hustle hustle hustle

Here is the thing about Sukuna: he does not do awkward. Sukuna has never once in his life fumbled a sentence, tripped over a word, or lost the upper hand in a room. He is the kind of insufferable that comes from actually having something to back it up— the smirk, the crossed arms, the way he takes up space like the world personally cleared it for him.

Which is why it is almost funny, if you had any capacity left for humor, which you do not— that he's just standing there. Basket handle white knuckled. Jaw doing that tight thing it does when he's choosing his next words very, very carefully.

You broke up four months ago. Clean, mutual, mature, which is the story you both tell people. In reality it was neither clean nor mutual nor mature, it was two people who loved each other too hard and too messily to know what to do with it, standing in his kitchen at 1am saying maybe this isn't working like saying it made it true.

You have not seen him since.

You did, allegedly, move on. You have said the phrase "I'm in a really good place" out loud to at least six separate people, unprompted, like a hostage reading a statement.

"You look..." he says, and stops. Recalibrates. "Good. You look good."

"Thanks. You too. You look— yeah. Good. Great, actually. Really—" Stop talking. 

"—great."

Someone should stage an intervention. Someone should physically remove you from this aisle. His mouth twitches. Not quite a smirk. Something gentler, something that catches you off guard because you forgot he had a version of that expression that wasn't aimed at making fun of you. "You've got a—" he lifts a hand, gestures vaguely at his own under-eye. "Under your eye."

You touch your face. Feel the little hydrogel patch still stuck there, forgotten since 8am. You want the tile floor to open beneath you and swallow you into the earth's core.

"It's a— it's a skincare thing," you say, peeling it off with as much dignity as a person can muster while peeling a used face patch off in a cereal aisle. "It's supposed to depuff. Whatever. It's fine. This is fine."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking you look like you're having a good day and I didn't want to ruin it," he says, and there it is— the smallest ember of the old him, dry and a little smug, and it lands somewhere in your chest you thought you'd successfully boarded up.

You don't leave. That's the part you'll obsess over later, lying in bed at 2am dissecting every second of this like the world's worst crime scene investigator. You don't leave. You just stand there in aisle five, basket dangling from your arm, watching him not-quite-look at you, letting the silence stretch out long enough that a stock boy has to awkwardly restock the shelf between you.

"How's, um. How's the team?" you ask, because it's safe, because it's the kind of question exes are allowed to ask each other in grocery stores.

"Fine. Won Saturday." A beat. "You still going to the games?"

"...Sometimes." You went to every single one this season. You sat in the back where he couldn't see you, and you left before the crowd so you wouldn't have to see him after, laughing with his teammates, looking like a person who was fine.

"Right," he says, like he knows. He probably knows.

His eyes drop to your basket— the good granola, the tooe xpensive strawberries, the candle you don't need, and something in his face shifts, soft and sudden, gone before you can name it.

"You still buy the same candle," he says. Not a question.

"You still remember what candle I buy?"

"I remember a lot of things," he says, low, and it isn't a line, it isn't him trying to be smooth— it just comes out honest, and honest is so much worse than smooth, because with smooth you know how to survive.

You don't have anything to say to that. You stand there in your ugly sweatpants with your face patch balled up in your fist and your heart doing something reckless and stupid, and you think: this is the worst possible way this could have gone, and also, underneath it, quieter that u miss him.

"I should—" you start.

"Yeah," he says immediately, too fast, like he's been waiting for either of you to say it. "Yeah, you probably—"

Neither of you moves.

He shifts the basket to his other hand. You watch him do it and think about how many times you watched him carry groceries, carry your bags, carry you once up four flights of stairs when you sprained your ankle at 1am and refused to go to urgent care, laughing the whole way up because he kept threatening to drop you and never did. Never once, in over a year, did he ever actually let you fall.

"Look," he says, and his voice loses some of its usual edge, goes quieter, rougher around it. "I've been— I'm not gonna do the whole thing where I pretend running into you didn't completely derail my day. That's stupid. You know me. I don't do that."

"Sukuna—"

"I'm not asking for anything," he says, quick, like he needs to get it out before he loses the nerve. "I know what we said. I know we said it's better this way. I just—" He exhales, hard, drags a hand back through his hair, and for one unguarded second he looks less like the guy who owns every room he walks into and more like the guy who used to fall asleep on your shoulder during study sessions, who used to text you get home safe every single night without fail even when you were annoyed at him. "I'm not good at the good place thing. Everyone keeps asking if I'm in a good place, and I keep saying yeah, and it's not— it's not true. So. There. That's— yeah."

You stare at him.

"I've been telling people I'm in a good place too," you quietly admit, the kind of quiet reserved for things you didn't plan on saying. "I'm not either."

Something in his shoulders drops, like he's been holding them up near his ears for four months and finally, finally let go.

"Yeah?" he says, and it's soft in a way you forgot his voice could go.

this lists contains humanoid creatures, supernatural and down right monsters, if you don't like em please don't read, each fic will have warnings attached mwah cutie

selkie cutie (fluff!!, Trans character, drabble)

bunny hybrid (fluff!!, drabble)

racoon neighbor (fluff!!, drabble)

fox spirit (smutty, drabble)

merman (steamy, drabble)

peacock male (fluffy with some awkwardness)

fog monster

shapeshifter bf all of these top 7 works were written by @bumpen-underbeds

orc boyfriend by @n1ght0f-nyx (fluff with yandere undertones)

"well i don't want y/n" jake sully by @lilacnavi (smut!! small taste of angst)

ancient eldritch god by @monstersholygrail (18+! smut, yandere undertones)

monster coworker drabble n art and naga bf AND krampus by @ozzgin (smutty for all)

what wolves fear. by @bucksfucks (Frankenstein's monster, smut but loving)

working at a mer sanctuary and unintentional threeway by @specsthesecond (meant to be a lil scary but the writing is just tew good/ stern director and ditsy alien yum!)

