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18+. sum 𓏲 you and fratkuna are the kind of couple who break up & make up every other week. but when you swear you’re done with him and go off to date his rival, the new football team captain, can his frat brothers help him get you back ?
‘sabotaging your ex girlfriend’s new relationship to get her back? this can’t be a good idea.’
ΣΧ
“‘high value woman’ but your new man’s a misogynist?!”
ryomen sukuna’s time of irritation is approximately 9:17 PM.
toru gojo’s bedroom floor is velvet carpet with half-empty beer bottles rotting on the rug. his center table is littered with poker cards & sato’s candy wrappers, and geto suguru & sato gojo are avoiding eye contact so they don’t burst out in laughter as sukuna glares daggers at toru’s screen.
toru’s hands shake under sukuna’s glare but he holds the phone steady. the instagram post on screen is a slap to sukuna’s face.
HOT NEW CAMPUS COUPLE : FOOTBALL CAPTAIN NAOYA ZENIN & Y/N L/N !
and the photo is you. swollen lips & pretty gaze & a dress so short it makes sukuna’s jaw ache—but not as much as naoya’s arm around you does. beside you toji’s cousin naoya zenin is there, grin cocky, eyes glinting in the camera light and arm around your waist because his fugly ass doesn’t know you like to be held around the hips instead. sukuna’s jaw ticks.
“i’m gonna get her back.”
sato, suguru and toru all glance towards each other. they know what that voice means. there’s no talking him out of it.
but toru lowers his phone, tries regardless. “are you sure? y/n’s always been strong headed. she might hate you even more if—“
sukuna grabs his crotch aggressively. “keep talking and i’ll jizz on your face.”
toru squeaks. sukuna continues. “i know my own girl. know she’s a fucking brat, doing this shit to get on my nerves,” he growls. “she’s bored. testing me. probably doing this shit to see if i’ll show up at practice ‘n break his jaw for touching her.”
suguru is biting back a grin. “calling her your girl when she broke up with you last week? and the week before that?”
sukuna takes a swig of his beer but his jaw is ticking behind the can. “exactly. she knows where home is.”
sato’s grin is clumsy. “i dunno, man. seems like she’s got a new address,” he elbows suguru’s side. “naoya’s pants, wellesley street east.”
“M-4-Y, 1-H-5,” suguru snickers.
“glad you two have the energy to joke,” sukuna sets down his beer with a thud. “means you’ll have energy to help me out tomorrow night.
tomorrow? tomorrow can only mean one thing.
naoya zenin’s one million snap score party. and also, the party that the college football team throws every year before the start of a new season. the party that sukuna hasn’t been to since he quit the role of captain. the party where sukuna first found you drunk & dizzy in an alley just out back, perfume strong & heels clicky, stumbling into his chest with a clumsy grin & flushed cheeks as he held your hips against him to keep you from falling. you reeked of vodka & you kept slurring his name & ryomen sukuna thought you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
and now his pretty thing is somewhere curled into naoya’s side, and the thought makes sukuna’s throat itch.
suguru cocks his head. “so i’m guessing you have a plan?”
sukuna chugs his beer. “you know the plan.”
they do—they all do. sato is already grinning. suguru is shaking his head. toru is watching the fratboys with worried eyes.
sato, suguru and sukuna’s lips curl.
the plan?
sabotage.
# SHOW TIME !
at naoya zenin’s one million snapscore party, the air is heavy with the smell of drunken bodies / athlete sweat / something alcoholic dripping off a countertop. geto’s piercings glimmer in the evening dim. ryomen sukuna has his jaw tight. and sato gojo is already drunk and somewhere dancing, legworking with ease as rema’s azaman blares through the speakers.
sukuna and suguru are still scanning the scene when naoya saunters up to them.
naoya zenin is badly dyed hair, bright green eyes and a cocky lilt to his shoulders. he’s got the team’s varsity jacket around him—GO PANDAS!—and a grin too cruel to be kind. he raises his hands in faux welcome.
“suguru, sukuna,” naoya smiles. “didn’t think you’d make it.”
sukuna eyes him. “congratulations on your snapscore.”
“and my new position as captain,” naoya bites so hard his teeth show. “how’s retirement treating you, ryomen? enjoying life off the pitch?”
suguru slings an arm around sukuna, quick to come to his defence. “he’s doing great, thank you. how about you, captain? have you found confidence in your buck teeth?”
naoya’s smile dissolves.
“nice engagement bait,” naoya recovers. he’s grinning again but his lips only stretch, teeth hidden. “you always did bite like a bitch, suguru.”
“i try.”
“enjoy the booze,” naoya lets out a jagged breath, turning away. “try not to cry in your cups too much.”
sukuna has his arms crossed over his chest, suguru’s arm still slung around him. but he’s not watching naoya walk away. his eyes have drifted to you.
you across the party and perched on a seat at the bar, a glass of something pink in your hands and a dress so short he can trace the swell of your ass. and you’re laughing—oh god, you’re laughing, tucking hair behind your ear with flushed cheeks and a carefree smile. sukuna’s mouth dries. god, you’re so pretty. you’re always so pretty, and sukuna wants to tell you that; wants to curl up beside you and wipe away the red dribbling down your chin and maybe tug your dress down over your ass. you’d swat at him and tell him he’s ruining your outfit. and then you’d kiss him because you like when he gets territorial anyways.
you laugh again, and ryomen sukuna is already moving.
that is, until naoya curls up behind you.
sukuna stops in his tracks. naoya snakes an arm around your waist from behind—your waist again, not your hips, fucking idiot—and sukuna’s jaw goes slack. he watches naoya press his parched, un-vaselined lips to your shoulder blades, and he doesn’t miss the slight tense of your shoulders before you ease into his chest.
sukuna’s jaw ticks. “suguru.”
“hm?”
“get sato. it’s time.”
suguru grins. “yes, boss.”
suguru disappears into the crowd. sukuna’s eyes shift back to you, back to naoya, back to the way his hands slide up your side and the way he whispers something in your ear. you laugh again and sukuna’s jaw twitches, because the sound itself comes out strained.
you’re uncomfortable. and he’d be a fool to miss it.
suguru reappears with sato in tow.
sato is drunk. swaying. red-bruised lips & booze in his breath. his cheeks are flushed pink & his hair sweat-sticky and he’s slung over suguru’s back like his life depends on it. he nuzzles into suguru’s neck. “mmh—you called?”
sukuna’s eyes are still on you. he nods towards the bar, “you see naoya?”
sato squints. “so ugly,”
“he’s got his hands on my girl.”
sato frowns. “that won’t do.”
“yeah,” sukuna murmurs, lifting a cup of punch off a passing tray. suguru is wiping rum off sato’s lip. sukuna passes the cup to sato. “you remember the plan?”
sato gives a drunken nod. and then he’s off.
the plan is simple: red punch, ugly naoya, combination. sato gojo is supposed to be a ninja, an image of stealth and diligence. instead he’s a wobbly drunken mess, giggling boyishly as he stumbles towards the bar.
he’s so close, sukuna’s eyes narrow. just a few more steps and then naoya will be drenched—
but sato trips. and as he falls, he pulls naoya’s pants down with him.
the situation is a whole mess.
punch everywhere. sticky on naoya’s shocked face, on sato’s fallen figure, on the party’s hardwood floor. and everyone is watching—staring—at naoya zenin covered in punch, pants on the floor. those boxers—is that undertale?
naoya’s face is blood drenched. “you drunken fucking idiot—”
“m’sorry,” sato cries, face down, hands still gripping naoya’s pants. “was tryna—hic—spill the punch, hnghh—suguru—“
“get the fuck off me!” naoya kicks at him, pants rippling around his ankles. someone is pulling out their phone to record. another is already recording. everyone’s laughing, including you, and even ryomen sukuna is struggling to bite back the chuckle on his lips.
naoya scrambles out of the party, shuffling out in his sans undertale boxers with his pants around his feet. suguru has already made his way to sato’s side.
sato’s eyes are teary, and his forehead is bruised red from naoya’s kick. suguru cups his face, brows knit. “hey man. you alright?”
sato groans. “i spilled the punch and the pants.”
“mhm,” geto snorts, smushing sato’s cheeks between his palms. “good job, buddy.”
“i did good?”
“so good,” geto smiles down at him. “come on, up you go.”
suguru helps sato up to his feet. sukuna is already moving.
towards you, you at the bar with your palm over your mouth to muffle your laugh as you watch naoya flee into the night. sukuna steps into your space. your eyes are still on the door before you slowly, slowly, turn your head around to him.
your pupils are blown. cheeks flushed and chest heaving from the alcohol, and your eyes focus for a minute before you grin.
“aww, look,” you beam. “if it isn’t my ex-boyfriend.”
sukuna shouldn’t take advantage.
he knows if you were sober, it’d be a different story. he knows you’d kick and hit at him, maybe snarl about his audacity to show his face around you. but you’re too many drinks too deep and as drunk and dizzy as the day he met you in that alleyway, so instead of kicking at him you lean forward to cup his cheeks.
sukuna tilts his head to kiss your palm. “Hi, baby. you’re drunk.”
“noo,” you slur. “i’m tipsy.”
“mhm,” sukuna grunts, stepping forward to slide his arms around your hips before you can lean off the chair. he tugs your dress down over your ass, then strokes your thigh. “third glass?”
“so close!” you squeeze his neck happily. “i’m on my sixth.”
sukuna hugs you back. but his face is scowling.
naoya zenin—that fucking idiot. sukuna knows your limit is four. he knows that any more than that and you’ll be sick for days, groggy and weak and unable to get out of bed. he squeezes your hips. “s’too much, sweetheart.”
“i know,” you pout into his neck. “i couldn’t resist.”
oh, his poor girl. sukuna kisses your hair. just once—just because he missed the warmth of your skin—but then he does it again and again and you giggle into his chest. fuck. he’s missed the sound bad.
“i’m sorry.”
sukuna’s heart stops. “what?”
“for going past my limit.”
sukuna can feel you pouting in his neck. he sighs, because of course that’s what you meant. not that you were sorry for leaving him or whatever his delusions had him hearing in that moment. after all, he should be the one apologizing anyway. right?
“you’re okay,” he hugs you closer, pressing your head into his chest. god, you’re gonna be so sick tomorrow; and the day after, and the day after. “i’m not mad, pretty. don’t apologize.”
you nod against him. “are you gonna take care of me?”
sukuna wishes drunk you didn’t talk so much.
because it hurts to have to say no, no but i want to, no but i would if i knew you wouldn’t hate me for it when you’re sober, so he doesn’t say it at all. instead he traces circles on your hips. “gimme your phone.”
you rest your chin on his chest and beam up at him drunkenly instead.
sukuna lets out a sigh, shifting just enough to reach for your purse without jerking you off his chest. he slips your phone into his palm and tries for the passcode. it unlocks in one go. the passcode is still his birthday, and sukuna sighs again.
“i’m gonna call shoko,” he murmurs into your ear. “she’ll take care of you, yeah?”
he could take care of you too, you know. if you’d let him. but you wouldn’t, so he bites his lip.
“shoko?” you coo into his neck. “i love shoko.”
“i know,” sukuna squeezes your thigh. “i know you do.”
TORU’S REMARK: I HAVE A BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS…
EX-BOYFRIEND TACTICS #2: GO BIG OR GO HOME !
taught by: geto suguru
“like the great oikawa tooru said, if you’re gonna hit it? hit it until it breaks.”
ΣΧ
ryomen sukuna is itch itch itching.
itching to know if you’re okay. itching to know if shoko—or, ugh, naoya—let you have those crackers you like to help you settle your stomach, kept your room slightly warm, and for christ’s sake, kept you away from the advil. you love to reach for them after a night of drinking. sukuna knows it only makes your headaches worse.
you haven’t posted on instagram in days.
not that he should know since you have him blocked. but luckily your account is public and sato’s allowed him to log in on his fake instagram hair page. SlayedBySato. hit them up on IG.
sukuna is lying on the couch, nose buried in a cushion. he watches your highlights with bleary eyes. in the one he’s viewing, you’re in a tight black dress, red and blue hues lighting up your face. you’re dancing the night away, cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering. his pretty party girl. god.
“look at my girl,” he mumbles into the pillow. “so fucking hot. i’ll slap the shit out of naoya zenin.”
geto laughs. “shouldn’t have let her get away, then.”
on the floor, sato has his head in suguru’s lap, pouting as geto presses an iced cloth to his forehead. he flinches. “sugu, how much longer?”
“shh,” geto hisses, even though the swelling went down ages ago.
sukuna rolls so his body lays upright, setting his phone down on his chest. “it’s not enough.” he glares at the ceiling. “that stunt with his boxers? did nothing but make a bunch of people laugh.”
suguru and sato look at each other. geto’s voice goes low.
“what are you saying?”
“i’m saying he’s a fraud and i want everyone to fucking know it.” sukuna sits up, tossing his phone unto the coffee table. “he’s still captain of the football team. but i have a video that could change that.”
“the season’s first game, naoya’s first official game as captain…” sato thinks. “are you saying you wanna pull something?”
“i’m thinking of playing it in the locker room TV. make the other boys lose respect for him.”
sato and suguru look at each other again.
“boring.” sato says.
“huh?”
“toru has access to the AV booth,” a slow grin curls its way onto suguru’s lips. “would be a fucking shame if he and i were to mess with the feed on game day.”
sato sits up from suguru’s lap. “locker room TV? boring as fuck, man. the sukuna i know? he’d play whatever video he has in front of the whole fucking stadium.”
sukuna looks at his frat brothers. at their wicked grins and stupid pride and willingness to follow him to the ends of the earth. it’s foolish, honestly. going to such lengths to destroy naoya zenin because he dared to look twice at his girl. but he’s a stupid man, and his frat brothers are even stupider, and this is what the sigma-chi brotherhood is really about.
sukuna’s lip twitches. “i fucking love you guys.”
“we know,” suguru says. “and don’t ever say that shit again.”
# GAME DAY !
LET’S GO PANDAS !
the chanting in the stadium sounds more like a roar.
the air is electric—buzzing, vibrating. cheerleaders on the sidelines with cheeks smeared in blue & red paint. there’s the scent of hot dogs & fried food grilling. a crowd in jerseys with flags in their hands. in the kaisen campus stadium, the midsummer air is thick with anticipation. it’s game day.
sukuna sucks the air into his lungs. he hasn’t been to the stadium in a minute.
sato has run off to get some hot dogs. suguru and toru should already be in the AV room. the pitch has no football players but marching band members instead, drums and trombones blaring music across the grass. sukuna should go over to his and sato’s seats. instead he’s on the stairs, staring down at you.
is it fair for you to look this happy with him away from you?
he shakes the thought away. he always wants you to be happy—he thinks. but happiness with naoya? naoya zenin? he’s not quite sure about that. actually, he is. sukuna knows he’s fucking furious. he knows he doesn’t like the fact that you have naoya’s number on your back, or the fact that you’re jumping and cheering his name when the players haven’t even walked out yet. his jaw ticks. something ugly curls in his throat. he swallows it away.
he stares a little longer. watches your skirt swish around your thighs, watches your arms wave in the air, watches your hips sway to the music. you’ve clearly recovered and your dancing is out of tune as always, and sukuna bites back a smile.
he’s still smiling when you look up at him.
his face falls.
your head lifts towards him, and he doesn’t miss the way your body tenses. your arms drop to your sides. your palms curl into fists.
uh oh.
you look away, pausing for a moment. and then you trudge between bodies and make your way over to what sukuna can only assume is the concession stand.
sukuna follows. he doesn’t give himself time to think any better of it.
——
caramel popcorn and half-burnt sugar. the concession stand smells like caramel popcorn and half-burnt sugar.
and vanilla, but not the syrupy sweet kind. it’s the kind that sukuna smells whenever he kisses that spot below your ear, or presses his lips to the dip of your waist. at the concession stand, sukuna stands behind you with his hands in his pockets, pretending he doesn’t see the frown on your face as you stand in line in front of him.
“go away.” you deadpan.
“i’m here to eat.”
“You will choke on your food and die.”
harsh.
sukuna’s used to it though. so when it’s your turn to get a donut, he slips out his wallet and drops some cash before you can even protest. the stand worker takes the excess money with a grin. you turn to sukuna with a frown.
“what are you doing?”
your tone is mean but ryomen sukuna can’t take you seriously. your hair has ribbons tangled throughout it. you look so fucking cute.
he looks you in the eyes. “let me check your temperature. feeling feverish? at all?”
you only eye him in response. “stop caring about me.”
“can’t,” he mutters. “let me check it.”
he pads closer, and you’re still glaring daggers at him, but you don’t bite his palm as it cups your face. he pats the back of his hand against your neck, then your forehead, then your chest—and then his palm’s on your cheek again.
“you had six drinks that night,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your cheek. “was so worried. don’t like when you go over your limit.”
“i’m fine,” your voice is sharp—or trying to be. “don’t touch me.”
he shifts his hand into his pocket. “okay.” he says. “i’m gonna get you back.”
that sets you off. “i’m done with you, asshole!” you stab your finger into his chest. “i’m serious—no more on and off bullshit. i’ve moved on. i’m with naoya, for fuck’s sake. you just can’t accept that cuz of your stupid little ego!”
you’re still stabbing his chest. sukuna only watches you patiently, letting you yell to your heart’s content.
“and i hate you!” you tug his collar just to shove him away again. “i’m moving on. i’m happy now. so don’t try to act like you’re still my boyfriend!”
“sorry,” he trails off. he’s still watching you poke him with half-lidded eyes.
“i like your ribbons,” he murmurs. “you look pretty.”
“ugh!”
you storm off, and sukuna bites his cheek as your ribbons swing behind you. his hand finds the spot where you hit his chest and he sighs.
ryomen sukuna needs to get you back. and the sooner he does? the better.
———-
sato gojo has five bomboclat hotdogs in his lap.
how humongous! and worst of all, he refuses to share them with sukuna, who left his own food at the concession stand while his mind fixated on your face. you looked so pretty yelling at him. fuck. has he gone mad?
he shakes the thought away. he has his phone in his hands, facetime call with suguru on screen. toru gojo is setting up a monitor in the background with shaky hands. suguru has his phone at a poor angle and he’s humming into its mic with glee.
sato hooks his mustard-sticky chin over sukuna’s shoulder. “yo, sugu.” he says to the call.
“yo,”
“i have five hotdogs,” sato says humbly. “i’m saving a quarter for you.”
“love your generosity.”
“thank you, brother.”
sukuna shoves sato’s face away, ignoring the pout on his face as he rubs his still-bruised forehead. “suguru. how’s the prep going?”
“we’re all good here,” suguru says, turning the call camera to face toru and the set-up. “toru, you’re on video. say hi.”
“uh—hi!”
“hey, twin!” sato’s chin is back on sukuna’s shoulder. he frowns. “i didn’t save you any hotdogs.”
“that’s okay,” toru pushes up his glasses. “i don’t like hotdogs much anyways.”
suguru laughs behind the camera. “aww. i’ll get you a hotdog, buddy.”
“guys, focus.” sukuna pinches his nose. “the footage. is it ready?”
“yup,” suguru pops the p. just waiting for your signal.”
down on the pitch, the teams are lively.
the stadium is roaring. confetti everywhere, cheers and screams from fangirls and fanboys alike. the campus team jogs out in high spirits. and naoya zenin is there, golden boy of the season, arms in the air and waving like he’s the best thing since sliced bread. sukuna tries not to roll his eyes.
it’s a new season, and this one begins with a speech.
and who else to deliver it but the new captain, naoya? he has his helmet in his arm, grin wide, eyes gleaming. he stands on the podium with a mic to his mouth, and then he clears his throat.
his voice bellows. “GO PANDAS!”
the crowd roars. “go pandas!” sato cheers along. sukuna smacks his head.
“it is my honor, as the new captain of the football team, to welcome you all to the new season. kaisen university has suffered many losses. but this year, under my lead, i swear to you all—victory!”
the crowd roars again. sato is smart enough to not get caught up in the high spirits this time.
naoya raises a hand to calm the crowd. “but first off, i want to say a thank you to our alumni, sponsors, team—“
suguru turns the phone camera to himself, grinning. “i think this is the time?”
“your thinking is correct.”
“hit it, toru.”
toru fumbles with the control panel. he plugs in a mic, and suguru brings his mouth to the head.
“hey naoya,”
suguru’s voice crackles through the stadium speakers. the crowd stills. the football team on the grass is frozen in confusion.
“the alumni, sponsors, team you’re talking about,” you can hear the smile in suguru’s voice. “is it these ones?”
toru hits a button.
the big screen flickers.
the static shifts to a video. it’s one of those out of focus, wobbly snapchat ones, captioned ‘this guy’ with a bunch of laughing emojis. someone says something in the background. naoya scoffs.
“alumni? sponsors? they’re all a bunch of old has-beens with heart conditions,” he spits. “lousy fuckers with too much money. yet they can’t even buy us a trophy. idiots.”
but the video doesn’t end there. naoya is talking while he changes out of his uniform, focused on the locker in front of him. “and this shitty team,“ he bites. “dumb fuckers who would need help to wipe their asses. can’t follow instructions for shit. i see why sukuna fucking left.”
the video ends. all that’s left is the grey replay button on the screen. suguru shifts back away from the mic, holding his phone to his face. “holy shit,” he says into the facetime call. “we fucking did that.”
“yeah,” sukuna says. “we did.”
but he’s distracted. naoya is arguing with someone on field but sukuna doesn’t care to see what that’s about. instead his eyes are on you down near the pitch, your hands gripping the stands. he can’t tell if you’re confused, distraught, happy, sad. it’s fucking killing him. he needs to see your face.
sato climbs unto his chair. he cups his hands around his mouth. “GET HIM OFF THE FIELD!”
sukuna’s eyes widen in alarm, but others are already joining in. OFF-THE-FIELD! OFF-THE-FIELD! GET NA-O-YA OFF-THE-FIELD!”
on the pitch, naoya’s face flushes in embarrassment. “you sorry sacks of shit! do you fucking know who i am?!”
they’ll never know, because he never has the chance to tell. security guards are escorting him away before he even knows it.
sukuna’s eyes flit down the bleachers. back down to you. he finds you hopping at your seat, ribbons swishing as you chant along with the crowd.
OFF-THE-FIELD! OFF-THE-FIELD!
sukuna’s lip twitches. get him off the field.
———
“OFF-THE-FIELD! OFF-THE-FIELD!”
the chanting of the stadium is still buzzing in sukuna’s ears.
toru gojo left early, body aching with anxiety and in dire need of a nap. sukuna’s decided it’s about time to leave too—college football games aren’t really his thing anymore.
suguru and sato are geeking out over the whole thing behind him as sukuna trudges forward with his hands in his pockets. he’s half-smiling. he still can’t believe the whole scene had you chanting along and hopping eagerly in your seat. so cute. your ribbons were bouncing everywhere. so fucking cute.
“this is all your fault!”
sukuna knows that voice anywhere.
sato and suguru know it too. the smiles quickly leave their faces, brows knitting in alarm. the three quietly speed up towards the corridor, and the scene has sukuna seeing red.
“you dumb fucking whore,” naoya has you cornered against the wall. “all this shit because of you and your crazy, batshit boyfriend. ‘deal’ my fucking asshole. you see how they embarrassed me? because of you?”
sukuna’s already moving. but geto pulls him back. “listen.”
“you can’t pin this on me,” you try to keep your voice steady, but sukuna knows how your voice gets when you’re about to snap. naoya’s face is too close to yours for his liking. “you’re the one who said all that stupid shit. take some fucking responsibility.”
“responsibility?” naoya’s teeth curl. his breath is hot against your lip. “deal my fucking ass. this was your plan all along wasn’t it, stupid bitch? date me and get closer to me so you can sabotage me along with your boyfriend—”
“naoya,” your voice is dangerous. “i’m warning you, get back.”
“or what?” he spits in your face. “you’ll call your big bad boyfriend to save you? run to him like some stupid little whore—?”
you slap naoya silly.
and for a moment, sukuna’s shoulders un-tense. he’s been holding his breath the entire time, fingers curled into the wall, suguru’s hand on his chest stopping him from charging forward. but fuck, he’s proud. that’s his fucking girl. fuck. why’d he have to go and lose you?
but he can’t relax for long.
“you fucking bitch!”
naoya shoves you against the wall and you thud against it. sukuna doesn’t have to pry geto’s hand away—they’re already charging in.
naoya’s eyes widen as soon as he sees the trio. suguru swings. sato punches. but naoya dodges both, shoulder bumping into them as he slips between the two. he should be stopped by sukuna—but sukuna charges straight to your side, tugging you to his chest, breath heaving. naoya zenin escapes.
suguru and sato’s eyes flit towards the exit. their breathing is sharp, ragged. their eyes drift back to you in alarm. fuck. you’re more important.
sukuna hugs you to his chest, tight. his hand presses your head under his chin. he wants to pretend you’re not fucking shaking in his arms, but god you are, god—you are.
“you’re okay, baby,” he lies. your hand is fisting his collar like you want to pull him closer—or maybe push him away. “you’re okay. i’ve got you, you’re okay.”
you squeeze his collar. “ryo,” your voice is small, “don’t go after him.”
“i won’t baby, swear to god i won’t.”
but that’s just another lie. he presses your head further into his chest, palm heavy on your head. and then he mouths to suguru and sato:
GO. FUCKING. KILL HIM.
they don’t need to be told twice.
“ryo,” you whisper in his chest. “where are they going?”
“they’re giving us privacy,” he lies, and you’ll hate him for it tomorrow but he’ll settle for holding you today. he kisses your head. “are you hurt? hit your head? look at me.”
he can feel your lips jut out in his chest. “i’m fine.”
“i told you to look at me.”
you grumble, but oblige regardless. and god, sukuna’s heart aches. you have your chin on his chest, lashes tear rimmed, cheeks flushed and lips jut out in a stubborn pout. your eyes are glistening with wet. sukuna’s jaw aches.
naoya zenin has got to go to hell.
and he’ll send him there personally. he kisses your forehead, “gorgeous.” and then his thumbs wipe your lashes. “i’m gonna check if you’re concussed. do you have a headache?”
“this is so stupid,” you grumble. “i’m not concussed. and you know it.”
sukuna ignores you, cups your face in his palms. “what day of the week is it?”
“monday.” you grumble.
“gonna say some numbers, say them back to me in reverse,” he strokes your cheek. “four-two-four-two-five-six-four.”
you say them back perfectly. sukuna kisses your forehead. “good job baby,” he murmurs. “smart girl. does anything hurt?”
“no.”
“don’t lie to me.”
you rest the side of your face on his chest, pausing for a moment. then you raise a hand to grip his bicep. “my head hurts. just a little.”
“anything else?”
“i was scared,” you mutter, small. “i was so scared, ryo.”
naoya zenin has got to go to hell.
it’s the second time sukuna thinks that, but he shakes the thought away. he squeezes your hips. tilts your chin so you’re looking up at his face. your lashes are wet & your lips are wobbly & ryomen sukuna thinks you are grace.
“shh,” his thumb rubs your bottom lip. “you’re safe. you’re always safe with me.”
“i know,” your voice croaks as you nod.
“fuck, baby,” he murmurs as he leans down to kiss your eyelids, nose, cheek, forehead. he presses his lips to the corner of your mouth. and then he finds your lips, tongue licking your mouth before he kisses you deep and slow.
