#sukuryo

By the sixth month of your relationship, you had grown painfully quiet inside. You barely said anything, barely did anything. It felt like he had sucked the spark and life right out of you. You were constantly second-guessing yourself.

Every time you had a date with him, it felt like a chore—a heavy, anxiety-inducing task you had to get through. It wasn’t fun anymore. It made you lose sleep.

You started to doubt whether he even liked you as a person, let alone as a girlfriend.

Today was the fourth time you canceled a date on him. —The first time was because you were on your period and didn’t feel up to going out. He had grumbled, gone out to get takeout, then shoved the bag onto your chest and left without a word. —The second time, you had to babysit your cousins. —The third, you had to pick up your baby brother from a different state. —And now today, the fourth, you had a migraine.

For the past three weeks, you’d barely seen or spoken to each other. It seemed like life kept pulling you away—and honestly, you didn’t mind.

But he did.

He was already outside your house, waiting in his car when you texted him that you couldn’t come. He didn’t take it well.

Sukuna slammed his phone onto the passenger seat, got out, and slammed the car door behind him. Then he stormed up to your front door and started banging on it, hard.

You were lucky your parents weren’t home.

You flinched at the sound of his fists slamming against the wood. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten angry, but something about tonight felt worse. Maybe it was the pounding in your head, or maybe it was just the way your stomach dropped when you heard him yell your name through the door.

“Open the damn door, Y/N!” he barked.

You rushed to open it, heart racing—not because you wanted to see him, but because you didn’t want the neighbors hearing and calling your parents… or worse, the police.

His fist was mid-air when the door swung open.

He froze, standing in your doorway, chest heaving with fury. His eyes burned as they locked onto yours, and for a moment, you genuinely weren’t sure what he was going to do.

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

“I don’t feel well,” you said quietly. “You should go.”

He scoffed, stepping forward. Sometimes you wondered just how big he really was—how he seemed to fill the doorway with his presence alone. Broad shoulders brushing both sides, head nearly grazing the top. It was like he was built to block the exit, to make everything feel smaller when he entered.

He walked you backward into the house and slammed the door shut behind him.

“Are you serious right now? I’ve been waiting out there for an hour—again—and you’re gonna pull this shit?”

“I said I don’t feel well,” you repeated, your voice a little steadier this time.

He laughed, that same bitter, cutting sound that made your stomach turn. “Yeah, right. Another excuse.”

You went quiet, eyes dropping to your socks. You didn’t want to look at him. You couldn’t.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he snapped. “We haven’t gone on a date in weeks. You barely text or call. Spit it out—what the fuck is your issue?”

Your fingers nervously played with the hem of your t-shirt, tugging it slightly as if that could anchor you.

Then, softly—firmly—you said it:

“Let’s break up.”

Silence.

It was immediate and deafening. He went completely still. You could feel the shift in the air, like all the heat had been sucked from the room. You swore you couldn’t even hear him breathing.

But you still didn’t look up.

You stood there, staring at the floor, heart pounding in your chest like a warning drum.

You didn't want to see the look on his face. You didn’t want to see the moment he realized you meant it.

And you did.

You really meant it.

The silence didn’t last.

It cracked.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

His voice was low. Dangerous. Like the calm before a storm that you’d been caught in too many times before.

You still didn’t move. Didn’t respond.

“I said,” he growled, stepping closer, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

You finally looked up. Just once. And what you saw made your chest tighten.

His eyes were wild—red with fury, disbelief twisting his face into something almost unrecognizable. His jaw clenched, vein ticking in his temple.

“Oh, I get it now,” he sneered, voice dripping venom. “There’s another guy, right? That’s why you’ve been so distant, so fucking weird lately.”

He stepped forward again, and you instinctively took a step back—until your back hit the wall.

He bent down slightly, crouching just enough to be level with your eyes. His face was so close, you could feel the heat of his breath, the way it shook with restrained anger.

“So tell me,” he whispered, voice low and mocking, “is that it? Is it because of some guy?”

You blinked rapidly, trying to fight off the tears burning your eyes. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling with the effort to stay calm.

His red eyes searched yours. But this time, it wasn’t just rage in them—it was something else. He was looking at you like he was trying to memorize you. Like deep down, some part of him knew he was about to lose you for good.

“There’s no one else,” you said. “It’s just you. It’s only ever been you.”

