your head back, your heart doing that familiar, frantic thrum against your ribs.
“yeah,” he mutters, leaning down until his nose brushes against yours, his breath hot against your lips. “and you’re compliant. now, kiss.”
and just like always, you find yourself reaching up, pulling his head down to close the gap, tasting the salt and the sweetness of yourself on his tongue as he hums into the kiss, sounding thoroughly, smugly satisfied.
He finds solace in your quiet isolation and you find peace in his presence.
When the stress of university and upholding reputations wear you both down, you learn how to regain your footing in society while he learns that he sleeps best in your shoebox-sized apartment. In other words, Sukuna let himself lean into quiet companionship when he isn't out being a wild frat boy and you aren't so alone anymore.
frat!kuna x reader | college au; fraternity au | fluff, angst & all of the inappropriate stuff | oneshot - 4/4 complete | your brother's warning to stay away from frat guys lingers in the back of your mind constantly — but how can you when ryomen sukuna himself is begging you to help save his english grade? | 11.5k words
₊⟡snippets of his life: sukuna's instagram -> here!
♡₊˚ part 2 | ♡₊˚ part 3 | ₊⟡ epilogue
♡ link to my main [archived] masterlist
♡ looking for more sukuna? here you go!
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in my feelings - lana del rey
die for you - the weeknd / ariana grande
a cold play - the kid laroi
white mustang - lana del rey
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You are three steps into the lecture hall when you jolt forward, hand flying to grip Haibara’s bicep before you can face-plant the floor. Some dumb fuck has stepped on the back of your Converse.
“Who the he–”
A wide but smug grin greets you first, canines glinting under the white fluorescence. Then, sharp red eyes, a double piercing glittering through the skin of his left eyebrow; tattoos peaking out from the collar of his black hoodie, reaching up to his thick neck. He towers over you both, and sticks out like a sore thumb.
If he wasn’t so smug you would have given in to the blush threatening to rise to your cheeks.
You have seen him before – of course you have. He’s your twin’s frat president. He has pink hair for Christ’s sake. Mostly, he is strutting around campus with Toji, a man of similar height and stature, always with a duffel bag and you only assume they’re both gym rat fratboys. Sukuna has made a name for himself; notorious for throwing the wildest parties.
Cops are called almost every single time. From what your brother has told you, he drinks like a camel; new pledges are terrified of him; and he has no issue getting pussy. The hazing rituals there have probably violated at least ten federal regulations.
“My bad, doll.” Sukuna says lazily, holding his hands up in apology. His voice is like honey.
This is the closest you have ever gotten to him.
You roll your eyes and continue your conversation with Haibara, traversing across the lecture hall to find a seat on the front row.
Sukuna’s eyes linger on the back of your retreating frame for a second; had you not been so annoyed, you’re actually kind of cute. The never ending stream of students behind him keeps him moving and he notes that he has never actually noticed you before. How many weeks has it been now? Six? This semester has been dragging.
Soon, he’s not even thinking about you much more.
He tells himself that he doesn’t care. He’ll absolutely not let something like this bruise his ego. His pride. But his left eye is already beginning to twitch when Professor Melo quirks his eyebrow at the big red ‘X’ over Sukuna’s essay as he walks past and shakes his head. Not even a grade, nothing lettered or numbered – just wrong.
Is this a joke?
“Some of you… don’t seem to grasp Gatsby and Fitzgerald… and whatnot.”
He drones on and on and on. Loafer-padded feet wandering the aged carpet over and over.
“Some of you…” He eyes Sukuna again from the front of the classroom. “Haven’t been paying attention when I talked previously about exam technique.”
Sukuna rubs a rough hand over his face. His hands skim over the cool metal of his double eyebrow piercings. His lips are dry as he takes the bottom one between his teeth.
Fuck. In truth, that may have been a lecture he skipped. Sometimes he forgets that attending an academically challenging institution requires you to do academically challenging tasks.
A lot is at stake. He must remind himself of this; when his personal tutor told him of the scholarship which will cover his remaining three years of university, he practically pounced at the opportunity. It would be easy – it’s only two extra classes. Two extra A+’s. A language and a sport.
Doable; he almost leant back in that office chair, hands behind his head with a smug smirk on his face. Sukuna knows he’s athletically inclined; any sport will do. Shit, he’ll even join soccer with Satoru and co just to get this scholarship.
A language? Easy – English Language and Literature is an eligible class for the program. He speaks the language, it can’t be that hard.
The big red X on his essay begs to differ.
“To that end,” Professor Melo continues. “There are four students who have consistently achieved full marks – they’ll be offering academic support should you need it.”
He peers over his glasses to the front row with a tight smile. You’re sitting in the front row, with a neutral expression on your face, trying not to look too excited about the seventh A+ you have achieved in this class. Head dipped slightly, you’re avoiding Melo’s poignant gaze.
The paper lies idly on the small desk in front of you with the letter in green writing, bright and loud in the corner; your hand moves to slide the essay under your laptop.
Feeling a pair of eyes boring holes into your back, you turn and see Ryomen Sukuna’s gaze on you, unwavering. He is sitting four rows up, on the right, on his own.
You look so familiar.
He can’t pinpoint where he's seen your face before, but it is one he recognises. You’re pretty. Dark eyes, doe-like, innocent almost. Your hair is dark and falls over your shoulders, like a black cascade past the swellings of your chest to your hips. Simple as that.
Though had he not stepped on the back of your shoe earlier, and you turned to face him with an annoyed expression, he wouldn’t have looked around class long enough to notice your face in the first place. But still – there is something. He runs a hand through his hair, wracking his brain; where has he seen your face before?
He almost laughs when he realises that you remind him a little of his housemate. A little dreary in the eyes; same neutral, unreadable expression; sharp jawline; the inclination to side-eye someone without meaning to look judgemental.
Why do you look kind of like Ch–
“Class dismissed. Go play your rugby or whatever you lot do.”
You might be his once chance of securing that scholarship. You’re out of the hall before Sukuna can catch you, already making a beeline for the freedom of outside. He’s already pushing past disgruntled students, not even bothering with apologies.
You are no longer in sight.
He exhales, running a hand through his pink hair.
────₊˚⊹♡ ────
“And then he came and sat – are you listening?”
Your thumbs are still hovering over the keyboard, brain spinning and contorting on itself over Suguru’s text message.
[13:41]
You free tonight?
Utahime groans. “She’s not even listening!”
Finally looking up at Utahime, your expression is apologetic. You place your phone face-down on the table and hastily rub a hand over your face. Suguru can wait.
“Sorry, sorry. With you now.”
She rolls her eyes, and continues her story about how Choso sat next to her in labs, and let her borrow a pen when she had asked. You suppress the grimace clawing its way onto your face when she starts gushing about how handsome he is, and his tattoos, and his dark hair, and how he’s so dark and brooding, quiet and nonchalant, and the way his biceps pop when–
“I can just … talk to him for you. You know that right?” You say, trying hard not to laugh. “He’s so oblivious, he probably doesn’t even know.”
Mei Mei scoffs. “Trust me, he knows he’s hot shit.”
You hum pensively. “Well, I don’t think he’s seeing Yuki anymore. I can introduce you guys.”
“Doesn’t matter if he’s seeing her or not… he likes blondes anyway.” Utahime slumps in defeat. “We’ve been friends for how long?”
“Since freshman year.” Mei Mei quips.
The dark-haired girl sitting opposite you throws her hands up in defeat. “Exactly– he would have noticed me by now.”
Perhaps she’s right, but given that she’s only just started crushing on your twin brother because they’re sharing bio labs together, you wouldn’t put it past Choso that he truly has not seen Utahime in that way before.
The fact that you and Choso are twins, is an open (but still guarded) secret; if anyone looked for a little longer, it’s obvious that the two of you are related. The demeanour is the same: difficult to read; dark features; pensive at all times.
You’re not even sure if his frat brothers know you’re his twin sister, or if they think they’re seeing Choso, tattooless, in a wig skipping around campus.
He’s never brought it up to you and frankly, you’re happy keeping it under wraps given his reputation as the campus plug. Not that you wouldn’t shift the mountains and skies for him – you just like the obscurity.
Your parents will be so disappointed if they know about his (completely unnecessary, by the way) side hustle.
“You would think that with the amount of parties you guys attend, he would have hit on at least one of you by now.” You joke.
Still your mind is on Suguru, and whether you will keep entertaining him. Is this the year of self-respect? Your frontal lobe is beginning to cook?
While Utahime and Mei Mei are talking about the next frat party they’ve been invited to by Gojo, you pick your phone back up again.
[13:55]
Come over at 8 :)
Deciding that your frontal lobe can start developing next year, you hit send and think nothing more of it. The conversation abruptly ends and you don’t notice Mei Mei and Utahime have fallen silent with confused expressions twisting their features until you look up. Your fingers stop tracing patterns on the back of your phone.
A dark shadow looms over the three of you. The sun seems to be completely eclipsed by someone’s giant stature.
“Hey.” It says gruffly.
“Uh… hi?” Mei Mei almost laughs. “Can I help you?”
Sukuna raises his eyebrow. “Not you.”
He then points to you. “Her.”
“Me?” You choke out, hand on your chest. “You stepped on the back of my shoe.”
A deep laugh erupts from his throat. “Got you clutchin’ your pearls, huh? Can we talk?”
He jabs a thumb behind him, somewhere away from the girls.
You shoot them both a pleading look before you get up and follow him. Mei Mei gives you a sarcastic wave, clearly entertained by the whole thing.
────₊˚⊹♡ ────
Tuition.
That’s what he wants.
Sukuna’s swallowing every last bit of pride to ask you. At least you’re pretty.
“I mean, I don’t know how much help I’m gonna be. I know Melo said– it doesn’t matter.” You sigh. “I’m not a great tutor.”
“Consider it a favour and I’ll owe you one, yeah?” He says, handing you his essay. More like shoved into your chest. His rings glint under the sun.
You eye the big red cross across his work and breathe sharply through your teeth. Upon the realisation that he’s probably sacrificing every little bit of his pride to even ask you for help, you concede and mutter a ‘fine’.
He tells you arrangements will be made on his terms, and is surprised when you throw your head back laughing at his suggestion. You shake your head. Nerds aren’t usually this confident; part of him is slightly turned on at your confidence, the other half questions where on God’s green earth you got the audacity from.
“No no no,” You chuckle. “You asked me for help. We’re going to the library on my schedule – I don’t care if you’re president of Delta Phi or the country.”
Who do you think you’re talking to? You’re so annoying – cute, he relents, but a difficult woman.
He’s taken aback, hand snaking up to rub the back of his neck. Faintly, you make out that he has said ‘Tsk, brat’ under his breath.
If your smile wasn’t so sickly sweet, he would have up and left.
“And you’ll take this seriously.” You say firmly. “I also have sorority duties… I don’t wanna spend loads of time doing this if you’re gonna be fucking around.”
He bites back a snarky reply. “Don’t have a choice but to take it seriously, doll.”
Sukuna is trying to look, sound casual. His hands are fumbling in his pockets now for a cigarette. Putting it in between his lips and lighting it, he takes a long drag. Grey smoke shoots out of his nose.
He confirms, in a rough voice that the library after classes is fine.
Before he leaves, he spins on his heels like he has forgotten something and takes large strides back to you. Cigarette half-smoked. In your hand, you’re still clutching his essay, rolled up.
“Oh,” He’s already flashing you that same grin, bearing his canines. Holding his hand out to you, you can just about see his tattoos wrapping around his wrist. “Ryomen Sukuna.”
“I know who you are.” You say coolly, trying not to inflate his already-big ego. “Y/N.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” He asks, eyes narrowing, head tilted.
You pause. “Class.”
Elsewhere, he tells you. He’s studying you now. Why are you nervous? You grip his papers a little harder; it crumples under the weight of your fist.
So he doesn’t know.
“No.” You shrug. “We’ve never spoken.”
Sukuna’s tongue runs over his lips, his lip ring moves. Your eyes draw to it immediately. He is good looking… you can see why half the girls in your sorority fall to their knees over him. Still, this guy lives with your brother and you want to keep relations tepid. His eyes are still narrow, sweeping over your face and the fact that your gaze inadvertently flickered down to his lips for a brief moment. Damn.
To your relief, he really does take his leave this time. His bag is slung over his shoulder once more and he does a little two-finger salute back at you as he goes.
“See you Thursday, at six.”
────₊˚⊹♡ ────
Just as Suguru’s hips rut against yours one last time before collapsing onto you, he lets out a soft hiss into the quiet room. His hand graces your face for a mere second before he is pulling out. He drags a slender and pale hand across his perspiring forehead. The periwinkle linen bed covers cave in under his weight, the cotton hot with the remnants of sweet nothings, sweat and sex.
“Something on your mind?” He asks, though his tone is casual and he seems more occupied with finding a clean towel to clean you up with. You can tell he is trying, but now you feel awkward that he might have felt you were not really there when he was snapping his hips into you for an hour.
You shake your head, rolling over on the bed to face him.
Naked on your side and extended at full length on the bed, you watch as he flippantly grabs whatever towel is at the top of your drawer and comes over to you, gentle hands parting your legs. He hums again, as if to repeat his question.
“I have been tasked with something… impossible.” You muse. “Well, maybe that’s just me being pessim–”
“Yeah?” He asks, with a towel gently dabbing on the folds as if he was not just roughly fucking into earlier. “Nothing a clever girl like you can’t handle, I’m sure.”
In another life, your cheeks would have warmed into a pretty rosy tint at his smooth talking. Suguru has always been smooth like that; he purrs almost every word which is why so many girls have, in some way or another, landed in his sheets at least once.
You’re not proud to say you are part of that demographic, but you have an understanding and he seems to get you too.
“Sukuna asked me to tutor him.” You say. “He’s failing English… but please don’t say anything to Satoru or the others… I think his ego’s bruised enough already.”
His slender hands stop moving. They withdraw and so does he from your proximity. You can’t read the hard expression on his delicate features, but from his silence, you can tell there’s something gnawing at him inside-out.
“Is there a problem, Sugu?” You say, head-tilted.
There has never been any indication from him that you weren’t allowed to see anybody else. At one point in time, you had asked him if the two of you would ever become something more and on that night, he told you an answer which not only made you cry for a month straight but also let your feelings for him wither like flowers in frost soon after. That was a long time ago – sometimes you think about when you used to like him, used to hope for more, and laugh at that version of yourself.
Finally turning his face to meet your eyes, he exhales softly. You don’t seem concerned, just curious if anything. He sees the way your eyes are desperately scanning his face for any betrayal of his innermost tender thoughts about you, but at the end of the day, it is silently understood that between the two of you, there will only ever be room for jealousy, ego, and biting one’s tongue.
He’s seen you in ways nobody else has; the vulnerability, the writhing and begging beneath him; the late night talks about the future, the frat, your concerns about Choso’s drug-dealing; his parents; his irritation when some girl has become too clingy for him.
Freshly fucked and still recovering from the jolts and aches in between your legs, you have laid still next to him many times with his hand in yours.
You would play with his big hands, comment on how pretty they are, trace your fingers across his knuckles and palms.
It is complicated, but the two of you understand that this is all it ever will be.
So when Sukuna’s name tumbles out of your mouth, and you’re watching him with careful eyes, Suguru can’t help but wonder if this proximity to Ryomen Sukuna will change anything.
“No.” He says simply, voice lowering. “Just be careful. He can be… rough to deal with.”
You smile, a sight that makes his heart flutter a little though he doesn’t ever want to admit it.
“I’m sure a big girl like me can handle a frat guy with a big ego… I’ve been doing it for so long.”
He finally cracks a smile, a little amused, a little concerned and all the unspoken things in between. “Yeah well, good luck anyway– Ryo’s the same guy who got arrested at the last mixer – you didn’t forget, right?”
“Well, if it makes you worry less, I think he’s quite annoying.”
Still, as you turn away and start searching for the clothes he tore off you earlier in the evening, his mind is on Sukuna and you.
You and Sukuna, probably alone in the library, your room or worse – his room. Suguru drags a hand down his face; bro code is still a thing right? Not that Sukuna even knows about you and Suguru. Not that anybody knows apart from your closest friends.
Hell, he would be burning bridges with Choso if your brother ever found out.
He watches you pull a baby tee over your head, nipples now soft though bitten and slightly red from his teeth earlier, disappearing under the white fabric.
You’re completely in your own world as if he isn’t even there, humming some tune he doesn’t recognise as you find your underwear and his. He’s sitting on your bed now, forearm resting across his knee.
“Have you done your application yet?” He asks. “Deadline is next month.”
You wave a hand at him dismissively. “All done– just waiting for the extra credit from Professor Melo for the… tuition.”
The grin you send him is wicked and makes his stomach flip. You’re teasing him. You can see the unease on his face and don’t understand why you helping Sukuna would bother him this much but you don’t want to ask either.
“Sugu… are you jealous?” You sing. Your hands reach for his, still clutching your light blue thong. “Come on… it’s Sukuna. He can have anyone he wants – why would he go for someone like me?”
Suguru scoffs. “He goes for anyone with a pussy.”
“He also lives with my brother so…”
He sighs in defeat, face softening. “Yeah he’d be out for blood– anyway, I need to shower. I have a date in two hours.”
“Christina?”
He rolls his eyes. “I told you we’re done… I got Serena’s number, remember?”
“Right, right…” You drawl. “Well, I hope you’re more emotionally available this time.”
You sit back, a mocking grin on your soft pink lips before releasing his hands. Shooting you a disapproving look, he finally gets up, grabbing his clothes from the floor and pulling another towel from your open drawer.
“I hope you’re gonna start paying for my laundry pods.”
He scoffs at you. “You gonna start paying for condoms?”
You pout. “You texted me first!”
“Yeah, yeah whatever–”
“Bathroom’s on the left.”
“Been here before.”
“Been here before.” You mock in a high-pitched voice. He can almost hear the stupid smile on your face and he flips you the bird with the same dumb grin before opening your bedroom door.
────₊˚⊹♡ ────
Thursday 18:21.
He’s late.
Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, and Sukuna’s sloppily put-together essay sits neglected on the table before you. Your fingers are churning out hundreds of words, flying over the keyboard and they have been since the clock hit six.
Goddamn this sorority. Goddamn Yuki. Your president wants you to have the flyers for this semester’s party done by tomorrow. Alongside the multitude of other tasks – academic – you have yet to complete.
You’re grumbling to yourself. The party isn’t even until the end of the month – what’s the goddamn rush?
The sky outside is already dark; autumn has rendered most of the trees outside warm hues of orange and brown. In the flickering of street lamps lining the campus, leaves dwindle and fall in the soft breeze.
The library doors fly open, much to the dismay of the students who are concentrating in complete silence. Sukuna takes large strides in, eyes glazing over, smirk on his lips like he owns the place. He sees you sitting in the corner of the room, eyebrows furrowed looking at your laptop. You’re a pretty little thing, tucked away, sleeves of your sweater falling over your hands as you type. The bright light of the library glimmers on your dark hair.
“Sorry I’m late.” He huffs. “One of our pledges set the bin on fire.”
You laugh. “What?”
He shoots you a look and you hold your hands up in defeat. “Right, well, I had a look at your essay.”
“And?”
You don’t mean to, but you start laying into him. He watches your lips as you are explaining how he has misunderstood the book, and Fitzgerald isn’t depicting Gatsby as a mindless simp, and how he covets Daisy’s wealth and identity.
He’s in love with the idea of her, not really her.
And then you start talking about his erroneous use of epistemic modality, and how he actually meant boulomaic modality. In any other circumstance he’d be a tad offended but he’s not concentrating on what you are saying fully.
Sukuna can’t help it but his eyes keep flickering from your dark irises to your lightly-glossed lips. You’re more animated now, using your hands every now and then when you are explaining; sometimes you take your bottom lip into your teeth when you are thinking about what to critique next.
Only when you finish ripping him a new one, a purple pen circling all of his errors and lack of exam technique, you sit back and realise he’s been staring at your damn face the whole time instead of looking at his paper. Heat immediately rises to your cheeks.
To say he isn’t interested will be lying to himself; there is no denying you possess an effortless beauty. You speak like you know your shit. You’re also quiet – in a peaceful kind of way. There’s something curious about you and after thinking hard on it for a few seconds instead of working, he realises it is because you speak to him like you do not give a damn about who he is.
Other girls would have been fanning their lashes at him, or worse, falling to their knees at even the slightest scintilla of attention. You look at him like you have evaluated him a thousand times already – like there isn’t anything special with who he is.
Yet there’s a timidity there, some sort of diffidence which makes him feel as though you’re holding back. Maybe I do come with a warning sign.
He leans forward on his elbows. “You blushing?” He purrs. Your eyes widen, and then you look disgusted at the notion that you even might be.
Cute.
“Stop looking at me like that, perv.” You wave his face away. “Were you even listening?”
The clock ticks on in the library. After some time of discussing, Sukuna actually willingly starts drafting something up for you to evaluate. It’s quiet between the two of you, but the silence is not awkward. You do see him steal glances at you every few minutes but you’ve managed to perfect the art of pretending you don’t notice.
He pretends he doesn’t see your doe eyes sweeping over his muscular stature every now and then.
He’s so… quiet.
It takes you by surprise; you half-expected him to have a snarky remark every five seconds but he has been surprisingly tame.
Against the smooth wood, your phone buzzes. The screen lights up. Out of the corner of your eye, as you pretend to type something on your laptop, you see him glimpse at it. Sukuna sees Suguru Geto’s name. He smirks, though a part of him feels a little despondent that you may already be spoken for.
[20:35]
Come over
You are about to text him back when Sukuna’s obnoxious voice drawls. “Boyfriend?”
There is something more in his voice. Thumb hovering over the keyboard, you shake your head. You fail to meet his eyes. “Not like that.”
“But you wish it was like that.”
You shoot him a look. “I don’t actually.”
Sukuna sits back now, feeling his shoulders relax a little in relief. He crosses his arms, not missing that you eyed his muscles hardening and bulging underneath the tight material of his t-shirt. He almost laughs – he should not have felt that ripple of relief when you said that.
“I know Suguru. Decent guy.” He licks his canines, eyes never leaving yours. “Real pretty boy, that one.”
You grimace. “Shut up– show me your paragraph.”
────₊˚⊹♡ ────
The next time Sukuna speaks to you is Friday 20th October. After a gruelling workout with Toji, and then some random sorority girl he was seeing (amongst five others) had called him up, accused him of being emotionally unavailable before calling him an asshole and ending things, he said “fuck this” and skipped class.
A coffee is all he needs… and then maybe a fat joint with Choso.
He spots you before you even clock his presence; you’re wrapped up in what looks like a guy’s hoodie, paired with a mini-skirt, leg warmers and some Docs. The queue for coffee is long today; tired students are dotted around the café, laptops on tables, typing endlessly to meet deadlines. He almost rolls his eyes, feeling the toll of the week in every ache ailing his muscles.
Mid-terms are fast approaching – something that Sukuna has barely been giving a piece of mind to. Between the mixers, the girls, his frat brothers, gym, he finds he has little time to concentrate fully on his studies.
His hand rubs his nape, hesitant to initiate anything, before he decides to tap you on the shoulder.
“Oh!” You start, tugging your headphones out of your ears; they dangle from the loose collar of your grey hoodie. “Hi…”
He feels the tension in his forehead ease at the polite smile on your face.
“You here for coffee?” Sukuna says much too smoothly and then wants to faceplant because duh – it’s a fucking café. He looks away from you much too quickly, pretending to eye up the menu as if he doesn’t order the same thing every damn time.
Why does his face feel a little warm all of a sudden?
You smile politely. “Actually no— don’t like it all that much.”
“What do you usually get then?” He asks.
The salmon-haired frat president watches as you take your bottom lip into your teeth slightly. “I always get a hojicha with oat milk… you seem like an americano guy.”
Sukuna quirks the brow that is pierced, amused. The two metal bars catch the warm light. “We hang out once and you think you know me, huh?”
“No,” you say. “You just seem the type. Plain and boring. And bitter.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
For a moment you’re unsure if he registers the humour in your deadpan tone. The amused expression on his face falls immediately at your words. You think he might throw something back at you, but he pushes away that weird feeling in his chest and just about manages to mutter a ‘fuckin’ brat’. Still, it takes every fibre of his being not to let the corner of his lips tug up into a smirk, even though he feels it twitching.
A silence falls over the both of you as the queue moves up and up. You’re avoiding his gaze, but every now and then still manage to catch it. He thinks it’s awkward but there is also a comfort in the silence, like he doesn’t have to try and impress you. You accept him as he is – at least that’s what he’s thinking.
She’s nice enough to tutor you – don’t fuck it up.
Sometimes it isn’t hard to understand why so many girls fall at his feet; the way he carries himself is intimidating, but that’s mostly from confidence – it’s just the way he is. He almost always looks smug, as if he owns the very land he is standing on.
All the while you are playing with the wire of your headphones, twirling and twisting it around your fingers, his mind is on whose hoodie that is. It must be Sugurus… right?
The barista has barely gotten two words out to you before he steps in closer to you, and you feel his hard abdomen press into your back. Frozen, you don’t know whether you’re relishing in it or a bit disgusted by how hot he feels against you.
“Hojicha oat latte and an americano, thanks.” Sukuna says.
Before he realises what he is doing, his card is already on the reader. The familiar ‘beep’ sounds and you’re finally able to shift on your feet. He can’t help but smile at how flushed your cheeks are – how unsure you look. It’s kinda cute, he thinks to himself.
“You didn’t have to do that…” You start, looking up at him through your lashes. “But thanks– that’s… that’s really nice of you.”
Sukuna shrugs, one hand gripping the strap of his duffel bag. “Least I can do for taking up your time right?”
His voice is smooth; you almost don’t hear the gratitude in how casually he says it; no ‘thank you’, no obvious displays of appreciation – just something you have to scratch at the surface to fully hear.
His red eyes sweep over the frown on your face.
“It’s not–”
You press your lips together in a thin line. His head tilts at your pause, and then–
“You don’t need to go out of your way– I would have helped you anyway.”
Sukuna feels his mouth run dry. His pink tongue pokes out and swipes quickly over his bottom lip; his lip ring idly tilts. The barista calls his name before he can think of a snarky response and for a moment he thinks he might have gone soft.
He watches as you accept the drink with a grateful, genuine, smile. The two of you walk side by side to the door, with Sukuna’s hand still resting on the strap of his duffel bag. For a moment you don’t know what to say, and then he breaks the silence –
“Walk with me?”
You’re hesitant, holding your hojicha latte which is beginning to singe your palms. You look so unsure he almost backtracks but then you shrug, and he feels a weight ease off his shoulders.
He almost lets out a groan. Bro, what am I doing?
Sukuna asks you about your essays; just simple questions about how you get such high marks and what you usually do to keep them up. What he really wants to ask is what you have going on with Suguru. Maybe what you usually do Friday nights. If you like pizza or pasta more, or if your preference is Japanese food. But he figures that someone like you would not be caught dead wasting time with someone like him.
He watches you quietly when you press your lips together in a moment of thought before responding to him.
You’re surprised he would even ask those questions in the first place but he must really want this grade.
You don’t realise how far you have walked until the grandeur of Kappa Epsilon’s greek revival facade is getting closer and closer.
“I didn’t think you’d care that much about your grades.” You admit quietly. “Thought your life was just frat and beer.”
He scoffs, humoured. “I mean… yeah it is– but…”
His red eyes glint with vulnerability. For a second he doesn’t want to tell you that he really needs the scholarship, but figures you’re not the gossip type. Or that you even care enough for his business to be in orbit of your daily life.
“The Masamichi Scholarship.” He exhales loudly. “I really need it… so…”
You hum in acknowledgement and ask no further questions; it is practically a full-ride scholarship and covers everything from travel, study abroads, to tuition fees. Choso has never mentioned Sukuna’s business to you, just that his dad’s not around and his mum practically raised him on her own while working full-time. By the way he is watching the ground and then suddenly his coffee cup has become super interesting, it’s clear he is trying to mask the flicker of shame which crosses his sharp features.
You remind yourself of your privilege everyday – even though Choso rarely relishes in that reality, preferring to sell drugs to dumb college students so he isn’t constantly relying on mom and dad; there is no denying that your parents founding and owning a big pharmaceutical company which prides itself on researching and manufacturing synthetic blood plasma, has opened many doors for you and your brother.
“We’ll get you that grade.” You say. “I’m sure we will.”
“You know… you kinda remind me of Choso. You know him? He’s my frat brother. Real serious… holds the fort together.”
You bite your lip, and clear your throat to stop the laugh from tumbling out your mouth. “Yeah… Yuki’s kinda dating him.”
He nods, eyes absentmindedly on the horizon. Then, he laughs, “They were fucking so loudly the other week that Toji left the house.”
“Dude–”
Of course he has to ruin it – just when you think he’s acting more tame. You want to throw up. The hot drink in your hand has turned lukewarm now, and there is still more than half to go. You thank your lucky stars that your sorority house is just down the road.
“Well, I turn down that street now.” He says. “See you around?”
You’re barely one foot in the front door when a familiar blonde is flying down the stairs to greet you.
“Dude, is that Sukuna?” Yuki laughs in disbelief as Sukuna walks off into the sunset. She has a hand on the curtain, drawing it back with her face almost smooshed up against the frosty glass. “Did he just walk you home?”
“Uhm… yeah?” You say. “It’s not that deep.”
Finally, the tall blonde pulls away from the window and the curtain swooshes back into place. She has a dumb smirk on her face, arms crossed against her chest now.
“You’ve got game, girl.” She teases. “Geto and Sukuna? You’re being spoiled.”
You roll your eyes, already making way for the stairs. “Oh my god, it’s not like that with Ryo. I’m just tutoring him.”
“Ryo?” She laughs. “Oh my god. I can’t wait to tell ‘Hime and Mei.”
“Just don’t tell Nobara – she’s gonna run her mouth.” You warn.
You can still hear Yuki giggling to herself like a schoolgirl at the bottom of the stairs. It’s not like that with Ryomen Sukuna – you tell yourself that you have more self-control than to become one of his girls. You’re already heavily involved with Suguru – you don’t need another one; Choso will surely kill you. Or them.
Notes, books and your laptop are discarded now across your table. Your bag, open where you threw it near the door, has your college lanyard half-hanging out and some crumpled flyers you absentmindedly accepted yesterday afternoon.
The room is dark, warm, and quiet except for the hushed sound of Blood Orange’s music playing on your speaker. You lie on your back in bed, sheets still warm from your tossing and turning, body heavy against linen.
In the dark, light dances across your face as you scroll on Instagram. Nothing too special; a post from Satoru Gojo (more like a thirst trap), shirt pulled up by his teeth, bearing his chiselled abs — classic mirror selfie. In the background, you can just about spot Suguru’s very built back, half-caught in the mirror.
His long black hair is tied up, out of his face. Your tongue runs over your lip as you tap on the comments and read the hundreds of comments eating it all up. He’s somewhat of an internet celebrity on your campus.
