sa’miya

He knelt beside the half-open closet with a cardboard box at his side, tossing things into it with the same indifference he’d used when you would tell him anything that remotely excited you.

Everything he saw, he threw in the box like it was chore—mechanically, brain never pausing long enough to register what his fingers curled around.

A scarf—vermillion silk, obnoxiously red. His kind of red. The color of his eyes, and the dried blood on the corner of his mouth after a vicious bar fight.

Then—heels, heels, heels.

You collected heels like you were set to walk on a runway show. He never paid much attention to them before—why would he? They were just shoes. But now? They almost felt like a declaration. Like each click against the floor was you strutting away from him, step by step.

Further and further.

Runway…funny. He’d always thought of you as the one who stayed. But now, he realized you had run away, and never looked back.

He scoffed, shaking his head before he paused.

Just a quick break—eyes flicking to the window, watchful and narrowed into suspicious slits.

More apartment complexes, boxed glass showing snippets of strangers’ lives: a couple making out as they made dinner, an old man reading a book, a single mother juggling her toddlers—their muffled laughter somehow infiltrating the apartment. It was like watching a live movie, but right now, nothing could be as dramatic as a man scavenging through his ex’s previously-prized possessions.

A pigeon flew by and perched on a balcony’s railing as if taking a break.

Just like him.

As Sukuna continued sorting through your things, his fingers brushed over a small velvet box at the bottom of the closet, pushed to the back like something unworthy of remembering. He pulled it out, studying the worn corners, how the fabric frayed slightly at the edges. He paused, staring at it before opening it with a quiet snap.

Inside, nestled on a bed of black silk, was a pair of diamond earrings that glittered in the dim light. They caught the light with a cold, perfect shine.

Cautiously, his touched an earring with his index finger—poking it like it was a live specimen and not a piece of delicate jewelry. With that touch, a memory broke loose, his mind transporting him to that moment before he could escape it.

His chest tightened. Those earrings. The ones he’d bought you after forgetting the second year anniversary.

He hadn’t meant to forget. But he always had an excuse on the tip of his tongue: work, something else—something more significant than a date that marked what he had thought was a stable relationship. His mind just never stayed in one place long enough to be present with you. When you’d confronted him, hurt written all over your face, he’d tried to make it up to you. He’d bought you diamonds because he didn’t know how else to apologize.

It was a fake apology.

One that, unfortunately, couldn’t cover the void he’d left in your heart, the countless nights where you had to fill in the emotional space he had refused to occupy.

You’d worn them once, he remembered. The sharp edges of the diamonds gleaming as you smiled weakly at him. But he’d never seen the look on your face then—or perhaps it hadn’t fully registered—the silent resignation that you weren’t about to keep fighting for something that wasn’t real.

He closed the box slowly, and trapped the memory inside, his heart sinking with the weight of it. Another gift that meant nothing.

In that same corner—the corner of memories—there was a stack of shoe boxes. Sukuna assumed they housed more designer heels, but when he opened on of them—

It wasn’t shoes.

It was him.

Not literally, but close enough to make something in his chest tighten before he understood why.

Inside were folded scraps of paper. Ticket stubs. From the many nights where he’d promise to go with you, but he’d always flake at the last minute—until you stopped inviting him altogether—stopped expecting him to show up. Underneath were Polaroids with the corners bent soft from being handled too many times. He could picture your trembling fingers creasing them, like you couldn’t decide whether to keep or get rid of them.

A dried flower pressed flat in the middle like it once mattered enough to preserve. Hydrangeas—Sukuna recalled. Your favorite. He’d read somewhere it symbolized gratitude and apology. You bought them especially during the rainy season, always blue. You’d put them inside the vase, their scent filling the apartment while you prattled on about the legend of the emperor who had gifted them to his beloved. His mouth twitched at the memory, almost instinctively, like he could brush it off the same way he used to.

“Ridiculous,” he’d probably said back then as you recited the story for the umpteenth time with a bright smile on your face.

He could count the times he’d bought them for you in one hand.

Not even a hand—one finger.

Only once.

His fingers hovered over it before he picked it up, careful in a way he didn’t realize he was being careful at all. The petals were brittle—too fragile for pressure, too dull for color—like they’d given up on staying alive. Still, with his sharp vision, he detected a lavender hue before it faded into the browned edges.

He recognized it—this was it—the bouquet he’d bought you—-and he hadn’t even bothered to get the right color.

Not the pale blue that you loved. Not the soft, careful shade you had pointed out many times to drill into his head—as if hinting that you wanted him to buy them. Finally, he had enough of hearing about them and purchased them on a random day while passing the floral shop. He hadn’t cared enough to double check on the color. Just took whatever the florist had handed him, wrapped too neatly in paper he didn’t look twice.

Back then, it hadn’t felt important—just a task he had to cross off his list because work awaited. And work was his top—if not only—priority.

Flowers were flowers.

They grew, they bloomed, they withered.

Just like the love you both shared.

Until this moment, he wasn’t sure why he’d given them to you. Perhaps they were an apology, or maybe it was due to another forgotten anniversary.

He remembered tossing them into your arms with the same ease he did everything else—like making an effort was optional, like meaning could fill itself in later.

You’d smiled anyway—kissed him on the cheek like you wanted to preserve your love onto his skin.

That was the part that should’ve bothered him more than it ever did.

Sukuna exhaled through his nose—low and sharp—like he could cut the feeling out of himself if he did it hard enough.

His grip tightened slightly around the flower, and for a second, thought about crushing it into fine dust.

But he didn’t—he couldn’t bring himself to.

He just stood there, holding yet another version of an apology he’d never properly made—realizing too late, that even when he tried to fix things, he’d never really been looking at what needed fixing.

He stared at the rest of the contents. At things that were too small to be valuable—not unless they carried meaning to whomever kept them.

His fingers twitched for a second as he eyed the next item, pausing midair before he touched anything like the box might bite.

Then, he picked up a random Polaroid.

It was him. Half-captured, unguarded. Not scowling, not smirking—just caught in an everlasting moment where he hadn’t noticed the camera. His eyes were turned away, yet you’d still kept it.

Another photo. Him again. A blur of motion—tousled hair like roseate flames like it had fought with gravity and won—probably taken without him caring enough to stop you.

Sukuna clicked his tongue under his breath, sounding a lot weaker than he meant to. “Tch…”

Except it didn’t sound like annoyance.

It felt like being watched from a place he hadn’t realized you’d been standing all along.

You’d captured him through your eyes.

Chaos and muddled motions.

He dug deeper.

Another movie stub.

A receipt from a nearby café he vaguely remembered you begging him to accompany you to—practically vibrating with excitement as you’d raved about their strawberry cloud matcha—folded carefully like it mattered.

Rain check—he’d texted you. No explanation, no apology.

He opened it, scanning the transaction even though he knew what you had probably ordered—but it was like he wanted a confirmation, proof that he knew you more than you knew yourself, despite never being—

Despite never being a good boyfriend.

Despite never being the kind of man who asked instead of assumed.

His eyes dragged over the faded ink, the numbers illegible, the date stamped on the corner like a quiet accusation. He swallowed, throat closing up, then reread it as if the words might change if he looked hard enough.

A strawberry cloud matcha as expected.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed.

Not because of the drink itself—he’d seen you order it enough times to remember the stupid name—but because of the number beside it.

2.

Two fucking strawberry cloud matchas.

And below it, a list of baked goods: two slices of strawberry shortcake, two strawberry croissants, two strawberry mochis.

He stared at it longer than he intended, like the total number of items would disappear if he glared at it long enough.

Two.

Two of everything.

His first instinct was simple.

Maybe you bought them for him.

But he already knew the truth before he admitted it to himself.

He didn’t drink matcha.

He had more of a savory tongue than a sweet tooth.

