barbe

the second your flip-flops hit the sand, kai spots you.

“there she is! the pink menace graces us with her presence!”

heads turn. cheers. someone wolf-whistles—probably ryo. you flip them off with both hands and keep walking.

sukuna’s already there, of course.

he’s leaning against one of the coolers like he invented leaning, black tank stretched across his chest, board shorts slung low enough you can see the sharp cut of his hip bones when he shifts. hair loose and messy from the wind, tattoos catching firelight. he’s holding a beer bottle by the neck, thumb rubbing the label absentmindedly, and the second he sees you his whole posture changes—just a fraction, shoulders squaring, eyes locking on like radar.

you pretend not to notice.

you grab a drink instead. crack it open. take a long sip. ignore the way your pulse kicks up when he pushes off the cooler and starts walking toward you.

kai intercepts first.

“yo, sukuna, look who finally showed up. you gonna stop staring holes through her or what?”

sukuna doesn’t even flinch.

“mind your business, dreads.”

kai grins wider. “nah, this is group business now. we’re all suffering.”

ryo appears out of nowhere with leo in tow. “yeah, man. the tension is killing the vibe. just kiss already so the rest of us can breathe.”

you choke on your beer.

sukuna’s jaw ticks.

“shut the fuck up.”

leo—twelve years old and zero filter—pipes up. “you two are worse than my parents before they got divorced. just make out or whatever.”

you point at him. “you’re grounded from glowsticks.”

“you can’t ground me, you’re not my mom.”

“try me.”

sukuna grabs your elbow—light, but enough to steer you away from the roasting circle. “come on. before they start a petition.”

you let him pull you toward the fire. shoulders brushing. heat from the flames licking your skin, heat from him worse.

someone cranks the music. someone else starts a terrible game of never-have-i-ever that immediately devolves into chaos. kai yells “never have i ever wanted to punch someone i also wanted to kiss” and half the circle drinks—including both of you.

you lock eyes over your cup.

he smirks.

you roll your eyes.

but you drink.

the group notices.

ryo claps. “there it is! progress!”

“fuck off,” you both say at the same time.

everyone loses it.

later the energy shifts—someone drags out a beat-up acoustic guitar, someone else starts passing around shots of something that tastes like coconut and regret. you end up sitting on a driftwood log, knees pulled up, sarong slipping off one shoulder. sukuna drops down next to you without asking. thigh pressed to thigh. deliberate.

you don’t move away.

neither does he.

“you’re quiet tonight,” he says. low. just for you.

“i’m plotting your demise.”

“again?”

“it’s a full-time job.”

he huffs a laugh. takes a pull from his beer. “you’re shit at it.”

“says the guy who’s still wearing my bracelet.”

he glances down at his wrist. the thin silver chain with star charms glints in the firelight. he hasn’t taken it off since that night on the curb.

“it’s stuck,” he mutters.

“sure.”

silence stretches. comfortable. crackling.

then kai—fucking kai—stands up on a cooler like he’s about to give a speech.

“alright listen up! we’ve all been patient. we’ve watched the staring. the snaking. the fake fights. the jewelry. the rescue mission when she overslept. we’re done.”

groans from the group. someone yells “get on with it!”

kai points between you and sukuna.

“you two are either gonna admit you’re into each other or we’re tying you together with leo’s glowsticks until you figure it out.”

leo cheers. “i have more in my bag!”

you feel your face burn.

sukuna’s grip tightens on his bottle.

“you’re all idiots,” he says. flat.

“and you’re both cowards,” ryo adds helpfully.

you stand up fast. “i need another drink.”

you walk away before anyone can stop you. heart hammering. cheeks hot. you grab a fresh beer from the cooler, twist the cap off too hard, take a swig that’s mostly foam.

sukuna follows.

of course he does.

he corners you near the edge of the light, where the fire fades into shadow and the waves sound louder.

“you running?”

“i’m walking aggressively.”

he steps closer. blocks the path back to the group.

“they’re not wrong.”

you look up at him. firelight dancing in his eyes. red on red.

“about what?”

“the tension.”

your breath catches.

“you admitting something, big guy?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

just looks at you.

long.

slow.

like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“maybe.”

you swallow.

“maybe’s not an answer.”

he reaches out. slow. fingers brush the bow at the back of your neck—the one holding your bikini top together. he doesn’t pull. just traces the knot.

“you tie this too loose on purpose?”

“maybe.”

his thumb presses—just enough to feel your pulse jump.

“stop saying maybe.”

“stop being vague.”

he leans in. close enough you can smell salt and smoke and whatever cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear.

“fine.”

his voice drops.

“i like you.”

three words.

simple.

devastating.

your brain blanks.

“you—what?”

“i like you. the attitude. the pink board. the way you surf like you’re trying to prove the ocean wrong. the way you wear those stupid necklaces and act like they’re armor. i like you. been liking you since you stole my wave and smiled like you invented smiling.”

you stare.

heart in your throat.

“you’re serious.”

“dead serious.”

you open your mouth. close it.

then—because you’re you—

“took you long enough, fatty.”

he laughs. low. rough.

“yeah. i’m slow.”

you step closer. tip your chin up.

“so what now?”

he looks at your mouth again. longer this time.

“now i—”

a scream cuts through the night.

high-pitched. panicked.

“LEO!”

you both whip around.

leo’s standing knee-deep in the water holding a live crab by one claw. the crab is not happy. leo is screaming like it’s a horror movie. kai’s doubled over laughing. ryo’s filming. the whole group is losing their minds.

sukuna exhales. forehead drops to your shoulder for half a second.

“fucking kids.”

you laugh. shaky. adrenaline still buzzing.

“timing.”

“worst timing.”

he pulls back. looks at you.

“we’re not done.”

you nod. small smile.

“not even close.”

he reaches down. laces his fingers through yours. squeezes once.

“come on. let’s save the idiot before he loses a finger.”

you let him pull you back toward the chaos.

hand in hand.

group notices immediately.

kai whoops so loud it echoes off the water.

“finally!”

leo—still holding the crab—yells “does this mean i can stop being the third wheel?”

sukuna flips him off with his free hand.

you squeeze sukuna’s fingers tighter.

he squeezes back.

the night spins on—music louder, drinks stronger, laughter sharper.

but under it all—

his thumb keeps brushing the back of your hand.

your shoulder keeps bumping his.

and when the fire dies down and people start drifting home, he doesn’t let go.

the bonfire’s down to glowing coals by the time the last of the group stumbles off toward their places. music’s faded to a low hum from someone’s forgotten speaker, waves louder now in the quiet. you’re both buzzed—more than buzzed, really. the coconut rum shots caught up fast, warm and loose in your limbs, everything soft at the edges. sukuna’s arm is slung around your shoulders like it belongs there, heavy and warm, fingers tracing lazy circles on your bare upper arm where the sarong slipped down hours ago. you lean into him because it feels good, because the sand is shifting under your feet and because his body heat is the only thing keeping the night chill off your skin.

he walks you back slow. no rush. path winds between palms, string lights from the party fading behind you until it’s just moonlight and the occasional flash of bioluminescence in the shallows. your flip-flops dangle from one hand; his are long gone somewhere near the cooler. bare feet in sand, toes brushing every few steps. neither of you talks much. just the sound of breathing, the rustle of your sarong against his thigh, the low scrape of his voice when he mutters something about how you’re walking like you’re trying to trip on purpose.

“i’m not,” you say, but you’re giggling anyway, the kind of drunk giggle that makes your stomach hurt.

“sure you’re not. you’re doing it on purpose so i have to carry you.”

“try it. see what happens.”

he stops. looks down at you. red eyes glassy from the alcohol, pupils blown wide in the dark. firelight’s gone but the moon catches the sharp line of his jaw, the faint smirk that never quite leaves.

“tempting.”

you sway closer. chest brushes his. the thin fabric of your bikini top does nothing to hide how hard your nipples are from the night air and from him looking at you like that.

he exhales rough. thumb hooks under the bow at your neck—same one he teased earlier. tugs once. not enough to undo it. just enough to make the top shift, fabric sliding against sensitive skin.

“keep walking,” he says. voice gravel. “before i do something stupid out here.”

you laugh again. breathy. “like what?”

“like fuck you against the nearest palm until you forget how to talk back.”

your thighs clench. heat pools low and immediate.

“promises.”

he growls—actual growl, low in his chest—and starts walking again. faster this time. arm tight around you. you stumble once. he catches you. hauls you up against his side like you weigh nothing.

your place appears too soon. little wooden stairs. porch light flickering because the bulb’s been dying for weeks. you fumble the key. he takes it from your shaking fingers, unlocks the door one-handed, pushes it open.

inside smells like salt and your coconut candle and the faint trace of sunscreen still on your skin. door clicks shut behind you both. he doesn’t bother with lights. moonlight spills through the cheap curtains, enough to see the shape of him, the way his chest rises fast.

you turn. back against the door. look up.

“you gonna stand there all night or—”

he kisses you.

not gentle.

not slow.

his mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it. one hand fists in your hair, angles your head, tongue pushing past your lips without asking. tastes like rum and salt and him. you moan into it—loud, shameless—hands scrambling up his chest, nails digging into the black tank. he groans back. deep. vibrating.

he breaks away just long enough to yank the tank over his head. throws it somewhere. skin hot under your palms. tattoos rough against your fingertips. you trace the lines without thinking—while he works the knot at your neck. bow unravels easy. bikini top falls. cool air hits your nipples. they pebble instantly.