“you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs between your lips. “m’gonna kill naoya.”
“noo,” you whine, tugging his collar. “i told you not to do that.”
sukuna kisses his teeth, stepping back so he can hoist you up into his arms. his hands dip beneath your thighs to haul you up, and now you’re peering down at him through those sad, wet lashes. he kisses the pout off your lips. squeezes your thighs with his big hands. opens his mouth to say—
“i knocked that sucker out the park!”
sato and geto saunter back into the corridor, grins wicked, steps light. their knuckles are bloody and their jaws are bruised and their smiles are so bright they’re practically gleaming.
you turn to look at them. sukuna grabs the back of your head and pushes you into his shoulder. you pout into his neck as he keeps his palm heavy on your head.
sato is shadowboxing. “right hook—left hook—“ he punches the air. “clean hit to the jaw. taught the bloody wanker a good fucking lesson.” he fakes a british accent.
suguru nods, hands in his pockets & smile smug. “it was a good punch.”
“right?!”
sukuna’s lip tugs. he clicks his tongue as sato fakes punches at suguru, suguru dodging them with lazy laughter. sukuna clears his throat. sato and suguru perk up.
“take her to the nurse,” his voice is low. “make sure she doesn’t have a concussion.”
suguru steps forward and sukuna gently moves you into his arms. you frown up at suguru. “i’m not concussed.”
geto only chuckles, shifting your thigh over his arm to lift you better. “i don’t think so either. but your boyfriend runs a strict program, doesn’t he?”
“ex-boyfriend,” you bite. “and he’s not stricter than me.”
“never,” suguru smiles. “you’re the strictest.”
sukuna scoffs behind you. sato just says he likes your ribbons.
he watches the boys leave with you. sato bouncing beside geto, you still arguing in suguru’s arms. but then he thinks about naoya. thinks about how he called his girl a whore, how he had the guts to shove you against a wall instead of just taking your slap like a fucking man. his jaw locks.
his feet are already moving. but then he remembers. don’t go after him.
he’s already broken that promise, already sent sato and suguru to beat him bloody. and he trusts his frat brothers, trusts they didn’t go easy on him. but his knuckles ache. he wants to beat naoya down so fucking badly.
but he knows if he sees naoya now, it will only end in death. and sukuna won’t be the one in the deathbed.
sukuna slams his fist into the wall. “fuck!”
SUGURU’S REMARK: CHILLL. WE CONTROLLED THAT
EX-BOYFRIEND TACTICS #3: ON THE OFFENSE !
taught by: toji zenin
‘want your girl back? then get fucking serious. stop playing her damn games and show her who’s the man.’
ΣΧ
“i have to kill naoya zenin.”
on toji zenin’s bedroom floor, ryomen sukuna’s jaw is tight. his hands dig into his thighs and suguru sits beside him with worried eyes. toji zenin is on the edge of his bed, running a brush through a jet black lace front wig. his son, five-and-a-half year old megumi zenin, sits beside him with a beach blond color 613 bone-straight wig on his head.
megumi tugs his father’s sleeve, voice flat.
“daddy, i have a buss down.”
toji doesn’t look up from his mannequin. “looks great, kiddo.”
toji zenin is twenty-four, stubble on his chin and single-ish student dad. single-ish because megumi’s mother left him when he turned twenty-one, but now he’s engaged to a pretty rich lady who sukuna still can’t believe forgave him for his lies. whatever—that’s a story for another day. even though toji’s girl is rich, he still insists on picking up odd jobs here and there to support him and meg rather than relying on her money. he’s currently working as a wig influencer for ISEEHAIR®.
on sukuna’s right, suguru has his hair in twin braids—courtesy of megumi zenin—and the same kind of ribbons you wore on game day—courtesy of SlayedBySato. he pats sukuna’s shoulder. “hey man, it’s okay. she’s okay.”
“you don’t fucking know that,” sukuna spits. “you don’t know it that bastard is still around her. i should’ve fucking killed him. slammed his skull into the wall back in the stadium.”
megumi blinks, gaze flat. he tugs his father’s sleeve. “daddy, is uncle kuna okay?”
“he’s in love,” toji answers, reaching for the hot comb. “makes you stupid.”
megumi nods, blond wisps of hair sticking to his cheek. then he stares at uncle sukuna for a bit longer before sliding his chubby body off the bed. “i’m gonna lay my edges.”
megumi zenin pads away.
suguru smiles after him. but then his smile dissolves, and he shifts his gaze back to sukuna. sukuna’s jaw is still tight, eyes glaring daggers at toji’s bedroom floor, and suguru elbows his side. “relax, man. brooding’s not gonna fix anything.”
“suguru’s right,” toji grumbles. “sato and suguru already beat him down. that didn’t make you feel better, did it?”
sukuna squints.
“you want your girl back? stop playing her damn games,” toji continues. “show her she can’t just keep playing around. you’ve embarrassed naoya, sabotaged him. all you’ve done is play along with her bratty lil’ antics.”
megumi’s voice comes from the other room. “daddy, can you help me lay my edges?”
“in a minute, kid.” toji doesn’t look up from the mannequin. “you want your girl? beat her at her own fucking game.”
sukuna grits his teeth. suguru slings an arm around him, braids swinging. “there’s a party for the football team tonight,” he says. “pretty sure y/n will be there again.”
sukuna swallows. thinks about it. and then the door swings open.
in comes sato gojo with megumi zenin in his arms. the five year old has wig edges laid, hair on fleek, and there is no doubt he’s been SlayedBySato.
sato’s grin is clumsy.
“did someone say party?”
# SHOW TIME !
at the party, the bass is so loud the speakers are moving.
not a lot—just a little—but the sound is so loud that sato is pouting as suguru helps him cover his ears. geto yells at some footballer to turn the music down. it takes them too long to comply.
sukuna is on a couch trying to ignore the babe curling herself into his side.
pamela? no—pairin. hair dyed mauve & flushed pink cheeks & a pretty nice rack—not that sukuna is looking. well he did look, he’s just a man and she’s got some pretty nice tits, but it’s okay. he still thinks yours are perkier.
pairin is trailing a hand up his thigh.
“ryo,” she coos. “it’s been forever. i’ve missed you.”
it has been forever. ryomen sukuna hasn’t slept with pairin, or any other girl for that matter, since he started dating you. yes you’ve broken up and gotten back together a hundred times, and technically when you’re broken up he’s a free man, but sukuna knows if he dared to touch another woman even when you’re not with him he’d never hear the end of it. so he’s always been patient. always waited.
which is why it’s not fucking fair for you to let naoya curl up behind you right now.
his eyes narrow. ryomen sukuna watches as naoya slips behind you at the bar, arm around your waist once again. fucking idiot. sukuna doesn’t even care about his arm on your waist instead of your hips anymore. once he gets his hands on naoya, he won’t even have an arm to begin with.
but sukuna doesn’t understand it.
he knows his girl. he knows you. he knows you bark more than you bite, he knows you’re bratty and stubborn and selfish and petty, and he knows men like naoya zenin are not your fucking type. he knows you would never put up with a man who would even yell at you—he found that out the hard way. so how could you let naoya touch you so casually after he dared to disrespect you?
are you really moving on?
he’s heard about it before. boundaries crumbling when people fall in love. is that what’s happening here? is naoya manipulating you? are you being pressured? can he kill him?
or do you actually—god forbid—like naoya?
sukuna scoffs. fucking hell if you do. he’ll kill naoya so you have no one to love. he’ll be damned if the man who steals your heart after him is one that doesn’t even know how to hold you right. naoya zenin will die today. ryomen sukuna will make sure of it.
“ryo,” pairin coos. when did her tits press against his chest?
she’s shifted so much that she’s practically on top of him, thigh digging into his hip. sukuna kisses his teeth. “don’t fucking call me that.”
pairin pouts, sliding a hand down his chest. “so mean. ever since you started dating that girl, you’ve become so mean to me.”
sukuna hears a laugh. it’s you, laughing at something the bartender says. another poor man who will be joining sukuna’s kill list. or maybe not, since you seem happy. you take a sip of your drink and frown when a drop lands on your chest. so cute.
pairin lifts a hand to shift his jaw back to her face. “you’re smiling.”
“yeah,” his voice is bored. “not at you.”
she frowns. “you used to be fun.”
“i used to be single.”
he still is right now, but not for long. never for long. he watches as you take another cup from the bartender. that’s drink number three. behind you naoya presses his face into your neck, and sukuna watches as you ease into him.
ryomen sukuna is blinded by rage.
he’s not quite thinking when he does it. he’s not quite thinking when he grabs pairin by the back of her neck, shoving her lips onto his. she squeaks, “mmph—!” as sukuna presses his lips against her. she tries to sneak her tongue past his lips. he keeps his mouth shut.
sukuna sees it.
he keeps his eyes open the whole time, and across the bar he watches your face lift. you’re laughing, you always are, but then your gaze drifts across the room to him.
the drink in your hand nearly drops.
you do that little thing where your chest heaves—anxious?—and your fingers curl tight around the cup in your hands. your brows furrow like you’re glaring but your lips are wobbly, oh god, they’re so wobbly—
he pushes pairin off his lap.
but it’s too late. you’re already off your chair, scrambling, and sukuna can’t see that well from this far but he knows your eyes are wet. he saw that tear slip down your cheek. he bolts for the exit but someone pulls him back by the shoulder—
“sukuna?” sato’s brows are knit. “what the fuck? what’s wrong man?”
sukuna’s chest is still heaving. his eyes are still on the door.
ryomen sukuna has lost the girl once again.
TOJI’S REMARK: NOT THAT KIND OF OFFENSE, IDIOT.
EX-BOYFRIEND TACTICS #4: SWALLOW YOUR PRIDE !
taught by: sato gojo
“girls like y/n? they like to keep things difficult. and your prefer it just like that, don’t you?”
ΣΧ
ryomen sukuna hasn’t left his room in days.
two weeks. it’s been two weeks since he kissed another girl and watched you leave with tears in your eyes. and sukuna’s disgusted. stomach against the mattress and head buried in a pillow. you’re pretty when you cry—you’re always pretty—but not so much when he’s the cause of your tears.
SlayedBySato is officially blocked by you on instagram. sato’s tried to come in to cheer sukuna up, but to no avail. sukuna won’t eat anything suguru cooks, or any food at all for that matter. megumi sometimes opens his door and stares at him with bored eyes before leaving. toru comes into his room to sit on the floor and read. he’s always shaky & anxious and glancing up at sukuna every five seconds when he does that, but he still comes in to offer his company anyways.
sukuna’s scrolling through his phone, eyes watching nothing in particular. he gets a notification. probably suguru offering him food. maybe just team snapchat. he ignores it. but then his phone chimes again.
[ mine🫀: OBLIGATIONS.docx ]
sukuna’s brows knit. you have him blocked. that can’t be you.
but he clicks the message anyways. and it is you, and the first thing that greets him is your profile picture. you’re smiling big into the camera, angle low & silly, and somehow you still manage to look bright and beautiful. sukuna swallows. scrolls down to your new messages.
mine🫀: i know what you did at that party was just to get my attention.
mine🫀: since u wanna be pathetic i’ll give you more opportunity to do so
mine🫀: OBLIGATIONS.docx
sukuna clicks the document. there are no greetings, no ‘to whom may be concerned’, no date or titles. just three things.
WRITE ME A LETTER OF APOLOGY. HANDWRITTEN.
CLEAR OUT EVERY ITEM IN MY SHOPPING CART. USERNAME: y/nthebaddest PASSWORD: d1cknballs11037
APOLOGIZE TO ME AND ADMIT TO YOUR PLANS OF SABOTAGE IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE CAMPUS, JUST LIKE IN YOUR STUNT ON GAME DAY.
his phone chimes again.
mine🫀: you have one week. if you want me back you’ll complete everything on this list. if u dc just ignore it.
mine🫀: bye sukuna.
sukuna stares at the list. studies every word. contemplates each task.
and then he laughs.
yeah. that’s his fucking girlfriend.
# SHOW TIME
sukuna trudges into the frathouse living room with his laptop under his arm. at the center table sato is already there, humming contentedly while playing a game of monopoly by himself. he perks up when he hears the sound of the door.
“well, well,” sato sings. “look who crawled out of my grandfather’s ass.”
“what does that even mean?”
“ignore him,” suguru hums. he steps out from the kitchen with a plate of steaming hot jollof rice in his hands. he scoops some with his spoon, blows on it, and offers a bite to sukuna. “here, try some.”
“mm,” sukuna murmurs, leaning down for a bite. it’s hot, chewy—but then sukuna frowns.
“there’s no maggi in this rice.”
geto’s face falls. “no more food for you.”
whatever. sukuna sits at the center table, setting up his laptop right over sato’s monopoly game. he ignores sato’s protests as he opens up your shopping cart. “she sent me a list.” he announces. “of stuff i have to do if i want her back.”
suguru slides in at the opposite side of the table, brows raised. “show us.”
WRITE ME A LETTER OF APOLOGY. HANDWRITTEN.
CLEAR OUT EVERY ITEM IN MY SHOPPING CART. USERNAME: y/nthebaddest PASSWORD: d1cknballs11037
APOLOGIZE TO ME AND ADMIT TO YOUR PLANS OF SABOTAGE IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE CAMPUS, JUST LIKE IN YOUR STUNT ON GAME DAY.
sato blinks at the screen. “dick n’ balls,” he smiles wide. “i love your girlfriend.”
“tread lightly.”
suguru squints at the last item. “this is bad. she’s saying she wants you to confess in front of the whole school? like on game day?” his eyes lift to sukuna. “the dean might actually suspend you if we pull something. you know how much trouble i got in when they heard my voice on the speakers?”
“i had to pay him out of trouble,” sato shudders. “and it wasn’t cheap.”
sukuna frowns. if sato’s complaining? it definitely wasn’t cheap.
but sukuna only opens up your cart, taking in the items on screen. he’s not surprised when he scrolls through the items. lingerie from bordelle & agent provocateur, bags from dior and bottega vennetta, shoes, makeup—the high end kind—and then a bunch of sex toys, also unnecessarily overpriced. his lips tug when he notices a pair of lacy black panties. he already knows that’s for him.
or it could be for naoya to fuck you in, so his face falls.
sato slumps against sukuna’s shoulder. “wow. pricey stuff.”
“she likes nice things,” he mutters, double checking the items. he makes sure everything is in CAD and not USD, and then he checks out. nearly $5000 on clothing, accessories, lingerie. CIBC sends him a notification for possible fraud on his card immediately. he clicks no, this was me.
suguru whistles. “well, that’s that.” he leans back on his palms. “on to task number two?”
——
sukuna taps his pencil against the paper in front of him. “how do i spell exquisite.”
“e-s-q, u-z-t,” sato answers proudly. “all you have to do is sound out the vowels. i learned that trick back in freshman year.”
“there are no vowels in what you just spelled.”
suguru drags a palm over his face. he watches as sato strokes his chin, both he and sukuna staring at the half-empty letter with intense focus. he’s not sure whether to start with explaining to sato that this is not the spelling of exquisite, or if he should let sukuna know that ‘e’ and ‘u’ are indeed vowels.
he chooses to do neither. “sukuna, what do you need the word ‘exquisite’ for?”
“i need to tell her her ass is exquisite.”
“in her apology letter?”
“Yes.”
oh, okay. actually no—it’s not okay. suguru pinches his nose. “this is an apology letter. what does her ass have to do with this?!”
“she likes when i say nice things about her body,” sukuna mumbles, low. geto softens. that’s actually sweet.
“i’m gonna tell her i like her nipples.”
suguru snatches the letter from his hands.
he makes the mistake of letting his eyes drop to the poorly written text, and he’s reading it in his head before he can think any better of it: Hello, I am sorry. Your ass is esquizit. Come back to me. Nipples.
“jesus fucking christ,” suguru breathes.
sukuna scowls at him. “you didn’t let me finish the last sentence.”
sato hugs his knees. “i like this letter.”
suguru ignores them. he puts the letter aside, and tears out a new sheet of paper from the notepad on the table. “look, ryomen. i know you’re not good with words. and i know y/n it’s important to you. so we’re gonna help you.”
sato leans back on his palms. “yup, we are.”
“i meant i’m gonna help him,” suguru glares at sato. “tell me what’s on your mind. what you think. what you feel in your chest when you think about her. if she looked you in the eye and told you she was upset about all you’ve done, what would you say to her?”
sukuna scowls at nothing in particular, pondering. “i’d kiss her.”
“that’s what you would do,” suguru wags his pencil. “what would you say?”
sukuna thinks a bit harder. he thinks about how you look when you’re sad, how you don’t laugh, how your bottom lip juts out in that wobbly pout that makes his stomach hurt. he thinks about how you’d cuss at him before the tears fall, and then you’d grip his collar while spitting teary insults, before collapsing in his chest and letting him kiss your cheek till you quiet down. sukuna thinks very hard.
“i’d tell her i’m sorry,” he says. “and that i hate it when she cries.”
suguru nods. “go on,”
“i’d tell her i was scared,” he murmurs. “of her moving on. of her finding someone better.” he breathes. “i don’t want her to be with anyone that’s not me.”
suguru and sato stay silent.
“i don’t even care about naoya,” sukuna’s voice is tired. his palm slides over his face. “i just want her to be with me.”
“aww,” sato coos.
“shut up.”
but sukuna doesn’t shove sato away when he leans over to hug his head. sato pats sukuna’s face into his chest. “suguru,” sukuna mutters. “can you say that i miss her?”
“already did.”
suguru turns the paper around to reveal the words. sukuna squints to make out the words behind the pretty cursive.
dear y/n,
i know i've said sorry a thousand times. i know it doesn't mean much coming from me. but i mean it. i'm sorry for the party. i'm sorry for kissing someone else. i'm sorry for making you cry. i hate it when you cry, hate when i make you sad. i hate it when you look at me like you don't trust me anymore.
i was scared. scared you were moving on. scared you were finding someone better. i was scared i was losing you for good.
i don't care about naoya. i don't care about other women. i don't care about any of it. i just want you.
i want to earn you back. i want to earn your trust. i want to be the person you deserve.
i love you. i've never loved anyone else like you. i don't want to love anyone else. please give me a chance to prove it.
— sukuna
sukuna blinks at the letter. “i sound pathetic.”
“you are pathetic,” suguru sets it down. “for y/n at least.”
he is, isn’t he?
suguru taps his pencil against the table. “so, do you like it? or shall we draft a new one?”
sukuna thinks about it. sato is still patting his head.
“nah,” he says. “it’s perfect.”
SATO’S REMARK: OH WE’RE SO GETTING HER BACK
EX-BOYFRIEND TACTICS #5: HAVE YOU EVER APOLOGIZED WITH YOUR LIFE ON THE LINE ?!
taught by: nanami kento
“this is the stupidest plan i’ve ever heard.”
ΣΧ
the letter is done. the shopping cart is cleared. but the boys of sigma chi can’t rest just yet.
they do so anyway. suguru is sprawled lazily on the couch, legs spread and popcorn bucket in his hands. sato has his cheek on geto’s chest, curled up beside him. and even sukuna is leaning into the warmth, legs crossed on the floor and his head against suguru’s leg. the tv is playing something none of them truly care about.
suguru takes a bite of popcorn, teeth sticky. “how the fuck are we gonna pull off the last task?”
sato tosses a kernel into sukuna’s open mouth. “i have no idea.”
suguru pops another kernel between his lips, and then feeds a bite through sato’s open mouth on his chest. “before we even get to that—i’ve been thinking. what about that deal naoya mentioned? back in the stadium?”
sato and sukuna perk up.
sukuna’s jaw ticks again. he’s tried not to think about it. tried not to think about how naoya dared to raise his voice at you, how he dared to shove you back in his anger. he licks his canines. his chest is hot.
“i’ve been thinking about it too,” sato says. “ i have a theory.”
“uh oh.”
“don’t be mean,” sato pouts, and suguru pulls his cheek lovingly. he leans off suguru’s chest, palms still on his shoulders for balance. “my theory? y/n wants to make sukuna jealous. naoya wants him jealous too. boom. they work together and date.”
suguru nods. “but now, naoya thinks y/n is dating him so she and sukuna can work together to trash his reputation,” he muses. “and so he’s treating her badly.”
sukuna’s nails dig into his palms.
he knew you wanted him jealous—that’s obvious. but the thought of his stupid antics putting you in danger? with naoya? fuck. you’re a sharp girl. but you’re all bark and no bite. what the fuck is he supposed to do if naoya even thinks of disrespecting you again?
he speaks up. “back at the party. the one we went to after the game,” he bites his cheek. “i saw her with him again. that’s why i got mad. kissed that pamela bitch.”
“pairin.”
“i don’t give a fuck.” sukuna grumbles. “but that’s not what tripped me up. she was with naoya again—even after how he treated her.” his fingers dig into the couch. “she drags me by the ear when i raise my voice just slightly. why would she stay by naoya after all that? just to make me jealous?”
geto thinks out loud. “what if he has something on her?”
the boys go quiet.
for you to stay with someone like naoya, genuine or not? sukuna knows it must be something serious. he leans off the couch, turns to his boys.
“we need to start planning that final task.”
# SHOW TIME !
“kenny,” suguru begs. “please. we need your help.”
nanami pushes up his glasses. “immediately no.”
the theatre hall is humongous.
thousands of students fitted into velvet seats. there’s some ceremony today—what it’s about, sukuna doesn’t know—but he knows it’s the only opportunity he has to fulfill your last task. the next gameday is a week away, past the one week timeframe you specified.
sukuna also knows you’re in the crowd. he’d seen you sitting close to the front. right next to naoya.
god, you looked gorgeous. low cut top that exposes your plush breasts because you have no sense of time and place. skirt short as always, bunched up around your thighs, and lashes fluttering. bored. you looked hopelessly bored and beautiful next to naoya, and it wasn’t till shoko slipped into the seat beside you that your glossy lips smiled again. fuck. sukuna hopes he’ll get to speak to you soon.
but right now, he and the boys are trying to convince nanami to let him show up on stage in place of presenting his speech.
they’re all backstage. sigma chi treasurer nanami kento is sat at a makeshift desk, tie pin straight, expression flat as usual. “i will not allow you to take over my speech in the name of love and sacrifice. this is the stupidest plan i’ve ever heard.”
“nanaken, you’re not listening,” sato shakes his shoulders. “this is a matter of life and death—our last chance to help sukuna get his girl back.” sato pleads. “if we don’t succeed, he’ll be depressed!”
“i won’t be depressed.”
“he’ll be depressed!”
nanami only pinches his nose.
“look,” suguru starts, leaning over the table with his palms. “let’s make a deal. you let us crash your speech? sato buys you all the BL manhwa you want.”
nanami perks up. “BL?”
sato frowns. “sato?”
“exactly,” suguru says. “i know you’re tired of reading semantic error on a screen. we’ll get you all the physical copies—and whatever other BL you have on your reading list. all you have to do is let us crash your set.”
nanami thinks about it. thinks about how nice it’d be to see jang jaeyoung on a page, how he’d be able to have the story right there between his fingertips. he thinks about it. ponders hard.
and then he nods. “you’ve got yourselves a deal.”
——
each speech passes by way too fast.
well honestly, not fast enough. the audience is snoozing. they forget to clap after some speeches, and in the crowd sukuna can see you watching, bored. you have your head against shoko’s shoulder, phone in your hands. a man in a suit walks up to the stage to remind the audience of ‘etiquette’ and ‘keeping their phones away’. you roll your eyes and take a selfie with shoko, lips puckered out.
god, he misses you.
he closes the backstage curtains. suguru is waving his speech around. “you’re up next, man. you ready?”
sukuna swallows. why the fuck does he feel anxious? sukuna doesn’t do anxious. angry? horny? yes. but anxious?
he swipes the speech from suguru’s hands. “yeah. m’ready.”
———
sukuna is not ready.
but he’s not anxious either, so that’s a win. his body’s vibrating with something he can’t quite name. the audience is clapping away as the current presenter leaves.
suguru claps his back. “go.”
and go he does. he rips the velvet curtains apart and trudges his way to the podium. his hands are in his pockets and his gaze is bored and through the corner of his eyes all he can see is you you you.
you, with your brows furrowed and lips in a pout he wants to kiss off. you stare after him with big eyes, before your eyes go even bigger. he watches you facepalm.
that shouldn’t make him laugh. he sets his speech on the podium.
in the audience, shoko is nudging your shoulder. “girl. isn’t that your man?”
naoya turns to frown at her. “excuse me?”
you and shoko ignore him. “i have no idea what he’s up to.” you lie.
on the podium sukuna clears his throat. the TVs overhead are zoomed in on his face. his hair is golden-red under the lights, and sweat glistens on his skin, and sukuna takes in a deep breath.
“my name is ryomen sukuna, and i’m the previous captain of the pandas football team.”
some people whistle and cheer. others watch in silent confusion. naoya is gritting his teeth beside you and shoko is squeezing your thigh.
“i’m here to make a confession in light of recent events within our campus community,” sukuna murmurs into the mic. god, fuck geto suguru and his pretty cursive. sukuna can’t read shit.
“at the first game of the season,” sukuna clears his throat. “there was a video broadcast that interrupted the flow of the ceremony. i profusely apologize for that,” he says. “i was the one responsible.”
gasps fill the arena.
“it’s unsportsmanlike, i know.” he adjusts the mic. “whether the contents of the video are honest or not, to broadcast them during the ceremony was uncalled for and inappropriate. i had no good or honest intentions behind it.” he grits his teeth, eyes leaving the script.
“i wanted to embarrass naoya.”
the crowd is silent, and sukuna finds your eyes.
you’re looking right at him with an expresssion he can’t make out. beside you naoya is there, arm around your seat, and anger seeps into his chest. naoya has a black eye—he’ll have to thank suguru and sato for that. he’ll also have to give him a matching one on his left eye.
he continues his speech.
“naoya zenin, captain of the pandas, stole my girlfriend.” he spits into the mic. “so i chose to embarrass him publicly. that’s it. that’s my reason.”
the audience is muttering, talking amongst themselves. some people have their phone’s up, recording. some are enraged. some girls are swooning.
“y/n l/n—fuck,” he spits into the mic, gaze bleary. he’s gripping the podium with both arms now, head down and away from the cameras. “evil fucking girl,” he murmurs.
“you don’t want him, baby,” he breathes against the mic.
“come back to me.”
the theatre is silent.
and then it roars
single ladies. girlfriends. boyfriends. members of the football team who miss life under sukuna’s reign. they’re all cheering for him, loud and unrestrained. clapping as sukuna grips the podium with his eyes on the hardwood. the headlights flash on his face and he squints to look past them, eyes lifting towards the audience.
you’re not at your seat.
why?
did you miss the end of the speech? sukuna blames himself. he didn’t even have the guts to look up at you as he breathed out the last line, and now he’ll never know if you heard the very words he’s been wanting to say. sukuna almost laughs. his eyes are hot but he almost laughs.
the audience is still roaring. sukuna rips his speech off the podium and walks off the stage.
NANAMI’S REMARK: SO ALL THAT FOR WHAT?