He shook his head, his frustration growing by the second. His hands balled into fists at his sides, like he didn’t know where to put them, didn’t know what to do with the energy coiling in his chest.

“Then why?” he demanded, his voice cracking with desperation. “Why? You need to tell me. I need to know. Why?”

His breath came quicker now, but his eyes—they were wild, searching. As if you held the answers to a riddle he couldn’t solve, no matter how many times he asked.

And then, the question slipped out. The one you’d been too afraid to ask, too afraid to even let yourself think about.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, barely above a breath, “do you even like me?”

You didn’t want to ask it, but something in you had to know. Something inside you had to hear him admit it—whether he cared, whether this had ever been real, or whether it was all just a game to him.

You didn’t dare look at him directly, too scared to see the answer, whatever it was. You focused on the floor, trying to steady your breath, trying to hold yourself together.

There was a long pause.

And then, when he spoke again, it wasn’t with the anger or spite you’d grown accustomed to.

It was softer. Almost too soft.

“Of course, I fucking like you,” he muttered, though there was no confidence in it.

You shook your head, unable to believe a single word he said. “No, you don’t, Sukuna. No, you don’t. You hate me. You always say you find me annoying, and you hate this relationship. You don’t like me, let alone love me.”

The words tumbled out faster than you could stop them, like once you started, you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Sukuna...” You took a shaky breath, voice breaking despite your best efforts. “I... I can’t even sleep. I don’t know how you feel about me or what we have. You’re so angry all the time. I get scared to talk to you or ask you anything...”

You almost felt like you were rambling, but the words were all that needed to be said, finally out in the open.

The truth, ugly and raw, spilled out of you like a dam breaking, everything you’d been bottling up for so long.

Sukuna stood there, staring at you with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t comprehend what you’d just said. For a moment, you could almost see the walls crashing down around him.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. He was still processing, still trying to piece together the pieces of what you’d just revealed.

And then, his eyes softened—not in the way they usually did, filled with mockery or disdain—but with something far more terrifying: regret.

“I... didn’t mean for any of that to happen.” His voice was rough, hoarse, as if the words scraped against him.

“I didn’t know... I didn’t realize that it was like this for you.”

You looked up at him, your chest tight with emotion, heart pounding in your ears.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost defeated. “I was just—damn it, I…I do love you, Y/N. I love you so much I don't know what to do with it.”

You blinked, stunned, It felt surreal, like a dream or some twisted joke, but the look in his eyes—was undeniable.

For a second, you just stared at him, trying to piece it together. He loved you? After everything? After all the anger, the cruelty, the distance?

His eyes were searching yours desperately, as if he was afraid you wouldn’t believe him, afraid that you would push him away before he could prove it to you.

“I don’t know how to show it, okay?” he said, his voice cracking, frustration and fear bleeding through.

“I don’t want to be like this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible now. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to make you feel scared or… or small.”

You swallowed hard, your heart a tangled mess of conflicting emotions. Was this just another lie? Another empty confession meant to keep you close, or was this the real thing?

Sukuna’s eyes bore into you, pleading, desperate for you to see past the anger, past the walls he’d built up over the years.

“Please,” he breathed, his voice rough. “Please don’t leave me like this. I can’t lose you. I know I fucked up, but I swear I’ll do anything to fix this”

You wanted to believe him. God, you did. But the fear still lingered. The fear that his words would fade, that the old habits would return, that the anger would drown out whatever this feeling was between you.

But... the way he was looking at you, the way he was fighting to keep you—maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something different.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you slowly took his hand in yours. His fingers tightened around yours almost immediately, as if he were afraid you’d pull away again.

“We... we don’t need to break up, Sukuna,” you said softly, eyes still fixed on the floor. “But I need time. A break.”

You felt his body tense, his hand trembling in yours.

“A break?” he echoed, the word landing heavy between you both like a thunderclap. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I need space,” you said, more firmly now. “I need time to think. To breathe. I need to figure out if I can still be in this... if you really mean what you say.”

His jaw clenched again, but he didn’t pull away this time. His other hand ran through his hair, dragging it back with a frustrated sigh as he looked away from you.

“I don’t want space,” he muttered. “I want to fix this now.”

“But we can’t,” you said, stepping back a little, your fingers slipping from his hand. “Not all at once. You can’t just say the right words and expect it all to go back to normal. I’ve been walking on eggshells for months, Sukuna. I’m tired. I need to feel like I matter to you—not just when you’re scared I’ll leave.”