silent hill fox by @ayzhen (eerie but cute fox spirit meeting)

mistletoes by @monster-disaster (veeeery steamy kissies, look at the other works they have on the post too!!)

rescue by @vals-lente (rescue mission fluff)

where the current runs deep by @yandere-daydreams (pls pls read warning above fic guys you were warned)

being used by a ghost by @frankiethedarkangel (being used in public by unseen guest :3)

careful what you wish for by @ghouljams (you ask and you may receive with a yandere man )

familiarity of a stranger and a gentle kind of ruin by @lokis-army-77 (so so beautifully written, nothing crazy besides vamp activities/ second fic has smut)

creature o' mine by @bookshelf-dust (vampire powers, David from tlb movie ugh yum, makin out :3)

coney island baby by @doeyeddaydream (poly vamp bfs, soul mating yes pls)

the tall, floppy eared puppy hybrid trails after you like he's on a leash you're holding. he's so obsessed with his sweet bunny best friend, all warm skin and soft thighs covered in skimpy things like sheer tights or mini skirts with your bunny tail twitching right above your pert ass.

the only reason he can get away with touching you as much as he does is because you're so clueless and needy. instead of wondering why your little panties get damp spots in them when he licks and bites you, all you can think about is straddling his lap and bouncing on him.

you're always in his lap.

Sometimes you're just buzzing with excitement about a quiz you think you aced, and you throws yourself onto him without noticing the way his arms lock around your waist territorially. beyond being possessive, pup also has to hold you and himself still because otherwise, he might rut up into you like an animal, or sniff behind your floppy ears and hump you right there in the quad.

he thinks about it, a lot. what it would be like to frot with his pretty bunny, but he doesn’t do it because you're best friends. you just think he's sweet and affectionate in the puppies usually are, not realizing how his tail wags uncontrollably only for you and that when you're tangled up with him too long he runs to the bathroom for fifteen minutes not for a pee break but because his cock's gotten so wet and swollen that he can't last much longer without creaming all over you.

but then again, you're just as bad. you make a wet, gooey mess all over yourself whenever he grabs you by the hips when you're cuddling, and you get sooo warm and flushed all over when he pins you down in mock fights, tail wagging, tongue out, teeth grazing your skin to hold himself back from biting and breeding.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

your dorm seems to be way hotter than it needs to be. puppy's shirt is off, thrown somewhere under your desk, and his tail flicks back and forth behind him while you lay on top of him in bed, boobs squished to his face while you read your new book. your skirt's all bunched up and your thighs are bare and squishy where they press against him.

“you're so warm,” he mumbles, nose scrunching, glossy eyes blinking up at you.

“you’re the one who wanted me to sit here,” you pout in return, cheeks flushed. his hands are splayed on the outside of your thighs, rubbing over your skin back and forth. it's a tickly feeling that makes you wriggle on him a little to escape the sensation.

whenever you move on top of him, your scent spikes and it punches right into his senses. he groans and tugs you down on top of him to bury his face into your neck. “no squirming,” he pants, tongue peeking past his canines.

“why?" you tilt your head, bunny ears flopping to the side. "y'acting weird,” you say, petting his hair absently.

he mumbles something into your skin, licking once. “you smell like you’re gonna go into heat and it's making me react weird.” he growls, finally lifting his head, eyes wet and wide. he's panting. “you reek, bun. can smell y'pussy."

your thighs squeeze around his hips automatically, your whole body suddenly trembling. “don’t say that,” you whisper shyly, your voice high and scandalized, bunny tail twitching in little jerks behind you. your little nose wrinkles. “…you smell worse. i can’t even think when you smell like that.”

"stop," he yips, tail flicking frantically. “can't control it, been trying so hard not to jump you, i swear,”

“...you have..?” you ask curiously, looking down at him. he looks so genuinely desperate it’s embarrassing. he whines and gets warm in the cheeks, squeezing you against him tighter. he nods weakly.

"i have to hold back too," you mumble into his neck after a beat. you’re embarrassed to admit it because your thighs are sticky and your hips are grinding down into his lap in tiny, unconscious movements.

“you do?” he breathes. his ears twitch and flop down heavy against his head. “you hold back?”

you nod against his skin, cheeks burning. “when you pin me down or grab me like that, it makes my head go all fuzzy. i-i don’t know, mmm... just wanna… wanna rub on you or something."

the minute you admit the truth, he begins frantically nosing at your throat, nipping it, sucking, with a low, excited moans. you squeal, hips twitching up against him instinctively. “what’re you doing?”

“you said you wanted it!” he cries out, humping up into you once and nearly sobbing when the friction makes his ears twitch. “can’t help it. y'smell so, fuck, you smell so sweet, bun, wanna eat you.” his nose twitches and he’s panting again. his hands cup under your thighs, squeezing. his cock is throbbing.

"oh god," he moans, rutting into. his lips are sticky and swollen from biting them so hard. "ngh fuuuck i do this to m'pillow, bun. i think about you and i hump it,"

“pup!” you squeak, scandalized, but you don’t pull away. your hips match the slow, desperate rut of his under you, and despite there being barely any friction through your underwear, your cunt is soaked, and you can feel the outline of him right beneath your core. his cock is hot and throbbing with every grind.

“i hump it and pretend it’s you,” he gasps, squeezing your thighs tighter. his ears are flattened down, floppy against his flushed cheeks, and his whole body is shuddering beneath you. “i wrap your hoodie around it and press my face to your scent- nghh, i get it wet, just like this,” he sits up suddenly, arms wrapping tight around your waist and caging you in his lap. his forehead presses to yours. "bun... need, need, mmf-"

-is the last thing he mumbles out before he leans forward to capture his lips with yours. it's so messy and nasty. pup's tongue is huge and drooly and because he's so eager to finally finally have his lips on yours, he just ends up slobbering you because he's so excited. he bites on your lower lip, and you gasp into his in response, tugging on his hair sharp enough to make him yowl with pleasure.

he grabs yours hips and drags you down hard into his lap, mouth still locked with yours. his tongue rolls over yours when you moan again and grind back. he's panting into your mouth at the way your plump pussy grinds into his cock through your clothes. both of you are soaked, slick and pre leaking between the two of you to make squelching noises every time you rock down and he pushes up.

your mouth is glossy and swollen, coated in spit that clings in strings whenever he pulls back to breathe before diving right back in, tongue first, like a dog.