And you knew that.

Could it be—no. No. Impossible.

His thumb pressed on the receipt. He scoffed quietly, folding it back up with unnecessary pressure.

Whatever.

Maybe it was for your friend—Shoko, or whatever her name was. Maybe it was nothing.

He tossed it back into the shoebox and moved on.

But the uneasy feeling stayed lodged in his chest like a splinter.

He skimmed over the other items.

A torn corner of wrapping paper with candle stencils on it. His birthday. The one he’d barely acknowledge. Even before he’d met you, it wasn’t something he thought was worth celebrating.

Not until you had showed up in his life.

Birthday surprises once the clock struck midnight. Meaningful gifts that he’d dismiss as corny—laughing under his breath, rolling his eyes like it was stupid.

But he’d still hold them in his hands a second too long.

He’d stare at them like they were the best thing anyone had ever given him.

Because he didn’t know how to stay thank you—to express his gratitude—without ruining the moment. He didn’t know how to accept love without acting like it was embarrassing—like it was worthless.

But you had noticed. You always noticed.

He blinked at the stuff before him.

Each item was quiet on its own.

Together, they weren’t quiet at all.

They were a pattern.

Proof of effort. Proof of waiting. Proof that you had been building alone longer than he ever noticed.

His hand paused over something softer at the bottom.

A small notebook.

Not yours, not really—one of those cheap ones people buy without thinking. Just a notebook to fill with addresses or contact information—maybe even doodles at the margins.

He opened it.

And for the first time he’d stepped into the apartment, Sukuna didn’t have something clever to say in his head.

Just your handwriting. Boxed characters, impatient slants, the occasional scribble where you’d crossed something out and rewritten it like you didn’t trust your own feelings to be correct the first time.

Short lines. Dates. Moments.

Not dramatic. Not poetic.

Just honest—unfiltered, unapologetic.

He started from the beginning.

Sukuna secretly loves that I call him Suki.

He let out of a huff of air from his nostrils—harsh, amused, the closest thing to a laugh he ever allowed himself. He remembered the first time you’d called him that.

It had slipped out so easily—so effortlessly—like you didn’t realize you were playing with fire.

“Suki.”

He’d turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing like you’d just insulted him.

“What the hell did you just call me?”

You hadn’t even flinched. Just smiled—sweet, smug—like you’d already decided you belonged in his space.

“You heard me,” you’d said, tilting your head. “Suki.”

He remembered the way irritation had flashed through him, hot and immediate, because no one dared to shorten his name. No one softened him down into something cute. Something harmless.

He’d grabbed your wrist then—not rough, but not exactly gentle either—just enough to remind you who you were talking to.

“Don’t call me that.”

You’d blinked up at him, eyes wide and innocent in a way that wasn’t innocent at all. “But it suits you…”

He should’ve shut it down—should’ve made you stop.

Instead, something strange curled into his chest—something warm and familiar, something that made him want to keep you closer just to hear you say it again.

And the worst part?

He’d never corrected you after that.

Sukuna flipped the page, skipping a couple of pages with silly drawings. For a second, he appreciated them—cherished this side of you. This childish, playful side that made him realize that life shouldn’t always be so serious.

He paused, his finger lingering on a crude drawing of a cartoon version of him—bold, exaggerated features, sharp fangs and crimson eyes and pinkish spikes—a jagged crown with a blood-red ruby perched on top of his head. You’d drawn him like that once you were sitting next to him on the couch, laughing as you scribbled with crayons and markers like some big kid, saying he looked like an “evil king who needed a good hug.”

It had been the first time he’d genuinely laughed at something that wasn’t a mocking snicker or an arrogant grin. He’d actually laughed with you. And it felt…easy. Comfortable.

For a moment, he wondered why he hadn’t let the moment mean more, why he hadn’t let that version of himself—that version—stay longer. But then the thought left as quickly as it came.

Sukuna turned the pages, catching pieces of your thoughts—thoughts you had tried again and again to share with him, only to have them swallowed by a boundary he’d built between you.

Not a wall, exactly.

A distance.

A quiet refusal to meet you where you stood.

He kissed me today. I think he meant it.

Sukuna’s throat tightened even more, like someone had secured a zip tie around it.

He kept reading.

He laughed at something I said. It felt…warm.

More notes, each one like a stab to the heart.

He didn’t come today. I said it was fine.

He laughed when I tried to explain it.

I wish he’d look at me when I’m talking.

I think I’m starting to stop expecting—

The last line wasn’t finished properly.

Just a sentence cut off like you couldn’t be bothered to finish what he already refused to understand.

But then he quickly turned the page, as if searching for the other half of this incomplete thought.

Maybe I’m asking for too much.

And he didn’t know why, but the pain in his chest grew unbearable.

Because you weren’t asking for too much.

You were asking the wrong man.

Sukuna remained in that same position, unmoving.

The box still open.

The room still silent.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was sifting through your things.

It felt like he was standing inside everything he never paid attention to—until it had already stopped being his to notice.

Blank pages after that. No more thoughts, no more entries—no more reminders. Because that was they seemed to him. Reminders of why you should walk away. Reminders of why you should give up on him.

But halfway through flipping, he found a loose page, folded and tucked randomly inside, like it wanted to be hidden and discovered at the same time.

Baby Suki Ryoumen Sukuna,

I don’t know why I’m writing this instead of saying it to your face. Maybe because I’ve tried and you look at me like I’m asking for too much.

You always act like love is something childish. Something embarrassing. Something worthless. Something beneath you.

But I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.

I’ve seen it.

I’ve seen how you soften for a second and then shut it down like it’s a weakness. Like you’re ashamed of it.

Sukuna scoffed, rolling his eyes—ignoring that sharp pang in his chest, and how it just kept fucking probing, probing, probing.

And I’m tired.

I’m so tired.

I’m tired of loving you quietly. I’m tired of having to translate your silence into something I can survive or else I’ll lose my mind.

His eyes started to sting, but he blinked the burn away. Annoyed.

You don’t say sorry. You just buy things.

You don’t talk. You just touch me, not mentally, not emotionally…just physically.

You don’t comfort me. You pull me closer like it’s supposed to fix everything.

And I let you.

Because I love you in a way that makes me feel stupid.

I keep lying to telling myself that one day you’ll wake up and realize that I’m not asking you to change who you are.

I’m just asking you to let me in.

Just once.

You need to understand:

I don’t need flowers.

I don’t need earrings.

I don’t need anything expensive.

I want you to look at me and mean it when you say you want me.

I need you to care when I’m hurting, to actually show it and not give me a dismissive reaction.

I need you to stop treating love like it’s something you can throw away and pick back up whenever you feel like it.

Because I can’t keep doing this, Sukuna.

I can’t keep waiting for the version of you that only shows up when you think you’re losing me.

And maybe…maybe I should’ve lieft sooner.

Because there’s something that I kept from you.

Sukuna paused, the ground tilting beneath his feet, his entire world in disequilibrium, and he couldn’t find the balance to stand upright. He had to take a break. His hands shook slightly as he set the letter down, as if it might burn him if he held it any longer.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

This was not how he imagined it.

A 6’5 man with the scariest demeanor, who got into bar fights like it was a sport…was scared.

He felt terrified of what was on the other side of this paper.

His chest constricted, his breathing shallow. He didn’t know what do with this knot in his stomach. Anger clawed at him, ready to push the fear aside, but it didn’t work. It never worked when it came to you.

For the first time in years, he felt something there than the rage he used to fuel him.

He ran a hand over his face, fingers cold against his skin like that could wipe away the pain. His jaw flexed. Hard. Teeth grinding.

Why the fuck am I like this?

He let out a frustrated breath. His hand clenched around the letter—knuckles turning white—crumpling it slightly. No. He couldn’t get weak now. He wasn’t going to break.

