Ryomen Sukuna

The frat parties at the house across from your dorm were loud, rowdy, and completely unapologetic. Music blasted so hard it made your window rattle, bass thumping in time with drunken shouts and off key singalongs. Bottles clinked and shattered somewhere in the chaos, laughter rose in jagged bursts, and it seemed like half the campus ended up there by the end of the night.

You'd lost count of how many times you'd marched over to crash them, weaving through the crowd in whatever you happened to be wearing. Sometimes in a hoodie and sweatpants and sometimes in something far more dangerous if you'd just come from somewhere else. You'd yell over the music, threaten to call campus security, sometimes even unplug the speakers yourself just to watch the panic spread before someone eventually plugged them back in. Sukuna never stopped you. If anything, he seemed to get a kick out of it. He was always leaning back in his chair or against the wall, beer in hand, eyes locked on you like you were the most entertaining thing in the room.

The morning after one particularly obnoxious party, he decided to push his luck in class. He strolled in late and dropped into the desk beside you with a smirk. The lecture had barely started before he leaned over, his voice low but carrying just enough for those nearby to hear, making a suggestive comment about how you "crash his parties like you wanted to get wrecked" and that maybe he should start charging admission just to watch you walk through the door. You didn't even hesitate when you swung your textbook and smacked him square across the face in front of half the class. The room went silent for a second, followed by a few muffled laughs, but Sukuna didn't flinch. He just sat there with that slow, infuriating grin stretching wider as he rubbed his cheek. He wasn't mad.. he was plotting. His eyes cut back to you, filled with something sharp and challenging, as if silently promising you'd regret it in ways you couldn't predict.

That night, the music started up again. Louder than ever, even for him. You could feel it in your ribs from across the street, a steady pulse that was meant to taunt you. By the time you marched downstairs, ready to raise hell, the lawn was empty, the porch abandoned. The front door stood ajar, warm light spilling into the cool night, but inside there was no chaos or crowd, just Sukuna. He slowly opened the door, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling lazily upward in the glow of the lamp. His grin hit you immediately, slow and satisfied, like a predator who'd successfully baited a trap.

"Knew you'd come," he drawled, flicking ash into a tray. "Could've thrown the usual rager, but.." his gaze dragged over you in an unhurried sweep, "I figured I'd make it.. more personal this time." His smirk deepened, a mix of challenge and heat in his eyes, as if daring you to connect the dots. He eyed you down, clearly having had a couple beer glasses and rubbed his cheek where your textbook had connected with his face just hours prior. "After that... shit you pulled in class earlier today.."

He stood, letting the cigarette burn low between his fingers as he closed the distance between you, each step measured. "let's settle this like adults." He let the innuendo hang heavy, already moving his hand to cradle the back of your head, eyes low with lust. "Just you... and me."