“stop,” he groans against your lips, licking into your mouth. “stop moving like that, i'm gonna- fuck! i’m gonna cum bun,"

“i know, want it s'bad,” you moan loudly, rolling your hips sloooow over his clothed cock, rubbing your folds over every single inch. his head lolls back stupidly.

“oh f-fuck,” he moans, thrusting against you again, the head of his cock sliding under the slick cotton of your panties with a disgusting wet sound. the bed creaks underneath you as he rocks, rocks, rocks into you.

pup sinks his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder, almost on your mating gland but barely holding back just before he permanently bonds you with him. both your glands have been seeping oil since he's started, opening up eagerly and hoping to be claimed. it's taking all of him not to do it. his cock presses tight and hot against the swell of your cunt through your soaked panties, and you keen, tears pricking your eyes from the sheer overload.

“gonna -shit- cum,” he pants, tongue hanging out to kiss the reddening bite mark he just left. “bun, i’m gonna come, gonna make a mess,”

you whimper and rub harder against him, cunt soaking through your thin panties and onto his boxers, until there’s a huge dark patch under your pussy. "y-you can!" you cry, face buried in his neck. “i want it, nnghhh fuck! want you, pup!”

he lets out this helpless, whimpering moan and then he grabs you by the hips, pulling you down hard just as he jerks up. his whole body locks up as his cock pulses hot and hard under you. your thighs become so sticky with slick as you start to cum with him, little cotton tail getting wet and sticky as your mixed juices start to drip down your skin, pooling in the dips where your thighs meet your ass.

he holds you there, panting through his teeth as his cock twitches repeatedly with more of his cream splurting out each time, staining both your underwear with thick, warm loads that don’t stop.

see more in my multifandom masterlist

see more in my main masterlist

The coach blew out the final whistle just as the ball flew into the net. The practice game was over, and there was one clear winner. Kaiser’s grin was feral as his team crowded around him, celebrating his amazing shot. It was an incredible play; you could hardly believe he pulled it off. Despite your reservations about the guy, he was incredible on the field. 

You wish he could just stay on it forever. 

The team gathers on the sidelines to take their much-deserved breaks. You’re quick to get to work, trailing behind the other managers as they begin to pass out towels and water bottles to the players. You make a beeline to Ali. He’s the biggest talker on the team; everyone hates being near him once he gets going. Maybe if you can get Ali to ramble about birds or something, he might not be too keen on bothering you. 

He steps in front of you. You nearly collide with his chest. He’s so tall, you have to crane your neck up just to look him in the eyes. You think that he especially enjoys that. His blue eyes sharpen with delight. 

Kaiser tilts his head. “Got anything for me?” 

You look down at the water bottle and towel in your hands. Accepting defeat, you hand them over. His fingers brush over yours deliberately. As always, Kaiser makes a show of it. He languidly wipes at his neck and face. He downs the water like it’s liquid gold. Just when you’re about to attend to the next player, he snaps his fingers. 

Reluctantly, you look back at him. 

“Thanks.” He tosses you the towel. You barely manage to catch it. 

He pats your shoulder just before he passes you. “What would I do without our sweet little manager.” 

His tone is so condescending that you feel yourself heat up from embarrassment. Out of all the team managers, you’re the only one he calls that. 

Players aren’t supposed to return towels to managers; they’re supposed to put them in the bin. Kaiser, however, treats you more like his servant than as your actual job title suggests. You have to ball up your anger as you trek to the rag bin. 

One of your fellow managers gives you a sympathetic smile. You toss the dirty rag and grab another water bottle. 

“That bad, hm?” She asks. 

“No, just the usual amount of shitty.” You mutter. 

“He’ll get better,” she tries to assure. “He just needs a bit more time, since you’re new and all.” 

Yeah, more time. 

They’ve been saying that for the past year and a half.

You’re not sure why Kaiser has a hyperfixation on you. You’re pretty average, all things considered. Despite your normalcy, Kaiser has made it his personal mission to whittle you down. 

Everyone has acknowledged his behavior as abnormal. He’s never picked on any of the non-players of the team. He used to pretend they never existed until you came along. 

He’d make jabs at your clothes, ghost touches that lingered on inappropriate if he was any slower, and that dreaded title: ‘sweet, little manager’. 

“Ignore it.” Another fellow manager comes up to tell you. “He’ll stop eventually.” 

You shrug. You glance out the corner of your eye. 

Kaiser’s already staring at you. His grin is infuriating. 

“Yeah,” you say, “eventually.” 

~

You’ve talked to Noel Noa twice in your life. 

First: the day you got hired.

Second: the day you turned in your resignation. 

He’s still staring long after you stopped rambling. His stare is so heavy, practically crushing you, and yet you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Even as he studies you from his chair, he still feels bigger than you. 

He’d stepped down from playing a couple years ago, but even as head coach of the team, he’s yet to lose his intimidating stature. 

“Are you sure about this?” He finally asks, 

Noa has yet to glance at the slip you dropped on his desk. You drafted your resignation letter with a bold black pen and the neatest handwriting you could. He barely acknowledged it.

“I am.” You tell him. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll forever be grateful for all the experience I learned from this team.” 

It sounds rehearsed because it is rehearsed. You practiced in the mirror, mouthing the words over and over so you wouldn’t flail in front of Noel Noa. 

He only tilts his head, scanning you up and down. You wonder what he’s searching for. 

“Did anything particular happen that made you want to resign?” He prompts. 

You think of blonde hair with bright blue tips. A blue rose. 