Not now, not ever.

With a determined effort, he flipped the page over, and continued reading:

I was pregnant.

The words scrambled and unscrambled like a code that didn’t want to be deciphered.

I was pregnant.

Was.

Was.

Was.

A sound tore out of him—something strangled, sharp. And then his mind betrayed him.

Another flashback—uninvited, vivid.

You were curled up beside him on the bed, the blanket half kicked off, like you couldn’t decide if you were hot or cold, so you had to compromise. The bedroom TV was playing in the background—some stupid show that he hadn’t been paying attention to. You’d been quieter than usual, playing with the edge of the blanket like you were rehearsing something.

“Sukuna,” you’d said softly.

He hadn’t answer at first.

“Baby?” You’d murmured, reaching for his shoulder, Your fingers slid over the muscle slowly, gentle, careful—like you were approaching something that wasn’t easily tamed.

But Sukuna had shrugged off your touch without even thinking.

Not because you’d done anything wrong.

Because his mind was already elsewhere—still simmering over a bad investment, a phone call that hadn’t gone his way, numbers that refused to bend.

Your hand hovered for a second betore retreating.

“I have a question…” You’d said, too quietly—disheartened.

“Speak,” he’d ordered—jaw tight—eyes still on the TV screen.

“If we ever had kids…” You started, almost laughing like it was a joke. Like you were trying to make it easier on yourself. “What do you think they’d look like?”

He remembered the way you’d smiled when you asked. Nervous. Hopeful.

He remembered answering even without turning his head, like making eye contact with you was a tedious chore.

But he’d done so, angled his head just a tiny fraction as if to make sure you’d engrave his answer into your skull. “I don’t want any.”

Simple. Final. Cold.

It was a decision he’d barely made any effort to ponder over.

The smile on your face had faltered, the colors of the screen reflecting on your skin—but you’d recovered fast—too fast.

“Like…for now?” You asked, your voice sounding smaller.

His eyes returned to the TV, teeth gritted, expression bored—like the conversation was an inconvenience. “At all.”

“Oh,” you’d said lightly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

A lie. He could see it now. He could see it so clearly it made him sick.

You’d leaned into him anyway, like you could bury the disappointment somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

And he hadn’t noticed.

Or maybe he hadn’t cared enough to stop it.

He was staring at the letter like it was a corpse in his hands. The memory hit him with a punch to the gut because it proved how you’d tried to test the waters, and he had shut the door.

“Well, that explains the two strawberry cloud matchas,” Sukuna said, relief filling his lungs because a part of him had assumed the worst, that you’d found someone else worth your time, someone who prioritized you. But deep down, he knew, if you’d cheated on him, he wouldn’t’ve handled it well.

Being pregnant was—in a way—a blessing.

A blessing he was robbed of witnessing.

I found out and I sat on the cold bathroom floor with the test in my shaking hands, staring at the two lines. Staring at them until my vision blurred and all I saw was lines, lines, lines. Then, I waited. Waited for fear, for panic, for something ugly—but it never came. I only felt quiet warmth spread through my chest. Something soft. Something hopeful.

And then I thought of you.

I thought of telling you. Thought of the way you’d look at me—confused, irritated, like I’d ruined your day by needing you. Like I’m an inconvenience that you want to get rid of.

I thought of how alone I already felt standing beside you.

And I realized I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t bring a child into a love that already felt like begging.

So I ended it.

So I ended it.

The blood in his veins ran cold.

A new sound left him. A growl. Or it could’ve been something else—a sound foreign to him. A sound that signified something breaking. Something deep within him he’d buried so long ago, he hadn’t even remembered it was there until now.

He blinked—once, twice—in hopes the sentence would blend with the white sheet and disappear.

He reread it again and again, his mind working through ways to rewrite history—to rewrite the painful past into something delicate. Into something that belonged in some ordinary love letter instead of his destructive hands.

“No,” Sukuna muttered, but the word had no strength behind it.

His eyes flicked to the top of the page.

A date.

His mind started counting without permission.

Months.

Weeks.

Days.

Nights.

Every gulp was razor-sharp, slicing his throat until he tasted the metallic remnants of blood.

When?

When did it happen?

His eyes dropped back to words, but they blurred, the ink swimming as if the paper itself was mocking him. He blinked even harder, furious, his hand wiping his face again like it was sweat.

He couldn’t read anymore.

Not like this.

Not without knowing.

Sukuna threw the letter and notebook on the floor, mind in a haze. He stumbled to the closet, feet leadened, steps heavy.

His pulse hammered so violently it felt like his heart was about to burst out of his chest.

No.

No, this was—this was ridiculous.

His eyes scanned the tower of boxes, hands moving without thought.

Shoeboxes toppled. Another scarf slipped from the hanger and floated to the floor like a dying thing. He didn’t care.

He tore through the clutter like a man looking for a weapon. Clothes flew over his shoulders as he tossed them away, creating a mountain of fabric. More receipts fluttered out of a bag like ribbons inked with reckless purchases. A bundle of hair ties fell that you’d used to decorate your hair, somehow they’d always complement your loud and colorful outfits.

A stupid little Polaroid that landed face-up on the carpet—your smile caught mid-laugh, soft and bright.

Sukuna’s stomach churned.

He stepped on it.

He didn’t mean to.

Or maybe he did.

His breath came out harsher. Faster. Like he was being hunted by the past, present, and future.

His fingers caught on the edge of an envelope wedged between two boxes.

Torn in haste—ripped open like you couldn’t wait—like you wanted to get it over with. Just like a bandaid.

He remembered how you always did it. Pulled it straight off, wincing as if it hurt more than it did, then looked up at him with wide eyes and asked him to kiss it, soft and careful, like you were a kid with a scraped knee.

The memory latched onto him, heightening the ache that had nothing to do with wounds.

He snatched it out—quick and easy—wishing you were here to kiss away the pain.

The paper inside was folded and folded and folded into a tiny square, like the sole purpose had been to make it nonexistent.

To shrink it down until it could fit into the smallest corner of your life.

Until it could be hidden.

Forgotten.

Erased.

Sukuna let the moment stretch, pulse roaring in his ear like a lion fighting for his territory. His fingers hesitated—cautious now, almost reverent—as he began unfolding it.

Each crease resisted.

Each layer revealed another.

Like peeling back something you’d tried desperately to bury.

And when the last fold finally opened, an image stared back at him. Black-and-white. Clinical. Grainy. A small shape suspended in static, unreal and yet horrifyingly real. A piece of you and him, combined mass of cells—forming into something…into someone. The clinic’s name was stamped at the top, the date printed neatly in the corner with bold, taunting numbers.

His eyes locked onto it.

Seven weeks.

And suddenly, his tongue felt too big in his mouth, and even when he moved it around, it couldn’t settle—just scraped against his serrated teeth, his tender gums, the ridged roof of his mouth—like he could grind the feeling away. It was like an invasive check-up at a dentist—being poked and prodded with pointy tools, gums aching, jaw locked, forced to endure it while someone dug around for something rotten.

The memory came to him like a strike to the ribs.

He remembered it wrong at first.

Or maybe his mind tried to as a form of protection, his usual coping mechanism where he would numb his senses. He’d done it enough times to where it became habitual—the go-to response.

Because the truth was too ugly to hold.

It came back to him in fragments—warmth, skin, the dim light of the room, the muffled patters of rain against the window. He had you pressed beneath him, your legs locked around his waist, your breath coming apart in little, helpless sounds. His hands settled on your hips—large, calloused, rough—dimpling your soft curves. Not cruel, not gentle either. Just Sukuna. Possessive in the ways he always was, like your body was the only thing in the world that listened to him.

You’d tried to move, restless, impatient, but he hadn’t budged.

