Mammon's pool table

Mammoron simp (art from @kkk276491754 on Twitter)

[still-a-morosexual-help]

They make me sick

[miniairo]

He needs a big chair, a big table and a big kiss in his forehead

[a-wild-nickkk]

Also bringing you all a Circe

plusss her as a child

[minaiikki]

almost forgot to post them together!

[to00fu]

[miniairo]

Au where everyone is happy and Sukuna has a daughter

[yenayaps]

Not Just Anybody | baby daddy!sukuna x f!reader

summary: on the rare occasion that sukuna takes his nephew out to the park, he notices another kid with blush pink hair— a baby to be exact. he tries not to stare too much, but it’s hard not to, it’s a rare hair color. it’s not until the baby’s mother takes her out of the swing set and back into her stroller when he realizes why you ghosted him almost 2 years ago.

genre/warnings: hidden child trope, ex-fwb to co-parents to lovers, horrible communication, angst, fluff, smut

notes: I'm posting this to get it out of the way now, but I'll do the tags a little later. Anyways, you've seen the sneak peeks, enjoy! 8.5k w/c

m.list | part nine | part ten | part eleven

He’s been on the phone for hours, with multiple people— his manager, his coach, the team’s PR manager. Even the owner of the team, who was profusely apologizing to Sukuna despite having no fault in it whatsoever. He just didn’t want to accidentally piss off the star player even more. 

And pissed is an understatement, he is livid. 

You thought you’d seen it all with Sukuna, at least in terms of his temper, but it reached heights unheard of today. He’s been outside on the balcony this entire time yet the bass of his voice managed to reach yours and Yomi’s ears through the heavy door that separates you from him. You heard all the threats and degrading names that’ve been flying out of his mouth ever since he saw his daughter's entire face plastered on some exposé titled “Sukuna’s Secret Life”. 

It was concerning at first, knowing how sensitive Yomi could be and the fact that she’s never actually seen her dad angry. You were so sure she’d get scared, but aside from the short breaks she takes from playing to side-eye him, she only really cares about the toys laid out in front of her.

Which is somewhat funny, but also a little alarming. 

For as much as he coddles her dramatic little self, you’d think she’d return the favor by showing some concern over him yelling over the phone for hours, but she doesn’t. It’s almost as if his behavior and sudden outbursts were an inconvenience for her from the way she just stops playing. Yeah— he was loud, but not enough for it to serve as an interruption for whatever she was making her labubu’s talk about. 

You’re not sure whether you want to laugh or scoff at the way she refuses to acknowledge him, despite clearly being aware of his mood. It’s moments like this that make you wonder if there was a line that needed to be drawn, and if she was even old enough for that. 

Children are naturally selfish— especially Sayomi, who probably won’t ever have to beg for your attention or Sukuna's, let alone wonder if you love her. 

Being selfish is good, you both agreed on that. You want her to unapologetically be herself. For her to go through life with her head held up high, making decisions with her happiness in mind and not just because someone pushed her to. 

Of course you also want her to think of others, to be a kind and uplifting person, but only when she knows they won’t try to pull her down in the process. 

Discernment. You can go so far with just that skill alone. But from the looks of it, you’ll most likely have to focus on the ‘thinking about others’ part first if she doesn’t grow out of this little phase that’s filled with a hurtful amount of sass and glares. 

Then again, she’s an only child. There isn’t anyone around that’ll teach her what sharing is or how to be a team player in general. You thought Yuji would help out with that, but he’s too fucking nice. On top of knowing he has to be extra gentle and patient with her, he’s just nicer to girls in general, thanks to Yuki and Choso. He already shows up with the full intent of sharing his toys. 

Sayomi couldn’t even yank something out of his hand if she tried, he’s already handing her whatever’s in his hand before she gets the chance to think about it. She’s tried to yank things out of your hands before, but quickly learned to stop after getting called out by her father. It’s not the same though. She’s not learning to be nice to other people, she’s learning to be nice to her mother who she knows wouldn’t leave her. She just stopped because she doesn’t like getting scolded by her dad. 

And then there’s Sukuna. The worst she’s done is smack him and all he did was make fun of her for acting like a little psycho— didn’t last long either. He ended up having to console her after laughing a little too hard at one of his own jokes.

There was the option to put her in a daycare, which he immediately shut down. Word for word, he said, “I’m not sending my little girl somewhere that’s infested with a bunch of snot-nosed brats.” 

As if that wouldn’t happen in regular school, but you let it go. You pick and choose your battles wisely with him when it comes to parenting her, and figured getting an early start to the whole socialization thing wasn’t that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, especially with all the quality time she gets with her family in general. 

Though there was another option that sat in the back of your mind.

Giving Sayomi a sibling. 

The thought’s been there, it didn’t help that you had your own reasons for wanting another one either. Not right this second or even this year, but one day. 

Picturing Sukuna taking care of a little newborn was something you’ve been indulging in more than you’d like to admit. It was more on the delusional side too, but you couldn’t help it— not after seeing the way he dotes on the child you two already share together. He cherishes her in a way every child deserves to be cherished. It’s sincere. Unconditional. The kind of love everyone deserved to experience. 

It put you in a strange spot where wanting one was bad given your situation, but it also wasn't a crime.

You always thought that if the desire ever came, it’d be from missing the crawling stage or just wanting a bigger family in general. Yet here you were, wanting one more baby from Sukuna so you could simply watch them grow up with the same tenderness Sayomi’s being raised with. 

He makes it look so easy. You wonder if he’s ever realized that— how much better off the world would be if everyone received the same amount of care and patience he gave to Sayomi. 

But you also wonder if there's enough room in his heart for another one. If he even wanted to make more room, or if he was content with just one.

It felt selfish after swearing up and down at one point that he wasn’t cut out to be a dad. Not to mention you two still have your own issues to work through and aren't even together yet. 

So you hold back and keep your little thoughts of having a mini Yomi to yourself, especially now. Given how much of a nightmare this exposé has been, you doubt he’d even want another kid at this point. 

You were angry about it too, but you also leaned more towards feeling spooked. You barely left your neighbourhood to begin with, seeing that many photos of the three of you, or even just you and Yomi, was unnerving. At the shopping mall, the farmers market, gas station, getting fucking ice cream. Not to mention all the photos they’ve found of you and the baby online, whoever did it must’ve sent a friend request to a distant family member that had no concept of internet safety. 

To think that you would’ve never guessed it either made it worse. 

Sayomi’s really the only reason why you haven’t had another panic attack. She’s surprisingly really good at distracting you, especially since she’s started making her toys talk to each other. Deciphering what she’s making them talk about was impossible though. All you know is whether they're arguing or not, but there wasn't much of a pattern to that. You thought she’d make her labubu’s argue today from watching her dad arguing on the phone, but you were proud to say they’ve been nice to each other all afternoon. 

Outside, you hear Sukuna yell out one last and final “FUCK”, before opening the door and stepping back inside the living room. He’s mumbling something about someone being a useless piece of shit, all while looking like shit himself. Hair all over the place from running his hands through it, pupils blown out, and dark circles you only noticed when your eyes finally met his. 

He was supposed to spend the weekend resting, not raging out over his daughter’s privacy. 

“Dada,” your daughter breaks the silence, twisting her head back to look at him as if she’d be waiting for him to get off the phone. 

“Hm?” he all but raises his brows, silently praying to fucking god that she doesn’t—

“Abubu1 play?” she asks, raising one in her hand. 

1Labubu

He’s never been a fan or seen the appeal. In fact, he hates her whole entire fucking collection of them. They remind him of those furbies Jin used to collect, except these ones looked like they got crafted into voodoo dolls by Satan himself. 

He just stares at first with a dumbfounded look on his face. He spent the first half of the day fighting for her privacy, and now she wants him to play with one of the stuffed demon bears you can’t seem to stop bringing home. 

“No thanks,” he curtly declines.

“Mama.”

Is she trying to fucking snitch on him? 

You try your best to keep your composure. Now’s not the time to laugh over how offended they both look. You lightly clear your throat, and that annoyed him enough to let out a disgusted scoff in return, which made it even harder for you to act like an adult. 

“What’s wrong, babe?” you finally ask her. 