“No.” You smile with tight lips. “Nothing at all.” 

He doesn’t believe you. You can tell. 

“It’s a shame to see you go.” He says anyway, standing up and reaching out his hand. “You were a wonderful asset for this team.” 

“Thank you so much, Sir.” 

You shake his hand with all the confidence you can muster. You loved this team. You really did. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

He wasn’t worth it. 

~ 

When you leave the office, you aren’t surprised to find Kaiser waiting for you. 

He’s leaned against the wall, watching with sharp eyes as you continue to stare at the ground. Stupidly, you hope that if you continue to ignore him, he might not try to start anything. 

If anything, that makes him more eager. 

“Hey hey.” He grabs your arm, forcing you to stop. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

Your lips curl into a sneer, but you’re forcing it back down. 

“Kaiser, I have work.” Your voice is quiet even to your own ears. It prompts Kaiser to lean down closer to your face. 

“Hm? What’d you say?” His grin is even wider. 

You try to pull away, but he’s crowding you against the wall, lightly pushing at you. You're forced to take a step back, then another, then another until your back hits the tile. 

“I don’t have time for this.” You say, just as quiet. The bite in your words is mute. He relishes this. Kaiser grins, showing white teeth that glint. 

“Aw, C’mon.” He mockingly pouts and you bite your lip. “You were in the coach's office for a while. I was getting worried.” He cocks his head, assessing you. 

“You didn’t get in trouble or anything, did you?” 

“No,” you say firmly, “Stop it. I need to go–” 

“Go where?” He prods, and you feel his hand rest on your upper thigh, daring to creep up. 

You freeze. 

He’s saying something else, but all you can think of is his fingers drifting over your thigh. He gives a firm squeeze. 

“Get the fuck off me.” 

You push him away. He stumbles back. It’s not strength that gets him off of you. Your burst of anger just surprised him. He’s used to your meekness, willingness to be pushed around. You use it to your advantage, immediately turning away before he can say anything else. 

He doesn’t follow. You don’t hear the second echo of footsteps as you walk off. Relief singes at your fingers. 

Just for a moment, just for a peek, you glance back. 

He’s still standing right where you left him. 

His smile is gone. 

~

For the next few days, things are strangely peaceful. 

There’s no more beratement from Kaiser. You never suffered any more unwanted touches or annoying quips. It was like you were completely erased from his world. 

You weren’t complaining. For the first time in a while, you actually looked forward to working with the entire soccer team, rather than just huddling with the other non-players. It was a nice change of pace. 

It’s a shame the change only happened right when you were leaving. 

A few days before you officially left, your little team of managers promised you a farewell party. You were looking forward to it. One last hurrah with your co-workers before you move into a new section of your life. 

Things were finally looking up. 

After hours, the club is pretty quiet. Most players just want to shower and go right home. You know, some like to stay behind to do a little more practice, but this is mostly when staff use the time to reorganize locker rooms and such. 

You like working alone. Someone else was with you earlier, but you’d kindly waved her off, insisting you could handle it. It was less than an official storage room and more of a closet. You stood in front of the equipment, your trusty clipboard in hand. Someone mentioned that the team was running low on some items. You might have to edit some orders if they were true. 

Loud footsteps echo behind you. You pay them no mind. Probably a coach. A player who’d forgotten their bag. 

They stop right behind you. You don’t even bother to look. 

“I’ll be just a second.” You tell them, assuming they wanted to set up some cones for last-minute drills. 

“You’re leaving?” 

Your fingers tighten on the clipboard. 

Slowly, you turn to look at Kaiser. He’s still in his uniform. The smell of sweat and rubber is faint in the air. His breaths are slow as he glares down at you. Your eyes trail to his hand. 

Your resignation letter is crumpled in his hand. 

Something keeps strumming through your arms and legs. You want to fidget: shake your leg, flex your fingers. You feel nervous, though you aren’t sure why. 

“Yes.” You respond as curtly as you can. “But that’s none of your business–” 

“The fuck it is.” He crowds you, forcing you to back up into the storage room. 

You’ve seen Kaiser angry before. On the field, or with his teammates. Never at you. There’s no reason to be angry at you. In his world, you barely exist. 

Kaiser wasn’t angry. 

That’d be too tame a word to describe him. 

His blue eyes almost glow with the way he looks at you. Kaiser has always forced you to feel many things: embarrassment, discomfort, anger, and frustration. 

Not fear. Never fear. 

Until now, at least. 

“You think you can just run from me?” He asks, but you don’t think he’s talking to you. His voice sounds rampant, unfocused. “You think there’s somewhere you can escape to? That I’d just let you walk away from me?” 

The way he speaks makes something awful grow into the pit of your stomach. His tone is vile, possessive, and something else you’d rather not name. You feel small, like you’re a toy a child is no longer allowed to play with anymore. 

You open your mouth, and then his lips are on yours. 

There’s no softness, no gentleness. Kaiser is nothing but harsh and full of teeth. By the time you’re able to pull away, your lips are sore and bitten. 

He lets you stumble back, reaching up to wipe your blood off his lips. 

You should’ve taken that time to run, but you can’t. Your feet feel like they’re cemented into the ground as you continue to stare at him. Your lips sting. Something burns across your face as he advances forward. 

You should’ve run. Even as he shut the door behind you two with a final thud, you knew that. 

The tiny sliver of light barely gives you a glimpse of his figure before you feel him against your chest, shoving you against the wall. 

“What are you doing?” It’s all you can say, all you can think. “Kaiser–what–what are you doing–” 

“It’s my fault,” he says, but it sounds more like he’s talking to himself than talking to you, listening to the words form in his mouth. “I was too lenient on you. Everyone else saw it, and I thought that was enough.” 

There’s a click of his tongue. “It’s clear you need to have some things spelled out for you.” 

Fingers crudely snap in your face. You flinch, trying to back up against the wall, but there’s nowhere to run. Maybe that was the case from the first moment he saw you. 