He’d held you there, anchoring you in place—cock snug inside your heat, girth stretching your puffy folds apart, blunt head nudging that aching spot inside you. He was forcing you feel him, every slick inch that pulsed and throbbed.

Heat radiated from your skin in vehement waves, mouth grazing your sweat-slicked neck as if he was tasting the moment, dragging it out until it bordered on torture. Not because he’d wanted to hurt you—but because he liked knowing you’d wanted more.

Because he liked knowing you’d fall apart if he decided to stop.

You’d made a sound—soft, frustrated—and he’d let out a low exhale that could’ve been a laugh.

“Don’t squirm,” Sukuna had rumbled, his voice a sonorous sound that seemed to come from his chest—dominant, authoritative—deep enough to rule empires and witness the downfall of enemies. “You can wait, can’t you? Don’t tell me that my business trip had softened you into this impatient, pathetic woman who can’t wait to take my cock.”

You’d gone still beneath him like the words had slapped you.

Your lashes fluttered, mouth parting in quiet offense—eyes narrowing as if you were about to fight back.

But your body betrayed you.

A soft sound escaped you anyway, breathy and titillating, and Sukuna remembered the way heat rushed up to your face, coloring your cheeks. You’d tried to glare at him—tried to look angry, tried to look proud—but it hadn’t landed.

Not when you were trembling like that.

Not when your hands had tightened on him instead of pushing him away.

“Sukuna…” You’d whispered, voice cracking on his name like you hated how much you wanted him.

He remembered the way you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, forcing some fragile defiance into your expression.

“Move…” You’d breathed—borderline whining, voice trembling between the edges of patience and need. “Please…baby…move.”

Sukuna had tilted his head, slow, deliberate, a sneer tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What’s that?” He’d murmured, low and mocking. “I can’t hear you.”

Your eyes widened, lips moving as if you’d wanted to say more but couldn’t. The red tint on your cheeks had spread to your ears, humiliation and want blending into something raw and messy.

And even with your pleading tone, Sukuna hadn’t obliged. Hadn’t moved. Not an inch. Instead he’d bent his head down, watching your composure crumble, your defiance falter.

“Say it properly,” he’d chided, voice dark, amused, as though it pained him to be entertained by your weakness. “I know you can do better than that.”

Your nails had raked his shoulders, scratching like they way you’d scratched off the words you’d wanted unsaid but you’d wrote them down anyway. “Please…Sukuna…move,” you’d whispered again, barely audible.

The gleam that crossed his eyes then was dark, hungry, satisfied—like he’d finally gotten what he wanted. He liked seeing you like this—wet, vulnerable, needy.

“Good,” he’d replied, pleased with your answer, his lips tenderly brushing your ear, gently nipping it with his teeth, almost fondly, though it had disgusted him to show affection. But in rare occasions, he couldn’t restrain himself. “Impatient brat.”

You hadn’t retaliated, not with words. Not when he’d expertly stolen them away from you the same way he stole everything else: with pressure, with proximity, with the overwhelming insistence of his presence.

You’d only clung tighter.

When he’d finally moved, the first shift of his hips pulled a low growl from his chest—something rough and instinctive, like restraint snapping. He’d drawn back only slightly, just enough to make you chase the feeling, just enough for you to arch toward him like you’d always did—desperate, like you couldn’t bear the familiar hollow his absence left behind. Then, he’d eased forward again, slow and deliberate, feeding you inch-by-inch, grunting as your warm cunt fully sheathed him.

“S’kuna,” you’d keened, sounding like music to his ears, hips bucking up as if to aid with his lazy and unhurried strokes.

He’d set a pace that was agonizingly slow, a languid drag that had him feeling every groove of your walls. Every thrust that had followed was made to engrave his cock inside so you wouldn’t forget—the obscene sound of your pussy squelching as shared arousal slicked his length filled every space of the room. He could never erase the intensity he’d felt, how your walls tightened around him, pulsing with desperation that drove him to the edge.

He’d fucked into you, cataloging the wrecked noises that had escaped you—thin, reedy and ruined—proof that he’d stripped you of every sharp words you’d meant to throw at him. His crimson flicked down at you, flames hunger and possession burning into them as he slammed into you, harder, faster, unrelenting.

You’d cried out, body curving against him, legs trembling around his waist. “Sukuna—please—I can’t—”

He’d cut you off with another brutal thrust, lips grazing your neck, biting down just enough to make you shudder. “You’ll take it,” he’d growled, hips snapping with punishing precision. “Isn’t that what you begged me for? For me to move? Wasn’t your pussy being needy, wanting to be fucked?” He’d punctuated his taunting with another rough, the base of his cock grinding on your swollen clit. A hand had reached between your thighs, his fingers moving in cruel circles, counter-clockwise motions that had you writhing—a helpless thing he loved to control.

He’d felt your body convulse as release tore through you, a broken cry ripping from your throat. Your cunt palpitating around him, dragging him deeper, setting every nerve on fire as his own climax had begun cresting.

Sukuna’s rhythm had faltered, his smirk twisting into something wicked, hungrier. With a guttural growl, he’d thrusted into you one final time, burying his cock completely as his release had spilled inside you. His body had shuddered against yours, low groans escaping his throat, his grip on yours hips bruising, claiming you fully.

You had your head angled sideways, damp hair stuck to the column of your jaw. You had been avoiding his gaze, letting the pillow absorb your cries instead.

“Look at me,” he’d commanded, voice hoarse.

He remembered you tilting your face up, lashes moist, mouth separated, eyes shining too much.

Sukuna had paused for half a second.

Something slid down the side of your face, he’d seen it even under the faint glow emitting from the lamp, disappearing into your hair.

He’d frowned, lips curling downward. “What the hell is that?”

He’d craned his neck closer, nose grazing the length of yours, and his thumb had swiped under your eye.

Wet.

For a long moment, the only sounds had been the exchange of ragged breaths and the fading creak of the bed beneath the both of you. He’d finally dropped his forehead against yours, lips hovering just shy of a tender kiss, his crimson eyes had remained locked on your face.

His eyes narrowing, confused, unsettled by something so small. “Didn’t enjoy it?” He’d murmured into your skin, voice gruff, half-mocking.

You’d nodded too fast—too eager—like an obedient pet.

“I did,” you’d whispered.

But another tear slipped free anyway, disappearing into your hairline like you were trying to hide it from him.

Then you’d pulled him even closer, like you could drown the emotion in something physical. Like if you’d held him tight enough, he’d become real. Like he’d become yours in the way you needed.

He remembered your lips by his ear, your breath shaking, your hands sinking in his hair.

“I love you,” you’d said, bleary-eyed and smiling.

So softly it barely counted as a sound.

And in his mind—God, in his mind—he heard himself answer.

I love you, too.

He heard it clear as day. Heard himself say it like it was easy. Like it wasn’t something that could split a man open.

For a moment, the memory softened. Became kinder.

A version of him that had deserved you.

A version of him that had given you what you begged for without ever having to ask.

But then reality had corrected itself.

Violently.

He hadn’t even looked at you.

He remembered it now—the tremor beneath his jaw, the way he’d exhaled through his nose like the words annoyed him. Like they were meaningless.

He remembered how he’d kissed you harder instead.

Not because he wanted to reassure you.

But because he didn’t know what else to do with tenderness except smother it.

He remembered the way you’d went quiet after that.

Still clinging.

Still letting him have you.

Still loving him into a silence that never loved you back out loud.

And Sukuna’s stomach turned as he stood in the closet, sonogram trembling in his hand.

Because if he had said it back…

If he had just said it—three words, three syllables, eight fucking letters—maybe you would’ve told him.

Maybe you wouldn’t have folded that paper into nothingness and tried to pretend you weren’t carrying something that could’ve changed everything.

Maybe you wouldn’t have been alone.

But he didn’t.