@ dani_kappapsi: My legs are SPREAD omg 🤤🤤
@ kent0_nanami: Do neither of you wear clothes anymore?
That one makes you laugh a little.
@ fushigurotjjj: so you guys are taking mirror selfies instead of hitting gym with me and ryo 🙄
@ cara0503: omg is that the guy from your class @lils_arturrr
@ lils_arturrr: @ cara0503 YES AHAHHA he’s so fine
With a final snort, you go off it and continue doomscrolling. Yuki’s post comes up next, a pretty snapshot of her from above, 0.5 angle, holding an iced coffee with her lips puckered.
Your index and thumb drag the post, zooming in on the corner of the post where you can see your brother’s worn-out combat boots; it’s out of focus, like he was mid-step, but it is Choso for sure. You can’t stop your thumbs from flying over the keyboard with a dumb grin on your face. So they are still seeing each other.
@ Y/Nkm0: Very subtle ;)
@ utahiiiime: ur so pretty
@ m3im3i: Sexy fit mama
@ noba_kugi: whose shOE IS THAAAATTTTTT 👀
And then in her likes, you notice Sukuna’s handle. Of course, you have seen his socials before – you just never bothered to interact. For a second your thumb hovers over his handle @ ryomen.sukuna and then you think fuck it and press down on it. His page is surprisingly
… mature?
You have seen his earlier posts before; quick snapshots of his parties; people shit-faced with traffic cones on their heads or lugging them home; . By his freshman year of college, his photos become more poignant, defined: His travels are mostly documented – a lot of his friends, and then a photo of his infamous red Hellcat which has everyone creaming their pants.
Your eyes widen at the amount of likes and comments his posts get; he’s actually… viral? Still, as you go through his socials you cannot help but admire. He does have a god-like body and he is incredibly handsome. There is a hard edge to him, yet the times you have interacted with him, he hasn’t been.. Awful.
You wonder if that is yet to come.
────₊˚⊹♡ ────
The two of you have spent maybe three sessions together now. Two weeks have gone by in the blink of an eye. He still does not have your number. He still does not know your last name. He also actually isn’t stupid – which is the most surprising thing. A small part of you is proud when the next piece of work he gives you to read is just slightly better than the last week’s.
But in class, there is a silent understanding between the two of you; he’ll nod your way or send you a shit-eating grin. When you’re in a good mood, you’ll give him a shy wave.
Sukuna does not want to admit to himself that he likes it when you notice him. Something in him melts a little; he relishes in it when he’s in a good mood. Though, there have been times he has walked into class with a dark rain cloud over his head, headphones snug over his Arc’teryx beanie, and he doesn’t even bat an eye your way.
Sometimes he dumps his bag in the empty seat next to you and Haibara, and sits on the next free one. Haibara has started looking at you quizzically, but you tell him that it’s nothing. There’s an unaddressed comfort in his presence, even if it is one seat away.
He has confetti in his hair today. Remnants of whatever happened the night before. You’re not sure you want to know, given that he gave you all that detail about your brother and Yuki just last week.
Still, a trembling hand reaches out to pluck it from his salmon strands, and he watches as you draw your hand back; a blue piece of tissue paper, from that dumb confetti cannon Satoru graced last night’s all-greek mixer with. Frats only.
“Good night?” You tease, holding it between your fingers.
He huffs and snatches the damn thing out of your hand. His hand briefly touches yours for a second. The bit of skin that skimmed his fingers feels searing.
“Fucking Gojo and his confetti, man.”
You giggle quietly.
Two essays and plenty of feedback for him to work on later, the document on your laptop reaches forty five pages just as Sukuna throws his pen down and drags a hand across his tired face.
Your phone buzzes on the table. Face down, you can both just about see the sliver of bright light against the wooden tables. He sees you eye it absentmindedly but you make no effort to pick it up.
“What’s the deal with you and Suguru?” He asks suddenly. More like blurts out before he can control his mouth.
The question takes you aback a little bit – it’s not a matter you thought he would be interested in. You reckon that his curiosity boils down to
You shrug. “Met him at my very first mixer last year. Thought he was cute–”
Sukuna swallows. You see his jaw tick for a second but then it’s gone.
“—didn’t think much of it at the time but he gives me attention and I guess I liked him a lil bit for a few months and–”
There it is again.
“—but it is what it is, I told him that I’m not gonna date him properly if he ever changes his mind… like, if he’s gonna treat me like he has other options then it goes both ways—”
You stop, realising you yapped more than you should have about Suguru Geto. His eyes are narrowed slightly, scanning your features for any sort of emotion reminiscent of regret or sadness or longing but he realises there is none of that. Just a peaceful acceptance of what has played out.
“And now?”
When was the last time you saw Suguru? The week before, perhaps? In all honesty, between the sessions with Sukuna and the late night studying, and gearing up for the biggest frat party Kappa Epsilon has ever held, you haven’t given him much thought.
You realise you have spent more time with Sukuna than you have Suguru as of late.
“I don’t like him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He almost looks satisfied with your answer, but he leans back with a hand on his head. “So it’s just sex?”
“It’s really nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“Humour me.”
You raise an eyebrow but relent. “Yes, there was a time I liked him. I don’t anymore. I guess he’s just… available.”
Sukuna hums like he understands – and he does in his own way. He just doesn’t understand why someone as unimpressed and quiet as you would ever stray into the likes of his kind of people.
“Satoru’s birthday…” He casually mentions. “You going?”
Your response is immediate. “Not if I can help it.”
“Won’t be that bad.” Sukuna shrugs, eyes flickering to meet yours. “I’ll be there.”
He is grinning now; the corners of his witty mouth pulled up sharp like the Cheshire cat. Work has long been abandoned now; papers strewn over the table and your laptops with squiggles from your red pen. His essay, half-corrected and the Great Gatsby, open on page eighty three, face down on the wooden surface. Its spine is bent and wrinkled.
“God.” You groan, rolling your eyes and shoving his face away from you. “Miss me with that.”
He almost recoils at your touch, not expecting your open palm to go directly on the side of his face. His skin feels hot.
Snap out of it.
Before he leaves later that night, you hastily jot down your number, not thinking much of it, and hand it to him between your index and middle fingers.
“In case you need study advice.”
────₊˚⊹♡ ────
The walls of the Delta Phi garage thump incessantly; Toji has cranked up the music and the bass is so heavy that Sukuna feels his head might explode with another push of the barbell above his head. He throws it back onto the rack with a deafening CLINK!
Choso stands in the spot behind Sukuna’s bench, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Bruh, stop asking me to spot if you’re gonna throw it back like that.”
Sukuna ignores him and sits up, exhaling loudly. His breath is hot. Raising his hand, he wipes the perspiration from his forehead. The black bands inked on his bulging bicep glisten with sweat.
Toji is still doing bicep curls in the mirror, his muscles straining and veins bulging across his skin. The scar running down the corner of his mouth twitches. He scowls through the ache and raises an eyebrow at his pink-haired friend when he spots him staring.
“You good, bro?” He pants. The dumbbells in his hand drop to his feet. Sukuna is his best friend – his ride or die – and he knows him inside out; it isn’t everyday that he has a conflicted look in his eyes.
“Y’know Y/N?” Sukuna finally asks. “Real pretty… dark hair. Kinda mean.”
Choso pauses. He doesn’t say anything.
Mean?
Why was your name being brought up?
Sukuna doesn’t want to admit to his boys that since you handed your number to him that day, he’s been texting you at odd hours of the night, or indeed for most of the day about literally anything that might be essay related. Some of the questions, he finds as he types them out, aren’t even about English Lit or Gatsby anymore. Just a simple ‘Yo did you see what Shiu was wearing in class today?’.
Slowly and slowly, the messages went from ‘wdym about elaborating my point?’ to ‘listen to this album’.
You never took him for a gossip, but admittedly, he can be pretty funny. Sometimes you are up at 2am texting this stupid pink haired frat boy about music, and that’s when you both realised the other person listens to the likes of Jeff Buckley.
When the fuck did that happen?
And Yuki’s been catching you cheesing at your phone like Toji has almost caught Sukuna grinning at whatever song recommendation you have sent his way.
Toji hums. “Think I saw her in Yuki’s car the other day.”
Upon the mention of Yuki’s name, Toji’s eyes flicker over to meet Choso’s hooded ones. The corner of his mouth tugs into a slight smirk.
The beefy man starts again. “Same sorority, right? Barely see her at mixers though.”
“Why?”
Choso’s deep voice cuts across the music. Sukuna has craned his neck back to look at him now; he can’t decipher Choso’s expression.
The black band across his nose wrinkles and his face is relaxed again.
Sukuna shrugs. “She’s helping me out with English.”
However, Toji sees past the facade; there’s a curiosity in Sukuna’s tone that isn’t usually there when he mentions other girls.
Usually it is not important whether any of the other guys knows someone; girls come and go, a motto Sukuna has lived by since freshman year. Shit, it’s something the whole frat house lives by.
“Yeah?” Toji grins. “She looks sweet.”
Sukuna only hums in response, pushing away the thought of your dumb smile as he lies back down to do another set. He sets his hands shoulder width apart, thumbs turning over the cold metal. It is rough and punishing on his skin.
“C’mon bro,” He huffs to Choso. “Spot me.”
Something in Choso’s chest tightens but nothing further about you is said.
He feels nauseous.
────₊˚⊹♡ ────
Saturday nights at 9pm are almost always reserved for quiet nights in; sometimes the gym with Nobara and Mei Mei when you’re feeling particularly energised and they have a rare night in. Tonight however, you have been convinced by every girl in the sorority that Satoru Gojo’s birthday is the most important event and your attendance is mandatory (‘food poisoning’ the year before just about saved you).
“You do realise Cho will kill me if he sees Suguru or anyone hit on me.” You were deadpan, arms crossed, standing in the doorway of Mei Mei’s room having been summoned just five minutes prior.
Mei Mei looked at you with her eyebrows raised; she was halfway through doing her makeup, half of her face shaded while sitting in front of her vanity.
“Geto knows better than to do that to you – I wouldn’t worry really.” She said way too smoothly.
From her bed, Nobara sat up, eyes wide and pleading. “Come on, you can’t miss it. Please please please ple–”
Throwing your hands up in the air, you had let out an exasperated groan. “Fine! You’re all annoying as fuck– ugh!.”
A red solo cup has been occupying your right hand since you stepped foot in Zeta Psi – a very palatial house that you are more than familiar with. Though tonight all of their banners have been replaced by shittily photoshopped, and absolutely massive, tapestries of Satoru’s dumb face and his name. There are some messily hung fairy lights adorning the ceiling, tied from one balcony bannister to another overhead. Someone’s actually hired a DJ for his birthday this year, unlike the last, where they just hooked up Toji’s playlist to a massive JBL speaker according to Yuki.
Everyone is sweaty and the room smells sticky, like beer on the floor. A faint but sickly smell of fruit, like the sweet scent of strawberries, hangs thick in the humid air, from students hotboxing the house with their corner shop vapes. You keep shoulder-checking everyone but the heaving crowd is too intoxicated to notice you, bumping along to the heavy beats and swapping spit with whoever is unfortunate enough to stand close enough.
You spot Suguru almost immediately, leaning against the wall at the far end but his other half, his hyperactive white-haired puppy, isn’t with him. His slick long hair is tied up today, half-up half-down. Adorning an all-black fit, you swallow the lump in your throat seeing how good he looks; Suguru dons a cool smile on his lips as his slender fingers drum on the side of his plastic cup, matching the beat of Yeat’s ‘Loco’.
His broad shoulders faintly hitch in a cool chuckle at something beefcake Toji is yapping about in his gruff voice. On instinct, feeling someone’s gaze from across the room, Suguru turns his head to see you in the crowd, alone, with a red cup in your hand.
He swallows hard, eyeing the exposed cleavage from the cowl neckline of your top. You do look good tonight. Raising the cup to his lips, the sharp taste of vodka washes down his throat though his eyes are still on you over the rim on the cup.
If Choso wasn’t here tonight he would have had you up against the wall already. Memories of the last time he saw you still play like a looping movie as his eyes skim over your entire being: His hands on your waist, gripping the curves so hard that a hand mark was left; his soft lips leaving a wet trail from your jaw to the heat between your legs; the way you writhed in his touch – he knows you inside out.
You give him a polite nod, subtle, but he catches it and returns it. He watches as you turn away and disappear amongst the sea of drunk students, dark hair swaying against your lower back.
Almost immediately, upon entry, you had lost sight of Nobara and Mei Mei. They got dragged off somewhere by Megumi and Yuji as soon as you pulled up to Zeta Psi.
Breaking your staring competition with Suguru, you can just about see a familiar head of long blonde hair and a very sharp nose perched on the lap of your brother on the couch elsewhere in the room. His thick arm is wound around her waist lazily, and in his other hand a half-smoked joint is pinched in between his index and thumb.
He spots you weaving through the crowd straight away and gives you a little two finger salute; twin telepathy, it almost makes you roll your eyes. He looks so cool now, lounging back onto the couch like he wasn’t calling you last night, kicking his feet and giggling at the fact that Yuki brought him some homemade cookies.
The room is neon-soaked and you’re starting to feel nauseous; whatever was in your cup is tasteless now.
Under his gaze, you manage to slip into the kitchen where Nobara is shotgunning a beer while Nanami, arms crossed and serious as always, has a hint of a proud smile on his lips, and Megumi, Yuji and Utahime are cheering her on.
“God, it stinks out there.” You mutter, joining the group. “I haven’t seen the birthday boy yet.”
“Ah, Y/N,” Yuji laughs, throwing an arm around you. “He’s probably upstairs with a girl right now.”
You make a face which only makes him bellow a deep laugh.
“I’m surprised you turned up… you’re never at these things.” Nanami says in his deep voice, his eyebrows raised at you.
You eye the tall blond, who seems to be nursing a beer. It’s barely touched but you gather that as always, he is keeping a watchful eye on everyone.
You shrug. “Can’t miss King Gojo’s birthday – clearly.”
Nanami manages a reserved chuckle.
────₊˚⊹♡ ────
Now six tequila shots in, the room is starting to wobble around Sukuna as he keeps a loose arm slung around… what’s her name again? Nevermind, he shakes the thought out of his head. Whoever she is, has been eye fucking him all night from the dancefloor and can’t stop touching his goddamn waistband.
He’s been rock solid for the last ten minutes but it’s still too early to leave. His thin white t shirt clings to his back in the heat. The scrawls and squiggles on his tattoos glisten with a light sheen of sweat under the neon strobes.
The air around him is charged; he feels pledges he’s never even talked to before dap him up as he brushes past them, trophy in arms.
“C’mon…” She begs. “Let’s just go back to mine.”
Sukuan tilts his head back in a deep laugh. “Party’s barely started, doll.”
She whines and lightly slaps his hard chest, manicured nails flirtatiously tapping at his skin. “But I want you now.” She says.
He almost gives in; something about the way she has one hand practically down his waistband, nails barely skimming his already hard cock, has his mind elsewhere – no longer trying to stay sober long enough to celebrate Satoru’s birthday. Sukuna snakes his hand further and further up her waist until he’s almost able to grab the swell of her breast.
But then you.
And you look so good.
He finds you with his great height, red eyes skimming over the sea of people in front. Barely, just barely, you slip out of his sight into the kitchen. The back of you is almost unrecognisable had he not caught a brief glimpse of the side of your face which is wan, eyes hooded with fatigue from the long week. You look different – in clothes he doesn’t usually see you in; something about your skimpy black top and bare shoulders that he never usually sees, even in his buzzed stupor makes him drag a wet tongue over his bottom lip. Everyone else drowns out; you said you wouldn’t be here, so why is he seeing you now?
This isn’t your scene.
“Yeah– uh– I’ll see you in a bit, babe.” He mutters over the loud music, already letting the blonde in his arms go, and pushing his way through the crowd. Over the loud music, he can just about hear her frustration, throwing a tantrum in the middle of the dance floor but he keeps pushing on until the faint yellow light of the kitchen is warm on his face.
You’re under Yuji’s arm, chanting Nobara’s name with a grin as she shotguns another beer. As if on queue, the light and conversation, even the music, bent subtly to Sukuna’s presence. He’s magnetising, moving like he has always belonged in the spotlight. Nobara sees him first, and she holds up her empty and squished beer can with triumph, calling Sukuna’s name as he steps foot in the kitchen.
“There he is.” Yuji grins, going in to dap up Sukuna. “How’s it been, man?
Sukuna mirrors his grin, canines glint under the kitchen light. But he’s not even looking at Yuji, he’s looking right at you. Kento is next, giving Sukuna a firm pat on the back. His eyes remain on your small figure; you cower slightly under the weight of his gaze.
“Usual.” The tip of Sukuna’s tongue skims the apex of his canines. “Having a good time, Y/N?”
“You guys know each other?” Nanami’s deep voice cuts in.
“I’m helping him with class.” You say, cheeks flush with embarrassment. Everybody is looking between you and Sukuna now, eyebrows raised like they know something you don’t. With his big hand, Sukuna ruffles up your hair like you’re some lost puppy and chuckles slowly. You don’t want to admit that his touch makes your stomach drop.
“I don’t bite – right?” He asks you, smirking.
You swat his hand away. “Leave me alone.”
“Oh, it’s like that?” Yuji jokes, wiggling his eyebrows. You shoot the pink haired kid a disapproving look.
“It’s not like anything–” Sukuna says smoothly. “Like Y/N says, just partnering in class.”
There’s something else in his tone though.
You hurl the rest of your tequila and slam down your cup onto the countertop. “I need some air.”
Much too quickly, Sukuna gushes out that he also needs air and follows you out to the garden. Nanami has already shot him a weird look, and exchanges a glance with Nobara like there is an unspoken agreement about how weird he is acting because since when does Sukuna follow any girl anywhere?
But when Megumi is suggesting that they should find Gojo and play beer pong, soon the thought of you and Sukuna flitters away like autumn leaves in a restless wind.
Sukuna rubs a hand over his face, the October wind hitting his large stature with full force like a truck into a brick wall. It is sobering, feeling his skin freeze over. The alcohol is just about there, enough to make his vision a little blurry. Enough to make his vision of you like a hazy dream.
He finds himself digging into his backpocket for a pack of cigarettes as you lean up against the wall, a string of fairy lights flickering blue and red and green lights over your delicate features.
The tequila went straight to your head. You blink hard – once, twice, and a third time to make sure you’re still seeing straight and you are just about.
Sukuna is leaning on the wall next to you now, taking a long drag of his cig. He exhales after a second, and you feel the warmth of his body bleeding into your space.
The air feels thick, like something is hanging in it; you think it might be the alcohol.
Sukuna thinks you look pretty.
The words are on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t want to word vomit. He’s looking at you now from the corner of his eye, wondering if you have seen Suguru yet.
“Can I have one?”
He hears you ask quietly, looking at him through your lashes now. Your cheeks are still faintly pink from alcohol. With a surprised scoff, he reopens his carton and pulls one out with his tattooed fingers. It doesn’t sound unkind – he just doesn’t expect it from you.
He swallows, unsure of where the sudden anxiety is coming from and holds it up in front of your lips. His knuckles barely graze your bottom lip.
You’re still looking up at him, unaware that you look as though you are completely at his mercy. The eye contact is unwavering. Your doe eyes make him feel like the party isn’t even happening inside; the world revolves around you now.
“Open.” Sukuna murmurs, his own cigarette hanging out between his pink lips.
Unsure what possesses you to listen to him, your glossed lips, pious, barely part, but the thick filter of his menthol Seven Stars slots right between, delicately. His hand pulls away slowly to fetch his lighter from his back pocket.
Gaze still unbroken, the sight of your dark eyes, just lightly droopy with the haze of alcohol and the smoke, makes Sukuna’s mouth run dry. You see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He can feel his heart hammering in his ears, though it might be the beats from inside – he isn’t sure anymore.
In the searing glow of the small flame, you light the end of the cigarette. Sukuna has a large hand cupped over yours, shielding the light from the icy wind. His skin feels so warm against you for a second, like putting your hands straight into fire that will burn you eventually. Orange flickers across your face and then it is gone.
You take a drag, then exhale the grey smoke through your nose. Each drag feels slow and deliberate as you tilt your head, curiosity pooling in your gaze.
“What are you looking at?” You ask.
The question sounds so innocent coming from you, but Sukuna has never felt as charged as he is right now. There’s something else hidden under the sweet innocence in your tone, heavy and tense.
“Didn’t know you smoked.”
His voice is gruff. You shrug, finally breaking eye contact. The ash at the end of his cigarette is flicked carelessly into the frost-bitten snow.
“Drunk cigarettes don’t count.” You say.
“You’re drunk?” He asks, voice lowering. “Is that why you’re out here with me?”
For a brief second, you think he is flirting with you. Hell, he flirts with everyone – but he could literally be anywhere else but here right now, and he’s still here with you instead. It isn’t lost on you – but you don’t want to lean on it too heavily. You’re unsure what he wants.
Sukuna’s red eyes glint at you. He tilts his head back, and a cloud of opaque smoke puffs up into the night air. For the first time tonight you can see the patterns of black ink stretch out of the collar of his top as his neck muscles relax and tense in his movements.
He faces you again, but his gaze flickers from you to the cigarette in between your nimble fingers, to the exposed skin on your chest and then your bare shoulders.
The smoke flutters out in a thin stream from your nose again and he feels an unfamiliar ache going straight from his chest to his manhood. He swallows hard.
“I wasn’t even gonna come.” You scoff lightly. “I guess it’s not too bad.”
“Are you glad you did?” Sukuna asks. He doesn’t like how soft your voice sounded then.
“Guess I’ll see how the rest of the night goes.” You say casually.
You have already finished your cigarette; the butt discarded on the cement before he can say anything else. He flicks the butt below him and saunters in behind you.
You’re chugging down another cup of jungle juice that the new pledges made, at Satoru’s behest. The two of you were practically swept up in his long arms as soon as you entered the house, tugged to the dance floor before any protests could be heard.
“Oh my god, he’s so drunk.” You’re laughing to Sukuna, under the weight of one of Gojo’s heavy arms, and your salmon-haired partner has been trapped in the other. His sharp face flush against Gojo’s forearm as the latter pours something pink-coloured into his mouth.
Sukuna almost chokes from the volume of liquid, some of it spilling out of his lips as he swallows with a grimace. It burns his throat on the way down.
You don’t know what possesses you, but you reach over and wipe his chin with the back of your hand, leaving him awe struck.
The birthday boy is gone, completely off his head from whatever the hell he has been sniffing from Choso, and a mix of alcohol that people have been shoving down his throat the whole night. He could just about slur your name out, pointing out that he hasn’t seen you in months.
“Alright, alright, slow down there, cowboy.” Nanami appears, chuckling, prying a red plastic up out of Satoru’s firm grip. “You’re gonna be in hospital before they can bring the cake out.”
The white haired man only cheers, both hands shooting up in the air in celebration. Someone appears behind him, both hands lifting him up above the crowd and you can just about see that it is Toji, his arms big and thick, swollen with muscle. Satoru is still hooting and hollering.
Sukuna’s closer to you now, his chest hot against the side of your arm. He’s looking down at you, restraint hiding behind his dark gaze.
From across the room, something in Suguru’s chest shatters, like a stone against glass.
The unmistakable mop of faded pink hair juts out above the heaving sea of people, and then you – you’re standing there, slowly bopping to the music like the rest of the room doesn’t exist around you and Sukuna. You aren’t touching him, but you are so close you might as well have your arms slung around the taller man’s tattooed neck.
There is no way he should be feeling like this – not for you, not for any girl. Girls come and go; girls today, girls tomorrow. Though he has someone tugging on his belt loops now, flush against his chest and his slender and pale hand resting on the curve of her ass, he feels his breathing grow heavier and heavier. Unable to tear his eyes away from you and Sukuna, all he can do is watch and swallow the lump in his throat.
Under the weight of Sukuna’s gaze, you start moving your body, gently swaying to the music, completely unaware of Suguru across the room staring daggers into you two. In a brief moment of drunken fuck it, we won’t remember anyway, Sukuna’s hand takes yours and he is laughing at how wobbly you are as he spins you on the spot. You could collapse with how the room seems to spin around you; colours meld together like the world is bleeding in the heat of the frat house.
People are singing happy birthday, like a drone, over the loud music to Gojo who is crowd surfing above.
A stupid grin makes its way onto your face, all tension now disappearing from the effects of alcohol. You can barely hear Sukuna egging you on, telling you to dance for him, but in the blur you catch his lips moving and the thought of kissing him crosses your mind once.
Sukuna’s hand doesn’t leave yours, but you never feel him much closer again that night.
summary : you hear that ryomen sukuna is hard to get. you’re interested. is there anything else left to do but try?
content warning : female reader, fluff, modern/college au, reader is assertive, both reader and sukuna smoke (cigarettes), sukuna’s bigger than you (he’s huge and can carry you), making out.
from me to you: omg and here i thought i could go without writing for him this week… just a short fic :’)
you hear what everyone says about ryomen sukuna.
a little background: to the outside, unassuming eye, he looks just like any other popular, self-obsessed athlete in his senior year of university. muted pink hair always slicked back (his undercut is a killer—he shouldn’t be allowed to cut his hair like that, on the account it makes people stare too much), tattoos running down his arms and who knows what other parts of his body, and sinister crimson eyes that give everyone else a run for their money.
to you? he’s hot.
he’s in your business strategy module and he’s smart as hell and he’s hot.
the caveat? he’s not nice.
not in the conventional sense.
sukuna isn’t someone with lots of friends. with his popularity, it’s a feat. rumors say he’s insufferable. impossible to get along with. that’s from the numerous people who’ve had to do group projects with him or those who train under him in his mma club.
apparently, only uraume can tolerate him. you don’t know much about that person though, you rarely see them around.
but even though he doesn’t have much close friends, he doesn’t lack people to talk to. evidently, by the way he’s in this party, leaning against a wall in the corner and yet people constantly gravitate towards him.
other than the fact that the mma club had just gotten first place at the state-level championships, what else do people have to look for him for? give a girl a chance is what you think.
you went all this way to an off-campus party at whose house you don’t even know, all for a shot to maybe talk to sukuna and looks like you probably won’t. especially not when mrs long legs with blonde hair abruptly cuts in front of you while you’re walking towards him and so readily snakes an arm around him like he’s her property.
frustrated, you just shake your head and decide you’re done with this.
out in the porch, you light up a cigarette, taking a deep breath and feeling the chill in your throat before you slowly exhale. fuck this, you think. maybe you and sukuna just aren’t in the cards.
“you smoke?”
that all-too-familiar voice snaps you out of your inner lament, a familiar pair of unbothered red eyes staring at you. he’s got a cigarette in his mouth, hand gesturing for you to lend him a lighter. you do, you toss it to him, trying to calm your racing heart.
this is the first time he’s spoken to you. even if you’ve heard him speak before, his voice sounds much sexier up close. especially when he’s not scolding at something.
back in the house, mrs long legs must be fuming, you think. but she’s none of your concern.
“didn’t take you for a smoker,” you tell him when he tosses your lighter back to you.
he chuckles, and you like that sound somehow. it’s not one you hear easily. or at all, now that you think about it. “what, just because i wrestle?” he snorts, rolling his eyes, and there’s something so sexy about the way he looks when he exhales, the smoke leaving his nostrils and mouth in a straight line. “did todo invite you?”
todo. todo aoi. vice captain of the team and an okay friend you have that takes the same finance module as you do. mostly you just get him to tutor you, because despite his main identity of being in love with a certain idol, he’s actually one of the smartest guys you know.
you nod, taking another deep drag. “mhm.”
sukuna’s right next to you now, ignoring people’s attempts to call him back into the house. you can feel his bare arms brushing yours just slightly. you curse him inwardly for wearing a muscle tank; he looks hot.
“why’d you come? ‘s not like you’re super close with him either.”
you bite your inner cheek, suppressing a grin. if that tells you anything, it’s just that sukuna’s been observing you. a small win that you’ll celebrate later.
“oh, i don’t know,” you exhale sharply, flicking the cigarette away to the far corner of the yard before turning to face him. “maybe i just wanted to see the guy that’s been asking todo to invite me more often.”
sukuna chokes on the smoke, a mildly annoyed look on his face, though he’s quick to dispose of it. “fucking todo,” he mutters under his breath before mirroring your position, offering you a drag of his cigarette. “can’t help myself, you’re kinda hot.”
“just kinda? i’m disappointed,” you scrunch your nose, taking a puff and handing it back to him, your lipstick stain on the rim. sukuna doesn’t mind.
he takes a step closer to you, and you notice how there are tattoos running down the sides of his body too. “you want my praise, princess?”
smug. so smug.
you shrug. “maybe.”
“mm, i only give those to my girlfriends.”
“you got one now?”
“nope.” sukuna flicks the cigarette in the same direction you did.
“oh, well i guess that position’s open then.”
sukuna’s just slightly taken aback that you’re this forward. “sure you wanna fight for that position, princess?”
and he’s not sure why, but he’s the one that’s trying to calm himself down when you close the gap between you, your chest pressed against his. you’re hot, so hot.
you shake your head. “nah, i wouldn’t fight for it. but i bet you’d give it to me.”
and sukuna thinks you have the sexiest voice he’s ever heard. you’re chuckling too now, feeling how hard he’s gotten. fuck. you’re gonna be the death of him.
you’re so dangerous. sukuna bets you’re the kind of girl who sees what she wants and goes to get it. he’s not averse to that. especially if who you want is him.
fuck, he thinks he wants you too.
before today, maybe he’d just chalk it up to him thinking you’re hot. now? not anymore.
and your eyes—the way you bat those eyelashes up at him. fuck, he really wants you right now. that’s why when you lean up, he’s quick to place an arm behind you, hoisting you up, letting you wrap your arms around his hips as you kiss him.
you giggle against his lips, feeling just how much he does want you. looks like it’s reciprocal. and you appreciate how much he’s trying not to just grind himself against you, but as much as you’re interested in him, you’re not going to let him get you that easily.
it’s almost addictive already, hearing him groan into your mouth and you really really want to just get him in bed but fuck your morals, really.
so you pull away, and you can only see him heavy-lidded, lips kiss-swollen and shiny and you have to forcefully pull away to get him to let you down. it’s almost cute how much he wants this, you.
“i’m not that easy, ryo,” you whisper, wondering if he’ll just bail.
but he doesn’t. instead, he just smirks back at you. “nicknames already? cute,” he says, brushing your cheek with the back of his index finger.
you reluctantly pull yourself away, taking a step back. “two praises in one day? i’d say you’re already whipped for me.”
“maybe i just wanna fuck.”
“hmm, i don’t think so.”
sukuna scoffs. you’re smug. so smug. he kind of likes that.
and when you start to walk away from him, he calls out to you by your name. you’re halfway through the yard but you whirl back around to look at him, expectantly.
