whimsy 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

19 ᰔ entirely jjk x

[darlingbambii]

whims ♡ 19 ♡ she/her

welcome to the softest, prettiest pink place on the internet where i write you cutesy romcoms (and the occasional smut) for your favourite jjk men 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

i love talking on here so feel free to send me asks if you'd like <3

masterlist ♡ about me ♡ extra stuff

find me elsewhere? ao3 ♡ tiktok

— with love, whims <3

[darlingbambii]

Hey girlie you're on the jumbotron

burn

[liliklei-deactivated20260419]

pussy so good it makes a man cry !

“fffuck—you’re soo pretty baby”

“mmgh…gojo p-please faster—”

gojo was slurring his words, his body flushed while he was on top of you, thrusting into your soaked cunt like his life depended on it.

your walls were so snug around him, fluttering with each thrust he could feel everything against his fat cock while he bullied your poor pussy.

the squelch of your cunt, the scars you were leaving on his back while he thrust into you—it was all too much for him to take.

his cock was just kissing your cervix, throbbing—your needy whines had him almost cumming on the spot.

he could barely stop himself before tears pooled around the corners of his eyes.

you felt wet droplets of tears land on your face, satoru’s pretty eyes brimming with tears while he thrust into you.

“toru, you cryin’?”

“…..no.”

“oh my god my pussy made you cry.”

you were giggling against his chest, right before you cupped his face to wipe his tears away, and that had him cumming, hot spurts of his cum filling up your perfect cunt.

“god you’re easy.”

“only for you, wifey.”

“we aren’t married, toru.”

and that had him sobbing and giggling into your shoulder, slowly fucking his cum back into you—you were trying to kill him. he was sure of it. the way your soft walls took him so well, the way he could see his cum slowly drip out of you, it was enough to make a grown man weep.

i sincerely apologise for my brain

jjk : @lunarevia @sxpernova @darlingbambii @xqce @stellarixe @shnauwi @blu-goingdark @cherrys-wrld @cactusvolumes @mimiiis @tojiscreampie @yoonsucks @hiromisbb @mayjoe @liahcharms @deartoru

divider credits: @//bhavihelps .

all work belongs to @liliklei , do not copy, repost, translate or feed into AI !!

[darlingbambii]

im currently planning two short fics !! theyre both slice of life for shoko (who's surprised) and geto ^.^

i'll be posting them while im working on part two for fratkuna (which hopefully fingers crossed should be posted towards the end of april)

also if you guys have any questions about my fratkuna fic on anything at all send me some asks >.<

[darlingbambii]

hi bambi my sweet darling bambi

i want to gently kidnap you and take you away to a beautiful island where you'll have your every need tended to (by me) so we can live happily ever after, sounds good?

mariaaa my baby that sounds sososososo good >///< let's adopt some cute fur babies too and live happily together in our beautiful island ^.^

[snapdragon-rawrz]

so this is basically hwo it is

[darlingbambii]

HAIIII BABYYDOLL HRUU

what do you call a fish with no eye??

MY CUTIE ANNNNN IM OKAY HOW ARE YOUUU <3

i have no idea, what do you call a fish with no eye?

[darlingbambii]

kiss kiss! whats funnier than a tuna???

-fifi <3

OMG AN ANIMAL JOKE FOR ME 🥹💗

idk fifi what's funnier than a tuna?? ^.^

[iamfurs]

A THREENA HAHAHAHAHahahahahHAHAHAHAHaahhAHhahaha

im so funny hahahahah i love me

[darlingbambii]

no bc i didn't get it and i had to search up what a threena is until i realised what the joke was 😭😭😭😭

[darlingbambii]

kiss kiss! whats funnier than a tuna???

-fifi <3

OMG AN ANIMAL JOKE FOR ME 🥹💗

idk fifi what's funnier than a tuna?? ^.^

[darlingbambii]

please grace us with another animal joke my sweetest

i fear that drawing of us will haunt me for the rest of my life and you're going to send it everytime i try to say a joke. maybe you'll bring it up when we go drinking on saturday or smth (please dont i dont want your friends to think im a loser 😭😭😭😭)

anyways animal joke !!

what do you call a cow that plays guitar?

[darlingbambii]

Flower for the prettiest petal?

and flowers to you for my prettiest angel >//<

[darlingbambii]

hi baby I love youuuuu

emmmmm i love you so so much more (bigger text to show how much more i love you)

[darlingbambii]

Something Soft Between Us ᰔ

frat!sukuna x reader ☆ MDNI 18+

part one ᰔ part two ᰔ part three ᰔ part four

wc : 14.7k ᰔ art credits : @/luluyi

summary ♡ You didn’t plan on losing your virginity to Sukuna. It starts small. Shared conversations, quiet moments that feel easier than they should, a presence that slowly becomes familiar. You’re inexperienced, careful, and not used to wanting things you can’t define. So when you ask for something simple, something with no expectations, it makes sense. It's just sex. Just once. Just to try. Just to know. Sukuna doesn't do relationships, you've never done anything at all. But what begins as something casual slowly settles into something softer. Into late nights that linger, into moments that feel almost too easy, you begin to wonder if something like this was ever meant to be temporary at all.

tags ♡ ooc sukuna, jjk frat au, fwb, female reader, virgin reader, socially anxious reader, slow burn (in the romantic, emotional sense), eventual mutual pining, soft tension, awkward intimacy, first love, soft romance, lowk self indulgent

disclaimers ♡ eventual smut (part two will have more smut i promise), soft smut, slightly awkward sex, virginity loss, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, praise

authors note ♡ just a small note before reading !! reader’s inexperience isn’t rooted in purity culture or anything like that. it’s more tied to her anxiety and how she navigates people and intimacy, which is something i personally relate to and wanted to reflect in her character. <3 also sukuna is a little ooc here! this is very much my own interpretation of him in a uni/frat au, so he’s softer and a more grounded than canon, but still sukuna at heart (hopefully D:)

“Please pick up,” you whisper, squinting at your nearly dead phone as you ring Shoko's number again.

It was just past six when you finally noticed how dark the windows of the studio had become.

The main lights were on but the hallways take on that dim, end-of-day quality, the windows beyond your desk coloured in a dark grey. Rain pelts against the window, blurring the car park outside into something indistinct and distant.

You've been hunched over your desk for the better part of three hours, redrawing the same bodice structure because it refuses to look just right.

When your phone buzzes to remind you of the time, you blinked as if resurfacing.

Right. You should head home.

You quickly pack your stationery away before closing your sketchbook carefully, smoothing a palm over the cover out of habit. The paper inside is thick and textured and already heavy with weeks upon weeks of work. You shivered, thinking about how easily it could all be ruined. You don't even let yourself drink water while working in fear you'll spill over the pages.

When you're outside the building, the rain is louder and more aggressive, splashing thickly over the car park's asphalt and soaking into a deep gray that borders on black.

And that's when you realise.

You don't have an umbrella. Not even a decent coat to help with the rain.

“Please pick up,” you mumble again, calling Shoko's number when the call goes to voicemail.

Cold air rushes against your cheeks and hands, sharp enough to make you draw in a breath. The sky is a flat grey, sheets of rain drops slants across the student car park, pooling into puddles in random spots.

You stand beneath the narrow metal canopy beside the entrance. It isn't generous, barely covering half your body and the wind drives the rain sideways anyways, but it's enough to keep the worst of it from immediately soaking through. You adjust your tote bag, tucking it against your chest protectively and angling your shoulder to shield the opening. The beige fabric darkening when a stray water droplet lands.

The rain grows heavier, hammering against the canopy until it sounds almost metallic. A car passes at the far end of the car park, tires hissing against the water.

The call goes to voicemail again.

You lower the phone and stare at the screen as if irritation alone could summon her. She’s probably studying with her sound off, or maybe she's sleeping. Or just maybe she's ignoring you on purpose because she has already warned you about staying late before. You can already imagine the flat look she'd give you.

You glance out the rain again.

You could walk. It's only twenty minutes.

But twenty minutes in this weather means soaked sketchbook, warped paper, bleeding ink, smudged graphite, hours of work ruined.

You bite down on your lip, navigating on your phone to get an Uber. The prices would be hiked up and your phone is mere minutes away from dying but you're running out of options.

An engine's low growl cuts through the sound of water. It's closer than the others, deeper, the kind of sound that vibrates faintly in the middle of your chest. Headlights sweep across the wet ground and briefly illuminate the underside of the canopy you're refuging under.

You don't mean to look, but you do anyway.

The car that pulls up in front of you is sleek and black, its window tinted dark enough to reflect the rain back at itself. Even in the slipping evening light, it looks expensive in a way that makes you take a step back.

Then the passenger side window rolls down, revealing the man inside.

He doesn't lean out, doesn't crowd the space between you and the car. He stays where he is, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other near the gear shift. The interior light isn't on, but from the streetlamps spilling through the windscreen, you can see the mess of pink hair, the sharp line of his jaw and the faint pattern of ink tracing the edges of his face.

His gaze lands on you steadily.

Not intrusive or leering, but steady.

“You're going to get soaked,” he finally says. His voice is low, even, the kind of deepness that carries without being raised.

You're suddenly aware of how you must look. Your hair fizzy at the ends, sleeves damp, tote clutched to your chest like you're shielding a sickly animal.

“I'm fine,” you manage out, though the wind immediately drives a spray of rain beneath the canopy and proves you wrong.

Water dots the canvas near the opening of your bag. You instinctively turn your shoulder, shielding it.

His eyes flick to it.

“That bag waterproof?”

You hesitate. “No.”

Rain drums harder against the metal above you. The car engine hums a low, controlled purr that contrasts the weather.

He studies the downpour for a brief second, then looks back at you.

“Get in.”

The words aren’t softened and they’re not coaxing, either. Just direct.

Your stomach tightens. You don’t know this man. You don’t recognise him beyond the vague awareness that you’ve probably passed him somewhere on campus before. He looks like someone who belongs in a car like this. Dark clothes, sleeves pushed up slightly to reveal more ink curling along his forearm. The tattoos don’t look like an afterthought, they look like they're apart of him.

“I don’t know you,” you say, because that feels like the most reasonable thing to say.

He tilts his head a fraction, considering you.

“It’s raining,” he replies.

As if that answers everything.

Your phone buzzes weakly in your hand.

1%.

You glance down at it, then back up.

Another gust of rain splashes against your tote, and the fabric darkens again. You imagine the pages inside curling, ink bleeding into watercolour ghosts of what they used to be. The thought makes something twist low in your chest.

“If I get in,” you begin, and your voice sounding steadier than you feel, “I’m taking a picture of your number plate. And your licence. I’ll send it to my friend, just in case you abduct me and kill me in the forest.”

A beat passes.

“That's dramatic,” he says, but he made no moves to stop you.

You take a step towards the front only to halt to a stop immediately after.

Your phone dies.

You stare at it. Press the button on the side. Nothing.

Of course.

You swallow and lift your eyes slowly.

He's still there. Watching you without impatience. Without a smirk. Without a smug amusement you were half expecting.

The car is warm and you can tell from the faint condensation beginning to fog the lower corner of the windscreen from the heat inside.

He doesn’t rush you.

He doesn’t repeat himself.

He just waits.

Your options rearrange themselves quickly in your mind: twenty-minute walk, a soaked sketchbook, hours of work potentially destroyed. Or a ten-minute drive with a stranger who, so far, has done nothing but state the obvious and offer to help you.

You step forward before your brain can generate a new set objections and pull the passenger door open.

Warmth greets you instantly.

The scent inside is subtle but expensive. Leather and something darker beneath it, clean and restrained. The rain becomes muted the moment you shut the door, reduced to a dull beat against metal and glass.

You sit upright, buckling in and your tote still pressed protectively to your chest.

He reaches across slightly and adjusts a dial on the console. The heater hums louder, warm air spilling towards your legs.

“Your address?” He asks.

No small talk. No commentary about your near-death-by-rain situation.

You give it to him.

He nods once, typing it on the maps on the screen in the space between the two of you, and pulls away from the pavement, tires slicing smoothly through shallow water.

Music filters through the speakers. Low, bass-heavy, controlled, not loud enough to overwhelm the space.

For the first few seconds you’re hyper-aware of everything. The enclosed space. The proximity. The faint hum of the car beneath your shoes. But when you risk a glance sideways, he isn’t looking at you at all.

He’s watching the road. One hand steady on the wheel, the other relaxed. His posture is loose but deliberate, like he knows exactly how much space he takes up and sees no need to prove it.

He doesn’t look at your legs. Doesn't even look at you at all. Doesn’t ask prying questions about yourself. He just drives.

At a traffic light, he leans over and offers you a charger.

“For your phone,” he says simply.

“Oh, thank you.” You accept it gratefully, plugging your phone in.

It's quiet once more, the traffic light turning green and he's driving again.

“You're in fashion design.” He says, not quite a question.

You offer him a look, “how'd you know?”

“I know your friend, Shoko,” He says evenly, taking a turn.

“Oh.” You say plainly, not sure what to say. “How'd you know I'm friends with Shoko?”

“She told me.”

He doesn’t offer much information, and you just stare forward at the rain splattering against the car hood.

“I'm not trying to be creepy,” he adds reassuringly. “Shoko talks about you a lot whenever I see her at our parties.”

You don’t know how to feel about that.

The idea of Shoko talking about you at parties, his parties, apparently, makes something small and unsettled shift in your chest, not quite embarrassment but closer to exposure, like someone opened a window you didn’t realise had ever been shut.

“Oh,” you say again, because it’s the only word that comes.

He doesn’t elaborate.

The wipers drag across the windscreen in steady intervals, pushing aside sheets of rain. Streetlights smear into elongated gold streaks against the glass. You watch them instead of looking at him.

“What does she say?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

There’s the faintest pause.

“That you overwork,” he replies. “That you forget to eat when you’re designing. That you don’t answer your phone when you’re stressed, then panic when she doesn’t answer hers.”

Heat creeps up your neck.

“That’s not-” You stop because it is true and press your lips together. “She talks too much.”

A low sound hums from him, something softer than a laugh and not quite mocking, just acknowledgement.

Your phone screen flickers back to life, battery icon blinking before slowly inching upward. Notifications flood in all at once. A few notifications from various social medias from earlier in the day. A message from Shoko sent ten minutes ago:

shoko ♡: alive. just took a nap. you okay?

You stare at it.

You could tell her you’re in a stranger’s car, but you’re not sure what you’d even say beyond that.

The car slows as he turns into your street. The buildings here are familiar—brick walls, small balconies, the corner shop with the flickering sign.

He pulls up neatly outside your building and shifts into park.

The engine keeps running and for a moment, neither of you move.

Up close, without the distortion of rain and distance, you notice details you hadn’t before. The faint scar cutting through one eyebrow. The way the tattoos follow the natural, sharp lines of his face. The calm in his posture—not stiff or awkward.

“Thank you,” you say, unplugging your phone and winding the wire carefully before placing it back in the centre console.

He gives a small nod. “Don’t ruin your work.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but it lands softer than you expected.

You adjust your tote, fingers tightening around the strap. “You didn’t have to park.”

“I know.” He says, and he presses a button on the side to unlock the doors. “See you around.” You take that as a cue to start leaving.

You open the door and the cold rushes back in immediately, rain speckling your tights as you step out. The warmth disappears the second the door shuts behind you, replaced with the sharp scent of wet pavement.

You hurry towards your building entrance, shielding your bag again on instinct. Halfway to the door, you glance back.

His car is still there.

Headlights cutting clean lines through the rain. Engine idling. He isn’t leaning over the steering wheel or watching you in any obvious way, but he hasn’t driven off either.

Waiting.

You fumble your keys slightly before finally scanning your key fob. The door clicks open and you slip inside. Through the small pane of glass, you see the car remain for a second longer.

Then the brake lights flare red and he pulls away.

You stand in the hallway for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of old carpet and the weird smell of radiator heat. Your heart is still beating a little too fast, though you’re not entirely sure why.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

Shoko's calling.

You stare at her name on the screen for a moment before you answer.

“Don’t yell at me,” you say immediately.

There’s a pause on the other end. “Why would I-” she begins, then stops. “You sound weird. What happened?”

You glance at the door as if the car might still be there. “Can I stop by your place?”

You don’t bother stopping at your apartment to change into drier clothes. You stop at the door next to yours, quickly knocking.

There's shuffling inside. Something Drops. A muffled swear. Then the door swings open a moment later.

Shoko Ieiri stands in her oversized uni hoodie, loose pyjama short, hair slightly flattened on one side like she's been either sleeping or hunched over her textbook for too long. There's also a green highlighter tucked behind her left ear.

She squints at you. “You look… wet.”

“You didn't pick up,” you say immediately.

She winces. “I know. I'm sorry. I passed out for, like, I think twenty minutes? I was doing organic chemistry.”

You step inside as she moves to the side, revelling in how warm her apartment is. It smells faintly of coffee and smoke and something medicinal, probably the muscle rub she uses.

“I thought you were dead,” you mumble. “Or maybe you wanted me to die.”

“Die from the rain?”

“I had my sketchbook and I didn't bring an umbrella.”

You hover awkwardly by her sofa, and she studies your expression more closely now.

“You're not just here to guilt-trip me, are you?” She quirks an eyebrow. “What happened? You said not to be mad at you but I don't even know what happened.”

You hesitate, perching on the edge of her sofa. “I got a lift home.”

“...Okay?”

“From a stranger.”

She blinks once. “Define ‘stranger’.”

“I don't know his name.”

Her posture straightens, a look of interest playing on her face. “Start from the beginning.”

And so you do.

You tell her about the rain, the dying phone, the car, the window rolling down.

“He had pink hair.”

Shoko pauses mid-step as she reaches for her mug. “Like, fluffy pink hair?”

“Yeah.”

She narrows her eyes. “Built like he fights bears recreationally?”

You blink. “That's… oddly specific.”

“Just answer the question.”

“...I mean, sure? I guess? I wasn't really paying attention to his muscles.”

Shoko freezes before slowly setting down her mug.

“Stay there,” she says before moving to grab her phone from the kitchen counter. Her face does that thing it does when she’s putting pieces together. Mildly exasperated, deeply aware.

She turns the phone towards you.

The first photo is clearly taken at a party. A crowded living room, red cups, LEDs lights. A pink-haired guy is grinning at the camera, arm slung around someone out of frame.

“That's not him,” you say immediately.

She swipes.

The second photo is darker. Same house, maybe? Maybe the same party too.

He’s standing slightly off to the side this time, drink in hand, expression flat like he’d rather be anywhere else. Pink hair. Tattoos. Broad shoulders under a fitted black shirt, with a guy with impossibly white hair slung over his shoulders and pulling some silly face.

You point without hesitation.

“That,” she says, “is Ryomen Sukuna.”

You stare at her.

“Isn't that a name for a mythical two face demon-”

“I don't know,” she replies abruptly before you could finish, locking her phone.