“Here’s how things are gonna go: You aren’t leaving. You are never leaving me. The minute you try, I’m dragging you right back kicking and screaming.” 

You wordlessly stare back at him. Kaiser isn’t finished. 

“If you want to try, I’ll make you understand just how hard things will get for you.” 

The threat is clear and laced with venom that stings. You stop breathing, but your timid fear isn’t enough for Kaiser. 

He leans into your space, lips right at your ear. 

“Do you understand?” 

Something about his tone makes your body snap up at attention. You close your eyes and nod, pressing yourself further up against the wall. 

“Okay.” You find yourself saying. “I–I won’t….okay.” 

You keep your eyes closed until you no longer feel him breathing down your neck. Even then, he doesn’t let up on his closeness. Strangely, his presence feels smaller, like he’s slowly calming down. You can still feel the rage emanating from his body, but the heat is a bit more bearable. 

“Better.” He tells you. You flinch as he lightly pats your cheek, like you were some rowdy mutt. 

“There’s this new restaurant that just opened up. It's too Americanized for me, but the food’s pretty good. Wanna go?” 

You blink at him. He’s back to how he acted just hours ago, slightly leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, casual with the slightest hint of a playful tease. 

How was he so casual about this? Why was he so unafraid? The minute you got out of here you planned on reporting him until he got arrested. You should have done that weeks ago, but why was he so confident you wouldn’t. 

You glance down at his shoes. Yours were cheap, but you took care of them as much as you could. You wanted them to last. His were rugged and muddy and barely held together, but the brand was expensive. It probably cost an entire month of your salary. He’d easily buy another pair. 

Ah, that was why. 

That’s why the other managers brushed off his harsh words even though they edged on harassment. That’s why you still hesitate to say anything even though you desperately want to. You’re just a Pawn on the chessboard. 

Kaiser is the King. 

When you give a wordless nod, Kaiser preens, satisfied. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, jostling you to his side as he drags you out of the suffocating closet. You shrink under his hold, reluctantly following along as his head dips into the crook of your neck. 

“Should’ve done this sooner. Everything's so much easier now that you understand,” he says, his voice muffled by your neck.

10:30am, you manage to "crawl-surf" to the bathroom.

naturally, you reach for the faucet - it’s not there.

you blink, and the faucet is on the ceiling. water flowing upward into the pipes - you look in the mirror;

he’s standing behind you in the reflection, holding a toothbrush and looking incredibly "helpful," "innocent," waiting for you to snap - you don't.

you use bottled water instead, winning the second battle of this "silent treatment war". 1-1.

by midday, he realizes you’re more stubborn than a cursed spirit, so he goes full on nuisance mode. (special grade sorcerer edition).

you open your closet to get dressed; every single item of clothing, every shirt, every sock - is vibrating. if you touch a sleeve, it teleports to the other side of the room.

you are effectively locked out of your own wardrobe by a space-time anomaly.

you go to make tea to calm your nerves, thinking 'if you can't fight it, then adapt to it.'

the kettle is suddenly encased in a "red" orb that repels your hand every time you get within six inches.

the final straw for you was when you tried to leave the apartment to get some space;

you open the front door and walk out, only to find yourself stepping right back into your own living room.

confused, you try again. door → living room. door -> living room, an infinite loop. he’s turned your hallway into a localized version of the prison realm.

you stand in the middle of the room, hands on your hips, fuming.

satoru is now sitting on the couch comfortably, dramatically sighing and checking his watch as if he's the one being inconvenienced with this whole thing.

you take a deep breath. you tried - you really did.

"satoru," you growl, finally looking at him.

"oh! someone spoke!" he teleports directly into your personal space, his blindfold pushed up so his blue eyes are practically glowing with "i won" energy.

"was that the wind? or was that my favorite person finally realizing that they need a certain handsome sorcerer to fix the literal glitch in their reality?"

"fix the door," you snap, trying to hide the twitch of a smile. "the tea, and the floor. you’re such a fucking brat."

"i'm your brat," he chirps, snapping his fingers.

suddenly, the world stops vibrating and gravity returns to normal.

he leans down with no shame resting his chin on your head. "apology accepted! let’s go get lunch. i’m paying - mostly because you can't reach your wallet since i put it on the moon."

"you did.. what?"

"kidding! it’s in my pocket - come on."

it's on the moon. 1-100.

the fifth letter,

you are in no mood for games. very well. i am in no mood for them, either.

let me say it outright: there are moments brief, and increasingly frequent in which i reach for you without thought. this displeases me, i am not accustomed to such absence from you, nor restraint.

you have forced both upon me.

come home and shout at me. come home and fight with me. come home and break my heart, if you must. it has become yours only to break. just come home.

your husband, sukuna.

the next letter,

not even responding to my missives is ridiculous and beneath you and i hate it.

atleast inform me of your health.

ryomen sukuna

and then finally, your reply,

stop writing to me, at once. my wedded lord you have trespassed much and caused me such nuisance, it is quite enough now.

i am well. but do not pretend as if you may not already know that. you think i am not aware of my new lady’s maid keeping an eye on me, certainly appointed to report back to you?

consider it my generosity that i let her stay, and consider it my ignorance towards your repetitive letters for my lack of response.

if i receive any such scroll from you, i shall burn it.

signed, yours.

and his response,

surely if your lovely eyes may not grace my lowly epistles, then i shall speak freely.

to my most willful wife, you command me to cease, and yet you write at length. i had not realized i occupied you so thoroughly. as for your lady’s maid, you give me too much credit. if she watches you, it is because you are worth watching. i would hardly entrust such a task to another. although i cannot speak for what ways uraume employs to inform me on your health..

i have been told it is unbecoming to repeat oneself so, i will not ask you to return again. you may remain where you are, in whatever peace you have convinced yourself you prefer. i will not contest it.

and yet, i find myself wondering: why you will not come back of your own accord. have you no consideration, for your neglected husband?