“fuck,” he mutters. stares. then ducks his head.

mouth closes over one nipple. hot. wet. tongue flicks. then sucks. hard. you arch. gasp. fingers twist in his hair. he switches sides. teeth graze just enough to sting. pleasure spikes sharp and bright. your hips jerk forward, seeking friction.

he pulls back. eyes dark. pupils swallowing red.

“bed.”

you don’t argue.

he scoops you up—easy, like you’re nothing—carries you the five steps to the mattress. drops you down. follows. knees bracketing your hips. kisses you again while his hands roam. palms rough over your ribs, your waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. you arch into it. whine when he pinches a nipple between thumb and finger. rolls it slow. then harder.

“you're sensitive,” he murmurs against your mouth. sounds pleased.

“your fault.”

“good.”

he slides down. kisses a path—collarbone, sternum, stomach. pauses at the knot of your sarong. unties it with his teeth. fabric falls away. bikini bottoms next. strings pulled slow. deliberate. he peels them off like unwrapping something fragile. you’re bare under him. wet. aching.

he looks.

stares.

“pretty,” he says. rough. reverent.

then lowers his head.

first lick is broad. flat tongue dragging from your entrance to your clit. you cry out. hips buck. he pins them down with one forearm. heavy. unyielding. then goes to work.

sucks your clit between his lips. flicks. circles. two fingers slide inside—slow at first. curls. finds the spot that makes your back bow. pumps steady while his tongue works faster. you’re loud. can’t help it. moans turn to gasps turn to pleas. “sukuna—fuck—please—”

he growls against you. vibration sends you spiraling. fingers crook harder. tongue relentless. you shatter. thighs clamp around his head. back arched. vision white. he doesn’t stop. works you through it. draws it out until you’re shaking. whimpering.

pulls back. lips shiny. chin wet. looks feral.

climbs back up. kisses you deep. you taste yourself on his tongue. filthy. perfect.

he shoves his shorts down. cock springs free—heavy, thick, flushed dark. tip leaking. no condom. doesn’t even ask. neither do you.

you reach down. wrap your hand around him. stroke once. twice. he hisses. hips jerk.

“want you inside,” you breathe.

“yeah?”

“now.”

he notches at your entrance. pushes in slow.

you both groan.

he’s big. stretches you wide. inch by inch. you feel every ridge. every vein. he bottoms out. pelvis flush to yours. stays there. lets you adjust. forehead pressed to yours. breathing ragged.

“move.”

he does.

first thrust shallow. testing. then deeper. harder. you wrap your legs around his waist. heels dig into his ass. urge him faster. he obliges. pace builds quick. rough. bed creaks. headboard thumps the wall. skin slaps skin. wet sounds fill the room.

he tries to be careful—you feel it. the way his hands grip your hips instead of bruising. the way he angles so he hits deep but not too deep. but it’s sukuna. gentle isn’t in his wiring.

he snaps his hips harder. once. twice. you cry out. nails rake down his back. leave red lines. he likes it. growls. fucks into you deeper. faster. one hand finds your breast. pinches the nipple. rolls it. tugs. pleasure-pain shoots straight to your core.

“again,” you gasp.

he does. switches sides. mouth on your neck now. teeth scrape. sucks a mark just under your jaw. you’ll have to cover it tomorrow. don’t care.

he shifts. hooks one of your legs over his shoulder. changes the angle. hits deeper. harder. you scream—actual scream. he covers your mouth with his palm. not to silence. just to feel it.

“gonna come,” you mumble against his skin.

“do it.”

you do.

clench around him. hard. pulsing. vision blacks out for a second. he fucks you through it. relentless. chasing his own.

he groans. broken. hips stutter. buries deep. comes hard. hot pulses fill you. you feel every one. clench around him to milk it out. he shudders. collapses half on top of you. breathing harsh against your neck.

stays inside. softening slow. neither of you moves to pull away.

his hand finds yours. laces fingers. squeezes.

you turn your head. kiss his temple. salty.

“still an asshole,” you whisper.

he huffs a laugh. breath hot on your skin.

“yeah. your asshole now.”

you smile. sleepy. sated.

“good.”

he rolls to the side. pulls you with him. keeps you tucked against his chest. cock still inside. softening. warm. full.

his hand strokes down your spine. lazy. possessive.

“sleep,” he murmurs.

you hum. already drifting.

moonlight spills across the bed.

waves crash outside.

his heartbeat thumps steady under your cheek.

tomorrow can wait.

right now—

this is enough.

you wake up tangled in sheets that smell like salt, rum, and him. sunlight filters through the thin curtains in lazy stripes across the bed, catching on the silver star bracelet still looped around his wrist where it rests heavy on your hip. sukuna’s arm is slung over you like he’s claiming territory even in sleep, chest rising slow against your back, breath warm on your neck. his cock—soft now—is still pressed against the curve of your ass from when he pulled you close sometime in the night and refused to let go.

you shift. just a little. test the waters.

he grunts. low. annoyed. tightens his hold.

“stop moving.”

“i have to pee.”

“hold it.”

“i’m not gonna hold it.”

he exhales through his nose like you personally offended him, then rolls onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arm flopping off you. “fine. abandon me.”

you laugh—scratchy, morning voice—and crawl out of bed. legs feel like jelly. thighs sticky. deliciously sore. you don’t bother covering up; he’s already seen everything. twice. three times if you count the shower you never made it to last night.

the bathroom is tiny. mirror fogged from the humidity that never leaves. you pee, splash water on your face, brush your teeth with the spare toothbrush he apparently decided was his now. when you come back he’s sitting up against the headboard, sheets pooled at his waist, tattoos stark in the morning light, hair a disaster of pink spikes and bedhead.

he looks at you. slow. appreciative.

“you gonna stand there naked or come back?”

“shower first.”

“together?”

“if you behave.”

he smirks. “no promises.”

you roll your eyes but don’t argue when he follows you into the bathroom. water’s lukewarm—hot water heater gave up years ago here. it was always too hot outside to notice anyway. he crowds you against the tiles the second the spray hits. hands everywhere. soap suds sliding down your back, his chest, between you. he washes your hair like it’s a chore he secretly enjoys, fingers massaging your scalp until you’re humming against his throat.

he’s gentle in the shower. almost. thumbs brushing your nipples slow circles while he kisses the mark he left on your neck. you soap his chest, trace the ink with slippery fingers, feel him harden against your thigh again.

“already?” you murmur.

“you’re naked. what’d you expect?”

you laugh. rinse the shampoo out. rinse him off. rinse yourself. he turns the water colder at the end just to make you yelp. payback for something. you don’t remember what.

towels. half-assed drying. you pull on the flamingo bikini again because it’s closest. he grabs yesterday’s black board shorts from the floor. no shirt. obviously.

breakfast is instant coffee and the last two bananas from the counter. you eat sitting on the edge of the bed, legs swinging. he stands between your knees, feeding you bites of banana like you’re incapable.

“i have hands.”

“yeah. busy ones.” he nods at where your fingers are already tracing the line of hair below his navel.

you flick his stomach. he catches your wrist. kisses the pulse point. soft. unexpected.

then he clears his throat. “beach.”

“beach.”

the walk down is lazy. sun already high. air thick with salt and sunscreen and the faint smell of last night’s bonfire smoke still clinging to your skin. your tote bounces against your hip. his board under one arm, yours under the other because he insisted on carrying it. “don’t argue,” he said. you did anyway. lost anyway.

the lineup is small today. smaller swell. clean but lazy. kai’s already out there, dreads tied back, waving like an idiot when he sees you two walk up together. ryo’s sprawled on the sand with leo building some kind of sand fortress that looks more like a crime scene.

“morning lovers!” kai yells from the water.

sukuna flips him off without breaking stride.

you drop your stuff in the usual spot. wax your board. he watches you do it, arms crossed, smirk permanent.

“you’re slow.”

“you’re impatient.”

“same thing.”

you paddle out together. sit side by side on the peak. knees bumping under the water. no one snakes. no one drops in. just riding. trading waves. carving lazy turns. you catch one clean, kick out near him. he’s already paddling back, grinning like he’s proud.

“not bad.”

“high praise.”

“don’t get used to it.”

you splash him. he splashes back harder. you both end up laughing, water dripping from lashes, sun hot on your shoulders.

back on the sand later—lunch break. kai tosses you a bag of chips. ryo’s playing some playlist that’s half reggae, half bad pop. leo’s trying to teach sukuna how to do a handstand. sukuna’s pretending not to care but he’s spotting the kid anyway.

you’re lying on your towel, sunglasses on, sarong half-open, letting the sun dry the salt on your skin. sukuna drops down beside you eventually. steals half your water bottle. drinks like he’s dying.

“thirsty?”

“your fault.”

“how?”

“you look like that.” he gestures vaguely at your bikini, your legs, the way the sun catches the gold chain around your ankle.

you snort. “smooth.”

“i’m trying.”

someone—probably ryo—decides it’s time for chaos again.

a girl from one of the tourist groups wanders over. tall. tanned. board under her arm. clearly knows how to surf. she smiles at sukuna. bright. interested.

“hey. you’re the guy who rips on that black board, right? saw you yesterday. insane cutbacks.”

sukuna barely glances up. “yeah.”

she doesn’t take the hint. leans on her board. “you give lessons?”

you feel something hot and sharp twist in your chest.

he feels it too—because his hand lands on your thigh. possessive. casual. thumb stroking once.