“not even gonna give me your number?” he could get it from todo, but that’s just not how sukuna does things.
you feign consideration, titling your head before you shake it. “maybe after tomorrow, i got that presentation to rush for. gotta change all my fucking ugly comic sans into calibri and poppins.” you grin.
which is a bunch of bullshit but sukuna doesn’t totally hate that you’re playing hard to get so he lets you win this time, watches as you disappear down the road. he shakes his head. he’s been noticing you all night. did you really just come all the way to this party to get him to talk to you?
you’re ridiculous.
fuck, he might actually like you.
and there actually is a presentation because sukuna takes that same module but he’s been too swamped with championships to notice. but hey, at least now he has something to look forward to seeing in the morning.
the next day, your presentation goes well. you’re one of the first few, and sukuna’s a few people after. he concedes, you’re actually a heck of a presenter. interesting, engaging, hardworking.
and maybe his first slide will embarrass you but he’s not one to care. especially since you made him hard then bailed last night.
it does. it really really does.
because everyone expects a mediocre title slide. even you. but when sukuna, whose the top of your class, starts sharing his screen, you nearly choke on your coffee. the heat rushes to your cheeks.
on the projector, in big, fucking ugly comic sans characters are the words: Y/N, what’s your number?
and standing in front of the screen is ryomen sukuna, handsome as heck in his suit, hands in his pockets, smirking at you like he’s proud of it.
𐚁 summary𓂃 You are a thirsty succubus who moves in with the world’s biggest, dumbest himbo golden retriever named Caleb after your feeding ground, the frathouse shuts down. You try every filthy trick in the book to drain him dry… but he just keeps offering you protein shakes, warm bear hugs, and calling you “pipsqueak” while blushing like a virgin at prom. Turns out the only thing that actually works is accidentally falling stupidly in love with him. Whoops.
𐚁 wc𓂃 8.2k (because I'm my biggest enemy)
𐚁 content warnings𓂃 explicit smut, ooc caleb, he's just a big dumb guy (with a horse dick), age-gap? (if you squint) , corruption kink, mention of killing in the past (reader's a succubus bruh), teasing-flashing-flirting, Caleb is oblivious, somno, dubcon, falling in love, monsterfucking, monster physical descriptions, caleb is scared-aroused, deepthroating, hornpulling during oral (m! receiving), sizequeen!reader, pinv, he's drunk into you, cervix fucking, belly bulge, mention of draining life force/energy, evil!reader, anal (demon tail tip in his ass🥀), excessive cumming, confessions, happy ending, happy tears....idk what else . . .18+ ★ MINORS DNI !
𐚁 cherry’s note𓂃 yes, I went overboard with this commission because personally, i really liked the idea. I put my whole cherryussy into this. Himbo Caleb my love. He's so ooc here but who cares— live love laugh himbos! If you've read a Caleb fic with same tittle then don't worry, that's mine too, I just couldn't figure out a better name for it lol. My brain is actually so overstimulated after finishing this fic i should sleep it off.
Life used to be scrumptiously simple.
After losing your way back home to the demon realm centuries ago, you'd blended seamlessly among the humans—charming, seducing, occasionally devouring your way through whatever corner of the mortal world caught your fancy. Living among them wasn't always the richest feeding ground; most people tasted thin, distracted, half-alive with stress and screens. But that frat house? The Sigma boys' residency? That two-story beast of peeling paint, perpetual bass, and testosterone-thick air was your personal all-you-can-eat buffet.
Hunks left and right—twenty-something jocks with broad shoulders, cocky grins, and even bigger egos (and dicks) who knew exactly how to hit it from the back. Lord, you were feasting.
Every weekend followed the same divine routine. You'd hide your horns and tail beneath flawless glamour, slip between the drunken, sweaty bodies in something skimpy that barely held your tempting curves together. The music pounded like a heartbeat; the lights strobed low and forgiving. You never had to wait, never walked away hungry. A few batted lashes, a dirty-innocent little smile, or a breathy "Bet you could handle me" against a hot ear was enough to drive those boys feral.
You'd change your name every night—Jess, Mia, Raven, whatever slipped off their tongues easiest—and let them think they were in control. They'd rail you on every available surface: against the kitchen counter while the party raged downstairs, bent over the pool table in the basement, sprawled across some stranger's unmade bed upstairs. You'd moan and arch your back, giving them the illusion of dominance, while you drank. Deep, greedy pulls of their life force—hot, thick, tasting like cheap beer, adrenaline, and raw, stupid youth. Some nights one was enough. Others, when the hunger clawed harder, you'd take two at once, stuffing yourself full in both holes, sucking the life straight out of their dicks while they grunted and shuddered and collapsed like broken toys.
You'd mutter a soft "oopsie" under your breath, lick the last sweet traces from your lips, and saunter out into daylight glowing, sated, tail flicking lazily beneath your glamour. They'd wake up the next morning groggy, drained, chalking it up to "one hell of a blackout," barely remembering your face
You didn't always kill them. Only when you were truly ravenous did you drink too deep, leaving them pale and still on sweat-soaked sheets. But you couldn't bring yourself to care. They asked for it anyway—begged, even—with their wandering hands and hungry mouths. You were just giving them what they wanted, and taking what you needed.
Then it all shattered.
Neighbors finally had enough of the constant noise, the half-naked girls stumbling onto the porch at dawn, the occasional thump of a body hitting the floor a little too hard. Complaints piled up. Local police showed up one Saturday night with lights flashing, warrants in hand. Doors kicked in at 3 a.m., red solo cups scattering like confetti, someone screaming in the bathroom about a bad trip. They found the bodies—the ones you'd gone too far on—hidden under laundry piles or in closets like forgotten secrets.
Investigation. Headlines. The house shut down for good. Evictions. Suspensions. Chaos.
Your buffet vanished overnight.
For weeks after, you starved. Really starved. The kind that made your vision tunnel and your tail throb from being coiled too tight under human skin. Sipping energy from strangers on the street was like drinking watered-down wine—thin, flavorless, barely a tease. You needed the real thing: stupid, trusting, virile boys who poured themselves out without knowing what they were giving.
So you scrolled Craigslist, stomach growling, desperation sharp in your throat.
"Looking for chill bro or bro-ette to split rent. Must be cool with loud video games and occasional shirtless cooking. No drama. Serious inquiries only. —Caleb"
You stood outside the address that Saturday, duffel bag at your feet, hunger gnawing at your ribs like a second heartbeat. The door swung open and there he was—six-foot-something of golden-tanned muscle, messy brown hair still damp from a shower, a grin so bright and guileless it should come with a warning label. Basketball shorts slung low on his hips, purple eyes, radiating so much pure, dumb vitality you nearly moaned out loud right there on the porch.
"Hey! You must be the new roommate! Dude, you look way cooler than your profile pic. Come in, come in—watch the step, it's kinda fucked."
He grabbed your bag like it weighed nothing, biceps flexing without effort, and led you inside like you'd known each other for years.
Oblivious. Wholesome. Delicious.
This was going to be torture.
The best fucking kind.
The first night in the apartment, you decided to ease into it. No need to scare off the golden retriever with too much teeth right away.
You waited until Caleb was sprawled on the couch in nothing but those damn low-slung basketball shorts, controller in hand, yelling at some pixelated enemy on the TV. Shirtless, of course—because why would the universe give you mercy? Sweat still clinging to the ridges of his abs from whatever “light evening lift” he’d done before you got home. You padded out of your room in the tiniest sleep shorts you owned and a cropped tank that rode up every time you breathed. Tail tucked, horns glamoured, but everything else screaming—come and get it.
You dropped onto the couch beside him—close. Thigh pressed to thigh. Arm draped casually over the backrest so your fingers could brush the warm skin of his shoulder.
“Long day?” you purred, letting your voice dip low, velvet-smooth.
Caleb didn’t even look away from the screen. Just flashed that big, sunny grin. “Yeah, dude! Crushed legs today. Feeling the burn. You should come to the gym with me tomorrow—spot me on squats?”
You leaned in, lips inches from his ear. “I’d love to watch you squat. Bet those thighs could crush me.”
He laughed—bright, oblivious, like you’d just told a great joke. “Haha, right? They’re getting huge. Thanks for the support, roomie!” Then he flexed one quad absentmindedly, the muscle jumping under golden skin, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering. “Hey, you want a protein shake? I made extra. Vanilla. Tastes like dessert.”
You stared at him. Blinked. “…Sure. Why not.”
He bounced up—actually bounced—ass flexing in those shorts as he jogged to the kitchen. You heard the blender roar to life. Thirty seconds later he was back, handing you a frosty glass with a bendy straw already in it. “Here ya go! Extra scoop for gains. You look like you could use some fuel, you’ve been kinda pale since you moved in.”
You took a slow sip, eyes locked on his while you dragged your tongue deliberately around the straw. “Mmm. Thick. Just how I like it.”
“Awesome! I blend mine with peanut butter too sometimes. Game changer.” He plopped back down, thighs spreading wide enough that his knee knocked yours. “You’re so chill, by the way. Most girls get weird about me walking around half-naked. You’re like… one of the bros already.”
You nearly choked on whey protein.
The next morning you upped the ante.
He was making breakfast—shirtless again, because apparently the concept of shirts existed only between 8 p.m. and 10 p.m. in this house—flipping eggs in nothing but boxer briefs that left exactly zero to the imagination. You sauntered in wearing his oversized hoodie you’d “accidentally” stolen from the laundry pile, the hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs. No panties. Obviously.
You hopped up on the counter right beside the stove, legs dangling, spreading them just enough that if he looked down he’d get an eyeful.
“Morning, big guy,” you drawled, letting one foot hook lazily behind his calf. “Sleep well?”
Caleb turned, spatula in hand, and beamed like the sun had personally complimented him. “Yo! Yeah, killer sleep. You were tossing around a bit though—bad dreams? You okay?”
His eyes flicked to where your bare thigh pressed against his hip. No leer. No flush. Just genuine concern.
“I was… restless,” you murmured, sliding a hand up his bare arm, nails grazing the swell of his bicep. “Kept thinking about you. All that muscle. How strong you are.”
He puffed up a little—proud puppy mode activated. “Thanks! Been hitting PRs on bench. Wanna feel?” Before you could answer he grabbed your hand and slapped it flat against his pec, flexing so the muscle bounced under your palm. “Solid, right? Like a brick.”
You squeezed. Hard. Dragged your nails down to the happy trail disappearing into his waistband. “So solid. I bet you could pin me down easy.”
Caleb laughed again—that big, dumb, happy sound. “Haha, yeah, probably! You’re tiny compared to me. Hey—want some eggs? I made extra. Gotta keep the calories up if we’re gonna be gym buddies.”
You stared at the ceiling while he plated food like nothing had happened.
By week two you were losing your goddamn mind.
You started walking around in lingerie “because it’s hot” (the AC worked fine). You “accidentally” brushed your ass against his crotch while reaching for a mug. You left your door cracked while changing, giving him full view of you bending over to pick up clothes. You sat in his lap during movie night “because the couch is small” and ground down just enough to feel him twitch beneath you—only for him to pat your head like a golden retriever and say, “You’re so cuddly tonight! This is awesome. Best roommate ever.”
You tried dirty talk. Straight-up filthy.
One night he came out of the shower with just a towel slung low, water still dripping down those ridiculous abs, towel clinging to the thick outline of—
You cornered him in the hallway, pressed your body flush against his, lips brushing his collarbone. “Caleb,” you whispered, voice wrecked with actual hunger, “I want you to wreck me so hard I forget my own name. Bend me over right here. Use me. Please.”
He froze for a second—finally, a reaction—then grinned so wide his dimples popped. “Whoa, intense! You must be really stressed or something. You need a hug?” And before you could process, he wrapped those massive arms around you in the world’s most wholesome bear hug, lifting you clean off the floor, cheek smushed against his damp chest. “There we go. Better?”
You went limp in his arms, defeated. Starving. Soaked. And somehow still unbearably fond of this beautiful idiot.
He set you down, ruffled your hair. “Protein shake? You look hungry.”
You groaned into your hands.
This wasn’t seduction anymore.
This was torture.
And the worst part was—you were starting to like the torture.
Days blurred into weeks, and somehow—against every predatory instinct you’d honed over centuries—you started getting used to him.
Caleb’s energy wasn’t just food anymore. It was background noise, warm and constant, like sunlight spilling through cracked blinds every morning. He woke up at 6 a.m. without fail, humming off-key pop songs from the ‘00s while he blended protein shakes that tasted like chalk and optimism. He’d leave one on the counter for you with a sticky note— “Extra scoop + banana bc u said u like sweet stuff!! 💪🍌” You’d stare at it, stomach twisting with actual hunger and something softer, uglier.
You kept trying. Of course you did. You were still a succubus, still starving, still wired to take.
One evening you waited until he finished his post-gym shower, towel slung dangerously low again, droplets tracing paths down the deep V of his hips. You stepped into the bathroom doorway wearing nothing but one of his hoodies—unzipped, sleeves swallowing your hands, hem barely covering the curve of your ass. You leaned against the frame, legs crossed, letting the fabric slip off one shoulder.
“Caleb,” you said, voice low and wrecked, “come here. Let me take care of you for once.”
He turned, towel clutched in one hand, hair dripping into his eyes, and lit up like you’d just offered him front-row tickets to WrestleMania.
“Yo! You’re up late. You okay?” He stepped closer—close enough you could smell soap and clean sweat and that maddening, rich undercurrent of pure life that made your fangs ache. “You look kinda… intense. Hungry?”
You reached out, fingers trailing down his sternum, nails catching lightly on the trail of hair below his navel. “Starving,” you breathed. “I want to taste every inch of you.”
His grin went nuclear. “Aww, dude! That’s so sweet. Here—” He darted past you into the kitchen, still basically naked, and came back thirty seconds later holding a thick slice of sourdough slathered with peanut butter. “Open up! Atta girl!”
Before you could protest, he gently but firmly shoved the bread into your mouth. “There ya go. Peanut butter’s got protein and healthy fats. You’ve been looking extra tired lately. Eat up, roomie.”
You stood there, mouth full of bread, peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth, staring at this beautiful idiot who thought “taste every inch” meant “feed me a snack.” He ruffled your hair with his free hand, beaming.
“Better?”
You chewed slowly. Swallowed. Felt something crack inside your chest.
“…Yeah,” you lied.
Mornings became routine torture in the sweetest way. He’d make breakfast for both of you—eggs scrambled with spinach because “greens are important, even if they taste like sadness,” bacon crispy the way you liked it even though you’d never told him. He’d slide a plate in front of you, then hand you the second protein shake he’d blended “just in case you wanted company drinking yours.” He did laundry on Sundays, folding your tiny lace things with the same careful focus he gave his gym socks, never blinking at the thongs or garters. “These are cute! You got good taste.”
He brought home flowers one random Tuesday—daisies from the corner bodega because “they looked happy, like you.” Stuck them in an old Gatorade bottle on the kitchen table. You stared at them until the petals started drooping, then quietly poured half a glass of water so they’d last longer.
On walks to the corner store he’d stop for every dog. Every. Single. One. Crouching down in the middle of the sidewalk, massive hands gentle as he scratched behind ears, cooing in that deep, dumb-happy voice—“Who’s a good boy? You are! Yes you aaaaarrrrereee!” Strangers smiled at him like he was personally responsible for world peace. You stood a few feet away, arms crossed, tail twitching under your glamour, hating how the sight made your chest ache.
You were genuinely starting to feel bad.
Not guilty—never quite that. But bad. Like you were holding a knife to the throat of the only person who’d ever treated you like you belonged somewhere.
Random men on the street still smelled wrong. Thin. Sour. Like recycled air and disappointment. You could feed off them if you had to—had done it for weeks after the frat shut down—but it was like drinking flat soda. No heat. No rush. No flavor that exploded on your tongue and made your wings want to unfurl.
Caleb smelled like summer. Like sun-warmed skin and clean cotton and the kind of stupid, uncomplicated joy that made you want to sink your teeth in and never let go. You wanted to drain him dry, ride him until he was boneless and smiling that same goofy smile even as his eyes fluttered shut. You wanted to take everything and leave him sleeping like the others.
But every time you got close—every time you pressed against him on the couch, every time you whispered filth in his ear while he played video games—he just… grinned. Offered more food. More hugs. More of that relentless, brainless affection that was starting to feel more dangerous than any starvation.
You were in denial.
You told yourself it was just hunger talking. That once you fed—really fed—you’d be back to normal. Cold. Detached. The way you’d always been.
But the longer you lived in his orbit, the more the lie tasted like ash.
One night you sat on the kitchen counter while he washed dishes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, humming again. You watched the flex of his forearms, the easy way he moved, and something ugly twisted in your gut.
You were starving.
For the first time in centuries, you weren’t sure if it was for his energy…
…or just for him.
The need was still there, clawing at your insides like a living thing, and it was pure torture.
Caleb would walk past you in the hallway—muscles flexing with every casual step, tank top clinging to the sweat of whatever mini-workout he’d just finished—and you’d catch that scent again. Warm, golden, stupidly potent. Like summer rain on hot asphalt mixed with clean skin and raw vitality. Your mouth would water, fangs aching behind your glamour, tail twitching so hard it almost broke the illusion. You’d imagine a dozen ways to corrupt him: pinning him to the wall and riding him until he begged, draining him slow while he smiled that big dumb smile, making him yours in every filthy way a succubus could dream up.
But then your chest would tighten. A stupid, unfamiliar pang right under your ribs. He brought you daisies. He folds your laundry. He pets every dog like it’s his personal mission. And the mantra would kick in, sharp and automatic—“I’m an evil succubus. I take. I don’t care. I feed.”
So one night, when the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and Caleb’s soft snores drifting down the hall, you gave in.
You slipped into his bedroom like smoke, door clicking shut behind you. The moonlight slanted through the blinds in silver bars across his bed, and your jaw dropped so fast it hurt.
Shirtless, of course. Always shirtless. Thick thighs spread wide even in sleep, the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs stretched tight over the obscene bulge between them. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his chest, catching the light, tracing the deep valleys between his pecs and down the center line of his abs. Low on his hips, the waistband rode dangerously down, exposing the sharp cut of his Adonis belt and the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath fabric. He looked like a fucking statue carved by someone with a very specific fetish.
You were drooling before you even realized it.
Tail swaying behind you—glamour half-forgotten in the haze of hunger—you crept closer. Leaned over him. Inhaled deep. Then dragged your tongue in one slow, fat stripe up the center of his chest, collecting that salty-sweet sweat. The taste exploded on your tongue—pure life, concentrated, better than anything the frat boys ever gave you. You moaned, soft and broken. “Fuck… so good.”
Your mouth found his neck next. Lips sealing over the pulse point, sucking gently, carefully—marking him with faint purple blooms you knew he’d chalk up to “weird gym rash” or “mosquito bites.” Your hand slid lower, palm cupping the heavy heat of him through the thin fabric. Fondling. Squeezing. Feeling him thicken and twitch under your touch.
He groaned in his sleep—low, sleepy, pleased—and you smirked against his skin. “Who can resist a succubus, hmm~”
You worked your way down. Licking. Sucking. Gentle nips along his collarbone, his pecs, the sensitive skin just under his nipple. Careful. So careful. He stayed asleep, breath hitching every time your tongue dipped into the grooves of his abs. Your fingers hooked the waistband of his shorts, tugging slow, reverent.
And then—
GRAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The alarm on his bedside table screamed to life like a banshee on crack.
You yelped—actual cat-jump yelp—heart slamming against your ribs as you dove under the bed so fast you nearly knocked your head on the frame. Dust bunnies and a stray sock greeted you. Your pulse thundered in your ears.
Above you, Caleb groaned, long and miserable. “Fuuuuuck… five already?”
He swung those tree-trunk legs off the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with soft thuds. Yawned so wide you heard his jaw pop. Stretched—arms over head, back arching, every muscle popping in obscene relief. Then he stood.
And froze.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Why is my dick so fucking hard right now???”
You bit your lower lip so hard you tasted blood, peering up from your hiding spot. From this angle you had the perfect view—the obscene tent in his shorts, the thick outline straining against cotton, the way it jumped when he gave it a confused little pat like it was a misbehaving puppy.
He sighed. “Whatever, bro.”
Then—without hesitation—he shoved the waistband down.
Your mouth fell open.
It sprang free, heavy and flushed and huge. Thick veins running the length, flushed dark red at the tip, balls hanging low and full. A fucking horse dick. The kind of cock that belonged in porn or mythology, not attached to a man who still called protein shakes “bro-tein fuel.”
You stared, thighs clenching around nothing, pussy fluttering helplessly. How the fuck is he so dumb with a dick like that? Maybe God really did put all his brain cells into his cock and left the rest for smiling and petting dogs.
Caleb adjusted himself with a series of frustrated tugs—tucking, rearranging, grumbling under his breath. “Damn, bro, go down! It’s not the time! You’ll scare away the ladies!”
You gulped so loud you were sure he’d hear it.
Scare ladies away? Oh honey. You’d take that monster base-to-tip like the size queen you were born to be. You’d worship it. You’d choke on it. You’d ride it until your legs gave out and his stupid golden-retriever smile finally cracked into something desperate.
He pulled on fresh boxer-briefs, then basketball shorts, then a ratty tee. Secured the beast with one last resigned adjustment. Scoffed. “Fucking traitor.”
Then he grabbed his earbuds, his phone, and headed out—because of course this overgrown puppy went jogging at 5 a.m. like it was normal.
The front door clicked shut.
Silence.
You crawled out from under the bed on shaking limbs, skin fever-hot, pussy throbbing so hard it hurt. The only image burned into your brain was that thick, flushed length bobbing free, the way it twitched when he touched it, the sheer size of him.
You pressed your thighs together, a soft, needy whimper escaping your throat.
You were hungrier than ever.
Not just for energy anymore.
For him.
All of him.
You weren’t sure you could wait much longer before you stopped pretending this was just about feeding.
A few hours later, the front door swung open with the familiar jingle of keys, and Caleb barreled in humming—loud, off-key, gloriously unselfconscious.
“I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CANNOT LIE! YOU OTHER BROTHERS CAN’T DENY—”
He froze mid-verse when he spotted you leaning in the kitchen doorway.
You’d chosen the outfit with surgical precision— one of his old band tees you’d “borrowed” (permanently), the neckline sliced so wide it slipped off one shoulder and barely contained your cleavage. Underneath? Just black lace panties that rode high on your hips. Bare legs, bare feet, hair mussed like you’d just rolled out of bed (you hadn’t). You looked like sin wrapped in domestic comfort.
Caleb blinked once. Twice. Then his face split into that blinding, brainless grin.
“Yo! Morning, roomie!”
Your gaze dropped immediately to the constellation of purple bruises blooming across the side of his neck—your handiwork from last night. Perfect little oval marks where your lips had latched on. You bit the inside of your lip so hard you tasted copper, thighs pressing together under the hem of the shirt.
“Morning, Leb,” you murmured, voice softer than you meant it to be.
His eyes lit up like Christmas lights. “Leb?! Awww, that’s so cute! You gave me a nickname!” Without warning he scooped you up—hands under your thighs, effortless, like you weighed as much as one of his protein tubs—and spun you in a lazy circle. “You deserve one too! Hmm… how about… pipsqueak! Yes! Suits you perfect!”
He set you down gently, ruffling your hair with enough force to make you squeak. “You’re so smol compared to me lol. Pipsqueak!”
You watched, half-dazed, as he bounded over to the stove to flip the pancakes already sizzling there. He kept talking over his shoulder, completely unbothered by your state of undress, by the way the shirt rode up every time you shifted.
“Yo, pipsqueak, don’t you think we’ve been having a ton of mosquitoes lately?” He sighed dramatically, gesturing at his neck with the spatula. “Look at this! They were eating me alive last night. Are you okay? Did they bite you too?”
You nearly choked on the sip of water you’d just taken. Coughed. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. A faint, traitorous blush crept up your cheeks—hot and unfamiliar.
You shook your head quickly. “Nope. Not a single bite.”
He nodded solemnly, like this was a serious public health crisis. “Good. Gotta get some bug spray or something. Can’t have my favorite roommate getting nommed on.”
Favorite roommate.
The words landed like a punch to the sternum. Soft. Warm. Stupidly sincere.
You hated how much you liked it.
Before you could spiral too far, you reached into the fridge and pulled out the protein shake you’d attempted earlier—vanilla whey, a banana you’d mushed in with a fork, a splash of almond milk because you’d seen him do it once. It looked… lumpy. But you’d tried.
You held it out. “I made it. Well… tried. For you.”
Caleb turned so fast the spatula clattered against the pan.
His purple eyes—god, when did you start noticing they were purple?—went wide. Lower lip wobbled for half a second, like a kicked puppy who’d just been handed a whole steak.
“For… me?”
The look on his face hurt. Not in your stomach, not in the usual hungry way. Deeper. In the chest. Your demonic brain short-circuited trying to categorize it—lust? Possession? Food?—but your heart knew exactly what it was, and it was terrifying.
You nodded, suddenly shy. “Yeah. For you. It’s not… as good as yours, but… figured you might like it.”
He snatched the shaker bottle like it was made of gold, popped the lid, and chugged the entire thing in four long pulls. You couldn’t look away from the way his throat worked—Adam’s apple bobbing, thick and prominent, veins standing out under golden skin. Sexy in a way that had nothing to do with feeding and everything to do with wanting to press your mouth there and feel it move.
He slammed the empty bottle down. “Woah! It’s good!!! You’re so sweet, pipsqueak!!”
Before you could process, he lifted you again—this time into a full bear hug, arms wrapping around your back, crushing you against the solid wall of his chest. Warm. Safe. Smelling like clean sweat and that maddening sunshine scent.
For the first time in… ever… you giggled.
Actual, breathless giggles.
Your arms looped around his neck instinctively. You nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder, cheek pressed to warm skin, inhaling him like he was oxygen. His heartbeat thumped steady and strong against your ribs.
Caleb’s breath hitched—just for a second. A tiny, startled sound.
Then his big hand settled on the back of your head, petting gently through your hair. Slow strokes. Careful. Like he was afraid he’d break you.
He set you down slowly. When you looked up, his cheeks were flushed pink—high on his cheekbones, creeping down his neck to join the hickeys you’d left.
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Uh… yeah. That was… nice.”
You smirked, slow and knowing.
Finally.
Something was working.
The way into his heart wasn’t filthy whispers or barely-there lingerie.
It was— affection returned for affection. A lumpy protein shake. A stupid nickname. Letting him spin you like you were weightless and precious.
You could still feel the gnawing hunger under your skin—the need to feed, to take, to drain him until he was empty and smiling about it.
But for the first time, the hunger didn’t feel like the only thing that mattered.
You leaned up on your toes, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the underside of his jaw—right over one of your own marks.
“Pancakes ready yet, big guy?”
He swallowed hard. Nodded once. Voice a little rougher than usual.
“Yeah. Yeah, pipsqueak. Almost.”
When he turned back to the stove, shoulders tense, ears still pink, you let yourself smile—small, secret, almost tender.
Maybe evil succubi could learn new tricks after all.
For the next few days, your “sharingans”—as you’d started calling the little demonic glint in your eye whenever you caught him looking— were finally, gloriously working.
Caleb hadn’t changed—he was still the same big, dumb, sunshine-puppy version of himself— waking up at dawn to jog, humming anime openings while he blended protein shakes, texting you gym selfies with captions like “new PR on deadlifts 💪 who’s proud of me??” —you always replied with a string of fire emojis and a single drooling one he never questioned.
But you? You were changing. Or at least, the game was.
You started waking up earlier just to beat him to the kitchen. You’d stand on a step-stool to reach the oat flour —because of course he kept it on the top shelf like a giant, wearing nothing but sleep shorts and one of his hoodies that swallowed you whole. You’d crack eggs, flip pancakes, burn the bacon just a little so he could swoop in and “rescue” it with that proud grin. “Look at you go, pipsqueak! Teamwork makes the dream work!”
He’d bump your hip with his playfully. You’d bump back harder. He’d laugh like it was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Afternoons became “workout time.” You’d ask him—innocently, sweetly—to teach you proper form. Squats first. He’d stand behind you, hands ghosting over your hips to “correct” your stance.
“Like this, see? Keep your chest up, ass back—”
You’d drop low, slow, deliberate, then push back up with a soft, breathy moan that had nothing to do with effort.
His hands froze on your waist. You glanced over your shoulder, lashes fluttering.
“Feels… so good when you guide me, Leb.”
His ears went nuclear red. “Y-yeah? Cool. Uh. Good job. Ten more.”
You did ten more. Each one came with a little whimper, a little arch. By the end he was stuttering through counts and looking anywhere but at your ass.
Stretching was worse—or better, depending on how depraved you were feeling that day.
You’d lie on the yoga mat he’d dug out of the closet —“I used it once for foam rolling, bro, it’s basically new”, legs spread in a straddle. He’d kneel between them to help push your chest toward the floor.
“Deeper, pipsqueak. Breathe out—”
You exhaled slow, dramatic, letting your back arch and your hips roll just enough that your ass brushed the front of his shorts.
A soft, filthy moan slipped out. “Mmmh… right there… yes, Leb, fuck—deeper…”
He made a strangled noise. His grip on your thighs tightened, then loosened like he’d been electrocuted. Face scarlet, breathing uneven.
“Uh… yeah. That’s… good stretch. You’re doing great.”
Afterward you’d collapse onto your stomach, groaning theatrically.
“Ughhh my shoulders are killing me. Everything hurts.”
Like clockwork, he’d drop to his knees beside you. “Want a massage? I’m pretty good at them. Used to do it for the team after practice.”
You rolled onto your back first—just to watch his eyes flick down to where your shirt had ridden up, exposing the soft undercurve of your breasts—then flipped over again, presenting your back like a gift.
His hands were massive. Warm, calloused from barbells and life. He started at your shoulders, thumbs digging in with careful pressure.
You let your eyes flutter shut, let the first moan roll out low and needy.
“Mmmhhh… Leb… so good… ahhh yes, right there… yes yes oh~”
He froze for half a second,then pressed harder, like he could knead the sound out of you. His voice came out rougher than usual. “Yeah… yeah, pipsqueak…”
You arched your back, pushing your hips up just enough that your ass grazed his crotch.
He sucked in a breath. You felt him—thick, hot, straining against the thin fabric of his gym shorts—twitch against you.
You grinned into the mat, naughty and triumphant, leaning back further, grinding slow, deliberate.
His hands slid down,big palms gliding over your waist, thumbs brushing the sides of your ribs, creeping higher—dangerously close to the swell of your breasts, but never quite cupping them, teetering on the edge.
A breathless sigh escaped him. You could feel the tremor in his fingers. The hard length of him pressed firmer against your lower back now, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
He was finally aware. Not just blushing. Aware.
But he still didn’t cross the line.
That afternoon it got too hot—too close.