The name sits strangely in your mouth when you try it silently. Ryomen Sukuna.

“He’s in Gojo’s frat,” she adds.

You blink. “Who’s Gojo?”

Now she looks at you like you’ve just admitted you don’t know how to breathe.

“Satoru Gojo,” she says slowly. “Tall. White hair. Freaky blue eyes. Thinks he’s God’s favourite. My best friend from high-school.”

You stare blankly.

She sighs.

“Sigma Psi.”

“Oh.”

That means absolutely nothing to you beyond vague campus lore.

Shoko gestures vaguely as she speaks, listing all the guys she knows that's in the frat because she grew up with them.

“What about Sukuna?”

She studies you carefully. “I don't know him well, but he kinda just does whatever he wants.”

That’s not helpful.

“You see them around campus all the time,” she continues. “You just don’t notice because you’re always speed-walking with your headphones in and your head down.”

You open your mouth to argue.

You close it.

Fair.

“He didn’t say his name,” you mutter.

“He wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t introduce himself unless he feels like it.”

You sink onto her sofa, ignoring how cryptic she sounded, tote still clutched in your lap.

“He waited,” you say quietly.

Shoko tilts her head. “Waited?”

“Until I got inside.”

Something unreadable flickers across her face.

“…That tracks,” she says eventually.

You look up at her. “Is he awful?”

She considers that. “No, I wouldn't say that.”

You relax slightly.

“He’s just not… soft? I guess?”

That makes sense.

Silence settles between you for a moment then Shoko snaps her fingers once. “You should come over in three days.”

You blink. “Over where?”

“Their house. Not for a party,” she adds quickly, reading your expression. “Gojo and Geto are hosting a study night. Midterms are coming up. It’ll mostly just be us in the dining room.”

“Us?”

“Me. Them. Probably Nanami because he hates himself. Maybe Haibara if he remembers he has exams. It’s not a rager or anything at all.”

You hesitate. The idea of a frat house makes your chest tighten slightly. “I don’t really do big groups.”

“I know,” she says calmly. “You won’t have to. You can sit next to me and ignore everyone. They’ll be too busy arguing about something stupid anyway.”

You consider it.

“And he’ll be there?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Her mouth twitches into a small smirk. “Probably.”

That does something small and uncomfortable in your chest.

“You don’t have to talk to him,” she adds. “But if he remembers you, he will.”

That feels strangely ominous.

“I don’t even have his number,” you say lightly.

Shoko gives you a look. “You might.”

You narrow your eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” she says, picking her mug back up, “people don’t usually go out of their way like that for no reason. Something is bound to happen to you.”

You stare at her.

“I hate when you’re right.”

“I’m a sleep-deprived premed student,” she says dryly. “I usually am.”

Outside the rain continues to fall, and three days suddenly doesn’t feel very far away.

Getting to Sigma Psi would’ve taken ten minutes quicker if Shoko had driven.

But the second she locks her apartment door and sees the way you’re clutching your tote like you're about to pee yourself or something, she pauses.

“Do you want to walk?” she asks casually. “The weather is good and it might help.”

You nod a little too quickly.

Walking means nice, clean breathing space with the breeze on your face. Walking means you don’t arrive sooner than if you drove, it'll give you more time to relax.

The air is cool but not unpleasant, the sun starting to set, leaving the sky drizzled with the last bits of sunlight. You keep your hands tucked into your sleeves as you move beside Shoko.

“You don’t have to talk,” she reminds you gently. “You can just sit. No one’s going to interrogate you or something.

“That sounds exactly like something someone says before I get interrogated.”

She snorts softly. “Gojo maybe will, but he bothers everyone like that.”

You don’t know who Gojo is beyond ’white hair, freaky blue eyes, and a big ego problem’ which isn't really reassuring.

The Sigma Psi house comes into view around the corner.

It’s bigger than you expected.

Wide porch, lights glowing warmly through large windows, no music thumping. No chaos spilling out the door.

Still, your grip on your tote tightens.

Shoko nudges you lightly with her elbow. “You’ll be fine.”

The front door opens before she even knocks.

A tall man with stark, white hair and round glasses grins down at Shoko like she’s personally delivered oxygen back into his lungs.

“Shoko!” He announces dramatically. “You’ve returned to bless us with your intelligence.”

You blink.

He looks at you.

Bright blue eyes widen behind the lenses.

“And you brought a friend.”

Shoko sighs.

So this is Satoru Gojo.

He leans sideways to look at you properly. “You must be the mysterious fashion friend Shoko always talks about.”

Your brain stalls.

“I-”

“She doesn’t like loud people,” Shoko interrupts flatly.

“I can be quiet,” he says immediately, lowering his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “Super quiet”

From somewhere deeper in the house, someone says, “You’re still loud.”

You step inside. The house smells faintly of coffee and smoke, which reminds you of Shoko's place, and down the hallway you spot the dining table covered in open textbooks, stationery and various cups and mugs.

At the table sits a man with long, dark hair tied neatly back, reading through highlighted notes with calm focus. He glances up briefly, offering you a polite nod before returning to his page.

Next to him, a blond man, who looks equally sleep-deprived as Shoko, is pinching the bridge of his nose like he's regretting every life decision that had led him here.

A seemingly joyful boy with big, brown, soulful eyes waves immediately. “Hi! You’re Shoko’s friend, right?”

You freeze for half a second before managing a small nod.

“That’s Haibara,” Shoko murmurs. “He’s normal.”

“Mostly,” Haibara corrects cheerfully.

Your eyes drift instinctively across the room.

And then you see him.

He’s already there.

Sitting slightly apart from everyone at the table but still within it, chair tipped back slightly hanging a dark hoodie, a textbook open in front of him with sheets of notes that he doesn’t seem particularly invested in. He's wearing a dark grey shirt, his tattoos visible beneath pushed-up sleeves and his pink hair catches the warm light of the sunset from the window behind, and it practically makes him look like he's glowing.

He looks up.

Your stomach flips in a way that is deeply inconvenient.

You look away first.

You choose a seat at the far end of the table next to Shoko and begin carefully unpacking your bag, hyper-aware of every movement. Where to put your pencil. Whether your chair is too loud as you shuffle closer. If you’re breathing too loudly.

Gojo is already talking again. Loudly pretending to study. “I swear, if I open my paper and there's questions I'm walking out.”

“Saying all that as if you don't normally do good.” Nanami says flatly.

“That’s beside the point.”

Geto doesn’t even look up. “It’s exactly the point.”

Haibara laughs.

The chatter continues. Not overwhelming.

Just… annoying?

Not that you think any of them are annoying of course. In fact, you're finding them quite funny. But after years of studying in the pin-drop quiet of your room, with your headphones over your ears and a blanket perpetually wrapped around you—the constant talking around you constantly pulls you out of focusing on your sketchbook.

Maybe you can make up an excuse to go home. You could just sneak out without anyone noticing. Maybe you could say something about needing to go home because you left your stove on.

Then, you can feel someone looking at you.

When you glance up, he’s looking between you and your sketchbook.

His chair shifts.

You freeze.

He doesn’t cause any commotion. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches forward, clearing loose bits of paper and notes on top of each other into a neat pile, moves a textbook aside, and then nods to the now-clear space next to him.

A quieter space slightly separate from the chatty group.

He doesn’t look at you while you contemplate moving.

Shoko notices, of course she does, and she nudges you once under the table.

You swallow before you start gathering your sketchbook and pencil, trying not to look like you’re moving under duress, and stand. The chair legs scrape faintly against the floor and you wince internally.

You sit beside him, close enough to feel the warmth from his left arm.

He doesn’t comment, doesn’t look at you. Just resumes writing something in his notebook.

The noise of the room continues around you, but it feels slightly dulled now. And so you focus on your sketch.

At some point in the evening, Gojo loudly declares he requires sugar to “keep the big brain functioning” which somehow results in him dragging Shoko into the kitchen to help him locate cookies that are apparently invisible to everyone but her. She goes with a tired sigh, tossing you a brief look that says ‘you’re fine’ before disappearing around the corner.

You don’t fully register that you’re alone at the table until all the noise shifts.

Haibara gets lured upstairs by the promise of a “quick game” that will absolutely not be quick. Nanami closes his textbook with the kind of resignation that suggests he has already accepted he’ll be back studying with everyone tomorrow. Geto remains at the table, calm and focused, but absorbed enough in his notes that he might as well be in another room entirely.

And you’re still sitting beside Sukuna.

You become acutely aware of your posture again. Of your hands. Of the way your pencil rests between your fingers. You force yourself not to fidget with the edge of your sleeve, or to stop bouncing your knee under the table in fear you'll accidentally brush his leg.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he says quietly. “Stop worrying.”

You glance at him. “I’m not worrying.”

“You are.”

You look back down at your sketchbook, attempting neutrality. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue with you. He just lets the silence sit between you, steady and unthreatening, like he’s already decided you’ll settle if given enough time.

Eventually chairs scrape, books close, the sky outside is dark, and the low hum of conversation begins to dissolve into people gathering their things. When Shoko appears next to you, she looks faintly apologetic.

“I’ve got a lab report due at midnight and by the time we get home, I won't have enough time to finish it.”

“I don't mind waiting.”

“It’ll take ages and you have an early lecture tomorrow.” She says, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “You can head back by yourself if you want, just be careful.”

Your stomach twists slightly at the idea of walking alone, even though it is just twenty-five minutes. You'll just need to send her your live location, take all the streets with the most lamp posts and avoid any smaller ones that are dark with no cameras.

“I’ll walk with her,” Sukuna says, standing up and pulling on a hoodie he had hanging at the back of his chair.

Shoko looks between the two of you, then shrugs. “Text me when you get home,” she tells you, already half distracted as she focuses back on her laptop screen.

Outside, the air is cooler than before. The pavement shimmering faintly under the streetlights, but it isn't too windy tonight. You walk side by side, not touching and not speaking at first. The quiet isn’t uncomfortable, just present.

“You looked terrified tonight,” he says after a while.

“I wasn't.” You say quickly.

“You didn't hide it well.”

You glance at him, your voice coming out deflective. “You cleared me a space.”

A faint shift in his expression, not quite amusement, not quite dismissal. “You looked like you were plotting an escape.”

You were.

The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it, small and involuntary.

By the time your building comes into view, your pulse has steadied into something manageable. You slow slightly near the entrance, adjusting the strap of your tote on your shoulder.

“Thank you,” you say, all sincere and genuine. “For the ride home earlier this week, and tonight, and walking me home.”

Sukuna studies you for a moment, as if weighing whether gratitude is really necessary.

“Give me your phone,” he says.

You blink. “Why?”

“In case you get stranded in bad weather again.”

The explanation is practical, almost impersonal, and yet something about it makes warmth flicker deep in your chest.

“Oh.” You reach into your pocket automatically, clicking it on—and then freeze. “It’s dead.”

He exhales softly through his nose, something between a sigh and restrained disbelief. “Then charge it.”

“I will,” you reply defensively, though that doesn’t solve the immediate issue.

For a second he considers you, then reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a pen.

“Your arm,” he says.

You hesitate only a fraction before extending it, palm angled slightly upward. He steps closer. Close enough that you can feel the residual warmth from him through the cool night air and the scent of his cologne. He gently pushes your sleeve up before his fingers close gently around your wrist to steady it. Not tight, not lingering, just firm enough to keep you still and close.

He writes slowly across the inside of your wrist, the tip of the pen dragging lightly over your skin as he forms each number with careful precision. You watch the movement instead of his face, hyper-aware of the closeness.

“There,” he says, releasing you.

You look down.

A string of digits and his name sits inked against your skin, slightly smudged at the edge where your pulse beats rapidly beneath it.

“If it washes off,” he adds, sliding the pen back into his pocket, “that’s on you.”

You huff a quiet breath that almost resembles a laugh. “I’ll memorise it.”

“You won’t.”

He’s probably right. But you know the minute you power on your phone, you'll be contemplating with yourself on messaging him.

You step backwards towards the door, fingers digging into your bag for your fob.

“Text me when you get inside,” he says.

“My phone is still dead,” you remind him.

He tilts his head slightly. “Then you better plug it in the minute you get inside and text me.”

There’s something steady in the way he says it. Not teasing. Not flirtatious. Just certain with a slight edge of cockiness.

You unlock the door and slip inside, and through the narrow pane of glass, you see him still standing there beneath the streetlight, hands tucked loosely into his pockets.

Waiting.

Only when the door clicks fully shut does he turn around and look up at the sky.

You lean back against the wall for a moment, staring down at the ink on your wrist.

The ink numbers feel heavier than they realistically should.

Two days ago, you didn’t know his name.

And now it’s written into your skin.

You make your way to your apartment, quickly unlocking your door and rushing to your bedroom to plug your phone in.

And when your phone finally lights up, it looks brighter than it should be.

The screen flares to life in your dark bedroom, notifications cascading down in a small avalanche. Lecturer emails, a sale message from a fabric store you forgot you've subscribed to, two missed calls from Shoko. You text her first, quick and efficiently.

You: im home and alive and safe !!

Her typing bubble appears almost immediately,

shoko ♡: good. did he walk you all the way?

You hesitate.

You: yes

Three dots appear again.

shoko ♡: and? did anything happen??

You lock your phone before she pushes further and lean over to turn your lamp on.

Your wrist catches the light when you reach for your tote, the ink slightly smudged but still legible. His handwriting is sharper than you expected—clean, deliberate strokes, nothing messy in that typical, boyish way.

You sit on the edge of your bed, leaning against your mountain of plushies and unlock your phone again.

For a second, you just stare at the number. Then you open your contacts and type it in carefully, double-checking each digit like it’s a formula that could explode your phone if entered wrong.

You hover over the keyboard before opening a new message thread.

This is stupid.

It’s just a text.

He told you to.

It’s not like you're disturbing him or anything.

Still, your thumbs feel clumsy.

You type. Erase it. Type again.

You: im inside, phone is charging

You stare at the words. Too stiff. You quickly tack on at the end:

You: im inside, phone is charging like you told me to

That somehow feels worse.

You send it before you can edit it again anyway.

The message whooshes away, and immediately your stomach flips.

He’s probably still outside. Or maybe he’s already halfway down the street on his way. Maybe he won’t answer. Maybe he will. Maybe-

Your phone buzzes in your hand and you jolt.

Sukuna: Took you long enough.

You quickly type back before you could overthink it.

You: my phone was dead remember i needed a minute

Three dots appear almost instantly. Then it disappears. Then reappears.

Sukuna: You're bad at planning.

You draw eyebrows together.

You: i didn’t plan on my phone dying

You pause, watching your message send and his typing bubble dance.

Sukuna: Also didn't plan on the rain a few days ago?

Touché

You roll onto your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows, phone warm in your hands as you stare at his messages. The rest of your room feels dim in comparison to your phone, like the world has narrowed down to the small print of his name at the top of your phone.

You: i usually plan !! just not the weather apparently

His reply comes quickly.

Sukuna: You plan escapes?

Your stomach drops a little.

You: it was loud, and im just not used to studying in loud places

Sukuna: I noticed

Sukuna: That's why I cleared the space.

Heat creeps up your neck.

You: You didn’t have to.

Sukuna: I know.

You stare at that longer than necessary, before you send a message to close the conversation.

You: well im home and i put my phone on charge.

You: im so responsible

Sukuna: Barely.

Sukuna: Go to sleep.

You smile to yourself, locking and placing your phone on your bedside table before quickly getting ready for bed.

Tuesday afternoons are the most tolerable.

Not because the lectures Ryomen Sukuna has on that day is particularly engaging, though the discussion on Gothic symbolism has been interesting, but because they end early enough for him so he can take a walk down to Main Street.

Sukuna leaves the humanities building with his Airpods already in, music playing low in his ears, and his copy of The Monk tucked in his bag, margins half annotated and spine cracked in a way that would make a book lover wince. A line that was discussed is still lodged somewhere in his head when he pushes the door to a small patisserie on the corner of the street.

A bell chimes overhead.

The place smells like sugar, warm butter, sweet strawberry glaze and fresh coffee. He steps into line, scrolling absent-mindedly through his notes on his phone for his essay thesis, when something familiar catches his attention.

Right in front of him.

Soft sweater, tote bag he's seen before, hands tucked into sleeves even though it's decently warm today.

He pulls an Airpod out slowly.

You're studying the display case like it requires strategic planning to order a simple sweet treat.

He watches for a moment longer than necessary before reaching forward and tapping your shoulder lightly.

You jump, and he almost smirks.

“Relax,” he says, voice low and even. “It's just me.”

You turn, eyes widening slightly before recognition settles in. “Oh, it's you.”

That tiny exhale you do when you realise that you're not being subjected to social interactions by a complete stranger.

“You come here often?”

You blink at him before a small smile forms on your lips. “That sounds like a rehearsed line.”

“It wasn't.”

“It definitely was.”

He shrugs, “just answer the question.”

You smile a bit bigger. “Yeah, they make the best pastries here. The strawberry tart is their best.”

He glances at the display case. “You've ranked them, or something?”

“Well, no… just the tarts.”

The line shifts forward. You step with it automatically, and he follows.

“I didn’t know you liked places like this,” you say after a second, a little quieter. “It’s… calm.”

“I like quiet,” he replies simply.

When you reach the counter, you straighten slightly, rehearsed politeness settling into your posture.

“Hi,” you say softly to the cashier. “Can I get one strawberry tart and an iced vanilla latte, please?”

Sukuna steps forward immediately after.

“And a medium coffee” he says, nodding toward the machine. “No milk, no sugar. And one dark chocolate éclair.”

“That's quite bitter,” you say absent-mindedly. “Not a fan of sweet things?”

“Maybe? Do I seem like someone who would like sweet things?”

You ponder for a second, “you don't strike me as a strawberry person—though, you do have pink hair.”

“I'm not.” He says, and before you could even take out your wallet, he's already paying.

By the time the box is handed over, you’re both standing awkwardly near the door, scanning the small patisserie.

Every table is full.

He watches you shift your weight slightly, seemingly calculating exit strategies to casually leave him without it being awkwardly, volume levels, how long you could reasonably stand here without looking strange.

He notices, of course.

“Park’s a few streets away,” he says. “Less noise.”

You glance up at him. “You want me to join-”

He's already pushing the door open.

You fall into step with him, with no forced conversation, just the sound of distant traffic and the crinkle of the pastry box between you. The park is mostly empty this time of day, a few students sprawled on the grass, someone reading under a tree.

He nods toward a bench half-shaded by branches.

You sit at one end and he sits close enough that your shoulders almost touch but don’t.

You open the box carefully, like it contains something fragile. The strawberry glaze catches the light, glossy and precise.

You look pleased.

He takes a sip of his coffee first, expression neutral, then breaks the éclair in half with deliberate care.

“You always get the same thing?” he asks.

“Usually,” you admit. “It’s always a safe option.”