“nah. taken.”

the girl blinks. looks at you. back at him. smiles anyway. “cool. maybe i’ll see you out there.”

she walks off.

you sit up. sunglasses pushed into your hair.

“taken?”

he doesn’t look sorry.

“problem?”

“you didn’t even hesitate.”

“why would i?”

you stare.

he stares back.

then—quiet, almost annoyed—

“i like you, alright? like, i stupid like you. i like waking up checking if you’re still breathing like some idiot. like carrying your dumb pink board because i want an excuse to walk next to you. i can’t look at anyone else without comparing them to your attitude and your stupid lip gloss and the way you surf like you’re pissed at the ocean for existing. so yeah. taken. deal with it.”

silence.

waves crash.

your heart slams.

then you laugh. sharp. disbelieving.

“that’s the worst confession i’ve ever heard.”

he scowls. ears faintly red.

“fuck you then.”

“you already did.”

he groans. scrubs a hand over his face.

“you’re impossible.”

“you like it.”

“yeah. i do. asshole.”

you lean in. kiss him quick. salty. sun-warm.

pull back.

“i like you too. stupidly. annoyingly. i like showing up every day just to see if you’ll call me princess again. like keping that claw clip in my tote for weeks hoping you’d steal it. i hate how good you are at surfing because it makes me want to beat you even more. i like you too. don’t let it go to your head. it's already big enough.”

he stares.

then smirks. slow. dangerous.

“too late.”

you shove his shoulder. he catches your wrist. pulls you down until you’re half in his lap.

“still gonna fight you for waves though.”

“good. i’d be bored otherwise.”

kai yells from ten feet away. “they’re finally admitting it! someone record this!”

ryo’s already got his phone out.

sukuna flips them both off.

you laugh into his neck.

back in the water later.

sun dipping lower.

waves still coming.

you paddle out together.

sit side by side.

next set rolls in.

you both spin.

he takes the peak.

you drop in behind him anyway.

he yells over his shoulder.

“snake!”

“earn it!”

he laughs. loud. real.

carves hard. sprays you on purpose.

you chase him down the line.

still competitive.

still bickering.

still together.

still arguing over who gets the last wave of the day.

still holding hands under the water when no one’s looking.

still everything you were before.

just more.

The next day, he invited you to his spot. To listen. To smoke. To just... be.

Honestly it could have ended badly and it would have been the worst decision you ever made. But the vibe—the intensity— You didn’t have to speak. Just your eyes did all the talking.

It wasn’t lust. Not really. It was that aching, desperate something that clutches your ribs and won’t let go. You didn’t know if he felt the same, so you played it casual.

Casual as in… Basically living together. Unspoken everything. No sex. No labels. Just you and him.

He’d send you unreleased tracks. Half-finished verses. You started running his page, organizing stuff, posting updates. You weren’t official. But you kind of became his manager. His shadow. His safe place. His favorite ear.

He never said thank you. Not in words, anyway. But every song had pieces of you in it. A line that sounded like something you once whispered. A beat that matched the rhythm of your laugh. A song titled with your birthday, but flipped backward so no one else would know.

And then it happened. One day, everything changed. Some random TikTok kid found one of the old tracks and used it for an edit. A week later—millions. Plays, likes, followers. He hated it. You watched him pace around the apartment, wild-eyed, muttering, “They don’t even get it.” “They’re just biting now.” “Where were they before?”

But you were still there. Sitting on his kitchen counter. Hoodie that wasn’t yours. Eyes tired but soft.

You handled it. Emails. DMs. Interview requests. Labels circling like vultures. You told him which ones to ignore. Which ones to play with. He let you do it. Trusted you. Only you.

He didn’t post selfies. Didn’t talk in interviews. He just kept making music. And every time, you were the first to hear it. Headphones passed between you. Knees touching. Eyes closed.

One night, he paused a track halfway through. You looked up at him. He didn’t say anything for a while.

Then “You think I’d be doing any of this if it weren’t for you?”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You just reached for the play button.But he stopped you. Caught your hand in his. Held it for a second too long. Then another.

Your chest felt like it would crack open. Still, nothing happened. Still, it was... casual.

A year into the fame, you were all the way in. No more crashing at his place—you lived there. The two of you had upgraded to a bigger apartment, one that felt more like a bunker than a home. Dark walls. Concrete floors. Unfinished ceiling that looked like it belonged in a warehouse.

But it was warm. It smelled like weed and sage and your shampoo. Music always humming from a speaker somewhere. Sometimes his guitar was just lying on the couch. Sometimes your books were. You shared space like you shared silence—easily.

You were still juggling school, barely hanging on some days, but you made time to manage his account, answer emails, line up deals. He made music and money. A lot of both. Labels wanted him. Brands begged. Venues called. You handled most of it. He hated everyone except you.

And the relationship is still undefined. Still everything.

He’d hold your hand in public. Pull you close when crossing the street. His arm would always be around your shoulders like it belonged there. To anyone watching, you were together. Like… together together. And maybe you were, just not officially. No titles. No pressure.

He kept his mystery locked up tight. Still no face. No selfies. No stories. That was about to change though. His first concert was coming, a real one. Not an underground event or livestream, but a sold-out, packed venue with screaming fans.

You asked him, quietly one night, “Are you nervous?” He just looked at you, exhaled smoke, and said, “Not about them. Just about you seeing me like that.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t need to. Just reached over, took his hand, and held it like you always did—like it was normal. Like he was yours.

---

The city was buzzing like a live wire. You could feel it in your teeth. The venue was packed, lines curling around the block. People had signs. Painted their faces. Screamed lyrics. It was insane.

You watched from backstage, heart beating a little too fast, wearing his leather jacket and tight short black dress.

He was pacing a little, fingers twitching, jaw tight. But he looked good. Too good. Tall, jacked, inked up— black tank clinging to him, tattoos peeking from his neck to his fingers. Hair messy like always, like he rolled out of bed and still looked like a god.

No mask tonight. No hood. This time, they’d see him.

You caught his eye just before he walked out. Just looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him. You nodded once. That was enough.

Then he stepped out.

And the place. Exploded.

Screams. Like actual shrieking. Phones shot up so fast the light almost blinded you. Someone in the front fainted. A girl sobbed. The crowd was feral.

He didn’t flinch. Just walked to the mic like he owned the world. When he finally spoke— “Yeah. It’s me.” —people LOST it.

A whole different war broke out online . “WHY IS HE HOT??” “I THOUGHT HE WAS UGLY???” “HE LOOKS LIKE HE KILLS PEOPLE AND WRITES POETRY ABOUT IT.” “Someone said he was faceless—why is he the face of my future now???”

His name trended within an hour. Clips went viral before the second song ended. People were pausing videos just to zoom in on his hands, his tattoos, his jawline. New fan accounts popped up in real-time.

But he only looked at you. Once. Halfway through the set, spotlight behind him, crowd screaming his name, he glanced toward the side of the stage. Found you. Smirked like the devil. Then tore into the next song like his soul was catching fire.

When it was over, and the venue started to empty out, he came offstage drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling. Still high off the energy, off the chaos. You handed him water. He took it, but didn’t drink. Just stared at you.

“They love me now,” he muttered. Then, quieter, “But I still only care what you think.”

Your throat closed up. You didn’t answer, didn’t need to.

He tossed the bottle. Stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. His hand found your face like he’d been meaning to do it for years. Fingers on your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. His forehead rested against yours, and he whispered, “Say something. Anything.”

You looked up at him, breath caught.

“You’re mine,” you said.

And this time, he kissed you.

---

The concert was over, but the night wasn’t.

You two didn’t even go back home. He tugged you into the car, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, saying nothing but “Let’s go out.” You didn’t ask where.

The club was already dark and pulsing by the time you got there. Lights flickering red, music loud enough to feel in your ribs. People turned when you walked in, like they knew. He hadn’t even been unmasked for four hours, but already, the city recognized him.

He didn’t care. Just grab your hand and pull you to the middle of the floor. Bodies everywhere, sweat, bass, smoke. And still, it felt like it was just you two.

He was behind you, hands on your waist. Not even grinding, not all sexual—just close. Like he wanted to keep you tethered to the ground. His face buried in your neck every now and then, lips ghosting skin. You leaned into it. Eyes closed. Smiling.

Someone recorded it. Of course they did.

Posted it within minutes.

On Twitter (or X whatever that cursed app is):

@.cryboutitgrl: this man just revealed his face and already pulled up to the club with the baddest girl i’ve ever seen????

@.undergroundangel666: bro was faceless yesterday now he’s 6'4 tatted and got a mysterious girlfriend. i’m sick. 😭

@.smokysylvia: wait wait wait. is she the one from the side stage?? the one he kept looking at????

@.hotguyshateus: yeah i zoomed in. it’s her. same leather jacket. same girl. he’s in love i’m sorry.

@.helooksinlove: she whispered something to him before the encore and he kissed her after the show. we lost. I fear the album’s gonna be sad and horny now 😩

The internet was spiraling. Fan edits were already in motion. Clips of him touching your face, that blurry club video, someone even managed to catch a shot of the two of you leaving the venue— his arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into his chest.

You checked his account the next morning. A million new followers. Inbox was flooded. Everyone wanted to know: Who was she? Who was the girl?

And all he did was post a blurry photo of the two of you sitting on the floor that night, you leaning against him, laughing into your cup, and him looking at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believe in.

Caption: “She been here since zero followers. Don’t ask again.”