“Dada play,” she murmurs, hoping you’d do something about his refusal to play “dolls” with her. Honestly, if they were normal barbie dolls, he’d probably plop down beside her right now and happily pretend that his doll was her doll’s severely underpaid and abused servant. But he won’t because you refuse to get her normal shit. 

“But Dada said no,” you politely break the news to her. 

“Dada bad.”

He’s rolling his eyes now and you can’t help but feel bad for him. He probably just wants to lay down right now, but he has to listen to his daughter call him an asshole. 

“Dada’s not bad, he’s just tired,” you try to explain to her. 

“Mad?” she asks, finally acknowledging this morning and afternoon's temper.

“Mhm,” you nod, “his heart hurts right now, you should give him a hug.” He scoffs again.

“A booboo?” 

“Exactly— go give him a hug.” 

That’s all she needed to get her butt up and make her way over to him, holding her arms out wide to give him a hug. She bursts out squealing and laughing though when he picks her up instead and walks over to the couch to sit. It obviously wasn’t going to take away his exhaustion, but it did make him feel a little better. 

“Booboo?” she points at his chest.

“Close,” he hums and taps on his temple, “gotta headache.” 

“Aww,” she responds, you two aren’t sure if she actually means it since she smiled. But you guess she actually did when she handed him her beloved labubu that he was not aware was in her hand this whole entire time. 

He thanked her, remembering his manners and all, but still waited until you both were looking away to toss it behind the couch. She’s got enough of those demon dolls to not notice if one was missing. 

“Soooo,” you hum, picking some toys off the ground, “I’m guessing there’s still not much on who took all those pictures?”

“Nope,” he murmurs in defeat. “They were sent in anonymously too.”

“What about the exposé and pictures?” 

They were a completely different story. The publishing company would much rather pay him than take it down from how much revenue they’re making from all the website visits they've gotten. And who knows how many people have saved the piece and the photos at this point, it’s not like he could go after all the people that’ve saved and reposted the photos. 

“...so that's it?” you flatly ask. “The whole world just thinks you're some asshole that’s embarrassed of your kid?” 

Yes. Not that he cared. The only opinions that really mattered were yours and Sayomi’s when it came to his role as a father. The only one who really cares about the false narrative is you, which he appreciates. You wanted everyone to see how good he was to her, you wanted them to see how big of a smile he’s able to leave on her face. He gets it, he’d feel the same if the roles were reversed, so he doesn’t try to talk you out of your frustration. 

“They offered to interview me,” he says, letting Yomi down so she could go back to playing, “both of us actually, to try to clear everything up— offered a shit ton of money too.” 

It was sleezy— publishing a whole exposé, and instead of taking it down, they offered to interview him instead since they’d also be getting the first scoop. You were always going to say no, but you didn’t expect him to turn it down the moment they offered it to him. It was never about the money for him, it was the principle. All he wanted was to get both your faces off that article. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice growing raspier. “I’m having a friend look into who took all those photos though. We can’t get them off the internet, but we can still sue the shit out of them for distress.”

“I should get my doctor to prescribe me antidepressants,” you mumble, pulling a chuckle out of the man before his face went back to being flat and lifeless again. “How much did you sleep last night?” 

He takes a deep breath while trying to remember, but eventually gives up with a shrug. “Who knows.” It wasn’t much, that’s for sure. 

“Our flight’s not for another 5 hours, you should try to take a nap.” 

“Can’t,” he grumbles, getting up from the couch, “I haven’t even packed all my shit yet.” 

“Let me do it,” you offer. 

“It’s fine, I g—“ 

“I don’t care,” you wave a hand, clearly not interested in debating over his sleep. Usually he’d have more of a reaction— not today. The mental exhaustion of it all chipped away at his brain and his will argue. “Yomi’s supposed to take a nap anyways, just make her a bottle and sleep on the pull-out couch so I don’t wake you two up while getting everything packed.” 

“You sure?” 

You don’t even know why he asks. The glimmer of hope in his eyes after realizing he really could finally rest was too hard to miss. 

“Yes,” you smile, getting up from the ground. “I’m sure she’d be happy to take a nap with you too.” 

“Doubt it,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair. “Watch her get all pouty until I put Mit Raetuhl on my phone.” 

You laugh at his mispronunciation of Ms. Rachel as you try to walk past him. He looks like he’s melting into the couch, laying back in a typical manspread with his head thrown back. Yet he still manages to grab your arm before you can get too far from him.

“C’mere,” he says, lazily tugging you toward him.

“What?”

“Just come here,” he murmurs, continuing to tug at you. He sees you glancing at Yomi, who’s back in her own little world right now, and snickers before tugging you towards him enough to wrap his other hand around the back of your neck. “Didn’t even let me get to thank you.”

“You can thank me by going to sleep,” you say in a low tone, nearly holding your breath because you feel like you’re about to fall on him. 

“You’re getting two thank you’s then,” he hums, finally pulling you all the way down and kissing you— deeply. It’s slow and he swipes his tongue over yours from the beginning. You should have expected it with the way he was looking at you, but you let it happen because he looked like he was about to die anyway. 

Then your child finally notices how silent it’s been, turns around, and does this weird pterodactyl screech because she fucking hates when he so much as so gives you a peck on the cheek, so her doll goes flying at her dad. He put on Ms. Rachel immediately after and fell asleep the moment he laid down, letting Yomi watch on his phone beside him.

You really didn’t mind either, you were just in the other room. She was safe. The mattress was low to the ground, her dad wasn’t one to toss and turn in bed either. 

It didn’t stop you from checking in on them and taking photos. Sukuna was already knocked out when you took the first one, with Yomi leaned over him, propping his phone on his chest. She was still awake for the second one, but was actually laying normally while Sukuna had an arm slung over her, still watching her show. And by the third, she was passed out, laying on top of him like a literal starfish, completely forgetting about how pissed she was at him.

—

Life somewhat calmed down as the days progressed. 

Traveling wasn’t too bad since you waited for your flight in a private lounge and boarded the plane first, but Sukuna naturally found a way to stay stressed throughout the trip by using up all of his Wi-Fi on the plane. It was a constant cycle of him checking his phone, then getting pissed that nobody has gotten back to him yet. 

He didn’t talk, which was great, but you still avoided him. Just seeing how stressed he was made you feel the same. 

The hotel situation changed a little as well since he asked for extra security. Luckily it wasn’t too noticeable, just a few more outside of the building, along with one that kept their eyes on the floor of the suite you were staying in. 

The controversy surrounding the news and leaked photos had gotten a little better. Not because it died down, but because Sukuna had gotten some time to get used to it and you stopped checking all the comments on certain media sites and pages. The team's management wasn’t the most useful, mainly because there was nothing much they could do about the photos, so they decided to make up for it by being as supportive as they could. 

Which meant giving Sukuna a raise. The last thing anyone wanted was for him to retire early, and simply saying “this isn’t worth it” over the phone was enough to make them go into overdrive with the damage control. They were aware he was having a bad day, but the chances of him following through with it was a little higher compared to the other players. He didn’t care about drastic life changes, that much was clear when he put most of his partying to a halt after finding out he had a kid. To top it off, not once has anyone heard him complain about it. 

They also matched how much money you’d be losing from taking time off work for the rest of the trip. There was no way in hell Sukuna was going to let some stranger watch his child, it didn’t matter if you were in another room. You were against it at first, knowing all the nannies had background checks. Then you realized that if you were to take Sayomi back home and return to your normal life, you’d most likely be on edge since he wouldn’t be just a few minutes away. You probably would’ve been okay, but probably just wasn’t good enough at the moment, especially when you never knew someone stalked you and took photos for weeks without knowing in the first place. 

Taking time off ended up working out just fine anyways. The assistant you hired to help with some of your clients is teaming up with an agency to manage your client list. She also seems to be trustworthy with all of the info she’s given you about them in private. If she keeps this up you might just be begging her to stay with you if she ever tried to leave. 

Sayomi seems to be happier with not spending time with a stranger for half the day anyways. Not that she was miserable, but you’d rather her be all rainbows and sunshine for most of the day, rather than whatever the hell she was with the last nanny. Side-eyeing the poor woman whenever she spoke— hurts your feelings just thinking about it.