And now his brain was trying to rewrite history like it could save him from the fact that the only time you’d ever needed him the most…he’d been right there—within reach.

And still not truly there at all.

Sukuna’s eyes fixated on the black-and-white blur until it stopped looking like ink and started looking like a ghost. His thumb dragged over the print date again, like he could rub it away.

But the numbers stayed.

The proof stayed.

His throat burned. He forced an exhale, sharp and uneven, the folded the sonogram back with stiff fingers—using the creases you’d left behind as reference. Carefully. Like he was afraid that if he tore it, whatever had existed would disappear all over again.

His gaze drifted down.

The letter was still on the floor.

He didn’t want to read the rest.

He already knew what was coming. He could feel it in the way his chest kept tightening, in the way his stomach twisted like instinct was warning him.

But he picked it up anyway.

Because he deserved to know.

Because you deserved to be heard—at least once.

I did it by myself. I signed the papers by myself. I went home by myself.

And the worst part is…I still missed you.

Even then, I still wanted you.

I still wanted your hand in mine.

I still wanted you to tell me it was going to be okay.

But you weren’t there.

And I couldn’t keep pretending that you would be.

I don’t hate you.

I don’t think I ever could.

But I’m starting to hate myself for how much I’ve been willing to accept.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

I still love you. I think I always will…

But love shouldn’t feel like drowning.

So if this is the last time you ever hear it from me—

I loved you.

I loved you even when you made it hard.

I loved you even when you didn’t know how to love me back.

And I forgive you, Sukuna.

But I can’t stay.

Goodbye.

His vision distorted, the room tilting slightly as the rest of your words etched themselves into him.

I did it by myself. I signed the papers by myself. I sat in the clinic by myself.

His hand flew to his mouth, but it didn’t stop anything. It didn’t delay what he’d been running from for years.

I loved you.

The sob broke out of him like a fracture, and he crouched down, as if he could make himself smaller. His emotions smaller. Condensed.

Goodbye.

A sound that didn’t belong to the man he thought he was.

He’d been in fights. He’d bled. He’d been hit hard enough to see stars. He’d been punched and kicked and thrown until his skin had bruised in galaxy-like shades. But he’d survived it all.

Except for this.

Nothing had ever brought him to his knees like a sentence written in your handwriting. He left all your written evidence by his feet, refusing to touch any part of you.

His body folded forward before he could stop it, elbows pressing into his thighs, head dropping like the weight of it was too much to hold upright.

The tears didn’t fall neatly.

They poured in fat drops.

Hot and relentless, slipping down his face, dripping off his chin, soaking the paper until the ink began to smudge. He wondered if you’d done the same thing, cried while you spilled your emotions on paper. And he realized that he could almost see the ghost of your tears staining the words, but they had long dried.

He tried to wipe them way, furious—furious at himself, at you, at the universe, at whatever cruel joke this was.

But they kept coming.

Because this wasn’t just heartbreak.

This was grief.

And Sukuna finally understood something he should’ve understood a long time ago:

You hadn’t just left him.

You’d survived him.

You’d given up on fighting and battling someone who had never tasted bitter loss. Someone who had always prided himself on being a winner.

Even his own parents had given up on him, why would he expect for you to not?

But the only difference between you and his parents was that you’d stuck around a little longer.

Sukuna was crying like someone whose body had been holding it for years. Years of pent-up hurt. Years of silent suffering. He was so angry. So fucking angry. At what? His fucked up childhood? At how he’d never recognize the faces of his parents if he’d ever ran into them in public?

At the world for never letting him have the power he thought he deserved?

He didn’t even know anymore.

But what he did know you was you were the one person had been there. Who had tried to sand down his sharp edges. Who had tried to shape him into someone worthy of being loved.

His chest heaved, breath tearing in and out of him like something feral. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, frustrated at the wetness, at the weakness, at the way his body wouldn’t listen.

Pathetic.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control himself.

But control had already left him.

His fist tightened, fingers curling into his palm—until something hard pressed against his knuckles from inside his pocket.

Sukuna straightened.

Brows furrowed, as if confused by his own body.

Slowly, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled it out.

A small velvet box.

Black.

Perfectly intact unlike the current condition of his heart.

For a minute, he just looked at it like it didn’t belong to him. Like it was this foreign object he’d never seen before. Like it had appeared there by mistake.

He’d forgotten about it.

Then his thumb brushed the edge, familiar.

He remembered buying it.

Before the breakup.

Before the secrets.

Before your heart had caught up to your mind and he’d returned to an almost vacant apartment. Half your things gone—with the exception of all the hidden clues you’d left for him—shards of your broken heart, tiny souvenirs he should’ve glued back together and treasured.

Clues he’d never had the courage to sift through for months after the gut-wrenching breakup.

He ran his thumb over the box again as if to make sure it was still there—concrete evidence of a promise he’d made to himself—thinking he had all the time in the world.

He hadn’t bought it on a whim. And not because you or anyone else had pressured him.

He’d bought it because he’d looked at you one night—hair messy, wearing his shirt, barefoot in the kitchen—and something in his chest had tightened in a way he couldn’t explain.

He’d thought: Yeah. You.

Eventually.

Just not now.

There was always something else first. A deal. A fight. A distraction. A reason.

Again, he’d always reassured himself that there was time.

Sukuna’s hands trembled as he opened the box.

The diamond caught the dim light of the apartment, sharp and merciless. It glittered in rainbow colors like it was making fun of him.

Like it was laughing.

His breath hitched again, broken.

Because it was confirmation.

Confirmation that in his head, you had already been his wife.

That he had already chosen you.

He just never said it out loud.

Never made it real.

And now the ring sat in his hand—cold, useless, too late.

Sukuna peered at it until his vision muddled again.

And the he let out a sound that didn’t resemble a laugh at all.

Just grief.

Raw and humiliating.

Because he finally had everything he’d meant to give you—and no one left to give it to.

The diamond drowned in the fresh film of tears on waterline, blurring into a lackluster shimmer of light.

Sukuna shut the box with a sharp click.

His breathing was still irregular, chest going up and down, throat raw—but the sobbing stopped. Or maybe he forced it to. Maybe he strangled it back down where it belonged.

He arose slowly, legs unsteady—knees almost buckling from the weight of all he’d allowed himself to feel.

The apartment still felt too quiet. Too empty. Like it was holding its breath, waiting for him to leave.

Sukuna returned the ring inside the box and slipped it into his pocket.

Then he reached for his keys.

Metal teeth bit into his palm—grounding him.

His jaw hardened.

He wasn’t the type of man who begged.

He wasn’t the type of man who apologized.

But he was the type of man who took what was his.

And you—you had been his, long before you ever realized it.

Sukuna glanced once at the open pages on the floor—rustling like an invisible force was reading through it—your handwriting, your truth, your pain.

You’d given up on him, but that didn’t mean he should give up on you. He shouldn’t be here, throwing a pity-party for one, waiting for the cake to magically appear before he could blow out the candle for a miraculous wish.

For your return.

And just like that, his decision was made, his feet already moving before his mind formed a thousand excuses for him to shut the closet door and leave the past as it was—damaged, irreparable.

More footsteps and he was at the door.

Eyes still wet.

Heart still beating.

But his voice was steady when he muttered to himself, “…I’m not letting you go.”