--------

bonus::: the first text and meet up...

It was around 2:37 AM when you messaged him.

“idk why no one knows abt you yet. this is actually insane.”

You didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t even think he’d see it.

But twenty minutes later— “yo.” One dot. No emojis.

You blinked at the screen.

“that was you?” “the message?” “yeah. thanks.”

Simple. Dry. But then he asked: “wanna hear some unreleased?”

Your breath caught. “yeah.”

He sent a file. No title. Just noise at first. Then the beat dropped— low, almost crawling. His voice— raspy, like smoke and teeth. You could barely breathe.

Before you could even process, your phone lit up again.

“what’s your number” Not a question. Not begging.

You gave it.

Thirty seconds later: FaceTime.

Your heart slammed. You almost didn’t pick up. But your thumb moved on its own.

Click.

It was dark.

No light but the red glow of a monitor on his side. Backlit tattoos. Shadows across his jawline. Hair messy. Shirtless. Sitting back in a desk chair like he owned time.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

He looked at you. Eyes flickering across your face through the screen like he was studying something rare. A small smirk tugged at his lips.

“damn.”

One word. But it cracked something open.

You laughed, too soft. Told him he looked like a villain.

“good.” Then: “you real?”

You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head. Let him stare.

And then, just like that— you both started talking. Not loud. Not excited. Just low. Whispers like secrets in a church.

He showed you the corner of his room. Posters. Wires. A mic stand leaning. Unfinished lyrics on the wall in sharpie.

“i stay up all night,” he said. “no one to talk to.”

“you do now,” you whispered.

His lips twitched. He leaned forward like he was trying to see more of you through the screen.

“can i call you again?”

You bit your lip.

“i’m not hanging up.”

And you didn’t. Not until the sun started bleeding through your windows. Not until your eyelids got too heavy. He didn’t say goodbye. Just watched you drift off to sleep. And whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it:

“don’t leave.”

You woke up with your phone in your hand, battery barely alive. Your screen still had his name on it. Still connected. He never hung up.

You sat up slow, blinking through sleep. Heart pounding when you remember everything. The music. The call. His voice. The way he watched you fall asleep like he meant to remember it forever.

And then—your phone buzzed.

him: “u still down to pull up?”

No address. No time.

Just that.

And still… you replied: “drop the pin.”

You didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t even think it through. He could’ve been a killer. Could’ve chopped you up, turned you into a beat.

But your chest was quiet. Calm.

It was cold when you stepped out. Your hoodie swallowed your frame. Headphones in, but no music playing— just replaying his voice in your head like a loop. When you reached his spot, it looked like nothing. Gray building. No buzzers. Just a metal door and the pin.

You texted him once.

No reply.

Then the door creaked open. And there he was. Tall. Sleeves rolled up. Tattoos crawling up his arms. Hood half on. Eyes heavy like he hadn’t slept.

He looked at you for two full seconds before stepping back.

“come in.”

You did.

It was dark. Not scary dark—just dim. Curtains closed. Cigarette smoke faint in the air. There was a speaker set up on the floor and wires running like veins all over the place. A mic stand crooked in the corner. A mattress on the ground, black sheets. And his scent—something between weed, laundry, and the ghost of cologne.

You stood there like you were in a museum.

He didn’t touch you. Just nodded toward the couch.

“u want tea? or... water? i got like 4 capri suns too.”

You laughed. He smiled for real that time.

You stayed for hours. Then one day.

Then two.

The playlist never stopped. He let you read his notebooks. You found one where your name was scribbled on the top corner of a page.

He didn’t explain.

At night, he didn’t try anything. Just let you lay next to him, in his clothes, backs turned but feet tangled.

You remember the first time he turned to you in the dark and whispered: “i don’t like being alone anymore.”

And you said, without thinking:

“me neither.”

------

The next day, he invited you to his spot. To listen. To smoke. To just... be.

Honestly it could have ended badly and it would have been the worst decision you ever made. But the vibe—the intensity— You didn’t have to speak. Just your eyes did all the talking.

It wasn’t lust. Not really. It was that aching, desperate something that clutches your ribs and won’t let go. You didn’t know if he felt the same, so you played it casual.

Casual as in… Basically living together. Unspoken everything. No sex. No labels. Just you and him.

He’d send you unreleased tracks. Half-finished verses. You started running his page, organizing stuff, posting updates. You weren’t official. But you kind of became his manager. His shadow. His safe place. His favorite ear.

He never said thank you. Not in words, anyway. But every song had pieces of you in it. A line that sounded like something you once whispered. A beat that matched the rhythm of your laugh. A song titled with your birthday, but flipped backward so no one else would know.

And then it happened. One day, everything changed. Some random TikTok kid found one of the old tracks and used it for an edit. A week later—millions. Plays, likes, followers. He hated it. You watched him pace around the apartment, wild-eyed, muttering, “They don’t even get it.” “They’re just biting now.” “Where were they before?”

But you were still there. Sitting on his kitchen counter. Hoodie that wasn’t yours. Eyes tired but soft.

You handled it. Emails. DMs. Interview requests. Labels circling like vultures. You told him which ones to ignore. Which ones to play with. He let you do it. Trusted you. Only you.

He didn’t post selfies. Didn’t talk in interviews. He just kept making music. And every time, you were the first to hear it. Headphones passed between you. Knees touching. Eyes closed.

One night, he paused a track halfway through. You looked up at him. He didn’t say anything for a while.

Then “You think I’d be doing any of this if it weren’t for you?”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You just reached for the play button.But he stopped you. Caught your hand in his. Held it for a second too long. Then another.

Your chest felt like it would crack open. Still, nothing happened. Still, it was... casual.

A year into the fame, you were all the way in. No more crashing at his place—you lived there. The two of you had upgraded to a bigger apartment, one that felt more like a bunker than a home. Dark walls. Concrete floors. Unfinished ceiling that looked like it belonged in a warehouse.

But it was warm. It smelled like weed and sage and your shampoo. Music always humming from a speaker somewhere. Sometimes his guitar was just lying on the couch. Sometimes your books were. You shared space like you shared silence—easily.

You were still juggling school, barely hanging on some days, but you made time to manage his account, answer emails, line up deals. He made music and money. A lot of both. Labels wanted him. Brands begged. Venues called. You handled most of it. He hated everyone except you.

And the relationship is still undefined. Still everything.

He’d hold your hand in public. Pull you close when crossing the street. His arm would always be around your shoulders like it belonged there. To anyone watching, you were together. Like… together together. And maybe you were, just not officially. No titles. No pressure.

He kept his mystery locked up tight. Still no face. No selfies. No stories. That was about to change though. His first concert was coming, a real one. Not an underground event or livestream, but a sold-out, packed venue with screaming fans.

You asked him, quietly one night, “Are you nervous?” He just looked at you, exhaled smoke, and said, “Not about them. Just about you seeing me like that.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t need to. Just reached over, took his hand, and held it like you always did—like it was normal. Like he was yours.

---

The city was buzzing like a live wire. You could feel it in your teeth. The venue was packed, lines curling around the block. People had signs. Painted their faces. Screamed lyrics. It was insane.

You watched from backstage, heart beating a little too fast, wearing his leather jacket and tight short black dress.

He was pacing a little, fingers twitching, jaw tight. But he looked good. Too good. Tall, jacked, inked up— black tank clinging to him, tattoos peeking from his neck to his fingers. Hair messy like always, like he rolled out of bed and still looked like a god.

No mask tonight. No hood. This time, they’d see him.

You caught his eye just before he walked out. Just looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him. You nodded once. That was enough.

Then he stepped out.

And the place. Exploded.

Screams. Like actual shrieking. Phones shot up so fast the light almost blinded you. Someone in the front fainted. A girl sobbed. The crowd was feral.

He didn’t flinch. Just walked to the mic like he owned the world. When he finally spoke— “Yeah. It’s me.” —people LOST it.

A whole different war broke out online . “WHY IS HE HOT??” “I THOUGHT HE WAS UGLY???” “HE LOOKS LIKE HE KILLS PEOPLE AND WRITES POETRY ABOUT IT.” “Someone said he was faceless—why is he the face of my future now???”

His name trended within an hour. Clips went viral before the second song ended. People were pausing videos just to zoom in on his hands, his tattoos, his jawline. New fan accounts popped up in real-time.

But he only looked at you. Once. Halfway through the set, spotlight behind him, crowd screaming his name, he glanced toward the side of the stage. Found you. Smirked like the devil. Then tore into the next song like his soul was catching fire.

When it was over, and the venue started to empty out, he came offstage drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling. Still high off the energy, off the chaos. You handed him water. He took it, but didn’t drink. Just stared at you.

“They love me now,” he muttered. Then, quieter, “But I still only care what you think.”

Your throat closed up. You didn’t answer, didn’t need to.

He tossed the bottle. Stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. His hand found your face like he’d been meaning to do it for years. Fingers on your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. His forehead rested against yours, and he whispered, “Say something. Anything.”

You looked up at him, breath caught.

“You’re mine,” you said.

And this time, he kissed you.

---

The concert was over, but the night wasn’t.

You two didn’t even go back home. He tugged you into the car, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, saying nothing but “Let’s go out.” You didn’t ask where.

The club was already dark and pulsing by the time you got there. Lights flickering red, music loud enough to feel in your ribs. People turned when you walked in, like they knew. He hadn’t even been unmasked for four hours, but already, the city recognized him.

