hotpinkvamp

“I’ve already had her four times,” Sukuna grunted, “the brats insatiable.”

Toji snorted mid sip of water, eyes leaving the couch to instead peer through the half opened doorway to the bedroom, where he managed to catch only a glimpse of your bare leg through the crack. From the looks of it you were naked - splayed over the sheets, hair probably still a little damp from the shower, skin lacquered with lotion, half washed away with sweat by now.

“What, she ovulating or something?” Toji wondered aloud, lowering the bottle to once again catch Sukuna’s gaze over the metal rim.

The other man crossed his arms unceremoniously across his chest, and Toji watched the tendons jump in the winding muscle of his forearms as he shrugged.

“That or she’s in heat, damn near milked me dry.” He grumbled, brows knitted, working a mean line between them. If you were here you’d reprimand him for such an expression, crawl over the couch and run your thumb between his salmon brows until the lines wore smooth, or until Sukuna grew bored and wrapped a hand around your wrist to flip you onto the cushions instead.

Toji laughed then, the sound rough and graveled like tattered velvet.

“Seriously?” He scoffed, lips spread into a sly grin as he licked stray droplets from them, “had to tap out did ya’ Ryomen?”

Sukuna’s scowl only deepened, soured now with genuine irritation.

“Just be grateful I wore her out for you,” he spat, “and watch your tone, or it’ll be you spread eagle and whining for more cock next, Fushiguro.”

Toji chuckled again as he screwed the lid of his bottle on tight, the motion accented with a metallic ‘squeak!’ before he tossed it toward Sukuna, hard enough that he heard the fleshy impact when the other man’s hand shot out to catch it.

“Yeah yeah,” he mused, moving past the couch to instead push through the bedroom door, which creaked beneath the effort, “drink some fuckin’ water and get outta my way.”

If he were being honest, when he’d left for the gym that morning he’d been hoping for this exact scenario. Toji knew you - or at least your cycle - well enough to know that you’d wake up needy and leaking, and he knew Sukuna well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to resist the sight of you humping his thigh like a dog in heat for very long. So he’d left without a word just as the sun kissed the horizon, and he’d been half hard in his sweats since his second rep just thinking about it.

If the living room was warm, the air within the bedroom was stifling. But it wasn’t the heat or the sticky sweet scent that knocked the air from Toji’s lungs on entry, no. It was the sight of you - limbs splayed over the mattress, hair messed and wild where your head was tucked between the pillows. Your jaw lifted back far enough to expose the long column of your throat, giving Toji a stellar view of the dark sucking marks peppered there, indents of teeth that he was sure would melt into bruises by the evening.

Toji took in the sight indulgently - paused in the doorway, a lone hand already trailing its way down the curve of his stomach, teasing until his fingers curled over the bulge forming there. He squeezed once and shivered, reveling in the immediate relief that sizzled over his body like a splash of ice water.

He could feel the weight of Sukuna’s gaze piercing into the back of his skull like the promise of a snipers sight. He didn’t indulge the urge to peer over his shoulder and meet that heated gaze, instead he let his hand drop to his side and pressed a knee into the mattress.

You didn’t move, didn’t speak or even open your eyes when he crawled over the sheets, crowding your space like a panther sliding atop its snagged prey.

His hand met the curve of your waist, skin soft and warm beneath his palm, layer of sweat sticking you lightly to him. He trailed one hand downward over the curve of your belly, the other grazed feather-soft over the slopes of your breasts, pausing to pinch gently at either nipple, perked and willing in his hands.

“You’re soaked sweetheart,” he mused when his fingers finally dipped between your thighs, which gave way to him easily, spreading to make room for his forearm to slot between. He moved slowly, palming soft and teasing over your mound and listening to you mumble mindlessly below him.

You whined something unintelligible in reply, voice nothing but a high pitched whimper, crackled like shattered glass.

With a chuckle, he leaned down and craned his head until his ear rested level with your mouth.

“What’s that sweetheart?” He questioned, head tilted to listen.

You swallowed, hard and dry, and licked your lips before you spoke again. Another croaked string of words hit his ear, a touch clearer this time. He realized then that you weren’t mumbling gibberish at all, you were begging.

“More, more, need more, please ‘kuna, please jus’ one more…”

Toji chuckled and lifted his head back to study you again - he found your eyes still closed, brows now knitted into an expression that was decidedly desperate.

“Old Ryo’ couldn’t keep up, huh?” He mused, hands lifted from your body to instead press into the mattress either side of your head, leveraging the weight of him as he slotted himself properly between your thighs.

You offered a gentle huff in reply, eyelids feeling much too heavy to bother opening. Your limbs felt numb, tingling with residual little sizzles of pleasure.

“Don’t worry doll, ‘m here now.”

Toji didn’t waste time working you open or teasing you with the brush of his lips or gentle caresses, no. He simply slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it sideways. His thumb hooked over his waistband, tugged down to let his length spring free and slap hard and raw against you.

The sensation was enough to have his lips parting around a shuddered breath. You felt like heaven - like slick molten silk kissing each bumped ridge as he rutted through your swollen folds. You jolted when he shifted, hard inches rubbing over your clit, still singing with over stimulation.

He grinned and lowered a thumb to pet at your entrance, leaking slick and dribbles of what he was sure was Sukuna’s spend. He traced your rim beneath the head of his cock slowly, smearing the milky little pearls gathered there and wondering just how many loads Sukuna had managed to stuff inside you before he’d finally tapped out. The thought made his breath catch, and sent another sizzle of heat straight to his throbbing cock.

“C’mon, look at me now,” Toji cooed, watching the way any semblance of coherency on your face melted away when he finally pressed down, sinking inside with a single dizzying press of his hips - testament to just how soaked and used you really were.

It was enough to make your eyes roll behind your lids, fluttering with the delicious sting of being stretched open again. Toji treated you with shallow little thrusts. The hair at his base tickling your clit, thick veins pulsing against your rubbed raw walls where Sukuna had pounded you until you cried, until you bruised. And yet despite the pain, the ache - that needling little bud of desire still burned just as hotly as when you’d first awoken that day, stoking the fire in your belly and dribbling lava hot between your aching thighs.

“Oh, oh…” you moaned dumbly, lashes twitching as you finally lifted them and tried to blink away the layer of hazy film that had settled there. Your mind felt fuzzy, vacant. Drunk on the sensation of being stuffed utterly full once again.

“There she is,” Toji soothed.

“‘Ji, it’s you…” came your delayed greeting, nothing more than a breathy whine, “need’t cum, need to cum again, please…”

“Again?” Toji echoed in faux surprise, hips lowing to a torturous roll, “that’s a little greedy of you, don’t you think?”

“Incredibly greedy,” a distant voice interrupted, flat and deep and utterly serious.

Toji tilted his head back just enough to catch sight of Sukuna’s broad form filling the doorway, looking more like the hired security than someone who actually lived there. Toji peered through strands of ink black hair at the big hand that was beginning to dip beneath the waistband of Sukuna’s sweats, palming lazily at the considerable bulge there. Sukuna’s gaze was equally heavy and heated, lowered past the curve of Toji’s spine to track the way your hole was stretching around his thickness.