BOYFRIEND TACTICS #1: NEVER LOSE ME.
taught by: y/n l/n
“never had a bitch like me in your life”
❤︎
when sukuna trudges through the curtains, sato and suguru are already there.
faces flushed, chests heaving. “holy fucking shit—“ suguru pulls sukuna’s head into his arms. “you fucking did that.”
he did. so why does he feel so damn empty?
sato is practically bouncing, worming his way into the hug. “you did that!” he cheers. “did you see y/n’s face? was she cheering too—?”
“she left.”
sato and suguru freeze.
suguru pulls away first. sukuna’s face is dull, downcast—and his eyes are dark and soulless. “oh no—” suguru mutters. he holds sukuna’s face. “did you see when she left?”
“no,” he murmurs. no, he didn’t.
“fuck,” sato curses. “fucking hell, man—isn’t this low? even for her?”
suguru pulls sukuna’s head back under his chin. sukuna doesn’t resist or protest. just stares at the wood floor with empty eyes. but then a voice calls his name.
“ryomen sukuna. are you brooding?”
if god liked him, it would’ve been you. standing there in your short skirt and skimpy top and a teasing smile on your lips. mocking his misery. grinning up at him.
but instead it’s shoko ieri, brown hair under a bucket hat.
under normal circumstances, he’d be happy to see her. sukuna likes most of your friends. they’re all pretty party girls like you, a bunch of twenty-something year olds who think life is about bourbon glasses and friday mornings passed out in the backseat of someone’s car. they’re wild but they’re all nice girls, and they’re good to you so that’s fucking that.
but he doesn’t want to see your friends. sukuna wants to see you.
suguru brushes sukuna’s hair back. “shoko. to what do we owe the pleasure?”
“relax, geto. i’m not here to cause trouble,” she hums, leaning against a beam. “just here to pass across a message.”
she muses. “backstage dressing room. one-hundred two, not hundred and one,” shoko recites. “i have to leave now, but don’t be late. and sukuna,” she pauses to look at him. “no backup. just you.”
she turns away with a lilt in her steps, and the boys of sigma chi are left staring at each other in confusion. the message is clear though, and sukuna wipes his face.
room 102. got it.
# SHOW TIME !
ryomen sukuna comes in alone.
the door to room 102 pushes open with a creaak. the dressing room is racks and racks of clothing, some on the floor, some strewn across tables, and mirrors upon mirrors. the vanities still have their lights glowing orange. the room smells like rust and girl.
sukuna finds you in front of a mirror.
you’re checking yourself out, neon pink feather boa around your shoulders. on your head is a comically large sun hat, and there’s a bright green belt flung around your waist. you don’t look up when he walks in. just shift your hips in the mirror, skirt swishing around your thighs.
“you like my outfit?” you hum, still facing the mirror.
you look silly. if he was in a better mood, he’d probably smile. but instead he trudges forward and leans back against the table behind you. “yeah. looks cute.”
“hmm,” you fit your hands over your hips. “i still feel like it’s missing something.”
sukuna stays quiet.
you walk over to a bunch of boxes, pulling out all sorts of costume pieces. your tone is sing-song. “i heard your little speech.”
sukuna plays with the bracelet on his wrist. it’s not a bracelet. it’s one of your bra straps, actually, and he’d forgotten he put it on before the speech. it’s suddenly itchy against his wrist. “you liked it?”
“i thought it was cute,” you hum, inspecting a tie. you walk over to him, and sukuna spreads his legs a bit so you can slip between his thighs. you hold the tie up to him. “can you help me?”
he takes the tie from your hands. fits it over your neck quietly. he’s folding the ribbon around your neck, pretending he can’t feel your breath on his lips.
he murmurs, “i don’t understand what you’re doing, baby.”
his palm leaves your tie to cup your cheek. your gloss smudges against his palm. “what do you mean? i’m getting dressed up.”
his thumb strokes your cheek. “please don’t play dumb.”
you snuggle into his palm, humming contentedly. sukuna’s thumb still strokes your cheek. his other hand has come up squeeze your hip, then snake around it, then pull you closer into him.
“i’m sorry,” he breathes against your lips.
“for what?”
“for kissing another girl,” he murmurs. “for even looking at her. for being difficult. always giving you a reason to turn around and leave, then begging you to come back.” he cups your face.
“i love you. i’ve never loved any girl the way i love you.”
you trail a palm down his chest. “come back to me,” you repeat his speech.
“come back,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your spine. “come back to me, baby.”
you giggle as he leans closer to steal your lips. ryomen sukuna tastes like strawberry and spearmint.
Y/N’S REMARK: GUESS WHO’S BACK <3
COUPLE TACTICS #1 : DICKMEDOWN—WHO SAID THAT?!
taught by: ryomen sukuna’s cock
“there is no quote. i am a cock.”
❤︎
in ryomen sukuna’s bedroom, he has his back against the headboard and his girlfriend in his lap.
you’re half naked. clad in nothing but a lacy bra and matching black panties, giggling as you pose into his macbook camera. you lift another bra up to check it against your chest. ryomen sukuna squeezes your thigh.
“you like this one?” he murmurs behind you, reaching his hand up to grope your breast. “wasn’t in the cart. added it myself.”
“it’s so pretty,” you coo, lashes fluttering. “thank you, ryo.”
“you’re welcome, princess.”
it’s just two days after the whole speech at the theatre. ryomen sukuna watches you with bleary eyes. he leans back against the headboard, watching as you shrug off your bra to try another one he bought. he reaches up to graze his thumb over your pebbled nipple and you giggle, before sliding backwards to lean back against his chest. he squeezes your tits in his palms before kissing your cheek.
“love this set,” he murmurs against your ear. he’s twisting your nipple in one hand & the other is already sliding down over your belly, down to your lacy black panties. “so pretty on you.”
“mmh,” your thighs squeeze as his hand slips below the fabric, finding your wet, aching clit. he rubs the pad of his thumb over it in circles. kisses your cheek again when you whine.
“missed you,” he murmurs. “so bad, pretty.”
“mhm,” you breathe. you want to bite back with something sassy but ryomen sukuna is kneading your breast while his thumb fingers your clit. he slips in another finger and rolls the bud between them. your thighs squeeze around him.
“ryo,” you purr. “you’re gonna get them dirty.”
“i know,” he shushes you. “just wanna feel you.”
and feel you he does. he pushes your body up on his chest and latches his hot mouth around your nipple. “mmh—,” he groans, tongue swirling around the pebbled peak. “fuck, missed this.”
his fingers rub harder against your clit. faster, faster, until your hips arch of the bed and your thighs shake around him. he can already see slick coating your inner thighs, and your moans in his ear only make him rub harder. “fuck,” he curses. fuck fuck fuck.
your lashes go sticky with tears. your clit is wet and throbbing around his fingers. your thighs shake as you reach your high, and sukuna has to shove his lips to yours to quiet your moans. he licks his tongue into your mouth, hot and wet and sloppy, palm settling to gently rub your clit through your high.
you gasp, pulling away. your lashes are sticky & your cheeks flushed hot. “i missed you.”
he kisses you again, soft. “missed you too.”
he slips your panties off your thighs, holding your naked body against him. “missed this pussy too,” he rasps. “gonna stuff you till you’re cumming on my cock.”
you squirm against him, swatting his chest as he unzips his trousers. “but i just came!”
“you’ll come again, pretty.”
he fumbles with the zipper, slipping out his heavy, hard cock. his cockhead is throbbing and sticky with precum, and he shifts you forward so your back is against his chest.
“go slow,” you whimper, already nervous.
he kisses your shoulder. “you don’t want that.”
and you don’t. you arch into him as he slips his cock into your puffy, slick-coated folds from behind. he smears precum and slick over them with his cockhead, kissing your shoulder as you shiver against him. “relax, you’re okay. you still on the pill, baby?”
you nod shyly. he kisses your neck.
sukuna’s cock is thick. heavy and swollen and pulsing between your slobbering foods. he pushes his hips into you, letting your pussy squelch around him, and his arm fits under your body so he can grope your perky breasts. he tugs on a nipple before rolling it between his fingers. fuck.
you whimper as his cock stretches you out, sliding deeper and deeper into your folds. “fuck,” he breathes against your ear. “you’re so fucking hot. so tight. so wet.”
you whimper as his fingers find your clit again. he circles it hard, hips bucking to push his cock deeper into you before sliding back out, palms still fondling your breasts. it’s too much, it’s too fucking much, and he can hardly blame you for whining against him. “ryo—”
“shh—you’re good, you’re doing so good,” he rasps as you clench around his cock. “so fucking good. you know how good you feel around my cock, baby? m’so fucking lucky—.”
he’s shushing you but his hips only buck faster and faster. your eyes squeeze shut as he breathes. “fuck, gonna cum—“
your walls quiver around him as you come together, white hot cum stuffed between your folds. you groan, ragged, as sukuna pants into your neck. he kisses your shoulder before resting his head against your neck.
“i love you,” he rasps.
“i love you too.”
you stay like that for a moment, holding each other before he kisses your shoulder. “let’s get you cleaned up.”
——
“you have a lot of explaining to do.”
sukuna comes back with new shorts hanging low on his v-line. he has a warm cloth in his hands, and he climbs over your sore body. even now you’re still smiling up at him, lashes fluttering, cheeks flushed. “whatever do you mean?”
“don’t play dumb,” he kisses your cheek before gently nudging your thighs open. he slides the cloth down your inner thigh, ignoring the way you reach up to thread your fingers through his hair. “you have to explain. why you went to naoya.”
“but what if i don’t want to?”
“you will,” he says. he slides your panties up your thighs, pressing a kiss to your clit before slipping them all the way up.
but then he changes his mind. slips your panties down again.
“ryomen.” you’re already sitting up.
“relax,” he mutters against your puffy cunt. “lean back for me.”
you sigh, doing as he says. he licks a stripe up your glistening folds. he can taste himself on your stuffed cunt but his tongue keeps moving regardless. he pulls back, lips glistening with slick.
“you’re gonna tell me exactly what your fucking plan was,” he sucks on your bud, letting go with a pop. “why i saw you again with naoya after he dared to fucking talk to you like that.”
“so strict,” you whimper, cheeks puffed as your hips arch into him. “i can date anyone i want.”
“no,” sukuna hisses. “you can only date me.”
“mmh—” you moan as his tongue slobbers over your glossy folds. you run your fingers through his hair as your pussy drools onto his tongue. “mmh—wanted to make you mad,”
“you did good,” he sticks a finger into your cunt and you gasp, loud. he’s knuckles deep now, pumping his finger in and out of you. “hah—wanted you jealous,” you moan. “we were gonna get revenge.”
his fingers curl so hard you cry his name.
you whimper and he ignores it. “was already jealous. why’d you go back to him after he touched you?”
he curls his fingers again. “ah—! sorry, i’m sorry,” you cry, lashes wet. feels so good. “we weren’t dating for real. just showed up in public together. he said we couldn’t stop, said if we did that meant you won,” you whimper. “he apologized, let me punch him. i gave him a—hnngh—black eye.”
ah. so the black eye naoya had wasn’t from sato and suguru.
sukuna swirls his tongue over your clit, lapping and sucking as he pumps another finger into your drooling pussy. he curls them until he’s pressing into that spongy part that makes you sob, and he sucks gingerly as your pussy sputters and spits slick into his mouth. “ryo—m’gonna cum—”
your thighs shake, walls clenching. sukuna pumps his fingers in faster, letting your thighs squeeze his neck. you cum over his mouth, right around his fingers, and sukuna kisses your puffy, still-sensitive clit.
when he looks up at you, you’re glaring. eyes glistening wet, cheeks flushed. pretty.
“what?” he says.
“you’re so mean,” you frown. “you see why i break up with you?”
sukuna huffs, climbing over your figure. when he’s right above you, you tug his neck down.
“i love you,” you mumble.
he kisses your lips. “i love you too.”
COCK’S REMARK : *HARDENS*
EX-BOYFRIEND TACTICS #6: BREAK THE CYCLE !
taught by: ryomen sukuna
“loving you is a loop.”
ΣΧ
in toru gojo’s room of his apartment, the boys of sigma chi are all there. oh—and you too, of course.
sato is fast asleep on his twin’s bed, laid down & drooling on suguru’s shoulder beside him. suguru is tapping at his nintendo switch with furious speed. toru is cooking up something in the kitchen. and on his PC, you and sukuna are there, suguru’s sims 4 game loaded up on screen.
you’re on sukuna’s lap, his arm looped around your hips as you rant about the many tribulations you had to endure while ‘dating’ naoya. you’re customizing sukuna’s sim for your save file, and said man is doing nothing but rubbing your thighs and pressing lazy kisses to your skin.
“—and he leaves his boxers everywhere!” you exclaim, scrolling through geto’s CC folder. “i had to come over after he had practice once and they were everywhere. it’s that bad!”
“mhm,” sukuna kisses your neck, love drunk & bleary-eyed. “so bad, baby.”
“he’s so unhygienic,” you shift in sukuna’s lap, and he squeezes your hips to keep you steady. “i told him to at least clean up if he knows i’m coming over. he said no!”
sukuna nuzzles your ear, squeezes your thigh. “mm. m’gonna kill him.”
“no you will not! stop threatening murder!”
sukuna looks up. you’ve turned your head over your shoulder to glare at him, and he looks up at you through bleary eyes. your cheeks are warm. lashes fluttering. you’re the prettiest headache he’s ever had.
he kisses your jaw. “missed fighting with your pretty face,” he murmurs. “gimme a kiss, baby.”
you soften, and he leans up to kiss you deep.
“woah—” suguru throws a pillow at you both. sukuna swats it away from you without pulling back from your lips. he squeezes your waist and geto frowns. “even if sato’s asleep, i’m still fucking here!”
sukuna ignores him, his hand crawling up to grope your tits. suguru scowls, turns over to face sato’s sleeping figure. he should’ve known protesting was futile. sukuna’s always been an exhibitionist, but you’d think his therapy sessions would’ve taught him better by now.
sukuna pulls back, your gloss smeared over his lip & chin. you giggle at the sight, “hi.”
“mmh,” he nuzzles your neck.
the door swings open, snapping you and sukuna out of your daze. in comes toru gojo with a plate of lazy cake, glasses slipping down his nose. he blushes when he sees you and sukuna pressed close together. “hi. i made snacks.”
“oh, toru!” you purr. “you’re my favorite, have i told you that?”
toru sets down the plate on the desk in front of you. as he leans down you press a kiss to his cheek, and he blushes so hard his face turns beet red. he looks up, surprised, and you’re beaming at him. behind you, sukuna is scowling.
toru drops the plate and runs away.
you turn back to glare at sukuna. “you scared him.”
“no one’s allowed to kiss you.”
“i kissed him!”
sukuna ignores your protests, trying to cup your jaw so he can get a kiss of his own. you shove his face back, and he scowls.
“go apologize to toru,” you frown at him. “now.”
sukuna wants to protest. wants to say he’s comfortable right here with your thighs over his lap and your lipgloss on his chin. but he knows if he fights back he’ll be left with nothing but a sore earlobe & an angry girlfriend. he grumbles as you slide off him.
sukuna trudges to the kitchen, says his apologies. toru accepts them in a heartbeat.
when he comes back to the room, you’re gone.
“where is she?” his heart drops. “suguru—where is she?”
“chill,” suguru mumbles, eyes never leaving his switch. “she left you a letter. check on the desk.”
and next to toru’s plate of dessert, a letter is indeed there. he picks it up, thumb running over the paper. you’ve left a glossy kiss mark at the end.
‘dear sukuna,’ it reads.
‘i’m breaking up with you.’
sukuna’s blood runs cold.
‘i know we just got back together a week ago. but i thought about it! thought about how i’m becoming a better woman, growing in my spiritual journey. do i really want a jealous man who scares away my friends by my side??
so i decided: let’s break up. for real this time. it’s not you, it’s me. maybe if we’re truly meant to be, the stars will align and our paths will cross yet again. but for now? i have to choose me and my growth. so i’m leaving. for good.
i still love you though!! you’ll always be my lover <3 i love you soso much baby boy. i don’t even want to do this. but i know i have to make the right choice for both of us.
sorry to walk away like this. and don’t forget, you are not allowed to date any other woman!!! i am the only woman for you!! always and forever!! no dating, sex, kissing, touching, NOTHING. if i find out you even LOOK at another woman i’ll hate you forever!!!!!!!!!!!!
okay, that’s all. goodbye forever. i’ll always love you ryo <333333 i’m sorry it had to end this way.’
sukuna stares at the letter. he reads it once. twice. then once more.
and then he laughs.
because this is his girlfriend, bratty and high-maintenance and demanding and all. because you say goodbye forever, but he knows he’ll see you next week. he knows tonight you’ll call and say you miss his voice and afterwards you’ll send him a text saying you’re still not getting back with him and will be blocking him as a final goodbye. he knows you’ll unblock him on a random wednesday and won’t text, and he’ll just have to keep sending messages till they don’t turn green and he can ask you to come back to him.
and you’ll say yes. you always do. and if there’s anything or anyone who stops you from saying yes, he’ll crush them.
he rubs his thumb over the bottom of the letter. your glossy kiss mark is there.
and right beside it?
XO, YOUR EX HO 💋
SUKUNA’S REMARK: SEE U NEXT WEEK.
#SIGMA-CHI STORIES !
XO, EX HOE end.
XO HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.
AUTHOR'S NOTE ★ it's really over now...thank you guys for staying tune and commenting. i appreciate your love so much <3 this has truly been such a fun experience writing for you and keeping up with what you had to say. i loved y/n's character so much and i'm so happy you guys did too!! definitely one of my faves!! see you in the next one.
love,
neptune
SUMMARY ★ he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirting—god, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.
PAIRING ★ streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ★ smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!
For the Valko requests, I would love to see some cute family fluff between MC, Valko, his cousins, grandma, and his sister (I think he had a sister in his lore, correct me if I am wrong), because I want to see how MC would get along with Valko's family. 🐺
𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄
synopsis: when valko brings you home for the first time, he warns you about everything: his grandmother’s food, his sister’s stare, his cousin’s stories, the family jokes that always cut too close. he forgets to warn you that love in his house is not gentle or quiet, but loud, practical, mercilessly observant, and served warm at the kitchen table.
cw/tw: valko x reader. very soft domestic fluff. light family teasing.
read here: ao3 ⋅ tumblr
Valko lost his nerve three steps from the door.
It was a small death, but you saw it happen; the brave lift of his chin, the twitch in his jaw, the small, tragic collapse of his entire face when a crash came from inside the house.
His hand tightened around yours.
“Dobro,” he said.
Another crash.
From inside, and older woman called, “If that's my good plate, I will put someone in the ground before supper.”
Valko closed his eyes. You turned toward him.
He opened one eyes. “She loves plates.”
“More than people?”
“Depends on the people.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.
Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.
Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.
Do not say you're full.
And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.
You had asked what the soup incident was.
He had started to walk faster.
Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.
“Valko,” you said softly.
“Yes?”
“You're shaking.”
“I'm not shaking.”
“You are.”
“I’m containing myself.”
“From what?”
“Hereditary embarrassment.”
The door flew open.
A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.
A slow smile cut across her face.
“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”
Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.
“I changed once.”
“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”
His ears went red.
The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”
“Unfortunately,” Valko added.
“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”
“It isn't optional.”
“Because of me.”
You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.
Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.
Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”
Valko muttered, “We were.”
She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”
You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.
Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.
“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”
You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.
“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”
“I hear everything,” the old woman said.
Valko went still.
Milena smiled into her shoulder.
The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.
“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.
She, of course, ignored him.
Instead, she took your face between both hands.
Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.
“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”
“I eat,” Valko protested.
Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”
“That was taken out of context.”
“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.
Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.
Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”
Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”
No one listened to him.
You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.
“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.
Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.
The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.
Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”
“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”
Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”
Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.
Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.
Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.
“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.
You obeyed.
The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.
You chewed. Swallowed.
“It’s delicious.”
Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”
Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”
Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”
“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.
“No.”
“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”
The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.
“That was private.”
“You said it in the kitchen.”
“That makes it private.”
Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”
Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.
The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.
He had spoken of you here.
At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.
Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.
“He was always like this,” she said.
“Baba, please.”
“He was a strange child,” she said.
Valko groaned. “Please.”
“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.
“A dramatic child,” Luka said.
“A biting child,” Milena added.
Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”
“You looked biteable.”
“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”
There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.
You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.
He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.
There he was.
Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.
Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.
“Are you keeping him?”
The kitchen stopped.
Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.
Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”
“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”
His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.
You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.
Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.
His fingers closed around yours at once.
“I’d like to,” you said.
The house held itself still for half a breath.
Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.
“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”
Valko bowed his head.
His shoulders shook.
At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.
Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”
Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”
Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”
“For Valko?” you asked.
“For all of us.”
Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.
Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.
“That's just Valko,” Milena said.
“I am not a dog.”
“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”
Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.
A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.
You noticed on the fourth offering.
His family noticed on the first.
Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.
“Ah,” she said.
Valko froze.
It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.
“What?” he said.
“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”
Mika threw his head back.
You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”
He looked at the cake.
Then he looked at you.
His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.
Milena saw it.
Her teasing quieted.
For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.
Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”
Valko blinked. “Me?”
“Her.” Milena pointed at you.
Valko frowned. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That's not a reason.”
“It has worked on you for years.”
You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.
She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.
Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”
The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.
For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.
“He likes you,” she said.
You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”
“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”
A laugh escaped you.
Milena folded her arms.
“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”
Your throat tightened.
From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”
Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”
“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”
Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”
You laughed softly.
She looked at you again, sharper now.
“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”
“The goat?”
“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”
You glanced back towards the kitchen.
He had asked if his laugh was strange.
Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.
You looked down.
“He didn’t need to worry,”
“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”
“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”
There it was.
The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.
“I’m not here to hurt him,”
“Most people aren’t, at first.”
“Milena.”
Milena’s gaze narrowed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.
“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”
Milena stared at you.
Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”
You looked down, caught.
She seemed satisfied. “Good.”
“Is that approval?”
“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”
“You were being difficult?”
“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”
When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.
His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”
Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”
“I’m not.”
“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”
He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”
You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”
“That was Baba.”
“Family consensus.”
His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”
“I am.”
“You were supposed to be intimidated.”
“By Mika?”
“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”
“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”
Valko sighed.
You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”
He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.
“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”
Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
His smile softened.
For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.
“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”
“I do”
“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”
He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.
“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”
Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.
“No.”
“Yes,”
“No photographs.”
“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.
Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”
Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”
He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”
You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.
“Sit,” she said.
Valko sat.
It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.
For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.
Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.
There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.
Each photograph was another small door.
You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.
At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.
“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.
You turned a page.
A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.
“Yes,” you said. “I do.”
He stared at you.
Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.
It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.
Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.
The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.
Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You looked at him. “For what?”'
“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”
“I like Milena.”
“That means she behaved.”
“She said she was being polite.”
He winced. “Then she liked you.”
You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.
Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.
She waved back.
Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”
“She loves you.”
“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”
“It’s a good one.”
He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.
“Did you mean it?” he asked.
“Which part?”
“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”
The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.
You reached for him.
This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.
“I meant it,”
His eyes searched yours.
“For tonight?”
“For longer than that.”
He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.
Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”
Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.
“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”
You laughed.
He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright. Something almost boyish
“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.
You touched his cheek.
You touched his cheek.
Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.
My sister made these really funny pictures of each LI and a bunch of foods she thinks they would like and for Valko she had ginger snaps.
Chat what if Valko called MC Ginger Snap or something along that line...like...shiiiiiiitttt EHEH that shit is kinda cute should I use it in a fic?? CHAT???
VALKO NICKNAME IDEAS??
Ginger Snap (or some variation HIT UP THEM COMMENTS)
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I feel like one of the things that hurts the most about reading Valko fanfics is we never really got to know him outside of trailers, so no matter how much fans agree on head canons and such it'll never be the same.
I just wanna get to know him, he deserves so much more than this
⁕ 4k words ⁕ taglist open!! ⁕ banner by mangmango.art on instagram ⁕ dividers by @saradika-graphics ⁕ masterlist ⁕
🎼 Now Playing: Everyday Struggle, The Notorious B.I.G. 🎶
You wake up to an insistent buzzing near your head, almost pulling a muscle in your neck when you realize it’s your phone ringing and whip upright. As you wince and rub the strained muscle, your free hand grabs your phone and you tap ‘accept’ without even looking at the contact.
On the other end they ask for your name and you groggily confirm it’s you. The line is silent for barely three seconds before they start talking again.
“We’re calling from Yaga Public Library about the position you applied to, if you’re still interested we’d like to set up an interview.”
“Oh–that would be amazing! Yes!”
“Would you be free this Tuesday at 3pm?”
You gulp dryly, realizing you responded so nonchalantly to what could possibly be your future employers. “Oh, um–yes! I’m free at that time. Thank you so much!”
“No problem, we’ll see you then.”
“Alright, have a nice day!” You feel your eyes bugging out of your head as they hang up and the line beeps…who the fuck calls this early about an interview…?
Wait a minute. What time is it?
You swear when you realize it’s almost 11am. Shooting up out of bed you stand up, actively checking your dad’s location as you flit around your room, not making much progress on getting ready since you have so much crap lying around needing to be unpacked.
Your dad is home though…which means the car hasn’t been picked up yet which means you have a chance to see Sukuna again. Not that you’re expecting anything out of this…but the morbid curiosity that always follows you around is begging you to go back there and try to see if you can at least pry his favorite Alice in Chains song out of him…or figure out why he tattooed his brother’s favorite EP and not his, or who the fuck was playing Jpop in an auto repair shop.
The door to your bedroom creaks as you open it and step into the hallway. Somewhere further down your dad is chatting with your mom, most likely in the living room. Once you’ve rounded the corner you see them sitting together, sorting towels from a box.
“Oh wow! I wasn’t sure you were still alive in there.” Your mom jokes, succeeding in only making you scoff in response.
“Eeeh whatever, I was tired after all that traveling. Anyways, when were you thinking of picking the car up? Want me to drive with you?” You scuff your foot against one of the boxes, trying to act nonchalant as if you’re not silently praying your mom won’t shoot up and volunteer to drive with your dad instead.
“I was thinking of going after lunch.” Your dad responds, directing his next question at your mom. “Did you want to come with me or stay here? If she picks up the car with me you can finish the kitchen like you were saying earlier.”
She folds another towel and stacks it, “Yeah, that works. I can’t find anything and it’s driving me up a tree.”
You pump your fist victoriously, just out of sight of your parents, celebrating this tiny victory. “Okay cool, just let me know when you’re good to go and we can head out.”
“Yup.” He nods and goes back to tossing washcloths and hand towels into individual piles.
Not wasting a second, you slip back into the hallway and run back to your room. If you’re not mistaken the box in the far right corner of your room has your makeup bags and you’ll definitely be able to scrounge up a cute outfit from the clothes currently unpacked right now.
It’s all going according to plan…
—-
An hour later, your hunger gets the best of you and you make your way back down the hall to the kitchen. By now you’re dressed and made up. You’ve been a bit lazy with unpacking clothes but you managed to find some jean mini shorts and a cropped white tank top to layer over a pink bralette. And of course you armed both wrists with every color coordinated bracelet in your arsenal, cute earrings, and a thin chain hung from your belt loops. With how seriously you’re taking this one would think you’re going to war.