You were on your knees this time, back to his chest, his hands working the knots out of your lower back while you rocked subtly against him. Every roll of your hips dragged a low groan from your throat. His breathing turned ragged. His grip turned desperate.
Then—suddenly—he pulled away.
Hands gone. Body gone. Just cold air where his warmth had been.
You twisted around, confused.
Caleb was sitting back on his heels, looking down at the mat like it had personally betrayed him. Face flushed crimson. Massive bulge still obscenely obvious in his shorts, tenting so hard the fabric looked ready to split. Throbbing visibly.
He wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“…Pipsqueak…” His voice cracked. Small. “I think… you’re too good for me. Way outta my league.”
The words hit like ice water.
You stared at him—really stared. At the way his shoulders hunched. At the kicked-puppy droop of his mouth. At how his hands flexed and unflexed like he didn’t know what to do with them. At the way he was still hard, still aching, but refusing to take what was being offered on a silver platter.
Something cracked open in your chest again. Wider this time.
You crawled forward on your knees until you were right in front of him. Reaching out you tipped his chin up with two fingers so he had to look at you.
“Leb,” you said softly. No purr, no seduction, just quiet. “You’re an idiot.”
His purple eyes went wide, confused. Hopeful?
You leaned in. Pressing your forehead to his, breathing him in—sweat, soap, that golden summer scent that had ruined you from day one.
“I’m not too good for you,” you whispered. “I’m the worst thing that could ever happen to you. And I still want you. All of you. Every stupid, sweet, oversized inch.”
His breath hitched again, louder this time.
You pulled back just enough to smirk—small, real, almost tender.
“But if you’re gonna keep being a gentleman… I guess I’ll just have to keep wearing you down until you break.”
You stood up slowly, licking your lips with deliberate slowness, and let the glamour shatter like glass under moonlight.
One second you were still pipsqueak—soft curves wrapped in his oversized shirt, teasing smile, human enough to pass. The next, the air around you rippled, heat blooming off your skin as horns curled upward from your forehead in elegant black spirals, glossy and sharp. A long, sinuous tail unfurled behind you, spade-tipped and swaying with predatory grace. Your eyes bled from warm brown to molten crimson, pupils slitting vertical like a cat’s in the dark. The shirt dissolved into wisps of shadow; in its place clung tight, glossy black latex—barely-there straps and panels that hugged every sinful curve, leaving your breasts spilling over the top, nipples hard and obvious beneath the thin material, the thong so high-cut it framed your hips like a frame around a masterpiece.
Caleb’s eyes went wide. Breath hitching so hard it sounded painful. Mouth falling open in a perfect O of shock, fear, confusion, and something darker flickering underneath.
You purred—low, velvet, dripping with promise—and dragged your long, dark nails down the sides of your body, tracing the latex, letting it creak softly under your touch.
“See?” you murmured, voice deeper now, richer, threaded with the echo of something ancient. “I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, Leb.”
You giggled—the same light, bubbly sound he’d heard a hundred times over protein shakes and bad movie nights. The familiarity of it made his knees buckle.
He gulped, eyes darting frantically: your face, the curling horns, the flicking tail, back to your face. Finally the word scraped out of his throat.
“You’re… you’re…”
“A demon,” you finished for him, grin stretching too wide, fangs glinting sharp and pearlescent. You batted your lashes, slow and mocking. “Succubus. And I’m going to eat you.”
Caleb dropped to his knees like his strings had been cut. Hands clasped in front of him, eyes huge and glassy, already spilling over with that kicked-puppy desperation he wore so well.
“Oh no please don’t eat me,” he whimpered, voice cracking into broken little sobs. “I’m not tasty I promise! Please… I don’t wanna die…”
Your chest tightened again—sharp, unwelcome, almost painful. You smirked through it, leaning down until your cleavage hovered inches from his face. Tilted his chin up with one clawed finger. His gaze locked immediately on the deep valley between your breasts; cheeks flamed crimson.
“Awww, don’t worry baby,” you cooed, thumb brushing his trembling lower lip. “You are tasty, I promise. But… I’m not gonna eat you like that.” You winked, slow and filthy. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”
He blinked up at you, lower lip still wobbling. “That way? What—”
You leaned closer, breath ghosting over his ear. “I’m going to fuck you raw, baby~”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Just a soft, strangled sound. His eyes were wild—fear and arousal crashing together so hard you could practically taste it rolling off him in waves. His dick twitched visibly in his shorts, thick and insistent, already leaking a dark spot against the fabric.
You purred again, pleased. “You’re gonna be a good boy and let me eat, right baby?~”
Your claws hooked the waistband of his shorts. One sharp tug and they were down around his thighs. He squeaked—high and startled—then felt the world tilt as you shoved him backward. His back hit the mattress with a soft whump. He didn’t know if it was magic or just the sheer force of your want, but God help him, he didn’t care.
“Pipsqueak?” he breathed, face burning scarlet, voice wrecked. His cock sprang free—huge, flushed, leaking steadily at the tip, veins standing proud. “It’s… it’s too big… it’s ugly… you can’t take it—”
“Shhhh, baby…”
You silenced him with your mouth on his. Soft at first—then deeper, hungrier. His lips parted on a gasp and you plunged your tongue inside, tasting him: clean sweat, protein-shake sweetness, and that golden rush of pure life energy that made your whole body hum. A low groan vibrated in your throat. You kissed him harder, filthy and claiming, tongues tangling in a dangerous, wet slide.
When you pulled back a glistening string of saliva connected your lips. You grinned down at him, dark eyes glittering with mischief.
“Oh baby, my Leb~” you purred, wrapping one hand around his shaft. “You’ve got no idea how much I can take.”
You pumped him once. Twice. Slow. Deliberate. Watching his face crumple into shameless pleasure, fingers clawing at the sheets.
Before he could stammer out another protest, you sank down.
One smooth, greedy swallow—taking him to the base in a single glide. Your nose buried in the soft brown curls at his groin. Throat stretching around the impossible girth. Eyes rolling back in bliss as the thick length filled your mouth, your throat, pulsed hot against your tongue.
Caleb choked on his own spit. Head slamming back against the pillow. “Ah—fuck—!”
You groaned around him, the vibration ripping straight up his spine. Pulled halfway off—slow, torturous—then swallowed him back down to the root. Again. And again. Bobbing your head with wet, obscene sounds, fingers rolling his heavy balls, massaging, tugging gently.
He couldn’t take it.
His hands flew to your horns—gripping tight, instinctive, desperate. Then he thrusted.
Whole length slamming down your throat with a choked, broken moan. “Ahhhh fuck… so good… my whole dick—ahhh…”
Your eyes watered. Tears streaked down your cheeks. You gagged—loud, messy—but didn’t pull away. Just let him use you. Let him fuck your face with frantic, uneven thrusts, drunk on the heat and the slick and the way your throat fluttered around him like it was made for this.
He pulled out halfway—gasping, dazed—looked down at you with glassy, drunken eyes. Gripped your horns tighter.
Then thrusted back in.
Back and forth. Merciless. Chasing the wet heat of your mouth like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
You were choking. Gagging. Drool spilling down your chin, over his balls. And he didn’t even notice—too lost, too far gone in the pleasure you were giving him.
His hips stuttered. Breath coming in ragged sobs.
“Pipsqueak—fuck—I’m—gonna—”
You hummed around him—encouraging, hungry, victorious.
And just like that, the big dumb puppy finally broke.
He came with a guttural groan that rattled the windows—deep, broken, animal. Hot ropes of cum flooded your throat, thick and endless, and you swallowed every drop like it was nectar from the heavens. The taste exploded across your tongue—pure, golden life energy, richer than anything the frat boys ever gave you. Months of hollow hunger finally sated—your taste buds singing, your whole body thrumming with stolen vitality. You pulled off with a lewd, wet pop, strings of spit and cum connecting your swollen lips to his flushed tip. Gave the half-hard length a playful smack with your palm.
He whimpered—high, shattered, adorable.
“Fuck, you taste so good, Leb,” you rasped, licking your lips slow and deliberate. “So fucking good.”
You stood up on shaky legs, claws hooking the thin straps of your latex thong. One tug and it slithered down your thighs, pooling on the floor like spilled ink. Caleb’s drunken gaze snapped wide when he saw you straddle him again—saw you drag your soaked pussy along the slick head of his cock, coating him in your arousal.
His big hands flew to your hips instantly. Fingers digging into soft flesh, covering your waist completely, thumbs pressing into the dip above your ass.
“Wait—pipsqueak—it might hurt,” he panted, voice wrecked and earnest even now. “I don’t wanna hurt you… it’s too big—”
You smirked down at him, tail flicking playfully before it coiled tight around the thick base of his shaft like a living cock ring. He gasped—back arching off the mattress, head slamming back into the pillow.
“I’m a succubus, Leb,” you purred, sticking your tongue out with naughty mischief. “I know exactly how to take a dick.”
Then you sank down.
One long, slow, greedy slide.
He filled you to the absolute brim—stretching you open, pressing hot and heavy against your cervix until the air punched out of your lungs in a shameless moan. His own breath choked off in a strangled sound, eyes rolling back.
“Oh shit—ahhh fuck… yes… oh god yes!!”
You started bouncing—slow at first, then faster, wet slaps echoing in the room. Your tail stayed wrapped snug around his base, squeezing rhythmically, the spade tip teasing lower—nudging, circling, pressing against his tight hole.
“Mmmhhh… you like that, baby?” you gasped, grinding down hard. “You like that? Fuck…”
Caleb choked again—hands clamping your hips like a vice. He thrust up to meet you, slamming his full length inside with brutal force.
“Hnghhhhh~”
The obscene bulge appeared in your lower belly—thick outline of his cock visible under your skin. You stared down at it, utterly fucked-out and pleased, nails digging into his shoulders.
Then the tip of your tail breached him—sliding in slow, slick, curling just right.
You leaned down, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your tits flush to his heaving chest. Drunk on the stretch, on the heat, on him.
“Ahhh Leb… you’re so cute, baby… my baby… my Leb~” The words spilled out, soft and wrecked. “I love you, baby~”
Three words you’d never said to anyone—not in centuries. Not like this. Not when your body was finally full and your heart felt like it might burst from how alive it suddenly was.
You could feel his heartbeat hammering against your breasts—frantic, unsteady. His head was thrown back, babbling drunken nonsense: “Pipsqueak—fuck—too good—can’t—ahh—”
You rubbed the tip of your tail against his prostate—firm, deliberate circles.
His whole body seized.
Back arching off the bed in a perfect bow. Eyes rolling back until only white showed. A scream tore out of him—raw, broken—as he came like a fucking fountain. Pulse after pulse flooding deep inside you, hot and thick, overflowing until it leaked down your thighs.
His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise—even through demonic skin. Body jerking, shuddering, riding the aftershocks.
Then—quiet. Breathless.
He blinked up at you through tear-wet lashes, voice barely a whisper, cracked and reverent before he saw black.
“I… love you too… pipsqueak…”
—
—
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the blinds and warmed your skin. You groaned softly, stretching in the sheets, body heavy and languid. The bed felt too soft—too comfortable—and then the memories crashed in like a wave— the way you’d taken him, drained him deep, pulled more energy than you ever meant to. In the past, when you’d gone too far, the boys never woke up the same. Sometimes not at all.
“CALEB?!?”
You bolted upright, heart slamming against your ribs, panting hard. The spot beside you was empty. Sheets rumpled, pillow dented, but no golden-tanned muscle. No sleepy grin. No heartbeat thumping under your palm.
Panic clawed up your throat.
You looked down at your hands—smooth, human hands. No black claws. No crimson skin. Just soft fingers trembling in the morning light.
Heavy footsteps thumped down the hallway. Then Caleb appeared in the doorway—shirtless, a ridiculous “kiss the cook” apron tied haphazardly over his boxers, spatula in one hand, flour dusting his cheek like war paint. Hickeys and bite marks bloomed across his neck and chest in vivid purple, but he looked… fine. More than fine. Radiating that same dumb, sunny energy.
“Yes, pipsqueak?” he asked, tilting his head, concern creasing his brow.
You blinked. Once. Twice. Then scrambled off the bed and stumbled to the full-length mirror on the closet door. Still naked and trembling.
You stared.
No horns. No tail. No wings tucked beneath glamour. Just you—human you. Skin warm and flushed, eyes the same soft color they’d been before the curse took hold thousands of years ago. You reached up, fingers brushing your forehead where the spirals used to curl. Nothing. You tried to summon them—forced the old shift—and nothing happened. They were gone. Not hidden. Gone forever.
Your eyes filled with tears so fast the room blurred.
You spun around. Caleb was still standing there, spatula forgotten, watching you with quiet worry.
“Leb…” Your voice cracked. “I’m… I’m finally free. I’m… not a demon anymore…”
The words tumbled out, small and broken. You didn’t even realize you were crying until hot tears spilled down your cheeks.
Caleb’s face softened. He dropped the spatula onto the dresser and crossed the room in two strides. You launched yourself at him—naked, shaking, desperate—and he caught you like always. Massive arms wrapped around your back, one hand cradling the nape of your neck, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades.
He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand explanations. Just held you tighter, chin resting on top of your head, pressing soft kisses into your hair.
“Shhh, pipsqueak,” he murmured against your scalp. “I’ve got you.”
You buried your face in his chest, inhaling soap and flour and that warm, golden scent that had ruined you from the first day. Sobs shook your shoulders—ugly, relieved, centuries-old grief finally breaking free.
You’d forgotten. A thousand years under the curse, you’d forgotten the oldest part of the story— the succubus had been human once. A woman cursed to feed, to take, to be lusted but never be loved in return. Only true love—real, stupid, unconditional love—could lift it. Break the chains. Turn her mortal again.
You’d never believed it would happen. Never thought anyone could love the monster instead of the mask.
But Caleb had.
He’d loved your giggles over burnt pancakes. Your lumpy protein shakes. Your teasing. Your softness hidden under sharp edges. He’d never once hesitated—not when you were human-glamoured, not when you were horns-and-tail-and-all. He’d loved your soul first, and the body just came along for the ride.
That’s why he hadn’t flinched. Why he hadn’t run.
You clung to him harder, fingers digging into the broad planes of his back.
He kissed the top of your head again. Slow. Steady.
“Whatever you are, pipsqueak,” he whispered, voice thick with something tender and unshakable, “you’re still mine. Okay?”
You nodded against his chest, tears soaking into his skin.
༉‧₊˚. after a long overdue breakup with your horrible ex, you’re left in your sorrows of wasting a lot of your good years being with him. thankfully your best friend sukuna, who you haven’t talked to recently, comes over to comfort you. the two of you start to reminisce on life before your shitty ex came along, and the reminiscing turns into reenactment and long awaited confessions.
contents softkuna lovers RISE UP, he might be ooc here babes srry, slow burn cramped in a fast paced one shot BOOM u and sukuna fuck it out, unprotected sex wrap it b4 u tap it, multiple orgasms, squirting, naoya is your ex barf, creampies, fingering, kuna calls u bunny, sweet girl, baby, oral f receiving, a bit of yearner kuna, implications of cheating but not done by u or kuna — 3.8k words
doll notes ୨୧ my first official work outside my typical drabble format \(//∇//)\ will be working towards publishing these kinds of works alongside my smutty drabbles so i hope thats ok w u all hehe quite nervous about this but i yearn for softkuna i just had to self indulge ,, i hope u guys enjoy xoxo
“thanks for coming over,” you say as you close the door behind you before following behind him as he makes his way to your living room. a route that he knows all too well.
he doesn’t look around; this place is more than familiar to him. he’s been your best friend since middle school days, back when sukuna’s attitude would cause you to not believe your future self who came back to tell you that sukuna does get better.
he’s still that same grumpy, hates people, no time for chit chat person, but as he spent more pivotal years with you, he grew to treat you differently compared to other people. in other words, you’re special. in general and to sukuna.
however, because of the close bond between the two of you, your now ex boyfriend was jealous enough to keep the two of you apart. under the presumption that you loved him, you indulged in his doubts and politely told sukuna that you loved him, but your boyfriend — now ex, didn’t like your friendship.
and sukuna loves you. really loves you. so he follows your wishes. but he knew they weren’t really your wishes.
and it’s a year later today, and sukuna is now walking into your living room and making himself comfortable as if the year away from each other’s lives never happened at all.
“you came calling,” he shrugs like it was the only thing rational to do. and to sukuna, it really is.
“we broke up.”
“i know,” you furrow an eyebrow at this. “he….you know’im. quick to run his mouth. all he ever did,” sukuna mumbles the last part, but you still catch it.
“oh.”
i beat his ass though, is what he wanted to say, but chooses not to and instead just nods.
“don’t care though. i’m finally out of his life,” you sigh dreamily, cause you’ve wanted this for so long. it took you so long to notice anything.
naoya is a piece of shit — you knew this from the start. he wanted control, and he never hid it. looking back on it, you’re not sure what you saw in him. maybe you were using him as replacement for someone else, but it just never worked. or maybe he did something … said something, that reminded you too much of someone else.
you never loved him. just saw someone else in him, hoping that some of the things that your piece of shit boyfriend — now ex, would say to you at night, it’s him saying it.
so maybe instead of moping around about the fact you just got cheated on, for one, naoya seemed the type to do so anyway and two, it sort of maybe kinda made you feel better about using him as a … stand-in.
“you don’t seem too affected.” sukuna is looking you in the eyes, watching how your shoulders are relaxed instead of tense from the weight of what you’re carrying. that’s how he saw you last, and that’s when you were actually in the relationship.
“yeah. relieved, actually.” you exhale, sitting down beside him.
“that’s good,” he nods. then, there’s this silence between you two. it’s not awkward—or bad. just….silence.
“i missed you.” you break this silence, hoping this invisible wall between the two of you would just go away.
“if you seem to be doing fine, why am i here?” sukuna is blunt. you expected it.
“i’m sorry that i chose him over you.” even as you claimed sukuna now to have matured from his shittier ways, you know he’s petty deep down. you know his thinking, can understand that although he understands what you did and why you did, he’s your best friend. he felt he deserved a little better than that.
“do you remember,” he responds, and you furrow an eyebrow, unsure of where he’s going with this. “a week before he asked you out you told me—”
two years ago…
“—please take my virginity.” sukuna doesn’t stop eating his sandwich, not giving you much of a reaction, and you’re not sure whether to be thankful for that, or rather have him make a face and berate you for being a disgusting pig.
“the fuck’s gotten into you?” his mouth is full, jaw moving to chew his food down faster to continue this very interesting conversation.
“i mean it. i’ve never had sex before and naoya he—” you look away from sukuna, “he’s had so much. i don’t want him to be turned off that i’m…” you trail off, and sukuna’s fists tighten.
“you’re a fucking idiot,” sukuna swallows the last bite, keeping his eyes on you despite yours being everywhere else but at his. “you want me to take you? y’trust me?” he says, his voice dropping incredibly deep as he leans into your ear.
you swallow, nodding. he smirks, placing a soft kiss on your cheek before taking your hand and bringing you to your bedroom.
sukuna pushes you onto the bed, crawling in between your legs as you spread them to make room for him. he pulls your pants off and throws your shirt behind him, leaving you with your tits out and cute panties on full display to him.
his eyes immediately dart to your underwear, hands caressing your waist. “fuck, you look so cute baby,” his fingers trail to the band of your underwear, teasing himself and running his hands to outline the band. he does this a few more times before finally pulling your panties off you, eyes never leaving your bottom half.
you swear you literally see his dick jump at the sight of your pussy, all wet and sticky just for him.
“cute lil pussy just dripping from nothing,” he smiles, and you shake your hips rebelliously at his dirty words, only for him to grab your hips and tighten his hold, keeping you still.
he doesn’t look away from your throbbing cunt.
“mmfff, ‘kuna,” you whine, feeling your pussy clench on nothing, and if you can feel it — sukuna sees it.
he’s mesmerized, losing his grip on your left hip to bring two fingers to your folds, and your sticky pussy makes his fingers wet immediately. you moan, subconsciously spreading your thighs wider.
he notices and frees his other grip on your hips to grab your thigh and spread your legs wider, allowing him to stick two fingers in.
“oh fuck,” your back arches, bringing a hand to your clit.
“no bunny,” sukuna says, fastening his pace. his cock gets harder the more of you he feels drench his fingers, loving the way your body does tiny jolts as you hiccup from the pleasure.
“feels good — ‘kuna, c-clit please…” you spread your legs wider for him, hoping your slutty display will give you what you want. and luckily for you, it does. he uses his other hand to rub circles on your clit, unable to take his eyes away as your pussy clenches non-stop around his digits.
the pads of his fingers are rubbing against a spot between your puffy walls, sending jolts of massive pleasure throughout your body.
“give it to me baby,” sukuna kisses your cheek, lips lingering like he wants to go more to the right and kiss you where he wants to — where he should, where he belongs. “cum for me bunny,”
and you whine. loud. holding onto the bottom of your knees to spread yourself wider as your orgasm crashes, literally frying every nerve in your body with so much pleasure you’re shaking.
“yeah that’s it, so cute baby,” sukuna says, swiping his thumb on your clit before pulling away completely, fingers moved into his mouth without a second wasted. you fill his tongue, and he had to fight everything in him to not cum in his pants right there.
you exhaled, already too spent to give him anything else. sukuna sees that, and it only urges him on. if whatever is going on between you and that piece of fuck naoya actually progresses, he’s not gonna see you for a while.
everyone knows you’re sukuna’s girl. unbeknownst to you, everyone in your circle (and outside of it because sukuna secretly scared off every single one who even dared) is aware that you’re pretty much off limits. it’s not like you pay them any attention anyways, so if anything sukuna is helping them not waste their time.
naoya, being who he is, takes interest in this unspoken thing between you and sukuna, and wanted nothing more than to get in the middle of it.
if this is the first and last time he’ll ever have you like this, legs spread with your release messy on your cunt and inner thighs, face drenched in tears because oh my god, your best friend just made you cum so good, then he’ll make sure to make it last for as long as he could.
“want you, ‘kuna.” you reach out for him like you want to be engulfed in anything that’s him. you’re desperate for his touch, had just cum from it, and you’re needy. but who is sukuna when he doesn’t spoil his girl.
“i got you, sweet girl.” he’s swiftly taking his pants off, cock springing out and immediately resting heavy in between your legs. the underside of his cock slaps against your clit and you jump, followed by a gasp. “ready, baby?” he slowly thrusts his hips, letting the underside of his cock rub against your pussy, vein dragging your clit in the most delicious way possible.
you cry out when he slips it in, slowly but surely, all while smoothing gentle circular motions on your clit to ease the stretch. he’s big. as fuck. you can understand why despite sukuna’s nasty attitude and seeming disinterest on if not all then most of his romantic partners, they all come back begging and crying as if they were the ones that initiated the relationship to end.
“i’ll go slow baby, okay?” sukuna says once he’s bottomed out, closing his eyes and hissing at your tight walks clenching on him messily. like… like you’re about to cum. “oh, baby.” he says condescendingly while you cry, body twitching and pussy spasming as you cum dumbly on his cock—before he even moved.
as you’re about to come down from the intense orgasm, sukuna starts to thrust at a decent pace. but for a virgin like you, this pace is absolutely killing you. your legs are spread impossibly wide and your head is thrown back, arms locked around sukuna’s neck. one of his arms are holding your leg to widen your spread and the other is playing with your clit, loving how hard you cry from the overstimulation.
“c-cant, ‘kuna—fuck it’s so good—gonna cum,” you can’t speak properly, fucked dumb on your best friend’s cock. everything feels too good you almost forget that now that you’ve got a taste of him, you’re ruined. no one can pleasure you like him. no one can understand your mind, soul, your body like him.
him. sukuna. he’s fucking you so stupid and he’s drowning your thoughts. you’re laying on the bed all taken care of sexually and emotionally, all by him. by your nth orgasm of the night, pussy clamping on his cock as he dumps his load in you, pumping you full of him, there’s something heavy in the air.
so many words left unsaid. so many actions left unseen. despite the heaviness of it all, he accepts. accepts and never asks for more. accepts that when he tucks you to bed, you’ll drift off and start the day with someone else.
present day…
“still one of the best sex i ever had,” you don’t really know why you said that. maybe it’s the wine finally settling in, or maybe you’ve had two glasses and are only coping to rid the fact that you just said that freaky shit unwarranted.
sukuna looks at you, slightly frowning. “one of?”
you chuckle, “the best.”
“damn straight,” he whispers. only now you’ve noticed that your faces are inches apart, voices reducing to hushed whispers yet it doesn’t diminish the weight of each word you say to each other. in fact, it strengthens it.
you grow impatient by the minute, ready to get it over with and just lay yourself out to him like you’ve done so before, this time only emotionally.
but before you could, he interrupts you.
“i see you in everyone i date. everyone i see, or talk to.”
you falter, everything you’ve wanted to say — wanted to do; all autonomy in your body has disappeared. he’s using you like a puppet master, and you’re willing.
“watching you be with naoya made me feel like shit. i’m not a good person myself but that freak is literal devil spawn,” sukuna rolls his eyes and although you don’t notice yet, you’re tearing up, laughing at his rants.
“for so long, i didn’t really care about just being your friend. you never gave anyone else the attention you gave me. but watching you obsess over naoya of all people, to the point of—” he stops himself there, eyes landing on yours as you patiently wait for him to finish his sentence.
you know what he’s gonna say. you just don’t know if he’ll actually say it.
“ever since that night,” sukuna continues and with every word, you hear the feelings dripping off each word he confesses to you. “i can’t stop thinking about you. not like i don’t constantly thinking about you—cause i do. that day i just knew, you’re it for me.”
you’re silent, voice caught in everything you want to say to him. “kuna,” you want to call out to him, let him know that he’s not alone in this complicated mess between the two of you.
“i love you.”
your heart grows, an unfamiliar feeling of warmth and security shooting out in multiple directions to spread to the rest of your body.
“it’s always been you,” you clear your throat, growing nervous at the direction you’re going for with your confession. “it took me so long to notice. naoya, he—” you sigh, “he was always a distraction. from you.”
sukuna, despite everything in him screaming at him to just kiss you, he doesn’t. instead, he patiently waits for you to continue. he’s waited for you for so long, what’s another minute?
“i couldn’t stand being your friend anymore. but, i’m selfish and i didn’t want to lose you.” one small movement and his lips are on yours. you’re now seated comfortably on his lap, his grip on your waist tight, because he doesn’t want to let you go anymore.
“what about now?” he whispers against your desperate lips, swallowing every urge in your body to lean forward and taste him.
“i never want to lose you.” you wrap your arms around his neck. he leans his forehead against yours, lips ghosting yours.
“you won’t, baby.” he reassures before finally, at long last, kisses you. with everything he couldn’t say to you, he relayed it in the kiss. and you, with years worth of words you were never able to tell him, respond back with your own desperation. no more hiding from each other.
you’re naked, sat on his lap while he’s shirtless, sweats hanging loose and desperate to free his cock. “hi ‘kuna.” you smile sheepishly, eyes making contact with his. he smiles and plants a kiss on the tip of your nose.
“my sweet girl,” he turns, laying you on your back. you spread your legs for him, rubbing circles on his thighs. “y’gonna be a slut for me?” he spits a fat glob of spit on your clit. although, you don’t really need it as you get wet enough. more than enough, actually.
“yeah,” you whisper. he didn’t expect you to respond, thinking you were just gonna whine and demand him to fuck you stupid already. by the way, he would’ve obliged with zero questions asked.
“mmm, my good girl.” he hums, leaning down and rearranging himself so he’s now face to face with your pussy. “it’s okay, i’ll take care of you,” he plants soft kisses on your inner thighs before licking a strip up your folds, tongue catching your wetness.
you moan softly, feeling his tongue reach up to your clit, hard and pulsing from your growing animalistic want for him.
“fuck, you taste so good.” sukuna flicks his tongue a couple of times, the flashes of pleasure causing you to arch your back and grip at his hair. “how ya feel, bunny?” his words come out muffled, mouth occupied with making you feel good.
“mhm, mhm…” you close your eyes in bliss, spreading your legs wider as he quickens his pace on your clit, fingers reaching up to make its way inside you. your wetness does nothing but make everything sukuna wants to do ten times easier, his fingers slippery and drenched before his fingertips could even reach all the way in.
“yeah?” he admires you as you hump against his hand, nose bumping at your clit while he pumps you with no mercy. you’re whining, pussy clenching hard on his fingers as you near your release. “tell me bout it, bunny.”
“feels good—fuck… wann’cum! please,” you cry, letting go of his hair to cover your mouth. sukuna looks at you and you’re so hot covering your mouth from making so many noises. but you’re his noisy girl. he loves all your cute noises. he swats your hands off your mouth with practiced precision, and your desperate and slutty moans are filling the room.
“i know baby,” he’s carrying a certain tone, one that makes every word from him come from a place of pity. like, you’re so ruined and absolutely divine looking. “cum for me, yeah? show me, c’mon, i missed you.” he applies pressure as he tongues you, and your whines of pleasure are absolute music to his ears.
“cumming,” you heave. “fuck, ‘kunie—m’cumming!” you cry, releasing all over his fingers. your clit pulses in sync to your walls clamping around his digits.
“you look so fucking good,” sukuna almost whines at the perfect sight of you. a moment he’s wished to have again the day after he took your virginity, is now playing in front of him, except you look more beautiful than he could ever imagine you. despite studying your features over the years he’s known you, he always seems to underestimate your beauty. the more he saw you, he swears—on everything, that you get more beautiful each time.
his fingers leave you with zero restriction, cunt too wet and sticky to be affected by how tight you are post-orgasm. sukuna licks one swipe of his tongue on his fingers, eye rolling at your taste.
“taste good bunny,” he smiles at you, licking your essence clean before gripping your thighs and bringing you closer to him. “y’gonna let me in? be my good girl?” he asks, tip prodding at your entrance. one move from you is the instant slip of his cock inside you.
“good girl…” you babble, and sukuna kisses your lips before slowly sliding in, cursing at how impossibly tight and wet you feel around him.
“feel me baby?” sukuna bottoms out, and you cough out a moan, his sheer size nearly choking you. he brings a thumb to your clit, your wetness allowing him to rub circles on it as fast as he can, friction non existent. “want you to cum on me first, yeah?” he doesn’t move his cock, only allowing you pleasure through the feeling of his thumb rubbing you desperately, all while he has you filled to the brim.
“wanna cum on it,” you attempt to hump yourself on his cock, desperate to feel it to its full potential. sukuna shakes his head, clearly disappointed at your poor attempts of holding yourself back. “please ‘kunie!”
“cum bunny.” he whispers and you cry, legs spreading as you cum and coat his cock with your mess. sticky strings of cum connect your sensitive cunt to the base of his cock, groaning at how cute you looked cumming on his dick. “felt good?” he smiles and you nod, whimpering to get him to understand. he nods, already making way to start moving.