With tomorrow's game and conference, everything should start to settle. At least he hopes. He’s a little more on the optimistic side today, probably because his coach and manager decided it’d be more beneficial for him to take a little more time off and surprised him with a half day. They figured he’d use the time to relax and hang out with his family, which is exactly what he was planning to do. 

All that went through his mind on the way back to the hotel was a hot shower, room service, and a good movie that was appropriate enough for Yomi to watch. He wasn’t doing the whole tea party with demon dolls thing tonight— he couldn’t. This was his day and since Yomi’s too young to get that, he’ll just make it seem like all the fun was for her. 

Walking into the room, he just assumes he’ll be met with something wholesome, like you and his child curled up in bed and taking a midday nap, because why else would it be so quiet right now? But Sayomi’s asleep, in her actual room— obviously. He wouldn’t be witnessing the scene that’s in front of him if you weren’t alone. 

He’s sending his manager and coach a gift basket for this one day. 

Nothing about the building is thin, or creaky. It’s strong, sturdy, will probably not need to be remodeled within the next 50 years, and filled with elements that absorb sound. Now that he thinks about it, he didn’t hear his own footsteps when walking here, the door didn’t creak when opening it. It wasn’t until actually stepping into the room that he began to hear the soft vibrations paired with the slutty little sounds that were escaping your lips. 

Of course you would, you have needs, he’s not a fucking idiot. He sure feels like one though because how did the thought of you fucking yourself not cross his mind before or after you began traveling together?

And of course you wouldn’t notice him, you were too absorbed in what you were doing. You looked like you were having fun. Leaned back against the headboard. Knees up and legs spread. Eyes on the vibrator in your hand, because you used to enjoy watching yourself get fucked by him in the past, so of course you’d enjoy watching yourself get fucked by your own damn self too.

Greedy. Messy as hell, yet still so pretty. This is fucking insane. He’s… stunned. His heart pounds a little faster every time you make a sound because he really shouldn’t be here, but he can’t move. He doesn’t want to. 

“Fuck.” 

Then you look up. And scream. Because he didn’t say that in his head, even though he thought he did. He’s an idiot and now you’re covering yourself. You’re also yelling at him and there’s no way for him to tell you that you should stop because it’s turning him on right now. You’ll probably just yell at him even more.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!”

He doesn’t know how to answer that, he’s still stuck on what was happening a minute ago. He’s also a little dumbfounded by the question. But he finally picks his jaw off the fucking floor to answer your question. “This is my room too,” he says, not even trying to be rude.

“No, what are you doing here?!” you continue to yell at him. “You weren’t supposed to be back until five.”

“Oh— they uh— let me off. Early. Forgot to text you,” he says, still standing there like an idiot. “My bad.”

You let out a long, disappointed sigh. Too busy hoping your heart rate would start to settle from the initial scare that you don’t realize there's a grin steadily growing on the man’s face. But then he opens his fucking mouth, again.

“So have you just been… waiting? To have some alone time to do this?” he says, clearly amused by this all.

“Oh my god— stop,” you grimace, rubbing your temple.. 

“I’m just asking a question,” he snorts, leaning against the wall, probably thinking of a hundred more questions lined up for you. “Do you bring that thing with you whenever you shower?” 

Your face scrunches up in disgust. “Why do you care?”

“I can’t be curious?”

“No, it’s weird,” you scoff. 

“So defensive,” he chuckles and begins to walk over to you, making your stomach drop and hands grip the blanket covering the lower half of your body. As if it couldn’t get any worse, he picks up your vibrator that you didn’t even realize you dropped earlier and turns it on with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. 

Your eyes grow wide with a mixture of shock and embarrassment, trying to grab it back from him, but the blanket didn’t leave you much range to reach it. Not like you had much of a chance anyways, he reeled his hand back the first time you tried. “What is wrong with you?! Turn that off!” 

“Damn,” he mutters to himself as he inspects it, completely ignoring your more than reasonable reaction. 

“Can you stop fucking smelling it?!” you nearly hiss. 

“Smells good though,” he teasingly responds.

Everything would’ve been fine had he just left, but your soul just about shrivels up and dies at this point from how much worse he’s making everything. He eventually stops and turns the damn thing off, only because you looked like you were going to die and he couldn’t have that happen just yet. 

“Bet you didn’t even get to finish because of me,” he says, as if he actually felt bad for you. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you sigh with your head in your hands.

“I know,” he hums back rather fondly, sitting down in front of you. “I could make it up to you if you pulled the blanket off.”

You let out a dry laugh, “you’re so annoying.” 

“Yeah,” he easily agrees with you. “Can’t even play with yourself because I’m always doing stupid shit like coming home early.” 

You can tell he’s fighting for his life trying to stay serious right now from the way his mouth twitched a couple times, lightly clearing his throat after. His eyes aren’t even on yours anymore, his attention’s directed at the blanket. It might as well be the biggest obstacle he has in life at the moment. It’s not until he reaches forward and lightly pinches the blanket when he finally looks at you, looking past your warning that’s in the form of a glare. 

“Blanket’s soft,” he randomly comments, lifting it up a few inches, grazing your leg in the process. Then the little shit sticks his hand under it to rub your knee. “Legs are soft too— you get a new lotion or something?”

You’ve never met anyone that’s tried their luck as much as him.

“No,” you boredly respond, “they're probably dry right now from the weather.”

“That’s not good,” he shakes his head, acting offended for you. “...It’s probably this blanket— absorbing all the moisture from your legs or something.” 

“It doesn’t work like that,” you say, suppressing a laugh. 

“Get rid of it anyways,” he chuckles. “I’m running out of ideas here.”

“Good, you weren’t slick to begin with.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he hums, completely unbothered, still lazily rubbing circles into your leg under the blanket. “I just wanted to get you to laugh, it worked too.”

“I can’t stand you.” You don’t even know why you said it, you sound as serious as him at this point. Not to mention he’s probably getting off on the insults. 

“Lay down then,” he persists, clearly enjoying how stupid this exchange is. 

It was working anyway. Not just the jokes, but from the way he continued to creep closer— your inner thigh now being where his hand rested. There’s no need to look under the blanket to guess how wet you already were, he could feel the heat radiating off of you. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Do I suck at eating pussy or something?”

“It’s not that,” you start, but don’t even complete the sentence. 

“So you’re being stubborn… just to be stubborn?” he smirks, already knowing that’s exactly what it was. 

“It’s not that either,” you shrink down a little, unsure of what else to say because he unfortunately clocked your shit.

“Alright then— since I interrupted you, here’s what I’m gonna do,” he begins to tug at the blanket, “I’m gonna pull this off and put my head in between your thighs, and if you tell me to stop, then I’ll stop.” 

He waits to see if you’ll even say something, but after some time of having a little stare off, he doesn’t hesitate to follow through with it. The blanket was off before you could even blink and the little squeal you let out from how abrupt it was made his dick jump. He pretty much pounced on you, grabbing you by the backs of your knees and holding them up so he get face to face your pussy

“Fuckin’ hell,” he curses to himself, throwing your legs over his shoulder, “can’t believe you get this soaked from watching me beg— that’s one fucked up kink, sweetheart.”

“Not a kink,” you murmur, leaning back and propping yourself up on your elbows. “Didn’t make you beg either.” 

“Maybe not, but it fuckin’ felt like it,” he mumbles, swiping his thumb through your folds and bringing it up to you. He didn’t have to tell you to open your mouth, and definitely didn’t have to tell you to swirl your tongue around it or lightly suck when he pressed down on your tongue. “Always been so good with this mouth— you ever miss having my cock in it?”

You hum and nod slowly. 

“Yeah? Gonna make me beg for that too?”

You shake your head. 

“Liar,” he chuckles, pulling his thumb out of your mouth with a pop before putting his attention back on your dripping folds. “So fuckin’ evil for that.”

You try to talk back, but the words get stuck in your throat when he presses a kiss on your inner thigh. And then hums into another one that was just inches away from where you actually needed him— clearly not in a rush. You shouldn’t even be surprised, he always finds a way to get back at others.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, barely scolding you. "You say you can’t stand me but then you go dumb the second my mouth gets near your pussy.” 