Toji swallowed, took a final glance at the sight of Sukuna beginning to work his length free from his boxers. His eyes stuck on the exposed slip of tan skin where Sukuna had tugged his shirt upward, the spatter of hair dusted there, before he turned his attention back to you.

“Haven’t even asked how my day was yet, and here you are begging me to make this needy pussy cum,” Toji teased, “and after Ryo’ took such good care of you too.”

“Please,” you cried, shaking your head furiously against the damp pillows crumpled either side of you, “please don’t tease me.”

“Aw I’m sorry sweetheart,” Toji cooed, voice dripping thick with mock concern, “you just need it real bad, huh?”

The delicate shallow thrusts he had been nursing you with suddenly shifted, turned to long pulls smacked back inside hard enough that you felt the tip of him kiss somewhere deep and delicate. Each buck had your legs quivering, and a sharp little shock of pain and pleasure in equal measure sizzling over your skin.

You were lucid enough only to know that he was moving, slow methodical thrusts that felt achingly tender. Each twitch of his worked muscle was purposeful, each motion entirely controlled and aimed to break you apart.

“Shh, just feel it. You feel me, right baby? Nice ‘n deep.” The words were sin incarnate, purred right into your ear.

You were nodding before you could think, slurring a string of unintelligible words alongside breathy cries of his name, strung together like a prayer.

“Deep… deeper…”

The scent of him was intoxicating, dizzying. The sharp sting of fresh sweat and his own familiar woody musk was enough to have you lifting your trembling legs just to hook a heel over his hip and tug him closer.

“Finally knocked all the brains outta you, huh?” Toji teased, “That’s alright, don’t need to think. Just keep squeezin’ this pretty little pussy around me, yeah?”

One of your hands fled the sheets to instead grasp at one of Toji’s bare shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there.

“Kiss me,” you panted, blinking up at him with wide wet eyes, blown black and glossy with need, “oh, hng-… please Toji…”

Toji didn’t bother with a reply, instead he simply dipped his head and captured your lips in a kiss so sudden you barely had the wherewithal to suck in a lungful of air before he was swiping any lingering thoughts away with the hot slide of his tongue.

You melted into the touch, letting the roll of his jaw guide your movements - moaning in surprise when his teeth nipped at your cracked lower lip, your grip on his shoulder tightening when his tongue met yours.

When you finally split apart you were sufficiently softened by the blend of his sweet kisses and the steady rock of his hips, brain humming quietly like the static of a tv set to a dead channel.

“Good?” Toji questioned, head tilting.

You just nodded, struggling to keep you gaze affixed on the inky strands of hair slipping over Toji’s forehead, that was until a sudden blur of colour crept into the edge of your vision.

“Oi, what are you?-…”

You watched, motion a little delayed, as Sukuna’s hand slid across the back of Toji’s neck. Toji’s eyes widened an inch, looking genuinely shocked for just a moment before Sukuna’s grip tightened, firm hand forcing his head upward until they finally met in a rough crashing of lips.

Peering up you simply watched, entranced, at the slide of pink tongue between sticky sweet flutters of your lashes. Eyes caught on the way Toji’s brows lifted and his hips stuttered just a little when Sukuna’s hand tightened into a fist at his nape, strands of silky black hair sticking wayward through his thick fingers.

Toji grunted into the kiss, rougher now - a tumble of teeth and tongue in stark contrast to the slow rhythm of the embrace you had shared. One of Toji’s hands curled over your hip, thumb mindlessly tracing the bone there. The other found Sukuna’s chest, grasping a handful of fabric before he was shoving the other man backwards.

You watched a glittering thread of spit link them for a moment before it split, and you must have clenched at the obscene sight because Toji made a choked sound above you, falling into the sensation a little like he were suddenly made of jelly.

“Fuck sweetheart,” he panted, lips glossed as he dug a fist into the mattress beside your head, “that’s it, just like that.”

His thrusts didn’t slow or soften, but they felt sloppier somehow, and when you blinked upward you realized why. Sukuna had stepped in behind Toji, plump chest pressed to his back, massive hand still curled around his nape, thumb rubbing soothing little shapes there. His head turned inward, lips pressed to the delicate little strip behind Toji’s ear, breathing so close you could see the speckle of goosebumps begin to prickle over Toji’s skin.

“C’mon Fushiguro,” Sukuna purred, quiet enough that you could barely hear the sweet syrupy words, “don’t get soft on me now.”

Dazed, you watched Sukuna raise a spare hand to his lips, thumb pressed against tongue beneath the glint of pearly canines before he reached past Toji’s hips and tucked it between your thighs. You jerked at the sudden contact, the searing heat of his slick thumb, calloused and rough and perfect against your abused clit.

“Bastard…” Toji gritted, breaths coming ragged now, panting between barely masked grunts of pleasure as his head dipped beneath the weight of the palm at his nape. His gaze was glassy, glued to where you were clamping around him, where your slick was painting the dark curls at his belly white.

Sukuna only grinned in reply, and you could hear the lazy glee lacing his tone with his next words, thumb still rolling over your twitching nub as you writhed beneath his touch.

“Go on now,” he rumbled, low and filthy over the shell of Toji’s ear, and you swore you felt Toji twitch in response. “make the pretty girl cum.”

You could feel it, the looming buzz of your orgasm, curling like the crest of a wave, hot and tight in your belly like the slow cinching of a knot.

“Close ‘ji…’m close,” you slurred, “gonna… hn!- ‘m gonna…”

“I’m right here sweetheart,” Toji was groaning now, shivering a little as the hand at his nape tightened once more. His thrusts were wild - wide sloppy pumps driven haphazardly into the slick mess between your thighs. Sukuna’s thumb continued its assault, drawing steady heart shapes over your clit, right above where Toji was busy splitting you open.

“C’mon princess,” Toji pleaded, words accented with a kicking throb that you felt all the way in your gut, “give it to me.”

You let your eyelids fall shut, squeezed tightly against the way your vision was beginning to blur at the edges. Senses dulled, sounds and scents becoming more and more distant with each second of rising pleasure until suddenly the knot snapped, and you were unraveling along with it.

Toji cursed somewhere beyond the numbed blackness of your senses, and alongside it you felt a flood of heat and the familiar twitching pulse of him as he filled you. Firm hands gripped your waist like an anchor, holding you in place as you squirmed against his final stuttered humps, wracked with unending wave after wave of white hot pleasure.

“Shh, that’s it, that’s a good girl…” Toji was cooing into your ear, forehead pressed to the pillow, only hair tickling your cheek.

The words were a salve, a balm smoothed over your mind until all that was left was the honeyed buzz of pleasure.

You sucked in a shaky breath and realized along with it that you were crying, cheeks soaked and salted with fresh tears. You let your limbs fall, limp and exhausted against the sheets. A subtle ache was beginning to settle in your muscles, in your bones, and yet beneath it all you still felt it - that itch deep inside, like an unending, desirous pit.

“More…” you croaked, voice utterly broken despite your pleading.