“yes, oh god—please!” you gasp, his dick prodding at your gummy spot. “right there! oh my god, right there!” you sob as he brings his thumb back on your clit, caring for it as it grows neglected from his sudden focus on your hole.
“mm, dumb baby. feels good getting fucked by me, hm?” he asks, and pathetically, you answer with drool dripping down your chin. “gonna make a mess for your ‘kunie? c’mon sweet girl, make a mess.” he starts thrusting faster, using your pathetic whines and cries as fuel to keep going.
“mess…” you’re mumbling again, and sukuna laughs condescendingly from above you. “gonna make a mess ‘kunie…” your energy is spent, but you can’t stop begging for it. for him. he’s claimed you before naoya even came into your life, and you finally see it the way everyone else does.
“be my messy girl,” he says, and that’s all you need to burst, moaning loudly at the pleasure rushing through your body. your cunt is spasming, spurting out your juices here and there, to which sukuna is unhappy about. you start to thrash around when he quickens his fingers against your clit before you could even come down from your orgasm.
“wait—‘kunie! wha…what are youdoingohmygod-” you squeal as you squirt all over him. sukuna groans, landing one final thrust and making sure to go as deep as he can go before shooting his load in you, filling you nicely.
in silence, you watch sukuna as he takes care of your aftercare, not once making eye contact with you. he cleans you up like it’s routine, like he’s done this a million times, and he looks damn good doing it.
you start to feel insecure the longer you sit there naked, and sukuna seems to be taking his sweet time. you wait for him to finish so you can spill the rest of your heart out.
“i meant every word i said,” you say impatiently. you watch him run a warm cloth over your body, anticipation growing as he continued on without even acknowledging you. “hey, did you—”
“—can i just..” sukuna interrupts you, “i wanna bask in this, so quit your yap.” he grumbles at you. you laugh cheekily before nodding, allowing him a few seconds more of silence.
he puts the cloth on the coffee table, leaning over to plant a gentle kiss on your forehead. “i know you did,” he says, referring to your previous statement. “me too.”
you smile, positioning yourself to sit up. “yay.” you mutter quietly, but he still heard you and responded with a chuckle. “so what does this make us?” you point to him and then yourself.
“whatever you wanna make it, angel. i love you, and i’ll do anything for you.” he grabs your face, as soft as ever, before bringing it close to him to kiss you passionately.
you deepen the kiss, feeling yourself on cloud 9 as he dances his lips against yours. all the more reason your breakup with naoya was long overdue. you could’ve had this so long ago.
42 dollars, to be exact. and by the looks of it, the loose coins in your piggy bank weren’t going to be enough this time.
the idea didn’t come easy. it took hours of questions, hours of thinking. but when you saw a big kid grab a drink from the park vending machine, a lightbulb flashed overhead: you were going to make a lemonade stand.
it was a solo gig, at first. you had it all figured out: you’d snuck the ingredients onto gran’s grocery list, cut out some yellow streamers on construction paper, and asked your math teacher what the price per cup should be. everything was going just as you hoped.
that is, until the night before setup, when caleb's nosy self had popped in out of nowhere and ruined your plans.
he’d caught you in the kitchen, teetering on the stepstool as you tried to reach the sugar, and decided you needed his help.
and after you lost the ensuing argument—there wasn’t much you could do with all the lemons, cups, and spoons floating over your head—you’d reluctantly accepted it.
so you’d put him to work. he squeezed, and you mixed. you’d been on squeeze duty at first, actually, until he’d slowly nudged you out of the way. a) i’m stronger, he’d said. and b), if the juice sprays in my face, it won’t affect me as much. you know i love sour things.
and so you worked in a steady rhythm, making batch after batch until gran decided it was bedtime.
the next day, as you set up in the summer heat, caleb had to pull your bottom lip out from your teeth. it’s just so scary not knowing if anyone will come, you’d whined.
look on the bright side, he’d offered, ruffling your hair. if it’s a slow day, we’ll have enough lemonade to last us a week.
but as the sun rose in the sky, customers from all around the block trickled in. friends with their parents, the nice lady down the street—even the cranky old grandma with the snobby cat had stopped by.
and caleb had been by your side the whole time. counting cash when the numbers got too high, fetching more ice when your supply melted, and chatting with the guests you didn’t know that well.
order up, pip-squeak, he’d called, brandishing two full glasses with a toothy grin. those had been for the newlyweds a couple houses down. you always told him you wanted to be like them when you grew up, but his cheeks got red every time. you never could figure out why.
when you’d gotten too hot, caleb had even poured you a cup of your own, dropping a few too many crinkled-up bills into your coin jar. it’s called a tip, he’d told you. people give you those when they think you’ve done a good job.
the last few customers came by after work, when a soft evening breeze cooled the air. before you knew it, the sun was setting, and you wobbled back inside with the overflowing jar you insisted on carrying yourself.
89 dollars was the day’s total, and with a loud cheer, you gave caleb his share of your earnings. he’d refused at first, but you’d forced him to take it, knowing he’d do the same for you.
and the next week, after a thrilling trip to the mall, your 42 dollars went to a new home. your purchase? a shiny model airplane, bought just in time for caleb’s birthday.
series synopsis | you’ve known ryomen sukuna practically your whole life. through the years that turned childhood into something messier, softer, harder to define. hot-headed, reckless and steady in all the ways you shouldn’t need him to be. and lately, you can’t tell if he’s crossing the line or if you’re meeting him halfway. [mdni 18+]
chapters
｡𖦹°‧ prologue
｡𖦹°‧ one
｡𖦹°‧ two
｡𖦹°‧ three
｡𖦹°‧ four
｡𖦹°‧ five
｡𖦹°‧ six
｡𖦹°‧ seven - coming soon
one-shots
｡𖦹°‧ only a dream | you have a dream you shouldn’t have and sukuna won’t let it go
｡𖦹°‧ four times sukuna almost confessed | four almost confessions, swallowed before you could hear them
｡𖦹°‧ baby, it's cold outside | you and sukuna prepare for your annual drive home for christmas, where tradition is easy and feelings are not (christmas special)
credits - dividers by @/uzmacchiato - art unknown but lmk if u know!
you can hardly hear choso's words, they're muffled into the crook of your neck, but you can hear the desperation in his tone as clear as day. he always gets like this when he's been away... touchy. horny.
"i'm pretty sure i've seen you sleep standing up like a horse," you grumble, trying (and failing) to push the mass of body weight off you. "we just had sex, cho, i've got enough of you inside me as it is. we don't need to cockwarm."
you aren't wrong, he told you he's been 'saving up' for you, and it wasn't an understatement. he's only been away for a week, but you're almost bloating with what feels like a months worth of unspent cum inside of you. you'd think, if he weren't so insistent about keeping you all to himself, that he was trying to fuck a baby into you.
"even better," he lifts his head and looks down at you, his cock already hard again and pressing against your sore thigh. "i can... plug you up. keep it in."
"very unhygienic. do you know anything about PH?"
"what? i don't use that site anymore. it makes my stomach hurt. feels like cheating."
"no, i mean—" you blink up at your boyfriend. "wait, what?"
"why would i want to watch other people do those things? i'm not a cockholder."
"cuckold, baby."
"i'm not a cuckold."
you can't help the laugh that slips past your lips. it makes choso laugh too, though you're sure he doesn't know why the two of you are laughing.
laughter turns into kisses somehow, as it usually does, and then kisses quickly turn into a wet tongue trailing down the column of your neck. his tongue laves at the juncture of your throat and shoulder, slow and sloppy like it's new skin he's exploring and not the same flesh he's conquered ten times tonight.
"wanna fall asleep inside of you," he pleads. "i'll be so good, i won't move or anything. you'll hardly notice me."
well that's a fucking lie if you've ever heard one. choso is more than big, and has a tendency to force your body to tighten up around him in some twisted biological ploy to keep him inside of you.
still, the idea is appealing. you always find yourself melting into his pleads, especially since he asks so nicely... "fine," you groan. "okay. you can put it back in, but we are going to sleep."
"i promise," he practically moans already pulling one thigh open to fit himself at your entrance. "thank you thank you thank you."
despite having taken him countless times already, you still gasp at the stretch of him pushing inside of you. you wonder if you'll ever get used to it.
he drapes his weight over you once he's buried himself to the hilt and you let out a deep sigh in turn. you can only describe how well he fits inside of you as natural—like every inch of him was moulded to fit your heat without fail.
"see?" he whispers against your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before tucking his face back into the crook of your neck. "i could stay like this forever."
and for a little while, he does. he relaxes fully, the only indicator of him still being awake is the sweet hums he lets out as you card your fingers through his hair and scratch gently at his scalp. and, despite his weight on top of you, relaxation takes hold quick, and you find yourself drifting off into the comfortable embrace of slumber.
until he moves, of course. his shoulders tense and his face scrunches up against your neck in obvious frustration.
"don't," you keep your eyes shut beneath him. "don't you dare."
he shifts against you, cock twitching where it’s locked deep inside. "but—"
"choso."
he groans pitifully and lifts his head just enough to look down at you. "i need to move."
"you promised," you crack one eye open to look at the flush decorating his cheeks, visible even in the low light. you try and keep a stern look on your face, but you're already shifting your hips in anticipation. "we need to sleep."
choso's forehead drops down to press against yours. he screws his eyes shut, looking a lot more distraught than need be. "i know, but i..." he swallows hard, and you can feel the pulsing of his cock inside of you, "...i wanna fuck you so bad."
this is a repost from my old deactivated account. i didn’t steal this, and if you say otherwise im gonna put unsavoury things in ya bum and make you bark like a dog
wc: 17k || art creds: @/winterrbluess @/su2kuna || 18+
frat!sukuna x shy!nerd!reader
A/N lowk this fic is much more toned down compared to what i usually post but fuck it we ball it's cute
summary ! sukuna doesn't give a shit about chemistry, that is until the big red 8% on his last test threatens to get him kicked out of his frat. desperate, he turns to the only person who can save him: you, the adorable, shy girl who aces every quiz. you agree to help, but only if he helps you get the attention of your hallway crush, his best friend, toji. what starts as a deal between you slowly turns into a spiral of love and jealousy. (18+, fluff, slight toji x reader (?), no angst for once omg go me)
the big red number stares back at him from the top of the paper like a brand burned into his pride. 8%.
sukuna exhales through his nose, the sound rough, annoyed. the paper crumples in his hand before he tosses it onto the desk. he leans back in his chair, the metal legs creaking under his weight as his jaw works.
normally, he wouldn’t give a damn about a grade. it’s not like chemistry was ever something he cared about. but this time, it’s different. one more fail and he’s out. the frat has rules, grades too low and you’re done. and he knows exactly what’ll happen if that happens.
tojis smug laugh. satoru’s endless teasing. the guys calling him “brain-dead” for weeks. no more parties. no more sorority hoes. no more lazy afternoons drinking on the porch with his friends.
he runs a hand down his face, dragging his fingers over the faint scar under his eye and the sharp tatted lines on his cut face. he can’t let that happen.
at the front of the room, their professor is rambling about averages and assessment weightings, something about the next major project. sukuna tunes back in when he hears the words “sixty percent” and “partner work.” that catches his attention.
the next gruelling assessment is a two-month long research investigation worth sixty percent of their final grade.
he was on the verge of strangling himself to death or jumping out of the top story window when he realised.
that’s it.
that’s his way out. he just needs a smart partner who can carry his hopeless ass.
sukuna’s eyes sweep across the room, scanning for anyone who looks like they know what the hell they’re doing. most of the people he usually talks to in class are as useless as he is, too busy flirting or sleeping through lectures.
but then his gaze catches on someone sitting right up the front.
you.
the quiet girl with the tidy notes and the neat handwriting, the one who always answers when the professor asks a question no one else dares to.
you’re sitting there now, head slightly tilted as you jot something down, your pen gliding across the page with that easy confidence of someone who actually understands this shit.
you’ve always sat alone, tucked near the window. you never talk during lectures unless you have to, and even then your voice is small, hesitant. you wear oversized sweaters, keep your hair pinned up, and avoid eye contact with anyone who looks remotely like they belong to his world.
still, he’s noticed you before. everyone has. it’s hard not to. you’re the kind of girl that seems untouchable, not because you’re trying to be, but because you’re so far removed from everything he knows. soft, focused, real sweet.
and right now, you look like salvation.
he pushes up from his seat, ignoring the curious glances from a few classmates as he moves down the aisle. his tall frame blocks the light for a second when he stops beside your desk. you glance up, startled, your pen pausing mid-sentence.
"yo, my names sukuna. and you?"
"uh, hi? it's y/n." he smirks at your shy response, but continues.
“you’re like, a chem genius, right?” his tone is low, rough with disinterest, though his eyes linger on you a little too long.
you blink up at him, hesitant. “oh, um… i guess? why?”
“i need a partner, like, real bad,” he says, dropping the failed exam onto your desk with a dull slap. the red ink almost glows. “i'm gonna be honest, i completely fucked myself with this last exam. i can’t afford to fail again.”
you stare at the paper, then at him. up close, he’s intimidating. messy pink hair, dark eyes sharp and unreadable, tattoos trailing up his arms, his face, and peeking out from under his shirt collar.
he looks nothing like someone who’d ever ask for help, especially from you, and the fact that he’s doing it now makes your mind reel.
“i- look, don't take this the wrong way, but... theres a lot of people in this class,” you manage softly. “why pick me?”
he shrugs, leaning one hand on the desk beside your notes. “because you actually know what you’re doing. and i’m not looking to get stuck with some idiot who’ll drag me down, i'm already so fucking cooked."
you hesitate, glancing away. you’ve never really talked to him before. actually, you’ve barely even noticed him beyond the times you’ve seen him walking across campus with toji. that’s usually when your stomach does that stupid fluttering thing. watching toji laugh, his arm slung lazily around sukuna’s shoulders, both of them looking like they own the place.
it’s strange seeing one of them standing here now, asking you for help.
you fidget with your pen. “that's fine, sure. but… if we’re partners, wed have to split the workload.”
"yeah,” he says. “i can pull my weight, don't stress it, sweetheart. mostly just need someone to keep me from bombing it.”
it’s almost funny. he’s trying to sound casual, but something about the way he’s watching you feels uncharacteristically careful. like he’s actually waiting for your answer rather than being the overbearing dick he usually is.
maybe it’s because you’re cute. or maybe it’s because he knows you hold his fate in your small, nervous hands.
you chew your lip for a moment, then nod. “yeah, okay. i’ll help you out.”
his mouth tilts in a grin that’s half smug, half genuine relief. “good. 'preciate it, babe.”
you look down instantly, pretending to organize your papers so he doesn’t see the way your face warms. you weren't used to such casual name calling.
he drags a chair over from the next row and drops into it beside you, leaning back like he’s been sitting there all semester.
the professor’s voice fades into the background again as you stare straight ahead, trying to focus on anything but the fact that sukuna ryomen, the most notorious guy in beta tau, is now your project partner.
a few minutes pass in silence. the lecture drags on, your notes filling another page. but your mind’s racing the whole time. sukuna, meanwhile, can’t stop sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye.
he hadn’t expected you to actually agree. and he definitely hadn’t expected to find himself curious about you. you’re so… different. not the kind of girl who shows up to parties. not someone who flirts back when he smirks at her. just quiet and sweet, head buried in your work, the type that shouldn’t even be in his orbit.
and yet here you are.
when the professor dismisses the class, people start packing up. you hesitate, fingers tightening around your pen. then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to him.
“hey… sukuna?”
he hums, eyes flicking toward you lazily. “yeah?”
you look nervous, the words almost tripping over themselves before they leave your mouth. cute. “i’ll help you pass. but… can you help me out with something too?”
his brow arches. “hmm. depends what it is.”
you take a quiet breath. “it’s about your friend. uh.. toji.”
that gets his attention. his posture stiffens a little. “what about him?”
you look down at your notebook, like it’s safer than looking at him. “i just… i think he’s really attractive. and he looks nice. i know it’s kind of stupid but i was wondering if maybe... you could help me get him to notice me.”
for a second, sukuna just stares at you.
out of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t it.
you, the shy little thing sitting up front, blushing and tripping over her own words, want toji fushiguro. one of the biggest assholes on campus. his best friend, sure, but a guy who barely remembers girls’ names after he sleeps with them.
he leans back slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “you’re serious?”
you nod, eyes still fixed on your notebook.
he studies you for a long moment. you’re fidgeting again, twisting your pen between your fingers, your voice so soft he almost misses it. “you don’t have to if it’s weird, i just thought… you two are close, so maybe…”
sukuna exhales through his nose. part of him wants to tell you it’s a bad idea. that toji doesn’t deserve someone like you. that you’d get hurt trying to chase a guy like that.
but he doesn’t.
instead, he tilts his head and says, “yeah, fine. i’ll help you out.”
your head snaps up, eyes wide. “huh? really?”
“yeah. but only because you’re saving my ass with this project,” he says, smirking a little. “guess we’ll call it even.”
you smile, small, bright, genuine, and something tightens in his chest.
you're so cute.
“thank you,” you say quietly.
he grins again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “don’t mention it, honey.”
and as you pack up your notes, he watches you go, already trying to ignore the strange feeling crawling up the back of his neck.
he tells himself it’s just a deal. a trade. nothing more.
but as you disappear out the door, he can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s gotten himself into more trouble than he realises.
~
music blasts through the frat, heavy bass shaking the walls, bodies moving in rhythm across the living room floor. someone’s yelling over the noise, someone else is laughing too loud.
the air smells like bad beer, smoke, and sweat, the classic friday night cocktail that means beta tau is alive and wild again.
sukuna leans against the kitchen counter, red solo cup in hand, watching a game of beer pong play out in front of him. the noise is deafening, but it’s a familiar kind of chaos. toji’s across the table, grin sharp as he sinks another ping-pong ball into the last cup.
“hell yeah,” toji shouts, hands raised. “that’s another win for me, baby!”
someone hands him another drink, and he downs it in one go, slamming the cup down as the room cheers. toji fushiguro lives for this kind of night, beer, bets, and easy company. sukuna’s used to it, the routine almost comforting.
he joins the next round, barely losing after a stupid bounce, then lets himself collapse onto the sagging couch beside toji. the music’s pounding through the walls, but the corner they’re in feels quieter, almost like the noise fades around them.
toji stretches out, arm slung over the back of the couch, shirt sticking to his skin. “you’re slipping, man,” he says, smirking at sukuna. “used to be able to hold your own in beer pong.”
“fuck up,” sukuna mutters, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. “that last shot was rigged.”
“rigged?” toji laughs, deep and unrestrained. “you’re just rusty.”
sukuna grunts, tossing his empty cup onto the coffee table. his head’s buzzing, not from the alcohol, just from thoughts, mostly the image of you, the way you looked earlier in class, keeps floating up uninvited. you sitting at the front of the room, your careful handwriting, the little way you’d fidget with your pen when you were nervous.
he doesn’t even realize he’s been quiet until toji elbows him. “yo, what’s got you zoning out?”
sukuna runs his tongue over his teeth, deciding. screw it. “you ever heard of someone named y/n?”
toji raises a brow, blinking like he didn’t catch that over the noise. “who?”
“y/n,” sukuna repeats.
toji shakes his head, lips quirking. “nah. that some new chick you’re banging?”
sukuna sputters, choking on air. “what? no. i’m not-” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. great. smooth start.
toji’s smirk widens. “come on, man. don’t get shy on me. you’re stuttering like some freshman.”
“shut up,” sukuna mutters, glaring at him. “it’s not like that.”
“then what’s it like?”
he hesitates, watching the light flicker off the beer bottles on the table. there’s no way to explain it without sounding weird. he’s not even sure why he’s bringing you up at all, except that he made a promise, and now he’s gotta start somewhere.
“she’s just… in my chem class,” he finally says. “smart as hell. the kind that actually knows what she’s doing, y’know?”
toji snorts. “so, a nerd.”
“yeah,” sukuna says, ignoring the way toji says it like it’s an insult. “but, like… cute. shy, quiet, nice, i guess.”
toji’s grin widens. “bro. you’re seriously telling me about a crush right now? what the hell happened to you?”
“it’s not a crush,” sukuna says quickly, though his voice comes out sharper than he means. “she’s just..” he stops, running a hand through his hair. “she’s helping me with chem, okay? and i told her i’d help her with something too.”
“what, she want free alcs?” toji laughs.
“no.” sukuna exhales through his nose. “she wants you.”
that earns him a pause. toji tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide if he misheard. “me?”
“yeah.”
“as in… she wants to, what, date me?”
“basically.”
toji’s silent for a moment, then he breaks into a bark of laughter so loud it turns a few heads. “you’re kidding, right? some shy nerdy girl wants me?” he grins, tapping his chest. “guess she’s got good taste.”
sukuna grits his teeth. “don’t be an ass about it.”
“what? i’m not being an ass,” toji says, still smirking. “just saying, that’s not really my type, man. i like girls who can actually keep up, y’know?”
“yeah, i know,” sukuna mutters. “that’s kinda the problem.”
“problem?”
sukuna leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “look, she’s… she’s sweet. like, actually sweet. the kind of girl that probably still says ‘sorry’ even when someone bumps into her first. you’d break her in half.”
toji shrugs, unbothered. “then maybe she shouldn’t be into me.”
“she doesn’t even know you,” sukuna says, frustration creeping into his tone. “she just saw you around. thinks you’re… i don’t know. hot and nice.”
“ha,” toji barks out a laugh, finishing his drink. “then she’s definitely got the wrong idea.”
sukuna sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. this was going nowhere.
he tries again, his tone careful. “i just figured maybe you could give her a chance. she’s not like the other girls you mess with. she’s…” he hesitates, searching for the right word. “different. the kind you’d actually like if you gave her five minutes.”
toji side-eyes him, clearly amused. “you trying to sell me a girlfriend or something? what’s in it for you?”
sukuna’s jaw tightens. “nothing. i told her i’d help her out, that’s all.”
toji grins, eyes glinting. “you sure about that? you sound kinda like you wanna keep her for yourself.”
sukuna’s silent for a beat, his pulse ticking faster than it should. “i don’t.”
“right. and i’m the pope.” toji laughs, leaning back. “are you high? tellin’ me about how cute and shy she is… just fuck her and move on, bro. no need for all this emotional shit.”
sukuna drags a hand down his face, groaning. “i wish i was fucking high. jesus, you’re impossible.”
the music gets louder again, another chant rising from the kitchen as someone calls for shots. toji stands, stretching, grinning down at him. “come on, man. stop thinking so hard. let’s go get wasted.”
sukuna waves him off. “nah, i’m good. go ahead.”
toji shrugs and disappears into the crowd. sukuna sinks further into the couch, head tipping back, letting the noise drown out the frustration burning in his chest.
this was going to be a nightmare.
.
the next morning, the fluorescent lights of the lecture hall feel like punishment. the air smells like stale coffee and paper, and the chatter around the room grates on his nerves. sukuna slouches into his seat, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion clinging to him.
you’re already there, of course. neat stack of papers beside your laptop, pen in hand, posture perfect. you glance up as he approaches, offering a small smile.
“morning,” you say softly.
“hey,” he mutters, sliding into the seat next to you.
the teacher doesn’t waste time, telling everyone to start working on their projects. pairs scatter across the room, some staying behind, others leaving for the library. you glance at sukuna, uncertain.
“should we…?”
“yeah, library,” he says before you can finish. “less noise.”
you nod quickly, tucking your notes under your arm as you follow him out.
the walk’s quiet. you keep close but not too close, fingers gripping the strap of your bag. sukuna glances at you once or twice as you walk, the sunlight catching the edge of your hair. there’s something weirdly calming about you, like your presence forces the chaos in his head to settle for a bit.
when you reach the campus library, you pick a small table near the back, away from the groups of whispering students. the morning light filters through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air. it’s quiet enough that every turn of a page feels loud.
you sit across from him, pulling your laptop from your bag. “um, before we start, maybe we should exchange contact info?”
he nods, pulling out his phone. “yeah. what's ya' number?”
you rattle it off, and he types it in. his phone pings a second later when you text him, and he adds your contact with a lazy swipe. then you both exchange social media.
you open your instagram to show him, but he’s already found it. your account’s small. cozy, soft colors, pictures of coffee cups, notes, and the occasional selfie that looks like you were trying not to take one.
then you look at his. thousands of followers, stories from parties, shirtless gym photos, snapshots of him and toji grinning like idiots with red cups in hand.
you blink, then smile politely. “ours are… really different.”
he huffs out a quiet laugh. “yeah. just a little.”
he doesn’t tell you that he finds it kind of adorable, how small and peaceful your corner of the internet looks compared to his chaos.
you both settle in to start discussing the project, papers spread between you. you talk about ideas, your voice growing steadier as you get into the topic. you explain concepts easily, your hands moving as you describe how you could structure the research, how to divide the work.
he listens. or tries to. mostly, he’s just watching the way you light up when you talk about something you love.
after a while, you pause, glancing at him with a small, hopeful look. “did you… talk to toji?”
he freezes for a fraction of a second, mind flashing back to last night. the laughter, the teasing, the absolute disaster of that conversation.
“yeah,” he says after a moment, forcing a smile. “i did.”
your eyes widen, curious. “what’d he say?”
he hesitates. you’re looking at him so earnestly, waiting for an answer, and he can’t bring himself to tell you that toji laughed it off, that he’d said something crude about just sleeping with you and moving on.
so he lies.
“he seemed interested,” sukuna says smoothly. “asked who you were. said you sounded cute.”
you go still for a moment, then your cheeks flush, and you duck your head. “really?”
“yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “told him you were smart, nice. he said that’s rare.”
your shy smile makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t understand.
“that’s… really nice of you, sukuna,” you say softly. “thanks.”
he shrugs, forcing a grin. “told you i’d help.”
but as you turn back to your notes, still smiling faintly to yourself, he can’t look away. he doesn’t know what’s worse, the way lying to you actually hurts his heart, or the way part of him’s starting to wish that toji never finds out who you are.
because the thought of you smiling like that at anyone else makes his stomach twist.
~
the frat house is quieter than usual when sukuna pushes the door open.
no bass pounding through the walls, no laughter echoing down the hallway, no beer pong table clattering in the kitchen. just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant muffled sound of someone’s tv from another room.
it’s strange. unsettling, almost. he’s gotten used to the constant noise, the never ending roar of people that filled the house from dusk till dawn.
he kicks off his shoes at the door, shoulders rolling back as he heads for the stairs. his head still feels heavy from the long day, the faint scent of your shampoo stuck in his memory.
it’s weird? he’s been around a thousand girls, maybe more. girls who practically threw themselves at him, who laughed too loud at his jokes and leaned in too close.
but somehow, you, sitting across from him with that shy smile and your soft voice explaining inter molecular relationship, manage to stick in his head longer than any of them ever have.
his room’s dark when he steps inside, save for the light bleeding in from the street through the blinds. he tosses his keys onto the desk and falls back onto his bed, exhaling. the ceiling stares back blankly.
he doesn’t even mean to grab his phone, but his hand moves before he can think. he unlocks it, thumb hovering over instagram.
just checking something, he tells himself.
his fingers type your username into the search bar without hesitation.
your profile opens instantly.
the same cozy layout he remembered. a few new story highlights. your bio, something simple, maybe a quote or a flower emoji. his thumb scrolls down slowly, eyes following the grid of neatly arranged photos. you, a few landscapes, coffee cups, snippets of sunlight through your window, a cat that might not even be yours.
he stops when he sees a picture from about a month ago.
you’re holding a tiny puppy in your arms, your face caught mid laugh, like someone had said something funny right before snapping the picture. the puppy’s paw rests against your chest, nose tucked near your chin. in your other hand, you’re holding a paper cup of coffee, a little swirl of foam peeking through the lid.
he stares at it for longer than he should.
it’s just a photo, nothing special, but something about it hits him hard . the little details, the way your fingers hold gently under the puppy’s paw, the sunlight catching on the curve of your cheek, the way your smile looks completely unposed.
he catches himself wondering stupid things.
was that your dog? probably not. maybe a friend’s. or some random one you met at a cafe.
was the coffee yours? it looks like something you’d order, something simple. maybe vanilla, maybe something with caramel.
where was that taken? some small corner cafe? a weekend morning somewhere quiet?
he doesn’t know. and that bothers him more than it should.
his thumb hovers over the photo for a second before he double taps it. the little red heart fills in on the corner of the screen.
great. now you’re going to see that he liked a post from a month ago. real smooth.
he tosses his phone onto the bed beside him, covering his face with his hands.
“what the fuck am i doing,” he mutters.
he’s never been that guy. the one who scrolls through a girl’s profile like he’s studying for an exam. the one who cares enough to wonder what her favorite coffee order is, or if she likes dogs or cats more. he doesn’t ask those questions. he doesn’t want to ask those questions.
but he can’t stop himself.
he scrolls again, back up to your most recent post, another candid shot, you’re wearing one of those oversized sweaters you always seem to wear to class, sleeves pulled over your wrists.
you look peaceful. and sweet. and so painfully far from the world he lives in.
his throat tightens unexpectedly, he looks deeper, really looks at you.
you’re really fucking pretty.
he’d always known that. he’d noticed, sure, he’s not blind. the first day you’d agreed to work with him, he’d thought you were cute. adorable, even. but now, staring at your pictures, seeing the small glimpses of your life beyond those chemistry notes and shy smiles, he realizes it’s more than that.
you’re beautiful.
and that realization sits heavy in his chest, thick and uncomfortable.
because he knows exactly where this is supposed to go.
he still owes you. he still promised you something.
toji.
the thought of his friend’s name makes him exhale hard through his nose.
he can already picture it. if he brings you up again, toji will laugh the same way he always does. say something crude. maybe shrug and agree to meet you, just for the hell of it. and maybe you’d smile that soft, nervous smile at him, and maybe you’d fall for him harder than you already have.
and that image, that thought? makes sukuna’s jaw clench.
he shakes his head, forcing the phone screen off.
“get a grip,” he mutters, rolling onto his side.
but it’s no use. even as he closes his eyes, the image of you laughing with that puppy burns into the back of his mind.
~
two weeks pass withf lectures and late-night text exchanges about project deadlines.
you’ve met up three times since that first day at the library. each time, sukuna’s noticed small things. how you seem to relax around him more, how you’ve started teasing him lightly when he messes up an equation, how your laugh sounds quiet but genuine when he actually manages to make you smile.
and now, on the fourth meeting, he finds himself heading to the library again, trying to ignore the way his stomach feels weirdly tight.
you’re already there when he walks in.
same table. same corner near the back.
but this time, something’s different.
you’re standing by your seat, waving slightly when you see him. and in your hands, you’re holding two cups of coffee.
“hey,” you say, your voice bright and clear in a way that makes him pause.
he blinks, momentarily thrown off by how cheerful you sound. “hey,” he replies, trying to sound as casual as usual.
you hold out one of the cups toward him. “i, um, got this for you. black coffee, right?”
for a second, he just stares.
it’s stupid. it’s a coffee cup. but his mind stutters anyway.