This kind of is like going into battle though…you not only have to step way out of your comfort zone to talk with a new person in a new place, but this new person happens to be very hot and you don’t even know if he’s going to be around so this could be all for naught. You’re actually super brave and awesome and shouldn’t get nervous at all for doing this. For sure.
You sit, hunched, at the dining room table, finishing your burrito from the night before. The perks of having an empty kitchen is nobody feels like cooking which means your dad is very willing to buy you all food from Caliente.
Now that you think about it, even if nothing happens with Sukuna, if you can at least score a date from this there’s a chance you could get free food. Free food would make all this work and mental stress worth it…probably. Wait, that thought is kind of sad. Are you really only in the dating scene for free food? Well, you’re barely even in the dating scene since it’s so abysmal. That’s not the point, though. You’re not even going here for him…you’re just a little curious.
Whatever–it doesn’t matter! You have that interview on Tuesday, something much more important than some tatted up mechanic who has about as much conversational skills as a cat can tap-dance.
The burrito wrapper crinkles as you ball it up and toss it towards the trashcan. It hits the trash bag with a soft thud as your chair scuffs against the floor when you push it back towards the table. You approach your dad, keys rattling as he pulls them from the hook.
“Ready to go?”
“Mm-hmm!” You tug at your necklace, making sure the back hasn’t slipped to the front. Mentally, you’re hyping yourself up–you’re so hot and funny and interesting, if this guy has no interest in you that’s his problem! Right! You don’t need a man!
But if this man happens to want you…that’s a different story.
The parking lot is ridiculously hot; it’s earlier in the day so the sun isn’t blocked by the apartment building. A car passes, blasting music and you can smell the skunky smell of weed somewhere down the road. That’s one thing you’ve really liked about living here from your short experience: how interesting everything is. There’s no shortage of events going on and always some sort of noise.
Inside the car is even hotter than the parking lot when you open the passenger door. It takes a few minutes for the AC to really kick in, and by then you can feel your back fully stuck to your shirt with sweat. Will this heatwave ever end?
The car rumbles down the road and you turn to your dad, “How did you like the shop?”
He thinks for a moment, finger tapping the steering wheel. “It was pretty good, I liked that Choso guy, he knows what he’s talking about. But, in the end, it really depends on how they fixed up the car.”
You hum, not sure what kind of opinion you expected after he’s only been there once. “I thought it was interesting. They were playing Jpop, I think this artist called Takada? I wouldn’t have expected that from a bunch of mechanics.”
He chuckles, “I was wondering what they were playing.”
The conversation drifts into eventual silence and you look out the window. It’s still spring, but summer is close enough on the horizon that the trees are almost fully green. It’s beautiful out…if only it wasn’t so hot.
The shop comes into view and your stomach twists. Will he be in today? Will you talk again? Everything feels a lot more real now that it dawns on you that you really made sure you’d be here today to see Sukuna again. Yikes. Even thinking his name makes you nervous.
With a creak, you open the car door and the sticky, city air hits you again. Your shoes thud against the asphalt as you hop out the passenger side and swing the door closed behind you.
Your dad is a few steps behind you as you stride towards the shop door. You tell yourself to walk confidently, just managing to mask the nervousness that bubbles beneath your skin.
Uraume is sitting behind the desk again and watches you hold the door open. The shop is a bit cooler inside, an AC unit mounted in the window doing its best to cool the whole office.
After a short conversation with your dad, Uraume leads the two of you into the shop again towards Choso who’s sipping on a juice box, phone in hand. He’s smiling softly at the screen; it makes you giggle to imagine the odd looking man messaging a sweetheart.
“Choso.” Uraume calls bluntly.
He jumps up, juice box crushing in his hand and spilling apple juice all over his hand and wrist. “Oh–um! Hello again! The car is all set if you want to check it out.”
You watch as he tosses the juice box into a nearby trash can, shaking his hand off and muttering to himself as he shoves his phone–which has a suspiciously cutesy phone case–into his back pocket. He grabs a set of car keys off the table he’d been sitting next to.
There really is nothing more interesting than listening to two men talk about cars…said no one ever. Your tank top is sticking to your back like nobody's business, the makeup you put so much work into practically melting off. And for what? Choso to see? Obviously not, the guy has clear priorities with the way his phone has been buzzing from his pocket.
It’s almost laughable how quickly your mood has soured, despite your attempts at remaining optimistic. You shouldn’t have let your hopes get up so high and convinced yourself you’d have a chance to even see this guy again. Besides–aren’t most mechanics like assholes or something? Right. They’re all assholes and you’d be remiss to even THINK of dating one.
Instead of letting yourself wallow further, you turn your attention to the music playing in the shop today. You’re not sure who the artist is, but it sounds like some sort of 90’s hip-hop. Movement from the back of the shop catches your attention.
The blonde mechanic with patchy facial hair’s head is bobbing to the rhythm as he polishes a wrench and places it into a toolbox.
The sheer boredom of listening to a conversation that’s got nothing to do with you battles your social anxiety for which would be easier to endure. Your body comes to a conclusion before your mind does, feet already starting to navigate the crowded shop towards the lone mechanic.
He glances upwards, brows raising a hair and the ghost of a smirk passing over his lips before he grunts and tosses the cloth he’d been polishing with onto the tool box.
“Can I help you?”
You gesture vaguely upwards, not sure where the speaker is located exactly. “What song is this?”
“Everyday Struggle.” He rolls his chair back a bit, leaning comfortably against the worn faux leather. “You a fan of Biggie?”
“I listen on occasion. I don’t think I’ve heard this one before.”
He nods, a finger tapping his chin and dotting oil into his five o’clock shadow. “You from around here?”
You shake your head. He nods thoughtfully.
“I bet my girlfriend would love your outfit.” He remarks, squinting at something beyond you. He looks so deeply entranced by the idea you decide he wasn’t being performative in tapping his chin earlier like you’d initially thought.
“Um…thank you! What does she dress like?”
He smiles, looking smug with pride as he pulls out his phone and flashes the home screen at you. A woman with a rhinestone studded crop top and streak of teal hair in her bangs is leaning against a concrete wall and smiling impishly. She’s got all sorts of piercings, silver studs and bars glinting against milky pale skin.
“She’s so pretty! I love that top!”
The mechanic chuckles as he pushes the phone into his pocket. “Right? She made that one herself.”
You gasp with delight, clasping your hands together, “Oh that’s awesome! She has really great taste.”
Metal clangs as he grabs a monkey wrench from the workbench behind him and begins to clean it off. “That’s what I’m saying. I think she should pursue fashion full time but she’s not confident about it.”
“Does she have an account or something? I’d love to see more of her clothes!”
He puts the wrench down and wipes his hand with the cloth. “Yeah, actually. She does.”
You hand him your phone, instagram open, and watch as he taps away and opens a profile. The same woman is pictured, this time in a baggy leather jacket and mini shorts. Her page is full of all sorts of interesting pieces and designs.
“Thank you for sharing!”
“Yeah, no problem. I’m Hakari–Hakari Kinji–, by the way. In case we run into each other again.”
“Nice to meet you! I hope we do, I’d love to meet your girlfriend. You must really love her to be doing all this free advertising.” Your nose wrinkles, second guessing the joke you just made. That was a weird thing to say–
You’re proven wrong by the open laughter that spills from Hakari, his shoulders shaking. “Fuck. I thought I was being lowkey about it.”
You laugh too, mostly out of relief. “No, you asked me about two questions before immediately talking about her.” You smile broadly, catching your breath.
“Tends to happen when you’ve got a girl like her.” He responds, his tone humorous, but laced with a solemnness that gives you the idea he takes his relationship very seriously. It’s refreshing.
“You got someone like that?” He raises an eyebrow, metal clinking as another polished tool ends up in the box.
“Me? No. Haven’t really found anyone worth the time yet.” You shrug, “Maybe it’ll be a bit easier here.”
“You move from a small town or what?”
“Not too small, like there was plenty going on. But after a while of dating apps and all that you realize that there’s not enough people your age that are single and not like…the worst.” You lean against one of the pillars supporting the roof, the metal cool against your skin.
He snorts, flipping the towel in his hands, “Sukuna’s nephew says the same thing.”
Your ears perk up at the mention of Sukuna and you nod, leaning in ever so slightly, ready to glean any information you can. “Oh, I didn’t know he had a nephew! Does he work here?”
“Naw, he’s in school. He visits with his friends, though, and it’s almost all they talk about. I don’t miss that shit at all.”
You laugh, “At least I know it’s not just me.” A glance towards your dad and Choso tells you they won’t be done anytime soon…you don’t know if staying and waiting for your dad is worth it. With the relaxed way Hakari is sitting, you can assume it’s not a very busy day for him. Maybe waiting for a bit more is worth it…
“What do you do for fun around here?”
“I usually hit up the casino, but that’s just me. There’s a pretty good club scene if you’re into that. I feel like Kirara would probably know more that would interest you. I can tell her to reach out whenever she’s off work.”
“Honestly, that would be awesome. I have no idea where to start otherwise.” Aimlessly, you fidget with the metal chain connected to your belt loop, wincing when it bangs a bit against the pole you’re leaning on, clanging loudly. “One thing I’m excited about is that a lot of artists come here for tours. It was such a trek getting to anything before.”
He grins, closing the toolbox with a resounding click. “Oh for sure, we just saw A$AP Rocky last week.”
“Stop–I really wanted to go to his tour! How was it?”
Hakari launches into a retelling of the events and you almost forget how awkward you felt entering the shop earlier. The atmosphere is much nicer when you have someone friendly to talk to. You don’t realize how long the two of you have been chatting until you hear keys rattling behind you and realize your dad is approaching.
“I’m all set here, so I’m gonna head out.” He nods at Hakari, who returns the gesture in kind.
You pry yourself from the cool pillar and stand straight. “It was really nice meeting you Hakari! Definitely let your girlfriend know I’m down to chat!”
He gives you a thumbs up, “For sure. See you around.”
You smile wide, so happy to have made a new friend. You’re in such a good mood about it you don’t even register that you weren’t able to see Sukuna again. With a wave goodbye to your dad, you make your way back to the car and hop in.
This victory calls for a little treat. A quick search on your navigation app tells you there’s a coffee shop that sells boba tea a few minutes down the road. So off you go, pushing the car into drive and heading out.
—
The cafe is tucked into a small plaza, surrounded by other random food chains and the like. You grunt, pulling the door open and immediately getting hit by the sweet scent of baked goods and icy cool AC. There’s a bit of a line, but you don’t mind since it’ll give you more time to look at the menu. The atmosphere of the shop is really cute, even the employees seem nice. It helps to curb your anxiety of being at yet another new place. It would be really great if everything today would stop stressing you out.
While you read off flavors and try to stand without slouching, the door chimes behind you. You usually wouldn’t immediately start staring at someone entering a coffee shop, but the energy behind you is so menacing you can’t help but sneak a look. Your stomach drops with nerves when you realize it’s Sukuna. There’s actually no way–this has got to be a joke.
He looks up from his phone and makes direct eye contact with you. His scowl softens in what looks to be recognition. “Hey.”
“Oh–hi!” Goosebumps prick up along your arms. “How are you?”
Sukuna shoves his phone into his back pocket, turning fully towards you. “Fine. You?”
“Good! Just getting boba!” Your fingers twist into the chain on your pants, squeezing the metal tight enough to leave marks on your skin.
“What type?”
“I’m thinking the chocolate slush with black boba…probably. What about you?”
He shrugs. “Just black coffee.”
“Oh…cool!” You rock back and forth on your heels, refusing to fall into awkward silence. “It’s funny seeing you here, I was just at the shop picking up our car and ended up staying there for like a half hour. I was talking to Hakari, he’s really nice.”
Sukuna nods, mouth pulling into a tight line at the mention of his employee, his eyes flitting away from yours towards the case of pastries. “He’s not bad.”
You have no idea if that pissed him off or not, so you decide to change the subject. “If you were to get anything other than black coffee, what would you get?”
You’re expecting a long pause, but he responds immediately. “The strawberry white chocolate latte.”
“O-oh.” You stammer, almost breaking into laughter at his admission.
Sukuna’s heavy gaze returns to you, his mouth curving up into a slight smile as you cover your mouth with your hand.
Red-hot blush is definitely creeping up to your cheeks right now as you blink up at him.
He raises an eyebrow at you, his voice taking on a smooth, soft tone that has you freezing with nerves. “Is that funny to you?
“What? No! I was just–” You scramble to get out a sentence, giving up when you see how his shoulders shake with barely contained laughter.
He shakes his head, still smirking. It takes you a second to register he’s pushed past you towards the counter, effectively cutting you off in line. Your face falls as confusion hits–why is he?
“...with a large chocolate slush with black boba and one of the chocolate croissants.”
By the time you realize he just ordered for you, he’s already tucking his wallet back into his cargo pants and turning back to you. “You don’t have any allergies, right?”
“No?” You barely register his question, still shocked. This has got to be a dream…like there’s no way. The blush across your face only deepens when he leans on the counter, close enough to you to push against your personal space, but not so much that he’s crowding you. Still, your heart thumps like the kick of a drum, the thrum deafening as he casually pulls out his phone and swipes away a notification.
Your fingers curl into each other behind your back, gripping each other tight in hopes of grounding you. It only dawns on you now you don’t know why he asked about allergies. “Um…are you allergic to stuff?”
He shakes his head, immediately putting his phone away and returning his gaze to yours. “No, but my nephew is lactose intolerant. He keeps trying to convince me he’s not, but you know how that goes.”
You snort, giggling after his admission. “My friend back home is like that too. I don’t know why they do it.” The laughter shoos a bit of nervousness away, but you can’t help the awkward feeling crawling on your skin. What if he just really wanted boba and that’s not for you and you’re some fucking idiot standing here and laughing with him and he’s just gonna take the drink and leave? Like…it’s a possibility.
He chuckles and you almost stumble–the pleasant sound shaking you from your thoughts. It’s gravelly and quiet, rumbling in a way that makes your stomach erupt into butterflies.
“Nah, he’s just stupid. I don’t know how he graduated.”
“Aww, congrats to him! What did he graduate from?”
Sukuna clears his throat, probably trying to mask how proud he looks as he responds, “High school. He keeps begging me for a mini fridge for college.”
He sounds so much more engaged than last time you talked, his response encouraging you to lean towards him, close enough you see flecks of fire engine red in the otherwise sanguine of his eyes. “For what? Lactose?”
He snorts, shaking his head and glancing up as the barista approaches with your drinks. Sukuna straightens, taking his coffee and handing the boba and pastry to you. “Hey, I gotta head out, here.”
You hesitate for a beat, then take the items. You finally understand that allergy question now. “Oh–thank you! Um, see you later?”
Sukuna looks at you one more time, studying you as if he’s trying to memorize something. He cracks the smallest smile, “Yeah. See you.”
The door jingles as he pushes it, leaving, and you finally let yourself relax. You turn to the barista, dumbfounded.
“Did you see that?”
She’s grinning and barely holding back laughter as she nods. “Girl, he wants you so bad.”
–
The interaction with Sukuna that day has you high for the rest of the week. You have no other explanation for his behavior than what the barista has suggested and it has you giddy. You’d been so elated you can hardly remember the absurd amounts of unpacking you’d gotten done after getting home from the coffee shop, or your interview the following Tuesday.
As much as you hate to admit it, you can’t help but let your hopes get high. You try to keep them reasonable, but things like this send you into a tizzy that has you imagining futures and giggling into your pillow at night.
You can’t help it, the feeling even makes it to your sleep. Your dreams flashing a vibrant, coral pink.
⁕ 4k words ⁕ taglist open!! ⁕ banner by mangmango.art on instagram ⁕ dividers by @saradika-graphics ⁕ masterlist ⁕
🎼 Now Playing: Everyday Struggle, The Notorious B.I.G. 🎶
You wake up to an insistent buzzing near your head, almost pulling a muscle in your neck when you realize it’s your phone ringing and whip upright. As you wince and rub the strained muscle, your free hand grabs your phone and you tap ‘accept’ without even looking at the contact.
On the other end they ask for your name and you groggily confirm it’s you. The line is silent for barely three seconds before they start talking again.
“We’re calling from Yaga Public Library about the position you applied to, if you’re still interested we’d like to set up an interview.”
“Oh–that would be amazing! Yes!”
“Would you be free this Tuesday at 3pm?”
You gulp dryly, realizing you responded so nonchalantly to what could possibly be your future employers. “Oh, um–yes! I’m free at that time. Thank you so much!”
“No problem, we’ll see you then.”
“Alright, have a nice day!” You feel your eyes bugging out of your head as they hang up and the line beeps…who the fuck calls this early about an interview…?
Wait a minute. What time is it?
You swear when you realize it’s almost 11am. Shooting up out of bed you stand up, actively checking your dad’s location as you flit around your room, not making much progress on getting ready since you have so much crap lying around needing to be unpacked.
Your dad is home though…which means the car hasn’t been picked up yet which means you have a chance to see Sukuna again. Not that you’re expecting anything out of this…but the morbid curiosity that always follows you around is begging you to go back there and try to see if you can at least pry his favorite Alice in Chains song out of him…or figure out why he tattooed his brother’s favorite EP and not his, or who the fuck was playing Jpop in an auto repair shop.
The door to your bedroom creaks as you open it and step into the hallway. Somewhere further down your dad is chatting with your mom, most likely in the living room. Once you’ve rounded the corner you see them sitting together, sorting towels from a box.
“Oh wow! I wasn’t sure you were still alive in there.” Your mom jokes, succeeding in only making you scoff in response.
“Eeeh whatever, I was tired after all that traveling. Anyways, when were you thinking of picking the car up? Want me to drive with you?” You scuff your foot against one of the boxes, trying to act nonchalant as if you’re not silently praying your mom won’t shoot up and volunteer to drive with your dad instead.
“I was thinking of going after lunch.” Your dad responds, directing his next question at your mom. “Did you want to come with me or stay here? If she picks up the car with me you can finish the kitchen like you were saying earlier.”
She folds another towel and stacks it, “Yeah, that works. I can’t find anything and it’s driving me up a tree.”
You pump your fist victoriously, just out of sight of your parents, celebrating this tiny victory. “Okay cool, just let me know when you’re good to go and we can head out.”
“Yup.” He nods and goes back to tossing washcloths and hand towels into individual piles.
Not wasting a second, you slip back into the hallway and run back to your room. If you’re not mistaken the box in the far right corner of your room has your makeup bags and you’ll definitely be able to scrounge up a cute outfit from the clothes currently unpacked right now.
It’s all going according to plan…
—-
An hour later, your hunger gets the best of you and you make your way back down the hall to the kitchen. By now you’re dressed and made up. You’ve been a bit lazy with unpacking clothes but you managed to find some jean mini shorts and a cropped white tank top to layer over a pink bralette. And of course you armed both wrists with every color coordinated bracelet in your arsenal, cute earrings, and a thin chain hung from your belt loops. With how seriously you’re taking this one would think you’re going to war.
This kind of is like going into battle though…you not only have to step way out of your comfort zone to talk with a new person in a new place, but this new person happens to be very hot and you don’t even know if he’s going to be around so this could be all for naught. You’re actually super brave and awesome and shouldn’t get nervous at all for doing this. For sure.
You sit, hunched, at the dining room table, finishing your burrito from the night before. The perks of having an empty kitchen is nobody feels like cooking which means your dad is very willing to buy you all food from Caliente.
Now that you think about it, even if nothing happens with Sukuna, if you can at least score a date from this there’s a chance you could get free food. Free food would make all this work and mental stress worth it…probably. Wait, that thought is kind of sad. Are you really only in the dating scene for free food? Well, you’re barely even in the dating scene since it’s so abysmal. That’s not the point, though. You’re not even going here for him…you’re just a little curious.
Whatever–it doesn’t matter! You have that interview on Tuesday, something much more important than some tatted up mechanic who has about as much conversational skills as a cat can tap-dance.
The burrito wrapper crinkles as you ball it up and toss it towards the trashcan. It hits the trash bag with a soft thud as your chair scuffs against the floor when you push it back towards the table. You approach your dad, keys rattling as he pulls them from the hook.
“Ready to go?”
“Mm-hmm!” You tug at your necklace, making sure the back hasn’t slipped to the front. Mentally, you’re hyping yourself up–you’re so hot and funny and interesting, if this guy has no interest in you that’s his problem! Right! You don’t need a man!
But if this man happens to want you…that’s a different story.
The parking lot is ridiculously hot; it’s earlier in the day so the sun isn’t blocked by the apartment building. A car passes, blasting music and you can smell the skunky smell of weed somewhere down the road. That’s one thing you’ve really liked about living here from your short experience: how interesting everything is. There’s no shortage of events going on and always some sort of noise.
Inside the car is even hotter than the parking lot when you open the passenger door. It takes a few minutes for the AC to really kick in, and by then you can feel your back fully stuck to your shirt with sweat. Will this heatwave ever end?
The car rumbles down the road and you turn to your dad, “How did you like the shop?”
He thinks for a moment, finger tapping the steering wheel. “It was pretty good, I liked that Choso guy, he knows what he’s talking about. But, in the end, it really depends on how they fixed up the car.”
You hum, not sure what kind of opinion you expected after he’s only been there once. “I thought it was interesting. They were playing Jpop, I think this artist called Takada? I wouldn’t have expected that from a bunch of mechanics.”
He chuckles, “I was wondering what they were playing.”
The conversation drifts into eventual silence and you look out the window. It’s still spring, but summer is close enough on the horizon that the trees are almost fully green. It’s beautiful out…if only it wasn’t so hot.
The shop comes into view and your stomach twists. Will he be in today? Will you talk again? Everything feels a lot more real now that it dawns on you that you really made sure you’d be here today to see Sukuna again. Yikes. Even thinking his name makes you nervous.
With a creak, you open the car door and the sticky, city air hits you again. Your shoes thud against the asphalt as you hop out the passenger side and swing the door closed behind you.
Your dad is a few steps behind you as you stride towards the shop door. You tell yourself to walk confidently, just managing to mask the nervousness that bubbles beneath your skin.
Uraume is sitting behind the desk again and watches you hold the door open. The shop is a bit cooler inside, an AC unit mounted in the window doing its best to cool the whole office.
After a short conversation with your dad, Uraume leads the two of you into the shop again towards Choso who’s sipping on a juice box, phone in hand. He’s smiling softly at the screen; it makes you giggle to imagine the odd looking man messaging a sweetheart.
“Choso.” Uraume calls bluntly.
He jumps up, juice box crushing in his hand and spilling apple juice all over his hand and wrist. “Oh–um! Hello again! The car is all set if you want to check it out.”
You watch as he tosses the juice box into a nearby trash can, shaking his hand off and muttering to himself as he shoves his phone–which has a suspiciously cutesy phone case–into his back pocket. He grabs a set of car keys off the table he’d been sitting next to.
There really is nothing more interesting than listening to two men talk about cars…said no one ever. Your tank top is sticking to your back like nobody's business, the makeup you put so much work into practically melting off. And for what? Choso to see? Obviously not, the guy has clear priorities with the way his phone has been buzzing from his pocket.
It’s almost laughable how quickly your mood has soured, despite your attempts at remaining optimistic. You shouldn’t have let your hopes get up so high and convinced yourself you’d have a chance to even see this guy again. Besides–aren’t most mechanics like assholes or something? Right. They’re all assholes and you’d be remiss to even THINK of dating one.
Instead of letting yourself wallow further, you turn your attention to the music playing in the shop today. You’re not sure who the artist is, but it sounds like some sort of 90’s hip-hop. Movement from the back of the shop catches your attention.
The blonde mechanic with patchy facial hair’s head is bobbing to the rhythm as he polishes a wrench and places it into a toolbox.
The sheer boredom of listening to a conversation that’s got nothing to do with you battles your social anxiety for which would be easier to endure. Your body comes to a conclusion before your mind does, feet already starting to navigate the crowded shop towards the lone mechanic.
He glances upwards, brows raising a hair and the ghost of a smirk passing over his lips before he grunts and tosses the cloth he’d been polishing with onto the tool box.
“Can I help you?”
You gesture vaguely upwards, not sure where the speaker is located exactly. “What song is this?”
“Everyday Struggle.” He rolls his chair back a bit, leaning comfortably against the worn faux leather. “You a fan of Biggie?”
“I listen on occasion. I don’t think I’ve heard this one before.”
He nods, a finger tapping his chin and dotting oil into his five o’clock shadow. “You from around here?”
You shake your head. He nods thoughtfully.
“I bet my girlfriend would love your outfit.” He remarks, squinting at something beyond you. He looks so deeply entranced by the idea you decide he wasn’t being performative in tapping his chin earlier like you’d initially thought.
“Um…thank you! What does she dress like?”
He smiles, looking smug with pride as he pulls out his phone and flashes the home screen at you. A woman with a rhinestone studded crop top and streak of teal hair in her bangs is leaning against a concrete wall and smiling impishly. She’s got all sorts of piercings, silver studs and bars glinting against milky pale skin.
“She’s so pretty! I love that top!”
The mechanic chuckles as he pushes the phone into his pocket. “Right? She made that one herself.”
You gasp with delight, clasping your hands together, “Oh that’s awesome! She has really great taste.”
Metal clangs as he grabs a monkey wrench from the workbench behind him and begins to clean it off. “That’s what I’m saying. I think she should pursue fashion full time but she’s not confident about it.”
“Does she have an account or something? I’d love to see more of her clothes!”
He puts the wrench down and wipes his hand with the cloth. “Yeah, actually. She does.”
You hand him your phone, instagram open, and watch as he taps away and opens a profile. The same woman is pictured, this time in a baggy leather jacket and mini shorts. Her page is full of all sorts of interesting pieces and designs.
“Thank you for sharing!”
“Yeah, no problem. I’m Hakari–Hakari Kinji–, by the way. In case we run into each other again.”
“Nice to meet you! I hope we do, I’d love to meet your girlfriend. You must really love her to be doing all this free advertising.” Your nose wrinkles, second guessing the joke you just made. That was a weird thing to say–
You’re proven wrong by the open laughter that spills from Hakari, his shoulders shaking. “Fuck. I thought I was being lowkey about it.”
You laugh too, mostly out of relief. “No, you asked me about two questions before immediately talking about her.” You smile broadly, catching your breath.
“Tends to happen when you’ve got a girl like her.” He responds, his tone humorous, but laced with a solemnness that gives you the idea he takes his relationship very seriously. It’s refreshing.
“You got someone like that?” He raises an eyebrow, metal clinking as another polished tool ends up in the box.
“Me? No. Haven’t really found anyone worth the time yet.” You shrug, “Maybe it’ll be a bit easier here.”
“You move from a small town or what?”
“Not too small, like there was plenty going on. But after a while of dating apps and all that you realize that there’s not enough people your age that are single and not like…the worst.” You lean against one of the pillars supporting the roof, the metal cool against your skin.
He snorts, flipping the towel in his hands, “Sukuna’s nephew says the same thing.”
Your ears perk up at the mention of Sukuna and you nod, leaning in ever so slightly, ready to glean any information you can. “Oh, I didn’t know he had a nephew! Does he work here?”
“Naw, he’s in school. He visits with his friends, though, and it’s almost all they talk about. I don’t miss that shit at all.”