He didn’t care. Just grab your hand and pull you to the middle of the floor. Bodies everywhere, sweat, bass, smoke. And still, it felt like it was just you two.

He was behind you, hands on your waist. Not even grinding, not all sexual—just close. Like he wanted to keep you tethered to the ground. His face buried in your neck every now and then, lips ghosting skin. You leaned into it. Eyes closed. Smiling.

Someone recorded it. Of course they did.

Posted it within minutes.

On Twitter (or X whatever that cursed app is):

@.cryboutitgrl: this man just revealed his face and already pulled up to the club with the baddest girl i’ve ever seen????

@.undergroundangel666: bro was faceless yesterday now he’s 6'4 tatted and got a mysterious girlfriend. i’m sick. 😭

@.smokysylvia: wait wait wait. is she the one from the side stage?? the one he kept looking at????

@.hotguyshateus: yeah i zoomed in. it’s her. same leather jacket. same girl. he’s in love i’m sorry.

@.helooksinlove: she whispered something to him before the encore and he kissed her after the show. we lost. I fear the album’s gonna be sad and horny now 😩

The internet was spiraling. Fan edits were already in motion. Clips of him touching your face, that blurry club video, someone even managed to catch a shot of the two of you leaving the venue— his arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into his chest.

You checked his account the next morning. A million new followers. Inbox was flooded. Everyone wanted to know: Who was she? Who was the girl?

And all he did was post a blurry photo of the two of you sitting on the floor that night, you leaning against him, laughing into your cup, and him looking at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believe in.

Caption: “She been here since zero followers. Don’t ask again.”

--------

bonus::: the first text and meet up...

It was around 2:37 AM when you messaged him.

“idk why no one knows abt you yet. this is actually insane.”

You didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t even think he’d see it.

But twenty minutes later— “yo.” One dot. No emojis.

You blinked at the screen.

“that was you?” “the message?” “yeah. thanks.”

Simple. Dry. But then he asked: “wanna hear some unreleased?”

Your breath caught. “yeah.”

He sent a file. No title. Just noise at first. Then the beat dropped— low, almost crawling. His voice— raspy, like smoke and teeth. You could barely breathe.

Before you could even process, your phone lit up again.

“what’s your number” Not a question. Not begging.

You gave it.

Thirty seconds later: FaceTime.

Your heart slammed. You almost didn’t pick up. But your thumb moved on its own.

Click.

It was dark.

No light but the red glow of a monitor on his side. Backlit tattoos. Shadows across his jawline. Hair messy. Shirtless. Sitting back in a desk chair like he owned time.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

He looked at you. Eyes flickering across your face through the screen like he was studying something rare. A small smirk tugged at his lips.

“damn.”

One word. But it cracked something open.

You laughed, too soft. Told him he looked like a villain.

“good.” Then: “you real?”

You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head. Let him stare.

And then, just like that— you both started talking. Not loud. Not excited. Just low. Whispers like secrets in a church.

He showed you the corner of his room. Posters. Wires. A mic stand leaning. Unfinished lyrics on the wall in sharpie.

“i stay up all night,” he said. “no one to talk to.”

“you do now,” you whispered.

His lips twitched. He leaned forward like he was trying to see more of you through the screen.

“can i call you again?”

You bit your lip.

“i’m not hanging up.”

And you didn’t. Not until the sun started bleeding through your windows. Not until your eyelids got too heavy. He didn’t say goodbye. Just watched you drift off to sleep. And whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it:

“don’t leave.”

You woke up with your phone in your hand, battery barely alive. Your screen still had his name on it. Still connected. He never hung up.

You sat up slow, blinking through sleep. Heart pounding when you remember everything. The music. The call. His voice. The way he watched you fall asleep like he meant to remember it forever.

And then—your phone buzzed.

him: “u still down to pull up?”

No address. No time.

Just that.

And still… you replied: “drop the pin.”

You didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t even think it through. He could’ve been a killer. Could’ve chopped you up, turned you into a beat.

But your chest was quiet. Calm.

It was cold when you stepped out. Your hoodie swallowed your frame. Headphones in, but no music playing— just replaying his voice in your head like a loop. When you reached his spot, it looked like nothing. Gray building. No buzzers. Just a metal door and the pin.

You texted him once.

No reply.

Then the door creaked open. And there he was. Tall. Sleeves rolled up. Tattoos crawling up his arms. Hood half on. Eyes heavy like he hadn’t slept.

He looked at you for two full seconds before stepping back.

“come in.”

You did.

It was dark. Not scary dark—just dim. Curtains closed. Cigarette smoke faint in the air. There was a speaker set up on the floor and wires running like veins all over the place. A mic stand crooked in the corner. A mattress on the ground, black sheets. And his scent—something between weed, laundry, and the ghost of cologne.

You stood there like you were in a museum.

He didn’t touch you. Just nodded toward the couch.

“u want tea? or... water? i got like 4 capri suns too.”

You laughed. He smiled for real that time.

You stayed for hours. Then one day.

Then two.

The playlist never stopped. He let you read his notebooks. You found one where your name was scribbled on the top corner of a page.

He didn’t explain.

At night, he didn’t try anything. Just let you lay next to him, in his clothes, backs turned but feet tangled.

You remember the first time he turned to you in the dark and whispered: “i don’t like being alone anymore.”

And you said, without thinking:

“me neither.”

------

You two went to college together. You were more of a willing wallflower, than anything—you just wanted to get your degree and get the hell out of there. Sukuna, on the other hand? Oh, well, he was the president of a fraternity.

The story was simple. You two crossed paths one day, Sukuna made fun of you for majoring in something so puny as journalism, and, for the rest of your time at that school, Sukuna decided he had nothing to lose and continued to tease you relentlessly. Day and night. Night and day.

Switching classes for the sake of rearranging your routes and schedule around campus did you no good. Sukuna was everywhere. 

You didn’t think bullying was a real thing outside of coming-of-age movies until the universe decided to intertwine your fate with a certain pink-haired devil. Well, alright, he didn’t bully you, exactly, but he might as well have had. The amount of times he crashed your club meetings or ruined the rare occasions you were dragged along to frat parties by your friends—just for the sake of seeing you enraged—was, inarguably, pretty adequate.

In any way, you eventually got your degree.

You first started a blog on political science; then, when you had acquired a large enough audience, you branched out to political figures—simply for pure fun, out of a pastime. Your readers absolutely ate it up, the way you were so blunt, the way you presented information without sugarcoating, and your lack of bias even in such a persuasive area of research.

One day, however, you decided to write about something else. While skimming through emails containing feedback, you decided to open up another column on your blog. There was no title, no synopsis (because it was only a short fragment), and yet, it was almost immediately a hit in the world of journalism.

In the eyes of your readers, you were openly slandering and criticizing a man named Ryoumen Sukuna. They had not an idea of who the man was (seeing as you didn’t even provide a picture for reference), but they did know that you absolutely loathed the guy. You wrote about his flaws, his discourtesy, his audacity.

You painted a picture of the man to your readers, who simply enjoyed the humor and sharpness of your descriptions of him. You milked every negative piece of information on the man that you could get your hands on—to the highest degree of what could be defined as ‘humanly possible.’

It was a funny escapade from political science, as noted by most of your readers. They would spend a few minutes reading your articles on the economic state of the world, and then, cool off while reading a short paragraph at the bottom of your column on, say, How Ryoumen Sukuna Stole Bread From Cafeterias. 

They were always petty excerpts, solely written for the purpose of being able to get your frustrations from the college days off of your chest. No one who read your blog knew who this mystery man was, but his name soon became one of the biggest reasons readers flocked to your blog. And, before you knew it, you had unintentionally developed your own ‘Sukuna Hate Club.’

With time passing by, and autumn leaves falling and the gifts of spring flourishing, your audience grew—as did your fame and name. Your short, humorous excerpts on the evil deeds of Ryoumen Sukuna during his alma mater soon lengthened, and you found yourself writing full columns on the man, to which your readers ate up, of course.

In your articles about him, you brought up information that failed to remain any bit relevant, seeing as neither of you two were still in college anymore; nevertheless, you continued to make silly headlines that, contrary to what most would believe, actually appealed to your growing audience. They just loved your dedication to trifling matters.

Since Sukuna liked to widely criticize journalism, you never feared the day he would eventually, if he did, find out about your little blog. Then again, how could he? You had never seen the man reading an article even a day of his life. Hell, you were even brave enough to not hide behind a pretentious pseudonym or anything of the like—you had no need.

Well, that was, up until Ryoumen Sukuna began to make a name for himself in the world of politics. Despite your blog’s purpose centering around such a topic, you did not make notice of the fact until Sukuna actually ran for president. Imagine how surprised you were to find out the man you had been openly slandering across your news column was now a candidate for presidency.

Your email was then flooded with replies from your readers, their surprise evident at the revelation of the Mystery Man™’s identity finally being revealed. Some commented about how “attractive” he was, whilst others took one good look at him and his overall dark atmosphere, and immediately believed everything you had ever said about him.

For the next week or so, however, you did not come out with any more writing, which left your readers a little worried for your life. You weren’t entirely sure whether you wanted to keep defaming Sukuna from behind a computer screen, and possibly end up getting sued; but, then, you remembered one of your rights from the First Amendment: Freedom of Press. And so, after a short time of self-reflection, you continued to publicly sully Ryoumen Sukuna’s name.