“Yeah because you do shit like tease me,” you argue back, but it comes out as a needy whine.

“Don’t act like you didn’t deserve it,” he chuckles, then leans in again. Except this time he finally gives you what you want— pressing his tongue flat against your entrance and licking one long and painfully slow stripe through your folds, then looks back up to see your reaction. “Did that feel good?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe out.

He dips his head back down and drags his tongue through you again, slower this time, softly groaning into it. He flicks his tongue off your clit, then does it all over again a few more times, enjoying the way he can feel your body tense underneath him.

“Am I still annoying?” he asks. 

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.” 

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s back on you, wiping away whatever thought you had in your mind with the languid strokes of his tongue— flattening it against your clit and swiping up with the perfect amount of pressure. It’s not rushed, doesn’t feel like he has a goal in mind either. He just plays with you, lapping away at you for fun. Yet he still somehow leaves you out of breath and struggling to keep your legs open. 

“You alright?” he murmurs.

You barely nod and he just laughs. “Use your words, princess.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, barely coherent. “Keep going.”

“Of course,” he says, all while slipping not one, but two of his fingers inside of you. It pulls a gasp out of you and he acts just as shocked as you, because he’s a fucking asshole. “See what happens when you stop being a stubborn brat?”

You all but nod when his mouth goes back to your clit, lightly sucking at it while curling his fingers right into your sweet spot. 

“Be honest with me, baby,” he says, just barely grabbing your attention. “What were you thinking about when you were fuckin’ yourself earlier?”

“You,” you say without hesitation.

“Fuck,” he groans, clearly loving the answer, curling his fingers faster as a reward. “What else were you thinking about it?”

“Fucking you,” you whisper. 

“Look at you being all sweet and answering my questions,” he says mockingly, pulling his fingers out as fast as he pushed them in. “Want my cock instead?” 

“Mhm.”

“Yeah? Want it right now?”

You hesitate for a moment, really thinking about it. “You’re so big though.” 

“Don’t tell me you're scared of it now all of a sudden,” he says in amusement, pressing a kiss on your inner thigh before sitting back to take his shirt off, revealing the inked lines and his chiseled chest.

“No, you’re just mean with it— stop smiling, I'm being serious,” you scoff. "I don't feel like doing that tonight.”

“I can be nice,” he says, taking his boxers off to reveal how fucking hard he is already, leaking precum and throbbing if you look hard enough. He sits down beside you and grabs you by the waist. “C’mere, I’ll take care of you if you get tired.” 

He slowly strokes himself as you move to straddle him, staying up a little to let him run his head through your folds. Your breath sharpens when it grazes over your clit, so he does it again and again until you're complaining, then he finally pushes you down just enough to get the tip in, letting you do the rest.

His thumb moves to rub little circles around your clit as you begin easing yourself down, making it easier to work yourself open with how thick he was, pulling yourself up after each inch you went down, slowly working up to a pace.

“That’s it— let me see you fuck yourself,” he groans, gripping your waist a little tighter, steadying you more than guiding you. “You missed this, didn’t you?” 

“I did,” you say, almost breathless as you bottom out, earning a low hum out of him. 

“I bet.” He begins to move a little on his own, deepening it, hitting a spot that makes your eyes glaze over a little more. “Better than that little vibrator of yours, huh?”

“Fuck— yeah,” you moan, placing your hands on his chest to steady yourself. 

“So stubborn for no reason,” he lazily smirks, grinding your hips down against him. “Just wanted you to feel good— shouldn’t have to hide to cum.”

“Think you just don’t want me to unless it’s with you.”

“I love seeing it,” he murmurs, proudly admitting it. “Watching you cum so hard your legs get all shaky, cryin’ because of me— fuckin’ sexy.”

His hands slide up your back, leaning you forward so he could take over, and you let him. You kiss him and he takes over that too. It’s messy and all tongue, groaning into your mouth, lightly biting your lip when he pulls you away. Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head when his lips trail down lower, starting from your jaw and working his way down to your chest, all while snapping his hips up harder, going faster. 

His mouth latches on to a nipple and you nearly squeal from how fucking good it feels, flicking and swirling his tongue around it. It gets to a point where you’re just a mess, locked in his arms, unable to escape his tongue and deep thrusts. 

Then he moves his thumb back to your clit and you fucking lose it. 

He grins after pulling his mouth off of you with a pop and then shushes you. “You’re gonna wake her up if you keep screaming like a little slut— you don’t want me to stop, right?”

“No— no, please,” you whine, doing your best to hold it in. 

“Then shut up,” he laughs, and you genuinely want to cry because he just fucks you even faster afterwards. You’re left whimpering into the crook of his neck, fighting the urge to bite down while taking every inch he gives you, yet your only complaint is the fact that you’re out of breath. 

It’s worth it.

He never lets up, grabbing your ass and rolling your hips down to meet each and every thrust, hitting the spot that makes you weak until you start to feel the pressure start to build up inside of you. You tighten around him and he cracks for once, letting out a moan that’s a little breathier, sounding needier for once. 

“Fuck— you’re gonna cum, aren’t you?” He feels you nodding against him in response and changes the pace, his thrusts becoming strokes, making you feel every inch and vein he drags through you. “Did so good for me— that’s it baby, go ahead and cum for me.”

The rest of his words go in one ear and out the other, feeling something inside of you break while he continued to work it out of you. It was overwhelming. Messy. The only thing you could hear after coming to your senses were the wet squelches and the downright sinful moans that came out of Sukuna whenever he was close. 

“Want me to pull out?” he breathes, just barely remembering to ask. 

“No, s’okay,” you murmur back, barely coherent, limp against him. 

He thought he had a little more time, but came right then and there, just barely controlling the long, drawn on moan that left him while pumping you full of his cum. Holding your hips down against him, burying himself as deep he could inside of you as if he was trying to get it to take. 

He wasn’t as rough as he’d been in the past, yet you both felt just as worn out, if not more. Not even the stickiness between you bothered you. Minutes of silence passed by, not awkward, just too tired to move. But after some time, he takes a deep breath and gently runs his hand up and down your back. 

“You awake?” he asks, voice raspier than usual. 

“Barely,” you murmur against his skin. 

“I swear I wasn’t trying to get you to pass out this time,” he warmly says, stifling a laugh. “I didn’t hurt you or anything, right?” 

“No.” A little smile creeps up on you. “I’m surprised you’re even asking.” 

“Just making sure— wanted you to enjoy yourself this time,” he says, resting his head against yours. “You should be grateful.”

“How thoughtful,” you mutter. “But no, I did enjoy myself.”

“Good,” he hums, clearly pleased with himself. 

“We should probably get cleaned up though,” you say, clearly a little sad about it. “Yomi’s probably gonna wake up soon.”

“Cockblock— ow fuck,” he hisses, rubbing the spot on his shoulder that you just pinched. “I was fuckin’ kidding.”

“Sure you were,” you mutter back. 

He continues, “Before you pinched the fuck out of me, I was gonna say you should get some sleep in and I’ll just keep my eye on the baby monitor.”

“I shouldn’t,” you groan a little, torn from trying to be somewhat responsible. “It’s almost 3, I don’t wanna accidently sleep the entire time she’s up.”

“I’ll wake you up if you sleep too long then,” he says, like it’s a no brainer. “Just get some rest, you look like you’re about to pass out any minute now anyways.” 

“Ok, fine,” you grumble. “Go shower before she wakes up though.”

“I know,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss on your temple before getting up.

You notice him looking around for a bit— almost pathetically. You tried to give him the chance, but time was ticking, so you finally spoke up. “The baby monitors on the nightstand behind me.”

“You couldn’t say that earlier?” he grumbles, already annoyed at how long it was taking to find in the first place. 

“I had a little more hope in you.”

“Go to sleep,” he groans, snatching up the little screen and walking straight towards the bathroom to take the world's quickest shower, since his child acts like she’s been abandoned and cries hysterically if one of you takes too long to grab her. 

It was a good idea. By the time he stepped out, she was already up and looking all around the room, violently fighting the urge to cry. He just barely got out and threw on his sweats in time before she really got mad. 