the hand you force, your husband.

to my most theatric husband, you mistake response for preoccupation. do not flatter yourself, i write only to correct what you insist on misunderstanding.

as for being “worth watching,” you dress surveillance in pretty language, you always had a knack for that. for such sweet talk will not work on me, do not expect gratitude for it.

if your husband is neglected, perhaps he should consider why.

signed, your wife, unfortunately.

to my most contrary wife, “unfortunately,” and yet you take such care to sign it. i wonder if your hand hesitated at all.

as for your refusal of gratitude, keep it, i did not ask for it. you suggest your husband reflect on his neglect. i have. thoroughly. i apologize for everything, end this torment for me wife, for i can bear it no longer.

you insist my words hold no effect on you now. how curious, has distance made you bold, or merely forgetful? i recall a time not long past, when your resolve was far less reliable. how easily it would slip from you, how quickly your protests would soften when i would indulge you, a little more closely. 𓀐𓂸

have you truly forgotten? or are you simply daring me to remind you?

very well. do not worry, i will remind you, not behind these papers this time. consider that a courtesy, one last chance to brace yourself or do you prefer to test me?

i would find it entertaining, either way.

your lord and husband, R.S.

my lord, you are most unfair!

do not be naughty, ryomen. i warn you, what you speak of this “reminder” it is highly improper. and what if someone else were to see it? consider your poor wife’s reputation!

your teasing is relentless, and i am most vexed. you threaten of your arrival, yet remain absent, perhaps one day, your threats will find action..though i dare not hope it too loudly.

if you intend to test my resolve, i suggest you waste no more time. come, then, and take me with you, lest i change my mind.

apology accepted, your wife.

a shorter note, in refined handwriting,

lord ryomen sukuna will be arriving soon.

his subject, uraume.

firefly; this is probably my first fic where i have worked SO hard on formatting it, i hope you guys enjoy ❀ུ͏  

inspo: by cardan’s letters to jude from the folk of the air series.

At the party a week later, he already knew your name and was drinking more than anyone else. You laughed at his jokes even when they were kind of mean, even when you were nervous. He looked at you a little longer than he looked at everyone else.

Sukuna touched you more than necessary. His hand on your waist felt like a brand. When he leaned in and told you you were pretty, something inside you tightened with happiness.

You ended up in his bedroom.

The door shut.

The music behind the wall turned muffled.

He kissed you like he wasn’t used to asking permission. You were shaking. You didn’t want to look naive. When he pushed inside you and understood you’d never done this before, he froze for a second.

His fingers tightened on your thigh.

You wished you hadn’t let him realize.

You wanted to seem grown, brave.

There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Maybe even a little confusion. But he exhaled and kept going, like he’d decided it was just a detail.

Sukuna didn’t stop.

You clenched your teeth, buried your face in his forearm, pressed into the tattooed skin so he wouldn’t notice how much it hurt. He wasn’t cruel. He just didn’t think about the fact that you might be scared. He was too focused on himself.

Later you lay beside him, staring at the ceiling, convincing yourself it had been right. That it had meant something important to him. And in the morning Sukuna lazily said he liked you while you were cleaning up his room.

That you could try being together. He said it like he was talking about a new playlist, not your heart.

You agreed.

You said “yes” so fast he even smirked. Easy. Way too easy.

You remember your friends trying to talk you out of it. “He’s insane, can’t you see that? He’ll dump you in a week.” You didn’t listen. You looked at them and thought: You just don’t know him like I do. Stupid.

The stupidest girl alive.

Sukuna knew they were warning you. You told him. Complained that they didn’t get him, that he was good, just complicated. He half-listened, nodded, thought about something else.

Good? He wasn’t good.

But if that’s what you needed to believe — fine.

What did he care?

Sukuna knew you were foolish. Not dumb — you did great in school. Foolish in the way you looked at him. The way you waited. The way you forgave. He saw it and found it amusing. Sometimes even cute. Sometimes annoying. But overall — convenient.

At first, everything felt almost normal.

Sometimes he was almost gentle.

Sukuna could pull you into his chest out of nowhere and rest his chin on the top of your head. He could text you at night, a short “You asleep?” and when you answered, tell you to come over.

He could lace his fingers through yours like it was natural.

You lived for those moments.

They were rare.

That’s why they felt precious.

But most of the time, he was different.

He knew you loved flowers.

You’d send him pictures of bouquets, text “They’re so pretty,” sigh when you passed flower shops. He saw. Sometimes he even thought, Maybe I should get her some. Then brushed it off. Flowers die. Waste of money. And if he bought them once, you’d start expecting it again. He didn’t want you expecting things.

He didn’t want to owe you.

You wanted to be understanding for him.

He knew you were hurt when he forgot important dates. Your birthday. Valentine’s. Your anniversary. He didn’t remember numbers. Didn’t try to. What was the point? Days pass, everything repeats. Why celebrate?

The truth was he remembered your birthday. He just didn’t think it mattered enough to show up. A friend’s party, lots of booze, girls looking at him with interest. Why go home where you’d be waiting with that look in your eyes? He didn’t want to see it.

The candles had already burned halfway down by midnight.

You had bought a cake he never saw.

He came back three days later. You were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea, not looking at him. Your eyes were red. You only asked, “Are you hungry?” He was. You cooked. Everything was “fine.”

You tried to smile. Asked if he’d had fun. You didn’t ask why he hadn’t come. And Sukuna pretended not to notice.

Easier that way.

He didn’t get why your friends hissed at him. They looked at him like he’d done something unforgivable.

What had he done?

He was with you.

What more did they want?

He knew you wanted real dates.

The kind you chose. Rom-com movies. Parks. Stupid little fairs. He refused. “Boring.” “Not going.” “Just come over.” You agreed. You always agreed. He didn’t think about how you felt. If you really wanted it, you’d drag him there, right?

So it must not matter that much.

He took advantage of the fact you wanted to be a good girlfriend.