Now that you had more leverage than just your good old college days, (since Sukuna was a public figure), your articles branched out to his goals and ideals when it came to being elected as president. In full truth, he was a good candidate, but he was still a man in your eyes—and his personality had yet to have gotten any better. With this in mind, you frequently and openly wrote about his nasty attitude and out-of-this-world ego.

You knew he was bound to have seen at least one of your articles, however, because you had begun to make more headlines now that his name and campaign were being publicized.

It had been televised a few times: reporters asking a now thirty-five-year-old Sukuna his thoughts on a journalist explicitly slandering and criticizing his name across her blog’s column. They questioned what he planned to do about it, and whether he suspected it would veer ballots when the time of the election came.

But the man would always flash his signature shit-eating grin at the camera, and simply say, “The election is mine. A few articles won’t change that.”

He never officially responded to any claims you made, and never denied or corrected your allegations against him. The world now knew your name thanks to your flak. And, if Sukuna had a problem with your opprobrium, well, there would’ve been a Cease and Desist letter in your mail, but there wasn’t—you two hadn’t spoken in nearly a decade.

It had been nine years since you began writing about the man who made your college years a living Hell. You were both in your mid-thirties now. Sukuna was the newly elected 48th president of the United States, and you were the journalist rising in fame and fortune from your besmirching of that very man.

Life was good—until it wasn’t.

Instead of receiving a Cease and Desist letter in the mail one morning, (when you took an elevator down to the main floor), you received a manilla envelope with a maroon stamp. It was an invitation to a presidential gala, personally written by the president, himself, and personally addressed to you.

You wondered how Sukuna had your address, but that was a no-brainer—the man was probably the most powerful man in the country, for starters.

The envelope itself was simple but elegant, and the writing was handwritten—in cursive so beautiful that it had even you jealous at such finesse. But, as for the invitation . . . well, it could’ve used some work.

There was an address, a date, and a name for the party; and that was it. No apologies for making your college experience a living nightmare, no smalltalk, no mention of your blog or the fact that neither of you had spoken in nearly a decade. It was as if he was demanding you to attend.

You thought it more strange than anything. Sukuna had no reason to invite you to such a grand gala, but, contrary to popular belief, you had a few reasons for attending.

A) Publicity. B) Headlines. And, C) Well, you could use some more leverage on the man—and you were positively sure your readers would eat up any bit of scoop you could get on the very much exclusive gathering that was to take place.

Anyway, in the world of journalism, you had learned it was better to not ask questions when it could be avoided, so, before you knew it, you were opening your laptop, and ordering an evening gown (appropriate for a gala) accompanied with a pair of matching heels.

As a journalist who worked from the confines of your apartment, you didn’t wear much glam nowadays. Hoodies and sweats worked fine enough, but, every once in a while, you did like to dress up.

***

If there was one thing in the world you hated, however, it would have to be stuffy rooms and bustling crowds—which was exactly what the gala entailed.

A week had passed since you received your invitation, and you were now sitting at a bar in a pretentious hotel, where the gala’s venue was located. In all honesty, this was an upgrade from all those frat parties Sukuna used to host back at college; well, minus the drugs and all, but, still, the martinis were good.

Well, they were good—too bad you couldn’t finish your cocktail, though, because only a few seconds later, you were being dragged away from your seat by security, and pulled along down a hallway as you thrashed around and attempted to fight back.

It seemed not a single person, not even in the sea of people around in the room, noticed a woman being dragged away by security.

“Hey—! You jerk, excuse you! What do you think you’re . . . ?”

Your voice trailed off when you noticed a man standing at the end of the hallway. He was wearing a suit black as night, hands in his pockets. Your heart dropped to your stomach at the sight of it.

“That’ll do, Steiner.”

One command. One single command and that security guard was releasing your wrist, nodding to his superior, and walking back to his rightful post. You knew only one person who had that amount of authority, and that was . . .

“Sukuna.”

“In the flesh.” The pink-haired man, otherwise known as the host of the gala, took a step towards you, and didn’t hold an ounce of shame as he looked you up and down, eyes roaming your figure. “Well . . . , my, my, my, don’t you clean up nice, sweetheart.”

It had been nearly ten years, and the guy hadn’t changed. Not at all.

“It’s a social gathering—with A-listers,” you quipped. “I might as well look the part if I’m going to be surrounded by so many pompous figures.”

You two were standing face-to-face now, noses barely centimeters apart as your heels gave you some leverage against the six-foot-something behemoth of a man. It would be a spectacle to see, from the eyes of an outsider.

“You’re calling my guests pompous?” he pressed.

“Don’t play stupid.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Why did you invite me?”

“You’ve been making a name for yourself since we parted ways. Wanted to meet with a familiar face, is all. Is rekindling an old flame so bad?”

You laughed. “You think we’re old flames?”

“Wouldn’t you say so? Or,” Sukuna whispered in your ear, leaning downwards, “would ‘fuckbuddies’ work better for you?”

“That was . . .” You scoffed. “One time.”

“Don’t lie to your president.”

“. . . Maybe more than once.”

“Three times, but close enough.”

Sukuna pulled you by the elbow and grabbed you by the wrist as he dragged you towards the elevator behind him, pushing the two of you in as the doors opened with the press of a button.

“Hey—! What is up with you and dragging me away?” You tried to tug your wrist free, to no avail; grumbling, you gave up when the elevator doors closed and you began going up more floors than you could count. “Don’t you have guests to entertain?”

“What, you don’t like my company?” Sukuna’s eyes flashed crimson, and leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Or, are you scared you’ll do something you’ll regret when we’re alone together?”

You turned your head to the side, your wrist falling limp at your side when Sukuna released it from his hold. “The former, you bastard.”

“Language,” he chided. “You’re in the presence of the most powerful man in the country, sweetheart. Show some respect.”

You scoffed. “You’re so—”

“Insufferable?” His eyes gleamed, red and crimson. “Article titled: The Bad, The Bad, And The Bad. Sector One: ‘Ryoumen Sukuna is, quite possibly, the most insufferable man on the planet. He makes even the Devil jealous of his creativity when it comes to wrecking havoc—’”

You blinked. “Sukuna, how do you—? What are you—?”

“Doing?” Then, he quoted yet another line from your news column. “Article titled: Depravity At Its Finest. Sector One: ‘If Ryoumen Sukuna had any hobbies besides being a dick, it would be doing pot on campus. Even septic tanks don’t smell as bad as the men’s toilets after that fiend is done doing weed in there.’”

Sukuna wore a smile on his face when he leaned down to whisper in your ear, lips brushing against the lobe. “That’s right, pretty, I know about your little blog. Even read a few articles or two.”

You had known he knew, but you didn’t think he had cared enough to have actually read anything on your blog. Was he trying to blackmail you? Your lips parted, although in silence.

“I think it’s cute, really, that you’re still thinking about me after all these years. How long has it been, again?” Sukuna picked up a lock of your hair, and twirled it between his fingers. “Oh, right, almost a decade.”

You turned to face Sukuna, your furrowed brows and baffled expression contradicting his much composed and shit-eating grin.

“What do you want?”

“Be my wife.”

“. . .”

“You’ve been making a living purely based on defamation and besmirching. I know the subscriptions all your readers pay each month and whatever salary you journalists earn is enough for a nice apartment and a nice car and nice shit, but it’s not enough to win against me in court if I press charges.”

“Are you threatening legal action?” you deadpanned, crossing your arms over your chest. “You do realize the First Amendment grants me my right to Freedom of Press, right? I was sure someone so involved in U.S. politics—such as you—would know that.”

“Hate speech,” he quipped, reasoning. “And, also, the fact that you have no hard evidence of all your claims against me. Which, moving backwards, would be defamation.”

“. . .”

“Do you want to take this into court? You know, I’m actually giving you an option here, sweetheart.”

You didn’t want to think about how much you would need to pay a lawyer who was good enough to stand a chance against the fucking president, so you changed the topic around. “Why do you need me to be your wife?”

“I need a first lady.”

“First ladies . . . can be relatives,” you suggested. “Can they not?”

“I don’t have a niece.”

You looked up at Sukuna. “A . . . sister?”

“You know I don’t have a fucking sister.”

The elevator doors opened from behind you, and Sukuna took his exit; you followed suit, your heels clacking against the hardwood.

The floor you two had arrived on was the fifty-first.

Looking around your surroundings as you followed after Sukuna, you noticed one thing.

“This . . . is a penthouse.”

Sukuna walked over to what you assumed was a kitchen, and poured himself an ochoko of umeshu at the bar. “Glad you haven’t lost your sense of vision.”

“Sukuna, where are we?”

“My penthouse. One of my penthouses, actually—in the country. Before I had the White House, sweetheart, I was pals with a collection of hoteliers and whatnot.” Sukuna took a sip of his liquor, eyeing you from across the room, all the while. “You could only imagine how many free floors I’ve been given over the years.”

“. . .”

Sukuna gestured for you to come closer, offering you your own glass. “Why so far away, beautiful? You know I don’t bite.” 

Lured by the alcohol, you took steps forward, and ended up right beside Sukuna, standing behind the kitchen island as his arm snaked around your waist.

He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “—Unless you want me to.” 

“I’ll pass.” You shoved at his face, scoffing. “Why did you bring me here?”

“To consummate our marriage, of course.”

You gave him a look. “I haven’t even agreed to your compromise yet.”

“But, you will.”

“Are you threatening me?” 

“Do I need to be?”