Maybe he could’ve gotten to her even sooner had he not taken a moment to look at you, but it’s not often he gets to see you as blissfully knocked out as you were. Sprawled across the mattress, lightly snoring into the pillow. He was definitely going to have to wake you up later.

—

“How many more minutes left do we have?” Sukuna asks into the mic, hoping a hundred reporters won’t jump to answer all at once. But they don’t, they’ve surprisingly been on their best behavior. Must’ve gotten a warning or something before entering.

“About 15 minutes,” one of the managers on the sides answered for him instead.

“Should I just…?” He finishes the question off by pointing to the back room, throwing off the reporters. 

“Yeah, I think now's good.”

“Alright,” he stands up from his seat and turns to walk away, but then turns back and leans down to the mic, deciding he should warn the reporters real quick. “I know we’ve all been talking normally the past forty-five minutes, but I need you all to keep it that way when I get back. No shouting. No acting overly excited. If it happens even once, I’m leaving.”

He doesn’t wait for a response or a nod before stepping away, it’s not like he was asking anyways, he was telling them. One of the reporters gave his teammate a confused look, but all he did was shrug and feign ignorance, even though the entire team was aware of what was going on. The entire room steadily grew quiet while waiting for the rugby player to get back. The only thing that cut that silence was hearing random babbling along with someone that sounded like a calm version of Sukuna pretending to understand the kid. 

Talkative for sure. At least up until Sukuna came back into view with the kid in his arms, who went radio silent after seeing everyone. To his luck, there was no yelling or unnecessary squealing, just a soft wave of awes that actually made him smile in public for once. He moved his mic closer to the edge of the table and sat down. He usually leans forward with his elbows on the table during conferences, but this time moved the chair a little further away and leaned back in his seat so his daughter had room to move around. 

“So uh–” he starts, briefly looking at Sayomi who does not look like she wants to be there. “I’m sure you all saw the news that’s been going around, so we decided it’d be best to answer any questions you all had here since I don’t have much time to do extra interviews to begin with. The questions are obviously gonna be personal, but don’t go too crazy with ‘em.”

He looks to the PR manager that flew out here specifically for this conference, waiting for some sort of direction, genuinely feeling a little nervous himself. The manager caught that and took over the room for a moment. 

“Also, please don’t jump to ask your questions in hopes to get answered first. His daughter isn’t used to crowds, so we’d like to keep the environment as calm as we can for her,” they add, knowing that it already annoys Sukuna in general. “Alright, now you can introduce her.”

“Cool,” he mutters and looks at Sayomi again, who’s just staring everyone down with straight up judgement in her eyes, but looks back at him when he starts talking. “Well this is my daughter Sayomi. She turned one a few months ago and gets to travel with me all season. M’not sure what else to say— wanna say hi to everybody?”

He moves the mic closer to her and to his surprise, she answers right away. 

“No.” 

Clear and concise. There’s a soft wave of laughter coming from the crowd and some of his teammates who are already aware of what she’s like. 

“Okay,” he smiles. “Just gonna sit here and hang out?”

“Ya.” 

“Sounds good,” he says, looking back up. “Alright, guy in the blue polo, you look like you’re dying to ask a question. Let’s start with you.”

“Oh– thank you,” he gets up immediately, eager to ask the question everyone’s been dying to ask. “Since you mentioned having your daughter with you all season and you were already traveling when the article came out, what do you have to say about the article itself and the picture it tried to paint about your private life?”

“I think the person who wrote it needs to start using their brain,” he boredly says. “They tried to make it a big deal by making it seem like I was hiding her and didn’t want anyone finding out, but a lot of those photos are of us being out in public. You wouldn’t see me bringing her to restaurants or taking her to an ice cream shop if it was like that.”

As expected, the first question opened the door for a wide range of questions. 

“If I may ask, what was the mother of your child's reaction to the exposé?”

“Violated— she enjoys her privacy, so waking up and seeing her and her child's face all over the internet was probably her worst nightmare. They made it look like she was just a one night stand too, I’ve known her for a while now.”

“How would you say your life changed after becoming a father?”

“Guess I don’t go out and party as much anymore. All of my free time goes to her now too, but it’s been fun.”

“What’s been your favorite memory with her within the last six months?”

“When we took her to get her ears pierced,” he chuckles, noticing the reporter look confused because Sayomi’s ears clearly weren’t. “I decided to get mine pierced that day too, and seeing me get them was enough for her— she didn’t like seeing that at all and just had a meltdown. Her mother had to sit in the backseat with her on the way home and enjoyed the attention so much that she dragged it out and started fake crying.”

“What’s your relationship like with her mother? Will we be seeing her at any of your games?”

“I don’t know. She likes staying out of the public eye, so she’s more comfortable watching from the private rooms. But it’s good, we get along.”

“How did you meet her?” 

“Work trip, we ended up being on the same flight afterwards too.”

The questions started moving more towards you, and thankfully the conference ended right after that last one. You were fine with him bringing Yomi to the conference, with your only request being to not give too many details about her, and it would’ve gotten more difficult from there.

From start to finish Yomi looked miserable, he could only imagine how long those fifteen minutes felt for her. It wasn’t until he walked back into the private room you were waiting for them in when she finally looked happy again, throwing her arms out so you’d pick her up. 

“Did you have fun with your dad?” you ask excitedly, taking her in your arms.

“Ya!” 

A snitch and a liar. He shakes his head and goes to grab one of the croissants on the table. It was dry, but enough to hold him over. Game days were the worst for him, having to stay for over an extra hour is what really throws his hunger over the edge. 

At least this time around you remembered that and ordered room service ahead of time. The staff had brought it up right when he took his shoes off at home. Yomi didn’t even bother asking him for some because she was already falling asleep, deliriously waving goodbye to him when you told her to before putting her down for her nap. She went down easily, he was only halfway through his food when he heard the door to her room open and shut. 

“That was fast,” he comments, popping a cube of beef in his mouth. He has no idea what the dish is called, but he needs to find out before you leave or else he’ll spend the rest of his life mad that he didn’t. 

You ordered yourself something too, a dish you had no idea what was called, but ordered because it looked good. “Being around all those people probably drained her,” you say, sliding into the seat next to him. 

“She didn’t even do anything.” 

“You said she looked like she didn’t want to be there. Hating your life drains you pretty fast.”

Ironic how there was a whole article that made it seem like he tried to hide her from the world, only for her to show the world how much she hated being around everyone. She was so cute up there with him though. You couldn’t stop laughing at all the faces she made while watching the playback during the car ride to the hotel. Sukuna ended up doing the same while waiting for you to finish your food. 

“Everyone’s going out again tonight to celebrate the win,” he says, watching you take your last bite of food. 

You finish chewing before responding to him, almost considering if you should chew slower because he looked like he wanted something. “Are you going this time?” It’s not like you could go out anymore with the decision to not have a nanny around. 

He shakes his head. “Feels weird leaving you two like that.” 

“Even with the extra security?” you tilt your head and ask. 

“Yeah. At least not until Uraume figures out who took all those pictures.” He leans back and sips his water. “Having someone take pictures in Australia just makes me think it’s some serious stalker.” 

Just the thought makes your stomach drop. “Do you think they followed us here?”

“I don’t know. I feel like it’d be easy since you can just search where all our future games would be at.” 

Your stomach drops even more. “Could we move to hotels in different cities?” 

“If you want, yeah,” he shrugs. “They’d probably be able to find it though if they really wanted. That’s why I asked for extra security instead.” 

“I see,” you murmur, picking at your food with a fork. 

“Uraume should find them soon though,” he reassures you. “But for now you two are kind of stuck with me.”

“Like we weren’t already before?” 

“It’s gonna be so much worse now,” he says, making it sound like it’s just you who should be worried.

“Yeah? Do I need to start hiding from you whenever Yomi’s asleep?” 

“You know you can’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he reminds you, it feels like an actual threat this time. “I’d probably like it if you tried to run though.”

notes: go easy on me in the asks lol

All rights reserved © 2025 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[yenayaps]

Not Just Anybody | baby daddy!sukuna x f!reader

summary: with sukuna's career as one of the highest paid rugby players in the world, you both knew deep down you couldn't hide from the public forever.

genre/warnings: hidden child trope, ex-fwb to co-parents to lovers, horrible communication, angst, fluff, smut

notes: sukuna is a straight up dilf in this chapter, enjoy<3

m.list | part eight | part nine | part ten

The original plan of grabbing ice cream and walking around the city changed when Sukuna asked if you were ready to go back to the hotel suite. 