You laugh, “At least I know it’s not just me.” A glance towards your dad and Choso tells you they won’t be done anytime soon…you don’t know if staying and waiting for your dad is worth it. With the relaxed way Hakari is sitting, you can assume it’s not a very busy day for him. Maybe waiting for a bit more is worth it…
“What do you do for fun around here?”
“I usually hit up the casino, but that’s just me. There’s a pretty good club scene if you’re into that. I feel like Kirara would probably know more that would interest you. I can tell her to reach out whenever she’s off work.”
“Honestly, that would be awesome. I have no idea where to start otherwise.” Aimlessly, you fidget with the metal chain connected to your belt loop, wincing when it bangs a bit against the pole you’re leaning on, clanging loudly. “One thing I’m excited about is that a lot of artists come here for tours. It was such a trek getting to anything before.”
He grins, closing the toolbox with a resounding click. “Oh for sure, we just saw A$AP Rocky last week.”
“Stop–I really wanted to go to his tour! How was it?”
Hakari launches into a retelling of the events and you almost forget how awkward you felt entering the shop earlier. The atmosphere is much nicer when you have someone friendly to talk to. You don’t realize how long the two of you have been chatting until you hear keys rattling behind you and realize your dad is approaching.
“I’m all set here, so I’m gonna head out.” He nods at Hakari, who returns the gesture in kind.
You pry yourself from the cool pillar and stand straight. “It was really nice meeting you Hakari! Definitely let your girlfriend know I’m down to chat!”
He gives you a thumbs up, “For sure. See you around.”
You smile wide, so happy to have made a new friend. You’re in such a good mood about it you don’t even register that you weren’t able to see Sukuna again. With a wave goodbye to your dad, you make your way back to the car and hop in.
This victory calls for a little treat. A quick search on your navigation app tells you there’s a coffee shop that sells boba tea a few minutes down the road. So off you go, pushing the car into drive and heading out.
—
The cafe is tucked into a small plaza, surrounded by other random food chains and the like. You grunt, pulling the door open and immediately getting hit by the sweet scent of baked goods and icy cool AC. There’s a bit of a line, but you don’t mind since it’ll give you more time to look at the menu. The atmosphere of the shop is really cute, even the employees seem nice. It helps to curb your anxiety of being at yet another new place. It would be really great if everything today would stop stressing you out.
While you read off flavors and try to stand without slouching, the door chimes behind you. You usually wouldn’t immediately start staring at someone entering a coffee shop, but the energy behind you is so menacing you can’t help but sneak a look. Your stomach drops with nerves when you realize it’s Sukuna. There’s actually no way–this has got to be a joke.
He looks up from his phone and makes direct eye contact with you. His scowl softens in what looks to be recognition. “Hey.”
“Oh–hi!” Goosebumps prick up along your arms. “How are you?”
Sukuna shoves his phone into his back pocket, turning fully towards you. “Fine. You?”
“Good! Just getting boba!” Your fingers twist into the chain on your pants, squeezing the metal tight enough to leave marks on your skin.
“What type?”
“I’m thinking the chocolate slush with black boba…probably. What about you?”
He shrugs. “Just black coffee.”
“Oh…cool!” You rock back and forth on your heels, refusing to fall into awkward silence. “It’s funny seeing you here, I was just at the shop picking up our car and ended up staying there for like a half hour. I was talking to Hakari, he’s really nice.”
Sukuna nods, mouth pulling into a tight line at the mention of his employee, his eyes flitting away from yours towards the case of pastries. “He’s not bad.”
You have no idea if that pissed him off or not, so you decide to change the subject. “If you were to get anything other than black coffee, what would you get?”
You’re expecting a long pause, but he responds immediately. “The strawberry white chocolate latte.”
“O-oh.” You stammer, almost breaking into laughter at his admission.
Sukuna’s heavy gaze returns to you, his mouth curving up into a slight smile as you cover your mouth with your hand.
Red-hot blush is definitely creeping up to your cheeks right now as you blink up at him.
He raises an eyebrow at you, his voice taking on a smooth, soft tone that has you freezing with nerves. “Is that funny to you?
“What? No! I was just–” You scramble to get out a sentence, giving up when you see how his shoulders shake with barely contained laughter.
He shakes his head, still smirking. It takes you a second to register he’s pushed past you towards the counter, effectively cutting you off in line. Your face falls as confusion hits–why is he?
“...with a large chocolate slush with black boba and one of the chocolate croissants.”
By the time you realize he just ordered for you, he’s already tucking his wallet back into his cargo pants and turning back to you. “You don’t have any allergies, right?”
“No?” You barely register his question, still shocked. This has got to be a dream…like there’s no way. The blush across your face only deepens when he leans on the counter, close enough to you to push against your personal space, but not so much that he’s crowding you. Still, your heart thumps like the kick of a drum, the thrum deafening as he casually pulls out his phone and swipes away a notification.
Your fingers curl into each other behind your back, gripping each other tight in hopes of grounding you. It only dawns on you now you don’t know why he asked about allergies. “Um…are you allergic to stuff?”
He shakes his head, immediately putting his phone away and returning his gaze to yours. “No, but my nephew is lactose intolerant. He keeps trying to convince me he’s not, but you know how that goes.”
You snort, giggling after his admission. “My friend back home is like that too. I don’t know why they do it.” The laughter shoos a bit of nervousness away, but you can’t help the awkward feeling crawling on your skin. What if he just really wanted boba and that’s not for you and you’re some fucking idiot standing here and laughing with him and he’s just gonna take the drink and leave? Like…it’s a possibility.
He chuckles and you almost stumble–the pleasant sound shaking you from your thoughts. It’s gravelly and quiet, rumbling in a way that makes your stomach erupt into butterflies.
“Nah, he’s just stupid. I don’t know how he graduated.”
“Aww, congrats to him! What did he graduate from?”
Sukuna clears his throat, probably trying to mask how proud he looks as he responds, “High school. He keeps begging me for a mini fridge for college.”
He sounds so much more engaged than last time you talked, his response encouraging you to lean towards him, close enough you see flecks of fire engine red in the otherwise sanguine of his eyes. “For what? Lactose?”
He snorts, shaking his head and glancing up as the barista approaches with your drinks. Sukuna straightens, taking his coffee and handing the boba and pastry to you. “Hey, I gotta head out, here.”
You hesitate for a beat, then take the items. You finally understand that allergy question now. “Oh–thank you! Um, see you later?”
Sukuna looks at you one more time, studying you as if he’s trying to memorize something. He cracks the smallest smile, “Yeah. See you.”
The door jingles as he pushes it, leaving, and you finally let yourself relax. You turn to the barista, dumbfounded.
“Did you see that?”
She’s grinning and barely holding back laughter as she nods. “Girl, he wants you so bad.”
–
The interaction with Sukuna that day has you high for the rest of the week. You have no other explanation for his behavior than what the barista has suggested and it has you giddy. You’d been so elated you can hardly remember the absurd amounts of unpacking you’d gotten done after getting home from the coffee shop, or your interview the following Tuesday.
As much as you hate to admit it, you can’t help but let your hopes get high. You try to keep them reasonable, but things like this send you into a tizzy that has you imagining futures and giggling into your pillow at night.
You can’t help it, the feeling even makes it to your sleep. Your dreams flashing a vibrant, coral pink.
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It's been a very rough few weeks and I haven't had any motivation, nor time to write. I've been doing what I can tho and chapter 2 should be done soon!! Sorry for such a long wait, I'm going to do my best during July to get a solid chunk done so I'll be able to post chapters more regularly <33
Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.
cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn
wc: 10.4k, one shot
notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3
main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah
It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.
Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.
Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.
By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.
"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.
You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.
Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.
"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."
He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”
You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.
"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.
"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.
Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."
True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.
Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."
He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.
None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.
"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"
Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”
"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."
Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.
"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"
"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.
Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.
"You know what those other things were?"
You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."
That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.
"And you paid anyway."
It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.
Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”
"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"
After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."
The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.
"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"
A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"
A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"
You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.
"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."
His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.
"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."
—
The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.
At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.
He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.
"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."
You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.
Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.
“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."
There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.
You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.
"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"
Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."
"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."
Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."
"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."
"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."
He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.
——
Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.
Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.
"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.
"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."
Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.
"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."
"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."
For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.
"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."
While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.
When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.
"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."
Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.
"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."
A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.
A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.
"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"
"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.
"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."
Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.
"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."
Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”
You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"
He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.
Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.
"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."
"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."
Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.
Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.
This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.
The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.
All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.
You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.
For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.
Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.
For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.
Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.
The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.
At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.
The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.
"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."
Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."
"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."
"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."
"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."
Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.
"Goodnight, Sukuna."
"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.
The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.
"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.
Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.
He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?
The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.
Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.
His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.
Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.
But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.
—
Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.
Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.
He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.
Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.
“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.
"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"
Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.
Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.
By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.
He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.
Bzzzt.
The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.
Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.
[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!
OH THANK FUCK.
Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.
Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.
[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.
He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.
The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?
By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.
With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.
Hey, you free this weekend?
He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.
Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.
"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.
With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.
Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.
Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.
His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.
Make sure you check your oil this week.
He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement.
"What the fuck am I doing?"
He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.
Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.
I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.
He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.
"No. That's fucking creepy."
He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.
A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.
Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.
Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.
"For fuck's sake."
By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.
Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.
I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.
He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.
With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.
Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.
[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)
Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.
Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.
A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.
Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.
Food. You’re asking about bringing food.
For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.
Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.
Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.
[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?
He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.
A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.
—
Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.
He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.
Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.
“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.
"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"
Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."
He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.
"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."
You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."
"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."
Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.
"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."
He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.
"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."
For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.
When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.
All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.
A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.
"Pizza's here,” he rasps.
He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.
"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."
Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."
The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."
For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.
After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.
Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.
Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.
You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.
Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.
Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.
Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.
He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.
And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?
He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.
"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.
You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"
Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.
For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.
Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.
“Never mind.”
You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.
"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.
"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.
It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.
"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."
Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.
But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.
A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.
"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.
Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.
"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."
He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.
The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.
Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.
Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.
Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.
Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.
That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.
Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.
Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.
For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.
A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.
“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”
Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."
His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.
"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.
You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.
notes:
> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman
> sukuna: she baked me a pie
> sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind
Many folks unfamiliar with Asian mythologies have expressed confusion regarding the addition of another LI. Truth be told, the existence of 6 LIs was part of the narrative’s design from the very beginning. This is because the story’s foundational lore is deeply rooted in Vedic and Buddhist traditions. And numerous elements of it’s worldbuilding, symbolisms, and structure draw inspiration from these scriptural and philosophical sources.
“Love And Deepspace” is a story about the perpetual cycle of संसार (Saṃsāra). As the MC, we are trapped within the cycle of never-ending suffering across countless lifetimes and timelines. Our journey is to break free from this eternal cycle, and transcend the suffering that binds us to it. The LIs are not merely romantic interests, but essential companions in that pursuit.
Each of them carries a unique connection to the MC across time, and each plays a vital role in guiding her towards the resolution of this long-standing Kārmic entanglement. It is precisely for this reason that all of them exist within the current timeline simultaneously. Their presence is neither arbitrary, nor accidental. It is a fundamental part of the narrative’s deeper mythological and philosophical framework.
To understand the purpose of the LIs, one must first understand the cycle of Saṃsāra: भवचक्र (Bhāvāchākrā). This cycle of existence which encompasses birth, suffering, death, and rebirth is divided into 6 Realms where sentient beings reside in. Each of these Realms is intrinsically linked to one of the LIs featured in the game —
🔥 Rafayel: देवलोक (Devālokā)
God Realm of pleasure and pride
🏹 Zayne: असुरलोक (Asurālokā)
Demi-God Realm of jealousy and strife
🗡️ Xavier: मनुष्यलोक (Mānuṣhyalokā)
Human Realm of opportunity and enlightenment
🌕 Valko: पशुलोक (Pāśhulokā)
Animal Realm of instinct, fear, and servitude
🩸 Sylus: निर्ऋतिलोक (Nirṛtilokā)
Underworld Realm of chaos and decay
🪷 Caleb: प्रेतलोक (Pretālokā)
Hungry-Ghost Realm of endless insatiable hunger
As we know, each LI possesses unique abilities and latent potential beyond their Evols, granting them the power to create, shape, preserve, or dismantle whatever they deem necessary. The intricate Strings of Fate connecting the LIs to MC was deliberately woven by CosmicMC Herself.
It’s purpose was to ensure that Her vessel on Earth could draw upon Her true power through all 6 Realms, with the aid of every LI. Only by uniting these connections can She access the fullness of Her divine potential, and ultimately shatter the endless cycle of anguish that has bound Her across countless lifetimes.
Needless to say, it is unlikely that any additional LIs will be introduced to the game. With Valko’s arrival, the narrative now possesses all the pieces it was designed to have from the very beginning, allowing the story to finally move forward.
[⚠️ Please note: There are numerous realms of the Underworld described throughout Vedic scriptures. I chose to highlight the one that appears most relevant to Sylus’s storyline. Pretāloka is another such realm, and it has connections to Caleb’s narrative. If anyone is interested in Vedic mythology and would like to learn more about these realms beyond the context of the game, please feel free to ask. I would be delighted to share and discuss them further. 🤍]
🔖 I would also like to add that primordial cosmic entities, such as Gods, are not beings who concern themselves with the opinions or expectations of mortals. In that regard, CosmicMC is no different. Much of what has transpired throughout the narrative can be viewed as the manifestation of Her own will, unfolding according to a design far beyond mortal comprehension, much like the whims of Deities within the real world. To truly appreciate the lore presented in this game, one must approach it through a non-Abrahamic lens. And remain receptive towards Vedic and Pagan beliefs, philosophies, and cultural traditions.
Your hand curls around what should have been Sukuna's arm but instead flexes against air, eyes still closed, you pat around the bed feeling absolutely no one.
The other side of the bed is cold.
Not empty-cold, not abandoned-cold. Just cold enough to tell you he’s been gone for a while.
For a moment you consider rolling over and going back to sleep.
Then you glance at the monitor.
The nursery light is on.
A small square of blue glow and a large shadow by the crib.
You push yourself out of bed.
The hardwood floor is cool beneath your feet.
Your body still aches in strange places. Recovery has been slower than you expected. Motherhood has been more beautiful and more terrifying than anyone managed to explain.
The nursery door is cracked open when you reach it.
You stop before stepping inside.
Sukuna is crouched beside the crib.
Not standing.
Not leaning.
Crouched.
As though getting any closer might somehow disturb the tiny sleeping boy in front of him.
The nightlight paints the room with deep hazy blue little white stars speckling the ceiling.
Your son’s fists are curled near his face. His chest rises and falls in tiny, steady breaths.
And Sukuna is staring at him.
Not with pride.
Not even with wonder.
With fear.
Real fear.
The kind you’ve almost never seen on him.
You don’t announce yourself right away, you just stay in the doorway watching with the kind of wonder people usually reserve for seeing an endangered species.
But the sight in front of you almost feels the same.
His forearms rest on his knees.
His head is slightly bowed.
For a long moment he says nothing.
Then quietly,
“You’re so small.”
His voice sounds rough.
Unused.
Like he hasn’t spoken in hours.
The baby sighs in his sleep.
Sukuna’s gaze follows every movement.
Every breath.
Every twitch.
As if he’s making sure he’s still there.
“I keep waiting for it.”
You frown.
Something twists in your chest.
“Waiting for what?”
The word leaves before you mean to speak.
His shoulders tense.
Not because he’s startled.
Because he’s been caught.
For a second he doesn’t look at you.
Doesn’t move.
Then he exhales.
“The other shoe.”
You step into the room.
Slowly.
The floor creaks beneath your feet.
“He looks like me.”
The confession is quiet.
You glance toward the crib.
Your son has his eyes.
The same sharp brows though faint.
The same shape to his mouth.
You know exactly what Sukuna sees when he looks at him.
Not a baby.
A reflection.
“I know.”
He laughs once.
There’s no humor in it.
“That’s the problem.”
The room falls silent.
You watch his jaw tighten.
Watch him stare at the sleeping child.
Watch a man who has never been afraid of much suddenly look terrified of something he can’t fight.
“What if he gets the worst of me?”
The question hangs there heavy and wrong.
“I know what I was like.”
His eyes never leave the crib.
“What I am.”
You hate hearing him talk like that.
Not because it’s untrue.
Not because it’s true.
Because you know exactly how long he’s carried it.
The list of things he regrets.
The parts of himself he’s spent years trying to outrun.
“What if he’s angry like me?”
His voice is barely above a whisper now.
“What if he’s cruel?”
“What if I teach him something wrong without realizing it?”
Your throat tightens.
“What if one day he looks at someone the way I used to look at people?”
“What if he becomes the kind of man I wouldn’t have wanted around you?”
For a moment neither of you speak like maybe he’s out of what if’s.
The nursery hums softly around you.
The monitor light blinks.
Outside, the world keeps moving slowly starting to wake up.
But inside, everything narrows to the space between your husband and your sleeping son.
You move closer.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to smell the soap on his skin.
Then you squat down with him and rest your chin on his shoulder.
His body goes still.
Not because he doesn’t expect affection.
Because he doesn’t expect comfort.
Not when he’s talking about things he’d rather hide.
You look into the crib with him.
At your son.
At the tiny human who has no idea how fiercely he’s already loved.
“No.”
Sukuna doesn’t answer, but you feel him listening in the way his body slows his harsh breaths.
“No, he’s probably going to get the worst parts of both of us.”
That earns the smallest snort.
“He’s going to inherit my stubbornness,”
“My tendency to make terrible decisions,”
“Your inability to ask for help.”
His shoulder shifts slightly beneath your chin.
“And our combined talent for being difficult.”
That one almost makes him smile.
Almost.
The tension in the room eases by a fraction.
Just enough.
You slide your hand over his shoulder.
Lace your fingers together across his chest.
“But he’s also going to get the best parts.”
Sukuna is quiet.
“I don’t know if there are any.”
You squeeze his hand.
Hard.
“There are.”
His eyes close briefly.
You keep talking before he can argue.
“He’s going to be brave.”
You glance at the crib.
“He’s going to be loyal.”
Your voice softens.
“He’s going to love hard.”
And then, because it’s the thing Sukuna never sees when he looks at himself—
“He’s going to be protective.”
You feel him swallow.
“He’ll get that from you.”
For a long moment he says nothing.
The baby shifts in his sleep.
Makes a tiny noise.
Immediately Sukuna’s attention snaps back to him, instant, instinctive, protective over something as meaningless as a sound.
You watch it happen.
Watch the concern appear before he even realizes it.
And something inside you aches.
“There.”
You nod toward the crib.
Toward your son.
Toward the man crouched beside him.
“That’s what he’ll learn.”
Sukuna’s eyes stay fixed on the baby.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
You rest your chin against the top of his head.
“But I know you.”
Silence.
Then a whisper so quiet you almost miss it,
“I really don’t want to fail him.”
Your eyes sting.
Because for all his fear.
For all his flaws.
For all the ghosts he keeps expecting to find in himself—
Bad fathers don’t sit awake in the middle of the night worrying about becoming bad fathers.
Bad fathers don’t crouch beside cribs.
Bad fathers don’t spend hours staring at their sleeping sons, terrified of passing on their mistakes.
after carrying your son around in your stomach for 9 months, and pushing through 8 hours of intense labour, you are now staring down at your beautiful baby boy with tired eyes.
he is beautiful, but he looks exactly like his father.
you huff. "he looks exactly like you"
"don't sound too excited" sukuna jokes, smoothing over yujis scarce pink hair.
you inspect the baby further, peering at his pink hair, the exact same shade as his daddy's, as well as the same skin tone and his little mouth laying perfectly flat along his face while he sleeps. your eyes follow his chubby arms and fingers and belly, baby fat almost promising that he will get as big and strong as his dad.
then you look up to his father, kuna's face resting in the same serious line while you watch him watching yuji. you reach up and cup sukuna's cheek. when his gaze meets yours you take in the details of his pretty eyes, his tattoos, and his markings below his eyes.
you snap your head back to yuji.
"kuna he even has your little markings" you whine, "he looks nothing like me... i pushed out your fatass baby and carried him for 9 months the least he could do is look a little like me.." you continued on.
sukuna holds back a laugh and smooths over your hair, "the next one will look exactly like you.. maybe a pretty little girl."
you grumble a little more but inevitably settle down and lay back onto the pillow. with yuji in your arms, and sukuna leaning over you both, carressing yujis face, you all sit there for a while.
yuji babbles a little in his sleep and cracks a little smile. "he must be dreaming" you softly mumble with a smile.
sukuna looks back and forth between you too. "he has your smile"
if you weren't so tired, you would've jumped for joy. "really?" you tuck yourself against sukunas chest, nuzzling him slightly.
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SYNOPSIS: An Olympic figure skater is forced to share an apartment with a tattoo artist who wants nothing to do with her—and somehow, they start to fit. What begins as a temporary arrangement turns into quiet routines, sharp tension, and something neither of them is ready to lose.
WORD COUNT: 17.6k
The smoke didn’t roar. It crept.
It slid through the vents of your luxury high-rise like an unwelcome rumor, carrying the sharp, chemical bite of burnt plastic and insulation. By the time the alarms finally screamed, you were already awake. Years of 5 a.m. training had rewired your body to sense disaster before it fully arrived.
Your manager, Haru, burst into your apartment less than two minutes later, hair sticking up on one side, tie askew. “Fire in the mechanical room. Grab your skates and documents. Everything else can burn.”
You moved on autopilot. Competition skates first always. Passport, training logs, sponsor contracts, the small bag of skincare you couldn’t live without. The rest of your elegant, perfectly styled life could wait. Within four minutes you were in the lobby with the other residents: some in silk robes, others clutching designer handbags like shields. Camera flashes already flickered beyond the emergency tape outside. Someone had leaked your name.
No one was hurt. The fire was small, contained. But the smoke damage was ruthless. Your apartment. With those cream walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Tokyo’s glittering skyline, the minimalist luxury you’d earned after two Olympic cycles was now off-limits for months. Renovations, they said. Air quality testing. Legal bullshit.
You stood on the sidewalk at 2:17 a.m. in leggings, an oversized team Japan hoodie, and a black mask, watching the controlled chaos. Your body ached from evening practice. Your mind was already spiraling toward the upcoming Grand Prix series. This was the last thing you needed.
Haru paced nearby, phone pressed to his ear. “Yes… private, secure, no media presence. She can’t be photographed coming and going from a hotel every day.” A pause. “Above a tattoo shop? Are you serious?” Another pause. “Fine. We’ll take it. Send the address.”
He hung up and gave you the look you hated most. The one that said this is damage control. “Temporary housing is sorted. It’s… unconventional. But the landlord owed a favor. Second-floor apartment above a tattoo studio in a quiet neighborhood. Two bedrooms. You’ll have your own space. The guy who lives there is apparently reliable enough.”
You were too exhausted to argue. “As long as its quiet and no one knows I’m there.”
The cab ride was silent. Tokyo blurred past, neon signs bleeding into wet streets from an earlier drizzle. You kept your hood up and mask on, staring at your reflection in the window. Elegant on the ice. Hollow off it. You barely recognized the woman looking back.
The building was narrower than you expected, tucked between a late-night ramen stall (still steaming) and a closed flower shop. The ground floor windows were blacked out, dominated by a blood-red neon sign that read MALEVOLENT in sharp, aggressive strokes. A metal staircase ran up the side of the building to the second floor.
You dragged your suitcase up alone. Each clack of the wheels felt deafening in the quiet alley. Haru had promised to handle the rest of your things tomorrow. Right now, you just wanted a bed and silence.
The door opened before your knuckles could touch it.
Ryomen Sukuna stood there like the building had grown him out of its bones.
Tall. Broad. Shirtless beneath an open black button-down that hung loose on his shoulders, revealing a canvas of black ink: snarling beasts, tribal patterns, sharp lines that crawled across his chest, down his arms, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants. His hair was a messy pinkish-red, sticking up like he’d run his hands through it after waking. His crimson eyes narrowed, unimpressed which locked onto you immediately.
“You’re the skater,” he stated, voice low and rough, like it had been dragged over gravel and left there.
You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle. “And you’re… my temporary landlord?”
“Something like that.” He stepped aside with obvious reluctance, arms crossing over his chest. The motion made the ink on his forearms shift. “Ground rules. Shoes off at the door. Don’t touch my equipment. Don’t blast that classical skating music at full volume. Thermostat stays where I fucking set it. You’re gone most of the day, right?”
You wheeled the suitcase inside. “Training starts early. I’ll be out of your hair.”
The apartment hit you all at once.
It was sparse in a way that felt deliberate. A large black leather couch faced a massive TV. Sketchbooks and loose sheets of tattoo designs covered the low table. One expensive-looking coffee maker gleamed on the kitchen counter like the only luxury item allowed. A single plate, one bowl, and one pair of chopsticks sat drying on the rack. A motorcycle helmet rested on the entry shelf like a silent threat. The place smelled of antiseptic, strong coffee, and something woodsy.
Sukuna closed the door behind you with a solid click. Not a slam, but the sound still carried weight.
“Bedroom on the left is yours. Mine’s on the right. Bathroom’s shared, don’t leave your glitter shit everywhere.” He eyed you again, slower this time. Something flickered behind the irritation. Maybe mild surprise at how small and drained you looked under the harsh hallway light. Dark circles. Tense shoulders. The kind of exhaustion that sponsors paid you to hide.
You tried for politeness. Media training kicked in automatically. “Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice. I really appreciate it. I’ll keep to myself.”
Sukuna snorted softly. “You’d better.” He scratched the back of his neck, tattoos rippling. “Fridge has beer and curry. Don’t touch the good coffee beans.”
His bedroom door shut a moment later.
You stood in the quiet for a long beat, then exhaled. This man lives like a criminal raccoon, you thought, staring at that single lonely plate again.
Still, the guest room was clean. The bed looked soft. And for the first time in what felt like years, no one was waiting for a statement, a smile, or a perfect triple Axel.
You collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed, mask still on.
Through the thin wall, you heard the low murmur of a TV, something about tattoo history, before it clicked off. Then silence.
Sleep took you fast, heavy and dreamless.
For the first time in months, you didn’t set an alarm.
You woke up convinced you had fallen asleep inside a meat locker.
The air was frigid. Your breath puffed visibly in the pale morning light filtering through the blinds. The guest room’s thin blanket felt like tissue paper. You checked your phone, it was 4:58 a.m., you let out a groan. Training started in less than an hour, but first you needed to regain feeling in your toes.
Padding into the hallway in thick socks and an oversized hoodie, you found the thermostat glowing mockingly at 16°C. You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers pushed the temperature up to 22°C with quiet defiance.
Sweet, blessed warmth began to hum through the vents minutes later while you brushed your teeth. Victory tasted like mint toothpaste.
Then the front door slammed.
You froze mid-brush. Heavy footsteps. The sound of keys hitting the entry table. Sukuna had apparently just gotten home from whatever nocturnal tattoo-artist activities he engaged in. You heard him pause in the hallway. A low, dangerous grunt. Then the unmistakable click of the thermostat being forcibly returned to 16°C.
You marched out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in your mouth, and stared at his broad back. He was shirtless again. His black sweatpants riding low, fresh ink on his shoulder looking irritated and shiny, probably from a new piece he’d been working on.
“Cold-blooded?” you asked around the toothbrush.
Sukuna glanced over his shoulder. Crimson eyes dragged over your messy bed-head and fuzzy socks with zero amusement. “I run hot. You run cold. Natural selection says I win.”