Sukuna set down his ochoko, watching you, and you weighed your options carefully. Not going through with the deal meant legal trouble, lawsuits, backlash, and wasting a shit ton of money to defend yourself in a case you would inevitably lose. Marrying Sukuna meant commiting fraud, being first lady of the United States, publicity for your blog, and a rich husband.

“Look. All we’ll need to do is have a small, quick, and easy courtroom wedding, alright? We’ll be married for my first term, and, depending on whether I find a real wife, maybe my second term—maybe not. It’s just four years. With me . . . ‘sides, we already attended college together.” Sukuna looked down at your face, palming at the flesh of your hip. “This won’t be much different.”

“I’ll be wearing your last name, Sukuna. Much different.”

“Are you in or not, woman?”

Your lashes fluttered, and you met Sukuna’s eyes as you stood on your tiptoes—damn, not even Loubutins could help you. Cupping a side of his devilishly handsome face, you placed a kiss on the corner of Sukuna’s lips.

“You won’t touch my blog?” you questioned, cautious.

“Not at all.”

You huffed, closing the distance between you two as you kissed Sukuna again—this time, however, on the lips. “Then, fine.”

“Smart girl,” he grinned, lips meeting yours as he held you by the neck and the curve of your waist.

You kissed Sukuna with tongue and teeth—a reminder that this was only for the deal, or, well, you liked to think it was.

You two kissed like you hadn’t in a decade, which was, honestly, true. The last time you let Sukuna in your pants was during a college frat party; it was a spur-of-the-moment type of thing. Too much tension, too much alcohol, and way too little restraint—a classic.

Sukuna kissed you with lust, desire, and a want for something forbidden. He had always been rough like this, twisting you around to push you against the kitchen counter, forcing your lips to part for his tongue; you enjoyed it, though, so you weren’t one to talk. You always had a penchant for men without manners (in the bedroom, that is).

“Mmph—m-mm . . .” 

Your hands cupped Sukuna’s face, bringing him lower so you could reach easier. He tasted sweet, and of umeshu, with notes of plum seeping through.

“You missed this,” you murmured, between kisses, “didn’t you, Mr. President?”

Sukuna groaned against your lips, pulling away as he lifted you up by the hips to sit on the kitchen island. “You’re quite the insightful one.”

You watched as Sukuna lowered to his knees before you, lifting up the ends of your gown to bunch up at your waist as he trailed kisses up from your ankle, to your knee, and to your thigh.

“That’s . . .” You sucked in a breath when Sukuna’s lips met your inner-thigh. “One way to put it.”

Sukuna looked up from where he knelt, one hand squeezing your thigh. “And, the other?”

“. . .” You could only close your eyes, sighing, when Sukuna pulled your panties to the side, pressing a kiss to your clit.

“Come on, pretty. What’s another way to put it?”

You swallowed. 

“. . . Quick-witted . . . , nngh—!”

You were practically shaking when Sukuna slid his tongue through your folds, reaching deep inside your already-dripping cunt.

It was so warm, so wet, and so impossibly long. When was the last time someone went down on you? and made it feel enjoyable, nonetheless? You couldn’t recall any other occurrence that was void of Sukuna’s doing.

“And,” Sukuna began, murmuring against your cunt as slick dripped down his chin, “another way?”

“Hahh . . . mmph—! Sukuna, I . . . A-ahh—!” 

Sukuna curled his tongue, moving it with a relentless speed. If the lewdness of your pussy’s squelching and squirming wasn’t enough to bring heat to your cheeks, the way Sukuna was sucking on your cunt would’ve done the job.

“You know I don’t like repeating myself,” he chided, teeth grazing your clit.

“Unngh, perceptive . . . !” you whined. “Sharp, s-shrewd, astute, a-ahh! S’kuna, you’re . . .” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when Sukuna’s tongue reached particularly deep, hitting your sweet spots with ease.

As if on instinct, your hands flew to Sukuna’s head, gripping onto strands of rosy hair for leverage as you clamped and squeezed your thighs around his face, forcing his tongue even deeper as he sucked without halting.

“I’m, what, baby?”

You twitched and writhed at the feeling of Sukuna flicking and curling his tongue; you were probably now embarrassingly wet, practically dripping onto the counter beneath you as Sukuna continued to tease and suck on your clit.

“You’re, a-ahh . . . un- . . . mmph! . . . -bearable . . .” 

It was as if a switch had flipped on inside of Sukuna’s head—like he was taking your words as a challenge, to show just how unbearable he could be as his tongue began to absolutely ravage you on his kitchen counter, eating you out like a full-blown meal whilst all you could do was wrap your legs around his head, slapping a hand over your mouth in a poor attempt to stifle your cries. 

“N-Nngh, ahhn—! Fuck, I’m, hahh, c-close . . .” 

You could practically feel the grin growing on Sukuna’s face. “You’re close, baby? Is it too much? Am I making you feel too good?” 

“Oh, God . . . You, mmph, bastard, . . . Go f-fuck yourself.” 

“Don’t think I will, sweetheart,” quipped Sukuna, tongue curling within your gummy walls as it reached deeper and deeper. “‘sides, you’re much more fun.”

A cry slipped past your kiss-bitten lips when Sukuna licked a stripe up your puffy lips, and you shuddered at how cold his skin was when the tip of Sukuna’s nose brushed against you, rubbing at your clit. You couldn’t help it when a coil in your lower belly tightened.

“I . . . Don’t be, nngh—! crude . . .” 

Sukuna looked up from between your thighs, giving you a side-glance as slick dripped from his chin to the collar of his suit. “You’re telling me that right now, sweetheart? A little late for that when my tongue’s in your fucking cunt, don’t you think?” 

“I . . . Nngh, a-ahh—!” 

Unraveling, you came with a lewd cry when Sukuna pinched your clit, mewls and moans slipping past your lips left and right as you dripped excessively onto Sukuna’s fingers. God, you were so fucking wet right now, it was embarrassing.

“Satisfied, wifey?” asked Sukuna, as he rose to his full height, fixing his tie.

You were still catching your breath when Sukuna kissed you, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “Not . . . Not quite, husband.” 

“Yeah?” he murmured, against your lips, “because I’m nowhere near done.”

Sukuna remained true to his words when he stuck two digits up your cunt, pushing the cum that had previously dripped out back inside the entrance of your poor, used pussy—it stole a breathless moan from your lips.

You were still riding out your high, and extremely sensitive, but Sukuna was never one to care. He dipped his fingers between your folds and pushed past your rings of resistance with ease, pulling yet another moan out of you.

“Sukuna, w-wait, I’m—o-ohh—!” Your eyes practically rolled into the back of your head. “Nngh!” 

Just as he had done with his tongue, Sukuna was now curling his fingers deep inside of your cunt, muffling your cries with his lips as his digits inched deeper and deeper.

“Dirty girl,” he muttered, between kisses, “getting off on both my tongue and fingers? Insatiable, you are.”

Your whimpers were silenced with tongue and teeth.

With the time that had passed since your last encounter, you had nearly forgotten how long Sukuna’s fingers were—how good they made you feel: reaching all the sweet spots his tongue couldn’t.

“A-Ahh—! Ahhn, mm—mmph . . .” 

Sukuna’s thumb applied pressure against your puffy entrance, whilst two other digits continued on with curling deep inside, their pace inimitable.

Whilst cries slipped past your lips (even with Sukuna absolutely ravaging you), your hands, although a bit shaky, moved down his neck and to his shoulders in an attempt to remove his suit.

You started with pulling off the jacket by the lapels, and then, loosening the tie.

You moaned ridiculously loud when Sukuna’s fingers hit that one good spot, your eyes rolling back into your head as you clumsily unbuttoned Sukuna’s shirt.

“Unngh, a-ahhn . . . S-Sukuna . . .” 

“Giving me so much shit for missing this . . .” muttered Sukuna, tsking, “when this pretty, little pussy here is so fucking wet right now.”

“N-Nngh, Sukuna, I’m—a-ahhn—!” 

You clawed at Sukuna’s now bare back, your manicure leaving red, angry marks up and down his skin.

Sukuna pulled his fingers away from your cunt for a second, just to shove them back inside as slick and remnants of cum dripped excessively down the lengths. Two fingers turned into three, and as Sukuna fucked you with his fingers, stretching your walls apart with finesse, you struggled to contain the growing volume of your mewls and moans.

“A liar?” he pressed, cutting you off. “I know, baby, I know. Pretty hard to keep honest when I’m knuckles deep inside of you, isn’t it?”

Sukuna leaned down to whisper in your ear, and your eyes quite literally rolled into the back of your head.

You could only respond with lewd cries, the sound of your cunt’s squelching and squirming filling the penthouse.

Sukuna’s free hand pinched your cheek, and you shuddered as he forced you to meet his eyes. 

“Use your words, sweetheart.” Your noses were now only centimeters apart. “Tell me just how good I’m making you feel, hm?”

“Ahh—! You’re . . .” Expression contorting into one of bliss, your voice trailed off. “Hahh, f-fuck . . .” 

Sukuna wore a shit-eating grin, speeding his fingers up when he noticed your second orgasm drawing near. “What was that, pretty? Couldn’t quite hear you.”

Your thighs trembled, and you dripped almost embarrassingly as you struggled to form a coherent response.

“I said . . . Fuck, mmph—! you . . .”

Sukuna sighed with humor, tugging at the fat of your cheek between his thumb and index-finger. “I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around, honey.”

“I—Hahh, n-nngh—!” 

Your eyes squeezed shut, and then reopened, rolling into the back of your head as you came for a second time, on Sukuna’s fingers.