He knew you hated horror movies. You’d say, “They scare me, I can’t sleep after.” But when he turned one on, you sat beside him, pressed close, and stayed quiet. He didn’t turn it off. He liked them. And if you were scared, you’d just cling tighter.

Not so bad.

He knew you were exhausted. Classes. A job. Four hours of sleep...

But when he wanted sex, he just came up to you and started. If you said “I’m not in the mood,” he’d insist. Not harshly. Just, “Come on.” Kissing your neck. Tugging at your clothes. You gave in, because it always felt good with him. Always.

Sukuna didn’t see a problem.

You weren’t really resisting.

So you must’ve wanted it too.

He knew you picked out thoughtful gifts. Hid them. Gave them to him with that hopeful look like you’d brought him a stray cat. He’d say “Thanks” and shove them in a drawer. Not because he didn’t care — he just didn’t know what to do with it. Books he wouldn’t read. Sweaters he wouldn’t wear...

Why? He didn’t ask.

You give, he takes. Fair.

He didn’t need anything.

Sukuna remembered how you hugged him after fights.

He yelled — he knows he yelled.

Sometimes for a reason, sometimes just because he was in a shitty mood. And you’d come up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, press your cheek to his back. Quiet. He felt your breathing through his shirt. It was strange. Warm.

He didn’t get why you did it, but he let you.

Sometimes even waited for it.

Never asked.

He knew you were hurt when he disappeared for days without answering.

You’d text. Call. Then stop. When he vanished, you barely ate. You checked your phone again and again. Replayed everything you’d said. Convinced yourself you’d ruined it. And when he came back, you’d throw your arms around his neck like he’d returned from war.

Something in his chest tightened.

A weird feeling.

He brushed it off.

You’re just emotional.

You just missed him. Nothing special.

But there was something special about being waited for.

You thought if you loved him hard enough, he’d become better. You saw him as wounded. Broken. You believed you could be a quiet place where he didn’t have to be hard.

You believed that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, one day he’d want to be softer too. You didn’t try to change him. You just hoped he’d notice how much you did.

He never asked you to.

Sukuna knew what you felt when he came to bed smelling like someone else’s perfume.

You never said anything. Just turned to the wall and breathed quietly. He thought, If you’re not asking, good. He was too lazy to explain, too lazy to lie, too lazy to handle your feelings.

They were yours. Not his.

Sometimes he noticed something off.

The way you looked when he joked about you in front of friends. How you dropped your gaze when they said he didn’t deserve you. How you flinched when he yelled. And in those moments something unpleasant stirred deep inside him.

Guilt? No. Just discomfort.

Like he’d done something wrong but couldn’t figure out what.

He’d brush it off.

Drink. Leave. It would pass.

The worst part — he genuinely didn’t understand.

To him, you were just you.

Always there. Always available. Always forgiving.

He didn’t see boundaries because you never set them. He didn’t feel pain because you never showed it. He thought everything was fine. Because if it wasn’t, you’d leave. Or cry. Or scream.

But you didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just stayed.

You never cried in front of him.

That matters. You never cried.

He got used to thinking you were strong. That you could handle everything. That you’d always be there, always ready, always forgiving. He thought that’s just how you were. That tears weren’t your thing.

He was wrong.

That night at Gojo’s.

Sukuna was drunk. Really drunk.

He remembers you walking up to him — in that black dress he once called “decent.” You took his hand carefully, timidly. Your fingers were cold. They were shaking.

He thought you were freezing outside.

He didn’t think you were scared.

Didn’t think you were hurting.

“We need to talk,” you said.

He looked at you and noticed your eyes were shining. Something was off, but he couldn’t place it. He was drunk. He was having fun. He didn’t want to talk.

“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered. “Go home.”

Music. Noise. Laughter. He was always busy when you showed up serious. He knew what that meant. Complaints. Questions. Those eyes he never understood.

He pulled his hand away.

Your fingers slipped off. You stood there watching. He had already turned back to the crowd when something made him glance over his shoulder. Your lips were trembling. Just a little.

He decided it wasn’t his problem.

And walked away.

The rest is blurry. Booze. Laughter. Music. The brunette from another class who’d been eyeing him for months. She sat on his lap. He let her. She was warm, smelled sweet, said something playful.

He half-listened.

Then she kissed him.

He remembers the taste of her lipstick — sickly sweet, chemical. Not like yours. Actually, he barely remembered what you tasted like. Did you even wear lipstick? Maybe if he’d once said he liked it.

Did he kiss her back? Maybe. He didn’t push her away. What difference did it make?

Then Sukuna opened his eyes.

And saw you.

You were standing at the other end of the room. In the middle of the crowd. Of the laughter. Of all that shit.

You were standing there, looking at him.

And tears were running down your cheeks.

He didn’t know you could cry like that. No sound. No sobbing. Just tears — big, fast, endless. You were holding your hand to your chest like something hurt there.

And you were looking right at him.

For the first time, his indifference made him sick.

Something in his chest jolted. Hard enough to make him want to grab his ribs. He moved — wanted to stand, shove the girl off, go to you. He even opened his mouth to call you...

But the brunette tugged his hair. Turned him back to her.

And when he looked again, you were gone.

Sukuna doesn’t remember how he pushed through the crowd. The brunette shouted something after him, but he didn’t hear it. He shoved people out of the way and didn’t understand why his heart was pounding so hard.

You just left.

You always left when he told you to.

But you didn’t leave with that face before.

You didn’t cry.

He searched the whole house. He almost slipped on something spilled near the kitchen and didn’t even notice. Checked every room, the kitchen, the bathroom, even the damn storage closet. You were gone.

Someone said, “The girl in black? She left like a minute ago.”

He ran outside.

Cold. Night. Empty street. No one.

He headed toward the bus stop. Didn’t know why. Just instinct. He knew you wouldn’t have enough for a cab.