You walked past him, reached up, and turned it back to 21°C. Compromise. Your arm brushed his side. The warm skin, hard muscle, the faint scent of antiseptic soap and cedar. He didn’t move away.
“Touch it again,” he said slowly, voice low and rough with exhaustion, “and I’ll hide the entire unit. Good luck finding it, princess.”
You met his gaze. “I have four Olympic cycles of discipline and spite. Try me.”
Something almost like amusement flickered across his face before it disappeared behind the usual scowl. He snorted and headed toward his room. “Whatever. Just don’t crank it so high the walls sweat.”
You finished getting ready in record time, layering up for the cold rink. When you emerged again, Sukuna was in the kitchen pouring pitch-black coffee into a mug that read “Die Mad About It” in chipped white letters. He didn’t offer you any. You didn’t ask.
As you laced up your sneakers by the door, he spoke without turning around.
“There’s a spare key on the counter. Don’t lose it. I’m not waking up at 3 a.m. to let your glittery ass in again.”
You pocketed the key. “Noted. Thanks.”
He made a noncommittal sound.
The rest of your day was the usual blur: ice, sweat, repetition, coach’s critiques, sponsor calls during breaks, forced smiles for the rink’s social media team. By the time you returned to the apartment at 6:15 p.m., your body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry.
The place smelled unexpectedly good. Faint smell of garlic and soy, something fried. Sukuna was at the stove, back to you once again, stirring a pan with precise flicks of his wrist. Still no shirt. You were starting to wonder if he owned any.
You set your bag down quietly. “Didn’t know you cooked.”
“I don’t cook for guests,” he replied flatly. “I cook because I’m hungry. Made extra by accident. Eat or don’t. I don’t care.”
A plate slid across the counter toward you: rice, perfectly seared chicken, stir-fried vegetables, and a fried egg with a runny yolk. Simple. Arrogantly good-looking. Exactly one set of chopsticks beside it.
You stared at the plate, then at the single plate still drying from earlier on the rack.
“You only own one plate,” you observed.
“Two now,” he corrected. “Bought a spare when I heard I was getting a roommate. Don’t get used to it.”
You sat on the stool and took a bite. It was unfairly delicious. Warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the thermostat.
Sukuna leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat with that unnerving silent intensity. He noticed everything. The way you winced when you shifted your weight, the exhaustion etched under your eyes, how quickly you were devouring the food like you’d forgotten to eat all day.
“Rough practice?” he asked. Not kindly. Just… observing.
“Triple Axel still isn’t clean,” you muttered between bites. “Coach wants it perfect by next week.”
Sukuna grunted. “You people just spin in circles and hope judges like the way you land. Sounds stupid.”
You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” A smug smirk tugged at his mouth. “Aggressive ice dancing for points. At least in my line of work, people choose the pain.”
You set your chopsticks down, staring at him in disbelief. The sheer audacity. “I’d like to see you land a quad jump after doing it for twelve hours straight.”
“I’d like to see you sit still for six hours while someone lets me stab them with needles,” he shot back, but there was no real heat in it. More like dry entertainment.
You ate the rest of the meal in charged silence, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. When you finished, you washed your plate and set it to dry next to his singular original one.
Sukuna watched the entire process without comment.
Later that night, after you’d showered and done your extensive skincare routine (products inevitably spreading across the bathroom counter), you stretched in the narrow hallway at 11:30 p.m. Legs extended in a split against the wall, breathing through the deep pull in your hamstrings.
You didn’t hear Sukuna approach until his voice cut through the quiet.
“You’re going to wear a hole in my floor doing that at midnight.”
You glanced up. He was leaning in his doorway, fresh from a shower, towel slung low around his hips, hair damp. More ink on display than usual.
“Flexibility is part of the job,” you replied, switching sides.
He made a low sound. “Try doing it somewhere I don’t have to step over you.”
But he didn’t move. He just watched for another few seconds, then retreated into his room without another word.
You lowered into the stretch further, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
This was going to be a long few months.
The single plate situation was becoming a problem.
By day four of your stay, the lone original plate had been joined by its temporary sibling, but the kitchen still operated like a minimalist war zone. Every time you cooked (or attempted to), Sukuna would hover nearby with crossed arms, watching you use “his” counter space like you were committing a minor felony.
This morning was no exception.
You had woken up at 4:45 a.m. again, your body clock was unforgiving. Now decided to make a proper breakfast before heading to the rink. Rice, miso soup from a packet, grilled salmon, and some quick tamagoyaki. The smells filled the small apartment, warm and savory. You were humming softly to yourself, still half-asleep, when Sukuna emerged from his room like a disgruntled bear.
He stopped in the doorway, hair messy, wearing only black sweatpants. His eyes narrowed at the two plates on the counter.
“You’re using both plates,” he observed.
“One for you, one for me,” you replied without turning around. “Consider it rent payment.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“You do today.” You slid a plate toward the end of the counter where he usually leaned. “Eat before you go back to sleep or whatever nocturnal creatures do.”
Sukuna stared at the plate for a long second. Then, with a dramatic sigh that could have won awards, he sat down and picked up the chopsticks. He ate in silence, but you caught him taking seconds on the tamagoyaki when he thought you weren’t looking.
Progress. Sort of.
Later that evening, after another brutal practice where your coach had made you repeat the same combination until your vision blurred, you returned to find Sukuna gone. A note that was scrawled in aggressive handwriting on a scrap of flash paper was stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a skull.
Out late. Don’t wait up. And stop buying those stupid expensive face waters. Bathroom looks like a cosmetics store exploded.
You smiled despite yourself. Your skincare had indeed begun its slow, inevitable colonization of the shared bathroom shelf. Serums, creams, patches, and sheet masks lined up like tiny disciplined soldiers. Sukuna’s single bar of soap looked lonely and judgmental beside them.
You took a long shower, letting the hot water ease the screaming muscles in your back and legs. When you came out in soft shorts and a tank top, hair damp, you found Sukuna already home. He was sprawled on the couch, sketching in one of his large books, the TV playing a muted tattoo documentary in the background. A fresh wrap covered part of his left forearm. His new work, probably.
He glanced up. His eyes flicked over your bare legs for half a second before returning to his sketch.
“Practice go to shit?” he asked.
“How could you tell?”
“You have that kicked-puppy look again.”
You flopped onto the opposite end of the couch with a groan, stretching your sore legs across the cushions. Your foot accidentally brushed his thigh. He didn’t move it away.
“It was fine,” you lied. “Just… pressure. Nationals are coming up fast. Sponsors want new content. Media wants interviews. Everyone wants perfection.”
Sukuna flipped a page in his sketchbook. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” You hesitated, then added quietly, “Sometimes I miss when it was just fun. Before it became… this.”
He didn’t respond right away. The scratch of his pencil filled the silence. Eventually he muttered, “Then stop letting other people decide what it means.”
You turned your head to look at him. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have cameras following you everywhere.”
“Neither do you, technically. Yet here you are, hiding in my apartment like a fugitive.”
You laughed softly. It felt strange, it was genuine and tiring, but real.
The next afternoon, the universe decided to test the fragile peace you’d built.
Your manager texted that basic groceries were needed because “you can’t live on takeout and protein bars forever.” Sukuna happened to be heading out for supplies for the shop when you mentioned it.
“We’re going to the same supermarket,” he said gruffly. “Just get in the damn sidecar.”
You blinked. “You have a sidecar?”
“Temporary. Friend’s bike.”
Ten minutes later you were clinging to the sidecar of Sukuna’s motorcycle, helmet slightly too big, oversized hoodie and mask on as camouflage. The wind whipped past as he navigated Tokyo streets with practiced ease. For once, you weren’t thinking about jumps or scores. Just the rumble of the engine and the strange, unexpected freedom.
At the supermarket, the domesticity felt absurd.
Sukuna grabbed meat and beer like a man on a mission. You loaded the basket with vegetables, rice, your fancy oat milk, and an embarrassing amount of skincare-adjacent snacks. An old lady stared at Sukuna’s tattoos, then at you, then back at him. You could practically see the gossip forming in her head.
You bickered in the aisle over pasta sauce.
“You’re buying that weak shit?” Sukuna scoffed, holding up your chosen jar. “This one has actual flavor.”
“It’s not weak, it’s balanced,” you argued, reaching for it.
He held it higher, smirking when you had to jump slightly to try and grab it. “Short.”
“I’m graceful, not tall.”
A teenager nearby snapped a quick photo. You didn’t notice. Sukuna did, but said nothing.
Back at the apartment, you unpacked together in surprisingly comfortable silence. He even let you use both plates again without complaint.
That night, while you stretched in the hallway again, Sukuna paused on his way to the bathroom.
“You know there are photos of us online already,” he said casually.
You nearly pulled a muscle. “What?”
“Some kid at the store. Internet’s calling it a ‘mysterious tattooed boyfriend’ situation.” He shrugged, clearly amused. “They’ll get bored in a week.”
You groaned, pressing your forehead to your knee. “My manager is going to kill me.”
“Or he’ll use it for publicity. Either way, not my problem.” Sukuna’s voice dropped slightly. “You really hate it that much? Being seen with someone like me?”
You looked up at him, surprised by the question. “No. I just… hate the lies they’ll make up. The scrutiny.”
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. “Then stop reading that shit.”
Easy for him to say. But as he disappeared into the bathroom, you realized something unsettling.
You hadn’t felt this relaxed in someone else’s space in years.
The thermostat war had evolved from childish bickering into something almost ritualistic.
Every morning you crept out of bed before dawn and nudged it up to 21°C. Every evening when Sukuna returned from the shop. Usually smelling of ink, antiseptic, and the faint metallic tang of his motorcycle, he would walk straight to it and knock it back down to 17°C without a word. Neither of you acknowledged the game out loud anymore. It had become a silent conversation: I exist here. So do I.
Tonight, you returned from the rink later than usual. Practice had run long because your coach wanted to perfect a new step sequence for the upcoming competition. Your shoulders burned. Your ankles felt swollen. The cold from the ice had seeped so deep into your bones that even the apartment’s naturally frigid temperature felt almost welcoming.
You pushed the door open at 10:42 p.m. and paused.
Sukuna was on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest. He wasn’t sketching for once. Instead, he was watching something on his phone with the volume low. It was the highlights from your last Grand Prix performance, it looked like. The commentator’s voice faintly praised your “elegance under pressure.”
He didn’t look up as you entered. “You fell on the triple Lutz in the short program.”
You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Thought figure skating was supposed to be graceful. Looked like you were fighting the ice.”
You dropped your bag and shot him a glare. “We are fighting the ice. That’s the entire point, you caveman.”
Sukuna’s mouth twitched. The closest he ever got to a real smile. “Caveman with better taste in entertainment. At least when I stab people they sit still.”
You huffed a tired laugh and headed for the kitchen. True to the new, unspoken routine, there was a plate waiting. Chicken katsu this time, reheated but still crispy, with shredded cabbage and a generous drizzle of sauce. One plate. Yours.
You glanced toward the couch. “You ate already?”
“Hours ago.”
“Liar. You waited.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, but didn’t deny it.
You ate standing at the counter, too exhausted to sit properly. Sukuna eventually wandered over, leaning against the opposite side with a fresh mug of coffee. His third of the night, probably. He watched you eat in that quiet, observant way of his. Not staring. Just… noticing.
“You’re favoring your right leg,” he said after a minute.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s something.” His crimson eyes narrowed. “You landed weird on that last jump. I saw the clip.”
You paused mid-bite. “You watched my old competitions?”
He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Curiosity. You’re living in my apartment. Might as well know what kind of lunatic I let in.”
The words were classic Sukuna but the fact that he’d looked up footage at all felt heavier than it should. You finished the meal in silence, washed the plate, and set it beside his original one. Two plates now lived permanently on the drying rack. A small, ridiculous victory.
Later, after your shower and the inevitable spread of moisturizers across the bathroom counter, you found yourself unable to sleep. The pressure was building again. Nationals were three weeks away. Sponsors had been calling. Social media was already dissecting your every practice video. You slipped into the hallway at 1:15 a.m. in soft shorts and a tank top, pressing your back against the wall and sliding into a deep stretch.
The floor creaked.
Sukuna’s door opened. He stepped out in nothing but black sweatpants, hair messy from whatever half-sleep he’d managed. A fresh tattoo wrap peeked out from his side, he’d been adding to the piece on his ribs again.
“You’re going to wear grooves in my hallway,” he grumbled.
“Helps with the soreness.” You switched legs, breathing through the pull. “Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t. You’re making too much noise existing.”
You expected him to retreat. Instead, he leaned against the wall opposite you, arms crossed over his broad, inked chest. The silence stretched, comfortable in its awkwardness.
After a few minutes, you asked quietly, “Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“People coming in, wanting something permanent on their skin. Wanting you to make them look cool or meaningful or whatever.”
Sukuna was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Sometimes,” he finally said. “But they choose it. They sit through the pain. No one’s forcing them. That’s more honest than most shit in life.”
You lowered yourself further into the stretch. “On the ice… it feels like everyone’s forcing it. The judges. The audience. The sponsors. Even when I win, it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”
He studied you. Really studied you, the exhaustion you couldn’t hide, the way your shoulders curled inward when you talked about skating lately.
“Then stop skating for them,” he said simply.
You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’s not that easy.”
“Never said it was easy. Said it was honest.”
The words landed heavier than you expected. You finished your stretch and sat on the floor, knees drawn up. Sukuna didn’t move. For once, the apartment didn’t feel too cold.
Eventually he pushed off the wall. “Come on. Couch. I’ll put something mindless on.”
You followed him without argument. He dropped onto one end of the leather sofa. You took the other, curling your legs beneath you. He flicked on a random action movie. Something loud and stupid with explosions, and turned the volume low.
Halfway through, without looking at you, Sukuna grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over your legs.
“Don’t read into it,” he muttered. “You’re just blocking the screen.”
You smiled into the blanket, small and hidden. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You fell asleep there sometime after 3 a.m., the low rumble of movie gunfire mixing with Sukuna’s steady breathing on the other end of the couch. When you woke briefly at dawn, the blanket was tucked more carefully around you, and Sukuna was gone. Probably retreated to his own bed.
But the thermostat had been left at 20°C.
A truce, maybe.
Or the start of something neither of you wanted to name yet.
The rumor mill had officially spun out of control.
Your phone buzzed incessantly on the kitchen counter while you attempted to eat breakfast. Headlines ranged from “Mystery Tattooed Man Spotted with Olympic Figure Skater: Secret Romance?” to “From Ice Princess to Bad Boy’s Girl? What We Know.” One particularly creative tabloid claimed you’d been seen arguing passionately outside a convenience store over “sauce preferences” which was annoyingly accurate.
Sukuna leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee, reading over your shoulder with zero shame. A smirk tugged at his lips.
“Passionate sauce debate,” he read aloud. “They’re not wrong.”
You groaned, locking your phone. “Haru wants me to ‘lay low’ and ‘avoid public appearances with unknown men.’ Too late for that.”
“Not my problem,” Sukuna said, but there was a glint of amusement in his crimson eyes. “Though if they’re going to call me your boyfriend, I should at least get some perks.”
You nearly choked on your rice. “Perks?”
“Free labor. You can clean the bathroom since your army of bottles conquered it.”
You threw a piece of cucumber at him. He caught it mid-air and ate it without breaking eye contact. The casual domesticity of the moment hit you harder than expected.
Later that afternoon, after a particularly brutal practice where your coach had torn apart your program components, you found yourself walking toward MALEVOLENT instead of straight back to the apartment. Your legs carried you there almost on autopilot. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the early evening light. You hesitated outside for a full minute before pushing the door open.
The shop was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it.
Heavy metal played at a respectable volume. Black walls covered in framed tattoo flash and photography. Three stations were occupied. A heavily pierced woman at the front desk looked up and her eyes widened.
“Oh shit,” she muttered.
The entire shop went still as every artist and client turned to stare.
Sukuna was at the back station, gloved hands working on a large back piece. He glanced up, irritation flashing across his face until he registered it was you. Then the irritation shifted into something closer to resigned surprise.
“The hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice carrying across the shop.
“I… needed to walk. Ended up here.” You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious in your post-practice hoodie and leggings. “Is that okay?”
The pierced woman at the desk whispered loudly, “That’s the figure skater. The Olympic one.”
One of the other artists, a tall guy with a bleached mohawk, dropped his stencil. “No fucking way.”
Sukuna peeled off one glove with his teeth. “All of you, back to work before I kick you out on your asses.” The shop slowly, reluctantly, resumed movement, but the energy had completely changed.
He jerked his head toward a stool near his station. “Sit. Don’t touch anything sterile.”
You sat. The client on his table was a tough-looking man in his thirties who twisted his head to look at you. “Wait, you’re that skater girl? The one who does the spins?”
Sukuna pressed the tattoo machine back to skin with perhaps more pressure than necessary. “Focus on your breathing, not her.”
You watched him work in silence for a while. His hands were steady, precise, almost gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with his personality. The concentration on his face was intense. Every so often he’d glance at you, checking that you were still there.
After twenty minutes, the client took a break. Sukuna wiped down the area and turned fully to you.
“You look like shit,” he said bluntly. “Bad practice?”
“Coach says my edges are lazy. Timing’s off on the combo.” You rubbed your temple. “Everyone’s expecting gold again. No pressure.”
Sukuna made a low sound. One of the other artists walked past carrying supplies and did an obvious double-take at the two of you talking so casually.
Sukuna noticed. “Problem?” he growled.
The artist scurried away.
You smiled faintly. “Your staff looks terrified that you’re being… almost civil.”
“They’ll get over it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. The movement pulled his black t-shirt up, revealing a strip of inked skin at his waist. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
He stood, stripping off the rest of his gloves. “I’m taking thirty. Uraume, watch my station.”
The pierced woman at the front nodded, looking equal parts shocked and delighted.
Ten minutes later you were sitting on the curb outside the shop sharing a bag of takoyaki from the stall down the street. Sukuna ate like he was annoyed at the food for existing, but he kept offering you the best pieces.
“Those idiots in there are going to talk about this for weeks,” he muttered.
“Sorry for ruining your scary reputation.”
“You didn’t ruin it. You’re just… unexpected.” He glanced sideways at you. “Most people who look like you don’t walk into places like this.”
“Places like this?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“Real ones.” He wiped sauce from his thumb with a napkin. “Not the polished bullshit you’re usually stuck in.”
The words settled warmly in your chest. You bumped your shoulder against his arm, just a small, deliberate touch. He didn’t pull away.
When you returned to the apartment that night, the atmosphere felt different. Charged in a quiet way. Sukuna disappeared into his room for a while, then emerged while you were stretching again in the hallway.
He stopped in front of you, crouching suddenly. Before you could ask what he was doing, his hands were on your skate boot, the one you’d left by the door. He examined the laces with a critical eye.
“You tie these like a child,” he grunted. “No wonder your ankles are fucked.”
“I do not—”
He ignored you and began re-lacing with quick, efficient movements, double-looping in places you never thought to. His tattooed fingers looked strangely elegant against the white laces. When he finished, he gave the boot a firm tug and stood up.
“Better tension. Try it tomorrow.”
You stared at him. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make it weird.” He headed toward the kitchen. “I’m making curry. You’re eating. No arguments.”
You smiled behind his back, pressing your forehead to your knee to hide it.
Later, as you both stood at the counter eating steaming plates of curry (still only two plates total), Sukuna spoke without looking at you.
“Next time you feel like the rink is going to eat you alive… just come to the shop. Sit in the corner. I won’t bother you.”
You looked up, surprised. He kept his eyes on his food, ears just slightly redder than usual.
“Okay,” you said softly. “I might take you up on that.”
The thermostat remained at a peaceful 19.5°C that night.
Neither of you commented on it.
The apartment was dark when you got home, except for the single lamp in the living room.
It was past midnight. Practice had bled into extra sessions again. Your coach pushing for cleaner landings on the new quad attempt, the federation wanting footage for promotional material, and your own head refusing to let you stop. Your body felt like it had been through a meat grinder. Every muscle screamed. Your right ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent warning that you chose to ignore.
You closed the door as quietly as possible, expecting Sukuna to be asleep or still at the shop. Instead, he was on the couch, one arm slung behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the TV. Some old yakuza movie played on low volume, subtitles flickering across the screen. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table next to an open sketchbook.
He didn’t greet you. Just flicked his gaze over.
“You look like death warmed over,” he said flatly.
“Feel like it too.” You dropped your bag by the door and kicked off your shoes with a wince. “Don’t start.”
Sukuna watched you limp toward the kitchen. You opened the fridge out of habit more than hunger, staring blankly at the contents. The thought of cooking anything felt impossible. Even standing felt optional.
A heavy sigh came from the couch. Then the sound of him getting up.
“Sit,” he ordered, brushing past you. His shoulder bumped yours deliberately. The contact wasn’t hard, it was just enough to steer you toward the couch. “I’ll heat something up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up.”
You collapsed onto the leather with a groan, the cool material heavenly against your overheated skin. The TV flickered with dramatic sword fights while Sukuna moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency. Within ten minutes, the smell of reheated chahan and miso reached you. He set a bowl and plate on the low table in front of you. Still the same two plates that now felt like an established fact of life.
“Eat,” he said, dropping back onto his end of the couch. “Or don’t. But if you pass out from starvation I’m not dragging your ass to the hospital.”
You picked up the chopsticks. The food was simple, salty, and perfect. Warmth spread through your chest with every bite. Sukuna pretended to watch the movie, but you caught him glancing sideways every few minutes, tracking the way you favored your right side or how slowly you lifted the spoon for the miso.
When you finished, you set the dishes aside and leaned back, intending to rest your eyes for just a moment before dragging yourself to bed. The exhaustion crashed over you like a wave.
You were out cold in under five minutes.
Sukuna noticed immediately when your breathing evened out. Your head had tipped sideways against the armrest, lips slightly parted, one hand still loosely gripping the edge of the blanket that had been tossed over the back of the couch.
He sat there for a long minute, arms crossed, staring at the TV without seeing it.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Can’t even make it to your own room.”
But he got up anyway. Moved quietly for someone his size. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking it around your legs with careful, almost irritated movements. His tattooed fingers lingered for half a second on the edge near your ankle, where a fresh bruise was already blooming from an imperfect landing.
He noticed the way your brow was still furrowed even in sleep. The faint lines of tension that never fully left your face anymore.
Sukuna stood over you for another moment, jaw tight. Then he grabbed his sketchbook and moved to the armchair instead of his room, turning the TV volume even lower. The movie played on as background noise while his pencil scratched across paper. Quick, rough lines that slowly began to take the shape of a figure mid-spin, blades carving ice, hair whipping with motion.
He didn’t know why he was drawing it. He told himself it was just practice. New subject matter. Nothing more.
You woke up sometime around 3:30 a.m., disoriented and warm. The blanket was tucked tightly around you. A different movie was playing now, something quieter. Sukuna was still in the armchair, head tipped back, eyes closed, and sketchbook resting on his chest.
You watched him for a moment in the low light. The harsh lines of his tattoos looked softer in the lamplight. His usual scowl was absent in sleep, making him look strangely younger.
You carefully got up, folding the blanket and draping it over him instead. He stirred but didn’t wake. You padded to the bathroom, did your nighttime routine on autopilot, then hesitated at the hallway.
On impulse, you turned back, grabbed a spare throw from the closet, and laid it over his lap.
When you finally crawled into your own bed, the apartment felt less like borrowed space and more like something dangerously close to home.
The next morning, neither of you mentioned the blanket situation.
You woke to the thermostat set at a luxurious 20.5°C and the smell of coffee. Sukuna was already up, pouring a second mug as you entered the kitchen in your practice clothes.
He slid the mug toward you without a word. It was exactly how you’d started drinking it since moving in.
You took it. “Thanks.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he grunted, but his ears were faintly red again.
You hid your smile behind the mug.
Later that evening, after another long practice, you returned to find a new addition on the counter: a small tube of bruise balm and a note in Sukuna’s aggressive handwriting.
For the ankle, dumbass. Use it before you ruin your season.
You laughed quietly in the empty apartment, pressing the tube to your chest like it was something precious.
The rumors online were getting worse. Paparazzi photos from the supermarket run had multiplied. Comment sections were a mess of speculation. Your manager had texted three times demanding damage control.
But for the first time in years, when you looked around the sparse apartment with its two plates, single motorcycle helmet, and growing invasion of your skincare products, the pressure felt just a little further away.
The rumors had escalated from “mysterious boyfriend” to full-blown conspiracy theories.
Your manager sent you a collage of screenshots that morning: blurry photos of you and Sukuna at the supermarket, another of you climbing off his motorcycle (sidecar), and one particularly bad angle where he appeared to be looming over you outside the tattoo shop. The internet had decided you were either secretly engaged, pregnant with a “tattooed bad boy’s love child,” or involved in some underground yakuza skating scandal.
You showed Sukuna the messages over breakfast. He was eating actual breakfast now. It was another small surrender to your influence. Just chewing on rice and grilled fish while scrolling through the photos with a bored expression.
“Idiots,” he grunted. “If I was fucking you, they’d know. I don’t do subtle.”
You nearly dropped your chopsticks. Heat flooded your face. “Sukuna.”
“What? It’s true.” He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax, princess. Let them spin their little stories. Keeps them busy.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Haru wants me to issue a statement saying you’re just a ‘friend from the neighborhood.’”
“Tell him to fuck off.” Sukuna pushed his empty plate toward you. The ritual was established now: whoever cooked, the other washed. “Or better yet, tell them I’m your bodyguard. That’ll shut them up for five minutes.”
You ended up doing neither. The rumors continued to simmer.
That evening, the apartment became a battlefield over something far more serious than paparazzi: pasta sauce.
You had claimed kitchen rights after practice, determined to make something that didn’t come from Sukuna’s limited “protein and rice” repertoire. The pot simmered on the stove, filling the space with garlic, tomatoes, and herbs. You stirred with satisfaction, humming under your breath.
Sukuna appeared like a summoned demon, fresh from the shower, towel around his neck, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders.
“What the hell is that weak-ass smell?” He peered into the pot like it had personally offended him. “Where’s the heat? The flavor?”
“It’s balanced,” you defended, adding a pinch of sugar. “Not everything needs to taste like it was marinated in regret and chili oil.”
He reached past you, grabbed the red pepper flakes, and dumped a generous amount in before you could stop him.
“Hey!”
“Now it’s worth eating.” He tasted a spoonful straight from the ladle, ignoring your glare. “There. Actual food.”
You snatched the ladle back. “You ruin everything.”
“You cook like a sponsor-approved robot. Needs soul.” His crimson eyes gleamed with smug challenge. “Admit it tastes better now.”
You tasted it. It did. You refused to admit it out loud.
Dinner was eaten on the couch that night. Your plates balanced on knees, a new comfort level neither of you commented on. Sukuna had put on one of your old competition videos “for research,” he claimed. Every time you landed a jump cleanly, he made a low, unimpressed sound.
“Too safe,” he critiqued during a spin sequence. “You’re holding back on the last combination. I can see it in your shoulders.”
You paused mid-bite. “You don’t know anything about skating.”
“I know body language. You’re tense as fuck. Scared of falling in front of cameras instead of just skating.”