You take a bite of your tart, and for a second your entire face softens.

He watches, then looks away before you can catch him.

“It’s good?” he asks.

You nod quickly. “You should try it.”

“I’m not a strawberry person,” he reminds you.

“You should still try it,” you insist, nudging him the tart.

You hold the tart toward him, hesitant but offering.

He studies you for a second, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way you’re pretending not to care whether he says yes or no, and then leans forward just enough to take a bite from your hands instead of taking it from you.

It’s sweeter than he prefers.

“It's fine,” he says, but one glance at you tells him how flustered you were from the closeness.

The wind shifts slightly, brushing leaves overhead. You relax back against the bench next to him, shoulders no longer tight, hands no longer hidden.

For a while, you both eat in comfortable silence. Just strawberry glaze, dark chocolate, and the slow settling warmth of something that doesn’t feel overwhelming. When you both finish, you brush invisible crumbs from your sleeve and glance sideways at him.

“Thanks for not making it too weird,” you say.

He looks at you evenly. “You’d tell me if I did.”

“…Maybe.”

A faint smirk touches his mouth.

“Next time,” he says, standing and taking the empty box from your hands, “we’re trying something that isn’t strawberry.”

You stand too, adjusting your tote.

“Next time?” you repeat.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers.

“Wednesday,” he says simply, like it’s already decided.

“But that's tomorrow,” you say, following him as he starts to walk away. “And how would I know what time to meet you?”

“You'll just need to text me.”

You actually did text him, surprisingly so, though you did draft the text in your notes app before sending it to him, even if it was only like ten words.

You: im free after 3 tomorrow if you were being serious

Sukuna: I was being serious.

And now you're sitting on the grass beneath a big tree, Sukuna leaning against the trunk as he plops the paper bag down on the grass between you, filled with more pastries than two people realistically could eat in one sitting. This time you'd gone into the patisserie together without the awkward shuffle of strangers-who-know-each-other. You stood side by side, debated which ones to get, and he paid before you could offer to.

Now the bag sits between the two of you as you hold the cardboard drink holder carefully on your lap.

“One black coffee for you. No milk, no sugar.” You pass his cup to him and his fingers brushes your for a second before you quickly pull your hand away when he properly holds it.

“You memorised my order?” He says, referring to when you casually said both your orders to the person behind the counter.

You pull your iced coffee out from the holder. “It's not too hard to memorise.”

You take a peek inside the bag. There's a spinach and feta pastry, a butter croissant, a sausage roll, a chocolate tart, a lemon custard slice—and because you refused to go without it, a strawberry tart.

“You know,” Sukuna starts, eyeing you as you pull out the little, white box holding your tart, “I did say we're going to try something that isn't a strawberry tart.”

“It's my safe choice.”

You both take out the rest of the pastries from the bag before lining them up in their little paper bags they came with. You tear the croissant in half and offer him the larger piece before you can overthink the gesture. He takes it without comment, their fingers brushing briefly. You don’t snatch your hand back this time.

The park is louder than yesterday. Children somewhere near the swings, a dog barking in the distance, but it feels distant. The tree you're sitting under is so far away and secluded from everyone, it feels rather intimate. The sun is also warmer than yesterday, soft light filtering through the leaves.

“Here.” You hand him the spinach and feta pastry after. “You seem like a spinach person.”

He gives you a flat look. “That's the worst profiling I've ever heard.”

“It's green.”

“What about me gives green?” He says, gesturing to his pink hair before taking the pastry from you.

You glance at his hair, then back at his face. “Not the colour. The vibe.”

“The vibe,” he repeats flatly.

“It’s a kinda calm colour. But also slightly intimidating. Like it knows more than it’s saying.”

“That’s just spinach.”

“That’s you.”

He stares at you for a long moment before taking a bite. “You just described a vegetable.”

“You asked.”

He chews, unimpressed. “This is the worst character assessment I’ve ever heard.”

“You're still eating it.”

“That’s because I’m hungry. Not because you’re right.”

You smile into your drink. “Sure.”

A small silence settles between you, but it isn’t sharp. It feels like space rather than pressure. You sip your iced coffee, glancing at him from the corner of your eye as he brushes flakes of pastry from his fingers.

“So,” you say after a moment, picking at the edge of the chocolate tart because it feels easier to talk when your hands are busy, “what do you actually want to do after uni?”

“Survive,” he replies dryly.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You nudge his knee lightly before you can second-guess it. The contact is so short and brief, if anybody else, they probably wouldn't even realise. “English Literature doesn’t exactly scream stable income.”

He swallows, glancing at you sideways. “You're studying fashion design.”

“That's different.”

“How?”

You open your mouth confidently and then… pause. “It just is.”

He huffs quietly. “Incredible argument.”

You laugh softly, then quickly look down as if you hadn’t meant to be that loud. He notices but doesn’t comment.

“I’ll probably do postgraduate,” he says after a second. “Research. Maybe teach.”

You look him up and down, taking in his tattoos and tall stature. “You’d terrify your students.”

“Good.” He picks up the lemon slice. “What about you? Fashion house? Your name on a label?”

Your shoulders lift slightly. “I don’t know. I like designing more than I like presenting. Or networking. Or talking to people.”

“You’re good at talking.”

You glance at him quickly. “I am not.”

“You are. You're good at talking to me, you just overthink a lot before you do it.”

You look at him properly then, searching for sarcasm, but there isn’t any.

“I’m only good at talking to you because you don't… react?” You admit, now fiddling with the napkin in your hands. “You just listen.”

“I react,” he says.

“You raise one eyebrow.”

“That’s a reaction.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”

He watches you for a moment longer than necessary, gaze steady but not heavy. “You’re not bad at it,” he says finally. “You just need to let go of the idea that everyone would see you differently if you say one word wrong. The world won't stop spinning if you accidentally slip up.”

You don’t know what to do with the psychological analysis, so you tear a piece off the sausage roll and offer it to him like a distraction. He takes it without comment, leaving you in silence to linger on what he just said.

The sunlight shifts slightly through the leaves above, dappling the grass and the sleeve of his shirt. Your shoulders feel looser than they did when you first sat down. You’re not measuring every word so intently before speaking, though it's mostly so you can internally spite him.

“This is nice,” you say quietly.

“It’s food,” he replies.

“It’s not just food.”

He tilts his head, waiting for you to continue.

“It feels intentional,” you say, gesturing faintly between the two of you. “Like we planned to be in the same place at the same time.”

“We did.”

You hesitate, then the thought slips out before you can really think about it. “This feels like a date.”

He looks at you slowly.

“It’s not,” he says.

“I know. I just mean- it has the energy.”

“The energy,” he repeats flatly.

“You know what I mean.”

He studies you for a second, his expression unreadable, before taking the final sip of his coffee.

“If it was a date,” he says calmly, “I would've asked you properly.”

Having a wet dream about the guy you think you've become friends with isn't ideal for you.

Having wet dreams in general isn't ideal for you.

Being so socially inept had, sadly, made you so, so inexperienced. No relationships, no situationships, not even a hook up or a half-serious talking stage that lasted longer than a week.

You lie there staring at your bedroom ceiling surrounded by a mound of pastel plushies, mortified with yourself, like your subconscious has personally betrayed you.

It's not that you think you're supposed to have done anything by now. You've repeated your little mantra enough times—virginity is just a social construct. There's no deadline or expiration date. You'll do things when you're ready. When you feel safe. When you feel right.

But sometimes you can't help that quiet ache beneath that logic.

You missed out on the messy high-school crushes. The awkward almost kisses. The silly, fleeting romances everyone else seems to collect like funny stories to share in passing. You missed the experimental phase where people figure things out badly and laugh about it later. While everyone else was learning what they liked and didn’t like, you were learning how to keep your hands steady in conversations and hiding in the library during break and lunch.

It wasn't purity. It wasn't disinterest. It was kinda like fear.

Or maybe it's just fear.

The idea of someone that close, physically and emotionally, has always felt overwhelming. What if you say the wrong thing? What if you move wrong? What if they realise, halfway through, that you have no idea what you’re doing? Or that you were a bad lay? So you avoided it. Told yourself you didn’t need it. That being by yourself was better. Safer.

And mostly, you believe that.

Except now your brain conjured up Sukuna's touch. Instead of waiting for you to head into your building before walking away, he's joining you up the stairs and into your bedroom where he slowly peels your clothes away and makes you squirm and whimper with his touch.

You press your face into your pillow with a groan.

You don't even know how to hold someone's hand without internally freaking out.

And somehow your brain decided to skip ten steps.

Shoko smirked when you started asking more questions about Sukuna. About his reputation that leans precariously into “well, that's a bit personal,” territory.

You had tried to sound casual about it, sitting cross-legged on her bed, scrolling on your phone as Shoko tried on various outfits for her date that evening.

“So… Sukuna,” you started, like you were just simply asking about the weather.

Shoko didn't even look at you from pulling off a different top. “What about him?”

You hesitated, then pushed anyway. “Does he, um, date… a lot?”

That was subtle, right?

Shoko's mouth twitched. “Why? Scoping out your roster?”

Your face burned. You don't even have a roster.

“No,” you said, attempting to be casual and nonchalant. “I'm just asking.”

She finally glanced at you, amused and far too perceptive. “He doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t like,” she’d said simply, then, after a beat, “Why? Are you hoping he does?” You’d nearly choked on your own denial.

Nevermind that though. You have bigger issues at hand.

Like being stranded on campus again in the rain, with your umbrella still lying uselessly by your front door. The rain is heavy too, enough to soak your sleeves and make your hair clings to your cheeks. You find yourself standing underneath the small canopy by the student car park, staring at your reflection in your phone screen.

You could ring Shoko.

You could also admit you forgot your umbrella again and you'll have to hear her lecture about bringing your essentials during the unpredictable spring season.

Your thumb hovers over his name and you press the phone button before you could talk yourself out of it.

It rings once.

“Yeah?” Sukuna answers, like it's totally normal for you to call him, even though you've only ever texted him.

“Hi,” you say, clearing your throat when your voice cracks a little. “Are you busy?”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“I'm stuck on campus again. It's raining- I forgot my umbrella and I just-”

A quiet exhale cuts you off. Not annoyed, but relieved.

“Stay there.”

“I mean, you don't have to-”

“I'm already grabbing my keys. Send me your location.” And then he hangs up before you could interject.

Fifteen minutes later, his dark car pulls up to the same spot from the first time you saw him, headlights cutting through the rain. You slide into the passenger seat, all soaked and sheepish.

“You look wet,” he says.

“Thank you for picking me up, you really didn't have to.”

He reaches into the backseat and tosses a plain black hoodie at you. “Put that on.”

“Oh, thank you!” You tugged it over your head, and it's all warm and it smells like him.

He glances at you before returning his eyes ahead of him and starts driving.

“You eaten?” He asks.

You shake your head.

He clicks his tongue softly and pulls out of the car park. A few minutes later you’re in a drive-through line, rain tapping lightly against the windshield.

He orders without asking you. Two burgers. Fries. Drinks.

“You didn’t even ask what I wanted,” you mutter.

“You would've said ‘anything is fine’ and then panic,” he replies and you hate how right he is.

You eat parked beneath a flickering streetlight. The inside of the car is warm, windows slightly fogged. And when he finishes his burger surprisingly fast, he drives one-handed towards your apartment building, fries balanced in his other hand like this is routine.

And your knees are angled towards him.

The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but heavy in a way that makes your thoughts louder.

You stare at your drink cup.

You could just thank him when he drops you off. Go upstairs. Shower. Pretend the thought never crossed your mind. That would be the safe option. The strawberry tart of decisions.

Very predictable.

But your pulse hasn’t settled since you pressed his name under the canopy, and it definitely hasn’t settled since he answered your phone call like it was natural for you to call him.

You haven't stopped thinking about him since that dream you had.

But you keep thinking about how easy it’s been lately. Sitting beside him, eating with him, texting him without rewriting every word ten times. Just talking to someone about anything without worrying to death about how he's perceiving you. You like him. Not in a dramatic, dizzy, romance-novel way. Just in a steady, grounded way that makes you feel less like you’re performing and more like you’re just existing.

And that makes the question feel bigger. Riskier. Because if you ruin this, you don’t get to go back to how lovely it all was before—it'll just be tainted by your desperate decision.

But you’re also tired. Tired of being scared of your own curiosity. Tired of wondering what it would feel like to be touched without flinching or to want something and actually ask for it.

Maybe friends with benefits would be safer than a relationship—no expectations, no emotional exams to fail. Just honesty. Just two people agreeing. And considering what Shoko said, he doesn't really date anyways. It would be so easy. So, so easy.

Except you’ve never even kissed someone properly, and the idea of saying that out loud makes your stomach twist. So maybe you're getting too ahead of yourself.

What if he doesn't want to? That maybe he just sees you as just the girl he occasionally eats pastries with and picks her up when it's raining heavily because she keeps forgetting her umbrella.

Your fingers tighten around your drink cup.

If you’re ever going to step outside the careful little perimeter you’ve built around yourself, it would probably look exactly like this: rain on the windshield, his car warm, your heart racing, and the question sitting heavy on your tongue.

“Can I ask you something?” You say finally, your eyes trained in front of you.

He glances at you. “Sure.”

You stare at the windscreen wipers, watching the water swooshing to the side of the flask. “If someone was, hypothetically, inexperienced… would that be embarrassing?”

“Inexperienced how?”

You hesitate half a second too long.

“Oh.”

Heat floods your entire body.

“I mean- I just- I haven’t really-” you gesture vaguely, mortified. “Done anything.”

He doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t look surprised.

Just silence.

Not the teasing silence. But actually consideration.

He stops at a red light and he turns to look at you.

“Are you asking me to take care of it?”

Your entire brain short-circuits.

“Wait- what? I just- I mean-”

“You don't owe anyone experience.”

You swallow, trying to redirect the conversation to something closer to what you want to ask. “If two people were… hypothetically friends. And they don't want to overthink things, but also don't want to ignore the possibility that things could be… different.”

He starts driving again before quickly glancing back at you. “That doesn't really sound hypothetical.”

Your face burns hot. “Just- answer the question.”

He shrugs slightly. “What about them?”

“What if they did something casual? Like. No pressure. No expectations.”

“You mean friends with benefits.”

You nod, eyes glued to the rain drops.

Silence fills the car again, thicker this time.

“You asking me,” he says evenly, quickly pulling over to the side of the road, “or are we still pretending this is a sociological discussion?”

Your heart pounds so violently, you're worried it might stop pumping. “I'm asking.”

“If I asked you to,” you push, because you’re already this far in, “would you?”

A heartbeat.

“You sure?”

You force yourself to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

Another heartbeat.

“Then yeah.”

That’s it.

No drama. No speech or added questions or long explanations.

You blink at him. “Right now?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Are we going to have sex right now?” you blurt, panic rising fast. “Because I didn’t prepare and we're in your car and I’m soaked from the rain and I need to shave my legs-”

“Relax,” he cuts in.

You inhale sharply.

“I’m not letting you lose your virginity in my car,” he says flatly. “You deserve better than that.”

Your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with nerves. “Oh.”

He shifts the car into drive.

“I’ll drop you home,” he says. “You can decide if you’re still sure when you’re not cold and spiraling.”

You nod, hands twisting in your lap.

When he pulls up outside your building, you hesitate before opening the door.

“We could do it at my place,” you offer meekly.

“You said your walls are thin.”

You're surprised he remembers that, considering you only mentioned that briefly when you were messaging him a few days ago. “They are.”

“Exactly.”

Your hands hovers over the door handle, heart racing.

He looks at you steadily, not pushing, not rushing.

“Go inside,” he says. “Warm up. Think.”

“And then?”

“If you’re still sure,” he replies calmly, “text me.”

It was quite late in the night when you finally texted him, albeit you did shower and warm up before you texted him, ignoring the fact you paced around your apartment before finally typing out a quick message asking if you could come over.

The whoosh felt louder than it should have.

You immediately locked your phone and set it facedown on your bed as if distance would dull the panic already climbing up your spine. You had showered twice. You had shaved your legs after all—even though you told yourself that it didn’t matter. You had changed outfits three times before settling on something soft and simple with his hoodie pulled on.

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of your heater and the faint rush of cars outside.

Your phone buzzed.

You flinched before grabbing it.

Sukuna: You sure?

There it was again. Not pressure. Not eagerness. Just steady confirmation.

You swallowed.

You: yeah

You: i’m sure

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Sukuna: I’ll pick you up in 10.

Your stomach flipped so hard you had to sit down.

This was happening.

It was past midnight when you finally messaged him, and you were half-expecting him to just say it was too late and he'll pick you up tomorrow.

But now Sukuna's quietly leading you up the stairs of his frat house, a hand between your shoulders as he takes you to his bedroom.

It's surprisingly clean for a frat. A large bed with clean, dark sheets. An organised desk, some band posters tacked neatly on his walls, some weights in the corner of his room. It smells nice too, it smells like his cologne.

Though he does use cool light for some reason.

Psychopathic behaviour, to be honest.

“You use cool lights?” You say, because your brain has decided that's the thing to focus on right now.

Sukuna glances up at the light bulb, then back at you. “...Yeah.”

“That's kinda psychopathic.”

His mouth twitches. “You want me to turn it off?”

“No, I-” you clear your throat, “I just meant it's not really typical to have.”

God, what are you even saying?

He's watching you carefully, hands loose at his sides, enough space between you to not overwhelm you.

“You can sit,” he says, nodding toward his bed.

Right. Sitting. You can do that.

You perch on the edge of his bed, hands folded in your lap, and you immediately feel ridiculous. You quickly tuck them into the front pocket of his hoodie and your legs press together so tightly your thighs aches from the tension.

Sukuna sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. He's dressed casually too—grey sweatpants and a black compression shirt that stretches so tightly across his shoulders and waist, you could see how defined his muscles were. You could also see the tattoos on his arm too.

The silence stretches.

“You're allowed to change your mind,” he says quietly.

Your head snaps towards him. “I'm not- I didn't change my mind. I don't want to.”

“Okay.” His gaze is steady. “Just making sure you know you can.”

“I know.” You twist your fingers together. “I'm just... nervous.”

“I know.”

“Not because of you,” you add quickly. “I mean- it is because of you, but not in a bad way. I just-” You exhale sharply. “I don't know what I'm doing.”

”That's fine.”

“You're not worried I'll be shit at this?”

His mouth curves upwards slightly. “No.”

”Why not?“

“Because I'm not shit at this,” he says simply. ”And I'm not gonna let you be.”

Your stomach flips. It shouldn't be that reassuring, that cocky confidence, but somehow it is.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He shifts slightly, angling towards you. “We'll go slow. You tell me if something doesn't feel good, yeah?”

You nod.

“I need you to say it.”

“I'll tell you,” you manage.

“Good.” His hand comes up slowly, giving you time to pull away, before his fingers brush along your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone. ”You're shaking. Are you sure?”