“yeah,” he says, voice quieter than he means it to be. “yeah, that’s right.”
“i wasn’t sure how you take it,” you admit with a small laugh. “you seem like the kind of person who drinks it straight. no sugar, no milk.”
he huffs out a small laugh, taking the cup from you. “you got that right.”
“lucky guess.”
you sit down, cheeks faintly pink. he watches you for a second longer than necessary before clearing his throat and dropping into the chair across from you.
“thanks,” he says finally, lifting the cup slightly. “for the coffee.”
you smile, soft and genuine. “you’ve been helping me a lot with this, so i thought it was the least i could do.”
he wants to tell you that you’ve got it backwards, that you’re the one keeping him afloat, not the other way around, but he bites his tongue.
instead, he takes a sip, the bitter taste grounding him.
“you didn’t have to, y'know.”
“i wanted to,” you say, eyes flicking down to your notes.
and for a brief second, he feels his pulse skip.
you wanted to.
he tries to shake the feeling, pulling out his own notes. “alright, so. what’s the plan for today?”
you talk about the experiment data, what needs to be written up, the references you still have to gather. he listens, but part of him’s distracted.
it’s the way you’re talking now, louder, lighter. you’re not tripping over your words anymore. you’re not afraid to meet his eyes. the shy girl who could barely look at him two weeks ago is now smiling at him between sentences.
and fuck if that doesn’t make something twist in his chest.
as the minutes pass, the project talk starts to blur into something else. he’s the one who changes the subject first.
“so,” he says, leaning back slightly. “what’s with you and coffee? every time i see you, you’ve got one.”
you look up from your laptop, blinking. “i just like it, i guess. i go to this little place near campus almost every morning before class.”
“the one with the green sign?”
“yeah, that one.”
“figured.”
you laugh quietly. “you go there too?”
“sometimes,” he says. “after workouts. they’ve got good espresso.”
you tilt your head. “you work out every morning?”
“almost,” he says, smirking faintly. “gotta keep my sexy frat guy aura in tact.”
“oh, right,” you tease, eyes glinting a little. “wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”
he blinks, caught off guard. “fans?”
“your instagram,” you say, trying not to laugh. “you’ve got, like, a thousand girls following you. i saw.”
he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “don’t remind me.”
“why?”
“because half of them don’t even go to this school,” he says, grinning a little. “they just… show up.”
you laugh, the sound soft but real, and he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.
after that, the conversation drifts. you talk about random things. your classes, your favorite kind of music, the dog from your photo (“that’s my friend’s puppy,” you explain. “he’s named mochi.”).
sukuna finds himself asking questions, more than he’s ever asked anyone before. not just because he wants to fill the silence, but because he genuinely wants to know.
you tell him about your hobbies, your part tme job at the campus bookstore, how you’re saving up for a trip after graduation.
he listens. really listens.
and for every small thing you share, he feels himself drawn in deeper.
when the session finally ends, the clock showing that two hours have slipped by without either of you noticing, you start packing up your things.
“same time next week?” you ask, glancing up.
“yeah,” he says. “same spot.”
you smile again, that soft, shy one that makes his chest ache.
and as you wave goodbye and walk out of the library, sukuna stays seated for a moment, staring at the empty chair across from him.
he should be thinking about the project. about grades. about keeping his promise to you.
but all he can think about is how the smell of coffee still lingers faintly on his fingers and how, somehow, that’s become his favorite part of the day.
~
the frat house always feels heavy on monday mornings. air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, empty red cups scattered on tables like small grave markers from the weekend before. sukuna drags himself through the hallway, towel hanging around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower.
toji’s already waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other. he looks up when sukuna walks in, flashing that familiar cocky grin.
“yo, you down to hit the gym?”
sukuna doesn’t even hesitate. “for sure.”
mondays are brutal, but skipping a session isn’t an option. not when you’ve got someone like toji keeping score. they finish off their drinks, grab their bags, and head out.
the campus is still quiet. early morning sun stretches across the pavement, birds chirping somewhere above. their sneakers hit the concrete in sync.
“bro, did you see the game last night?” toji asks, tossing a smirk his way.
“yeah,” sukuna mutters. “you owe me twenty.”
toji groans. “bullshit. that last call was garbage.”
“still counts.”
they go back and forth for a while typical talk. girls, workouts, who pulled who at the last party. toji’s loud, animated, the kind of guy who fills silence with his own voice. sukuna listens, laughs when he should, but half his mind’s somewhere else.
they’re cutting across the main quad when he spots you.
you’re walking toward one of the lecture halls, tote bag slung over your shoulder, hair catching the light in a way that makes his breath hitch.
you’re wearing something simple. a cute shirt and nice jeans, your hands wrapped around a coffee cup, but somehow it makes you stand out more than anyone else on the path.
you don’t see him, too focused on your phone, but his chest tightens anyway.
for a second, it’s like the rest of the campus fades away.
then he remembers who’s walking beside him.
toji’s still talking about some girl he hooked up with over the weekend, words fading into the background as sukuna’s jaw tightens. he forces his eyes away, tells himself to stop being weird. this is stupid. you’re just his lab partner.
except he’s not supposed to be thinking about how good you look in the morning light. he’s supposed to be thinking about the deal.
the one with toji.
his throat feels dry as he forces himself to speak.
“hey,” he says suddenly. “you remember that girl i was talking about the other night?”
toji glances over, raising a brow. “the chem one?”
“yeah. that’s her.”
he nods toward you before he can second-guess it.
toji slows immediately, his attention shifting in your direction. you’re still walking across the path, the sunlight brushing over your face as you look up for a moment, squinting.
sukuna watches as toji literally stops in his tracks.
“no way,” toji says, eyes widening. “that’s her?”
“yeah,” sukuna mutters.
“holy shit.” toji’s grin spreads, sharp and impressed. “you didn’t tell me she was that cute.”
sukuna doesn’t respond. he just keeps walking, pretending to be unfazed, but every word toji says feels like it’s digging deeper under his skin.
“seriously, bro,” toji continues, still staring after you even as you disappear into the building. “you made her sound like some dorky little nerd. i was picturing ugly glasses, messy bun, the whole thing. but she’s, damn. she’s adorable.”
sukuna’s stomach twists. he forces a smirk, because that’s what’s expected. “yeah, she’s not bad.”
“not bad?” toji laughs, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me, man?”
“nah,” sukuna says quickly. “just didn’t think you’d be into that type.”
“what type?”
“the smart, quiet type,” he says, voice flat. “thought you liked girls who could ‘keep up,’ remember?”
toji scoffs. “yeah, well, she’s too cute to pass up. shit, you should let me tag along next time you’re studying with her. see what she’s like up close.”
sukuna forces a laugh, but it comes out strained. “yeah, sure. whatever.”
inside, he’s cringing so hard he feels sick.
they head into the gym, the sound of clanging weights filling the space. he tries to focus on the burn in his muscles, the rhythm of his breathing but his thoughts won’t shut up. toji’s words keep echoing. she’s adorable. she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me?
this was what he was supposed to do. this was the plan. introduce you to toji, let things fall into place, make good on his end of the deal.
so why does it feel so wrong?
~
the next study session comes faster than he expects.
the day’s overcast, the library quiet except for the soft hush of the air conditioning. you’re already there when he walks in, sitting in your usual spot by the window, books neatly stacked, pen tapping absently against your notebook.
you look up when you hear his voice.
“hey,” he says, slipping through the aisles toward you.
your face brightens instantly, that small, warm smile tugging at your lips.
“hi,” you say, already starting to greet him.
then your voice falters.
because right behind him, towering and broad-shouldered, is toji.
your words die halfway out of your throat, eyes going wide. he’s impossible to ignore, dark hair, sharp grin, that easy confidence that radiates from him like static.
sukuna can see the exact moment you freeze. your fingers grip your pen a little too tightly, your posture going stiff.
“this is toji,” sukuna says, trying to sound casual. “he wanted to tag along today.”
“hey,” toji says smoothly, pulling up a chair without asking. “nice to meet you, y/n.”
you nod, cheeks pink. “h-hi.”
it’s awkward from the start. painfully so.
sukuna tries to start things off, opening his notebook and asking about the data you collected last week, but toji’s already jumping in with his own questions, none of them relevant.
“so,” toji leans forward, elbows on the table. “you’re really good at this chem stuff, huh? always been a little nerd?”
you laugh nervously, eyes flicking between the two of them. “i… guess so?”
“yeah, i could never,” he says, shaking his head. “i barely passed last year. too many parties, you know how it is.”
you nod politely, but the look on your face says it all, you have no idea what to say.
sukuna grits his teeth.
toji keeps going, oblivious. he talks about the last frat party, about the time he benched two hundred in front of half the football team, about some girl who texted him last night. you just sit there, smiling faintly, giving small nods and quiet hums of agreement.
it’s brutal.
every word toji says feels like a slow car crash sukuna can’t stop. he knows he should’ve expected this. this was always how toji was but now that it’s happening in front of you, he can’t stand it.
you’re sitting there, trying so hard to be polite, cheeks flushed, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve. and for the first time, sukuna hates how loud the other guy is. hates how he’s filling the space that’s always felt quiet and easy with you.
after what feels like forever, toji’s phone buzzes. he glances down, reads the message, and stands up.
“gotta head out,” he says, smirking. “good luck with your project, sweetheart. maybe i’ll swing by next time, yeah?”
before you can respond, he gives you a wink.
you freeze again, murmuring something that barely sounds like a goodbye.
he leaves, whistling under his breath, completely unaware of how painfully awkward that was.
the second he’s out of sight, sukuna exhales hard and runs a hand through his hair.
“fuck,” he mutters. “sorry about that.”
your eyes widen a little. “oh, um, it’s fine.”
“no, seriously,” he says, glancing at you. “i should’ve told you i was bringing him.”
you hesitate, then smile, shy but real. “it’s okay. i was just… nervous, i guess.”
he tilts his head. “why?”
you look down at your notes. “he’s just… kind of intense. i didn’t expect that.”
“yeah,” he says quietly. “he’s like that.”
the silence that follows isn’t awkward, though. it’s calm. steady.
you’re visibly more relaxed now, shoulders no longer so tight, your voice softer when you start talking again. sukuna listens, his chest loosening with every word.
you don’t mention toji again.
and he doesn’t either.
for the rest of the session, it’s just the two of you again. back to the easy rhythm he didn’t realize he’d missed until it was gone. you explain a reaction mechanism, he teases you about your handwriting, you roll your eyes and laugh.
when it’s time to leave, you pack up your things slowly, almost like you don’t want the moment to end.
“see you next week?” you ask.
“yeah,” he says, smiling faintly. “next week.”
you give a small wave, and as you walk out, sukuna watches you disappear between the shelves, that same quiet warmth settling in his chest.
he should feel relieved, he did what he was supposed to. he introduced you to toji. he followed through.
but instead, he just feels like he’s made a mistake.
because the whole walk back to the frat, the only thing running through his head isn’t how toji couldn’t shut up or how awkward the whole thing was.
it’s how your voice had softened when you told him it was fine. how your eyes met his, even for a second, and he felt that stupid little spark again.
he doesn’t know what to call it. doesn’t want to.
but deep down, he knows one thing for sure.
the next time you two meet, he’s showing up alone, keeping you to himself.
~
music pounds through sukuna's chest, pulsing out of the open doors of the sorority like a heartbeat on overdrive. laughter spills down the steps, mixed with the sharp scent of alcohol and perfume and that sticky-sweet haze that always clings to these kinds of parties.
banners hang crooked above the door, fairy lights tangled like spiderwebs. the sorority girls really went all out.
it’s a mixer. one of those invite only things, where every girl in greek row tries to get noticed by the “right” house. and sukuna’s frat, their house, was always the right one. full of grade A hotties like sukuna and toji and successful athletes like gojo and geto.
he spots toji near the entrance, already in his element. white t-shirt, chain glinting at his throat, grin carved sharp enough to cut through the noise. every few seconds, someone calls his name. girls from different sororities, guys from the rugby team, even one of the organizers waving him over.
toji was built for this. sukuna knew it. hell, everyone did.
“about time, man,” toji says when sukuna steps up beside him. “thought you’d bailed.”
“nah,” sukuna mutters. “just took my time.”
“yeah, well, tonight’s supposed to be wild. let’s make the most of it.”
they shoulder their way through the crowd, music pounding overhead, the smell of beer and sweat and too much perfume thick in the air. sticking together like usual.
a few girls call out sukuna’s name as they pass, and he just flashes that lazy grin he’s perfected, the one that says he’s not interested, but he might be later.
it’s all automatic now. the smirk, the eye contact, the way his shoulders roll when he laughs. it’s all muscle memory.
but tonight, something feels off.
maybe it’s the way every laugh sounds fake. maybe it’s the way the lights flash too bright, painting everyone in the same plastic color.
maybe it’s because all he can think about is you.
they end up in the kitchen, where the music’s still loud but not deafening. beer pong’s already set up on the long dining table, cups half-filled, ping-pong balls scattered across the sticky surface.
toji grabs a ball and grins. “let’s go. loser does a shot.”
sukuna smirks, rolling up his sleeves. “you’re on.”
they start playing, drawing a small crowd of girls who cheer and giggle at every throw. toji’s competitive as always, talking shit between shots, while sukuna plays quiet and steady. the rhythm feels familiar, the weight of the ball, the sound of it hitting the cup, the way everyone leans in to watch.
after two rounds, they’re tied. toji wins one, sukuna the other. the girls watching don’t seem to care who’s winning they’re too focused on the way the two of them look, the easy confidence that comes with knowing the room revolves around them.
and then they descend.
a blonde slides up beside toji, pressing herself against his arm. another girl, brunette this time, drapes herself over sukuna, laughter dripping from her lips like honey.
“you guys are, like, scary good at this,” she says, voice high and flirty.
“practice,” sukuna says automatically. his smirk looks real enough. it always does.
her nails trace the edge of his sleeve, and she leans closer. “bet you’re real good at other things too.”
normally, this is the part where he’d lean in, let the moment pull him under. he knows how this goes, shots, dancing, slipping upstairs when the music gets too loud. normally he'd do anything for a quick fuck.
but tonight, it doesn’t land.
he looks down at her, at the perfect makeup and glitter around her eyes, and all he can think is how different she is from you.
how you’d never lean on someone like this. how you’d never grab at someone you just met. how when you talked, you actually meant what you said.
his jaw tightens.
toji’s already got two girls around him, laughing loudly, drink in one hand, the other at someone’s waist. he looks like he’s having the time of his life. and for the first time, sukuna feels nothing but exhaustion watching it.
the brunette keeps talking something about the psych department, something about a pool party next weekend but her words fade into static.
god, he can’t stop thinking about you.
he pictures your small smile, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. the way your voice lifts just slightly when you talk about something you love. the way your eyes meet his only for a second before darting away again.
then he thinks about how you’d react if you saw this.
if you saw toji right now, grinning, drunk, hands everywhere.
you’d look crushed. maybe not outwardly, but he knows you’d feel it. he can see that tiny flicker of hurt in his head, your lips pressing together, pretending not to care.
and for some reason, that thought hits him like a punch.
you’d be heartbroken over a guy like toji. and he hates that. hates it enough that his fake smirk starts to slip.
because toji’s the one you wanted. and toji’s right there, laughing with some random girl like you never even existed.
it makes his stomach twist.
the brunette leans in closer, her perfume cloying and too strong. she presses her lips against his neck, and something cold floods through him instead of the usual heat.
he stiffens.
she pulls back, confused, maybe even offended, but he just steps away, shaking his head.
“you good?” she asks, pouting a little.
“yeah,” he mutters. “just need a smoke.”
he grabs a beer from the counter and makes his way outside.
the air’s cooler out here, cleaner. it hits his lungs in a way that almost feels like relief. he digs into his pocket, finds his pack, and lights up. the first drag burns his throat, grounding him a little. he thinks back to the time you'd seen a flash of the packet in his pocket, the look of concern plastering your cute face.
"you smoke cigarettes? y'know that pretty bad for you, sukuna..."
he sighs and takes another drag, he knew you were right, hell, he even cut down after that little statement.
inside, the party’s still raging. someone shouts, laughter echoing off the walls. he hears toji’s voice above the rest, loud and easy and so damn sure of himself.
sukuna exhales a long stream of smoke and stares out at the street.
why’s he even thinking about you like this?
you're just a girl. just a project partner. you needed his help, he needed yours. that’s all it was supposed to be.
but then he remembers how you'd smiled when he showed up on time for once, how you’d brought him that stupid cup of coffee just because you thought he’d like it. how careful you’d been, shy but trying.
and now he’s here, surrounded by everything he used to want, feeling nothing but restless.
he thinks about the library tomorrow morning.
you’d be there early. you always are. waiting at the same table, your notebook open, your pen tapping as you concentrate. you’d look up when he walks in, offer that small, quiet smile like you’re genuinely happy to see him.
the thought of showing up hungover makes his stomach knot.
he can’t let you see him like that. not reeking of beer, not bleary eyed and dead from a night he didn’t even enjoy.
he flicks the ash off his cigarette, curses under his breath.
“what the fuck am i doing?”
he looks back toward the house. the windows are glowing with golden light, silhouettes moving inside. laughter spills out again, shrill and wild.
that used to feel like home.
now it just feels loud.
he takes another drag, the ember lighting up in the dark.
this isn’t him. at least, it’s not the version of him you’ve seen. the one who actually listens, who tries, who stays sober enough to remember what you said about catalysts and reactions. the one you’ve somehow turned him into without even knowing.
he huffs out a quiet laugh, bitter and low.
you’d probably never believe it if someone told you sukuna ryomen left a mixer early because of a girl.
but here he is.
he stubs out the cigarette, tosses the butt into the gutter, and pulls his jacket tighter around him.
he steps back inside just long enough to find toji at the beer pong table, a girl perched on his lap now, and rolls his eyes.
“yo,” toji calls over. “where the hell’d you go?”
“m' heading out,” sukuna says. “got shit to do tomorrow.”
toji raises a brow. “it’s friday, man.”
“yeah. i know.”
“whatever,” toji laughs. “your loss.”
sukuna just shrugs, already turning toward the door.
the music fades behind him as he walks out again. the night air hits him, cool against his skin. campus is mostly empty now, streetlights flickering.
he lights another cigarette as he walks, the smoke curling up into the cold.
his mind won’t stop racing.
he thinks about you again, about how small you look sitting behind your laptop, about the way you focus so hard you don’t notice him staring sometimes. about how quiet the world feels when it’s just the two of you in that corner of the library.
you’d laugh if you saw him now. the guy everyone calls a monster, walking home early from a party just because he wants to look sober in front of some shy chemistry nerd.
but it’s not just that anymore.
he doesn’t want to look sober. he wants to look good for you.
he wants you to think he’s better than this. better than what everyone thinks he's like.
he blows out smoke and watches it fade into the dark.
when he gets back to the frat, the house is nearly empty—most of the guys are still at the mixer. it’s quiet for once. he climbs the stairs, every step heavy, and stops at his door.
he stares at the handle for a second before going in.
the room smells like cologne and laundry detergent. his desk’s still a mess, papers and dumbbells scattered everywhere. he drops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
he should sleep. he should forget tonight.
but all he can see is you.
your smile. your voice. your eyes when they meet his and flick away just a second too fast.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
he ashes the cigarette in the tray, lets his head fall back, and closes his eyes.
the thought of you lingers like smoke in his lungs. intoxicating, slow, impossible to shake.
and for the first time in a long time, the idea of tomorrow doesn’t feel like just another day. it feels like something he’s waiting for.
~
the sun crawls through the blinds too early for a saturday.
pale light drags itself across the room, landing on the mess of clothes and empty bottles scattered over the frat floor. everyone’s still passed out.
bodies everywhere. some sprawled across couches, others snoring in corners, heads tipped back with half-empty beer cans slipping from their hands.
but not sukuna.
he’s awake.
he’s the only one who doesn’t feel like he got hit by a truck. no pounding head, no sour stomach. just the faint trace of smoke on his tongue and the quiet buzz in his chest that’s been there since last night.
he sits up, rakes a hand through his hair, and exhales. the air smells like sweat and cheap vodka. he looks around at the disaster that was his frat house, sticky floors, someone’s shoe on the counter, a guy in nothing but boxers drooling into the carpet, and shakes his head.
he’s not sticking around for the aftermath.
there’s something about this morning, something clean, light, strange. he grabs his hoodie, slings his bag over his shoulder, and checks his phone. too early for most people. not too early for you.
he smiles a little at that.
when he walks into the hallway, a few guys groan from the couch.
“yo,” one of them croaks. “where the hell are you going? it’s like… eight?”
“got plans,” sukuna says, slipping on his sneakers.
“plans?” another mumbles, half-asleep. “with who?”
“no one,” sukuna says quickly. “don’t worry about it.”
he’s already halfway out the door before they can start asking more questions. the last thing he needs is toj or anyone, really catching wind of this and deciding to tag along like last time.
the air outside hits him cold and fresh. campus is quiet, only the occasional sound of birds or a bike rolling past. everything’s washed in soft gold light, the kind that makes the world look cleaner than it really is.
he starts walking.
there’s a bounce in his step that he tries to ignore. it feels stupid to feel this way. giddy. like he’s got something worth looking forward to. he tells himself it’s just because he didn’t drink last night. he’s clear-headed. alert. that’s all.
but he knows it’s a lie.
the café comes into view just down the block. it’s the one you always go to, the one with the green sign. he remembers the first time he saw you there, hunched over your laptop with a coffee that had already gone cold, scribbling in your notebook like the world might end if you looked up.
the memory makes his chest feel weird.
he pushes open the door, the little bell chiming. the barista greets him with a sleepy smile. he glances over the glass case, scanning the pastries. croissants, muffins, a few danishes. then he spots the one he remembers you ordering once, faky and soft, sugar dusted over the top.
“one of those,” he says, pointing.
the barista wraps it up neatly in paper. sukuna hands over the cash, then hesitates when she asks if he wants a drink.
he almost says yes. almost orders a sweet coffee for you.
but then he remembers.
you’ll already have one right now, you always do.
“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “js' the pastry.”
he walks out with the small paper bag in hand, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
he feels ridiculous. it’s a fucking pastry. but somehow it feels like more than that. like he’s carrying a confession.
when the library comes into view, he spots you right away.
you’re there, in your usual spot. that back table near the window, the one you’ve claimed without ever really saying so. your coffee’s beside your laptop, steam curling up faintly. you’re biting your lip, eyes narrowed in concentration as you read through something.
and god, you’re cute.
it slaps him all over again.
the way your hair falls forward, the soft sweater you’re wearing, the tiny crease between your brows. you’re not trying to be anything. you’re just there, focused, quiet, real.
he stands there for a second, just watching.
then he remembers himself and walks over.
“g'morning,” he says.
you look up, startled, then your whole face softens when you see him. “oh, hi! you’re early.”
“yeah,” he says, dropping his bag into the chair across from you. “didn't wanna sleep in today.”
you laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “fair.”
he pulls the paper bag from his hoodie pocket and slides it across the table.
he holds it out to you. “for you. figured you might want breakfast.”
you blink, startled. “wait, really?”
“yeah. it’s from that cafe you like.”
your mouth falls open slightly, and your cheeks go pink in that way he’s starting to adore. “you... remembered that?”
“guess so.”
you take the bag from him carefully, like it’s something fragile. when you peek inside and see what it is, your expression softens even more.
“oh my god,” you whisper, smiling so hard your eyes crinkle at the corners. “this is my favorite one.”
he watches, almost helpless, as you keep talking, thanking him over and over. your voice stumbles with embarrassment, your fingers fidget with the bag, and the more flustered you get, the more something warm spreads through his chest.
“you didn’t have to! really, that’s so sweet of you.”
“it’s nothing,” he says, but his voice is rougher than he means it to be. “just figured you might be hungry.” he softens.
you look down, still smiling. “thank you.”
and it hits him, how long it’s been since a girl said that to him and meant it.
you break the silence first, switching to the assignment, pulling up your notes and explaining something about the next section. he nods along, but he’s not really listening. he’s watching the way you push your hair behind your ear, the way your brows furrow when you focus.
he forces himself to pay attention. still, the moment feels easy.
you talk for a while about the project, comparing notes, trading small jokes. he feels himself relax into the rhythm of it, like it’s become a routine.
and then, without warning, you bring up toji.
you clear your throat first, eyes flicking down to your notes. “so, um... toji.”
he stills, one brow lifting, you were finally gonna talk about him since that awful run in last time. “hmm?”
“he’s… very…” you trail off, searching for the word. “loud.”
he snorts. “that’s one way to put it.”
“and, um, big. like, physically. and personality-wise. very… confident.”
he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah. sorry about that. he’s… a lot. again, i didn’t mean to unleash him on you like that.” he was apologising again, so out of character for him but he couldn't help it. not with you.
“no, no,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “he’s just… different than i expected.”
“different how?”
you hesitate, chewing your lip. “i guess i thought he’d be more like you.”
the words hang between you for a second. his pulse stutters.
“like me, huh?” he says, teasing, leaning back in his chair, spread wide as he looks you up and down. “what’s that supposed to mean, hm?”
you go red instantly, trying to drag your eyes away from his man spread legs. “i just meant- you’re, um, thoughtful. more focused. not overbearing, you're nice...”
he grins. "nice, huh?"
you hide your mouth behind your hand and look off to the side. "nicer than toji, yeah."
he laughs, "that's not a very high bar to clear."
you giggled in response, letting him continue.
“so you like my type better?”
“that’s not what i said,” you mumble, covering your face with your hand again.
“didn’t have to.”
you peek at him through your fingers, and he has to bite back a laugh. your cheeks are so pink it hurts to look at you.
“you’re bullying me,” you say, your voice small.
“maybe.”
you shake your head, still smiling, and reach for your coffee. he watches the way you hold it, the delicate tilt of your wrist, the little sigh you make after a sip.
then, quieter, he asks, “so… you still interested in him? toji, i mean.”
you freeze.
“i.. uh.” your voice falters. “i guess so? i... i don’t know.”
“you don’t sound sure.”
“he’s just, not what i thought he’d be. i thought he’d be a little calmer.”
“he’s not really the type to surprise you in a good way,” sukuna says.
you smile faintly, eyes on your cup. “yeah. maybe not.”
the way you say it, soft, thoughtful, uncertain, it makes his chest ache.
you’re too sweet for this. too genuine. you deserve someone who actually listens, who doesn’t treat you like background noise. and for some reason, he hates that the person you’re hung up on is his best friend.
he sighs, rubbing his jaw.
you look up, curious. “what’s wrong?”
“nothing,” he says, forcing a smile. “just tired.”
you nod, and the two of you fall back into quiet work. it’s peaceful again, the only sounds the soft click of your keyboard and the scratching of his pen. time blurs.
when you finally close your laptop, stretching your arms, he realizes two hours have passed.
“we got a lot done,” you say, smiling.
“yeah,” he says, though he can’t remember a thing you just studied.
you start packing your things, tucking the empty pastry bag into your bag. before you can leave, you hesitate. then, shyly, you step closer and wrap one arm around him in a little side hug.
“thank you,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “for breakfast. and for helping me.”
for a second, he forgets how to breathe.
you smell like coffee and sugar and something faintly floral. your hand rests briefly against his side, and he swears every nerve in his body lights up.
then you pull away, smiling up at him, oblivious to the chaos you’ve just caused.
“see you tomorrow?”
“yeah!” he says quickly, way too excited. “d-definitely.”
you wave and head out, the door swinging shut behind you.
he stands there for a full minute, still staring at the spot you’d been standing, until he realises his hands are clenched and his pulse is hammering.
he grabs his bag, mutters something under his breath, and heads outside.
the moment he’s in the open air again, he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
the breeze does nothing to cool the heat crawling under his skin.
he walks fast, head down, eyes on the pavement.
every step feels heavy with restraint.
because all he can think about is how soft you felt, how small your hand was against him, how much he wanted to pull you in, bury his face in your neck, keep you there for hours.
he curses under his breath, tugging his hoodie lower, hoping it hides the problem growing in his jeans.
“get it together,” he mutters.
he tries to think about anything else the assignment, the game tomorrow, the half finished paper on his desk but his mind keeps circling back to you. your laugh. your blush. your hug.
by the time he reaches the frat, his heartbeat’s finally starting to slow, but the feeling stays. that dizzy mix of guilt and want.
he steps inside quietly, the house still a mess of hangovers, and slips upstairs to his room.
the first thing he does is sit on his bed, elbows on his knees, and let out a long, shaky exhale.
he’s in trouble.
he knows it.
because he can’t stop smiling.
~
the gym in the frat house isn’t much. it’s a dim room tucked behind the kitchen, with cracked mirrors and rusted weights, the air always heavy with the stale scent of sweat and cheap deodorant.
the guys call it a “home gym,” but it’s really just a collection of mismatched dumbbells, an old bench press, and a speaker that always buzzes when the bass hits too hard. its nothing like the fancy campus one him and toji visit, still, it works for sukuna.
he’s halfway through a set, sweat sliding down the back of his neck, when his thoughts start slipping away from the burn in his muscles and land right where they always seem to go lately.
he tries to ignore it, focusing on the motion, the rhythm, the push and pull of the bar in his hands.
but the harder he tries not to think about you, the more vivid you become. your voice, soft but steady, your shy little smiles whenever he cracks a joke, the way you always tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to blush.
it’s infuriating, how easily you creep into his head.
he exhales sharply, finishing the set with a grunt, letting the bar clang down harder than he means to. it rattles against the frame, echoing in the small room.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, sitting up and grabbing the towel draped over his shoulders.
he wipes his face, breathing hard, his reflection in the mirror smudged with fingerprints and dust. he looks exhausted, not just from the workout but from everything sitting in his head.
you and toji.
you and that stupid, innocent crush you’d confessed to him like it was nothing.
he leans forward, elbows on his knees, towel hanging loosely around his neck. he can’t keep fucking around pretending like this is going to work anymore.
he can’t sit through another study session with you knowing that toji knows you're into him.
toji doesn’t even remember half the girls he flirts with, so why should he get to occupy that sweet spot in your brain.
that thought alone makes his blood boil.
you’re too good for that. too damn good.
he picks up the dumbbell again, trying to lift through the frustration, but his mind keeps racing. toji’s face flashes in his mind—the obnoxiousness, his interest in you only after finding out what you looked like.
the memory makes his jaw clench.
toji doesn’t deserve to know you exist, let alone be someone you lose sleep over.
his grip tightens around the handle. he lifts again, but it feels pointless now, his muscles burning for a different reason entirely.
finally, he slams the weight down and stands up, chest heaving.
he’s done.
done thinking he can stomach this, done keeping that deal, done lying to himself.
without even thinking about it, he walks out of the gym, towel still slung over his shoulder. his feet move on instinct, carrying him through the hall, up the grand stairs, straight to toji’s room.
the door’s half-shut, light spilling from the gap, and he doesn’t bother knocking. he pushes it open, the wood hitting the wall with a dull thud.
toji’s sprawled across his bed, shirtless, scrolling through his phone. there’s a protein shake on the desk, a game controller tangled in the sheets. he looks up lazily when sukuna appears.