And this time, he meant it.

you hated each other.

or, well. greatly disliked.

you knew about sukuna through shoko really, the only person you hung out with frequently. her two best friends satoru and suguru were in the same business frat as him. you didn't particularly feel drawn to being friends with any of shoko's guy friends, but those two were sweet. wild, but sweet.

he was the epitome of what you found most abysmal about frat men. standoffish, gruff and rude.

he had a line of women always ready to fling themselves at him, but he couldn't be bothered. you felt so bad for them. he wasn't even the type to soft ghost like satoru did, or politely decline like suguru. no, sukuna loudly told off his fangirls and would routinely make girls cry at parties for even attempting to hit on him. part of you wanted to approach them and advise them to find better options, but you knew that friend group had some hypnotic allure. shoko thinks it's dumb, and never really understood the hype. "listen. if they wanna shoot their shot, it's fine. the sooner they learn that none of them are worth shit, the better." you simply sighed and gave up.

you hated men that lived on such high horses. internally, you hoped someone would knock sukuna down a peg. you didn't think it would've been you, fucking him on the down-low like a dirty secret.

sukuna throws you onto your bed with zero grace and as if you weigh nothing, the mattress bouncing under your back. you can barely process the shock as you watch him strip off his shirt in one fluid motion, crawling towards you in his levi denim jeans. he yanks your shirt up and over your head, his mouth on you again immediately. teeth was scraping over your collarbone, tongue dragging down between your breasts while his hands shove your miniskirt up to your waist.

“fuck! i have class in twenty minutes,” you hiss, even as your legs part for him like they have a mind of their own.

he makes a possessive growl against your stomach. “why the hell did you text me if you didn't have the fuckin' time!” it was clear his irritation was only surface level. he knew he would make do of the situation.

his fingers hook under your panties and drag them down to your ankles, not even bothering to take them off completely before he’s pushing your knees apart.

you reach down and fist his pink hair, tugging hard enough to make him wince. “make it fast, dick. i’m not missing this class.” his eyes flash feral for a moment, but little did you know he loved this treatment. you were the sole individual to get away with barking orders at him.

“bossy little shit.”

two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling instantly against that spot that makes your back arch off the bed. a breathy moan slips out of you before you can swallow it away. his mouth latches onto your nipple again, sucking hard while his fingers pump the way you like it, thumb pressing agonizing circles over your clit. your hips roll up to meet his touches desperately. the wet, slick sounds of his fingers fucking into you fill your room, mixing with your shaky breaths and his low grunts. his eyes are always on you, drinking in all the reactions.

“you are so fuckin' annoying,” he mutters against your skin, adding a third finger and stretching you open to watch the slick ooze. "oughta fuck you silly later for making me cut this short."

“shut up…ah! and just fuck me now!”

he pulls his fingers out instantly at the request. you whine but the sound dies when he frees himself from his sweats. his cock is heavy and flushed that pretty red, beads leaking at the tip. he strokes himself a couple times, eyes still locked on your face like he’s daring you to say something. instead, you just grab his shoulders and pull him down, ankles locking around his lower back.

sukuna thrusts in with one brutal jerk of his hips, burying himself to kiss your cervix. with your preemptively wet state, the slide was smooth and delicious. you both groan, foreheads pressed together for a spare moment before he starts moving mean and unrelenting.

your poor bedframe slams against the wall with every single thrust. his large hand pulls on your right leg from behind him, hiking it higher over his shoulder so he can hit it deeper. your nails grip the hair at the nape of his neck, making him groan more. “shit..! haah, right there—” you gasp, toes curling at how sweet the buildup was becoming.

“oh yeah? ya wanna cum already, princess?” his voice is husky, sweat starting to bead at his temples. “greedy girl.”

you clench your walls around him on purpose, watching with satisfaction as his rhythm stutters and a curse rips out of his throat. he reaches between you and rubs your clit in tight specific circles until stars wave and crash over you hard. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry, thighs shaking around his waist.

sukuna follows right after with a deep noise, hips jerking slower as he spills inside you.

for a few seconds, the only sound is both of you trying to catch your breath. as soon as you felt the sensation wear off, you push at his chest. “move. i'm about to be late.”

he stays buried in you for another moment, just to be a dick. you roll your eyes, slapping him a couple times on the chest and curse at him before he finally pulls out with a wet sound that makes your face heat for a fractional second.

you ignore the way his cum starts to drip down your thigh as you scramble off the bed, grabbing a fresh bra and panties from your drawer and pulling your skirt back into place.

sukuna leans back on his elbows, cock still half-hard and glistening, watching you with amused eyes. “you mind if i take a nap here?

you smooth your hair in the mirror, cheeks still dusted with tinge. “we’re not dating, sukuna. if i find you out cold on my bed when i'm back, i'm waterboarding you.”

he gives you a displeased look that almost resembled a pout. "you're so violent, woman." despite it, he pulls on his boxers and sweatpants, following you in a beeline.

you barely make it halfway down your hall before his hand snags your wrist, yanking you back against his bare chest. your eyes flick down at his tattooed skin, the pure muscle underneath. his body is still warm from the fuck, smelling like sweat and that weirdly strong cologne he wears.

"slow down,” he mutters, voice lilted. “you're gonna sit in class with my cum dripping down your legs?"

you shove him in his ribs, but he doesn’t even flinch. “then maybe you shouldn’t have came inside me, asshole. we literally talked about this.”

“don't like how condoms feel,” he quips smoothly, lips brushing your ear. "you don't either."

you twist in his grip, glaring up at him. his hair is even more tousled now, lips still swollen. the fresh bite mark was staring at you clear as day where you had sunk your teeth in. he looks thoroughly fucked. good.

“keep talking and i’ll block you, ryomen.”

he smirks knowing he's got you riled up. “you won’t. you like this dick too much.”

before you can snap back, he leans in and kisses you. it’s surprisingly deep and slow for a post-quickie goodbye. his tongue slides against yours in a possessive way you've only felt from him. when he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard and you can feel your nipples hardening again, and you could guarantee he was sporting a tent too. you were done with his little time-wasting games.

you push him off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “i'm already late because of your needy ass. try not to jerk off on my sheets, freak.”

"so i can sleep in your bed then?" sukuna watches in amusement as you snatch your backpack off the floor and storm out your apartment door.

he leans against the hallway frame, arms crossed over his broad chest calling after you loud enough that your neighbors might hear. “try not to clench too hard in lecture, princess. wouldn’t want my cum staining that pretty little skirt!”

you flip him off without looking back, cheeks aflame as you hurry across campus. it annoyed you even more that he did take exactly twenty minutes to get you and him off, just like you asked. it was like the arrogant bastard had timed it.

you're right on time when you slide into your seat beside shoko. your engineering professor follows in a moment later, and you were just happy you weren't going to lose attendance points.

unfortunately, your thighs are sticky to the point you notice it. you shift uncomfortably to try and hold a position that doesn't have you leaking all over the plastic seat.

shoko gives you one long, unimpressed look. her eyes flick from your slightly undone hair to the faint redness on your neck that was definitely a hickey you didn't realize sukuna left on you.

“you’re late again,” she says flatly, sliding her notes from last class over to you. “and you reek of sex. and that godawful cologne sukuna drenches himself in.”

you freeze, mortified. “sukuna's cologne? what do you mean?”

she shrugs, popping her gum. “i’m not gonna lecture you. but if you two keep pretending you hate each other while you’re obviously fucking, the betting pool is gonna get ugly. gojo currently has fifty on you caving in and catching feelings first. idiot. between you and me, make sure sukuna confesses before you. mama wants free cigs,” she wiggles her brows at you.

you drop your forehead onto the desk with a quiet groan. she simply pats your back, chuckling to herself. you spend the entire lecture pressed tightly together. you try your level best to focus on the material, but to no avail. your mind keeps flashing back to that dumb whore that's probably spread across your bed chudding out.

your phone buzzes in your lap halfway through the lecture.

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. you look to see if shoko noticed, but she's already half-asleep behind her computer.

the reply is almost instant.

you scoff, earning a look from shoko this time. you angle your phone away from her prying eyes.

your breath hitches and the scene plays in your head. you shake it off instantly. he's so evil for trying to get you horny even in class.

you sigh, locking your phone. as if he could tell you went back to paying attention to your professor, your phone buzzes three times more.

you let out a small gasp and finally shoko couldn't hold back being nosy.