"Yes.” The word comes out too fast, too desperate. You feel your face heat. “Yes, I- I want this. Stop asking me that, it's stressing me out.”

His eyes search yours for a long moment, a small smile playing on his lips. Then he leans in, slow and deliberate, and kisses you.

It's softer than you expected.

Not rough or consuming. Just warm and kinda delicate.

His lips press against yours slowly, like he’s giving you time to register it, to pull away if you need to. For half a second your brain freezes, cataloging everything at once. The warmth of his mouth. The faint scent of vanilla and something minty. The solid weight of him sitting so close. Your hands twitch uselessly in the pocket of his hoodie before you finally let one slip out, hovering awkwardly before settling against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

And just slightly, you can feel his heart fluttering beneath your touch.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand more. He just stays there, kissing you like he has all the time in the world.

The nerves are still there, fluttering under your skin, but they start to blur into something softer. Something floaty. When he tilts his head slightly and kisses you again, gentle, a little deeper—and your stomach flips in a way that doesn’t feel like panic or doom and despair.

And somewhere in the middle of it, you think, distantly and almost dazed, why were you ever so terrified of kissing someone?

Kissing feels good.

Or maybe it's just Sukuna.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Still good?” he murmurs.

“Mhmm.”

“Can I take this off?” His fingers tug gently at the hem of his hoodie.

Your heart hammers. “Okay.”

He pulls back just enough to carefully lift the fabric up and over your head. You raise your arms to help, feeling absurdly self-conscious, and then it's gone and you're just in your white shirt and leggings.

The cool air makes you shiver.

“Cold?” Sukuna asks.

“Yeah, a little bit.”

He reaches behind him and tugs a blanket from where it's folded at the foot of the bed, draping it around your shoulders. The gesture is so unexpectedly sweet that you almost laugh.

“Thank you.”

His hand settles on your thigh, warm through the fabric of your leggings. “Is this okay?”

You nod.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your leg. “You’re really tense.”

“I know.”

“Want me to do something about that?”

Your breath catches. “Like what?”

“Lie back,” he says quietly. “Let me take care of you.”

The words send heat pooling low in your stomach. You hesitate for only a second before shifting backwards, letting the blanket fall away from your shoulders as you settle against his pillows. They smell like him. Everything in this room smells like him.

Sukuna fixes the blanket over your shoulders again before he moves with you, bracing himself on one arm as he hovers over you. His other hand skims up your side, slow and deliberate, until his fingers find the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod, breathing out a quick, “yeah,” before he peels your shirt up slowly, watching your face the entire time. You lift your shoulders to help him, and then it's gone, tossed somewhere onto the floor. You're left in just your bra and leggings, and the way he's looking at you makes your skin prickle with heat.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, pulling the blanket over your shoulders yet again.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” His hand spreads across your ribs, thumb brushing just under the lace band of your bra. “You’re beautiful.”

You don't know what to say to that, so you don't say anything. You just watch as he leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your breast above your bra. His mouth is warm and soft and your breath stutters.

“Still okay?” he murmurs against your skin.

“Yeah.”

His fingers trace around to your back, finding the clasp of your bra. “Is this okay?"

“It’s okay.”

He unhooks it with practiced ease, which would've made you raise an eyebrow in question, but right now you’re too focused on the way your heart is trying to break out of your chest.

The cool air hits your bare skin and you resist the urge to cover yourself.

Sukuna sits back slightly, his gaze dragging over you with an intensity that makes you squirm.

“Stop staring,” you mumble.

His hand comes up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, and you gasp. “Fuck, you’re sensitive.”

You are. You didn't realise how much until right now, until his rough thumb is circling your nipple and sparks of pleasure are shooting straight down to your core.

“Sukuna-”

“I know.” He leans down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you arch into him with a choked sound. His tongue flicks over the sensitive peak before he sucks gently, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the pink strands.

He groans against you, the vibration making you whimper.

When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide. “Leggings next?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

His hands slide down to your hips, fingers hooking into the waistband. “Lift up for me.”

You do, and he pulls them down slowly, taking your underwear with them in one smooth motion. The fabric drags down your thighs, your calves, and then you're completely bare beneath him.

The vulnerability slams into you all at once.

“Hey.” Sukuna’s hand settles on your knee, grounding. “You’re doing good.”

“I'm not doing anything,” you manage.

“You are. You're letting me see you.” His hand slides up your thigh, stopping just short of where you’re already aching. “That’s everything.”

Your breath hitches.

His gaze drags over you slowly, deliberately, taking in every inch of your exposed skin. You feel the weight of his attention almost like a paperweight, and suddenly the urge to hide overwhelms you. Your knees turn inward slightly, an instinctive attempt to close yourself off, to shield yourself from his eyes.

Sukuna’s mouth twitches. “You know,” he says, his voice low, “I’m going to have my face between there soon enough.”

Your face burns. “Shut up.”

“Just saying.” He reaches down and gently nudges your knees back apart, his touch firm but not forceful. “No point being shy now.”

He stays quiet for a moment before quietly asking, “Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

His fingers trail higher and teasing until finally, finally, he brushes against you. You jolt at the contact, a broken sound escaping your throat.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” he mutters, almost reverent. His finger slides through your folds, gathering the slickness there, and you can't help the way your hips twitch towards him. “This all for me?”

You nod frantically.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, it's- fuck-”

He circles your clit slowly, testing, and your whole body tenses. It's too much and not enough all at once. You’ve touched yourself before, obviously, but this, his hands, his focus, the way he's watching every reaction, it’s completely different.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

His finger slides lower, circling your entrance, and you tense again.

“Breathe,” he says softly.

You force yourself to take a shaky breath.

“Good girl.” He pushes one finger inside slowly, so slowly, and you whimper at the intrusion. It doesn't hurt, but it's strange, unfamiliar. “How’s that?”

“It’s okay.”

“Just okay?” There's a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Good,” you correct breathlessly, frowning slightly from how much he seems to be teasing you. “It’s good.”

He starts moving, slow and careful, working you open. His thumb finds your clit again and you nearly sob at the dual sensation. Pleasure builds in your core, winding tighter with every stroke.

“You’re tight,” he groans. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

The words send another wave of heat through you.

“Gonna add another,” he warns. “That okay?”

“Yeah, that’s okay.”

The second finger is a stretch. You gasp, your hands fisting in his sheets, and he pauses immediately.

“Hurt?”

“No, just-” You swallow. “Full.”

“Yeah?” He curls his fingers slightly and you cry out, your back arching off the bed. “There?”

“Fuck, yes, there, please-”

He does it again, and again, finding that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. His thumb works your clit in steady circles and you’re already embarrassingly close, trembling and whimpering beneath him.

How long has he been fingering you? Would it be weird if you come right now? Surely it has been less than five minutes. How long should it realistically take to come with someone else touching you?

“Pay attention,” Sukuna says, his voice drawing you out from your thoughts. “Don’t go disappearing off on me.”

“Sukuna, I- I think I’m-”

“I know. I can feel you.” His pace increases slightly, fingers pumping steadily. “Let go. Come for me.”

The orgasm hits, crashing over you so suddenly you don’t have time to prepare. You cry out, his name broken on your lips, your whole body tensing as pleasure floods through you. He works you through it, fingers never stopping, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive.

When you finally come down, gasping, he slowly withdraws his fingers.

“Oh my God,” you breathe.

Sukuna’s mouth curves into a satisfied smirk. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Your face burns, breaking the contact and turning to stare up at his ceiling.

You close your eyes, blocking out the cool light and figuring out how to casually say thank you for the orgasm before you feel him shifting down to the edge of the bed and settling between your thighs.

“What are you..?”

“Not done with you yet.” His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider. “Gonna make you come on my tongue.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “Unless you don't want me to?”

“I-” Your brain is still fuzzy from your orgasm. “I want you to.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t waste time. His tongue drags through your folds in one long, slow lick and your bark arches off the bed. Your hands fly to his pink hair, gripping tight, and he groans against you.

“Fuck, you’re sensitive,” he mutters, almost pleased.

He licks you again, then focuses on your clit, circling it with his tongue in a way that makes your thighs tremble. You’re still sensitive from your first orgasm and it's almost too much, but then he’s sliding two fingers back inside you and the stretch combined with his mouth is perfect.

“Oh my God,” you whimper. “Oh my God, Sukuna-”

He hums against you, the vibration making you jolt. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot again, and you’re already climbing towards another orgasm embarrassingly fast.

You can’t form words anymore. You’re just a mess of whimpers and gasps, your hips rocking against his face as he devours you. His free hand comes up to press against your lower stomach, holding you in place, and somehow that makes everything more intense.

“Come on,” he says roughly. “Give me another one. I know you can.”

Your second orgasm is somehow even more intense than the first, pleasure rolling through you in waves that leave you gasping and shaking. He works you through it, gentler now, until you’re pushing weakly at his head.

“Too much,” you manage.

He pulls back immediately, pressing soothing kisses to your trembling thighs. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is wrecked. “Holy shit.”

His hands stroke up and down your thighs, grounding and gentle. “You did so well. So fucking beautiful when you come.”

You can’t even be embarrassed by the praise. You're too blissed out, too boneless.

After a moment, he shifts back up the bed, settling up in front of you. You tilt your head to look at him, taking in his flushed face, his dark eyes, the way his chest is rising and falling heavily.

“You’re still dressed,” you point out, eyeing the compression shirt he's wearing.

“Yeah.”

“That seems unfair.”

His mouth twitches. “You want me to fix that?”

Your heart kicks up even more despite the two orgasms you've just had. “Yeah.”

He sits up, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

You've seen him shirtless before. And by seen, you mean by the photos Shoko would show you whenever you try to casually ask about him from when she goes to Sigma Psi's parties, or when you stalk his friends’ social medias to find more glimpses of him. But this feels different. A lot more intimate. Your eyes trace over the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, the dark lines of his tattoos.

Then he’s hooking his thumbs into his sweatpants and boxers and pushing them down together. His cock springs free, hard and flushed, and your mouth goes dry.

He's... big. Bigger than you expected. Bigger than the vague mental image you'd tried not to think about.

“You’re staring,” he says, echoing your words from earlier.

“What the fuck you’re huge!” You blurt out, quickly averting your gaze on him to the ceiling again.

He huffs a laugh. “It’ll fit.”

You quirks a brow at him. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He reaches into his bedside drawer, pulling out a condom. “I’m gonna go slow. We’ll make it fit.”

You watch as he rolls the condom on with practiced ease, and then he’s settling between your thighs again, placing one of his pillows beneath your hips and bracing himself on his forearms above you.

“You ready?” he asks quietly.

Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can feel it. “Yeah.”

He reaches down, gripping himself and lining up with your entrance. You feel the blunt head of his thick cock pressing against you and your whole body tenses.

“Deep breaths,” he murmurs. “Relax for me.”

You force yourself to breathe, to relax your muscles.

“Good.” He pushes forward slightly, just the tip breaching you, and you gasp.

He watches your face carefully, his eyes dark and focused. You can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s reading every flicker of expression.

He sinks in another inch, slow and controlled, and the stretch is intense. Not quite painful, but overwhelming. You grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans.

He pushes deeper, and suddenly it’s too much. The stretch burns and you tense up completely.

“Wait! Stop,” you gasp. “Just- pause. Please.”

He freezes immediately, not moving a muscle. His jaw is clenched tight, arms trembling with the effort of staying still. “Take your time,” he says, voice strained but steady.

You breathe through it, forcing your body to relax around him. He's only halfway in and you already feel impossibly full. His thumb strokes your hip bone, a small grounding gesture.

After a moment, the burning fades to a dull ache. You shift slightly, testing, and it’s better. Still intense, but manageable.

“Okay,” you whisper. “You can- you can keep going.”

His eyes search your face, making sure, before he pushes deeper. Inch by inch, until he's finally fully seated inside you. You’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You feel incredible. So perfect.”

The praise sends warmth flooding through you. After a moment, the overwhelming fullness starts to fade, replaced by a different kind of ache. You shift your hips experimentally and he groans.

“Can you- can you move?” you ask.

He glances at your face, reading your expression, then nods. “Yeah.”

He pulls back slowly, almost half way out, before sliding back in. The drag of him inside you makes you whimper, and you immediately bite down on your lip, trying to muffle the sound.

His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb tugging your lip free. “Don’t hide those sounds from me,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “Let me hear you.”

Your face burns, and when he thrusts again you let the whimper escape freely.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You're taking me so well. So fucking perfect.”

His hips roll against yours, each thrust deliberate and controlled. One hand comes up to cup your face, and he watches your expression intently. The way your eyes flutter, the way your mouth falls open, the flush spreading across your cheeks.

“Feel good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you gasp. “So good.”

“Yeah?” He thrusts a little harder and you cry out. “Fuck, listen to you. So pretty when you make those sounds.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groans low in his throat. His pace increases slightly, still careful but more urgent now. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mixed with your whimpers and his heavy breathing.

“Touch yourself,” he says roughly. “Want you to come again.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. The added stimulation makes you clench around him and he curses.

“Fuck, just like that. You’re so close, I can feel it.”

He’s right. You’re already climbing towards another orgasm, your third of the night, and this one feels different. Deeper. More intense.

“Sukuna,” you whimper. “I’m-”

“I know. Come for me. Let me feel you.”

His hips snap forward harder and that's all it takes. You come with a broken cry, clenching around him so tightly he groans. Your whole body shakes with it, pleasure slicking down your spine and leaving you gasping.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he grits out. His rhythm falters, becoming erratic. “Gonna- fuck-”

He buries himself deep with a low groan, his whole body tensing as he comes. You feel him twitching inside you, his face pressed into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, tangled together, your fingers stroking through his hair.

Finally, he lifts his head to look at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is hoarse. “Really okay.”

His mouth curves into a soft smile. “Good.”

He pulls out carefully and you wince slightly at the loss. He ties off the condom and tosses it in the bin beside his bed before climbing off and pulling his sweatpants on.

He disappears without a word, and for a moment you just lie there, staring up at the cool light, your body still humming with aftershocks. You hear the tap running in what you assume is his bathroom, and then he's back, a small damp towel in his hand.

“Here,” he says quietly, settling between your thighs again.

The warmth of the towel makes you flinch slightly, but he's careful, wiping away the mess with a gentleness that feels almost at odds with everything that just happened.

“Wait,” you prop up on your elbows to properly look at him. “Is that it?”

He raises an eyebrow, pausing his wiping. “You want more?”

“No- I meant like, do you not want me to…” you trail off for a moment, plucking the courage to spit it out. “Shouldn’t I do something for you now? Like a blow job or something?”

He shakes his head before he resumes back to cleaning the mess between your thighs. “I’m fine, tonight was all about you. It's also quite late.”

It's all intimate in a different way—tender and considerate. You don't know where to look, so you stare at the ceiling again, your face burning.

“You good?” he asks, tossing the towel into a hamper near his door.

“Yeah.”

He pulls his shirt back on, and he grabs a clean shirt from his drawers, tossing it onto the bed beside you. “In case you want it.”

You sit up slowly, your legs still trembling and reach for your underwear instead. You tug them on before pulling on his shirt and then his hoodie. It smells like him and it's comforting in a way you don't want to examine too closely.

Your heart is still racing, your hands trembling slightly as you smooth the fabric down. You take a breath.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For... all of that.”

He glances at you. “You already thanked me.”

“I know, but-” You twist your fingers together. “I mean it. That was... really good. You made it really good.”

His mouth curves into that familiar smirk. “I know.”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You're so annoying.”

“And yet.” He gestures vaguely at you, at the bed, at the situation.

“And yet,” you agree, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He checks his phone on the nightstand. “It’s almost two. You should sleep here.”

“Okay.”

“I can sleep somewhere else if-”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I don't mind if you don’t mind.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods. "Alright.”

He turns off the psychopathic cool light and the room plunges into darkness. You hear him moving around, and then the bed dips as he climbs in beside you. There's space between you, not touching, but it doesn't feel awkward. Just really quiet and comfortable.

You settle into the pillow, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

“Thank you,” you whisper again. “Really.”

Silence stretches for a few heartbeats. Then, softly, “go to sleep.”

His voice is low, almost gentle, and somehow that's all you need. You close your eyes, your body finally relaxing fully, and let yourself drift off.

Sukuna has always been a light sleeper. Not in a dramatic way like he jolts awake at every sound, but he never sinks fully under. Like recently, he's been slowly awoken numerous times to the sound of Gojo’s, his bedroom neighbour, bedframe slamming against their shared wall.

So when fabric rustles faintly in the dark and there's the delicate creek of footsteps against wood floorboards at what seems to be nearly six in the morning, he’s already awake before he opens his eyes

He stays silent for a moment.

You’re trying to be quiet. He can tell. The soft shuffle of leggings being pulled on, the muted zip of your bag, the pause between movements like you're figuring out how much noise your next step will be. It’s cautious in a way that makes something in his chest tighten faintly.

He opens his eyes when you step toward the door.

“You’re not subtle,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

You freeze like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I’m awake.”

You hesitate. “…Sorry.”

There it is again.

He pushes himself upright, watching you properly now. You’re dressed in the clothes you came in, his hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, hair slightly mussed from sleep.

“I’ll drive you,” he says automatically.

You shift your weight. It’s subtle, but he notices. Your fingers tighten around your tote strap; your shoulders sit too high.

You don’t want the car. You want air.

He exhales through his nose. “Or we can walk.”

Relief flickers across your face before you smooth it away. “Walking’s fine.”

Outside, the morning is cold and quiet, the sky a flat grey that makes everything feel suspended. You walk side by side, close but not touching. He keeps his hands in his pockets and lets his mind wander in the loose, unfocused way it does when he’s underslept.

It replays things without asking permission. The way you’d gripped his sheets, the way you’d said his name like you weren’t sure you were allowed to. The soft, almost embarrassed “thank you” afterward.

He isn’t unused to sex. He’s just unused to gratitude.

“Thank you,” you say again now, softer. “For last night.”

He glances at you. You’re staring straight ahead, like you’re reporting a fact.

“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” he replies. “You don’t necessarily owe someone gratitude for sleeping with you.”

“I wasn’t-” You falter. “I mean, I just… you were patient.”

“I wanted to be,” he says simply. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have been.”

That quiets you.

He watches you again, noticing the nearly imperceptible limp in your step, and suddenly he feels guilty.

Should've insisted on driving.

After a few more steps, you clear your throat. “So. About this. The friends with benefits thing.”

He nods once. “We keep it simple. No pretending it’s something it’s not.”

“And if it gets weird?”

“We say it’s weird.”

“And if one of us wants to stop?”

“Then we stop.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice, and he sees the way that steadies you.

“Tonight,” he starts, catching your attention. “Gojo is throwing a party. If you want you can come. Shoko will be there.”

He watches you for a moment before quickly adding on, “I'll be there too.”