Toji scoffed somewhere above you - sounding equal parts shocked and proud at your incessant appetite. You heard the distant thump of approaching footfalls, followed by the telltale creak of a knee digging into the mattress before the bed was dipping beneath a considerable weight, and you felt Toji slip out with a slick sucking sound.

“Move Fushiguro, think I just got my second wind.”

────────────────

You just sat there in your oversized, faded blue hospital gown, looking small and fragile as your confused gaze met his. The man froze, roughly brushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. His clothes were covered in a layer of grey dust and dried grit, looking as though he had sprinted straight off a construction site the second he got the news.

"Fucking... God. Hey, princess... fuck, don't you ever scare me like that again" he breathed, his deep, gravelly voice cracking as he took two massive strides toward your bedside, staring down at you with a desperation that made the air feel heavy.

You shrank back into the pillows, your brow furrowing. Princess? Were you in some bizarre historical simulation? Did kings and horses still exist? No, the blinking medical monitors around you disproved that immediately.

"Mr. Sukuna, please. I need to speak with you in private for a moment" a woman in her mid forties interrupted, her expression incredibly grave as she stepped between you and the huge man. She glanced at the other people lingering by the door. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, who had the exact same pink hair as the tattooed man, his face streaked with tears. Beside him stood another boy with unruly, spiky black hair and a dull, stoic expression that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. At the doctor's quiet command, they all slowly filed out into the hallway.

Left alone for a moment, you stared at the stark white walls, the untouched glass of water on the bedside table, and the crushing, dull monotony of the room.

When the door clicked open again, the female physician returned, holding a thick medical chart. The tattooed man followed closely behind her. He tried to offer you a small, reassuring smile, but it looked incredibly strained on his rugged face. His crimson eyes locked onto you, tracking every breath you took as if you might literally vanish into thin air if he dared to look away for a single second.

"Hello, y/n. I am Dr. Jennifer" the woman said kindly, stepping up to the mattress. "Do you know why you were brought here today?"

You frowned, looking between her and the towering man. "No."

The syllable was short and hollow. Beside the doctor, Sukuna’s entire frame stiffened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently beneath his tattoos, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hands into fists.

"Right. But you do remember your name?" she pressed gently.

"Yes... y/n I am Y/N." you answered firmly. You knew the name belonged to you, even if the history attached to it was completely gone.

"And do you know where you are right now?"

"A hospital?"

"Correct" Dr. Jennifer nodded, opening the document in her hands. "Look, I am going to explain exactly what happened, and I need you to listen very carefully, alright?" You gave a small, hesitant nod. "You were in a severe accident yesterday evening. You were walking home from the local market when a car veered off the road and hit you. It is a miracle you walked away with minor physical injuries, but the trauma to your head has caused a severe case of retrograde amnesia. Honestly, it's a surprise you even remember your name right now."

You let out a quiet hum, your eyes drifting down to your own hands resting on the thin blanket. That was when you noticed it a slender, platinum band set with a brilliant, flawlessly cut diamond resting securely on your left ring finger. It looked incredibly expensive, classy, and entirely foreign

So you were married.

"Y/n" Dr. Jennifer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You snapped your head up to look at her. "This man standing beside me... he is your husband."

The doctor tilted her head toward the giant. He was massive easily over six feet of raw, intimidating muscle, his tattooed face giving him a terrifying, dangerous aura. Your very first instinctual thought was that this man looked incredibly scary.

Sukuna didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting you analyze him, before he offered you a tiny, incredibly vulnerable nod. You tilted your head, staring into his intense red eyes, desperately searching for a single spark of familiarity. Did I really marry this giant?

"His name is Ryomen Sukuna, and he is going to take care of you" the doctor continued, closing her chart. "For the next few weeks, you need to let your brain rest, but you also need to gently stimulate it to try and regain those lost memories. Spending time in a familiar environment, in your own home with your husband, is going to be the best medicine for you."

You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly have a choice. You were being handed over to a complete stranger who happened to hold a legal claim to your entire life.

"Alright then. I wish you a safe and speedy recovery" Dr. Jennifer said with a final, empathetic smile before slipping out of the room.

The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Sukuna cleared his throat roughly, taking a few slow, tentative steps toward the edge of your bed. He moved with an immense amount of caution, as if he genuinely believed a sudden movement might break you into pieces. He pulled up the small plastic chair, sinking into it.

"Hey" he said softly. Even in a whisper, his voice was incredibly manly, deep, and rough.

"Hello" you replied shortly, your eyes tracking his hands.

To your surprise, his large, scarred fingers were trembling slightly as he fidgeted with them, refusing to meet your eyes. When he finally looked up, you realized the piercing red of his irises was completely glossy, swimming with unshed tears.

"Yo... you're getting discharged today" he choked out, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the mere act of speaking was causing him physical pain. "I'm going to go sign the paperwork, and then I'm taking you to... our house. I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to help you remember, princess."

You stared at his rugged, tattooed face for a long moment before letting out a soft, distant hum.

An hour later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, black Jeep, The man Sukuna kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked toward you every sixty seconds, his intense gaze making a nervous flutter erupt in your stomach.

You stared out the window, watching the city buildings, sprawling neighborhoods, and vibrant green trees blur past. Intrigued by the warm breeze, you raised your hand, pressing your palm gently against the glass as if you wanted to touch the passing leaves. Instantly, the window smoothly rolled down. Startled, you turned your head to find Sukuna adjusting the master controls, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable warmth.

"Can I ask you something-" you murmured softly.

"Yes." The answer came incredibly fast, almost desperate. He was hanging on your every word, practically begging for you to speak to him.

"How... how did we meet?" you asked, leaning your elbow on the door frame as the wind whipped through your hair.

"We met in high school" he answered quickly, navigating a sharp turn onto a quiet, "We've been married for seven years."

"High school?" You tilted your head, a faint smile touching your lips as you extended your hand just slightly out into the rushing air. "Were we friends back then?"

"Careful" he commanded firmly, though there was no real heat in his voice. You obediently pulled your hand back inside. A faint, nostalgic softness crept into his red eyes as he looked ahead. "Friends? no. You could say we didn't liked eachother each other when we first met. You thought I was a loud, arrogant mannerless jerk and I thought you were a stubborn, bossy brat."

He smoothly pulled the Jeep into a long brick driveway, coming to a stop in front of a breathtaking, modern two story house. It was painted a crisp, elegant white with sleek charcoal-grey accents, boasting massive, floor to ceiling windows that caught the afternoon sun.

"This is...our house" Sukuna murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "We've been living here for about four years."

He killed the engine, threw his door open, and practically sprinted around the hood of the car to open your door before you could even reach for the handle. He extended a massive, tattooed hand toward you, his palm open and waiting. You stared at his hand, your eyes traveling up the thick muscles of his forearm, before you deliberately stepped down onto the driveway without taking it.

Sukuna’s hand froze in mid-air. You watched his fingers slowly curl back into a fist before he pulled his arm away, a flash of pure, agonizing heartbreak crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.