The observation hit too close. You set your plate down. “It’s not that simple. One mistake can cost everything. Sponsorships, national team standing, my entire future—”
“Sounds like shit,” he interrupted. “You’re out there performing for vultures. No wonder you come home looking dead.”
You didn’t have a response. The silence stretched, broken only by the commentators praising your “elegance” on screen.
Sukuna eventually changed the subject by nudging your foot with his. “Eat. You skipped lunch again. I checked your bag.”
“You went through my bag?”
“Looking for the good coffee you keep stealing.” He didn’t even sound apologetic. “Found three protein bars and nothing else. Idiot.”
You ate. The sauce was better with the extra spice.
Later, while you were doing your post-practice stretches in the living room (the hallway had become too small for both of you now), Sukuna sat at the coffee table sketching. The scratch of pencil on paper mixed with your steady breathing. It was strangely soothing.
After a particularly deep hip flexor stretch, you hissed in pain.
Sukuna’s pencil stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Groin pull from that fall last week. Its fine.”
“It’s not fine.” He set the sketchbook aside and moved behind you without asking. His hands pressed against your lower back and hip. “Here?”
You nodded, breath catching at the contact. His fingers dug in with precise pressure, working the tight muscle. Not quite a massage, more like clinical assessment. Still, the heat of his palms soaked through your thin tank top.
“Better form next time,” he muttered. “You twist too much on the landing.”
“You watched the practice footage?”
“Shop was slow. Had time to kill.”
He kept working the knot until the sharp pain eased into a dull ache. Neither of you spoke for a while. When he finally pulled away, his hands lingered a second longer than necessary on your waist.
“Don’t push it tomorrow,” he said gruffly, returning to his sketch. “Or I’ll drag you back from the rink myself.”
You turned to look at him. “Why do you care?”
Sukuna didn’t meet your eyes. “Because if you break yourself, I’ll have to deal with your moping around my apartment. Annoying.”
But the thermostat stayed at 20°C again that night.
And when you woke up briefly at 4 a.m. for water, you found a new tube of muscle balm on the counter next to your skincare bottles, with another note in his sharp handwriting:
Use it, or I’ll do it for you. Don’t test me.
You smiled in the dark kitchen, pressing the tube to your chest the same way you had with the bruise balm days earlier.
The single plate had become two. The thermostat had found compromise. And slowly, painfully, so had the two of you.
The pressure was starting to crack you open.
Nationals were two weeks away. Your coach had added extra ice time. Sponsors wanted exclusive interviews. Your social media handler begged for more “relatable” training content. Every jump felt heavier. Every spin carried the weight of expectations. You were smiling for cameras at the rink and coming home hollowed out.
Sukuna noticed.
He always noticed.
Tonight you returned after 11 p.m. again. The apartment smelled like garlic and sesame oil, Sukuna had cooked. Again. Two plates waited on the counter, covered with upside-down bowls to keep them warm. You ate standing up, barely tasting the stir-fry, your mind still looping through the same flawed combination jump.
When you finished, you didn’t head to the shower like usual. Instead, you drifted toward the small balcony off the living room, sliding the glass door open. The night air was crisp, carrying distant city noise and the faint smell of rain on concrete.
You leaned on the railing, arms wrapped around yourself. The city lights blurred.
The door slid open behind you a few minutes later. Sukuna stepped out, two cigarettes in hand. He didn’t ask if you wanted one, just offered. You rarely smoked, but tonight you took it.
He lit yours first, then his own. The flame illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the black ink crawling up his neck. For a while, you both just smoked in silence, shoulders almost touching.
“You’re getting worse,” he said eventually. No sugarcoating. Just a fact.
You exhaled smoke toward the sky. “Thanks.”
“Not insulting you. Observing.” He tapped ash over the railing. “You come back later every night. Eat like a ghost. Stretch like you’re punishing yourself. That shit on the ice isn’t sustainable.”
You laughed bitterly. “Welcome to elite sport. This is what winning looks like behind the clips.”
Sukuna leaned his forearms on the railing beside you. His presence was solid and warm against the cool night. “I watched more of your old stuff today. You used to skate like you enjoyed it. Now you look like you’re at war.”
The words landed hard. You took another drag, the smoke burning your throat in a way that felt grounding.
“I don’t know how to do it any other way anymore,” you admitted quietly. “It stopped being fun years ago. Now it’s just… proving I’m still worth something. To the federation. To the fans. To myself.”
Sukuna was quiet for a long beat. The cherry of his cigarette glowed.
“People who need you to prove shit constantly aren’t worth the effort,” he said. His voice was low, rough. “They’ll just move on to the next pretty face who spins good when you inevitably burn out.”
You turned your head to look at him. “Is that your idea of comfort?”
“It’s honesty.” He met your gaze, crimson eyes steady. “I don’t do the fake cheer shit. You want pretty lies, go talk to your manager.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I think I prefer the asshole version.”
“Good. Because that’s all I got.”
You finished your cigarette and flicked it into the small ashtray he kept out here. Neither of you moved to go back inside. The city hummed below. For once, the silence between you felt full instead of empty.
After a while, you asked, “Do you ever get lonely up here? Before I showed up, I mean.”
Sukuna snorted. “Lonely? I like the quiet. No one bothering me. No expectations.” He paused, staring out at the skyline. “Didn’t realize how fucking loud quiet could get until you moved in, though.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Loud?”
“You talk to yourself when you stretch. Leave your hair ties everywhere. Make the whole place smell like fancy cream and whatever the hell that face mist is.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Ruined my perfectly good solitude.”
The words were complaining, but the tone wasn’t. There was something almost soft underneath the sarcasm.
You bumped your shoulder against his arm. “Sorry for existing so loudly.”
“Don’t be.” He didn’t move away from the contact. “It’s not the worst thing.”
The balcony light caught the edge of his smirk as he lit another cigarette, offering you the pack again. You declined this time, content to just stand there beside him.
Later, back inside, you ended up on the couch again. Sukuna put on another mindless action movie. You lasted twenty minutes before your head dropped onto the armrest. This time, when you woke up hours later, the blanket was tucked around you properly, and Sukuna had fallen asleep sitting up, one hand resting near your ankle like he’d been checking on the old bruise in his sleep.
You studied his face in the blue glow of the TV. The permanent scowl had smoothed out. The tattoos that usually made him look intimidating now just looked like art on someone who pretended he didn’t care about anything.
You carefully adjusted the blanket over both of you and closed your eyes again.
The next morning, you woke up alone on the couch. A fresh mug of coffee waited on the table with a note:
Rink better not eat you alive today.
There’s leftover stir-fry. Eat it.
— S
You smiled into your coffee, the warmth spreading deeper than usual.
The rumors online had shifted from scandal to something almost affectionate “Ice Princess and Tattoo Beast” was trending with fan edits. Your manager was losing his mind. You didn’t care as much as you should have.
Because when you left for practice that morning, Sukuna’s spare key felt heavier in your pocket. Like it belonged there.
And when you came back that night fully exhausted, but slightly less hollow. The thermostat was still at 20°C, the lights were on, and the apartment no longer felt temporary.
The apartment no longer felt like a temporary refuge. It felt like a heartbeat.
You noticed it gradually. Hiw your skincare army had permanently claimed two full shelves in the bathroom, how Sukuna’s second plate now lived in the cupboard instead of on the drying rack, how his sketchbooks had started migrating into the living room alongside your training notebooks. The thermostat had settled into an uneasy truce at 19.5°C. Small victories everywhere.
But tonight, the pressure finally snapped.
You came home at 1:07 a.m. after yet another overtime session at the rink. Your eyes were red. Your right ankle was taped so tightly it hurt to flex. Nationals were ten days away, and your program still had one stubborn combination that refused to cooperate. Coach had screamed. Sponsors had called. You’d smiled through all of it until you couldn’t anymore.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Sukuna was already there.
He’d clearly been waiting. The TV was off. A fresh pot of curry sat warming on the stove. He leaned against the kitchen counter in a black tank top, arms crossed, crimson eyes sharp.
“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said. Not angry. Just… tight.
You dropped your bag. “Phone died on the ice. Sorry.”
He studied you for three long seconds, then pushed off the counter. “Sit.”
“I’m fine—”
“Sit the fuck down before you fall down.”
You sank onto the couch. Sukuna disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of curry and a cold beer. He set both in front of you, then crouched to examine your taped ankle without asking permission. His large, warm hands carefully unwrapped the tape, thumbs pressing lightly along the bone.
“Swollen,” he muttered. “You’re pushing too hard.”
“It's Nationals,” you whispered. Your voice cracked on the word. “If I don’t medal, they’ll start talking about retirement. About how I peaked too early. About how the new girls are younger, fresher—”
Sukuna’s hands stilled. He looked up at you from his crouched position, expression unreadable.
“Then let them talk.”
You laughed, wet and bitter. “Easy for you to say. You don’t live under a microscope.”
“No. I chose not to.” He finished re-wrapping your ankle with the bruise balm, movements surprisingly gentle for someone so blunt. When he finished, he didn’t stand up right away. Instead, he stayed there, one hand resting on your calf. “You keep letting them decide what your worth is. That’s why you come home looking like this.”
The words hit deep. You stared at him, throat tight.
Sukuna stood slowly. Instead of moving away, he dropped onto the couch right beside you, closer than usual. His thigh pressed against yours. He reached over and tugged you sideways until your head rested against his shoulder.
You froze.
“Don’t make it weird,” he grumbled, voice low. “Just… stay there. Eat your damn curry.”
You stayed.
The warmth of his body seeped through your hoodie. He smelled like ink, soap, and the faint trace of cigarettes from the balcony. You ate slowly while he flipped through channels, eventually landing on a silent nature documentary. His arm eventually settled along the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder in absent, almost reluctant strokes.
When you finished eating, you didn’t move. Neither did he.
After a long stretch of quiet, you spoke into his chest.
“I don’t know how to exist without the pressure anymore. Skating used to be mine. Now it feels like it belongs to everyone else.”
Sukuna’s hand moved to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into the tight muscles there. “Then take it back. Even if it’s messy. Even if you fall on your ass in front of the whole country.” His voice dropped. “At least it’ll be honest.”
You tilted your head to look up at him. Your faces were dangerously close. You could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they flicked down to your mouth for half a second.
The air thickened.
For one suspended moment, neither of you breathed. His fingers tightened slightly on your neck. You leaned in a fraction.
Then Sukuna pulled back first, jaw clenched.
“Shower,” he ordered, voice rougher than usual. “You smell like ice and regret. I’ll clean up.”
You retreated to the bathroom on unsteady legs, heart hammering. When you came out twenty minutes later in soft shorts and one of his oversized black shirts (you’d stolen it weeks ago and he’d never asked for it back), Sukuna was on the balcony.
You joined him.
He handed you a cigarette without looking at you. You took it. The city lights stretched below like scattered stars.
“I hate that I need this,” you admitted after a while. “The validation. The scores. All of it.”
Sukuna exhaled smoke. “Everyone needs something. At least you’re starting to admit it.” He glanced sideways. “You staying here… it stopped feeling like a favor a while ago.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Yeah?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted closer until your arms brushed. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything neither of you was ready to say yet.
When you finally went inside, Sukuna didn’t retreat to his room. He pulled you back onto the couch, blanket over both of you, and let you curl against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Sleep,” he muttered into your hair. “I’ve got you tonight.”
You fell asleep to the steady rise and fall of his chest and the low rumble of his breathing, his arm locked around your waist like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
The next morning, you woke up tangled together. Sukuna was already awake, staring at the ceiling, but he hadn’t moved. His fingers traced idle patterns on your hip.
Neither of you spoke about it.
But when you left for practice later, he grabbed your wrist at the door, pressed a protein bar into your hand, and said. “Come home before midnight tonight. Or I’m coming to get you.”
You smiled the entire way to the rink.
The walls were cracking faster now. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of what was on the other side.
The spiral had been building for days.
Nationals were eight days away. Every practice felt like walking a tightrope over broken glass. Your coach was relentless. The federation wanted media sessions. Online comments dissected every wobble in your practice clips. You smiled through it all during the day, then came home and quietly fell apart in small ways. Sometimes forgetting to eat, stretching until your muscles screamed, staring at competition footage until your eyes burned.
Sukuna watched it happen in real time.
He didn’t push. He simply made sure there was food waiting, left balm on the counter, and waited up later each night. But tonight, something felt different.
You had left for “one last short session” at 8 p.m. You told him you’d be back by 10:30.
It was now 1:17 a.m. and you still weren’t home.
Sukuna paced the apartment like a caged animal. He’d texted you four times:
Sukuna: Answer.
You dead?
If you’re bleeding on the ice I’m not paying your medical bills.
Come home.
No replies. Your phone was probably on silent in your bag.
He grabbed his motorcycle keys, jaw tight. “Fuck this.”
The rink was nearly deserted when he arrived. Only emergency lights and a few security lamps were on. He slipped inside through a side entrance that a tired cleaner had left propped open. The cold hit him immediately. It was sharp, biting, and nothing like the controlled chill of the apartment.
And there you were.
Alone in the center of the massive ice, under a single spotlight that made the surface glow like fractured glass. You were skating the same combination over and over. Triple Axel into a quad attempt. Fall. Get up. Loop. Fall harder. Get up slower. Your form was deteriorating with every repetition. Your shoulders tense, landings sloppy, exhaustion carved into every line of your body.
Sukuna stayed in the shadows near the boards. He didn’t call out. He just watched.
You tried again. The jump was ugly this time. You crashed hard onto the ice, skidding several feet. For a moment you stayed down, chest heaving. Then you slammed a gloved fist against the ice once before forcing yourself up. Your hands came up to cover your face. Your shoulders shook.
Not from the cold.
Sukuna’s chest tightened painfully. He took one step forward then stopped.
He knew you.
If he walked out there right now, you’d shove the vulnerability down immediately. You’d smile that polished media smile and tell him you were fine. He didn’t want that version of you.
So he stayed hidden. Watched you breathe through it. Watched you wipe your face, reset your shoulders, and skate to the center again like the ice owed you something.
After another brutal fall, you finally skated to the exit boards. You sat on the bench, head bowed, medal dreams and public expectations crushing you under their weight.
Sukuna slipped out the same way he came in.
When you finally dragged yourself through the apartment door at 2:41 a.m., you expected darkness and silence.
Instead, the lights were on low. Takeout bags from your favorite late-night spot sat on the kitchen counter, still warm. Two plates. Two sets of chopsticks. A note in Sukuna’s aggressive scrawl was propped against one bag:
Eat before you collapse, idiot. Food’s still warm. Don’t make me come find you next time.
You stared at the note for a long time. Your throat closed up.
He’d gone looking for you. He’d seen… something. And instead of confronting you, instead of demanding answers or forcing comfort, he’d done this. Given you space and food and quiet proof that he was paying attention.
You sat at the counter and ate slowly, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the ramen. Not from sadness exactly, just overwhelming relief that someone saw the ugly parts and didn’t flinch or try to fix them with pretty words.
Sukuna’s bedroom door was cracked open. You could see the faint glow of his lamp.
You finished eating, washed both plates, and padded softly to his doorway. He was sitting up in bed, shirtless, sketching. He didn’t look up, but his shoulders tensed like he knew you were there.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
He grunted. “Told you to eat.”
You lingered. “You went to the rink.”
A pause. The pencil stopped moving.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t come out.”
“No.”
You stepped inside his room for the first time. “Why?”
Sukuna finally looked at you. His crimson eyes were darker than usual. “Because you hate being seen like that. Figured you’d rather I didn’t watch you break.” He set the sketchbook aside. “But I’m not letting you do it alone anymore.”
The simple honesty cracked something deep inside your chest.
You crossed the room and climbed onto his bed without asking. Sukuna exhaled sharply but opened his arm. You curled against his side, face pressed to his warm, inked chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
“I know.” His hand slid into your hair, fingers gentle despite their roughness. “But you’re not performing for me. You get that, right?”
You nodded against him.
He held you tighter. No grand speeches. No promises. Just the solid weight of him and the quiet knowledge that he was there.
For the first time in years, the pressure felt bearable.
The morning after the rink incident, everything felt slightly shifted.
You woke up in Sukuna’s bed.
Not tangled in some dramatic, passionate way. You were just curled against his side, his heavy arm draped over your waist like it belonged there. He was already awake, staring at the ceiling with one hand behind his head. When you stirred, he didn’t pull away. He simply tightened his grip for half a second before letting go.
“Morning,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and leftover emotion.
“You drool,” was his reply. Classic Sukuna.
You laughed softly and hid your face against his chest. The tattoos there were warm under your cheek. He let you stay like that for a few quiet minutes before finally sitting up.
“Get up. You’re not skipping practice today, but you’re eating first. No arguments.”
He made breakfast while you showered. On the menu was rice, eggs, and vegetables, again. When you emerged, he was plating food with the same focused intensity he used for tattoos. You ate together at the counter in comfortable silence. No pressure talk. No rehashing last night. Just the two of you and the quiet understanding that something had changed.
That night, after a more manageable practice, you found yourself on the balcony with him again. The city glittered below. Sukuna smoked while you leaned against the railing beside him, stealing occasional drags from his cigarette.
Your eyes kept drifting to the ink covering his arms and chest. The designs were intricate. Filled with demons, sharp florals, abstract patterns that looked like they told stories.
“Can I ask about them?” you said quietly.
Sukuna glanced down at his own skin like he’d forgotten it was there. “Most people don’t get to ask twice.”
“I’m not most people.”
He exhaled smoke through his nose, then gave a small shrug. “Fine. Ask.”
You reached out slowly, tracing a finger along a snarling face on his forearm. His skin was warm. The muscle underneath twitched at your touch but he didn’t pull away.
“What does this one mean?”
Sukuna watched your finger move. “Strength through pain. Got it after my old man died. Bastard used to say I’d never amount to shit. Proved him wrong with every needle.”
You moved to another piece. Now a intricate wave pattern flowing into sharp teeth. “And this?”
“Control.” His voice dropped lower. “Everything in life is temporary except what you choose to keep forever. Ink stays. People don’t.”
The words hung between you. You looked up at him.
“Is that why you live like this?” you asked. “One plate. Minimal shit. No attachments?”
Sukuna smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Smart girl.” He took another drag. “What about you? All that spinning and glitter on ice. Temporary as fuck. One bad landing and it’s gone.”
You nodded slowly. “Exactly. Everything I do gets judged in seconds. Forgotten in months. Your work… it stays on people. Becomes part of them.”
He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face in the dim balcony light.
“You want one?” he asked suddenly.
Your eyes widened. “A tattoo?”
“Not now. But someday. If you stay long enough.” The last part came out almost too casual. Like he hadn’t meant to say it.
Your heart stuttered. “You’d tattoo me?”
“Only if you’re sure.” He flicked ash away. “I don’t do half-assed work. Especially not on you.”
The implication made heat bloom in your chest. You stepped closer, until you were nearly chest to chest. Sukuna didn’t retreat. Instead, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
“You’re dangerous,” he muttered. “Coming in here, messing up my routine. Making me give a shit.”
“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want this to be temporary anymore.”
The air thickened. Sukuna’s hand lingered on your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. His crimson eyes darkened as they dropped to your mouth. You rose onto your toes slightly.
This time, he didn’t pull away.
The kiss was slow at first, almost testing the waters between you two. His lips were surprisingly soft against the roughness of his personality. Then it deepened. He pulled you flush against him, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist with clear possession. You tasted smoke and something uniquely him. The kiss wasn’t sweet or gentle. It was hungry, restrained, years of tension finally breaking.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.
“Don’t expect me to say flowery shit,” he rasped. “But you’re not leaving when the renovations finish. That’s not happening.”
You smiled, a little dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
He kissed you again but shorter this time, no less intense. When he pulled back, that familiar smug smirk was back.
“Bed. Now. Before I drag you there.”
You laughed as he guided you inside, his hand firm on your lower back. For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like something you had to fight for alone.
That night you slept in his bed again, properly this time. No walls. No pretending. Just Sukuna’s steady heartbeat and the quiet certainty that this apartment had stopped being temporary a long time ago.
The shift was quiet, but undeniable.
By the next evening, the apartment had stopped pretending to be two separate lives sharing a space. It was one life now, the space completely messy, stubborn, and intertwined.
You woke up in Sukuna’s bed again, this time with his face buried against the back of your neck and one heavy, tattooed arm locked around your waist like he was daring the world to try and pull you away. His breathing was slow and warm against your skin. You stayed still for a long time, just feeling the solid weight of him.
When you finally tried to slip out for morning practice, he tightened his grip.
“Five more minutes,” he growled, voice rough with sleep.
“You’ll fall back asleep.”
“Don’t care.”
You laughed softly and stayed. When you finally left forty minutes later, Sukuna was in the kitchen making you a protein-packed onigiri to take with you. He pressed it into your hands at the door, then caught your chin and kissed you..
“Come back before you’re dead on your feet,” he muttered against your lips.
“Yes, sir.”
He smacked your ass as you left, smirking at your startled squeak.
That night you returned earlier than usual. The moment the door opened, Sukuna was on you.
He pulled you inside by the front of your hoodie and kissed you like he’d been thinking about it all day. Hard. Hungry. One hand fisting in your hair, the other sliding under your shirt to press against your lower back. You melted into it immediately, skating bag dropping forgotten to the floor.
“Missed you,” you breathed between kisses.
“Shut up,” he replied, but the way he walked you backward toward the couch said otherwise.
You ended up straddling his lap on the leather, hands exploring the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. Sukuna’s mouth moved to your neck, sucking a mark just below your jaw that made you shiver.
“Been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted, voice low. “Mark you up so those gossiping idiots know exactly who you’re coming home to.”
You pulled back slightly, flushed. “Jealous?”
“Possessive.” His hands gripped your hips tighter. “Different thing.”
The makeout session was heated but didn’t go further. Sukuna seemed content to just touch and taste, learning every small sound you made. When you finally broke apart, lips swollen, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Food first,” he said gruffly. “Then you’re telling me how practice went.”
You ate together on the couch. With your legs thrown over his lap while he fed you bites of grilled mackerel between his own. Domestic. Easy. Terrifying in how right it felt.
After dinner, you showed him the new step sequence you were working on. You demonstrated in socks on the living room floor while he watched with sharp, focused eyes.
“You’re still hesitating on the entry,” he observed. “Too much thinking. Stop trying to be perfect.”
You groaned. “Easy for you to say.”
Sukuna stood up, towering over you. He tilted your chin up. “When you skate for me, I don’t give a shit about perfect. I want to see you out there. The one who talks to herself during stretches and steals my shirts.”
Your heart clenched.
Later that night, after showers and skincare. Sukuna now had his own small shelf you’d forcibly assigned him, you ended up in bed again. This time clothes came off slowly. Sukuna mapped every bruise and sore muscle with his mouth and hands, muttering curses at how hard you pushed yourself. You traced every line of ink on his body like you were memorizing a map.
He didn’t let it go all the way. Not yet.
“Not while you’re this exhausted,” he said, pulling you against his chest despite your protest. “When I fuck you, I want you present. Not half-dead from the rink.”
You fell asleep with his fingers stroking through your hair and his heartbeat steady under your ear.
The next few days followed the same rhythm, growing more intimate each time.
Sukuna started coming to watch you practice occasionally. Sitting in the back rows with a cap pulled low, arms crossed, looking entirely out of place among the pastel athletic wear and screaming parents. He never cheered. He just watched. And every time you landed a clean jump, his smirk was pure satisfaction.
One afternoon he surprised you by showing up at the rink with hot tea and your favorite snacks during a break. The other skaters stared openly. Your coach raised an eyebrow but said nothing when Sukuna leveled him with a flat, terrifying stare.
At home, the teasing had turned filthier. He’d corner you in the kitchen, press you against the counter, and kiss you stupid before walking away like nothing happened. You retaliated by wearing his shirts and nothing else after showers.
The rumors online had evolved into something almost affectionate. Fan accounts shipped “Ink & Ice” hard. Your manager had given up trying to control it and was now asking if you wanted to lean into it for publicity.
You told Sukuna while curled against him on the balcony one night.
He laughed lowly. “Let them. As long as they know you’re mine.”
Yours. The word settled deep in your bones.
Nationals were five days away now. The fear was still there, but it felt smaller with Sukuna’s solid presence beside you every night. He had become necessary. Essential. The person you came home to, not just the place.
One night, as you lay tangled together in bed, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back to my old apartment when it’s ready.”
Sukuna’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed.
“Good,” he said simply. “Because I wasn’t letting you.”
He kissed the top of your head, and for the first time in your entire career, you fell asleep thinking less about gold medals and more about the man holding you like you were something worth keeping.
The text from your manager came during breakfast on a rare day off.
Haru: Renovations finished early. Your apartment is ready next week. We can move you back this weekend if you want. Less stress before Nationals.
You stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen. The luxurious high-rise with its perfect view, soundproof walls, and zero tattooed roommates suddenly felt like a cage you’d already escaped.
Sukuna noticed immediately. He always did.
“Bad news?” he asked, setting a fresh coffee beside your plate. He was shirtless again, sweatpants low on his hips, fresh hickeys from last night blooming faintly on his collarbone.
You showed him the text.
His expression didn’t change, but his shoulders tightened. He read it once, then turned back to the stove like it didn’t matter.
“So you’re leaving,” he said flatly.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Bullshit.” His voice was low, edged. “It’s your fancy place. Of course you’re going back.”
The warmth that had been building between you for days suddenly felt brittle. Sukuna shut the stove off with more force than necessary and disappeared into his room without another word. The door didn’t slam, but it closed with heavy finality.
You gave him space. You knew how he operated when emotions got too real, he retreated behind sarcasm and distance like armor.
By evening the tension was unbearable.
You found him on the balcony smoking, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. You stepped out and closed the door behind you.
“Sukuna.”
“Don’t,” he cut you off. “You don’t owe me anything. This was always temporary. I knew that.”
The words stung. You moved closer anyway. “It stopped feeling temporary months ago. You know that too.”
He laughed, bitter and rough. “Yeah? Then why the fuck are you even considering going back?”
“Because it’s easier,” you admitted. “My apartment is closer to the main rink. Better security. No paparazzi camping outside a tattoo shop. My manager thinks—”
“I don’t give a shit what your manager thinks.” Sukuna finally looked at you, crimson eyes burning. “I care what you want. But you’re already pulling away. I can feel it.”
You stepped into his space and grabbed his face with both hands. “I’m not pulling away. I’m scared. Nationals are in four days. Everything is too much right now.”
He stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. His hands came up to grip your wrists, not pulling you away, just holding.
“You’re not sleeping in my bed for three months and then walking out like it was nothing,” he said, voice low and rough. “I don’t do that half-in, half-out shit.”
“I don’t want half-in either.”
Sukuna searched your face, then leaned down and kissed you hard. It was possessive, almost punishing, like he was trying to brand the memory of him into you. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers threading through his pink hair.
When you broke apart, he pressed his forehead to yours.
“Stay,” he said. Not a plea. A demand wrapped in vulnerability he’d never show anyone else. “Not because of the apartment. Because of me.”
Your chest ached. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your bare waist. The balcony air was cool, but his skin was burning. You ended up inside quickly, clothes disappearing between heated kisses and stumbling steps toward his bedroom—your bedroom now.
This time Sukuna didn’t hold back.