You consider him for a moment. “I'll think about it.”

By the time you both reach your building, the sky is beginning to lighten. You turn to him, nerves softer now, less frantic.

“Shall I text you when I get to my room?” You tease.

He huffs lightly at the burst of confidence to crack a small joke. “Go inside.”

You do. He waits until the door closes behind you before turning back down the pavement, hands still in his pockets, thoughts louder than he’d like. Not complicated, not romantic, just aware that something about last night doesn’t slot as neatly into “casual” as it usually does.

He isn’t sure what that means yet.

He doesn’t think about it long enough to decide before he turns and starts heading back to his frat.

[darlingbambii]

taglist >//<

@emxoxo05 @sugarbunnyluv @shazzer29 @stellarixe @ehcilhc @uxii3 @teenytinyparade @lizzieliz18 @blue-goingdark @shnauwi @xqce 💗

[darlingbambii]

Something Soft Between Us ᰔ

frat!sukuna x reader ☆ MDNI 18+

part one ᰔ part two ᰔ part three ᰔ part four

wc : 14.7k ᰔ art credits : @/luluyi

summary ♡ You didn’t plan on losing your virginity to Sukuna. It starts small. Shared conversations, quiet moments that feel easier than they should, a presence that slowly becomes familiar. You’re inexperienced, careful, and not used to wanting things you can’t define. So when you ask for something simple, something with no expectations, it makes sense. It's just sex. Just once. Just to try. Just to know. Sukuna doesn't do relationships, you've never done anything at all. But what begins as something casual slowly settles into something softer. Into late nights that linger, into moments that feel almost too easy, you begin to wonder if something like this was ever meant to be temporary at all.

tags ♡ ooc sukuna, jjk frat au, fwb, female reader, virgin reader, socially anxious reader, slow burn (in the romantic, emotional sense), eventual mutual pining, soft tension, awkward intimacy, first love, soft romance, lowk self indulgent ᰔ cross posted on ao3

disclaimers ♡ eventual smut (part two will have more smut i promise), soft smut, slightly awkward sex, virginity loss, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, praise

authors note ♡ just a small note before reading !! reader’s inexperience isn’t rooted in purity culture or anything like that. it’s more tied to her anxiety and how she navigates people and intimacy, which is something i personally relate to and wanted to reflect in her character. <3 also sukuna is a little ooc here! this is very much my own interpretation of him in a uni/frat au, so he’s softer and a more grounded than canon, but still sukuna at heart (hopefully D:)

part one ᰔ bud

“Please pick up,” you whisper, squinting at your nearly dead phone as you ring Shoko's number again.

It was just past six when you finally noticed how dark the windows of the studio had become.

The main lights were on but the hallways take on that dim, end-of-day quality, the windows beyond your desk coloured in a dark grey. Rain pelts against the window, blurring the car park outside into something indistinct and distant.

You've been hunched over your desk for the better part of three hours, redrawing the same bodice structure because it refuses to look just right.

When your phone buzzes to remind you of the time, you blinked as if resurfacing.

Right. You should head home.

You quickly pack your stationery away before closing your sketchbook carefully, smoothing a palm over the cover out of habit. The paper inside is thick and textured and already heavy with weeks upon weeks of work. You shivered, thinking about how easily it could all be ruined. You don't even let yourself drink water while working in fear you'll spill over the pages.

When you're outside the building, the rain is louder and more aggressive, splashing thickly over the car park's asphalt and soaking into a deep gray that borders on black.

And that's when you realise.

You don't have an umbrella. Not even a decent coat to help with the rain.

“Please pick up,” you mumble again, calling Shoko's number when the call goes to voicemail.

Cold air rushes against your cheeks and hands, sharp enough to make you draw in a breath. The sky is a flat grey, sheets of rain drops slants across the student car park, pooling into puddles in random spots.

You stand beneath the narrow metal canopy beside the entrance. It isn't generous, barely covering half your body and the wind drives the rain sideways anyways, but it's enough to keep the worst of it from immediately soaking through. You adjust your tote bag, tucking it against your chest protectively and angling your shoulder to shield the opening. The beige fabric darkening when a stray water droplet lands.

The rain grows heavier, hammering against the canopy until it sounds almost metallic. A car passes at the far end of the car park, tires hissing against the water.

The call goes to voicemail again.

You lower the phone and stare at the screen as if irritation alone could summon her. She’s probably studying with her sound off, or maybe she's sleeping. Or just maybe she's ignoring you on purpose because she has already warned you about staying late before. You can already imagine the flat look she'd give you.

You glance out the rain again.

You could walk. It's only twenty minutes.

But twenty minutes in this weather means soaked sketchbook, warped paper, bleeding ink, smudged graphite, hours of work ruined.

You bite down on your lip, navigating on your phone to get an Uber. The prices would be hiked up and your phone is mere minutes away from dying but you're running out of options.

An engine's low growl cuts through the sound of water. It's closer than the others, deeper, the kind of sound that vibrates faintly in the middle of your chest. Headlights sweep across the wet ground and briefly illuminate the underside of the canopy you're refuging under.

You don't mean to look, but you do anyway.

The car that pulls up in front of you is sleek and black, its window tinted dark enough to reflect the rain back at itself. Even in the slipping evening light, it looks expensive in a way that makes you take a step back.

Then the passenger side window rolls down, revealing the man inside.

He doesn't lean out, doesn't crowd the space between you and the car. He stays where he is, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other near the gear shift. The interior light isn't on, but from the streetlamps spilling through the windscreen, you can see the mess of pink hair, the sharp line of his jaw and the faint pattern of ink tracing the edges of his face.

His gaze lands on you steadily.

Not intrusive or leering, but steady.

“You're going to get soaked,” he finally says. His voice is low, even, the kind of deepness that carries without being raised.

You're suddenly aware of how you must look. Your hair fizzy at the ends, sleeves damp, tote clutched to your chest like you're shielding a sickly animal.

“I'm fine,” you manage out, though the wind immediately drives a spray of rain beneath the canopy and proves you wrong.

Water dots the canvas near the opening of your bag. You instinctively turn your shoulder, shielding it.

His eyes flick to it.

“That bag waterproof?”

You hesitate. “No.”

Rain drums harder against the metal above you. The car engine hums a low, controlled purr that contrasts the weather.

He studies the downpour for a brief second, then looks back at you.

“Get in.”

The words aren’t softened and they’re not coaxing, either. Just direct.

Your stomach tightens. You don’t know this man. You don’t recognise him beyond the vague awareness that you’ve probably passed him somewhere on campus before. He looks like someone who belongs in a car like this. Dark clothes, sleeves pushed up slightly to reveal more ink curling along his forearm. The tattoos don’t look like an afterthought, they look like they're apart of him.

“I don’t know you,” you say, because that feels like the most reasonable thing to say.

He tilts his head a fraction, considering you.

“It’s raining,” he replies.

As if that answers everything.

Your phone buzzes weakly in your hand.

1%.

You glance down at it, then back up.

Another gust of rain splashes against your tote, and the fabric darkens again. You imagine the pages inside curling, ink bleeding into watercolour ghosts of what they used to be. The thought makes something twist low in your chest.

“If I get in,” you begin, and your voice sounding steadier than you feel, “I’m taking a picture of your number plate. And your licence. I’ll send it to my friend, just in case you abduct me and kill me in the forest.”

A beat passes.

“That's dramatic,” he says, but he made no moves to stop you.

You take a step towards the front only to halt to a stop immediately after.

Your phone dies.

You stare at it. Press the button on the side. Nothing.

Of course.

You swallow and lift your eyes slowly.

He's still there. Watching you without impatience. Without a smirk. Without a smug amusement you were half expecting.

The car is warm and you can tell from the faint condensation beginning to fog the lower corner of the windscreen from the heat inside.

He doesn’t rush you.

He doesn’t repeat himself.

He just waits.

Your options rearrange themselves quickly in your mind: twenty-minute walk, a soaked sketchbook, hours of work potentially destroyed. Or a ten-minute drive with a stranger who, so far, has done nothing but state the obvious and offer to help you.

You step forward before your brain can generate a new set objections and pull the passenger door open.

Warmth greets you instantly.

The scent inside is subtle but expensive. Leather and something darker beneath it, clean and restrained. The rain becomes muted the moment you shut the door, reduced to a dull beat against metal and glass.

You sit upright, buckling in and your tote still pressed protectively to your chest.

He reaches across slightly and adjusts a dial on the console. The heater hums louder, warm air spilling towards your legs.

“Your address?” He asks.

No small talk. No commentary about your near-death-by-rain situation.

You give it to him.

He nods once, typing it on the maps on the screen in the space between the two of you, and pulls away from the pavement, tires slicing smoothly through shallow water.

Music filters through the speakers. Low, bass-heavy, controlled, not loud enough to overwhelm the space.

For the first few seconds you’re hyper-aware of everything. The enclosed space. The proximity. The faint hum of the car beneath your shoes. But when you risk a glance sideways, he isn’t looking at you at all.

He’s watching the road. One hand steady on the wheel, the other relaxed. His posture is loose but deliberate, like he knows exactly how much space he takes up and sees no need to prove it.

He doesn’t look at your legs. Doesn't even look at you at all. Doesn’t ask prying questions about yourself. He just drives.

At a traffic light, he leans over and offers you a charger.

“For your phone,” he says simply.

“Oh, thank you.” You accept it gratefully, plugging your phone in.

It's quiet once more, the traffic light turning green and he's driving again.

“You're in fashion design.” He says, not quite a question.

You offer him a look, “how'd you know?”

“I know your friend, Shoko,” He says evenly, taking a turn.

“Oh.” You say plainly, not sure what to say. “How'd you know I'm friends with Shoko?”

“She told me.”

He doesn’t offer much information, and you just stare forward at the rain splattering against the car hood.

“I'm not trying to be creepy,” he adds reassuringly. “Shoko talks about you a lot whenever I see her at our parties.”

You don’t know how to feel about that.

The idea of Shoko talking about you at parties, his parties, apparently, makes something small and unsettled shift in your chest, not quite embarrassment but closer to exposure, like someone opened a window you didn’t realise had ever been shut.

“Oh,” you say again, because it’s the only word that comes.

He doesn’t elaborate.

The wipers drag across the windscreen in steady intervals, pushing aside sheets of rain. Streetlights smear into elongated gold streaks against the glass. You watch them instead of looking at him.

“What does she say?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

There’s the faintest pause.

“That you overwork,” he replies. “That you forget to eat when you’re designing. That you don’t answer your phone when you’re stressed, then panic when she doesn’t answer hers.”

Heat creeps up your neck.

“That’s not-” You stop because it is true and press your lips together. “She talks too much.”

A low sound hums from him, something softer than a laugh and not quite mocking, just acknowledgement.

Your phone screen flickers back to life, battery icon blinking before slowly inching upward. Notifications flood in all at once. A few notifications from various social medias from earlier in the day. A message from Shoko sent ten minutes ago:

shoko ♡: alive. just took a nap. you okay?

You stare at it.

You could tell her you’re in a stranger’s car, but you’re not sure what you’d even say beyond that.

The car slows as he turns into your street. The buildings here are familiar—brick walls, small balconies, the corner shop with the flickering sign.

He pulls up neatly outside your building and shifts into park.

The engine keeps running and for a moment, neither of you move.

Up close, without the distortion of rain and distance, you notice details you hadn’t before. The faint scar cutting through one eyebrow. The way the tattoos follow the natural, sharp lines of his face. The calm in his posture—not stiff or awkward.

“Thank you,” you say, unplugging your phone and winding the wire carefully before placing it back in the centre console.

He gives a small nod. “Don’t ruin your work.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but it lands softer than you expected.

You adjust your tote, fingers tightening around the strap. “You didn’t have to park.”

“I know.” He says, and he presses a button on the side to unlock the doors. “See you around.” You take that as a cue to start leaving.

You open the door and the cold rushes back in immediately, rain speckling your tights as you step out. The warmth disappears the second the door shuts behind you, replaced with the sharp scent of wet pavement.

You hurry towards your building entrance, shielding your bag again on instinct. Halfway to the door, you glance back.

His car is still there.

Headlights cutting clean lines through the rain. Engine idling. He isn’t leaning over the steering wheel or watching you in any obvious way, but he hasn’t driven off either.

Waiting.

You fumble your keys slightly before finally scanning your key fob. The door clicks open and you slip inside. Through the small pane of glass, you see the car remain for a second longer.

Then the brake lights flare red and he pulls away.

You stand in the hallway for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of old carpet and the weird smell of radiator heat. Your heart is still beating a little too fast, though you’re not entirely sure why.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

Shoko's calling.

You stare at her name on the screen for a moment before you answer.

“Don’t yell at me,” you say immediately.

There’s a pause on the other end. “Why would I-” she begins, then stops. “You sound weird. What happened?”

You glance at the door as if the car might still be there. “Can I stop by your place?”

You don’t bother stopping at your apartment to change into drier clothes. You stop at the door next to yours, quickly knocking.

There's shuffling inside. Something Drops. A muffled swear. Then the door swings open a moment later.

Shoko Ieiri stands in her oversized uni hoodie, loose pyjama short, hair slightly flattened on one side like she's been either sleeping or hunched over her textbook for too long. There's also a green highlighter tucked behind her left ear.

She squints at you. “You look… wet.”

“You didn't pick up,” you say immediately.

She winces. “I know. I'm sorry. I passed out for, like, I think twenty minutes? I was doing organic chemistry.”

You step inside as she moves to the side, revelling in how warm her apartment is. It smells faintly of coffee and smoke and something medicinal, probably the muscle rub she uses.

“I thought you were dead,” you mumble. “Or maybe you wanted me to die.”

“Die from the rain?”

“I had my sketchbook and I didn't bring an umbrella.”

You hover awkwardly by her sofa, and she studies your expression more closely now.

“You're not just here to guilt-trip me, are you?” She quirks an eyebrow. “What happened? You said not to be mad at you but I don't even know what happened.”

You hesitate, perching on the edge of her sofa. “I got a lift home.”

“...Okay?”

“From a stranger.”

She blinks once. “Define ‘stranger’.”

“I don't know his name.”

Her posture straightens, a look of interest playing on her face. “Start from the beginning.”

And so you do.

You tell her about the rain, the dying phone, the car, the window rolling down.

“He had pink hair.”

Shoko pauses mid-step as she reaches for her mug. “Like, fluffy pink hair?”

“Yeah.”

She narrows her eyes. “Built like he fights bears recreationally?”

You blink. “That's… oddly specific.”

“Just answer the question.”

“...I mean, sure? I guess? I wasn't really paying attention to his muscles.”

Shoko freezes before slowly setting down her mug.

“Stay there,” she says before moving to grab her phone from the kitchen counter. Her face does that thing it does when she’s putting pieces together. Mildly exasperated, deeply aware.

She turns the phone towards you.

The first photo is clearly taken at a party. A crowded living room, red cups, LEDs lights. A pink-haired guy is grinning at the camera, arm slung around someone out of frame.

“That's not him,” you say immediately.

She swipes.

The second photo is darker. Same house, maybe? Maybe the same party too.

He’s standing slightly off to the side this time, drink in hand, expression flat like he’d rather be anywhere else. Pink hair. Tattoos. Broad shoulders under a fitted black shirt, with a guy with impossibly white hair slung over his shoulders and pulling some silly face.

You point without hesitation.

“That,” she says, “is Ryomen Sukuna.”

You stare at her.

“Isn't that a name for a mythical two face demon-”

“I don't know,” she replies abruptly before you could finish, locking her phone.

The name sits strangely in your mouth when you try it silently. Ryomen Sukuna.

“He’s in Gojo’s frat,” she adds.

You blink. “Who’s Gojo?”

Now she looks at you like you’ve just admitted you don’t know how to breathe.

“Satoru Gojo,” she says slowly. “Tall. White hair. Freaky blue eyes. Thinks he’s God’s favourite. My best friend from high-school.”

You stare blankly.

She sighs.

“Sigma Psi.”

“Oh.”

That means absolutely nothing to you beyond vague campus lore.

Shoko gestures vaguely as she speaks, listing all the guys she knows that's in the frat because she grew up with them.

“What about Sukuna?”

She studies you carefully. “I don't know him well, but he kinda just does whatever he wants.”

That’s not helpful.

“You see them around campus all the time,” she continues. “You just don’t notice because you’re always speed-walking with your headphones in and your head down.”

You open your mouth to argue.

You close it.

Fair.

“He didn’t say his name,” you mutter.

“He wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t introduce himself unless he feels like it.”

You sink onto her sofa, ignoring how cryptic she sounded, tote still clutched in your lap.

“He waited,” you say quietly.

Shoko tilts her head. “Waited?”

“Until I got inside.”

Something unreadable flickers across her face.

“…That tracks,” she says eventually.

You look up at her. “Is he awful?”

She considers that. “No, I wouldn't say that.”

You relax slightly.

“He’s just not… soft? I guess?”

That makes sense.

Silence settles between you for a moment then Shoko snaps her fingers once. “You should come over in three days.”

You blink. “Over where?”

“Their house. Not for a party,” she adds quickly, reading your expression. “Gojo and Geto are hosting a study night. Midterms are coming up. It’ll mostly just be us in the dining room.”

“Us?”

“Me. Them. Probably Nanami because he hates himself. Maybe Haibara if he remembers he has exams. It’s not a rager or anything at all.”

You hesitate. The idea of a frat house makes your chest tighten slightly. “I don’t really do big groups.”

“I know,” she says calmly. “You won’t have to. You can sit next to me and ignore everyone. They’ll be too busy arguing about something stupid anyway.”

You consider it.

“And he’ll be there?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Her mouth twitches into a small smirk. “Probably.”

That does something small and uncomfortable in your chest.

“You don’t have to talk to him,” she adds. “But if he remembers you, he will.”

That feels strangely ominous.

“I don’t even have his number,” you say lightly.

Shoko gives you a look. “You might.”

You narrow your eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” she says, picking her mug back up, “people don’t usually go out of their way like that for no reason. Something is bound to happen to you.”

You stare at her.

“I hate when you’re right.”

“I’m a sleep-deprived premed student,” she says dryly. “I usually am.”

Outside the rain continues to fall, and three days suddenly doesn’t feel very far away.

Getting to Sigma Psi would’ve taken ten minutes quicker if Shoko had driven.

But the second she locks her apartment door and sees the way you’re clutching your tote like you're about to pee yourself or something, she pauses.

“Do you want to walk?” she asks casually. “The weather is good and it might help.”

You nod a little too quickly.

Walking means nice, clean breathing space with the breeze on your face. Walking means you don’t arrive sooner than if you drove, it'll give you more time to relax.

The air is cool but not unpleasant, the sun starting to set, leaving the sky drizzled with the last bits of sunlight. You keep your hands tucked into your sleeves as you move beside Shoko.