As your feet hit the pavement, you looked up at the towering structure, desperately begging your brain to spark even a single ounce of familiarity. Nothing came. But as you turned around, you caught a glimpse of the man standing beside you. He was on the absolute verge of tears. His chest was tight, his jaw locked as he stared at you. You were his entire world, his beautiful wife, and yet you were looking at him like he was a total stranger. He suddenly felt a wave of profound hatred for every single time he had ever been mean or stubborn with you in the past, even in jest. He just wanted his girl back. His sweet innocent girl.

"The house is beautiful" you murmured gently, walking toward the porch.

'The house.' Not our house. The detached wording made Sukuna’s jaw clench painfully.

"Of course it is. I built the damn thing" he muttered, following closely behind you.

It was your exact dream house. Years ago, back when you were just broke college students dating in a cramped apartment, you had traced a clumsy design on a napkin, telling him you wanted a modern white house with endless windows, three bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough for the two of you to bake and slow-dance together while listening to old jazz records. Sukuna had kept that napkin. The moment he made his fortune, he hired a crew but did the vast majority of the heavy structural work with his own two hands. He had gifted you the keys on your third wedding anniversary, and he could still vividly remember the way you had wept tears of joy, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him until you were both breathless. He wanted that smile back. He would give anything just to have you look at him the way you used to.

You stepped inside, ignoring the heavy emotion rolling off him. Sukuna quickly gathered your small hospital bags and followed you into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.

Your eyes immediately gravitated toward the kitchen. It was vast, open, and undeniably stunning, featuring a massive quartz island and a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into a manicured backyard garden. The entire layout felt strangely perfect.

"Let me show you... around" Sukuna offered quietly.

He spent the next half hour guiding you through the corridors of what was supposed to be your life. But as he showed you the grand master bedroompointing out the side of the bed where you used to curl into his chest every single night your face remained entirely blank. You felt a twinge of heavy guilt pooling in your stomach. He showed you the living room, drawing your attention to a collection of large, breathtaking canvas paintings hanging on the walls.

"You painted those" Sukuna noted, a faint trace of pride in his rough voice. "You're a brilliant artist, princess."

You blinked in genuine surprise, looking down at your hands. "I drew these?" You were suprised, you don't even remember touching a brush in your life. But this is your new life. New start.

"Yeah." Sukuna stopped at the edge of the hallway, looking down at you with completely bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept a single second since the hospital called him about your accident. All he wanted to do was wrap his massive arms around your waist, pull you flush against his chest, and bury his face in your hair until the nightmare ended. But he couldn't. "Look... you can sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall, or you can take our bedroom and I'll stay in the guest room. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable you."

"Okay" you hummed softly.

His heart broke a little more at the compliant, distant tone. "I'll go start on some dinner, and then I'll get your medication ready. If you need a single damn thing, you just call out for me, alright? Your clothes are all in the dresser, undergarments in the top drawer, pajamas in the second..."

You nodded, offering him a polite murmur of thanks before retreating into the guest room. You changed into a simple, comfortable t-shirt and sweats. A little while later, his deep voice echoed up the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the dining room, sitting at the large table like a polite houseguest waiting to be served.

"Do you need help?" Sukuna asked, carefully sliding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a large spoon toward you. You shook your head, grasping the utensil and taking a quiet sip. He sat across from you, his own bowl entirely untouched as he just stared at your face. "Y/n... you really don't remember a single damn thing about me?"

His voice cracked completely on the last word, the raw vulnerability of a ruthless man exposed right in front of you. You looked up, meeting his glossy red eyes.

"No... I don't. I'm really sorry" you whispered genuinely.

He let out a slow nod, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"Do I... do I have parents? Or friends?" you asked, a sudden curiosity about your own forgotten life bubbling up.

"Yeah. You have parents. Your father—"

"Where are they?" you interrupted quickly, leaning forward. "Do they know I was in an accident? Why aren't they here?"

"They haven't spoken to you in over seven years. Not since the day you married me" Sukuna said, his tone dropping into something cold and bitter.

"Why?"

"Your family is rich as fuck. Extremely strict, arrogant aristocrats" Sukuna explained, his red eyes locking back onto yours. "They completely forbade you from seeing me because I was just a rough, tattooed bastard from the wrong side of the tracks with a criminal record and a unstable future. They told you that if you walked out that door with me, you’d be cut off permanently."

You stared at him, a sudden spark of heat flaring in your chest. "Well, that's so stupid of them. It sounds like a good thing we don't talk to them then."

The sheer, unyielding loyalty in your voice made Sukuna’s lips twitch, a genuine, heartbreaking smile threatening to break through his stoic mask. Even with a wiped memory, his sweet wife still possessed that exact same fiery, protective spirit.

"Yeah" he chuckled hoarsely, letting out a long sigh. "You have an incredible best friend named Shoko. You two are both doctors. you work in the exact same surgical unit at the city hospital. We have a ton of mutual friends we met back in our high school days. And those kids at the hospital? The pink-haired teenager is my nephew, Yuji, and the dark-haired one is Megumi, our friend's kid. They practically worship the ground you walk on, princess. You love those brats to death."

"Can I see them?" you asked, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.

"Of course. Whenever you want." he promised, his eyes tracking the way your lips curved.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"I'm thirty two. You're thirty" Sukuna answered smoothly.

"Wow. So we're getting old," you teased gently.

Sukuna let out a sudden, rough snort, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Old or not, woman... you're still completely breathtaking."

A deep, violent blush instantly stained your cheeks. You hadn't been around an attractive man or any man, for that matter in your conscious memory, and having this giant, dangerously handsome individual throw such a raw compliment at you made your heart do a chaotic somersault. You quickly looked down at your soup, missing the way his eyes softened at your reaction.

Over the next three weeks, the fragments of a life began to surround you, even if the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite lock into place.

Yuji and Megumi came over to the house constantly. Yuji spent hours enthusiastically teaching you how to make his signature protein shakes and weird jello molds, his loud laughter filling the quiet house, while Megumi sat nearby with his usual serious expression. But the moment you offered Megumi a soft, encouraging smile, his sharp features would instantly melt into something deeply tender. Yet, beneath their smiles, you could see the underlying sadness in their eyes every time you failed to remember a shared inside joke.

When Shoko finally visited, she broke down completely, throwing her arms around your neck and sobbing into your shoulder. It was a bizarre maybe stupid too, overwhelming feeling being fiercely loved by people you couldn't even remember and a heavy weight of guilt began to settle deep in your chest. You even met Toji, Megumi's father, a tall, stoic man who didn't say much but looked at you with a quiet, profound pity that made you realize just how broken your situation truly was.

And then, there was Sukuna.

Your husband spent every single day patiently guiding you through your routines, driving you past your old university, cooking your favorite meals, and trying every gentle trigger possible. But your mind remained a stubborn, locked vault. Sukuna was growing desperate furious and completely fucked up by the stagnation.

To make matters worse, just one week before the accident, you had playfully taken down every single one of your framed marriage photographs to rearrange the living room gallery wall, hiding them away in a "genius spot" that Sukuna had completely forgotten more like you didn't even told him. He had spent hours frantically tearing the house apart while you were out, searching for a single modern photo of the two of you together.