You said no and now you two are in a somewhat busy dive bar— not too crazy to the point where you’re overwhelmed, but crowded enough to where Sukuna keeps you close and glares at anyone that walks by. Acting like a guard dog is a role he plays a little too well. You’re at the very end of the bar, right next to the wall. Sukuna’s chair is slightly pulled out further than yours, nobody aside from the bartender is getting within six feet of you. 

Guess you could say that was a good thing though— 30 minutes in and you were already drunk. Again, no one was getting within six feet of you, so you let loose. He wasn’t expecting you to be much of an emotional drunk though. 

“She’s growing up so fast,” your bottom lip begins to quiver, “she’ll be married with kids before we know it.”

Sukuna’s in the middle of taking a sip of his beer when he hears that and freezes at the rather ridiculous statement. “Sayomi? My little girl?” 

“Yes,” you sniffle, “who else would I be talking about? God you’re such a meat head sometimes.” 

His eyes narrow at the little dig, but ignores it and starts to ramble.

“That’s not happening,” he suddenly decides, as delusional as ever. “I’ll be dead and in a casket before I allow some shit like that to happen.” 

“Ma’am? Sir? Is everything okay here?” the bartender wearily asks. 

Sukuna waves him off, “yeah we're fine, my wife just drinks tequila and gets emotional over all the bad things that won’t be happening to our daughter.”

“Getting married isn’t a bad thing, Kuna!” you argue with him before turning to the bartender, “and I’m not his wife.”

Sukuna scoffs and turns to the bartender as well, “tequila makes her lose her memory too.”

You try to scoff at him, but your body betrays you by letting out a giggle. He whips his head back to you and can’t help but smile. Not because he was able to make you laugh multiple times in a row tonight— though that does do a lot for his ego— but no, he’s smiling because you are so blissfully unaware of how hungover you’ll be tomorrow. 

And what does that mean for Sukuna? He’ll get to nurse you back to health tomorrow— there’s nothing better than playing Captain Save-a-Hoe, only when it comes to you though. 

He checks the time and sees that it’s already 1:00 am. The nanny said to take your time, but he already knows you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling somewhat guilty, so he decides to call it a night for the both of you. 

“Nooo,” you immediately whine, “I don’t wanna go yet.”

“Not even if Yomi misses you?” he asks, throwing some cash on the counter.

“She’s awake?!”

“Mhm,” he lies, stifling a laugh, “let’s go, m’sure she misses us.”

“Fine,” you huff out, taking his hand as he leads you out of the bar. It’s summertime, but the cool air still hits you harder than expected when you two walk out. “Where’s the driver?”

“He went home,” he says, hoping you don’t start whining over that too. 

But you still do, once again reminding him that his daughter gets her attitude from you, not him.

“You’re seriously going to make me walk right now?” 

“The hotel's only a block away,” his eyes widen in disbelief, throwing his arm out in the direction it's in. 

“I don’t care,” you stubbornly respond, “call the driver.”

“I’m not doing that,” he chuckles, “come on.”

“N– what are you doing,” you squeal as he throws you over his shoulder as if you were a sack of potatoes. “Don’t drop me!!”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he continues to laugh while starting to walk back. “Now shh, people are going to think I’m kidnapping you or something.”

Walking back to the hotel was the easy part. Getting you bed was the hard part. To put it simply: you wouldn't fucking cooperate with him.

A part of him began to wonder if you were training Sayomi to be a brat to him whenever he wasn't around. Everything that came out of his mouth was met with a no, even if all he said was your name. But instead of crying right after like your child, you'd just laugh in his face.

Except for when he held you down. He only did it so he could wipe your makeup off with one of your makeup remover wipes, which took way too fucking long.

He took some of the blame for that. After 5 minutes of you complaining and whimpering about how cruel he was, he realized he grabbed the baby wipes. That led to him chasing after you in the living room after he finally found the right ones.

After few more minutes and a bruised shin from him hitting the coffee table, he had you pinned down again. Back to square one with getting called a meanie, though his focus was more on how magical makeup remover wipes were, just one swipe and the foundation was gone.

"I just don't know why you care so much," you continue to openly complain to him, but they fall on deaf ears.

"I don't," he barks back. "It's my wellbeing I care about. Do you really think I'd be spared from your wrath when you wake up in the morning and realize that I just let you sleep with your makeup on?"

"..."

Crickets.

"Exactly," he says, yanking a new wipe out of the pack, "now close your eyes so I can get this black shit off your eyelashes."

You finally cooperate throughout the rest of it and change into the pajamas he threw at you as well.

"M'kay," you begin happily fluff the pillow you were about to rest your head on, as if you didn't just make the last 30 minutes hell for Sukuna, "I wanna sleep on the left side tonight."

"Okay," he all but says as he hits the light switch, too tired to even ask why.

"Wait!"

"What."

"Face the fan towards my feet."

"Okay."

"Thank you," you blissfully respond.

He doesn't say anything else as he thinks that's the end of it. He thinks you're sound asleep, but then 3 minutes later.

"Kuna."

"What."

"Never mind, you're being rude," you murmur and turn away from him.

He laughs out of disbelief, "say it."

"Throw your leg over me," you suddenly say, as if you were expecting him to push for what you were about to ask for. "You're like a weighted blanket."

"Fine," he says, not wasting any more time as he pulls your back against his chest and throws his heavy ass leg over you. "Better?"

"Mhm," you hum, "g'night."

He stifles a laugh and kisses your temple, "night."

—

As always, he’s right. 

You’re incredibly hungover, except you unfortunately refuse to let him take care of you. He doesn’t know how you do it, pushing past the headache and nausea, all so you could get ready and pack a beach bag. Although you do let him get Sayomi ready for the day. None of it’s fun though, she hates his fucking guts right now. 

Her first meltdown of the day was when he tried to do her hair. All he was trying to do was tie the top half up so it wouldn’t get in her eyes, yet she acted like he was ripping her hair out of her scalp. 

Then there was putting sunscreen on her, which was harder than having to tie her hair. She literally wiped the sunscreen off her arm and slapped it back on him, all while saying “no!” and “daddy bad!”. 

God forbid he try to prevent his child from getting a sunburn. 

He could allow her to leave the hotel room with her hair looking like she just got struck by lightning, but there was no way in hell he was letting her leave without a thick layer of spf 50. So he does what any other caring father would do and puts goggles on her, then grabs the spray-on kind of sunscreen, and proceeds to spray paint his child as if he were tagging the side of a bridge. 

At that point she’s wailing, and you can hear Sukuna telling her “yeah, you’ll thank me later when you get to come home without a sunburn.”

She won’t. You doubt she’ll even remember this an hour from now. 

She looks ridiculous by the time you pick her up to console her, with her fucked up ponytail and crooked pink goggles, but you appreciate Sukuna doing all of that for her. With the way you were right now, you were not in the right mindspace to get her ready, you probably would’ve just cried with her from how much your head hurt. 

“Aww,” you coo, “was daddy being mean?”

“y-EAAAAH,” she continues to cry, a little harder this time because she wants you to feel sorry for her. 

You don’t, neither does Sukuna. He has to face the wall for a second because he would’ve bursted out laughing from how fucking crazy his child looks right now. 

It takes around 2 hours to fully get ready to go to the beach, but luckily she stopped crying and graciously forgave him for torturing her right before the three of you left the hotel. 

Most people would think a beach was one of the better places to be hungover at, but it’s not. Even with the giant umbrella you sat under covering you from the sun, you still felt the heat beating against you. Why you allowed yourself to drink as much as you did last night, you’ll never know. Next time you go out with Sukuna, you’ll make sure to tell him to stop you after a few, even if you do try to fight him over it. 

“You know,” Marjorie starts, while you both watch all the men with their children, including Sukuna and Yomi— who’s holding on to him for dear life because she doesn’t like strangers, “we all laughed when we found out Sukuna had a secret child— only because he’s the most violent player on the team— but he’s really good with her.”