“You don’t have to talk,” she reminds you gently. “You can just sit. No one’s going to interrogate you or something.

“That sounds exactly like something someone says before I get interrogated.”

She snorts softly. “Gojo maybe will, but he bothers everyone like that.”

You don’t know who Gojo is beyond ’white hair, freaky blue eyes, and a big ego problem’ which isn't really reassuring.

The Sigma Psi house comes into view around the corner.

It’s bigger than you expected.

Wide porch, lights glowing warmly through large windows, no music thumping. No chaos spilling out the door.

Still, your grip on your tote tightens.

Shoko nudges you lightly with her elbow. “You’ll be fine.”

The front door opens before she even knocks.

A tall man with stark, white hair and round glasses grins down at Shoko like she’s personally delivered oxygen back into his lungs.

“Shoko!” He announces dramatically. “You’ve returned to bless us with your intelligence.”

You blink.

He looks at you.

Bright blue eyes widen behind the lenses.

“And you brought a friend.”

Shoko sighs.

So this is Satoru Gojo.

He leans sideways to look at you properly. “You must be the mysterious fashion friend Shoko always talks about.”

Your brain stalls.

“I-”

“She doesn’t like loud people,” Shoko interrupts flatly.

“I can be quiet,” he says immediately, lowering his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “Super quiet”

From somewhere deeper in the house, someone says, “You’re still loud.”

You step inside. The house smells faintly of coffee and smoke, which reminds you of Shoko's place, and down the hallway you spot the dining table covered in open textbooks, stationery and various cups and mugs.

At the table sits a man with long, dark hair tied neatly back, reading through highlighted notes with calm focus. He glances up briefly, offering you a polite nod before returning to his page.

Next to him, a blond man, who looks equally sleep-deprived as Shoko, is pinching the bridge of his nose like he's regretting every life decision that had led him here.

A seemingly joyful boy with big, brown, soulful eyes waves immediately. “Hi! You’re Shoko’s friend, right?”

You freeze for half a second before managing a small nod.

“That’s Haibara,” Shoko murmurs. “He’s normal.”

“Mostly,” Haibara corrects cheerfully.

Your eyes drift instinctively across the room.

And then you see him.

He’s already there.

Sitting slightly apart from everyone at the table but still within it, chair tipped back slightly hanging a dark hoodie, a textbook open in front of him with sheets of notes that he doesn’t seem particularly invested in. He's wearing a dark grey shirt, his tattoos visible beneath pushed-up sleeves and his pink hair catches the warm light of the sunset from the window behind, and it practically makes him look like he's glowing.

He looks up.

Your stomach flips in a way that is deeply inconvenient.

You look away first.

You choose a seat at the far end of the table next to Shoko and begin carefully unpacking your bag, hyper-aware of every movement. Where to put your pencil. Whether your chair is too loud as you shuffle closer. If you’re breathing too loudly.

Gojo is already talking again. Loudly pretending to study. “I swear, if I open my paper and there's questions I'm walking out.”

“Saying all that as if you don't normally do good.” Nanami says flatly.

“That’s beside the point.”

Geto doesn’t even look up. “It’s exactly the point.”

Haibara laughs.

The chatter continues. Not overwhelming.

Just… annoying?

Not that you think any of them are annoying of course. In fact, you're finding them quite funny. But after years of studying in the pin-drop quiet of your room, with your headphones over your ears and a blanket perpetually wrapped around you—the constant talking around you constantly pulls you out of focusing on your sketchbook.

Maybe you can make up an excuse to go home. You could just sneak out without anyone noticing. Maybe you could say something about needing to go home because you left your stove on.

Then, you can feel someone looking at you.

When you glance up, he’s looking between you and your sketchbook.

His chair shifts.

You freeze.

He doesn’t cause any commotion. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches forward, clearing loose bits of paper and notes on top of each other into a neat pile, moves a textbook aside, and then nods to the now-clear space next to him.

A quieter space slightly separate from the chatty group.

He doesn’t look at you while you contemplate moving.

Shoko notices, of course she does, and she nudges you once under the table.

You swallow before you start gathering your sketchbook and pencil, trying not to look like you’re moving under duress, and stand. The chair legs scrape faintly against the floor and you wince internally.

You sit beside him, close enough to feel the warmth from his left arm.

He doesn’t comment, doesn’t look at you. Just resumes writing something in his notebook.

The noise of the room continues around you, but it feels slightly dulled now. And so you focus on your sketch.

At some point in the evening, Gojo loudly declares he requires sugar to “keep the big brain functioning” which somehow results in him dragging Shoko into the kitchen to help him locate cookies that are apparently invisible to everyone but her. She goes with a tired sigh, tossing you a brief look that says ‘you’re fine’ before disappearing around the corner.

You don’t fully register that you’re alone at the table until all the noise shifts.

Haibara gets lured upstairs by the promise of a “quick game” that will absolutely not be quick. Nanami closes his textbook with the kind of resignation that suggests he has already accepted he’ll be back studying with everyone tomorrow. Geto remains at the table, calm and focused, but absorbed enough in his notes that he might as well be in another room entirely.

And you’re still sitting beside Sukuna.

You become acutely aware of your posture again. Of your hands. Of the way your pencil rests between your fingers. You force yourself not to fidget with the edge of your sleeve, or to stop bouncing your knee under the table in fear you'll accidentally brush his leg.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he says quietly. “Stop worrying.”

You glance at him. “I’m not worrying.”

“You are.”

You look back down at your sketchbook, attempting neutrality. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue with you. He just lets the silence sit between you, steady and unthreatening, like he’s already decided you’ll settle if given enough time.

Eventually chairs scrape, books close, the sky outside is dark, and the low hum of conversation begins to dissolve into people gathering their things. When Shoko appears next to you, she looks faintly apologetic.

“I’ve got a lab report due at midnight and by the time we get home, I won't have enough time to finish it.”

“I don't mind waiting.”

“It’ll take ages and you have an early lecture tomorrow.” She says, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “You can head back by yourself if you want, just be careful.”

Your stomach twists slightly at the idea of walking alone, even though it is just twenty-five minutes. You'll just need to send her your live location, take all the streets with the most lamp posts and avoid any smaller ones that are dark with no cameras.

“I’ll walk with her,” Sukuna says, standing up and pulling on a hoodie he had hanging at the back of his chair.

Shoko looks between the two of you, then shrugs. “Text me when you get home,” she tells you, already half distracted as she focuses back on her laptop screen.

Outside, the air is cooler than before. The pavement shimmering faintly under the streetlights, but it isn't too windy tonight. You walk side by side, not touching and not speaking at first. The quiet isn’t uncomfortable, just present.

“You looked terrified tonight,” he says after a while.

“I wasn't.” You say quickly.

“You didn't hide it well.”

You glance at him, your voice coming out deflective. “You cleared me a space.”

A faint shift in his expression, not quite amusement, not quite dismissal. “You looked like you were plotting an escape.”

You were.

The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it, small and involuntary.

By the time your building comes into view, your pulse has steadied into something manageable. You slow slightly near the entrance, adjusting the strap of your tote on your shoulder.

“Thank you,” you say, all sincere and genuine. “For the ride home earlier this week, and tonight, and walking me home.”

Sukuna studies you for a moment, as if weighing whether gratitude is really necessary.

“Give me your phone,” he says.

You blink. “Why?”

“In case you get stranded in bad weather again.”

The explanation is practical, almost impersonal, and yet something about it makes warmth flicker deep in your chest.

“Oh.” You reach into your pocket automatically, clicking it on—and then freeze. “It’s dead.”

He exhales softly through his nose, something between a sigh and restrained disbelief. “Then charge it.”

“I will,” you reply defensively, though that doesn’t solve the immediate issue.

For a second he considers you, then reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a pen.

“Your arm,” he says.

You hesitate only a fraction before extending it, palm angled slightly upward. He steps closer. Close enough that you can feel the residual warmth from him through the cool night air and the scent of his cologne. He gently pushes your sleeve up before his fingers close gently around your wrist to steady it. Not tight, not lingering, just firm enough to keep you still and close.

He writes slowly across the inside of your wrist, the tip of the pen dragging lightly over your skin as he forms each number with careful precision. You watch the movement instead of his face, hyper-aware of the closeness.

“There,” he says, releasing you.

You look down.

A string of digits and his name sits inked against your skin, slightly smudged at the edge where your pulse beats rapidly beneath it.

“If it washes off,” he adds, sliding the pen back into his pocket, “that’s on you.”

You huff a quiet breath that almost resembles a laugh. “I’ll memorise it.”

“You won’t.”

He’s probably right. But you know the minute you power on your phone, you'll be contemplating with yourself on messaging him.

You step backwards towards the door, fingers digging into your bag for your fob.

“Text me when you get inside,” he says.

“My phone is still dead,” you remind him.

He tilts his head slightly. “Then you better plug it in the minute you get inside and text me.”

There’s something steady in the way he says it. Not teasing. Not flirtatious. Just certain with a slight edge of cockiness.

You unlock the door and slip inside, and through the narrow pane of glass, you see him still standing there beneath the streetlight, hands tucked loosely into his pockets.

Waiting.

Only when the door clicks fully shut does he turn around and look up at the sky.

You lean back against the wall for a moment, staring down at the ink on your wrist.

The ink numbers feel heavier than they realistically should.

Two days ago, you didn’t know his name.

And now it’s written into your skin.

You make your way to your apartment, quickly unlocking your door and rushing to your bedroom to plug your phone in.

And when your phone finally lights up, it looks brighter than it should be.

The screen flares to life in your dark bedroom, notifications cascading down in a small avalanche. Lecturer emails, a sale message from a fabric store you forgot you've subscribed to, two missed calls from Shoko. You text her first, quick and efficiently.

You: im home and alive and safe !!

Her typing bubble appears almost immediately,

shoko ♡: good. did he walk you all the way?

You hesitate.

You: yes

Three dots appear again.

shoko ♡: and? did anything happen??

You lock your phone before she pushes further and lean over to turn your lamp on.

Your wrist catches the light when you reach for your tote, the ink slightly smudged but still legible. His handwriting is sharper than you expected—clean, deliberate strokes, nothing messy in that typical, boyish way.

You sit on the edge of your bed, leaning against your mountain of plushies and unlock your phone again.

For a second, you just stare at the number. Then you open your contacts and type it in carefully, double-checking each digit like it’s a formula that could explode your phone if entered wrong.

You hover over the keyboard before opening a new message thread.

This is stupid.

It’s just a text.

He told you to.

It’s not like you're disturbing him or anything.

Still, your thumbs feel clumsy.

You type. Erase it. Type again.

You: im inside, phone is charging

You stare at the words. Too stiff. You quickly tack on at the end:

You: im inside, phone is charging like you told me to

That somehow feels worse.

You send it before you can edit it again anyway.

The message whooshes away, and immediately your stomach flips.

He’s probably still outside. Or maybe he’s already halfway down the street on his way. Maybe he won’t answer. Maybe he will. Maybe-

Your phone buzzes in your hand and you jolt.

Sukuna: Took you long enough.

You quickly type back before you could overthink it.

You: my phone was dead remember i needed a minute

Three dots appear almost instantly. Then it disappears. Then reappears.

Sukuna: You're bad at planning.

You draw eyebrows together.

You: i didn’t plan on my phone dying

You pause, watching your message send and his typing bubble dance.

Sukuna: Also didn't plan on the rain a few days ago?

Touché

You roll onto your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows, phone warm in your hands as you stare at his messages. The rest of your room feels dim in comparison to your phone, like the world has narrowed down to the small print of his name at the top of your phone.

You: i usually plan !! just not the weather apparently

His reply comes quickly.

Sukuna: You plan escapes?

Your stomach drops a little.

You: it was loud, and im just not used to studying in loud places

Sukuna: I noticed

Sukuna: That's why I cleared the space.

Heat creeps up your neck.

You: You didn’t have to.

Sukuna: I know.

You stare at that longer than necessary, before you send a message to close the conversation.

You: well im home and i put my phone on charge.

You: im so responsible

Sukuna: Barely.

Sukuna: Go to sleep.

You smile to yourself, locking and placing your phone on your bedside table before quickly getting ready for bed.

Tuesday afternoons are the most tolerable.

Not because the lectures Ryomen Sukuna has on that day is particularly engaging, though the discussion on Gothic symbolism has been interesting, but because they end early enough for him so he can take a walk down to Main Street.

Sukuna leaves the humanities building with his Airpods already in, music playing low in his ears, and his copy of The Monk tucked in his bag, margins half annotated and spine cracked in a way that would make a book lover wince. A line that was discussed is still lodged somewhere in his head when he pushes the door to a small patisserie on the corner of the street.

A bell chimes overhead.

The place smells like sugar, warm butter, sweet strawberry glaze and fresh coffee. He steps into line, scrolling absent-mindedly through his notes on his phone for his essay thesis, when something familiar catches his attention.

Right in front of him.

Soft sweater, tote bag he's seen before, hands tucked into sleeves even though it's decently warm today.

He pulls an Airpod out slowly.

You're studying the display case like it requires strategic planning to order a simple sweet treat.

He watches for a moment longer than necessary before reaching forward and tapping your shoulder lightly.

You jump, and he almost smirks.

“Relax,” he says, voice low and even. “It's just me.”

You turn, eyes widening slightly before recognition settles in. “Oh, it's you.”

That tiny exhale you do when you realise that you're not being subjected to social interactions by a complete stranger.

“You come here often?”

You blink at him before a small smile forms on your lips. “That sounds like a rehearsed line.”

“It wasn't.”

“It definitely was.”

He shrugs, “just answer the question.”

You smile a bit bigger. “Yeah, they make the best pastries here. The strawberry tart is their best.”

He glances at the display case. “You've ranked them, or something?”

“Well, no… just the tarts.”

The line shifts forward. You step with it automatically, and he follows.

“I didn’t know you liked places like this,” you say after a second, a little quieter. “It’s… calm.”

“I like quiet,” he replies simply.

When you reach the counter, you straighten slightly, rehearsed politeness settling into your posture.

“Hi,” you say softly to the cashier. “Can I get one strawberry tart and an iced vanilla latte, please?”

Sukuna steps forward immediately after.

“And a medium coffee” he says, nodding toward the machine. “No milk, no sugar. And one dark chocolate éclair.”

“That's quite bitter,” you say absent-mindedly. “Not a fan of sweet things?”

“Maybe? Do I seem like someone who would like sweet things?”

You ponder for a second, “you don't strike me as a strawberry person—though, you do have pink hair.”

“I'm not.” He says, and before you could even take out your wallet, he's already paying.

By the time the box is handed over, you’re both standing awkwardly near the door, scanning the small patisserie.

Every table is full.

He watches you shift your weight slightly, seemingly calculating exit strategies to casually leave him without it being awkwardly, volume levels, how long you could reasonably stand here without looking strange.

He notices, of course.

“Park’s a few streets away,” he says. “Less noise.”

You glance up at him. “You want me to join-”

He's already pushing the door open.

You fall into step with him, with no forced conversation, just the sound of distant traffic and the crinkle of the pastry box between you. The park is mostly empty this time of day, a few students sprawled on the grass, someone reading under a tree.

He nods toward a bench half-shaded by branches.

You sit at one end and he sits close enough that your shoulders almost touch but don’t.

You open the box carefully, like it contains something fragile. The strawberry glaze catches the light, glossy and precise.

You look pleased.

He takes a sip of his coffee first, expression neutral, then breaks the éclair in half with deliberate care.

“You always get the same thing?” he asks.

“Usually,” you admit. “It’s always a safe option.”

You take a bite of your tart, and for a second your entire face softens.

He watches, then looks away before you can catch him.

“It’s good?” he asks.

You nod quickly. “You should try it.”

“I’m not a strawberry person,” he reminds you.

“You should still try it,” you insist, nudging him the tart.

You hold the tart toward him, hesitant but offering.

He studies you for a second, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way you’re pretending not to care whether he says yes or no, and then leans forward just enough to take a bite from your hands instead of taking it from you.

It’s sweeter than he prefers.

“It's fine,” he says, but one glance at you tells him how flustered you were from the closeness.

The wind shifts slightly, brushing leaves overhead. You relax back against the bench next to him, shoulders no longer tight, hands no longer hidden.

For a while, you both eat in comfortable silence. Just strawberry glaze, dark chocolate, and the slow settling warmth of something that doesn’t feel overwhelming. When you both finish, you brush invisible crumbs from your sleeve and glance sideways at him.

“Thanks for not making it too weird,” you say.

He looks at you evenly. “You’d tell me if I did.”

“…Maybe.”

A faint smirk touches his mouth.

“Next time,” he says, standing and taking the empty box from your hands, “we’re trying something that isn’t strawberry.”

You stand too, adjusting your tote.

“Next time?” you repeat.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers.

“Wednesday,” he says simply, like it’s already decided.

“But that's tomorrow,” you say, following him as he starts to walk away. “And how would I know what time to meet you?”

“You'll just need to text me.”

You actually did text him, surprisingly so, though you did draft the text in your notes app before sending it to him, even if it was only like ten words.

You: im free after 3 tomorrow if you were being serious

Sukuna: I was being serious.

And now you're sitting on the grass beneath a big tree, Sukuna leaning against the trunk as he plops the paper bag down on the grass between you, filled with more pastries than two people realistically could eat in one sitting. This time you'd gone into the patisserie together without the awkward shuffle of strangers-who-know-each-other. You stood side by side, debated which ones to get, and he paid before you could offer to.

Now the bag sits between the two of you as you hold the cardboard drink holder carefully on your lap.

“One black coffee for you. No milk, no sugar.” You pass his cup to him and his fingers brushes your for a second before you quickly pull your hand away when he properly holds it.

“You memorised my order?” He says, referring to when you casually said both your orders to the person behind the counter.

You pull your iced coffee out from the holder. “It's not too hard to memorise.”

You take a peek inside the bag. There's a spinach and feta pastry, a butter croissant, a sausage roll, a chocolate tart, a lemon custard slice—and because you refused to go without it, a strawberry tart.

“You know,” Sukuna starts, eyeing you as you pull out the little, white box holding your tart, “I did say we're going to try something that isn't a strawberry tart.”

“It's my safe choice.”

You both take out the rest of the pastries from the bag before lining them up in their little paper bags they came with. You tear the croissant in half and offer him the larger piece before you can overthink the gesture. He takes it without comment, their fingers brushing briefly. You don’t snatch your hand back this time.

The park is louder than yesterday. Children somewhere near the swings, a dog barking in the distance, but it feels distant. The tree you're sitting under is so far away and secluded from everyone, it feels rather intimate. The sun is also warmer than yesterday, soft light filtering through the leaves.

“Here.” You hand him the spinach and feta pastry after. “You seem like a spinach person.”

He gives you a flat look. “That's the worst profiling I've ever heard.”

“It's green.”

“What about me gives green?” He says, gesturing to his pink hair before taking the pastry from you.