He was completely unraveling. He couldn't sleep. The woman he loved was sleeping in the room next to him, yet she looked at him with the polite, distant eyes of a stranger. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home. One evening, he sat alone in the dark kitchen and wept the third time he had ever cried in his entire life. The first had been tears of pure joy on your wedding day when he saw you walking the aisle. the second had been out of terror when the ER doctor told him a car had struck you. and now, he was crying simply because he missed his wife so damn much

His phone offered no help either. his gallery was filled entirely with candid photos he had taken of you you stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head, you laughing in a department store dressing room, or a hilarious picture of you biting into a raw lemon and making a completely disgusted face. He had no photos of the two of you together on his device, you had always been the one insisted on keeping the physical, printed albums. The only joint photos he could find were a few faded, wrinkled prints from your high school days, showing a younger, wilder version of himself wrapping his arms around you from behind while you laughed into the camera. When he showed them to you, you just stared at them blankly. It was killing him.

At the end of the third week, Sukuna was sitting heavily on the living room sofa, completely exhausted after another failed search through the house. He was mindlessly scrolling through the candid photos of you on his phone, a faint, melancholy smile touching his lips. His fingers traced your face on the photo, your bright smile. your bubbly laughter at his most unfunniset jokes, now all of that are vanished.

The heavy front door clicked open. Shoko had taken you out for an afternoon of shopping to get you out of the house, and she had just dropped you off at the curb. You stepped into the foyer, balancing several shopping bags in your arms.

Sukuna instantly locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket as he stood up, his red eyes drinking in the sight of you. "Had fun, princess?"

"Yes, I did. And thank you... for letting me use your credit card" you said softly, walking over to the coffee table and gently sliding the black card back toward him.

"You bought dresses?" he asked, pointing toward the bags. Honestly, he didn't give a single fuck about the money. you could have emptied his entire bank account and he would have gladly signed it away just to see you happy.

"I bought a few things..." You cleared your throat nervously, your fingers twisting together. "But... I actually bought something for you, too."

The words hit his chest like a physical blow. Even with her mind completely wiped, your beautiful, kind soul was still looking out for him. "Really?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Can I see it?"

You gave a small nod, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down right next to him. The close proximity made his heart start to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"I don't know if it's really your style, or if you'll even like it..." you mumbled bashfully, reaching into a small velvet pouch and pulling out a heavy, intricately braided silver bracelet studded with raw, brilliant red stones. "The color... it just immediately reminded me of you. Of your eyes."

You gently reached out, grasping his massive, calloused wrist to drape the metal over his skin. Oh God, if you only knew how fast his heart was racing beneath his chest. Your soft, warm fingers lingering against his pulse point was pure, exquisite torture.

"It looks incredible, Y/n. Thank you." he whispered, a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile spreading across his tattooed face as he looked down at the crimson stones.

"Thank you... for being so incredibly patient with me" you said quietly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

Sukuna let out a long, ragged sigh, his hand hovering over yours for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. "I will always be patient with you, princess. Always."

You looked directly into his burning red eyes, and for the first time in three weeks, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face. Sukuna felt his breath hitch. he was entirely certain he was about to pass out from the sheer weight of his love for you.

"Can you stay right here for a bit? I need to go jump in the shower real quick. I'll be fast" he muttered hoarsely, his hand instinctively reaching out to gently ruffle your hair a comforting, domestic habit he had carefully maintained. You let out a soft chuckle at the gesture.

The moment his heavy footsteps disappeared up the stairs and the sound of running water echoed through the pipes, you stood up, wandering aimlessly around the quiet main floor. Your feet pulled you toward the small, cozy library nestled just off the living room. The walls were lined with hundreds of books some ancient leather volumes, others modern art textbooks. You pulled one off the shelf, flipping through the pages before sliding it back into place.

As you stepped back, your eyes caught a glimpse of something hidden on the absolute highest shelf, shoved far back into the shadows near the ceiling. It looked like a massive, heavy frame leaning flat against the back wall, obscured by a decorative ceramic vase. Intrigued, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arms up as high as they could go, blindly reaching for the top edge of the wooden frame.

Your fingers caught the molding, but as you pulled, the heavy ceramic vase shifted, losing its balance.

Crash!

The vase shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing smash. Startled, you let out a sharp cry, stumbling backward as the massive hidden frame came tumbling down from the top shelf, striking the edge of the desk before landing flat on the rug. The backing of the frame split completely open upon impact, and a massive cascade of loose, glossy photographs erupted across the floor hundreds of them, scattering like playing cards across the room.

You gasped, placing a hand over your racing heart as you looked away from the broken pottery, your eyes drifting down to the sea of images covering the floor.

You froze.

Right at your feet lay a massive, professionally printed portrait. In the photograph, you were sitting securely on Sukuna's lap. You were wearing a breathtaking, flowing white lace wedding dress, holding a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers, and laughing so brightly your eyes were crinkled shut. Sukuna was clad in a sharp, tailored black tuxedo, his massive arms wrapped fiercely around your waist from behind, an absolutely massive, unbothered, triumphant grin plastered across his face.

Your breath hitched violently. You stumbled forward, falling to your knees as your hands frantically snatched up another photo from the pile. In this one, you were hoisted high up on Sukuna's broad shoulders at a crowded, flashing outdoor music festival; your mouth was wide open in a breathless scream of laughter, while his large hands were clamped firmly around your thighs to keep you safe, both of your faces painted with pure, unadulterated euphoria.

You grabbed a third photo, and the entire world stopped spinning. It was a quiet, intimate shot taken right in the backyard garden outside. You were sitting cross-legged on the green grass, wearing a simple summer dress with a soft, shy smile, while Sukuna’s heavy head was resting completely in your lap. He was looking up at you with an expression of such pure, unconditional adoration it made your soul ache, while your fingers were woven gently through his soft pink hair.

Pink hair.

The backyard.

The jazz music.

The napkin.

A sudden, violent explosion of memories ripped through the barriers of your mind. It wasn't a trickle; it was a catastrophic, roaring tidal wave. Seven years of laughter, fierce arguments, passionate late-night apologies, the smell of his skin, the exact weight of his body pressing you into the master mattress, the sound of his deep voice whispering "I've got you, princess" into the dark. It all hit your brain at once with the force of a freight train.

The sheer, overwhelming velocity of the memories made the room spin violently. Your vision blurred into a vortex of white light and crimson eyes. You let out a choked gasp, your strength entirely giving out as your body collapsed sideways onto the hardwood floor with a loud, heavy thud, the scattered photographs of your life pooling around your unconscious form.

When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights was gone, replaced by the warm, dim ambiance of the living room. You were laying flat on the soft fabric of the sofa.

"She's waking up! Sukuna, look, her eyes are moving!" Yuji’s panicked, loud voice cut through the quiet room.

You blinked heavily, your vision slowly focusing. Megumi was standing right beside his cousin, his dark eyes wide and completely swimming with anxiety. Shoko was hovering over you, a small medical flashlight in her hand, her face pale as she checked your vitals.