“yo,” he says, grinning. “you look pissed. what, satoru stealing your shirts n' shit again?”
sukuna doesn’t answer. he stands there for half a second, jaw tight, and then the words just fall out before he can stop them.
“y/n has a boyfriend,” he blurts. “so you can forget the whole crush on you thing.”
toji blinks, confused. “uhm?”
“what,” sukuna says, crossing his arms. “shes got a guy.”
toji sits up slightly, eyebrows furrowing. “who’s y/n again?”
the silence that follows is deafening.
sukuna stares at him, the vein in his temple twitching.
“are you actually deadass right now?”
toji shrugs. “bro, i talk to a lot of girls, you gotta be more specific.”
that’s it.
sukuna drags a hand down his face, muttering something that sounds halfway between a growl and a groan. he doesn’t even bother explaining. it’s not worth it.
“don't worry, man,” he snaps, spinning on his heel.
he slams the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
by the time he gets back to his room, his chest is tight, the frustration boiling over into something heavier. he paces once, twice, then finally drops onto his bed, letting his head fall back against the wall.
“who’s y/n again?”
the words echo in his mind like a bad joke.
he can’t believe it. he can’t believe he ever thought this was a good idea, trying to set you up with that idiot.
it’s not even about the deal anymore. it’s about you.
because now he knows what it feels like to be around you, to hear you laugh, to see the way your eyes light up when he remembers the smallest things. he knows what it feels like to walk beside you through campus at night, the air cool and soft, your voice quiet but steady.
he likes you.
really, really likes you.
and it’s not just because you’re pretty, though god, you are. it’s because you’re kind. because you make him feel human again, in a way that nothing else ever does. because you talk to him like he’s worth something more than the reputation that follows him.
he doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s there now, and it’s not going away.
.
the weeks that follow move in a blur. the two of you keep meeting for study sessions, but they’ve shifted. so subtly that neither of you seems to notice.
you’re more relaxed now. you smile more, laugh easier. you’ve started showing up with little things for him too. chocolates, protein bars, a can of cold brew. every time, he teases you about it, but inside, he’s having a spaz out.
and every time he brings you something in return, you light up like he’s handed you the world.
you’ve started talking about more than the project. now, it’s everything. random things. favorite youtuber, weird scandals, childhood fuck ups, "yeah, i used to be one of those devious lick kids in middle school, me and gojo stole an entire sink".
sometimes, you talk so much you forget the assignment altogether, and he never stops you.
he lives for these moments.
sometimes, when you’re sitting side by side at the library, your knees brush under the table. it’s barely a touch, accidental every time, but it makes his pulse stutter.
you’ve started giving him hugs too, real ones. not just quick, polite ones, actual, full-bodied hugs that make him want to forget how to breathe. all he wants to do is bundle you up and take you back home, lock you away where no one could possibly taint that beautiful smile.
he pretends to be chill and nonchalant, but inside, he’s crashing out so hard.
one afternoon, it’s raining outside, and you show up in a damp tank top, hair slightly damp. he nearly forgets how to speak. you hand him a hot chocolate and giggle when he stares at it like he’s never seen one before.
“it’s not that weird,” you say, smiling. “i thought you might want something warm and sweet for this type of weather.”
he looks at you for a long moment trying not to stare at your see through chest, then takes the cup. “thanks,” he murmurs, and it sounds like something heavier than gratitude.
you shrug, shy but pleased, then sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
when the session ends that day, he walks you home like he always does. it’s become a quiet habit between you. no one suggested it, but neither of you questions it either. you live just off campus, in a small apartment with ivy creeping up the walls, and every time you reach your door, you both hesitate.
he wants to ask if he can come inside, just once.
you always look like you might invite him, too.
but neither of you ever says it.
instead, you smile, soft and warm, and tell him goodnight. he always watches until you disappear inside, until the light flicks on and frank ocean starts softly pouring from the window.
and every time, he walks back to the frat with that same ache in his chest, the one that’s half longing and half fear.
he knows he’s in wayyy too deep.
but he can't stop.
you’ve started coming out of your shell in little bursts. you tease him now, gently. you call him out when he’s being lazy, roll your eyes when he tries to act too chill. and he eats it the fuck up. every second of it.
you’re different with him now. freer. you trust him.
and that makes everything both better and worse.
because every time you look at him with that open, honest expression, he has to remind himself of the lie he built this on, th e deal, the fake promise to get you closer to toji.
it barely comes up anymore. sometimes you mention toji in passing, usually as a joke, and you both laugh it off. it’s like neither of you really care about it anymore.
and maybe that’s the truth. maybe it stopped mattering the moment you started looking at him like that.
one evening, when the sun’s setting, you’re sitting across from him at the library, talking about nothing in particular. you’re smiling, head tilted, your voice soft. and he catches himself staring, not hearing a single word.
you stop mid way through your sentence, blinking. “what?”
he shakes his head quickly. “nothing.”
“you’re staring,” you say, cheeks pink.
“you’re imagining things, honey."
you laugh, hiding your face in your hands.
he smiles too, but there’s something behind it something he doesn’t let you see.
because in that moment, it hits him all over again, stronger than before.
he’s seriously can't do this shit any longer.
he doesn’t want to help you get to toji anymore.
he doesn’t want to stand by while you talk about someone else, even in passing.
he wants you. all of you.
the quiet smiles, the shy blushes, the little quirks he’s learned by heart.
he wants to be the one who gets to see every part of you, every version of that soft, sweet girl who’s been slowly unraveling in front of him.
and he knows, deep down, that if he ever let himself say it out loud, he’d never be able to take it back.
so he keeps it buried, just for now, as he walks you home again that night. the streetlights stretch long shadows across the pavement, and your arm brushes his once, twice, and each time, he swears of he doesn't concentrate he'll trip over his jordans.
when you reach your door, you turn to him with that same bright smile, the one that always knocks the air from his lungs.
“thanks again,” you say softly.
he nods. “anytime.”
you linger for a second, like you want to say something more, then wave goodnight and disappear inside.
he stands there for a long moment, staring at the door, listening to the faint hum of music from your apartment.
then, finally, he exhales, a small, helpless laugh slipping out.
he’s ruined. completely.
and for once in his life, he doesn’t even mind.
~
the classroom is thick with the sound of quiet chatter, chairs scraping against tile, pens clicking as people jot down reminders before leaving. the fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting everything in a washed-out glow that makes it feel like time’s been stretched too thin. the chemistry teacher’s voice cuts through it all, cheerful but distant.
“alright, everyone, just a quick reminder that your paired assignment is due at the end of this week. make sure you’ve got everything finalized. i’ll be checking submissions on friday.”
the words hang in the air like a quiet ending bell.
you look up from your notes at the same time sukuna does, and for a moment, your eyes meet across the shared lab table. he’s already watching you, elbows resting on the counter, twirling his pen between his fingers.
he gives you this crooked half-smile, something between fond and nervous, and you return it, though yours falters just a little at the edges.
it hits both of you at once. this thing between you, this rhythm you’ve fallen into, the study sessions, the walks home, the quiet coffees before class? it’s been built around this assignment. and when the assignment ends, what happens then?
he taps his pen against his notebook, looking away first. “guess we’re almost done, huh?”
you try to sound light. “yeah… crazy how fast it went.”
but it doesn’t feel fast. it feels full. it feels like a lifetime compressed into a few short weeks, every minute threaded with something unspoken.
he hums in agreement, glancing at you again. “we should probably go over everything one more time. make sure it’s perfect.”
you nod, pretending to check the notes in front of you. “mhm, library after class?”
“yeah,” he says. “one last session.”
one last. the words make your stomach twist.
.
sukuna drops his bag on the chair across from you, stretching his arms as he sits down. his hair’s a little messy from the wind, and he smells faintly of the sexy cologne he always wears, something clean and manly that clings to his skin.
you open your laptop, trying to focus on the document in front of you. it’s almost done, just small edits, formatting, double-checking citations, but the words keep blurring. you can feel his presence across the table, solid and steady, and it’s impossible to think about chemistry when he’s right there.
he’s quieter than usual too. his knee bounces under the table, a restless rhythm, and every now and then you catch him glancing up, like he’s about to say something but decides against it.
the silence stretches between you, thick and loaded. you can’t stand it anymore.
“so…” you start, voice softer than you mean it to be.
he looks up instantly, like he’s been waiting for you to speak. “yeah?”
you open your mouth, close it again, glance at your hands. “never mind. it’s nothing.”
he frowns slightly. “come on. what is it?”
you shake your head, forcing a small smile. “seriously, it’s nothing. just focus.”
he watches you for a second longer, then sighs and leans back, crossing his arms. “fine. but you’re acting weird.”
you let out a soft laugh that sounds too nervous. “i could say the same about you.”
that gets a real smile out of him, crooked and teasing, but it fades quickly.
you both go quiet again, typing half heartedly, neither of you really working. the tension builds, unspoken and unbearable.
you can feel the words sitting on your tongue, begging to be let out. you want to tell him everything. how the crush on toji fizzled out weeks ago, how stupid it feels now, how you can’t stop thinking about him instead. how every time he looks at you, your whole chest feels like it’s about to give out.
you glance up. he’s staring at his screen, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. and somehow, you can tell he’s holding something back too.
finally, you both move at the same time.
“i have to tell you something,” you say, right as he says, “there’s something i should tell you.”
you both stop, eyes locking.
you laugh softly. “you first.”
he shakes his head. “nuh uh, you first.”
“no way,” you say, smiling now despite the nerves. “you looked like you were about to explode. go ahead.”
“ladies first,” he shoots back, that teasing lilt returning to his voice, though his eyes are still serious.
you roll your eyes, but your heart’s hammering. “fine,” you breathe.
he leans forward, forearms on the table, watching you carefully.
you swallow, your fingers twisting the edge of your sleeve. “okay. so, um… this is kind of embarrassing, but.."
you stop, take a breath, try again. “it's about toji.”
his expression flickers for a second, something unreadable crossing his face. “yeah,” he says slowly. “what about him?”
you toy with a pen to keep your hands busy. “i don’t really… feel that way anymore. about him.”
his brow lifts just slightly, his voice careful. “ts' that so?”
you nod, cheeks warm. “yeah. i mean, it was kind of silly, wasn’t it? i barely knew him. i think i just liked the idea of him. and then when you brought him to that one session, i realised he’s… kinda clapped, nothing like what i imagined.”
he lets out a small sound, something close to a laugh, but it’s quiet, almost nervous. “yeah, that sounds like him.”
you smile faintly, tracing a finger along the edge of your notebook. “the truth is, i think i was just projecting. when we started hanging out, i didn’t know you that well, and i guess i thought maybe toji was like you. you know? confident, funny, easy to talk to.” you pause, your gaze flicking up to his. “but he’s not you. not even remotely close.”
his breath catches slightly, and for a moment, he forgets how to speak.
“i don’t know,” you go on, voice softer now, almost trembling. “i kept thinking i wanted someone like toji, but… the whole time, i was really just wishing he’d be more like you, sukuna.”
you meet his eyes fully now, and the world seems to narrow around you both. “and then i realised maybe i don’t want someone like you. maybe i just, you know, want you.”
the silence that follows feels endless.
he’s staring at you, completely still. you can see the realization hit him. the tension in his shoulders easing, his expression softening in disbelief and relief all at once.
you bite your lip, instantly flustered. “that sounded so stupid, didn’t it?”
he shakes his head quickly. “no. no, not at all.”
he leans back in his chair, letting out a long, shaky exhale. it’s the biggest breath of relief you’ve ever seen someone take. he runs a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath, a sound that’s half disbelieving, half overwhelmed.
“holy shit,” he murmurs, still smiling. “you have no idea how good it is to hear that.”
you blink. “uhm, what?”
he laughs again, softer this time, his hand still pressed to the back of his neck. “that’s what i was gonna tell you. i’ve been losing my fucking mind these past few weeks because i’ve been trying so hard not to say it.”
you stare at him, your heart pounding. “say what?”
he meets your gaze again, eyes warm and honest. “that i like you. like, really like you. i’ve had this massive crush on you for a while now, and it’s been killing me trying to act normal.”
you can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, part disbelief, part giddy joy. “you’re deadass?”
he nods. “one hundred percent.”
“but… the deal,” you say quietly. “you were supposed to help me with toji.”
“yeah, about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “i kinda… just didn’t.”
you tilt your head. “uhhm, what?”
he laughs again, nervously this time. “i told him you had a boyfriend.”
your eyes widen. “you did?"
he winces. “yeah. i told him that weeks ago. i just... i couldn’t do it anymore. couldn’t keep pretending i was helping you get with him when all i wanted was to keep you all to myself.”
you blink once, twice, then cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “you told him i had a boyfriend?”
“yep.” he grins now, a little cocky, a little embarrassed. “guess that’s me sabotaging the deal.”
you drop your hand, still smiling. “that’s so stupid.”
“i know.”
“but…” you pause, your smile turning softer. “it’s kind of sweet.”
he leans forward again, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “you’re not mad?”
“mad?” you repeat, shaking your head. “no. that’s… exactly what i wanted, actually.”
he blinks. “really?”
you nod, heart in your throat. “yeah. i didn’t want you helping me with toji. not anymore. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”
he stares at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “so what now?”
you smile. “i don’t know. maybe we just… stop pretending.”
he exhales, leaning back with a grin that could light up the whole room. “i can do that.”
for a moment, neither of you says anything. you just sit there, the quiet hum of the library around you, the sun slipping lower through the windows, painting his skin in gold.
finally, he breaks the silence, voice low. “for the record, i was terrified you were about to tell me you had a new man for real.”
you laugh softly. “no chance.”
“good,” he says, and the way he looks at you soft, sure, a little possessive, makes your pulse race.
you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re both leaning across the table, closer than you’ve ever been. the distance between you shrinks until you can feel his breath on your lips, his hand brushing lightly against yours.
neither of you say anything. you don’t need to.
the moment stretches, slow and sweet, full of everything you’ve both been holding back.
~
the second you get back to your apartment, your face ignites with the kind of fire only a really nice fireplace could match, the ones in those fancy houses you see on the block.
the guy you'd been crushing on for a total of four weeks now had just told you he felt the same. and ever more, he'd been so obsessed he'd told your ex-crush you'd had a boyfriend in hopes of bagging you himself.
for a girl not used to being in the spotlight, having such a loud, well known frat guy like ryomen sukuna become vulnerable, just for you? it was like the world came crashing and burning down at your feet. he made your stomach swim with love and passion, a feeling you'd only ever gotten from receiving higher grades than everyone else, a feeling so much better than finding a new delicious pastry you couldn't help but order again.
ryomen sukuna was it. he was the kinda guy you'd been dreaming of ever since you'd started college. he was the perfect man, and he was as into you as you were him.
you settled into your living room with an adorably large smile painted on your lips, the sensation of fulfilment taking over your ever thought as you dreamt of what was to happen next.
~
the week after the submission crawls by. you think about both sukuna and the possible grade you'll both get every day. every time you pass the lab, every time you open your laptop, every time you catch sight of sukuna across the courtyard, leaning against the wall with his friends.
you can tell he’s thinking about it too. the way he catches your eye during class and offers a small, crooked smile says everything. neither of you can really stop wondering what the final mark will be, as well as what life has in store for the both of you.
friday finally rolls around, the classroom feels weird. students trickle in with tired faces and restless energy, everyone buzzing quietly with the same anticipation. the teacher walks in, holding a stack of papers in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.
she sets everything down at the front desk, claps her hands together, and gives a small, approving smile.
“alright, everyone,” she says, her tone almost teasing. “i’ve marked your projects. you’ll get the official grades through the online portal, but since i know you’re all impatient,” her gaze sweeps the room, landing briefly on you and sukuna, “i’ll let you know this much: some of you really impressed me.”
a ripple of chatter runs through the class. sukuna shoots you a look from across the room, eyebrows raised. you smile nervously and shrug.
after class, the two of you linger by the doorway, waiting for the crowd to clear out. you’re clutching your phone, refreshing the student portal again and again even though the grades still aren’t visible. sukuna leans close, peering at your screen.
“nothing yet?” he asks.
“no,” you sigh. “probably another hour.”
he tilts his head, thinking for a moment. “want to check it together later? at that little cafe with the green sign?”
you blink. “awe, my favourite. sure!”
“of course,” he says, smirking lightly. “how good am i remembering your favourite things n' shit.”
you laugh, cheeks warming. “what a man. how about we meet there at five?”
“five it is.” he gives a small wave as he heads down the hall. “see you then, partner.”
the cafe smells like roasted coffee beans and sugar, the air humming with quiet conversation and the clinking of ceramic cups. it’s early evening, and the place is wrapped in that warm, lazy glow that makes everything feel softer. the green sign outside flickers faintly through the window, the letters worn from years of weather and sunlight.
you spot him immediately sitting near the counter, wearing a black hoodie and tapping his thumb against his phone screen. his hair’s pulled back, a few loose strands falling into his eyes. he looks up the moment the door chimes, and that grin spreads across his face like it’s second nature.
“hey,” he says as you approach.
“hey,” you echo, sliding into the seat across from him.
he gestures toward the counter. “i already ordered for us. black coffee for me, that thing you like for you, and...” he grins, “...a pastry, because apparently you can’t sit in this place without one.”
you laugh softly, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters. “you know me too well, we needa' hang out less.”
“noo,” he teases, leaning back. “i'm just an observer.”
the drinks come quickly, steam curling from the cups. you take yours with both hands, staring at the little swirl of foam, trying to calm your nerves. sukuna pulls out his phone again, refreshes the student portal, and freezes.
his eyes widen. “holy shit,” he mutters.
you look up sharply. “what?”
he turns the screen toward you. there it is, your names side by side, and next to them, the number that makes your breath catch.
98%.
you stare at it for a second, then look at him, and the two of you just burst out laughing.
“oh my-” you say, grinning from ear to ear. “ninety-eight?”
he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “holy shit- holy shit! can’t believe it,” he says, half-laughing, half-sighing in disbelief. “i actually passed. i can stay in the frat. holy shit.”
you laugh again, the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “i told you you’d do fine!”
he stands up suddenly, still laughing, and before you can react he pulls you into his arms. it’s a full, tight hug, so warm, so big. his chest rumbles with laughter, and you can feel how much this means to him, how much the stress and pressure have finally melted away.
“thank you,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low, almost breathless. “thank you so much for helping me. i would’ve completely fucking tanked without you.”
you laugh against his shoulder, feeling your own face heat up. “you’re welcome,” you mumble, your words muffled by his hoodie. “you did so good, really.”
when he finally lets go, you can still feel the warmth lingering where he’d held you. he looks just as flustered, rubbing the back of his neck as he sits back down.
“sorry,” he says, half-smiling. “got a little carried away.”
“it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “it was… nice.”
his grin widens at that.
you both take a moment to calm down, sipping your drinks in the cozy corner. the sound of the coffee machine hums faintly in the background, and sunlight filters through the leaves outside, dappled across the table. it feels like the whole world’s slowed down just for the two of you.
“so,” he says eventually, voice softer now, “ninety-eight percent. that's so peak."
“yeah, we did that,” you reply, smiling. “you’ll probably get a compliment from the teacher next class.”
“you too,” he says. “you carried me, you're actually so clutch.”
“you helped too,” you insist. “you actually tried, sukuna. that’s what mattered.”
he chuckles, shaking his head. “yeah, but even if i hadn’t passed…” he pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “i don’t think i’d be too upset.”
you tilt your head, smiling faintly. “no?”
“nah.” he leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “because i got to spend all that time with you. and honestly? that made it worth it.”
your chest tightens, a flutter rising under your ribs. you look down quickly, pretending to focus on your coffee. “you’re just saying that.”
“i’m not,” he says firmly. “you made studying actually fun. no one’s ever done that shit before.”
you look up again, and his expression is so genuine, so open, that you forget how to breathe for a second.
“well,” you say softly, “i liked spending time with you too.”
your cups sit forgotten on the table, the croissant half-eaten, and all you can hear is the chatter of other uni kids and the soft clatter of dishes.
you stare into his eyes, and there’s a question there, unspoken but clear.
he smiles, almost shyly, a rare thing for him. “so… what now?”
you shrug lightly, but your smile mirrors his. “i don’t know. i guess we don’t have to stop hanging out just because the project’s done.”
his grin grows wider, and you can see the faintest pink dusting his ears. “good,” he says. “because i was kinda hoping you’d say that.”
he hesitates for a moment, then sits up a little straighter, as if gathering courage.
“actually,” he says, rubbing his thumb against the edge of his cup, “there’s something i wanted to ask.”
you tilt your head. “hmm? and what’s that?”
he exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “i know this is probably cheesy as hell, but… i’d really like to take you out. like, properly. dinner, movie, whatever you want. an actual date.”
the words sink in, soft and certain. you blink, surprised but instantly smiling, your cheeks growing hot.
“you mean… like, a date date?” you ask, teasing just a little.
he laughs under his breath. “yeah. a date date.”
you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “i’d love that.”
his expression softens into something that almost makes your heart ache. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
for a moment, you just sit there, both grinning like idiots. it feels unreal, like something out of a quiet, sunlit dream.
he leans back in his chair, relief washing over him in waves. “good,” he says. “i was worried you’d say no.”
you shake your head, still smiling. “never.”
the light outside shifts slowly, spilling gold through the window, painting his skin in soft warmth. he looks at you like he’s memorising the moment, the coffee, the laughter, the way you keep tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
and as he sits across from you, grinning like he can’t quite believe his luck, you know that whatever comes next, it’s going to be something worth waiting for.
~
months slide by, slow but lovely. what once was a study partnership built on awkward exchanges and quiet glances has become something sooo much more. somewhere between library stops, coffee stops, and tight hugs, it shifted. you shifted. sukuna shifted. the line between school and romance blurred until it disappeared completely.
now, you’re his. officially his. and he’s yours.
the first time sukuna brings you to the frat house as his girlfriend, it feels like stepping into a completely different world. the place is loud, music spilling from bluetooth speakers, guys shouting from the kitchen about who’s out of beer, the smell of cheap cologne and pizza hanging in the air.
you pause in the doorway, clutching sukuna’s hand like it’s an anchor. he glances down at you with that little smirk that never fails to make your heart stutter.
“don’t stress it baby,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath grazes your ear. “they’ll love you.”
and they do.
weather or not that's because he threatened to beat them unconscious if they made you feel uncomfortable before you came over is irrelevant.
satoru’s the first to notice you, perched on the couch with a controller in hand. he looks up mid game, grins wide, and immediately calls out, “holy shit, sukuna actually brought a girl here voluntarily?”
“shut up,” sukuna grumbles, tightening his grip on your hand. “this one’s permanent.”
that earns a chorus of oohs and whistles from the guys nearby. your face burns, but when you glance up at sukuna, he’s smiling,not his usual cocky grin, but something softer. proud.
“hey,” you mumble under your breath, “it smells so bad in here, ryo.”
he chuckles quietly. “you’ll get used to it.”
before you can even respond, toji appears from the kitchen, a beer in hand and a knowing grin on his face. “well, if it isn’t the little chem genius.”
you blink. “you… remember me?”
“of course,” toji laughs, setting his drink down and stretching out a hand. “heard you saved this idiot’s academic career.”
“hey,” sukuna cuts in, rolling his eyes. “i wasn’t that bad.”
“you had an eight percent, bro.”
the whole room bursts into laughter. sukuna just grumbles and flips toji off while you try not to giggle too loudly. it’s strange, seeing them all like this. so loud, so chaotic, so different from the quiet rhythm you’re used to, but somehow, it feels okay. you feel okay.
by the end of the night, you’re sitting between sukuna’s legs on the couch, his arms draped loosely around your waist, your back against his chest. someone puts on an old movie in the background, and the chatter slowly fades into easy quiet. for the first time, the frat doesn’t feel intimidating. it feels warm. welcoming.
satoru catches your eye from across the room, giving a thumbs up before mouthing, she’s a keeper. sukuna just smirks.
later that night, when everyone else has gone to bed and the house has fallen quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards, sukuna presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“told you they’d love you,” he whispers.
“yeah, you were right,” you murmur, smiling softly. “they’re so nice.”
“you’re even nicer,” he says, his voice barely audible. “that’s why they love ya'.”
and you can hear the truth in his tone. you know he means it.
after that, everything starts to fall into blissful routine. you help him study, drilling formulas and reactions into his head late into the night. he’s surprisingly good at it now, his grades climbing steadily, proof that maybe he was capable all along, he just needed someone to push him in the right direction.
and in return, he helps you come out of your shell.
he brings you to tiny cafes you’ve never been to before, teaches you how to play pool (terribly, but he doesn’t care), and pulls you into spontaneous late-night walks through campus when the air is cool and the stars are bright.
sometimes, you end up sitting on the hood of his car, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders, your fingers tangled with his as he talks about everything and nothing.
he tells you things he’s never told anyone else—about his parents, about the pressure to be someone bigger, stronger, louder. about how he never really cared about anything before he met you.
“you made me start giving a shit,” he says one night, his voice low as he traces lazy circles against your palm. “about school, about the future. about being a better guy.”
you glance up at him, smiling faintly. “you're the bestest guy, kuna.”
he looks at you for a long time, his chest squeezing with the urge to squish you until you pop. then, with a soft exhale, he leans down and kisses you. gentle, slow, like the world could end and he’d still be happy just holding you against his muscular chest.
word gets around campus fast. whispers follow you sometimes. half disbelief, half awe. people don’t really understand how you ended up with him. the shy, quiet girl who sits at the front of every lecture, always polite, always prepared… dating one of the loudest, most notorious frat boys on campus.
but the thing is, neither of you care.
you’ve seen the way people look at you two when you walk hand in hand across campus, his tall frame towering beside yours. you’ve heard the murmurs, 'how long do you think it’ll last, she’s too good for him, he’ll get bored'. but then he catches your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and all of it melts away.
"don't listen to those clowns."
because you know him now. the real him.
the boy who wakes up early to get your favorite pastry from the cafe before class. the one who drapes his hoodie over your shoulders when it’s too crisp. the one who never forgets to text you goodnight, even when he’s exhausted.
the one who stopped showing up to most frat partys because, as he put it, “none of it’s fun without you anyway.”
you see it in the way he’s changed. not because you asked him to, but because he wants to.
he doesn’t flirt with girls anymore. he doesn’t even seem to notice when they do. his focus is all on you. your laughter, your voice, your little quirks that no one else ever bothered to notice.
and it’s not just the big things that show it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the road closest to the cars. the way he remembers all your orders without ever asking. the way he’ll pull you closer when you’re out together, even if it’s just to rest his big hand on your hip.
he doesn’t talk about feelings much, not directly. but in every gesture, every glance, it’s there.
you’re his world now, and everyone can see it.
his room at the frat house has changed, too. gone are the stacks of solo cups and random gym gear scattered across the floor. in their place are little pieces of you. a throw blanket you brought one day, a mug you left on his desk, your notebook tucked on the shelf next to his textbooks.
he keeps a photo of the two of you pinned on his bulletin board. it’s a candid, one of those moments you didn’t even know he was taking. a shot of you sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing his hoodie, laughing with a half-eaten cookie in your hand. he swears it’s his favorite picture in the world.
“you look so fucking cute, and happy,” he tells you when you catch him staring at it one night.
“i am happy,” you reply softly.
“better be,” he says. “that’s all i ever want for you, y/n.”
some nights, he stays over at your apartment instead of the frat. he always claims it’s because it’s quieter, easier to focus on studying. but you both know it’s just because he sleeps better when you’re beside him.
you cook together sometimes, though “cook” might be a really shitty out of touch excuse for the disaster you two create. he burns half the things he touches, laughs through every fuck up, and still insists on taste-testing everything like he’s on master chef. you can’t stay mad when he grins at you with flour on his cheek, his dimples showing as he holds up a misshapen cookie.
“hey, we’re improvin',” he says.
“barely,” you reply, giggling.
he just leans down, presses a quick kiss to your nose, and murmurs, “yeah, but you’re still here, so i must be doing somethin' right.”
there are still parties, of course, he’s still in the frat, and sometimes showing up is expected. but it’s much different. when he does go, he stays by your side the whole night, a protective hand on your back or wrapped around your waist.
he barely drinks anymore, claiming he doesn’t need to. when people flirt or make comments, he just laughs them off and pulls you a little closer.
and when it gets late, when the music’s too loud and the air too heavy with alcohol and perfume, he’ll lean down and whisper, “wanna get out of here?”
you always nod. and the two of you slip away, walking through quiet streets until you reach your place, where everything feels calm again.
people still whisper, still wonder how it works. how a shy, soft-spoken girl could tame someone like ryomen sukuna. but you know the truth.
you didn’t tame him, you just saw him. really saw him. beneath the tattoos, the reputation, the arrogance. you saw the boy who just needed someone to care, and he saw the girl who needed someone to make her feel brave.
and together, you found something that feels a lot like forever.
months pass, the seasons shifting from late autumn to the first chill of winter. the air turns crisp, the sky pale and bright. the two of you walk through campus hand in hand, your breath forming little clouds in the cold.
“remember when we first started that project?” you ask one day, laughing softly. “you barely knew what a periodic table was.”
“hey,” he says, pretending to be offended. “i knew what it was. i just didn’t give a shit.”
“hmm, and now you’re pulling straight a’s.”
he grins. “guess i had a real good tutor. she's real sexy, too..”
you bump his shoulder lightly. “awe i bet she'd be real flattered to hear that.”
he stops walking for a moment, looking down at you with that same warm, unguarded look that still makes your stomach flip.
“you know something?” he says quietly.
“hmm?”
“i still think that fuckass project was the best thing that's ever happened to lil' ol' me.”
you smile, reaching up to fix the collar of his jacket. “yeah?”
“hell yeah,” he murmurs, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours. “because it led me to you.”
the world fades for a moment, the cold, the noise, the people around you, and it’s just him. just you.
when he kisses you, it’s slow, steady, full of all the fuzzy romantic fire that’s been culminating between you since the day he walked up to your desk with a failed test and a hidden nervous smile.
you remember that moment so clearly now, and you can’t help but think how far you’ve both come. from shy glances and awkward silences to this. a love that feels like home.
and as his hand tightens around yours, you realize something simple, something certain.
you’ve both found exactly where you’re meant to be, with each other.
⚘. summary Ꮺ You ordered a custom dildo that perfectly matches your big-brother-figure Caleb’s dick. Caleb ordered a pocket pussy that perfectly matches your's. Neither of you knows the toys are synced to the real thing. Now every time one of you fucks your toy, the other feels it—like ghost sex on steroids. You’ve both spent months thinking you’re being haunted by the supernatural while secretly fucking each other senseless through the wall. The feedback loop goes haywire. No one is surviving this vacation with their sanity intact.