“tell your boyfriend to stop blowing up your phone,” she mutters, amused.

“he’s not my boyfriend!” you hiss back.

“riiiiight.”

your phone vibrates one more time. you simply read it from the notification bar.

...

you're ninety-nine percent sure it's a nude.

a/n: first work :) hope u like- it’s something simple! note, my masterlist and taglist haven’t been created yet.

⌖ want more? ⌖ get notified ⌖

all dividers and gfx are created by me. art credit to neverisa and others via pinterest

“no,” you huff. “you’re always working. need you so bad, cho—you don’t need me?”

and choso whimpers, because of course he does, because what else is he supposed to do when you zip down his jeans & pull out his swollen, heavy cock? your eyes are glimmering & he’s so fucking hard and there’s already precum smeared over the flushed pink tip. you lick your lips. flash him a smile. “aw, cho. hard for me already?”

he stifles a gasp, cheeks hot. “so hard. mmfph—” you pump him slow & he swallows, hips stuttering against the board. “i’m sorry baby,” he cries, “always need you.”

“are you sure?” you coo, lashes fluttering as your thumb circles his slit. “sukuna will get mad again.”

choso’s lashes are sticky with tears. “he’s always mad—hah—i think.”

you giggle, leaning forward to lick a teasing stripe up his tip. "so you're saying this is fine ?"

choso wants to say yes. he wants to say no. he doesn't know what he wants anymore except your hand on his cock & your voice in his ear and—

BANG!

“hello. what the fuck is taking so long?!”

ryomen sukuna has his guitar slung over him & his lips bent in a frown. choso’s hands fly to his jeans, and you only smile sweetly as sukuna’s eyes dart frantically between your wet lips & choso’s panicked eyes. suguru pokes his head out of the booth; grin clumsy, eyes bright.

“…lock in.” sukuna mutters, and the door slams shut.

2. HEADLINE #2: R★CKSTAR CAUGHT DURING MIDNIGHT SEXCAPADES ?!

choso kamo is too needy for his own good.

it’s 1AM & choso kamo is under hotel sheets with need buzzing between his thighs. the band’s on tour for the nth time this year but choso isn’t thinking about practicing his guitar riff. his phone screen is too bright in his face & his eyes are on your soft thighs, supple breasts, pretty face—and he’s palming himself while staring at pictures of you before he can think any better of it.

but then his phone chimes.

[ BLOOD MOON 🎸]

mine 😊🫀: @ choso i miss you :(

choso blinks at the notification, pupils dilating. he clicks it so fast his thumb twitches.

BLOOD MOON 🎸

mine 😊🫀: @ choso i miss you :(

choso: I miss you too, baby. You’re not sleeping yet?

mine 😊🫀: hard to sleep without you touching me.

choso’s cheeks are hot. his cock twitches in his pants. but then his phone chimes again.

BLOOD MOON 🎸

sukuna: Can we not do this in the band gc.

geto🐒: why is she even here i’m dead

mine😊🫀: @ choso my pussy is so wet for you daddy :/

geto🐒 reacted: ⁉️

sukuna: IN MY PUBLIC GC ???

satoru🧿:

——

choso panics—throat bobbing, eyes wide. he quickly switches to texting you privately, face smushed into his pillow & cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

mine ☺️🫀

choso: Baby, why would you text that in the gc?

Satoru will tease me during practice again

And Sukuna already texted saying he’ll beat me up

——-

your text comes in instantly.

mine ☺️🫀: are you mad at me?

i just missed you cho. i won’t text you again since that’s what you want ☹️

choso: What? I said I didn’t want that? When?

I always want you to text me. It makes my day when you do. Please don’t stop texting baby I always want to hear from you.

mine ☺️🫀: let me see your cock

choso: Okay

I’m already hard for you. I was touching myself to your pictures before you texted. You’re so pretty, baby. Miss your pretty face.

[Image_Attachment]

mine ☺️🫀: aww, you’re so cute cho

why not come over and get the real thing ?

choso: I want to, but you’re two hours away. Can I see your breasts?

mine☺️🫀: you can see them if you come over 😚 and you can touch them too pretty boy <3

choso: But I can’t come over. What can I do?!

mine☺️🫀: Suffer

choso: ???

——-

choso stares at the screen, mouth agape, heart in a frenzy. the light is bright against his eyes but choso doesn’t care to dim it. what can he do? he really wants to see your breasts but the circumstances won’t allow it. he bites his lip, thumbs moving before his brain can catch up to them.

choso: Suffer

I’m already suffering, angel. I don’t know how to suffer any harder. Can you please tell me what to do?

mine ☺️🫀: go to sleep choso

choso: But I don’t want to sleep. I want to see your breasts

mine ☺️🫀: then come over

choso: But I can’t

mine ☺️🫀: so why are you still texting me?

choso stares at your text, breath hitching. he glances over at the clock on his nightstand, and the digital display gleams back. 1:17 AM. that’s not too bad. surely he could get there by around three, fuck you till at least four, and get back to the hotel by six.

it’s a stupid plan. but for you choso’s a stupider man, and the next text you send doesn’t help his judgement.

mine☺️🫀: [Image_Attachment]

mine☺️🫀: sneak peek <3

choso’s heart hammers. the picture only shows your tits clad in a pretty pink nightgown, but the material is too sheer & choso can see everything. the soft swell of your breasts. your nipples pebbled and peaking through the fabric. the way your arm is tucked underneath your tits to push them together into the camera. choso’s mouth dries. his breathing goes ragged & his cock goes heavy against his leg. he’s still gawking at your picture when his phone chimes again.

mine☺️🫀: my new nightgown’s so thin :( i don’t know why you can see my tits through it

choso thinks your nightgown is the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

choso: your nipples are so pretty, baby

he sucks in a breath, taking one last sorry glance at the clock.

choso: I’m coming over.

choso doesn’t wait for a reply. he’s already scrambling to fit a tank top over his bare chest, tugging socks over his feet & shoving them into slippers. the hallway is dark and quiet, and choso takes one last look at your perky tits on his screen before clicking his phone off & shoving it into his pockets. he sucks in a breath. let’s do this.

two hallways right. one staircase down—not the elevator because it’s way too loud—and then another hallway to reach the lobby. choso knows the hotel layout like the back of his hand. he slips into the corridor, steps quiet against the hardwood, and the staircase is right there—

“late night, kamo?”

choso stops before he can bump right into sukuna.

ryomen sukuna is not impressed—and neither are the two boys behind him. geto’s piercings are glimmering in the heat. satoru has a smile too cruel to be kind. they stand on either side of a crossed sukuna, hands in their pockets, grins lazy-cruel.

choso gulps, eyes flitting between them. “uhm, i just needed some water—“

“back to your room, lover boy,” suguru whistles, thumb pointing to satoru. “unless you want to be smacked upside the head?”

satoru is cracking his knuckles with a grin.

“no thank you,” choso says too fast, too sheepish. his cheeks are peach tinged. “and what do you mean by lover boy? i was only—“

“save it,” sukuna growls, cocking his head. “the walls are thin as fuck, idiot. you think i didn’t hear you beating your shit and whining into your pillow in the next room over?”

choso’s throat bobs. sukuna pads closer to his shaky figure.

“back to your room,” sukuna’s hot breath tickles choso’s nose, “and don’t let me catch you in these halls again.”