But your heart didn't care about any of them. Your eyes frantically scanned the tight circle of people, instantly landing on the massive, tattooed man standing frozen at the foot of the couch. His pastel pink hair was damp from the shower, his chest heaving under a plain black t-shirt, and his face was a mask of pure, absolute terror.

As your eyes met his, a single, heavy tear spilled over your eyelid, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The vast, terrifying void in your mind was completely gone, replaced by the roaring, beautiful fire of your reality.

"Ryo..." you choked out, your voice a broken, breathless sob.

Sukuna froze, his entire frame visibly violently shuddering at the sound of the nickname the private, intimate name only you were ever allowed to call him.

Before anyone else could even blink, you threw yourself forward off the sofa cushions, completely ignoring the dull ache in your muscles. You lunged straight into his space, your arms wrapping fiercely around his massive neck. You buried your face in the crook of his collarbone, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you pressed a hard, crying kiss directly against his tattooed jaw.

"I remember... us" you sobbed violently into his skin, your entire body trembling as the tears flowed freely. "I remember everything, Ryo... I remember you."

Sukuna’s mind completely blanked. For a single, breathless second, he couldn't even process the words. And then, a raw, ragged sound escaped his throat a mixture of a sob and a laugh. His massive, powerful arms came crashing down around your frame, pulling you so close against his chest you could barely breathe, lifting your knees entirely off the floor as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

And there, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his family and the scattered photographs of your love, Ryomen Sukuna closed his eyes and wept for the fourth time in his life.

"I fucking love you" he whispers

this was simply the natural order of things, as stable and predictable as gravity — you walked into a room, sukuna was there, the air got thicker, you glared at each other, and the universe continued spinning.

it had been like this since freshman orientation when you accidentally took the last chocolate chip muffin from the dining hall cart and sukuna had been reaching for it at the exact same time; your fingers had brushed, and sukuna had looked at you like you'd personally insulted every single of his ancestors, and then he'd muttered something under his breath about how he 'should have known'.

from that day forward, you were locked in.

so when your professor announced the paired final project for advanced literary theory — a fifteen-page analysis of narrative unreliability that would make up forty percent of your grade — and then proceeded to assign partners alphabetically, you felt the universe's cosmic joke land squarely on your shoulders.

"aizawa is with burnham, carlson is with davis... nakamura is with park, and (l/n) is with sukuna."

the room didn't go silent, but you wouldn't have heard it if it had. all you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears as you turned your head, slow and dreadful, like a defendant watching the jury file back in.

sukuna was already looking at you.

he sat two rows over, sprawled in his chair like he'd been poured into it, all sharp angles and lazy menace. his pink hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that made you want to push it out of his face just so you could see him scowl more clearly. his jaw was set, his mouth a flat line, and his eyes — those stupid, arresting eyes that shifted color depending on the light, red one moment and almost brown the next — were fixed on you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

you glared at him.

sukuna raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to be annoyed with you.

"great," you muttered, slumping in your seat. "just great."

the thing you didn't know — the thing you couldn't know, because nobody tells you these things, because love doesn't announce itself with trumpets and flashing signs — was that ryomen sukuna had been in love with you for three years, two months, and approximately eleven days.

it had started with the muffin.

not because of the muffin, exactly, but because of the way you'd looked at him when your fingers touched. everyone else in the dining hall flinched away from sukuna — he knew how he came across, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the kind of person who looked like they'd bite if you got too close. but you hadn't flinched. you'd looked at him, and there had been something in your expression that wasn't fear or deference or any of the other things he was used to seeing.

you'd simply looked at him like… he was just some guy who wanted a muffin.

and then you'd taken it anyway, which was either deeply stupid or deeply brave, and sukuna hadn't been able to decide which, but he'd known, suddenly and completely, that he needed to figure it out.

so he'd started showing up at your locker, not because he wanted to intimidate you but because sukuna wanted to see if you'd look at him like that again. he'd started competing with you for grades not because he wanted to beat you but because sukuna wanted you to notice how hard he was willing to try, how he sharpened himself against you like a blade against a whetstone. he'd challenged you to the karaoke contest because you'd laughed at something utahime said — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled your nose — and sukuna had wanted to be the reason you made that sound, even if it was because he was singing badly on purpose.

none of it had worked the way he wanted.

somewhere along the way, the wires had gotten crossed so completely that sukuna didn't even know how the hell to untangle them anymore; his attention had curdled into something you perceived as hostility. his proximity had become a threat instead of a hope.

and ryomen sukuna, who had never been good at explaining himself, who had spent his whole life building walls instead of bridges, had no idea how to tell you that every time you glared at him, he felt like he was swallowing glass.

so he didn't tell you.

sukuna just kept showing up, he just kept competing, he just kept finding reasons to be near you, and let you believe whatever you wanted to believe.

it was easier that way. really, it was easier than admitting that he thought about you constantly, that he had a folder on his phone full of screenshots of your discussion board posts because he liked the way you structured arguments, that he'd memorized your coffee order from watching you get it so many times (oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top, which was objectively an incorrect way to drink coffee but he loved that about you anyway).

it was easier than saying; i don't hate you. i never have. i think i would burn the world down if you asked me to, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.

so when professor okamoto announced your pairing, sukuna's heart did something violent in his chest, and he had to physically stop himself from smiling. he raised one eyebrow instead, giving you his most unreadable look, and watched your face crumple with displeasure.

god, you were beautiful when you were annoyed.

yeah… sukuna was so, so fucked.

you agreed to meet in the library on tuesday afternoon, mostly because you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. the sooner you started, the sooner you'd be done, and the sooner you could go back to pretending ryomen sukuna didn't exist at all.

he was already there when you arrived.

this was infuriating because you were fifteen minutes early, specifically to avoid this exact scenario — walking in to find him already settled, already comfortable, already looking like he belonged in a way that made you feel like an intruder in your own study space.

sukuna had claimed the corner table by the window, the good one with the natural light and the extra outlets, and he was bent over a laptop with his reading glasses on.

you stopped dead.

sukuna wore glasses.

you had never seen this before, you had no idea sukuna even needed them, and the sight of them — wire frames, simple and unexpectedly kind against the boy’s sharp face — made something in your chest do a strange little flip.

he looked way softer like this, less intimidating, and you hated that you noticed. you hated that you noticed that the sleeves of sukuna’s sweater were pushed up to his elbows, exposing the lean lines of his forearms. you hated that you noticed the way his hair fell when he was concentrating, how he kept pushing it back with an absent hand.

you hated that you noticed anything about him at all.

"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up.

you bristled.

"i'm not staring. i'm assessing the enemy's territory."

now sukuna looked up, and the glasses made him seem almost approachable for half a second before his expression settled into its usual mask of mild disdain.

"the library is not enemy territory. it's simply a library. with books. which we both really need for this project we're both required to complete."

"don't sound so excited about it."

"i'm not excited about anything involving you."

that stung more than you wanted it to.

you told yourself it was because you were proud, because you hated being dismissed, because sukuna's opinion shouldn't matter to you but it did, it always had, in the same way a splinter mattered — small and sharp and impossible to ignore.

you dropped your bag on the table with more force than necessary and sat down across from him, pulling out your laptop and notebook and pens with aggressive efficiency.