“He is,” you hum back. If only she knew that the only reason why she’s not ripping her little bucket hat off and throwing it away is because she’s shy around people she doesn’t know. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’d just pick the hat up, plop it back on her head, and secure it a little better. “You should’ve seen them this morning, it was like world war 3 watching him put sunscreen on her,” you stifle a laugh. 

“Poor baby,” she laughs, “must’ve hated how cold it felt at first.”

“Oh no, we let the sunscreen sit in warm water for a bit before putting it on.” 

“So she just wanted to complain?”

“Yeah,” you take a sip of your coconut water, “her cries literally go in one ear and out the other for him. I don’t know how he does it.”

“I could never,” she sighs. 

“It’s so hard sometimes,” you say, “I used to call my parents or her nanny all the time in tears.”

She sighs, “I’m sorry to hear that. My sister was the same way with her first child.”

“It's okay, it’s a lot better now though with him helping out,” Sukuna turns to you as you finish the sentence and points to the water, “what?”

He covers Yomi’s ear and raises his voice, “do you want to get in the water with us?”

You don’t get much of a chance to think about it before Marjorie nudges at you, “go- I’ll watch your guys’ stuff.”

“Thanks,” you smile at her, then get up to meet the two. 

“Hi mommy,” your daughter beams the moment she realizes you're walking up. 

“Hi baby,” you squish her cheeks. 

“You feelin’ any better?” Sukuna asks, just as concerned as he was when you ran to the bathroom to puke this morning. 

“Yeah. Marjorie gave me some coconut water and it helped a lot,” you say, brushing off his concern. 

You follow him into the water and your daughter looks… weary, for a lack of better terms. This is her first time in the ocean and she doesn’t know whether she should like it or not, but it helps seeing you and her dad not reacting to it. 

The water’s warmer than you thought it’d be, you’re also thankful for the fact that it’s crystal clear, who knows how comfortable you’d be if it was murky even in just the slightest. You both take turns holding Yomi. She goes through moments where she splashes at the water before going back to looking unimpressed with it. 

The most reaction you got from her was whenever Sukuna disappeared in the water, making her burst out laughing each time he popped his head back up. But whenever you did it, she’d internally panic and look in all directions. For her sanity, you decided not to play the more extreme version of hide and seek. 

Sukuna was just a little offended though, she didn’t look panicked at all when he disappeared. 

“Wanna get out of here after this?” Sukuna asks. 

“Why?” you smile. “Is your social battery running low.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, “I’m ready to eat and take a nap. Didn’t realize how tired I’d be after a couple hours.”

“We can do that. Did you wanna go to a restaurant around here for lunch or did you want room service?”

“Restaurant. There’s a place up the road that has really good oysters apparently.”

“Do we need a reservation?”

“I don’t think so,” he shakes his head, then pauses after realizing how oddly quiet his daughter’s been. 

She’s shivering. 

“Are you cold honey?” you ask, holding back a little laugh. 

She doesn’t even respond and lays her head against his chest since that was the only source of warmth she was getting. 

He lets out a chuckle, “alright, lets get out of here.” 

Sayomi doesn’t even last halfway through lunch and passes out. It was hard not to, the restaurant was a casual one, so Sukuna wrapped her up in a towel like a little burrito and you opted to have her sit on your lap instead of a highchair. Three fries later and she’s peacefully sleeping with her cheek squished against your chest. 

She sleeps through just about anything, so you both are able to continue talking normally, not that it was over anything important. It was mainly over the upcoming week, which consisted of more traveling as you two would be leaving the country in two days and flying to France for the next tournament. 

The next two days consisted of you two resting, especially Sukuna since he’d be going back to training once he got off the plane.

And as much as you two wanted to rest, not everything goes to plan. 

Instead of spending those two days lazing around, he spent a majority of it fuming and on the phone arguing with his team’s PR manager. It’s not like you two were trying to hide it, but you also weren’t expecting to have an entire article written about Sukuna and his “secret life”, with pictures of you and your daughter plastered all over it.

Not just picture of the three of you in Australia, but pictures that date back to when he first found out about her.

All rights reserved © 2025 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[porterr-robinson]

[its-xommon]

god same

[iwanttobeaseme]

Husband Toji

[sixxels-deactivated20260420-dea]

mine, eventually. ~ r. sukuna

fratboy!sukuna x bestfriend!reader

wc: 11k

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

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

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

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

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

and sure enough, he’s already there.

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

you roll your eyes and collapse beside him anyway.

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

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

he grins. “liar.”

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

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

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

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

he hums thoughtfully. “define hit on.”

you raise a brow. “sukuna.”

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

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

“you wound me, princess.”

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

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

and he’s your best friend.

your completely infuriating, manwhore of a best friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“god, you’re mean.”

“you like it.”

“unfortunately.”

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

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

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

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

you talk, and sukuna listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just you and sukuna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you snort. “god. maki deserves better.”

“everyone deserves better than a dan.”

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

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

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

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

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

he shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“maybe i’m growing up.”

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

he grins. “growing up gradually.”

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

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

your heart skips.

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

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

you blink. your stomach flips.

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

he hasn’t said much since reader left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sukuna’s jaw ticks.

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

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

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

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

sukuna doesn’t laugh.

he doesn’t say a word.

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

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

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

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

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

and he’s not gonna tell them.

because they wouldn’t believe him anyway.

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

it shuts them up for a second.

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

but sukuna’s not joking.

not even a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

gojo doesn’t even hesitate.

“nah.”

sukuna’s jaw clenches. “why not?”

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

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

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

“it’s bullshit,” sukuna mutters.

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

sukuna’s quiet for a second.

the air goes still.

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

but you’re not one of them.

not on paper.

not enough to be invited.

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

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

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

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

and that’s what gets under his skin.

like always.

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

but sukuna knows you.

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

and maybe that’s what kills him most.

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

but it does bother him.

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

and suddenly you're not allowed?

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

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

and now it’s stuck there, burning.

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

sukuna forces a tight smile and tips his drink back.

“yeah,” he lies. “next time.”

~

the next night.

it’s late when you hear the knock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you don’t.”

“i do, emotionally.”

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

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

he pauses, one foot halfway out of his sock.

“something like that,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he grunts.

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

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

you blink. “hm?”

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

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

you go try not to giggle at his display.

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

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

you stare at him, taken aback.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you don’t ask.

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

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

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

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

you laugh.

and he smiles, barely.

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

you don’t ask what he means.

you don’t have to.

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

you get up and go to the fridge.

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

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

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

“i come bearing peace offerings.”

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

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

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

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

and then he goes still.

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

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

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

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

you beam, satisfied. “mood improved?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

this… isn’t unheard of.

but it’s not common either.

not like this.

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

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

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

and still, you don’t pull away.

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

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

he squeezes back.

"such a softie."

"shut up."

~

friday night, gamma. 

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

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

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

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

inside, it’s worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“praise be,” sukuna deadpans.

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

sukuna doesn’t follow.

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

he doesn’t even blink.

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

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

how easy it was.

how real.

and this? this feels like a joke.

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

but now it just feels loud.

pointless.

empty.

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

no texts.

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

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

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

meanwhile...

your dorm was quiet tonight.

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

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

but your mind’s somewhere else entirely.

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

that long hug.

you can still feel it.

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

you missed him the second he left.

you always do.

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

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

you try not to picture it.

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

you’ve never asked.

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

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

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

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

he likes custard tarts.

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

so you’re going to make him some.

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

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

back with the man of the hour.

the kitchen is hotter than hell.

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

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

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

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

sukuna doesn’t answer right away.

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

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

he’s joking. mostly.

but nearby, sukuna catches gojo’s eyes.

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

'just lie to them.'

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

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

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

it wouldn’t look good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

sukuna downs the shot.

he keeps going.

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

“mia?” ino gasps.

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

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

and sukuna plays along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

just you.

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

but he can’t say that here.

he can’t be that guy.

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

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

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

later.

things have gone off the rails.

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

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

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

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

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

“yeah, and i was wrong. fuck me.”

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

“with worse lighting,” shiu adds.

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

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

a blonde drops into his lap like a stone.

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

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

his body locks up. 'ew.'

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

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

he wants to shove her off.