He took you apart with the same focused intensity he used for his art. Learning every sound, every shiver, every place that made you gasp his name. There was nothing gentle about it, but it wasn’t just lust either. Every touch felt like a claim. Every mark he left was a promise.
Afterward, you lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless. Sukuna’s fingers traced slow circles on your back while you rested your head on his chest.
“I’m telling Haru I’m staying,” you whispered.
“Good.” His arm tightened around you. “Because if you tried to leave, I would’ve dragged your shit back up the stairs myself.”
You laughed softly against his skin. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” He kissed the top of your head. “Now sleep. You’ve got Nationals soon, and I’m not letting you burn yourself out the night before.”
For the first time in weeks, you fell asleep without the weight of your old apartment hanging over you.
But Sukuna stayed awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling with a rare flicker of unease in his eyes. He’d never needed anyone before. Now the thought of you choosing to stay, even after saying it out loud had terrified him more than he wanted to admit.
Nationals arrived like a storm.
The arena was packed. With bright lights, a roaring crowd, and cameras everywhere. You were back in your element: elegant, composed, media-trained smile firmly in place during warm-ups. But underneath, your nerves were razor-sharp.
Sukuna had driven you there on his motorcycle that morning. He hadn’t said much, just handed you your skates at the door and kissed you hard enough to leave you breathless.
“Skate like you fucking mean it,” he’d growled against your lips. “Not for them. For you.”
You’d nodded, heart pounding harder than it had in years.
Now, as you waited in the kiss-and-cry area after your short program, your leg bounced uncontrollably. You’d landed everything cleanly, but the quad had been slightly under-rotated. The scores were about to come up.
Sukuna was somewhere in the stands. He’d refused the VIP seat your manager offered, choosing instead to sit in a shadowed upper section where he could watch without being mobbed. You knew he was there. You could feel it.
The scores flashed.
First place. Narrow lead.
The crowd erupted. You bowed politely, waved, and slipped backstage the moment the cameras turned away. The smile dropped instantly.
You found an empty hallway, a medal from the short program still hanging around your neck, and leaned against the cool wall. The pressure was crushing. One more program tomorrow. One mistake and everything would crumble.
Footsteps echoed.
You looked up. Sukuna was walking toward you, hands in his pockets, black jacket and cap doing little to hide how out of place he looked among the sequined costumes and corporate suits.
Your manager had given him a pass “as security.” Bullshit excuse, but it worked.
“You came backstage,” you whispered.
“Told you I wasn’t letting you do this alone.” He stopped in front of you, eyes scanning your face. “You okay?”
“No,” you admitted. “I’m winning and it still feels like I’m drowning.”
Sukuna pulled you into his chest without hesitation. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head. The familiar scent of him grounded you instantly.
“Most people are fucking stupid,” he said quietly. “They don’t see how hard you work. They just want perfection so they can feel something for five minutes. Don’t let them live in your head.”
You laughed wetly against his shirt. “Since when are you good at pep talks?”
“I’m not. I’m just telling you the truth.” He tilted your chin up and kissed you. The kiss was slow, deep, and completely uncaring if anyone saw. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “Tomorrow, skate like you’re alone on the ice at 2 a.m. Like no one’s watching. That’s when you’re actually good.”
You nodded, forehead pressed to his. “Stay with me tonight? At the hotel?”
“Already told the shop I’m not coming in tomorrow.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of interviews and sponsor obligations. Sukuna waited for you like a shadow. From the back, he was quiet, intimidating, and fiercely protective. When one pushy reporter tried to ask about “the mystery man in your life,” Sukuna simply stepped into frame, stared the man down, and the questions stopped immediately.
Back at the hotel, the tension finally broke.
The moment the door closed, Sukuna had you against it. Clothes came off in a heated rush. This time there was no restraint. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. His mouth and hands were everywhere.
He fucked you like he was afraid you might disappear in the morning. Deep, slow, then rough when you begged for more. You came apart under him twice before he finally let himself go, groaning your name against your neck as he finished.
Afterward, he held you close, your back to his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your stomach.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he murmured into your hair, “you’re still coming home with me. Got it?”
“Got it,” you whispered, intertwining your fingers with his.
For the first time before a major competition, you slept deeply wrapped in tattooed arms and the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat.
The free skate felt like walking into battle wearing silk.
The arena was louder than the day before. Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Your name echoed through the speakers as you glided to center ice. You searched the stands once, just once, and found him. Sukuna. Arms crossed, leaning forward, crimson eyes locked on you like nothing else in the world existed.
You took a breath. Skate like you’re alone at 2 a.m.
The music started.
You poured everything into it. All the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet love you’d found in a sparse apartment above a tattoo shop. Every jump was fought for. Every spin carried emotion instead of just technical perfection. You fell on the quad attempt, hard, but got up faster than you ever had before. The crowd gasped, then roared when you landed the next combination cleanly.
When the final pose ended, the arena erupted.
You bowed, chest heaving, tears already stinging your eyes. The scores came up faster than expected.
Gold.
You won Nationals by a narrow margin.
The crowd chanted your name. Your coach hugged you. Sponsors swarmed. Cameras flashed relentlessly. For three full minutes, it felt like victory.
Then the backlash started.
While you were still in the kiss-and-cry, the online comments flooded in live:
“She fell. That shouldn’t have been gold.”
“Underscored the younger girls again.”
“Overrated. Time to retire.”
“Bet the judges only gave it to her because of the pity narrative.”
By the time you escaped backstage, the medal around your neck felt like lead.
You slipped away from the celebration area into the quiet service corridors, still in full costume, skates dangling from your hand. The gold medal clinked against your chest with every step. You found a dimly lit spot near some stacked equipment crates and sat down hard on the floor.
The numbness hit.
You’d won. And it still felt hollow.
Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
Sukuna crouched in front of you, elbows on his knees. He studied your face in silence for a long moment.
“They’re already tearing you apart online, aren’t they?” he asked.
You nodded, laughing weakly. “I won gold and they’re acting like I stole it.”
Sukuna reached out and flicked the medal with one finger. “Most people are stupid,” he said, echoing his words from before. “They weren’t on that ice with you. They didn’t see what I saw.”
“What did you see?” you whispered.
“You.” His voice was low, intense. “Fighting. Getting up. Still fucking beautiful even when you fell. That’s not the version they want. They want a doll that never makes mistakes.”
You felt the tears spill over. Sukuna wiped them away with his thumb, surprisingly gentle.
“Come on,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “We’re leaving.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He grabbed your team jacket from a nearby chair, draped it over your shoulders, and led you out through a side exit used by staff. No cameras. No reporters. Just cold night air and the distant roar of the crowd still celebrating inside.
His motorcycle waited in the back lot.
You climbed on behind him in your competition dress and jacket, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Sukuna revved the engine once, then took off into the city streets. The wind whipped past, cold and freeing. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and breathed.
He drove you up to the quiet overlook above the city. The same spot you’d imagined in quieter moments. The lights of Tokyo spread out below like a sea of stars.
Sukuna killed the engine and helped you off. He pulled you against his chest immediately, arms locked around you.
“Winning doesn’t feel how I thought it would,” you admitted against his jacket.
“That’s because you keep letting strangers decide what it means,” he replied. “Fuck their scores. Fuck their comments. You skated like you tonight. That’s the only version that matters to me.”
You looked up at him. The city lights reflected in his eyes. The tension, the adrenaline, the overwhelming emotion of the day, it all crested at once.
You kissed him first.
Sukuna met you halfway, hands sliding into your hair, tilting your head back as the kiss turned deep and desperate. There was nothing restrained about it this time. Months of slow burn, tension, and need poured out between you under the night sky.
When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.
“I’m keeping you,” he said roughly. “Not just until spring. Not until your lease is up. I’m fucking keeping you.”
You smiled, tears mixing with the cold wind on your cheeks. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed you again, slower this time. A promise sealed in the quiet above the noisy city.
The gold medal rested between you, warm from your body heat.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like a burden.
The city lights blurred into streaks of neon as Sukuna drove you home. You pressed yourself tighter against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, the gold medal still resting cold against your chest beneath the team jacket. Every turn of the motorcycle sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline and heat through your body. The competition was over. The performance, the fall, the win, the backlash, none of it mattered right now. All that existed was the solid warmth of Sukuna’s body between your thighs and the promise of what waited the second you crossed the threshold of the apartment.
He parked roughly in the narrow alley beside the shop. The moment your feet touched the ground, he grabbed you.
Sukuna pushed you up against the metal staircase railing, mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed possessively. Sliding under your jacket, gripping your waist, then lower to squeeze your ass as he lifted one of your legs around his hip.
“Fuck, I’ve been hard since you took the ice,” he growled against your lips, biting down on your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. “Watching you fight like that… all grace and fire. Wanted to drag you off the rink and fuck you right there.”
You moaned into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Then stop talking and do it.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
The climb up the stairs was clumsy, hands groping, mouths barely separating. The second the apartment door slammed shut behind you, Sukuna had you pinned against the wall. He peeled the team jacket off your shoulders and yanked the competition dress down your body in one rough motion, leaving it pooled around your ankles. You kicked it aside while working on his belt.
Clothes scattered across the floor. Sukuna lifted you again, carrying you to the couch and dropping you onto the leather. He followed immediately, settling between your spread thighs.
He didn’t tease for long.
His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a dark, claiming mark just below your jaw while two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning. You were already dripping.
“So fucking wet for me,” he groaned, curling his fingers deep. “This pussy been aching for me all day?”
“Yes— God, Sukuna—”
He pumped his fingers faster, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. His mouth moved lower, sucking hard on one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing sensitive skin. When your thighs started trembling, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, licking broad stripes through your folds before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking.
You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the couch, fingers twisted tight in his pink hair. Sukuna didn’t stop. He worked you through it, licking you clean until you were shaking.
Then he flipped you over.
He pressed your chest down against the couch, ass up, and pushed into you in one deep, relentless thrust. The stretch burned so good you moaned loudly into the cushion.
“Fuck— so tight,” Sukuna hissed, gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Taking me so well. Like you were made for this.”
He set a punishing rhythm immediately. With deep, powerful strokes that made the couch shift beneath you. The gold medal swung wildly between your breasts with every thrust. One of his hands slid up your spine and wrapped loosely around your throat, pulling you back against his chest without slowing down.
“You’re mine,” he snarled in your ear, voice wrecked. “Not the ice. Not the federation. Not the fucking fans. This body, this pussy, every moan, all mine.”
You came again hard, clenching around him, vision whiting out. Sukuna followed with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled deep inside you.
For a moment, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the faint creak of the couch.
Sukuna pulled out slowly, watching his release drip down your thighs with dark satisfaction. Then he gathered you into his arms, cradling you against his chest on the couch.
“You still with me?” he asked, voice surprisingly soft as he brushed damp hair from your forehead.
You nodded, smiling dazedly. “Yeah. That was… intense.”
He kissed your temple. “You earned it. Gold looks good on you, by the way.” His fingers traced the medal still hanging between your breasts. “But it looks better when it’s the only thing you’re wearing.”
You laughed breathlessly and kissed him again but slower this time, savoring the taste of yourself on his tongue.
The shower was supposed to be practical.
It wasn’t.
Hot water cascaded over both of you as Sukuna pressed you against the tiled wall. He lifted one of your legs over his hip and slid back inside you with a smooth thrust, groaning at how easily you took him now.
“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, nipping at your collarbone. “Can’t get enough?”
“No,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he rolled his hips deep and slow. “Never enough.”
He fucked you like that under the spray. His deep, grinding strokes that hit every perfect spot. Steam filled the small bathroom. Your moans echoed off the tiles. When you came again, trembling in his arms, Sukuna held you through it, then spilled inside you once more with your name on his lips.
You barely made it to the bed afterward.
Sukuna laid you down gently this time. The frantic need had eased into something deeper, more intimate. He crawled over you, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. The fading bruises on your hips from training, the new marks he’d left tonight, the sensitive spots along your ribs that made you shiver.
When he finally pushed back inside you, it was slow and deliberate. He intertwined your fingers above your head, eyes locked on yours as he moved.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
You did. The intensity in his crimson gaze made your chest ache with something far bigger than lust.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, thrusting deep and staying there for a moment. “You’re staying. This apartment. This bed. With me. No more temporary bullshit.”
“I’m staying,” you whispered, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “I’m yours, Sukuna.”
Something raw and vulnerable flashed across his face. He kissed you deeply as he picked up the pace again, hips rolling in a devastating rhythm that had you gasping into his mouth. This orgasm built slowly, then crashed over you like a wave. Sukuna followed right after, burying his face in your neck as he came with a low, broken groan.
You stayed connected for a long time afterward, trading lazy kisses and soft touches.
Eventually Sukuna rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, your head resting over his heart. His fingers stroked slowly up and down your spine.
“You did good today,” he said quietly. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up. That’s the part I’m proud of.”
Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time they were warm. You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over a snarling tattoo.
“I couldn’t have done it without you waiting for me,” you admitted.
Sukuna’s arm tightened around you. “Then it’s a good thing you’re never doing anything without me again.”
The gold medal lay forgotten on the nightstand. The only thing that mattered was the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek and the quiet certainty that you had finally found where you belonged.
The morning after Nationals arrived gently, sunlight filtering softly through the apartment curtains.
You woke slowly, wrapped securely in Sukuna’s arms. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, one heavy, tattooed arm draped across your waist, holding you close even in sleep. The gold medal sat quietly on the nightstand, catching the light whenever it shifted. Your body ached from the competition and the intensity of the night before, but it was a satisfying kind of tired.
Sukuna stirred when you shifted slightly, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy grunt. His lips brushed the top of your head.
“Too early,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t move.”
You smiled and relaxed against him, letting the warmth of his body soothe your sore muscles. For once, there was no alarm, no rush to the rink, no obligations waiting. Your coach had given you two full days to recover, and you intended to use every minute of it.
After nearly forty minutes of quiet cuddling. Sukuna’s fingers lazily tracing patterns on your back, he finally sighed and rolled out of bed.
“Stay,” he ordered, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants. “I’ll make breakfast.”
You watched him leave the room, admiring the way his tattoos shifted across his broad back with every movement. A few minutes later, the comforting smells of rice, miso soup, and grilled salmon drifted through the apartment. You slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen wearing one of his oversized black shirts that reached mid-thigh.
Sukuna glanced over his shoulder, his crimson eyes softening at the sight of you. “You look good in my clothes.”
You hopped up to sit on the counter, swinging your legs. “I basically live in them now.”
He stepped between your knees, hands resting on your thighs as he leaned in to kiss you. When he pulled back, there was a rare softness in his expression.
Breakfast was simple but made with care. Sukuna fed you bites of salmon between his own, the two of you sharing comfortable silence broken only by occasional teasing remarks. The domesticity of it all still felt new and precious.
After eating, you migrated to the couch together. You curled against his side, legs tangled with his, while Sukuna picked up one of his sketchbooks. His free hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absentmindedly as he drew.
“So,” he said after a while, not looking up from the page. “You really told Haru you’re staying?”
“I did. He’s handling the sublet paperwork for the old apartment.” You traced a finger along a bold tattoo on his forearm. “I don’t want to go back there. This feels right.”
Sukuna’s hand paused on your thigh. He set the sketchbook aside and turned to look at you fully, his gaze intense.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I wasn’t going to make it easy for you to leave.”
You shifted to straddle his lap, cupping his face in both hands. “I’m not leaving. This apartment… you… this is home now.”
Something raw flickered across his face. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a deep kiss not rushed or demanding, but full of quiet emotion. When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.
“You ruined living alone for me,” he admitted, voice low. “Can’t imagine coming back to an empty place anymore.”
Your heart swelled. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to.”
The rest of the day unfolded in peaceful domesticity.
You spent the afternoon properly unpacking the last of your belongings. Sukuna watched from the doorway as you arranged your skincare products across the bathroom shelves and hung your clothes beside his in the closet. Without saying anything, he cleared out an entire drawer for you and even made space on the coffee table for your training notebooks.
Later, you dragged him out to the balcony. The air was cool and fresh. Sukuna lit a cigarette while you leaned back against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. The city hummed quietly below.
“Everyone’s still losing their minds online,” you told him, showing him a few headlines on your phone. The “Ink & Ice” ship had only grown stronger since last night.
Sukuna snorted, smoke curling from his lips. “Let them talk. As long as they know you’re off-limits.”
You turned in his arms to face him. “Very off-limits.”
He smirked and kissed you against the railing slow and steady, one hand cradling the back of your head. When he pulled away, his expression was softer than usual.
That evening, you cooked together for the first time in a while. Sukuna stood behind you at the stove, arms around your waist, occasionally stealing tastes from the spoon while offering (mostly critical) commentary. The kitchen filled with laughter and the clatter of now three plates being used.
After dinner, you ended up back on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket while a random movie played on low volume. Sukuna’s fingers ran gently through your hair as you rested against his chest.
“I’m proud of you,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up after that fall. That’s the shit that matters.”
Tears pricked at your eyes. You hugged him tighter. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you waiting for me at home.”
Sukuna’s arms tightened around you. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me now.”
You fell asleep that night in his bed, curled against his side with his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The apartment felt fuller than it ever had. Your things mixed with his, two toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, your skates resting near his motorcycle helmet by the door.
No more temporary arrangement.
No more hesitation.
Just the two of you, choosing each other every single day.
Spring had finally arrived in Tokyo.
Cherry blossoms drifted lazily past the apartment windows, and the air felt lighter somehow. The renovations on your old luxury apartment had been completed for weeks now, but the keys to that place still sat untouched in a drawer. This apartment, the one above the tattoo shop with its creaky floors, single original plate (now joined by many), and thermostat that still sparked occasional minor wars had become home.
You stood in the kitchen late one afternoon, chopping vegetables while Sukuna leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed, “supervising.”
“You’re cutting those too big,” he criticized, reaching over to adjust your grip on the knife. “They’ll cook unevenly.”
You bumped him with your hip. “Says the man who used to eat plain rice and protein straight from the container.”
“I had standards. Low ones.” He smirked when you glared at him. “Now move. I’ll finish this before you ruin dinner.”
You refused to move. The two of you ended up cooking side by side, shoulders brushing, exchanging sarcastic commentary the entire time. Sukuna still refused to admit your seasoning was better, and you still refused to admit his knife skills were superior. The argument was comfortable now. Familiar, almost affectionate.
After dinner, you migrated to the living room as usual.
You stretched on the floor in your usual spot while Sukuna sat on the couch, sketchbook balanced on one knee. The scratch of his pencil was a soothing background noise. Every so often he’d glance up, watching the way you moved through your post-training stretches with quiet focus.
“You’re favoring your left side again,” he noted.
“It’s nothing. Just tight from practice.”
He grunted but set his sketchbook down anyway. A moment later, his warm hands were on your hip and lower back, pressing into the muscle with careful, practiced pressure. Not quite a massage, Sukuna would never call it that but close enough.
“Better?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Much. Thank you.”
He didn’t reply, just gave your hip one last squeeze before returning to his drawing.
You eventually gave up stretching and curled up on the couch instead, head resting on his thigh. Sukuna’s free hand immediately dropped to play with your hair, fingers combing through the strands as he continued sketching.
The apartment had changed so much.
Your skincare collection had officially taken over the entire bathroom counter and one full shelf. A second helmet that was smaller, sleeker, and yours now sat on the entryway table beside his. Your competition skates lived permanently by the door next to his motorcycle helmet, a sight that still made you smile every time you came home. Shared keys hung on a new hook he’d installed without comment.
Sukuna eventually set his pencil down and looked at you.
“You still happy here?” he asked, voice low. The question was casual, but you heard the weight behind it.
You turned your head to look up at him. “I’m happier here than I’ve been in years. This place… you… it feels real. No cameras. No pretending to be perfect. Just us.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded once.
“Good,” he said simply. “Because you’re stuck with me.”
You laughed softly. “I like being stuck with you.”
Sukuna’s hand continued stroking through your hair as you drifted closer to sleep. The TV played some random documentary on low volume. Outside, the city hummed its usual rhythm, but inside these walls, everything felt peaceful.
Later that night, you woke briefly when Sukuna carried you to bed. He tucked you in carefully, then slid in behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist like it always did, possessive even in sleep.
In the quiet darkness, he spoke against your hair.
“Never thought I’d want someone in my space this much,” he murmured. “You changed that. Ruined me for peace and quiet.”
You smiled, intertwining your fingers with his. “You ruined me for being alone.”
He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. No flowery declarations. No dramatic promises. Just Sukuna. Honest, rough around the edges, and entirely yours.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Sukuna moving around the kitchen. When you wandered out, still sleepy and wrapped in his shirt, he slid a mug toward you without a word.
Two plates waited on the counter.
Two helmets by the door.
Two lives that had quietly become one.
And as you stood there drinking coffee while Sukuna argued with you about whether the thermostat should be at 19°C or 21°C, you realized this was it.
love is blind ! or perhaps, silent ?
⤷ ゛ ✮ sukuna’s wife gets
some godawful advice . . .
you wanted to be the perfect partner for sukuna, naturally. which in turn meant doing exactly what the wives of the court insisted: learning the sacred art of not speaking to your husband for as long as you can to, “cultivate intimacy” . . ? or so you were told.
unfortunately, much to your displeasure, you had only lasted until the third hour. reason being—to put it quite plainly—ryomen sukuna is quite the relentless man . . .
he let out a sigh. a very loud, obnoxious sigh.
“i wish for my wife to talk to me.”
nothing.
“i wish for my wife to deign to speak to her husband.”
. . .
“i wish for my wife to cease such an absurd performance, and speak to me how she normally does. it is tiresome. the silence. do you not agree?”
your footwear scuffed softly against the cobblestone path as you came to an abrupt halt. the warmth that normally lingered in your gaze gave way to mild annoyance, though not enough to be mistaken for genuine displeasure.
try as you might, you could never remain upset with your beloved for long.
“i have heard you the first time sukuna, what is that you want?” you huff, the words drawn out in mild exasperation. tilting your head back to look up at him, your lips pressed into a faint pout, brows knitting together in a questioning glance.
sukuna only halts with you, standing a few feet ahead of you. “sukuna?” he repeats, perplexed, his gaze narrowing slightly at the unfamiliar distance between you.
usually, you referred to him by far gentler names. my beloved. simply, husband. my lord, when you wished to pester him. simply “sukuna” was a new low he had never imagined he would reach.
he scoffs, “to engage in conversation. i thought it to be rather obvious, was it not?”
you inhale sharply, as though it were painful to neglect your husband in such a way. perhaps it was. and yet, it was for the better.
“well, i cannot.”
“ . . . you, cannot?”
“i cannot.”
….
“have i done something to displease you? or wound your honor?”
you look at him with quiet seriousness, a sorry attempt to stand your ground.
“no. you are disturbing the ritual,” you say, voice a mild but firm whisper, as though the contents of your speech were not meant to fall upon the ears of another.
“the ritual…”
“yes, the ritual.”
“what ritual do you speak of?”
“the one i am attempting to complete it.”
you huff under your breath. “or rather, the one you are making rather difficult. i have already spoken too much, and you are not helping.”
you attempt to resume your way down the path, tucked between silk-draped garden pavilions, only for your unreasonably large husband to step in front of you. all four arms are crossed over his bare chest, a black haori draped over his broad shoulders.
when you finally glance at him, to your surprise, there is a deadly seriousness in his gaze that sends a shiver down your spine.
“where are you going? i believe we are in the middle of a conversation, are we not?”
you only suck in a sharp breath, splaying a fan to cover the lower half of your face, your eyes darting toward a nearby patch of cherry blossoms, anywhere but his own. “i cannot speak with you.” you reply softly, a gentle warmth rising to your cheeks, soft as ripened plums, taking a small step back from him.
his gaze narrows slightly, studying your unusual timidness, along with your peculiar mannerisms. “you do see how you are poking at my nerves, yes?”
“well, that only means it is working. so if you would only let me complete it to its entirety—”
“working…?” he scoffs, only taking another step forward until there is nowhere left for you to retreat.
you take another step backward, then another, then another, until your shoulders brush against the wall behind you. only then do you finally stop. sukuna places a hand beside your head and stares down at you, all four eyes narrowed.
“wife.”
the single word causes you to blink. “you will explain this ritual to me. at once.”
you let out a groan as you raise the fan to cover your face entirely. “why is it that you cannot respect my privacy?” your voice slipping out in a low, uncertain whisper.
sukuna lets out a low chuckle at that.
well, you believe. you cannot see his face after all, but there is no trace of displeasure in it.
shortly after, you feel his warm heavy hand, one stained with years of work and war, gentle to the touch, lowering your wrist, and therefore the fan. his voice is low and soft, as if coaxing an answer out of you:
“you do not actually wish to be apart from me like this. do you?”
you only let out a soft groan as you give a small shake of your head; eyes soft and pliant, though a small frown lingers over your features.
“ah . . i see,” he hums, eyes scanning over your face before his lower hand comes up to cradle your chin. “and, who, has forced you to do such a thing? because it certainly has not been me.”
you sigh. “i have not been forced.” shrinking back behind your fan.
“i had wanted our marriage to be more intriguing, so i sought out the other wives for advisement.” you pause, watching him carefully. “they said i should not speak to you, so that things would be calmer . . and more . . intimate . . between us once we reunite. though i have heard little of the latter.”
you look up at him once more, lashes blinking uncertainly, as though searching his face for approval. except instead of any shocked or amused reaction, he simply stares at you for a long moment, then exhales slowly through his nose.
“please do not speak to those women again,”
“they are fools.” he says flatly. “you do realize we are as intimate as can be, correct? i have seen you cry. i have seen you without your robes. i have seen you at your most unguarded, and yet you still think there is more to achieve.”
you only smack him lightly with the spread of your bamboo fan. “you cannot just say that!”
“the reason this ‘ritual’ of theirs works is because they do not love their husbands,” he continues, unbothered. “that is why there is peace when they do not speak.”
. . .
“oh.”
and then, a small snicker escapes him, causing your head to whip toward him. an everso slight frown pulls at your lips before he promptly falls silent.
“you mock me.”
“i have said nothing.”
“you are smiling.”
a soft silence spreads between the two of you, lingering, to that of a breath being held for too long . . . before a low burst of laughter escapes his throat. a quiet, unrestrained cackle that makes your chest loosen despite yourself.
his hand comes up to rest over his mouth, while the other remains crossed over his chest, his shoulders shaking with each contained laugh.
“do not laugh!” you insist, though your voice wavers with lingering amusement. “i have done this for you!”
“must you look so aggrieved? i am only laughing with you.”
you huffed, loud and dramatic; “how can you laugh with me when i am not laughing at all?”
“very well”, he began, an infuriatingly smug smile working onto his face, “i’ll wait for you to start then.”
and then, as though a switch had been flipped; every trace of amusement vanished. the smile disappeared, his features settling back into the impassive countenance of a ruler, as if nothing at all had been amusing.
unbelievable.
but only after a moment does it slip from you too: soft at first, almost disbelieving, your laughter spilling out in quiet, uneven breaths before settling into something gentler. you cover your mouth with your fan, though it does little to hide it.
“i would prefer this be forgotten.”
“unfortunately, wife, i cannot grant you that mercy.”
and while you hated to admit it, the advice had been sound; simply at the expense of your last shred of dignity.
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