"let's just get this over with."

"eager to escape my company?"

"desperately."

something flickered across his face, there and gone so fast you couldn't name it. he looked back at his screen.

"okamoto wants us to focus on unreliable narration in gothic literature. i've pulled some secondary sources. there's a reading list in the shared document i started."

"you started a shared document already?"

"i'm not an idiot."

"i never said you were."

"you were thinking it."

you opened your mouth to argue, then closed it because he wasn't wrong, and also because there was something in his tone that didn't sound like his usual condescension. it sounded almost... tired. like he was exhausted by this dance you two did, even though he was the one who kept leading.

the silence stretched between you, strange and unfamiliar.

you'd never spent this much time alone with sukuna before; your interactions were always in crowded hallways or full classrooms, always brief and barbed, always with an audience. now it was just the two of you and the soft sounds of the library — pages turning, keyboards clicking, someone's phone buzzing somewhere in the stacks.

you could smell his cologne; something woodsy and warm, nothing like the sharp, cold scent you'd imagined he'd wear. it made him seem closer than he actually was.

"so," you said, because you had to say something, "gothic literature. fun."

sukuna looked at you over the top of his glasses.

"is that a genuine statement or are you being sarcastic?"

"do i ever not sound sarcastic?"

"no," sukuna said, and then, quieter, "i know."

you didn't know what that meant, and you didn't ask.

the first week of working together was exactly as miserable as you'd expected.

you disagreed about everything — thesis statements, source selection, whether or not to use first-person in the analysis, the correct way to cite a multi-volume work.

sukuna was methodical to the point of obsession, wanting to outline every paragraph before writing a single word, while you preferred to write freely and shape the chaos into something structured later. he thought your approach was inefficient. you thought his approach was suffocating.

"you can't just write without knowing where you're going," he said on thursday, staring at your laptop screen like it had personally offended him. "that's how you end up with a directionless argument."

"it's not directionless, it's exploratory. there's a difference."

"there isn't."

"there is if you have any imagination at all."

sukuna’s jaw tightened. "i have imagination."

"huh. could've fooled me."

the words came out sharper than you intended, and you saw something shutter behind sukuna’s eyes. he looked away first, which he never did, and when he spoke again his voice was carefully, deliberately flat.

"just write the outline. we can argue about methodology later."

you wanted to push. you wanted to know why he looked like you'd actually hurt his feelings, which was ridiculous because ryomen sukuna didn't have feelings, not ones that could be hurt by the likes of you. but something about the set of his shoulders stopped you, something about the way he'd gone very still, like he was bracing for impact.

so you wrote the outline.

and sukuna was right, which made it worse.

by the end of the second week, something had shifted.

you couldn't point to exactly when the hell it happened, but somewhere between arguing about the reliability of jane eyre's narration and debating whether rochester was a gothic hero or just a guy with too many secrets, the edges of your interactions had started to soften.

you still bickered constantly, but it felt less like warfare and more like... a game. a familiar rhythm you'd both fallen into without meaning to.

sukuna started bringing you coffee.

not every day, and not in an obvious way either; he'd just show up to your library sessions with two cups from the campus cafe, one black for himself and one that smelled like cinnamon and oat milk, and he'd set yours on your side of the table without a single comment.

the first time it happened, you stared at the cup like it might explode at any moment;

"what is this?"

"coffee. it's a beverage. people drink it to stay awake when they're doing academic work."

"i know what coffee is. i meant—why did you get me one?"

sukuna shrugged, not meeting your eyes. "you always look like you haven't slept. figured you needed it."

it was such a strangely considerate thing to say, so unlike the person you thought you knew, that you didn't know how to respond. you just wrapped your hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into your palms, watching sukuna over the rim as he settled into his chair and opened his laptop like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

the coffee was perfect, exactly how you liked it.

you didn't think about what that meant.

you definitely didn't think about how sukuna would have had to pay attention to know your order, how sukuna would have had to remember, how sukuna would have had to deliberately choose to get it for you even though you'd never asked and never thanked him properly.

you just drank the coffee and tried to ignore the way your heart was beating.

on the third week, you caught sukuna staring at you.

not the usual staring — the kind where he was waiting for you to finish a thought or watching your face for a reaction during an argument. this was different; this was soft, this was the way people looked at things they wanted to keep.

you'd been reading a passage from wuthering heights aloud, doing the voices for the different characters because you were a huge nerd and because it made sukuna's lip twitch in a way that was almost — almost — a smile. you were in the middle of heathcliff's "i cannot live without my soul" speech, and you'd gotten dramatic with it, leaning forward with your hand pressed to your chest, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, sukuna was just... looking at you.

not at the book, not at the table, but at you.

sukuna’s expression was naked in a way you'd never seen before. all the usual armor was completely gone — the sneer, the boredom, the casual cruelty he wielded like a shield.

instead he looked almost... awed. like you'd done something miraculous just by existing in his general vicinity.

your voice caught in your throat.

"sukuna?"

he blinked, and the mask slammed back into place so fast you almost believed you'd imagined the moment before.

"what?"

"you were staring."

"no, i was just listening."

"you looked—"

you stopped, not sure what you'd been about to say. you looked like you loved me, maybe, but that couldn't be right because ryomen sukuna didn't love anything, certainly not you, certainly not like that.

"you looked weird."

"i always look weird."

"you don't," you said, before you could stop yourself. "you look, you know, normal? i mean, not weird. usually."

sukuna's eyebrows went up.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the library's heating system kicked on with a low rumble, and somewhere across the room, someone laughed quietly, and you were acutely aware of every single inch of space between you, of how easy it would be to reach across the table and touch sukuna’s hand, of how badly you wanted to.

you didn't. of course you didn't. but you wanted to, and that was new, and that was terrifying.

"finish the passage," sukuna said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "you were at 'i cannot live without my soul'."

you looked down at the book, at heathcliff's desperate words, and felt heat rise to your cheeks.

"right. yeah. okay."

you finished the passage, but you couldn't look at sukuna while you did it.

the confession happened on a thursday, and it happened because of a paper cut.

you were both hunched over a stack of printouts, cross-referencing quotes, and you were tired — the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from too many late nights and too much caffeine and the slow, creeping realization that you didn't actually hate the person sitting across from you, that maybe you'd never hated him at all, that maybe you'd been wrong about everything for three entire years.

you reached for a page at the same time sukuna did, your fingers brushing against his, and you both froze.

his hands were warm.

you'd expected them to be cold, because everything about sukuna seemed cold, but no, they weren't. his hands were warm and broad and surprisingly gentle when he pulled back like you'd burned him.

"sorry," you said, and meant it.

"don't be sorry for touching me," sukuna said, and his voice was strange, tight, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "i don't—i don't mind."

you looked at him.

really looked, the way you hadn't let yourself look in years; his hair was messy from running his hands through it, his glasses were slightly crooked, and there was a tension in his jaw that you'd always read as anger but now seemed like something else entirely. something held back, something waiting.