You glance at his hair, then back at his face. “Not the colour. The vibe.”

“The vibe,” he repeats flatly.

“It’s a kinda calm colour. But also slightly intimidating. Like it knows more than it’s saying.”

“That’s just spinach.”

“That’s you.”

He stares at you for a long moment before taking a bite. “You just described a vegetable.”

“You asked.”

He chews, unimpressed. “This is the worst character assessment I’ve ever heard.”

“You're still eating it.”

“That’s because I’m hungry. Not because you’re right.”

You smile into your drink. “Sure.”

A small silence settles between you, but it isn’t sharp. It feels like space rather than pressure. You sip your iced coffee, glancing at him from the corner of your eye as he brushes flakes of pastry from his fingers.

“So,” you say after a moment, picking at the edge of the chocolate tart because it feels easier to talk when your hands are busy, “what do you actually want to do after uni?”

“Survive,” he replies dryly.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You nudge his knee lightly before you can second-guess it. The contact is so short and brief, if anybody else, they probably wouldn't even realise. “English Literature doesn’t exactly scream stable income.”

He swallows, glancing at you sideways. “You're studying fashion design.”

“That's different.”

“How?”

You open your mouth confidently and then… pause. “It just is.”

He huffs quietly. “Incredible argument.”

You laugh softly, then quickly look down as if you hadn’t meant to be that loud. He notices but doesn’t comment.

“I’ll probably do postgraduate,” he says after a second. “Research. Maybe teach.”

You look him up and down, taking in his tattoos and tall stature. “You’d terrify your students.”

“Good.” He picks up the lemon slice. “What about you? Fashion house? Your name on a label?”

Your shoulders lift slightly. “I don’t know. I like designing more than I like presenting. Or networking. Or talking to people.”

“You’re good at talking.”

You glance at him quickly. “I am not.”

“You are. You're good at talking to me, you just overthink a lot before you do it.”

You look at him properly then, searching for sarcasm, but there isn’t any.

“I’m only good at talking to you because you don't… react?” You admit, now fiddling with the napkin in your hands. “You just listen.”

“I react,” he says.

“You raise one eyebrow.”

“That’s a reaction.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”

He watches you for a moment longer than necessary, gaze steady but not heavy. “You’re not bad at it,” he says finally. “You just need to let go of the idea that everyone would see you differently if you say one word wrong. The world won't stop spinning if you accidentally slip up.”

You don’t know what to do with the psychological analysis, so you tear a piece off the sausage roll and offer it to him like a distraction. He takes it without comment, leaving you in silence to linger on what he just said.

The sunlight shifts slightly through the leaves above, dappling the grass and the sleeve of his shirt. Your shoulders feel looser than they did when you first sat down. You’re not measuring every word so intently before speaking, though it's mostly so you can internally spite him.

“This is nice,” you say quietly.

“It’s food,” he replies.

“It’s not just food.”

He tilts his head, waiting for you to continue.

“It feels intentional,” you say, gesturing faintly between the two of you. “Like we planned to be in the same place at the same time.”

“We did.”

You hesitate, then the thought slips out before you can really think about it. “This feels like a date.”

He looks at you slowly.

“It’s not,” he says.

“I know. I just mean- it has the energy.”

“The energy,” he repeats flatly.

“You know what I mean.”

He studies you for a second, his expression unreadable, before taking the final sip of his coffee.

“If it was a date,” he says calmly, “I would've asked you properly.”

Having a wet dream about the guy you think you've become friends with isn't ideal for you.

Having wet dreams in general isn't ideal for you.

Being so socially inept had, sadly, made you so, so inexperienced. No relationships, no situationships, not even a hook up or a half-serious talking stage that lasted longer than a week.

You lie there staring at your bedroom ceiling surrounded by a mound of pastel plushies, mortified with yourself, like your subconscious has personally betrayed you.

It's not that you think you're supposed to have done anything by now. You've repeated your little mantra enough times—virginity is just a social construct. There's no deadline or expiration date. You'll do things when you're ready. When you feel safe. When you feel right.

But sometimes you can't help that quiet ache beneath that logic.

You missed out on the messy high-school crushes. The awkward almost kisses. The silly, fleeting romances everyone else seems to collect like funny stories to share in passing. You missed the experimental phase where people figure things out badly and laugh about it later. While everyone else was learning what they liked and didn’t like, you were learning how to keep your hands steady in conversations and hiding in the library during break and lunch.

It wasn't purity. It wasn't disinterest. It was kinda like fear.

Or maybe it's just fear.

The idea of someone that close, physically and emotionally, has always felt overwhelming. What if you say the wrong thing? What if you move wrong? What if they realise, halfway through, that you have no idea what you’re doing? Or that you were a bad lay? So you avoided it. Told yourself you didn’t need it. That being by yourself was better. Safer.

And mostly, you believe that.

Except now your brain conjured up Sukuna's touch. Instead of waiting for you to head into your building before walking away, he's joining you up the stairs and into your bedroom where he slowly peels your clothes away and makes you squirm and whimper with his touch.

You press your face into your pillow with a groan.

You don't even know how to hold someone's hand without internally freaking out.

And somehow your brain decided to skip ten steps.

Shoko smirked when you started asking more questions about Sukuna. About his reputation that leans precariously into “well, that's a bit personal,” territory.

You had tried to sound casual about it, sitting cross-legged on her bed, scrolling on your phone as Shoko tried on various outfits for her date that evening.

“So… Sukuna,” you started, like you were just simply asking about the weather.

Shoko didn't even look at you from pulling off a different top. “What about him?”

You hesitated, then pushed anyway. “Does he, um, date… a lot?”

That was subtle, right?

Shoko's mouth twitched. “Why? Scoping out your roster?”

Your face burned. You don't even have a roster.

“No,” you said, attempting to be casual and nonchalant. “I'm just asking.”

She finally glanced at you, amused and far too perceptive. “He doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t like,” she’d said simply, then, after a beat, “Why? Are you hoping he does?” You’d nearly choked on your own denial.

Nevermind that though. You have bigger issues at hand.

Like being stranded on campus again in the rain, with your umbrella still lying uselessly by your front door. The rain is heavy too, enough to soak your sleeves and make your hair clings to your cheeks. You find yourself standing underneath the small canopy by the student car park, staring at your reflection in your phone screen.

You could ring Shoko.

You could also admit you forgot your umbrella again and you'll have to hear her lecture about bringing your essentials during the unpredictable spring season.

Your thumb hovers over his name and you press the phone button before you could talk yourself out of it.

It rings once.

“Yeah?” Sukuna answers, like it's totally normal for you to call him, even though you've only ever texted him.

“Hi,” you say, clearing your throat when your voice cracks a little. “Are you busy?”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“I'm stuck on campus again. It's raining- I forgot my umbrella and I just-”

A quiet exhale cuts you off. Not annoyed, but relieved.

“Stay there.”

“I mean, you don't have to-”

“I'm already grabbing my keys. Send me your location.” And then he hangs up before you could interject.

Fifteen minutes later, his dark car pulls up to the same spot from the first time you saw him, headlights cutting through the rain. You slide into the passenger seat, all soaked and sheepish.

“You look wet,” he says.

“Thank you for picking me up, you really didn't have to.”

He reaches into the backseat and tosses a plain black hoodie at you. “Put that on.”

“Oh, thank you!” You tugged it over your head, and it's all warm and it smells like him.

He glances at you before returning his eyes ahead of him and starts driving.

“You eaten?” He asks.

You shake your head.

He clicks his tongue softly and pulls out of the car park. A few minutes later you’re in a drive-through line, rain tapping lightly against the windshield.

He orders without asking you. Two burgers. Fries. Drinks.

“You didn’t even ask what I wanted,” you mutter.

“You would've said ‘anything is fine’ and then panic,” he replies and you hate how right he is.

You eat parked beneath a flickering streetlight. The inside of the car is warm, windows slightly fogged. And when he finishes his burger surprisingly fast, he drives one-handed towards your apartment building, fries balanced in his other hand like this is routine.

And your knees are angled towards him.

The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but heavy in a way that makes your thoughts louder.

You stare at your drink cup.

You could just thank him when he drops you off. Go upstairs. Shower. Pretend the thought never crossed your mind. That would be the safe option. The strawberry tart of decisions.

Very predictable.

But your pulse hasn’t settled since you pressed his name under the canopy, and it definitely hasn’t settled since he answered your phone call like it was natural for you to call him.

You haven't stopped thinking about him since that dream you had.

But you keep thinking about how easy it’s been lately. Sitting beside him, eating with him, texting him without rewriting every word ten times. Just talking to someone about anything without worrying to death about how he's perceiving you. You like him. Not in a dramatic, dizzy, romance-novel way. Just in a steady, grounded way that makes you feel less like you’re performing and more like you’re just existing.

And that makes the question feel bigger. Riskier. Because if you ruin this, you don’t get to go back to how lovely it all was before—it'll just be tainted by your desperate decision.

But you’re also tired. Tired of being scared of your own curiosity. Tired of wondering what it would feel like to be touched without flinching or to want something and actually ask for it.

Maybe friends with benefits would be safer than a relationship—no expectations, no emotional exams to fail. Just honesty. Just two people agreeing. And considering what Shoko said, he doesn't really date anyways. It would be so easy. So, so easy.

Except you’ve never even kissed someone properly, and the idea of saying that out loud makes your stomach twist. So maybe you're getting too ahead of yourself.

What if he doesn't want to? That maybe he just sees you as just the girl he occasionally eats pastries with and picks her up when it's raining heavily because she keeps forgetting her umbrella.

Your fingers tighten around your drink cup.

If you’re ever going to step outside the careful little perimeter you’ve built around yourself, it would probably look exactly like this: rain on the windshield, his car warm, your heart racing, and the question sitting heavy on your tongue.

“Can I ask you something?” You say finally, your eyes trained in front of you.

He glances at you. “Sure.”

You stare at the windscreen wipers, watching the water swooshing to the side of the flask. “If someone was, hypothetically, inexperienced… would that be embarrassing?”

“Inexperienced how?”

You hesitate half a second too long.

“Oh.”

Heat floods your entire body.

“I mean- I just- I haven’t really-” you gesture vaguely, mortified. “Done anything.”

He doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t look surprised.

Just silence.

Not the teasing silence. But actually consideration.

He stops at a red light and he turns to look at you.

“Are you asking me to take care of it?”

Your entire brain short-circuits.

“Wait- what? I just- I mean-”

“You don't owe anyone experience.”

You swallow, trying to redirect the conversation to something closer to what you want to ask. “If two people were… hypothetically friends. And they don't want to overthink things, but also don't want to ignore the possibility that things could be… different.”

He starts driving again before quickly glancing back at you. “That doesn't really sound hypothetical.”

Your face burns hot. “Just- answer the question.”

He shrugs slightly. “What about them?”

“What if they did something casual? Like. No pressure. No expectations.”

“You mean friends with benefits.”

You nod, eyes glued to the rain drops.

Silence fills the car again, thicker this time.

“You asking me,” he says evenly, quickly pulling over to the side of the road, “or are we still pretending this is a sociological discussion?”

Your heart pounds so violently, you're worried it might stop pumping. “I'm asking.”

“If I asked you to,” you push, because you’re already this far in, “would you?”

A heartbeat.

“You sure?”

You force yourself to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

Another heartbeat.

“Then yeah.”

That’s it.

No drama. No speech or added questions or long explanations.

You blink at him. “Right now?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Are we going to have sex right now?” you blurt, panic rising fast. “Because I didn’t prepare and we're in your car and I’m soaked from the rain and I need to shave my legs-”

“Relax,” he cuts in.

You inhale sharply.

“I’m not letting you lose your virginity in my car,” he says flatly. “You deserve better than that.”

Your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with nerves. “Oh.”

He shifts the car into drive.

“I’ll drop you home,” he says. “You can decide if you’re still sure when you’re not cold and spiraling.”

You nod, hands twisting in your lap.

When he pulls up outside your building, you hesitate before opening the door.

“We could do it at my place,” you offer meekly.

“You said your walls are thin.”

You're surprised he remembers that, considering you only mentioned that briefly when you were messaging him a few days ago. “They are.”

“Exactly.”

Your hands hovers over the door handle, heart racing.

He looks at you steadily, not pushing, not rushing.

“Go inside,” he says. “Warm up. Think.”

“And then?”

“If you’re still sure,” he replies calmly, “text me.”

It was quite late in the night when you finally texted him, albeit you did shower and warm up before you texted him, ignoring the fact you paced around your apartment before finally typing out a quick message asking if you could come over.

The whoosh felt louder than it should have.

You immediately locked your phone and set it facedown on your bed as if distance would dull the panic already climbing up your spine. You had showered twice. You had shaved your legs after all—even though you told yourself that it didn’t matter. You had changed outfits three times before settling on something soft and simple with his hoodie pulled on.

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of your heater and the faint rush of cars outside.

Your phone buzzed.

You flinched before grabbing it.

Sukuna: You sure?

There it was again. Not pressure. Not eagerness. Just steady confirmation.

You swallowed.

You: yeah

You: i’m sure

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Sukuna: I’ll pick you up in 10.

Your stomach flipped so hard you had to sit down.

This was happening.

It was past midnight when you finally messaged him, and you were half-expecting him to just say it was too late and he'll pick you up tomorrow.

But now Sukuna's quietly leading you up the stairs of his frat house, a hand between your shoulders as he takes you to his bedroom.

It's surprisingly clean for a frat. A large bed with clean, dark sheets. An organised desk, some band posters tacked neatly on his walls, some weights in the corner of his room. It smells nice too, it smells like his cologne.

Though he does use cool light for some reason.

Psychopathic behaviour, to be honest.

“You use cool lights?” You say, because your brain has decided that's the thing to focus on right now.

Sukuna glances up at the light bulb, then back at you. “...Yeah.”

“That's kinda psychopathic.”

His mouth twitches. “You want me to turn it off?”

“No, I-” you clear your throat, “I just meant it's not really typical to have.”

God, what are you even saying?

He's watching you carefully, hands loose at his sides, enough space between you to not overwhelm you.

“You can sit,” he says, nodding toward his bed.

Right. Sitting. You can do that.

You perch on the edge of his bed, hands folded in your lap, and you immediately feel ridiculous. You quickly tuck them into the front pocket of his hoodie and your legs press together so tightly your thighs aches from the tension.

Sukuna sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. He's dressed casually too—grey sweatpants and a black compression shirt that stretches so tightly across his shoulders and waist, you could see how defined his muscles were. You could also see the tattoos on his arm too.

The silence stretches.

“You're allowed to change your mind,” he says quietly.

Your head snaps towards him. “I'm not- I didn't change my mind. I don't want to.”

“Okay.” His gaze is steady. “Just making sure you know you can.”

“I know.” You twist your fingers together. “I'm just... nervous.”

“I know.”

“Not because of you,” you add quickly. “I mean- it is because of you, but not in a bad way. I just-” You exhale sharply. “I don't know what I'm doing.”

”That's fine.”

“You're not worried I'll be shit at this?”

His mouth curves upwards slightly. “No.”

”Why not?“

“Because I'm not shit at this,” he says simply. ”And I'm not gonna let you be.”

Your stomach flips. It shouldn't be that reassuring, that cocky confidence, but somehow it is.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He shifts slightly, angling towards you. “We'll go slow. You tell me if something doesn't feel good, yeah?”

You nod.

“I need you to say it.”

“I'll tell you,” you manage.

“Good.” His hand comes up slowly, giving you time to pull away, before his fingers brush along your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone. ”You're shaking. Are you sure?”

"Yes.” The word comes out too fast, too desperate. You feel your face heat. “Yes, I- I want this. Stop asking me that, it's stressing me out.”

His eyes search yours for a long moment, a small smile playing on his lips. Then he leans in, slow and deliberate, and kisses you.

It's softer than you expected.

Not rough or consuming. Just warm and kinda delicate.

His lips press against yours slowly, like he’s giving you time to register it, to pull away if you need to. For half a second your brain freezes, cataloging everything at once. The warmth of his mouth. The faint scent of vanilla and something minty. The solid weight of him sitting so close. Your hands twitch uselessly in the pocket of his hoodie before you finally let one slip out, hovering awkwardly before settling against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

And just slightly, you can feel his heart fluttering beneath your touch.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand more. He just stays there, kissing you like he has all the time in the world.

The nerves are still there, fluttering under your skin, but they start to blur into something softer. Something floaty. When he tilts his head slightly and kisses you again, gentle, a little deeper—and your stomach flips in a way that doesn’t feel like panic or doom and despair.

And somewhere in the middle of it, you think, distantly and almost dazed, why were you ever so terrified of kissing someone?

Kissing feels good.

Or maybe it's just Sukuna.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Still good?” he murmurs.

“Mhmm.”

“Can I take this off?” His fingers tug gently at the hem of his hoodie.

Your heart hammers. “Okay.”

He pulls back just enough to carefully lift the fabric up and over your head. You raise your arms to help, feeling absurdly self-conscious, and then it's gone and you're just in your white shirt and leggings.

The cool air makes you shiver.

“Cold?” Sukuna asks.

“Yeah, a little bit.”

He reaches behind him and tugs a blanket from where it's folded at the foot of the bed, draping it around your shoulders. The gesture is so unexpectedly sweet that you almost laugh.

“Thank you.”

His hand settles on your thigh, warm through the fabric of your leggings. “Is this okay?”

You nod.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your leg. “You’re really tense.”

“I know.”

“Want me to do something about that?”

Your breath catches. “Like what?”

“Lie back,” he says quietly. “Let me take care of you.”

The words send heat pooling low in your stomach. You hesitate for only a second before shifting backwards, letting the blanket fall away from your shoulders as you settle against his pillows. They smell like him. Everything in this room smells like him.

Sukuna fixes the blanket over your shoulders again before he moves with you, bracing himself on one arm as he hovers over you. His other hand skims up your side, slow and deliberate, until his fingers find the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod, breathing out a quick, “yeah,” before he peels your shirt up slowly, watching your face the entire time. You lift your shoulders to help him, and then it's gone, tossed somewhere onto the floor. You're left in just your bra and leggings, and the way he's looking at you makes your skin prickle with heat.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, pulling the blanket over your shoulders yet again.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” His hand spreads across your ribs, thumb brushing just under the lace band of your bra. “You’re beautiful.”

You don't know what to say to that, so you don't say anything. You just watch as he leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your breast above your bra. His mouth is warm and soft and your breath stutters.

“Still okay?” he murmurs against your skin.

“Yeah.”

His fingers trace around to your back, finding the clasp of your bra. “Is this okay?"

“It’s okay.”

He unhooks it with practiced ease, which would've made you raise an eyebrow in question, but right now you’re too focused on the way your heart is trying to break out of your chest.

The cool air hits your bare skin and you resist the urge to cover yourself.