Your thighs pressed together: squirming, shaking, trembling; but your lips, on the other hand, remained parted, moans and cries slipping from in-between like you were in a poorly-budgeted porno.

Sukuna gave your clit one, final harsh pinch before pulling away, bringing his fingers to his lips as he sucked on the cum dripping down his digits like a fucking clown. Albeit you feigned disgust for the lack of decorum, you couldn’t help but grow even wetter at the sight—hell, if that was even possible in the first place.

“Making a mess on my fingers, aren’t you, pretty?” Sukuna kissed you, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue. “You’re lucky you’re cute—would’ve had you licked them off clean, otherwise.”

You let out a breathless sound, the mix of a whine and a sigh. “How . . . thoughtful of you, Mr. President.”

Sukuna pulled away, pushing you to lie on your back, flush against the cold surface of the kitchen island.

“Truly.”

You were now looking up at Sukuna, as he fiddled with his belt.

Your hair was disheveled—a mess spread apart on the counter; your dress slipped down your torso, revealing more and more of your naked tits; but, what Sukuna liked most of all, was the glimmering diamond necklace that lay between the valley of your breasts.

Weighing around thirty carats, it was regal, and vintage-looking—exactly Sukuna’s type. He wondered if he had purchased that necklace for you, himself, and had just forgotten, or something of the like.

“You’re an awfully slow man, aren’t you?” You crossed your arms over your chest. “I’m starting to wonder if we’ll even get to ‘consummating our marriage’ before your guests begin to leave.”

Sukuna raised a brow, teasing the tip of his cock against your slick. “Impatient, I see.”

He was as big as the last time you two had fucked. Thick, long, and absolutely girthy. You got shivers just thinking about the stretch.

“Are you gonna fuck me or not, mister?” 

“So demanding,” quipped Sukuna, but he relented, anyway.

All the wind was knocked out of your throat when Sukuna bottomed out in one quick thrust, nails clawing and scratching at the marble beneath you.

“A-Ahhn—! Ah, ahh!” 

“Where’d that smart mouth go, huh? All it took to shut you up was some dick?” At the very least, Sukuna still had the common courtesy of letting you get used to his size.

Fuck me, was all you were thinking. You hadn’t had anyone this big in a while. 

Your puffy, dripping lips parted to an almost impossible extent in order to accommodate Sukuna’s girth—you swore it burned to have him stretch you wider than his fingers or tongue ever could.

“O-O-Ohh—! Nngh, ahh . . .” 

Sukuna grinned. “Biiig stretch, huh? How about you write about this on your blog? Tell your readers how much—hahh—you love this cock.”

You could feel Sukuna’s dick reaching your guts, the head kissing your cervix as he rammed in and out of your cunt.

Your gummy walls stretched to envelope his length; you weren’t even leaking slick anymore—it was all stuffed deep inside of you with every thrust of Sukuna’s cock: burying deep inside, just to pull out and repeat. It drove you near insanity.

“Ah—Ahh—Ahnn—! Oh, f-fuck . . .” 

One of Sukuna’s palms landed beside your head on the counter, whilst the other moved to grab your left wrist.

“How would your readers like to know you were marrying the man you swore to hate, hm?” 

Sukuna half laughed and half panted, and you felt the coldness of an unfamiliar object being slid onto your ring finger.

“I—nngh—!” 

Your eyes rolled even farther back into your head when you realized it was an engagement ring. Where he had stored it until now, only God knew. It was almost ten carats, and was of an emerald-cut style—you spared yourself the heart attack of estimating how much it cost.

With each thrust of Sukuna’s cock, more and more pretty cries slipped past your lips, whilst your tits began to bounce free from the confines of your gown. Sukuna’s clear lack of clemency when it came to rutting against your cunt led to the top of your dress falling to your stomach, joining the skirt of your gown as they bunched up below your waist.

“It’s—It’s only for a, nngh, compromise . . .” You whined, hand trembling from Sukuna’s thrusts as you held it up to your face to admire the absolute rock of a diamond you had been given. “Doesn’t, hahh! mean a-anything . . .”

Sukuna scoffed, taking your breath away as he held both of your hands down beside your head, interlocking your fingers together in a way to pin you against the counter’s surface. 

“It also doesn’t mean anything that I’m . . . hahh, fuck, balls-deep inside of your pretty pussy, but here we are.”

You crossed your legs behind Sukuna’s back when his lips trailed to your tits, teeth grazing at your areola. It sent a bolt throughout your body when he bit down on the mound of flesh, before soothing it with his tongue and sucking slyly on the already hardened buds.

Whilst Sukuna’s cock rammed in and out of your cunt, stretching your clenching, tightening walls as he never failed to hit every sweet spot of yours, his mouth was on your tits, sucking and biting and flicking the length of his tongue against your nipples.

“N-Nngh, ahhn—! Ahh, mmph, ah-ahh—!” 

As if the squelching and constant fwop! fwop! fwop! of your pussy wasn’t already enough to convince you of your current predicament’s lewdness, you cursed Sukuna for taking away every opportunity you had of muffling the pornographic sounds that left your lips.

You clenched down around Sukuna’s cock, nails digging into Sukuna’s skin as you trembled and writhed beneath him.

“Too much, baby?” You felt Sukuna smile, mouth stuffed with tit. “Gonna cum on your president’s dick?”

“C-Close your fucking mouth, you dirty bastard,” was what you spat out in response, between high-pitched moans.

Sukuna tugged your legs up to rest over his shoulders, his cock now reaching even deeper as a knot in your stomach tightened with each rough, ‘mouth-watering’ thrust. God, you were practically bouncing up and down the kitchen counter from the sheer force of Sukuna’s cock, at this point. 

“Now, there. That’s not any way to speak to your fiancé, is it?” Sukuna licked a wet stripe up your nipple, stealing a cry from your lips as his grip on your hands turned almost painful. 

“Unngh, ah-ahhn—!” 

“Do I need’a teach you a lesson?” he jeered, leaning down to laugh against your ear.

Sukuna’s cock hitting your cervix was enough to make you forget whatever retort you had managed to come up with.

“N-nngh, ahhn—! Unngh . . . Ah-Ahh—!”

Back arching, eyes watering, hands interlocked with Sukuna’s, you came for a third time that evening after Sukuna bottomed out particularly hard—practically just slamming his cock up your cunt, as if in a way to reach your womb.

You found yourself trembling as cum dripped down your legs, and Sukuna’s orgasm followed soon after: hot, sticky seed plugging you up to the rim as the head of Sukuna’s cock kept you stuffed full to the hilt.

“Hahh, unngh . . . !” 

“You should . . .” Sukuna panted against your ear, hands still holding yours as he caught his breath. “You should write a column on this,” he laughed.

You groaned beneath Sukuna when he laid his body on top of yours, all two hundred and something pounds of him.

“A column?” you repeated, whining as your legs slipped back down from his shoulders. “What ever for?”

“To let ‘em know how good you’re getting it—getting your world rocked and shit, and by the fucking president, nevertheless.” Sukuna breathed in the scent of your perfume from the crook of your neck, and you shoved at his face with playful disdain.

“You’re so vain.”

“I have reason to be.”

When Sukuna picked you up and brought the two of you out to his penthouse balcony, you knew he wasn’t kidding. He had you bent over the glass railing within seconds, hips pistoning against your ass as he buried himself inside, fucking you from behind.

Underneath the evening sky, Sukuna stole two more orgasms out of you—pulling your hair, whispering vulgarities in your ear; Sukuna couldn’t have cared less about sensitivity. He was fucking you through each orgasm and to the next, leaving you a shaking, trembling mess as mascara ran down your face and your lips quivered with each thrust.

Looking down at the cars racing the streets more than seven hundred feet below, you couldn’t even remember if you had a fear of heights. The sound of your pussy squelching and squirming, the occasional fwop! fwop! fwop! of Sukuna ramming against your ass, and the head of his cock kissing your cervix—it was all too much: a blissful distraction from the gala going on downstairs.

You would’ve forgotten all about it had Sukuna not whispered in your ear a few times, saying, “Sound so pretty when you’re not running your mouth for once—loud, too. Do you want everyone to hear you? hear how much of a slut you are for some cock from your superior?”

You would whine, then, a soft “Nngh . . . a-ahh—!” falling from kiss-bitten lips as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, your back being forced into a mean arch.

In any way, neither of the two of you were planning on returning to the function when Sukuna was still balls-deep inside of your warmth, but you weren’t one for causing a scene and possibly starting rumors for why the president had run off with a Mystery Woman™ at his own soirée, so you forced the man to button up his suit and help you with the zipper on your dress as you both stumbled to the elevator.

You had just successfully made your exit—from the penthouse down to the first floor of the skyscraper—as fast as you had made your entrance, when you (and the pink-haired man with a hand on your hip) crossed paths with one of the party guests.

His suit was disordered, a cigarette between his lips as he whistled, greeting the Head of State. 

“What a surprise, Ryoumen! Was just wondering where you were.”

Sukuna grunted in response, not even glancing at the man as he pulled you along in a visible state of hurry; unfortunately, however, the smoking man’s eyes were quick—too quick, even.

“Oh, who is this lovely lady on your arm tonight, Ryoumen . . . ?”

Hair messed up, tie loosened, gown wrinkled, and lipstick stains on his own face—Sukuna cared not for shame when he gave the man a side-glance from over his shoulder, saying, “That would be my fiancée.”