3. HEADLINE #3 : R★CKSTAR CAUGHT HAVING SEX AFTER SETS ?!

on stage, choso kamo is half-boy, half-heartbreak.

at least, that’s what the fangirls say when he plays like this. mic cord in his mouth. hair soaked & sweat sticky. mascara smeared down his cheeks & a riff so loud it makes you feverish. on blood moon’s stage, choso kamo plays the electric guitar like his life depends on it. sukuna’s singing blares more like a roar. geto is on bass & satoru on the drums.

choso hasn’t seen you since the set started.

not in the crowd, or the lobby, or the soft space behind the old stairwell where he likes to kiss you dizzy. he’s trudging through backstage now, guitar strapped heavy on his back, steps slow & breath heaving because the adrenaline hasn’t worn off & he’s still half-high. where the fuck is his girlfriend?

but then he sees you on the amp.

and choso’s first thought is glitter. lots of it. sticky on your lip and your chin and your hair and your face. he pads towards you with bleary eyes and you welcome him with a teasing smile.

“hi, choso.”

“Hi,” his arms bracket your hips. “you look shiny.”

you giggle, hand curling into his necklace as he trails sloppy kisses to your jawline. choso kisses like a dog, tongue wet & breath sticky. “you’re so hot,” he rasps. “so fucking hot—mmh—m’dizzy.”

you let him kiss your lips. “can’t do this here,” he murmurs against them. “can i take you away, baby? behind the stairs?”

his eyes are soft and pleading. he talks like he’s asking but his hands are already hoisting you up & lifting you into his chest before you can tell him no. you cup his face. smush his cheeks. “impatient, are we?”

“sorry,” his cheeks are pressed together in your palms so his voice comes out strangled. “missed you.”

choso isn’t sorry. he’s stumbling past workers & crew alike while pressing sloppy kisses to your hot mouth. his tongue slobbers and drags while his hands press into your thighs, thumb climbing higher to graze circles on your hips. he nearly trips over two cables but you laugh into his mouth and choso kamo has never been happier. “you’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “so pretty.”

he finally reaches the stairwell. the closet door just under it is blue & peeling, and choso kicks it open with his mouth on your throat. he pulls back to stare at you and his gaze is soft. his eyes lift to stare into the room as you kiss his cheek.

his band members stare at him back.

ryomen sukuna has his arms crossed & his back against a wooden shelf. gojo satoru is sat criss-cross on a table with his lips in a grin. suguru stands beside him, leaned back lazily against said table with his lip piercing glimmering in the heat. and right there in the center, manager toji fushiguro has his arms folded over his chest, temu wristwatch catching the light.

choso drops you very slowly.

his eyes flit between his band mates, cheeks already blood drenched. he’s still gripping your skirt when he sets you down beside him. you whack his hand away and shift behind him to hide.

geto grins. “hey, lover boy.”

choso leans back into you slightly. he whispers over his shoulder, “baby—it’s a trap!”

he doesn’t need to tell you. you can fucking see that.

sukuna steps forward. he’s not even angry—shocking, honestly—he’s bored. steps lazy, gaze half-lidded. “told ya, fushiguro. our band’s lead guitarist is always in fucking heat.”

choso squeaks, gripping your skirt. “i wasn’t gonna fuck her!”

sukuna glances back at the others. “who is he lying to?”

toji sighs, shaking his head. he shoves his hands into his pockets, expression bored. “look, kid—“ he glances up, “your band mates and i don’t care about you being a horndog. we care that you’re letting it get in the way of your responsibilities.”

satoru perks up, tongue clicking. “you were supposed to head straight to the van after the set. but here you are trying to get some pussy…”

“shit’s jarring, man,” suguru finishes. “absolutely jarring.”

you lean up on your toes, just enough to poke your head up behind choso’s shoulder. satoru grins when he sees your face. suguru gives you a soft wave.

“hi,” your voice is shy. “this is my fault. sorry about him.”

“don’t sweat it, princess,” toji waves you off, fake ice glimmering on his wrist. “our business is with your boyfriend, not you.”

you nod shyly, disappearing behind choso yet again. sukuna huffs through his nose. “choso, got anything to say for yourself?”

choso looks around. at gojo and geto’s sleazy grins, toji’s deadpan face, sukuna’s lazy gaze. the room is hot but his cheeks are hotter. he swallows, blood sticky in his throat.

“i’m sorry,” he croaks. “it won’t happen again.”

sukuna doesn’t let him off. “what won’t happen again?”

choso grips your skirt behind him, swallowing. you squeeze your thighs around his palm to reassure him & choso gulps yet again.

“won’t fuck my girl while on duty. or let her fist me in the rec rooms. or try to sneak off to see her.”

your eyes widen behind him. he did not have to mention the rec room!

toji nods. then he checks his wrist—the temu wristwatch says it’s time to go. “alright, we’re done here. you boys be in the van in five. i got somewhere to be.”

he trudges past you and a frozen choso, kicking the door open to leave.

the boys follow suit. satoru hops off the table, grinning. “nice one, cho!” he smacks choso’s arm as he walks past. sukuna bumps choso’s side lazily. suguru slings an arm over your shoulders to steer you to the van with the rest of them.

in the closet, choso kamo has his feet frozen in place and his face contorted in horror.

once again, our rockstar’s been caught.

R★CKSTAR CAUGHT, end.

"don't," he cut you off, his voice raspy, deeper, and rougher than you had ever heard it. he looked up, his dark eyes dilated so wide they looked almost entirely black, a faint, dark flush creeping up his neck and dusting his cheekbones.

he gripped the insides of your knees, his fingers digging into your skin with a possessiveness that made your blood run hot. "shit—do it again."

"w-what? but i—"

"please," he begged, the word slipping out with a desperate, breathless edge that made your stomach flip. his chest was heaving. "squeeze me again. oh fuck—just like that, baby. lock your legs."

the raw hunger in his expression made it impossible to refuse. slowly, hesitantly, you brought your thighs back together, locking him in place once more, applying a firm, steady pressure against his neck.

a low, ragged groan escaped him, vibrating directly against your sensitive bud. he buried his face back into you, his tongue working with a newfound, frantic intensity that completely derailed your thought process. "harder," he mumbled against your pussy, his hands sliding up to your hips, fingers bruisingly tight as he anchored you. "squeeze harder, baby."

you complied, tightening your hold, completely overwhelmed by the blinding intensity of it. you were caught so deeply in the throes of your own approaching climax that the world narrowed down to just the pressure of your legs and the wicked, relentless motion of his mouth.

because of the sensory overload, you didn't notice the subtle, rhythmic motion beneath you at first. you didn't realize that with every tight squeeze of your thighs restricting his airflow, choso was heavily, desperately humping his clothed length straight into the mattress. he was completely losing himself in the friction, his hips rolling in a tight, frantic pattern against the sheets, riding the intoxicating sensation of being choked by you.

your climax hit like a freight train, your walls pulsing violently around his tongue as a loud cry left your lips. you squeezed him tight, your thighs locking like a vice as you rode the wave.

right as you peaked, choso let out a choked, broken sound. his whole body went rigid beneath you. his hips gave one last, hard, desperate shove into the mattress, his fingers digging so deeply into your hips it was almost painful. he trembled violently, his breath catching in a long, shuddering gasp as he buried his face entirely in your thigh, hiding himself away as he spent.

as the sparks in your vision began to fade and your breathing slowed, you gradually loosened the grip of your legs. choso slumped forward, resting his forehead against your stomach, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow pants.

it was only then, as the quiet returned to the room, that you noticed the heavy, uneven thumping of his heart against your leg, and the distinct, damp heat pressing through the fabric of his trousers right where he had been pinning himself to the bed.

you blinked down at him, your hand coming up to rest in his dark hair. "cho...?"

he didn't move for a long moment, completely spent, his shoulders still twitching slightly. when he finally looked up, his face was completely flushed, eyes heavy and hooded with a profound, dazed satisfaction. he swallowed hard, a sheepish but utterly dark look in his eyes as he realized you had figured it out. he hadn't even touched himself; he had finished purely from the friction of the bed and the suffocating pressure of your thighs.