Sukuna sits back slightly, his gaze dragging over you with an intensity that makes you squirm.

“Stop staring,” you mumble.

His hand comes up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, and you gasp. “Fuck, you’re sensitive.”

You are. You didn't realise how much until right now, until his rough thumb is circling your nipple and sparks of pleasure are shooting straight down to your core.

“Sukuna-”

“I know.” He leans down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you arch into him with a choked sound. His tongue flicks over the sensitive peak before he sucks gently, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the pink strands.

He groans against you, the vibration making you whimper.

When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide. “Leggings next?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

His hands slide down to your hips, fingers hooking into the waistband. “Lift up for me.”

You do, and he pulls them down slowly, taking your underwear with them in one smooth motion. The fabric drags down your thighs, your calves, and then you're completely bare beneath him.

The vulnerability slams into you all at once.

“Hey.” Sukuna’s hand settles on your knee, grounding. “You’re doing good.”

“I'm not doing anything,” you manage.

“You are. You're letting me see you.” His hand slides up your thigh, stopping just short of where you’re already aching. “That’s everything.”

Your breath hitches.

His gaze drags over you slowly, deliberately, taking in every inch of your exposed skin. You feel the weight of his attention almost like a paperweight, and suddenly the urge to hide overwhelms you. Your knees turn inward slightly, an instinctive attempt to close yourself off, to shield yourself from his eyes.

Sukuna’s mouth twitches. “You know,” he says, his voice low, “I’m going to have my face between there soon enough.”

Your face burns. “Shut up.”

“Just saying.” He reaches down and gently nudges your knees back apart, his touch firm but not forceful. “No point being shy now.”

He stays quiet for a moment before quietly asking, “Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

His fingers trail higher and teasing until finally, finally, he brushes against you. You jolt at the contact, a broken sound escaping your throat.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” he mutters, almost reverent. His finger slides through your folds, gathering the slickness there, and you can't help the way your hips twitch towards him. “This all for me?”

You nod frantically.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, it's- fuck-”

He circles your clit slowly, testing, and your whole body tenses. It's too much and not enough all at once. You’ve touched yourself before, obviously, but this, his hands, his focus, the way he's watching every reaction, it’s completely different.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

His finger slides lower, circling your entrance, and you tense again.

“Breathe,” he says softly.

You force yourself to take a shaky breath.

“Good girl.” He pushes one finger inside slowly, so slowly, and you whimper at the intrusion. It doesn't hurt, but it's strange, unfamiliar. “How’s that?”

“It’s okay.”

“Just okay?” There's a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Good,” you correct breathlessly, frowning slightly from how much he seems to be teasing you. “It’s good.”

He starts moving, slow and careful, working you open. His thumb finds your clit again and you nearly sob at the dual sensation. Pleasure builds in your core, winding tighter with every stroke.

“You’re tight,” he groans. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

The words send another wave of heat through you.

“Gonna add another,” he warns. “That okay?”

“Yeah, that’s okay.”

The second finger is a stretch. You gasp, your hands fisting in his sheets, and he pauses immediately.

“Hurt?”

“No, just-” You swallow. “Full.”

“Yeah?” He curls his fingers slightly and you cry out, your back arching off the bed. “There?”

“Fuck, yes, there, please-”

He does it again, and again, finding that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. His thumb works your clit in steady circles and you’re already embarrassingly close, trembling and whimpering beneath him.

How long has he been fingering you? Would it be weird if you come right now? Surely it has been less than five minutes. How long should it realistically take to come with someone else touching you?

“Pay attention,” Sukuna says, his voice drawing you out from your thoughts. “Don’t go disappearing off on me.”

“Sukuna, I- I think I’m-”

“I know. I can feel you.” His pace increases slightly, fingers pumping steadily. “Let go. Come for me.”

The orgasm hits, crashing over you so suddenly you don’t have time to prepare. You cry out, his name broken on your lips, your whole body tensing as pleasure floods through you. He works you through it, fingers never stopping, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive.

When you finally come down, gasping, he slowly withdraws his fingers.

“Oh my God,” you breathe.

Sukuna’s mouth curves into a satisfied smirk. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Your face burns, breaking the contact and turning to stare up at his ceiling.

You close your eyes, blocking out the cool light and figuring out how to casually say thank you for the orgasm before you feel him shifting down to the edge of the bed and settling between your thighs.

“What are you..?”

“Not done with you yet.” His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider. “Gonna make you come on my tongue.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “Unless you don't want me to?”

“I-” Your brain is still fuzzy from your orgasm. “I want you to.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t waste time. His tongue drags through your folds in one long, slow lick and your bark arches off the bed. Your hands fly to his pink hair, gripping tight, and he groans against you.

“Fuck, you’re sensitive,” he mutters, almost pleased.

He licks you again, then focuses on your clit, circling it with his tongue in a way that makes your thighs tremble. You’re still sensitive from your first orgasm and it's almost too much, but then he’s sliding two fingers back inside you and the stretch combined with his mouth is perfect.

“Oh my God,” you whimper. “Oh my God, Sukuna-”

He hums against you, the vibration making you jolt. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot again, and you’re already climbing towards another orgasm embarrassingly fast.

You can’t form words anymore. You’re just a mess of whimpers and gasps, your hips rocking against his face as he devours you. His free hand comes up to press against your lower stomach, holding you in place, and somehow that makes everything more intense.

“Come on,” he says roughly. “Give me another one. I know you can.”

Your second orgasm is somehow even more intense than the first, pleasure rolling through you in waves that leave you gasping and shaking. He works you through it, gentler now, until you’re pushing weakly at his head.

“Too much,” you manage.

He pulls back immediately, pressing soothing kisses to your trembling thighs. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is wrecked. “Holy shit.”

His hands stroke up and down your thighs, grounding and gentle. “You did so well. So fucking beautiful when you come.”

You can’t even be embarrassed by the praise. You're too blissed out, too boneless.

After a moment, he shifts back up the bed, settling up in front of you. You tilt your head to look at him, taking in his flushed face, his dark eyes, the way his chest is rising and falling heavily.

“You’re still dressed,” you point out, eyeing the compression shirt he's wearing.

“Yeah.”

“That seems unfair.”

His mouth twitches. “You want me to fix that?”

Your heart kicks up even more despite the two orgasms you've just had. “Yeah.”

He sits up, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

You've seen him shirtless before. And by seen, you mean by the photos Shoko would show you whenever you try to casually ask about him from when she goes to Sigma Psi's parties, or when you stalk his friends’ social medias to find more glimpses of him. But this feels different. A lot more intimate. Your eyes trace over the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, the dark lines of his tattoos.

Then he’s hooking his thumbs into his sweatpants and boxers and pushing them down together. His cock springs free, hard and flushed, and your mouth goes dry.

He's... big. Bigger than you expected. Bigger than the vague mental image you'd tried not to think about.

“You’re staring,” he says, echoing your words from earlier.

“What the fuck you’re huge!” You blurt out, quickly averting your gaze on him to the ceiling again.

He huffs a laugh. “It’ll fit.”

You quirks a brow at him. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He reaches into his bedside drawer, pulling out a condom. “I’m gonna go slow. We’ll make it fit.”

You watch as he rolls the condom on with practiced ease, and then he’s settling between your thighs again, placing one of his pillows beneath your hips and bracing himself on his forearms above you.

“You ready?” he asks quietly.

Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can feel it. “Yeah.”

He reaches down, gripping himself and lining up with your entrance. You feel the blunt head of his thick cock pressing against you and your whole body tenses.

“Deep breaths,” he murmurs. “Relax for me.”

You force yourself to breathe, to relax your muscles.

“Good.” He pushes forward slightly, just the tip breaching you, and you gasp.

He watches your face carefully, his eyes dark and focused. You can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s reading every flicker of expression.

He sinks in another inch, slow and controlled, and the stretch is intense. Not quite painful, but overwhelming. You grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans.

He pushes deeper, and suddenly it’s too much. The stretch burns and you tense up completely.

“Wait! Stop,” you gasp. “Just- pause. Please.”

He freezes immediately, not moving a muscle. His jaw is clenched tight, arms trembling with the effort of staying still. “Take your time,” he says, voice strained but steady.

You breathe through it, forcing your body to relax around him. He's only halfway in and you already feel impossibly full. His thumb strokes your hip bone, a small grounding gesture.

After a moment, the burning fades to a dull ache. You shift slightly, testing, and it’s better. Still intense, but manageable.

“Okay,” you whisper. “You can- you can keep going.”

His eyes search your face, making sure, before he pushes deeper. Inch by inch, until he's finally fully seated inside you. You’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You feel incredible. So perfect.”

The praise sends warmth flooding through you. After a moment, the overwhelming fullness starts to fade, replaced by a different kind of ache. You shift your hips experimentally and he groans.

“Can you- can you move?” you ask.

He glances at your face, reading your expression, then nods. “Yeah.”

He pulls back slowly, almost half way out, before sliding back in. The drag of him inside you makes you whimper, and you immediately bite down on your lip, trying to muffle the sound.

His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb tugging your lip free. “Don’t hide those sounds from me,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “Let me hear you.”

Your face burns, and when he thrusts again you let the whimper escape freely.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You're taking me so well. So fucking perfect.”

His hips roll against yours, each thrust deliberate and controlled. One hand comes up to cup your face, and he watches your expression intently. The way your eyes flutter, the way your mouth falls open, the flush spreading across your cheeks.

“Feel good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you gasp. “So good.”

“Yeah?” He thrusts a little harder and you cry out. “Fuck, listen to you. So pretty when you make those sounds.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groans low in his throat. His pace increases slightly, still careful but more urgent now. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mixed with your whimpers and his heavy breathing.

“Touch yourself,” he says roughly. “Want you to come again.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. The added stimulation makes you clench around him and he curses.

“Fuck, just like that. You’re so close, I can feel it.”

He’s right. You’re already climbing towards another orgasm, your third of the night, and this one feels different. Deeper. More intense.

“Sukuna,” you whimper. “I’m-”

“I know. Come for me. Let me feel you.”

His hips snap forward harder and that's all it takes. You come with a broken cry, clenching around him so tightly he groans. Your whole body shakes with it, pleasure slicking down your spine and leaving you gasping.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he grits out. His rhythm falters, becoming erratic. “Gonna- fuck-”

He buries himself deep with a low groan, his whole body tensing as he comes. You feel him twitching inside you, his face pressed into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, tangled together, your fingers stroking through his hair.

Finally, he lifts his head to look at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is hoarse. “Really okay.”

His mouth curves into a soft smile. “Good.”

He pulls out carefully and you wince slightly at the loss. He ties off the condom and tosses it in the bin beside his bed before climbing off and pulling his sweatpants on.

He disappears without a word, and for a moment you just lie there, staring up at the cool light, your body still humming with aftershocks. You hear the tap running in what you assume is his bathroom, and then he's back, a small damp towel in his hand.

“Here,” he says quietly, settling between your thighs again.

The warmth of the towel makes you flinch slightly, but he's careful, wiping away the mess with a gentleness that feels almost at odds with everything that just happened.

“Wait,” you prop up on your elbows to properly look at him. “Is that it?”

He raises an eyebrow, pausing his wiping. “You want more?”

“No- I meant like, do you not want me to…” you trail off for a moment, plucking the courage to spit it out. “Shouldn’t I do something for you now? Like a blow job or something?”

He shakes his head before he resumes back to cleaning the mess between your thighs. “I’m fine, tonight was all about you. It's also quite late.”

It's all intimate in a different way—tender and considerate. You don't know where to look, so you stare at the ceiling again, your face burning.

“You good?” he asks, tossing the towel into a hamper near his door.

“Yeah.”

He pulls his shirt back on, and he grabs a clean shirt from his drawers, tossing it onto the bed beside you. “In case you want it.”

You sit up slowly, your legs still trembling and reach for your underwear instead. You tug them on before pulling on his shirt and then his hoodie. It smells like him and it's comforting in a way you don't want to examine too closely.

Your heart is still racing, your hands trembling slightly as you smooth the fabric down. You take a breath.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For... all of that.”

He glances at you. “You already thanked me.”

“I know, but-” You twist your fingers together. “I mean it. That was... really good. You made it really good.”

His mouth curves into that familiar smirk. “I know.”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You're so annoying.”

“And yet.” He gestures vaguely at you, at the bed, at the situation.

“And yet,” you agree, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He checks his phone on the nightstand. “It’s almost two. You should sleep here.”

“Okay.”

“I can sleep somewhere else if-”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I don't mind if you don’t mind.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods. "Alright.”

He turns off the psychopathic cool light and the room plunges into darkness. You hear him moving around, and then the bed dips as he climbs in beside you. There's space between you, not touching, but it doesn't feel awkward. Just really quiet and comfortable.

You settle into the pillow, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

“Thank you,” you whisper again. “Really.”

Silence stretches for a few heartbeats. Then, softly, “go to sleep.”

His voice is low, almost gentle, and somehow that's all you need. You close your eyes, your body finally relaxing fully, and let yourself drift off.

Sukuna has always been a light sleeper. Not in a dramatic way like he jolts awake at every sound, but he never sinks fully under. Like recently, he's been slowly awoken numerous times to the sound of Gojo’s, his bedroom neighbour, bedframe slamming against their shared wall.

So when fabric rustles faintly in the dark and there's the delicate creek of footsteps against wood floorboards at what seems to be nearly six in the morning, he’s already awake before he opens his eyes

He stays silent for a moment.

You’re trying to be quiet. He can tell. The soft shuffle of leggings being pulled on, the muted zip of your bag, the pause between movements like you're figuring out how much noise your next step will be. It’s cautious in a way that makes something in his chest tighten faintly.

He opens his eyes when you step toward the door.

“You’re not subtle,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

You freeze like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I’m awake.”

You hesitate. “…Sorry.”

There it is again.

He pushes himself upright, watching you properly now. You’re dressed in the clothes you came in, his hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, hair slightly mussed from sleep.

“I’ll drive you,” he says automatically.

You shift your weight. It’s subtle, but he notices. Your fingers tighten around your tote strap; your shoulders sit too high.

You don’t want the car. You want air.

He exhales through his nose. “Or we can walk.”

Relief flickers across your face before you smooth it away. “Walking’s fine.”

Outside, the morning is cold and quiet, the sky a flat grey that makes everything feel suspended. You walk side by side, close but not touching. He keeps his hands in his pockets and lets his mind wander in the loose, unfocused way it does when he’s underslept.

It replays things without asking permission. The way you’d gripped his sheets, the way you’d said his name like you weren’t sure you were allowed to. The soft, almost embarrassed “thank you” afterward.

He isn’t unused to sex. He’s just unused to gratitude.

“Thank you,” you say again now, softer. “For last night.”

He glances at you. You’re staring straight ahead, like you’re reporting a fact.

“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” he replies. “You don’t necessarily owe someone gratitude for sleeping with you.”

“I wasn’t-” You falter. “I mean, I just… you were patient.”

“I wanted to be,” he says simply. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have been.”

That quiets you.

He watches you again, noticing the nearly imperceptible limp in your step, and suddenly he feels guilty.

Should've insisted on driving.

After a few more steps, you clear your throat. “So. About this. The friends with benefits thing.”

He nods once. “We keep it simple. No pretending it’s something it’s not.”

“And if it gets weird?”

“We say it’s weird.”

“And if one of us wants to stop?”

“Then we stop.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice, and he sees the way that steadies you.

“Tonight,” he starts, catching your attention. “Gojo is throwing a party. If you want you can come. Shoko will be there.”

He watches you for a moment before quickly adding on, “I'll be there too.”

You consider him for a moment. “I'll think about it.”

By the time you both reach your building, the sky is beginning to lighten. You turn to him, nerves softer now, less frantic.

“Shall I text you when I get to my room?” You tease.

He huffs lightly at the burst of confidence to crack a small joke. “Go inside.”

You do. He waits until the door closes behind you before turning back down the pavement, hands still in his pockets, thoughts louder than he’d like. Not complicated, not romantic, just aware that something about last night doesn’t slot as neatly into “casual” as it usually does.

He isn’t sure what that means yet.

He doesn’t think about it long enough to decide before he turns and starts heading back to his frat.

part two is coming soon !! comment or send an ask to be apart of the taglist ^.^

— with love, whims <3

[darlingbambii]

kiss kiss mother whims! <3 i return from the dead! (the dead being a state of homeostasis one can only describe as a week or two of dysassosiation)

-fifi <3

FIFI MY DARLING :D HELLOOOOOO so glad youre back my angel ^.^

just to let you know im planning a shoko drabble rn ^.^

[darlingbambii]

hi my lovely whims

PEBUS OH MY GOD HELLOO :D

[reignpage]

In which you jump out of a moving car to spite Boyfriend!Sukuna

“—because he was just making conversation!”

Sukuna scoffs, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Bullshit. That guy wanted to fuck you.”

“Oh my god. So what!” you yell. “It’s not like I was gonna fucking let him!”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Just like that, your angry face, which matches his, warps into one of calm decision. With speed he doesn’t see coming, you unbuckle your seatbelt, push open the passenger door and jump out of the moving car into the dead of night.

The car screeches to a halt not even a second later. 

You’re pushing yourself up and testing the soreness in your ankle when a car door slams shut and Sukuna comes marching over to you. “You crazy, fucking bitch!” he snaps. Sukuna grabs your face, growling when you try to pull away. He inspects every inch of you, brows furrowed, and piercings glinting under the streetlights. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”

“I got a bitch ass boyfriend, that’s what’s wrong with me,” you grumble.

He ignores that. “You break anything? Wrist? Ankle? Dislocated your shoulder?” You shake your head. “Well, that’s a fucking shame.” Though as he says that, he can’t quite hide the tremors in his hands. Quieter now, he mutters with a tight frown, “Scratched your pretty face up. Fuck. Lost your one redeeming quality.”

“Okay, so I’m gonna walk home,” you say, deadpan. “I’ll see you around, asshole.” 

Sukuna runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated noise. Then he smacks his lips against yours before you can actually start walking away (not that he’d let you get very far). “Alright, alright. You fucking win. Congrats. Christ. Get back in the car — we’re going to the hospital to get you checked out. Fucking dumbass.”

A hospital visit later, you’re in bed with him, cuddled up like nothing happened. It’s how arguments with him tend to go; neither of you really hold grudges against each other. Not when you’ve fucked any grievances out after. The last mention of today’s incident, however, comes in his sleepy mumble against the top of your head: “push me out instead.”

“Hmm?”

Sukuna’s hold around your body tightens, threatening to suffocate you with his hard chest. “Don’t jump out of the car. It’s stupid. Your body’s weak. Skin bruises easily. Cuts easily too. Just kick me out instead. I deserve it, I know... bonus points if it's into oncoming traffic.”

“Okay, will do.”

“Thank you, baby.”

my man my man my man (nobody tell Nanami)

[darlingbambii]

the butterflies the butterflies!!!!