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

but then he glances up.

and he sees them.

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

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

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

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

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

so sukuna doesn’t shove her off.

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

he lets her act like she owns him.

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

his skin crawls.

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

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

sukuna doesn’t flinch.

but inside, he’s somewhere else entirely.

he’s thinking about you.

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

the way you held him like you knew.

and now he’s here.

pretending.

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

and all he wants is to be home.

with you.

the girl’s hands are everywhere.

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

he doesn’t want this.

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

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

he can feel the eyes on him.

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

and gojo.

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

they lock eyes.

sukuna hesitates for a beat.

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

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

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

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

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

they step out the front door into the night.

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

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

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

and that’s when it hits.

the disgust.

the wrongness.

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

and this? this isn’t him.

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

“stop.”

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

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

her face falls.

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

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

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

he doesn’t look back.

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

he lights a cigarette with shaking hands.

his stomach still feels sick.

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

he walks faster.

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

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

he can’t stop shaking.

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

his stomach lurches.

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

he breathes through his nose.

in, out, in, out.

think of something else.

think of anything else.

but all he can think about is you.

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

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

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

and for what?

some frat reputation?

gojo’s approval?

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

he could fucking vomit.

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

'you’re not even mine.'

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

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

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

you’ve ruined him.

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

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

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

he should’ve stayed with you.

he should’ve just stayed home, with you.

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

your dorm keys.

he pulls them out slowly.

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

he clenches his fist around them.

tight.

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

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

~

your apartment smells like vanilla and nutmeg.

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

they turned out perfect.

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

someone who promised he’d come over this weekend.

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

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

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

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

and then—

bang.

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

before you can move, the door bursts open.

a heaving sukuna stumbles inside.

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

he looks terrible.

and he looks right at you.

for one beat, just one, everything stops.

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

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

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

and that’s all it takes.

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

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

he’s holding you like he’s drowning.

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

you don’t finish the sentence.

because his grip tightens.

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

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

a sniffle.

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

your breath catches.

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

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

“ryo…”

you pull back just enough to see his face.

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

your heart cracks clean in two.

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

he sees it.

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

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

that makes him go still.

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

his breath stutters.

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

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

you close your eyes.

you fall into each other like instinct.

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

you still don’t know why he’s crying.

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

but none of that matters.

because he’s sad.

and that makes you sad.

so you hold him. and he holds you back.

"y/n. i love you."

you freeze.

like your whole body forgets how to move.

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

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

“h-huh…?”

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

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

your eyes sting.

you’re not sure if you’re breathing.

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

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

you press your lips together, hard.

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

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

you open your mouth, then close it again.

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

but eventually, finally, your voice comes out.

quiet.

“say it again.”

his brows lift.

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

he swallows.

and then he breathes it like a vow.

“i love you.”

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

and this time, he doesn’t tremble.

he melts.

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

your lips part from his just enough to breathe.

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

and then you say it.

soft.

barely more than a whisper.

“i love you too.”

his eyes open slow.

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

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

it’s small at first. breathless. disbelieving.

then you start laughing too.

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

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

but it doesn’t matter.

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

it’s just good.

it’s just right.

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

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

“you’re it for me.”

and you smile.

because he’s it for you too.

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

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

“…wait.”

you already know what’s coming.

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

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

his eyes go wide. cartoonishly wide.

“you made them?”

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

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

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

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

“absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

my 2k special i hope you liked it 😎

[miniairo]

[minaiikki]

I was racking my brain trying to figure out how to draw this song.

[vincent-van-gtg]

[fitnessdesire]

Can’t risk it

[laderdesders1]

The duck of creativity. I waited so long for it.

[indigosabersedg]

Is this in any way related to the ducks that plague my pool

[pandaxusio]

Its finally here

[fury118]

I need this

[miniairo]

Red

[thatguyfromforest]

Whoa....

[eugism]

Seeing Mammon constantly getting made fun of lowkey infuriates me like. I know it's a running joke and it is funny but there are certain instances where the fandom ignores his whole very complex character just for the sake of this "dumbass thief tsundere" image on the surface of his character. Maybe I'm nitpicking because I love to deep-dive into characters but it gets so annoying sometimes.

Mammon is arguably the most emotionally mature of the brothers, Asmo right below him. The reason why I think that is Mammon has incredible hold on his powers and temper. He has every right to be angry and every right to lash out to his brothers with the way they treat him. But he doesn't. Because he's emotionally capable and mentally strong. Even Lucifer, the strongest of them, lashes out multiple times through out the story. Yet we've never seen Mammon, the second born and second strongest, with every right to be mad at those around him, even so much as raise a finger.

Mammon has taken care of his younger brothers when they fell, he was the second to crash and first to follow Lucifer. He said fuck you all and followed after his older brother. He's incredibly loyal and reliable no matter how "dumb" he is, he's always ready to do anything for the ones he holds dear. He can very much assert dominance the way Lucifer does if he wanted to but he doesn't because he knows, at the end of the day, that those are his brothers, and scaring them the way Lucifer scares Mammon won't help.

He lets his brothers walk all over him because he cares about them. Even if they hurt him while doing so he knows it's their way of coping.

I believe that after they fell, with Lucifer obviously busy, Mammon had to take care of his brothers. He knew they were in a terrible condition and he knew making himself the object of their hurt and anger would help them cope. He let them make fun of him and blame him and humiliate him because he knew that no matter how hurt he was by it, his brothers would be better because they had a place they could direct their emotions at. Because he cared.

I think he did this especially with Levi. Because if you squint your eyes you can see that Levi is jealous of Mammon. Jealous of his carefreeness and laidback attitude, of his confidence. And his position as the second born, being above Levi, doesn't help it. He envied Mammon. Repulsed by himself because he saw everything he couldn't be in Mammon. And Mammon's aware of that. He knows Levi envies him, he understands it's because of his sin, so I think Mammon is especially a bit more lenient towards Levi because he wants Levi to feel better about himself.

The first thing he wants to do when they fall is to carve a place among the demons, a respectable position in Devildom for his brothers and himself so they don't get made fun of. He wants them to be comfortable in a strange place where nobody welcomes them by forcefully opening a space for them where nobody can make fun of them.

Mammon, no matter how dumb he may seem, is the most emotionally intellectual and understanding of his brothers. And he deserves better than the treatment he gets; hell he knows he deserves better. But if it's for the greater good of his brothers he doesn't mind it.

Mammon is caring and complex and I don't want to see anyone saying otherwise.

[eugism]

I think the horror potential of Obey Me is sooo overlooked.

Like sir, you're living with seven of the strongest demons in Hell. And yeah, it's easy to forget that sometimes but the stuff you can do with it?

For example, a lot of people forget that Leviathan is literally the Grand Admiral of Hell's Navy. He's been to wars and he has most definitely killed people. Every brother—one way or the other—has killed people. And the potential it has is so high it drives me insane when people don't even think about it.

Yes, the game is light hearted but come on, you live with demons, the stuff they've done (and still do) can and will be morally wrong, and God, do I love it.

The brothers are still big shots in Devildom. Right under Diavolo himself. I like to imagine that a lot of demons are scared of them. You can't look me in the eyes and tell me that a lowly demon can have an argument with Satan, for example, and not get their head blown off. Death doesn't really mean much, especially when it's a low ranked demon they could find a million of in the span of minutes. The brothers are old asf and they've seen the wars in Devildom, too. They most likely fought in them.

Now you may have the argument of "But Mammon constantly gets kicked out of casinos, he gets beaten blah blah" and to that I say; He's Mammon. No matter how pathetic he may seem he's still the second eldest. And if you ask me, one of the most emotionally intelligent and mature ones among the brothers. The reason why Mammon is so often walked over is because he doesn't show his strenght. He has the emotional capability and general strenght to not lose his cool even if he's getting insulted by a low-life who he could obliterate in a second.

But back on track, as I was saying, I believe that all of the brothers have killed people, justified or not, and I just need more fics where they're horrifying demons. Batshit insane. A flick of the wrist and blood's everywhere. The angst you could pull off with it makes my mouth water. Like, just imagine accidentally witnessing one of the brothers killing someone and act like it's nothing. THE POTENTIALLL OH LOOOORDDDDDDD