⚘. content warnings Ꮺ pseudocest, og cn gege/meimei trope, heavy dubcon, masturbations, unsolved sexual tension, zero communications, guilt, denial, forbidden desires, sexual frustration, mutual yearning, usage of sex toys, magical sex toys that secretly link to other person's body(portal panties), mutual fucking, semi-public/public, double penetration, extreme tightness + involuntary orgasms, excessive cumming/squirting, porn with little no plot . . .18 + ★ MINORS DNI !
⚘. wc Ꮺ 6k+
⚘. cherry’s note Ꮺ this is probably the weirdest scenario I've written so far... took me some real good TIME to finish...
“And that’s the last box,” you huff, letting the cardboard thud against the scuffed hardwood near the doorway. You straighten up straight, rolling your shoulders, wiping the sheen of sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. The tiny apartment looks like a warzone of luggage and flat-pack furniture Caleb swore you “absolutely needed”—his credit card, his orders, his quiet, stubborn way of still taking care of you even when he’s hundreds of miles away.
Linkon City air tastes different. Sharper. Lonelier.
You’ve been here three weeks and it still doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it never will without him barging through the door, scolding you for leaving dishes in the sink or for forgetting to eat again.
A sigh slips out as you kick off your sneakers. Shower first, chaos later.
Clothes hit the floor in a careless pile. The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, but the water pressure is perfect—hot, punishing, exactly what your sore muscles crave. Steam fills the cramped space, fogging the mirror, swallowing every reflection that isn’t you.
You tip your head back, letting the spray pound against your throat, your collarbones, sliding down between your breasts. The heat loosens something inside your chest.
Caleb’s face flashes behind your closed eyes uninvited. Always uninvited, yet always there.
Sharp jaw. Tired eyes that soften only for you. The way his pilot uniform hugs his shoulders now that he’s filling out, taller and broader every time he comes home on break. The way he still calls you “little pipsqueak” even though you’re not little anymore.
You shouldn’t.
You really, really shouldn’t.
But your hand is already moving, gliding over slick skin, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your navel, lower.
“You must’ve felt this heavy too, gege…” you whisper to the steam, voice trembling with guilt and something darker. “All alone in Skyhaven… in that big empty house with no one to—”
Your fingers slip between your thighs, parting swollen folds, finding yourself already soaked and it has nothing to do with the shower.
A broken little sound escapes as you circle your clit, slow, teasing, the same way you’ve imagined he would if he ever—God—if he ever let himself unravel like this.
“Mmh… gege, are you worried about me?” The words come out filthy, breathless, wrong in the best way. “Do you… think about me when you’re alone too?”
You press two fingers inside yourself, curling, pumping, thighs shaking. The heel of your palm grinds against your clit and your hips jerk forward like you’re fucking your own hand, like you’re chasing a ghost that wears his face.
You’ve never touched each other. Not once. Not beyond lingering hugs that lasted too long, not beyond his thumb brushing your cheek when you cried after graduation, not beyond falling asleep on his shoulder during long flights home and pretending both of you didn’t notice how neither moved away.
But you know.
You both know.
“C-Caleb—” His name cracks in your throat as you come undone, clenching hard around your fingers, knees nearly buckling. Water pounds over you like it’s trying to wash the sin off your skin, but it can’t reach the stain inside your chest.
You stay there until the water starts to cool, forehead pressed to the tile, panting, ashamed, and still aching for him.
Because even an entire city apart, even with new lives and new rules and the Hunter Academy waiting to swallow you whole tomorrow—Caleb is still the only home you want to go back to.
And you’re terrified he wants to come back to you too.
You step out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing but steam and guilt, skin still tingling, cheeks flaming hotter than the shower ever got. Droplets race down your neck, your spine, between your ass cheeks; every trickle feels like a reprimand. You don’t even bother with clothes. You just belly-flop onto the bed, wet hair fanning across the pillow, and immediately start flailing like a dying shrimp.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” you hiss, kicking the sheets, punching the mattress, rolling side to side until the towel finally gives up and falls open. You lie there spread-eagle, panting at the ceiling like it personally offended you.
You miss your stupid, overprotective, stupidly hot gege this much.
It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.
You need to do something about it before you lose the last shred of your sanity.
With a groan you drag the laptop Caleb bought you—matte black, way too expensive, has a little fighter-jet sticker he slapped on the lid as a joke— onto your stomach and flip it open. Fingers hover over the keys for half a second before shame loses the fight.
You type: “best sex toys for beginners”.
The screen explodes with color and silicone and words like “thrusting” and “suction” and “10 vibration patterns”. Your eyes go wide.
“Oh WOW…”
You scroll, jaw literally on the floor, until you hit the prices and wheeze. Eight hundred dollars for a rabbit vibrator? Who has that kind of money? Certainly not a broke freshman hunter living off instant noodles and Caleb’s guilt-money transfers.
You slam the laptop shut, fling yourself backward again, and whine at the ceiling.
“Too broke for that… damn, I can’t even get a proper dildo shoved up into my pussy, life is unfair—”
Ding ding.
Your phone lights up on the nightstand. Unknown number. A link.
Normally you’d ignore it. Today you’re desperate and dumb, so you squint, see “70% OFF FLASH SALE!!” in screaming red letters, and click before your brain catches up.
The site that loads is… questionable. Neon pink, flickering banners, probably one virus away from stealing your soul. But front and center is a product that makes your heart stop.
“Upload a photo, choose vein pattern, pick warmth settings; experience the exact cock you’ve always dreamed of.”
Your mouth goes dry.
There’s a little heart icon that says “Most Wishlisted Item of the Year”.
You shouldn’t.
You really, really shouldn’t.
But your finger is already over the “Customize Now” button and your thighs are already squeezing together remembering how your own fingers felt pretending they were his.
Ten minutes later you’ve uploaded the clearest photo you have of Caleb—him leaning against the cockpit of his fighter, flight suit half-zipped, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. You pick the length you’ve definitely never measured in your head while hugging him goodbye, the exact girth your dirty imagination has circled back to for years, the upward curve you’ve caught a glimpse of once through his sweatpants and never recovered from.
Veins: raised, prominent, just like the ones on his forearms when he carries your luggage without breaking a sweat. Warmth setting: “always hot, like he just worked out”. Internal texture: “tight but yielding, the way you bet he’d feel if he ever snapped and pinned you down.
The total, with the sketchy discount, is suspiciously low. Delivery: 3–5 days, discreet packaging.
Your finger hovers over “Place Order”. Morals scream. Pussy throbs harder. You hit the button before you can talk yourself out of it.
Order confirmed. You drop the phone like it’s on fire, roll facedown into the pillow, and muffle a scream that’s half horror, half unbearable anticipation.
In three to five days, you’re going to fuck a perfect replica of the cock belonging to the one person you’re never, ever supposed to want.
And you already know you’re going to call it gege while you do.
Five days of checking the mailbox like a lunatic. Five days of that stupid website 404-ing every time you tried to track the order. Five days of punching training dummies with your entire soul while screaming internally about getting scammed out of your last paycheck for a ghost dick.
“FUCK, IT WAS A SCAM!” you snarl, slamming an uppercut into the dummy’s throat so hard the stuffing starts leaking, “WHAT WAS I THINKING!”. Your squadmates give you a wide berth, whispering. Whatever. Let them think you’re unhinged. You are unhinged.
Then your phone buzzes against your hip. Package delivered.
You don’t even wait for the instructor to dismiss you. You just bolt, boots pounding pavement the whole way back, lungs burning, sweat cooling on your neck in the evening air. The second the apartment door slams behind you, you spot the box.
Plain brown. No labels except your name in printed font. You drop to your knees like a woman possessed, nails clawing at tape, ripping cardboard like it owes you money. The lid flies off. And you stop breathing.
Nestled in black satin is the most obscene, perfect, terrifying cock you’ve ever seen.
It’s huge. Stupidly, ridiculously huge. Thick veins snake up the shaft, only these are flushed dark, pulsing faintly with the built-in warming tech. The head is that deep brownish-pink, flared and glistening from whatever hyper-realistic coating they used. Heavy balls hang low, weighted, shifting slightly when you nudge the box.
You don’t remember setting the length slider this high.
You don’t care. Your mouth actually waters.
“Oh wow…” It comes out strangled. You fall back onto your ass, legs splayed, staring at the thing like it might stand up and walk over to you itself. “Oh my god.”
Your pussy clenches so hard you feel it in your throat.
You haven’t even taken your sweaty training gear off and you’re already dripping down your thighs.
You pick it up with both hands—jesus, it’s warm, heavier than expected and the second your fingers close around the shaft it pulses again, like it knows who it belongs to.
Like it’s been waiting for you just as long as you’ve been waiting for him.
You press the thick head against your cheek without thinking, dragging it down to your lips, breathing in the clean, new-silicone scent mixed with whatever insane tech makes it smell faintly like his cologne.
“Fuck, gege…” you whisper against the tip, voice cracking.
The toy throbs in your grip like it heard you.
You have never sprinted to lock your bedroom door faster in your life.You don’t make it to the bed.
The second the lock clicks you’re already peeling off your sweat-soaked clothes, sports bra flung somewhere, shorts kicked aside, panties dragged down your thighs and left dangling off one ankle. The toy is still in your grip, hot against your palm, veins pulsing faintly with the internal heater like it has a heartbeat.
You drop to your knees on the rug, legs spreading wide without shame, back hitting the edge of the mattress. The thick head nudges your lips and you open instantly, greedy, tongue flattening against the underside as you take the first few inches into your mouth. It’s too big; your jaw aches immediately, drool already spilling down your chin, but you force yourself deeper, gagging softly, eyes watering.
You pull off with a wet pop and a broken moan.
“Need you inside me, gege… please—”
You flip onto all fours, ass in the air, face buried in the sheets that still smell like the detergent he used to buy for both of you back home. One hand reaches back, guiding the fat tip through your soaked folds, coating it, teasing your clit until your thighs shake.
Then you push.
The stretch is obscene. Your pussy flutters, resists, then gives all at once. A strangled cry rips out of you as the first half sinks in, thick veins dragging against your walls, that perfect upward curve kissing spots you’ve never reached with your fingers. You claw at the sheets, hips jerking back on instinct, taking more, more, until your ass meets the heavy silicone balls and you’re stuffed so full you can’t breathe.
“F-fuck—Caleb—”
You pull forward until only the head remains, then slam back. The impact makes you scream into the mattress. Again. Harder. Faster. Your tits bounce with every brutal thrust, nipples dragging against the rug, thighs slapping against silicone like they’re slapping against his hips.
You lose count of how many times you fuck yourself on it. You lose language. All that exists is the wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing him, the burn in your thighs, the way your clit throbs every time the base grinds against it.
You flip over, legs thrown wide, knees hooked over your elbows so you can watch. Watch the way your pussy lips stretched thin around his cock, watch it disappear inside you again and again, slick coating everything, dripping down your ass, pooling on the floor.
“Look what you do to me, gege,” you sob, voice wrecked. “Look how wet you make me—how empty I am without you—fuck, I’m such a slut for you—”
Your free hand flies to your clit, rubbing frantic circles, and the orgasm barrels into you like a freight train. You squirt, actually squirt, a gush that soaks the toy and your thighs and the rug beneath you. Your walls clamp down so hard the dildo almost slips out, but you shove it deeper, riding the aftershocks, grinding, crying his name like a prayer.
You don’t stop.
You can’t.
You pull it out only long enough to flip the toy around and shove the slick head against your ass, teasing, not quite brave enough yet, but the thought alone makes you come again, smaller this time, a full-body shudder that leaves you gasping.
When you finally collapse, the dildo is still buried to the hilt, your pussy fluttering around it in lazy pulses. You’re trembling, sweaty, ruined. Tears and drool and cum smeared across your face and chest.
You reach down blindly, fingers brushing the base, and give it one last slow thrust just to hear yourself whimper.
“…come home soon, gege,” you whisper to the empty room, voice hoarse. “I don’t think this is gonna be enough anymore.”
The toy stays inside you the rest of the night. You fall asleep clenching around it, dreaming of the real thing finally splitting you open.
—
—
Skyhaven, DAA parade grounds, 18:47 local.
Caleb is standing at parade rest, flight jacket crisp, medals gleaming, trying to look like the perfect poster boy for the Deepspace Aviation Academy while the brass drones on about honor and vigilance. The formation is dead silent except for the wind whipping the flags.
Then it starts.
A faint tingle at the base of his spine. He shifts his weight, ignores it. Probably just nerves.
Gideon elbows him from the left. “Dude, you good? You’re sweating bullets.”
Caleb forces a laugh, teeth clenched. “Yeah, just hot in this jacket.”
The tingle turns into heat. A slow, syrupy, pooling right behind his balls. His cock twitches once, then again, harder, like someone just wrapped a fist around it and squeezed.
He locks his knees to keep from swaying.
The sensation climbs. Something slick and impossibly tight slides down his shaft, inch by inch, swallowing him whole. His breath stutters. The wet spot blooming at the front of his dress pants is impossible to hide now; he angles his body behind the guy in front of him, praying nobody notices.
Another squeeze. A rhythmic drag. Something soft and spongy kissing the tip over and over and over.
His vision whites out for half a second. He breaks formation without permission, muttering a choked “bathroom” to Gideon’s startled face, and bolts.
He barely makes it to the nearest restroom, slamming the lock, back hitting the door as his trembling fingers rip his belt open. The second his cock springs free it’s flushed angry red, leaking like a faucet, veins bulging exactly the way you spent hours customizing.
He doesn’t even touch himself.
He doesn’t have to.
The feeling slams into him again: tight, wet heat clenching around him, riding him hard, fast, merciless. Invisible hips slam down, grind, pull up, slam down again. His balls draw up so tight it hurts.
“F-fuck—!” The moan tears out of him; he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes rolling back, hips jerking into empty air like he’s fucking someone bent over the sink in front of him.
Every thrust feels real. Too real. He can feel slick walls fluttering, a cervix nudging the head on every brutal stroke, the phantom slap of skin on skin he’s never actually heard but somehow knows by heart.
His knees buckle. He grips the porcelain with white knuckles, forehead pressed to the cool mirror, panting like he’s running a marathon.
“Ah—shit—stop—please—” he doesn’t even know who he’s begging.
The pace only gets rougher.
He comes without warning, a broken cry muffled against his own arm, thick ropes painting the sink, the mirror, his dress shirt. His cock jerks and jerks like it’s being milked by a throat, a pussy, something greedy and possessive and familiar.
The orgasm doesn’t stop. It rolls straight into another, smaller but sharper, and his legs finally give out. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold tile, cock still half-hard, twitching with aftershocks, cum dripping down his fist even though he never stroked himself once.
Chest heaving, he stares at the mess in dazed horror. “What the fuck was that…?”
Three hundred miles away, you’re still sprawled on your bedroom floor, impaled on the toy, whispering his name like a prayer while it throbs inside you.
Neither of you has any idea the link goes both ways. Yet.
Every night for the past ten days it’s the same ritual.
You stumble through the door still in your sweat-drenched hunter uniform, kick off your boots, and don’t even bother with the lights. The second the bedroom door shuts behind you, clothes hit the floor in a frantic trail. You’re already soaked before you even touch the toy, thighs slick, pussy throbbing like it’s been counting the hours until you get home to it.
You keep the dildo in the top drawer now, wrapped in one of Caleb’s old flight academy T-shirts like a dirty little secret. The moment your fingers close around the warm shaft it pulses, eager, like it missed you just as badly.
And three hundred miles away, Caleb starts sweating through whatever he’s doing.
Day 4
You ride it reverse on the desk chair, feet planted wide, rolling your hips slow and deep just to feel every vein drag inside you.
In Skyhaven, Caleb drops an entire tray of coffee in the cadet mess, doubles over the table with a choked gasp, thighs clamping together while his cock leaks helplessly into his boxers. Gideon has to drag him out by the elbow while Caleb stammers something about food poisoning.
Day 6
You’re on your knees in the shower, toy suction-cupped to the tile, slamming back onto it until your ass is red and the water runs cold.
Caleb’s in the middle of a night-flight simulator run. Mid-loop his whole body locks up; he yanks the stick too hard, fails the exercise, and spends ten minutes curled in the cockpit seat coming untouched while the instructor screams over the headset.
Day 8
You can’t wait anymore the second you get home. You don’t even make it to the bedroom. You drop onto the hallway floor, legs over your head, fucking yourself with both holes now—the replica so slick from your pussy it slides into your ass easy. You scream his name until your voice cracks.
Caleb’s in the barracks laundry room folding clothes. One second he’s fine, the next he’s on the floor, biting his own forearm to stay quiet while his cock jerks and feels violated by invisible forces. He comes so hard his vision blacks out. When he can move again he finds the crotch of his pants soaked front and back and has no explanation.
Day 10
You’re greedy. You strap the toy to a pillow, mount it like you’re riding him for real, hands braced on the headboard, hips snapping down so hard the bedframe slams the wall in rhythm.
“Gege—fuck—harder—please, I need—”
You sob it into the dark, tears streaking your cheeks, pussy gushing all over the silicone balls.
In Skyhaven, Caleb is supposed to be asleep. Instead he jerks awake in his bunk with a wounded sound, sheets twisted around his hips, cock so hard it hurts. The sensation hits like a punch: tight, wet heat swallowing him to the root, grinding, milking. Something inside him —his ass—clenches around nothing and everything at once. He shoves his face into his pillow and comes instantly, whole body convulsing, biting down so hard he tastes blood.
When it finally fades he’s shaking, drenched in sweat, heart hammering like he just ran ten miles.
He drags a trembling hand down his stomach and finds his cock still-hard cock slick with his own release and something else—slicker, warmer, smelling faintly smelling like you.
For the first time, real fear cuts through the haze. Because whatever is doing this to him isn’t random. And it’s getting stronger every night.
Caleb hasn’t slept properly in twelve days. Every night the “ghost” comes back. Every night it rides him harder, tighter, wetter, like it’s learning exactly how to unravel him.
He’s stopped trying to fight it. He just locks his door, shoves his face into his pillow, and lets the phantom cunt milk him dry while his cock leaks and his ass clenches around nothing and his brain short-circuits with the same voice that’s haunted him since puberty.
Your voice.
He’s started jerking off to the memory of it in the showers, biting his own fist so his bunkmates don’t hear him whimpering “pipsqueak” like a prayer.
He’s losing his fucking mind.
So when he’s alone in the dorm common room at 0300, half delirious, cock still half-hard from another unsolicited orgasm, he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life.
He googles the symptoms.
Ends up on the same neon-pink, virus-looking website you found weeks ago.
The banner screams: FEEL LIKE SOMEONE YOU LOVE — NOW WITH REVERSE SYNC!
He doesn’t read the fine print. He’s too tired, too desperate, too turned on.
He uploads the clearest photo he has of you—last summer, you in that sundress, laughing at something he said, hair sticking to your sweaty neck.
He customizes everything with shaking hands,outer lips soft and plump, exactly the way he’s imagined a thousand times when you walked around the house in tiny sleep shorts. Inner walls textured like crushed velvet, tight at the entrance, then fluttering deeper. Clit hood pronounced, sensitive node swollen —because he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t notice how you squirm when he hugs you too long enough. Warmth setting: “always soaked, like she’s been thinking about you all day.” Scent module: the exact peach-and-vanilla body wash you’ve used since you were fifteen.
He pays triple for overnight shipping. The box arrives two days later while the entire barracks is out on a weekend training hike. Caleb locks himself in his room, heart hammering like a jet engine.
He tears the packaging open with his teeth. Inside, nestled in black satin, is the prettiest pocket pussy he’s ever seen.
Soft, dusky outer lips, flushed pink inside, already glistening with the self-lubricating gel. It’s warm to the touch, pulsing faintly like it’s breathing.
He exhales a broken “fuck… so pretty…” and runs two fingers down the seam, parting the lips gently. The toy quivers. A bead of lube rolls out like it’s already wet for him.
He doesn’t make it to the bed.
He drops into his desk chair, sweatpants shoved down to his hips, cock springing out thick and flushed and already dripping. He drags the head through the slick folds once, twice, coating himself, groaning at how realistic it feels.
Then he pushes in.
The sound that rips out of him is inhuman.
Tight, hot, velvet walls clamp down instantly, sucking him deeper like they’ve been waiting years. The inner texture ripples around his shaft exactly the way he’s fantasized your pussy would—fluttering, squeezing, dragging over every vein.
He bottoms out in one brutal thrust and his vision whites out.
“Fuck—pipsqueak—” he chokes, hips jerking helplessly. “Is this how you’re supposed to feel? So good—so fucking real—”
He starts slow, savoring it, pulling out until just the tip kisses the entrance, then sliding back in with a wet squelch that makes his balls draw up tight. The toy makes obscene sounds—soft, wet, exactly like a real cunt taking cock—and every noise goes straight to his spine.
He loses control fast.
Hands gripping the desk, he starts pounding into it like he hates it, like he loves it, hips snapping hard enough to rattle the chair. The pocket pussy sucks him back in on every stroke, walls fluttering wildly, clit hood bumping his pelvis on the downstroke.
“Take it—just like that—fuck, you’re so tight for me—”
He doesn’t notice the way the toy seems to clench harder when he says your nickname. Doesn’t notice the way it gushes fresh slick every time he groans “good girl” under his breath.
Three hundred miles away, you’re in the middle of a lecture at the Hunter Academy when your body suddenly locks up. A phantom cock—thick, burning hot, veiny—slides into you from nowhere. Your pen clatters to the desk. You slap both hands over your mouth to stifle a scream as invisible hips slam forward and bury something huge to the hilt inside you.
Your pussy spasms around empty air. Your clit throbs like someone’s grinding against it. Your chair creaks as your thighs snap together, trying to trap the sensation that isn’t there and is there all at once.
The “ghost” fucks you right there in the lecture hall, in front of thirty other cadets, relentless and deep and merciless.
You cum biting your own wrist so hard you leave teeth marks, tears streaming down your face, soaking through your panties and the seat beneath you while the professor drones on about wanderer migration patterns.
Back in Skyhaven, Caleb’s losing his mind in a different way.
He’s hunched over the desk now, one hand braced, the other brutally fucking the toy up and down his cock, chasing the edge.
“Gonna—fuck—gonna fill you up, pipsqueak—take every drop—”
He comes with a guttural shout, hips stuttering, cock pulsing so hard the toy overflows. Thick ropes of cum spill out around his shaft, dripping down the silicone lips, painting his fist, the desk, his thighs.
The pocket pussy keeps milking him through it, walls fluttering like it’s trying to drain him completely.
He slumps forward, forehead pressed to the cool wood, panting like he’s run a marathon.
The toy gives one last gentle squeeze… almost affectionate.
And somewhere far away, you’re curled in the academy bathroom stall, legs shaking, pussy still twitching with aftershocks, a flood of cum you didn’t make leaking out of you in thick, warm pulses.
You both whisper the same thing at the exact same second, voices hoarse and wrecked and terrified,“What the fuck is happening to me?”
—
—
The entire summer break is a slow-motion torture.
You arrive at Bloomshore first, two hours early because the Academy let out sooner than DAA. Grandma hugs you so hard your ribs creak, pinches your cheeks, stuffs you full of peach cobbler and gossip. The childhood house smells exactly the same: sun-warmed wood, sea-salt breeze, the faint lavender sachets she still keeps in every drawer. Your old bedroom is untouched, posters curling at the corners, the same twin bed you used to share with Caleb when thunderstorms scared you.
You dump your suitcase, unzip it, and there it is: the dildo, wrapped in one of his old flight-school hoodies like contraband. It’s been two days since you last used it and your body is already twitching, thighs pressing together every time you remember how it feels.
You shove it under the mattress and try to be normal. Then the front door opens downstairs and you hear his voice.
“Gran squeals, “Caleb, my handsome boy!”
You freeze halfway down the stairs.
He’s… bigger. Shoulders filling the doorway, hair longer and tousled from the wind, sunglasses hooked in the collar of a white T-shirt that clings to his chest. He’s grinning at Gran, but the same crooked smile that’s been haunting your wet dreams for months.
Then his eyes flick up and find you. “Hey, pipsqueak… and Gran.”
Your stomach flips so violently you almost trip on the last step. You launch yourself at him anyway, because that’s what you’ve always done. He catches you mid-jump like you weigh nothing, arms banding around your waist, laughing low in his chest as you collide.
“Yup, gege’s here. How’s my meimei doing in Linkon, hm?”
The second his palm settles on the back of your head, petting like when you were kids, every filthy memory slams into you at once—the toy stretching you open, the way you sobbed his name into your pillow, the phantom cum that leaked out of you for days afterward.
Your face ignites. You feel the heat of his body through his shirt, the flex of his biceps as he holds you, the faint cedar-and-jet-fuel scent that is just him. You jerk away like you’ve been electrocuted.
“Huh… me? …oh… uh… good! I’m doing… good!!!”
Your voice cracks on every syllable. You practically sprint past him, suitcase banging against your leg, and disappear into your room so fast you almost take out the coat rack.
Caleb stands there frozen, arms still half-raised, cheeks flushed crimson for reasons he refuses to examine.
Gran raises an eyebrow. “You two are acting mighty strange.”
He clears his throat, grabs his own duffel, and mutters something about needing a shower.
That night neither of you comes down for dinner.
You lie in your childhood bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck on the ceiling together when you were ten, thighs clenched so tight they ache. You can hear him moving around in the room next door, the creak of his old mattress, the low thud of his bag hitting the floor.
You wonder if he brought it too. You wonder if he’s touching it right now. Across the wall, Caleb is wondering the exact same thing about you.
Both toys are hidden under respective mattresses, pulsing faintly like they know they’re finally under the same roof as their match.
The air-conditioner rattles. Crickets hum outside. The house is asleep.
Neither of you sleeps a wink. And somewhere in the dark, two identical warming circuits kick on at the exact same moment, waiting for someone to break first.
The first night back home, the dam breaks at 2:17 AM.
You’ve been tossing in your childhood bed for hours, sheets tangled around your ankles, thighs slick and aching from the constant low thrum of need that started the second you heard his laugh downstairs. The house is silent except for the distant crash of waves on Bloomshore’s cliffs and the faint creak of floorboards in the next room.
He’s right there.
Walls so thin you can hear him breathing if you press your ear to the plaster.
And under your mattress, the toy waits, warm and heavy and calling to you like a siren.
You give in with a muffled curse, fishing it out, fingers trembling as you drag it between your legs. No prep. No teasing. You’re already dripping, have been since that hug, so you just line up the fat head and sink down in one brutal slide.
The stretch is immediate and vicious, your pussy clenching around silicone veins like it’s starving. You bite your pillow to stifle the moan, hips rocking slow at first, savoring the drag, the way it kisses your cervix on every grind.
In the next room, Caleb jolts awake with a strangled gasp.
His cock—already half-hard from dreams of you—suddenly feels like it’s being strangled in velvet. Tighter than ever. Hotter. Wetter. The phantom walls clamp down so hard his vision spots, every ridge and flutter magnified tenfold, like whatever’s fucking him is twice as desperate tonight.
He scrambles for his duffel under the bed, yanking out the pocket pussy with shaking hands. No way he’s enduring this alone. He shoves his boxers down, spits into the toy’s slick entrance, and thrusts in without mercy.
The second he bottoms out, you scream into your sheets.
It’s like a second cock slams into you alongside the first—thicker, hotter, splitting you open from the inside. Your walls flutter wildly, stretched beyond reason, the dual sensations overlapping in a filthy symphony: the toy’s familiar curve grinding one spot while the phantom one drags against another, both pounding in perfect sync.
“F-fuck—gege—what—” you whimper, confused and wrecked, hips jerking up to meet nothing and everything. Your clit throbs like it’s being sucked, your ass clenches around air that feels full. You shove the dildo deeper, faster, chasing the burn, tears leaking down your cheeks as your body tries to process being double-fucked by ghosts.
Caleb’s teeth sink into his own bicep to keep from roaring loud enough to wake Grandma.
The toy is a vice. His cock feels like it’s being crushed in the best way—walls so tight they might snap him in half, rippling and milking with every brutal thrust. It’s wetter than before, slick gushing out around his shaft like the thing is coming alive, and every time he pulls back it sucks him in harder, deeper, the inner texture fluttering like a heartbeat.
“Pipsqueak—shit—too tight—gonna break me—” he growls through clenched teeth, one hand braced on the headboard, the other fucking the toy up and down his length so fast his arm burns. His balls slap against silicone with every snap, heavy and aching, the pressure building so intense he’s terrified he’ll black out.
You both lose track of time, separated by one flimsy wall, fucking your toys in frantic rhythm without knowing you’re fucking each other.
For you, it’s endless—the dildo splitting your pussy while the invisible cock mirrors every move, stretching you to your limits, making you gush so hard the sheets are soaked beneath your ass. You come once with a muffled sob, clenching around both, but it doesn’t stop—the sensations only amp up, phantom veins dragging inside you, a second head nudging spots that make your toes curl.
“More—gege, please—fill me up—” you beg the dark, fingers flying to your clit, rubbing frantic circles while you slam the toy home again and again.
Caleb hears something—a faint, wrecked whine through the wall—and it snaps his last thread.
He flips onto his back, legs spread wide, and fucks into the pocket pussy like a man possessed. The tightness is agonizing now, walls constricting so hard around his cock he swears it’s going to cut off circulation—hot, pulsing, fluttering like it’s alive and greedy and his. Every thrust sends sparks up his spine; his free hand claws at the sheets, hips bucking off the mattress.
“Take it—fuck, just like that—my good girl—” he rasps, voice hoarse, imagining your face, your body, the way you’d look split open on him for real.
The orgasm hits you both at the same instant.
You arch off the bed with a silent scream, pussy spasming around double fullness, squirting in thick arcs that drench your thighs and the toy. The phantom cum floods you—hot, thick, endless—leaking out around the dildo, pooling between your legs, making everything slicker, messier.
Caleb comes with a guttural “fuck—pipsqueak—” bitten off against his fist, cock jerking so hard the toy overflows instantly. Cum spills everywhere—his stomach, the sheets, the silicone lips stretched thin around him—but the walls keep milking, squeezing tighter than humanly possible, wringing every drop until his balls ache and his vision tunnels.
You both collapse in sweaty, trembling heaps, toys still buried deep, aftershocks rippling through you like shared electricity.
The wall between your rooms might as well not exist.
But neither of you moves. Neither knocks. Neither dares whisper the truth.
Instead, you pull the covers over your ruined body, the dildo still twitching faintly inside you, and pretend your heart isn’t pounding loud enough for him to hear.
Next door, Caleb does the exact same, cock softening in the vice-grip of the toy, a single thought looping in his wrecked mind,
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