"you always mind," you said quietly. "you always mind when i'm near you."

sukuna's breath caught, and you saw it, the way his chest stopped moving for just a second, the way his fingers curled into fists on the table.

"is that what you think?" he asked. "that i mind?"

"you act like you do. you've always acted like—"

"i know how i act." sukuna cut you off, and there was something raw in his voice now, something that made your stomach drop. "i know exactly how i act. do you think i don't know? do you think i haven't noticed that you flinch every time i walk into a room, that you tense up when i stand too close, that you look at me like i'm something you stepped in?"

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

"i know," he continued, and now he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking at the table, at his hands, at anything but your face. "i know you hate me. i've known for years. and i don't—i don't blame you. i'm not good at this. i'm not good at people. i don't know how to be anything other than what i am, and what i am is someone who makes you uncomfortable, apparently, which was never—"

his voice actually cracked, and you felt something splinter inside your chest.

"that was never what i wanted."

"sukuna—"

"just let me finish."

sukuna pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was muffled.

"i need to say this. i've been trying to say this for three whole years, and i just keep messing it up, and i don't care if you hate me after, i just really need you to know so i can stop—so i can stop pretending—"

he dropped his hands and looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bright, and all the air left your lungs.

"i don't hate you," sukuna said. "i have never hated you. not once. not even when you took the last muffin at orientation, which was a crime against humanity and i'm still not over it. not when you argued with me about romantic poetry in sophomore lit. not when you told professor tanaka that my interpretation of frankenstein was 'reductive and borderline misogynistic', which, for the record, it wasn't. i don't hate you. i've never hated you. i—"

sukuna stopped, swallowed, and looked at you like you were the scariest thing he'd ever seen.

"i love you," he said, and the words came out small, almost bewildered, like he was discovering the truth of them in real time. "i love you so much it's embarrassing. i love your laugh and the way you argue and how you do the voices when you read out loud even though you think nobody notices. i love that you're competitive and stubborn and terrible at asking for help and you always push your hair behind your ear when you're thinking. i love that you took that muffin even though you knew i wanted it because you don't back down from anything, including me, especially me, and i—"

his voice broke again, and he laughed, a short, helpless sound.

"i've been in love with you since freshman orientation. i've been in love with you for three years, and i've been so busy trying to get your attention that i didn't notice i was just making you hate me. and that's—that's on me. that's entirely on me. but i needed you to know. before we finish this project and you never have to talk to me again. i needed you to know that none of it was hate. not on my side. it was never hate."

the library was silent.

you could hear your own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your hands, every part of you that had suddenly come alive.

sukuna was looking at you like a man awaiting execution, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands shaking slightly where they rested on the table.

you thought about three years of mornings at your locker. three years of competitive grading. three years of him finding reasons to be in your orbit, even when you made it clear he wasn't welcome at all.

you thought about the coffee, the glasses, the way he knew your reading voice and your coffee order and the fact that you pushed your hair behind your ear when you were thinking.

you thought about how you'd actually never hated him either; at least, not the way real hatred felt cold and dead. your feelings for sukuna had always been hot, always been alive, always been demanding your attention when you wanted to focus on anything else.

you thought about the muffin.

"you're an idiot," you said.

sukuna blinked. "what?"

"you're an idiot," you repeated, and your voice was shaking, and you couldn't stop the smile that was spreading across your face, wide and disbelieving and probably ridiculous. "three years. three years of fighting over grades and arguing about literature and competing in karaoke contests, and the whole time you were just trying to get me to look at you?"

"to be fair, it worked. you looked at me constantly. just—not in the way i wanted."

"because i thought you hated me!"

"yeah, i know! i realize that! i'm aware that my communication skills are—"

"abysmal?"

"i was going to say 'deeply flawed', but yes, abysmal works."

you laughed.

you couldn't help it; it bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been wound too tight for too long, and suddenly you were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down your face, and sukuna was staring at you like you'd lost your mind, which honestly you might have.

"i don't hate you either," you managed, between gasps. "i never hated you. i thought i did, but i don't think i know what hatred feels like anymore because every time i tried to hate you, i just—i just kept noticing things. like the way you tap your fingers when you're reading. and how you always hold the door for people even though you pretend not to. and you helped that freshman find their classroom last week even though you were late to your own class. and you look at me like—"

you stopped, swallowed, and looked at him.

"you look at me like i matter," you said softly. "and i didn't know what to do with that, so i called it hatred. because it was easier than admitting that maybe i wanted you to look at me forever."

sukuna made a sound, something wounded and hopeful all at once, and then he was moving — not dramatically, not the way they do in movies, but slowly, carefully, like the boy was approaching something that might spook.

he reached across the table and took your hand, his fingers sliding between yours, and you both looked down at where you were connected like it was the most incredible thing either of you had ever seen.

"so," sukuna said, and his voice was unsteady, "just to be clear. we both wasted three years being convinced the other person hated them, when actually—"

"when actually you have the emotional intelligence of a brick and i'm apparently blind."

"i was going to say we're both complete idiots, but yes, that's also very accurate."

you squeezed sukuna’s hand, and he squeezed back, and the smile he gave you was nothing like the ones you'd seen before; this one was real, this one reached his eyes, softened all his sharp edges, and made him look so sweet and so hopeful and so terrifyingly beautiful.

"what now?" you asked.

sukuna looked at your joined hands, then at your face, then back at your hands.

"well. i have a fifteen-page paper due in two weeks, and my partner is very distracting."

"your partner is sitting right here."

"i know." sukuna lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, feather-light, his eyes never leaving yours. "trust me. i know."

you spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, but you didn't get any work done.

you talked instead — really talked, for the first time in three years. you told him about the muffin, how you'd only taken it because you'd seen him reach for it and wanted an excuse to touch his hand, how you'd spent the rest of the day convinced you'd imagined the whole thing. he told you about the karaoke contest, how he'd picked journey specifically because he'd overheard you say it was your guilty pleasure, how he'd sung badly on purpose because he wanted to see you smile.

"i can't believe you can actually sing," you said, propping your chin on your hand. "and all this time i thought you were just terrible at music."

"i have many hidden talents."

"like secretly being in love with me for three years?"

sukuna’s ears went pink.

"that's not a talent. that's a crisis."

you reached across the table and touched his face, just because you could now, just because he was yours to touch. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, and he closed his eyes when you traced the line of his jaw, leaning into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.

"i'm sorry," you said quietly. "for all the times i was mean to you. for assuming the worst."

"don't be." sukuna turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "you gave as good as you got. it's one of the things i like about you."

"one of the things?"

sukuna slowly opened his eyes, and the look in them made your chest ache.

"i could give you a long list. it would take a while. we might need to order dinner."

"we're still in the library."

"the library has a cafe."

you laughed, and he smiled, and when he kissed you for the first time — soft and slow and a little awkward, both of you smiling too much to do it properly — you tasted coffee and cinnamon and something that felt like coming home.

the thing about loving ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision either.

it just happened — it happened the way spring follows winter, the way flowers naturally turn toward the sun, the way your hand found his under the library table and held on like you'd been doing it your whole life.

you'd been wrong about so many things.

but this was absolutely, perfectly right.