He remembered that one time after a fight when you’d stormed off, and he’d found you at that same stop. You were sitting there, staring at your phone. When you saw him, you smiled.

God, you smiled, even though he’d been yelling at you thirty minutes earlier.

Like he was the solution, not the problem.

He walked and thought, What am I even going to say? Why am I going?

He didn’t know.

His legs just kept moving.

Maybe it was the right thing to do.

He saw you from a distance.

A small figure on the bench, curled into yourself. You were staring ahead. Not crying. Just sitting there. He came closer. Stopped a couple of meters away. Didn’t know what to do. Shoved his hands into his pockets — he’d come out without a jacket, was freezing, but didn’t feel it.

“Hey,” he called.

You looked up.

And he saw your face. Swollen. Red. Wet. You looked at him like you were seeing a ghost. Like he was the last person you ever wanted to see. And for the first time, he was actually scared.

“What’s wrong…” he started. “You were crying?”

The words sounded wrong the second they left his mouth.

Stupid question. Idiotic. You were covered in tears. But he genuinely didn’t know what to say. He’d never seen you like this. And you just kept staring. And in your eyes there was something that made his insides twist.

“What…”

And then you sobbed.

You broke down.

Loud, shaking, like a child, like something wounded, like someone being killed from the inside out. You covered your face with your hands, your shoulders trembling uncontrollably. The sounds you made were awful.

They cut through the air.

Cut through him.

Dug under his skin and stayed there.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered.

Sukuna froze. He had never — never — seen anyone cry like that. Especially not you.

You, who waited and tolerated all his bullshit.

For the first time in his life, Sukuna didn’t know what to do.

His mind went blank. His mind was blank.

Not a single thought.

Just panic — sticky, cold, unfamiliar.

He stepped closer. Crouched down in front of you. Reached out, hand hovering over your shoulder.

“Hey…” he tried again. “Come on… stop…”

You jerked away. Hard.

Like he’d hit you.

And something twisted violently inside him.

You shrank back against the bench, pressing yourself into the backrest, curling in tighter. And cried louder.

“Don’t touch me,” you breathed out. “Don’t touch me!”

Sukuna went still. His hand hung in the air.

He stared at you, confused.

You always wanted him to touch you.

You reached for him, clung to him, asked for affection even when he was rough.

And now — don’t touch me.

“I just—” he began.

“Just leave,” you cut him off. Your voice kept breaking, choking on tears. “Please. Just go.”

He didn’t go. Something held him there, pinned him to that asphalt, to that bench, to you. He watched you cry and felt something inside his own chest start to hurt.

Not like before. Worse. Deeper.

“I didn’t mean to,” he tried. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“You never think!” you suddenly shouted.

And that scream, wet and shattered, hit him like a slap.

“Have you ever thought about me? Even once? Do you know how many nights I couldn’t sleep? Do you know how I waited for you? Do you know how much it hurts when you do this?”

Sukuna stayed silent.

He didn’t know. He genuinely didn’t.

“You forgot my birthday. You left and didn’t come back. You slept with other girls and didn’t even hide it!”

“I didn’t fuck anyone!” he snapped back, frowning slightly, but you cut him off immediately—

“And I still loved you!” you cried. “I still waited! I thought if I was good enough, patient enough, you would—”

Your breath hitched.

You covered your face again.

Your shoulders shook harder.

And Sukuna felt something tear slowly inside his chest.

With a crack. With pain.

He didn’t understand what it was. He’d never felt it before.

“I…” he started again. Stopped. Swallowed. “I didn’t know it mattered that much to you. You never said it straight.”

You looked up at him.

So full of pain he almost flinched.

“I did,” you hissed quietly. “A hundred times. You just…” another sob, “…you just never listened.”

He wanted to argue.

To say he did listen.

That he remembered. That—

But he didn’t. He truly didn’t.

Your words had always slid past him because they felt small. Petty. Unimportant.

He reached out again. Slowly. Carefully.

Like you were a wild animal he might scare away.

His fingers touched your shoulder. Gently squeezed.

“Come here,” he said quietly. “Just… come here.”

He wanted to hug you.

For the first time in his life, he wanted to hold you not for sex, not out of habit, but because you were crying and he didn’t know how to make it stop. He tried to pull you toward him — careful, almost soft.

You tore yourself away.

You shoved him.

Hard. Both hands. So hard he nearly fell back. You jumped to your feet, stepping away. One step. Two. You stood there, soaked in tears, shaking, broken, screaming:

“Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare! Not after you— not after her—”

Your voice cracked.

You couldn’t finish.

You covered your face and froze.

Sukuna stood up slowly. Took a step toward you — then stopped. His hands dropped. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.

It hurt. It should.

He turned his head away.

Not because he didn’t want to look. But because seeing you like that — crying, hating him, distant — was unbearable. And because for the first time, he felt ashamed. He stared at the empty road, at the lonely streetlamp. Anywhere but at you.

His throat tightened.

He ruined it.

He didn’t even know when it started going wrong.

He just lived the way he knew how. Took what was given. Didn’t think about consequences. And now you were standing there crying, and he didn’t know how to fix it. Only knew he had to do something.

But what?

“I’m sorry,” he said into the dark. “I… I’m sorry.”

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t look at you. He didn’t have the guts.

The night stayed silent. You stayed silent.

And something inside him was dying.

Slowly. Painfully.

For the first time in his life.

How many times had you smiled when you were breaking?

He’d never said thank you.

Never said you were beautiful.

Never chose you — just let you stay.

He thought about how if you walked away right now, he’d have nothing left. Just an empty apartment. A cold bed. And the memory of how you smelled. Something warm. Familiar. His.

He clenched his jaw and, for one second, hoped you’d say, “It’s okay. I’m just tired.”

Let him hold you.

But you said:

“Get lost, Sukuna. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

You didn’t say you didn’t love him anymore.

But he understood anyway.

Maybe the only right thing he could do now was leave.

Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!) English is not my first language, so yes, my writing might not be perfect.(