Silence settled like fog between you. He didn’t argue. He didn’t yell. He just stood there, staring at you with an expression you’d rarely seen on him—something close to remorse. Maybe even understanding.

“I’ll wait,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “I don’t know how, and I’ll probably mess it up, but... I’ll wait. Just don’t disappear on me.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “I won’t.”

---//-----//-----//

After two months, you finally decided to just surprise Sukuna. It was early in the morning, and you didn’t tell a single soul you were coming. Not even his friends— they would’ve blown your cover out of sheer relief. You missed him too, sure… just not as much as he missed you.

You let yourself in with your key, slipping inside like a thief in the night (except this was your man and your house, so..?). He was still asleep, sprawled out on the bed in nothing but black boxers and a tight black T-shirt that was clinging to him a little too well.

And this? This right here is where you questioned everything.

How did you pull this man? Seriously. What divine force was on your side that day? He looked so damn good, it was criminal. His tattoos. The way that shirt stretched over his muscles. The black boxers. The absolute mess that was his pink hair. It was all too much.

You wanted to jump his bones on sight, but you contained yourself. Barely.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you gently rub his back, whispering softly, "Sukuna… baby, wake up." He doesn’t move a muscle. When he’s asleep, he’s as still as stone, completely unreachable—unless, of course, the air shifts in the room just right. Then, he’s up in an instant, sharp and alert, like a predator on the prowl. But right now? Nothing. Not a twitch.

You try again, your voice softer this time, "Love... baby... Suku... wake up... mm, I'm here..."

At the sound of your voice, he stirs. A low grunt escapes his throat, and his eyes flutter open, but the confusion on his face is enough to make your heart melt. He blinks, disoriented, as if trying to process what’s real. And in that moment, you can’t help but smile. He’s so adorable, even in his most groggy, unguarded state.

The fact that you—just you—can see him like this, can call him any type of names and still think he's the cutest thing alive, fills you with a warmth you didn’t know you needed.

He groggily shifts, trying to register what’s going on. But when his eyes finally meet yours, that familiar spark of recognition flickers in them. It’s like everything else fades away.

“Y/N?”

His voice is always deep, but in the morning, it’s something else entirely—low and rough, the kind that you can feel vibrating in your chest.

“Did you miss me?” you tease, a small smile tugging at your lips.

For a good thirty seconds, he just stares at you, blinking slowly, his red eyes still heavy with sleep. And then—without a word—he grabs you, pulling you down onto the bed with him.

The hug alone could’ve crushed you. His arms lock around you like a vice, his grip unrelenting, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. His face remains serious, unreadable—but inside? Oh, inside, he’s jumping up and down like a kid on Christmas morning.

He is this close to giggling, to kicking his legs like a teenage girl with a hopeless crush.

But he won’t. Absolutely not.

Instead, he just holds you tighter, burying his face in your neck, pretending like he’s not about to combust from how happy he is.

You can feel the way his breathing evens out against your skin, like he’s grounding himself with your presence. His nose brushes along your neck, slow and almost lazy, but there's a little tremble in the way he exhales, like he still can’t believe you're actually here.

“I thought I was dreaming,” he mutters, voice muffled into your shoulder.

You run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp the way he likes. “You always say that when I show up.”

“Because I never think I deserve it,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

Your heart clenches.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are still heavy-lidded, lashes fanning over flushed cheeks, but there's something softer in them now—something he only shows you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’ve been acting like a feral cat in a thunderstorm for two months straight. I was afraid your friends were gonna start sending me ransom letters.”

That earns the tiniest twitch of a smile. Barely there. But you caught it.

“I wasn’t that bad,” he grumbles.

“Oh, you were worse,” you laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Suddenly, he pulled back—and in one swift motion, yanked his shirt off and tossed it somewhere across the room.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He smirked like the devil himself. “Now that you’re here,” he said, voice dropping, “let’s get down to business, woman.”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “Business? I just got here.”

“And I’ve been waiting months,” he said, already reaching for you again. “You think I’ve been sitting here practicing patience and self-control? No, sweetheart. I’ve been suffering.”

“Suffering?” you scoffed, though your cheeks were already warm.

“Agonizing,” he corrected, deadly serious. “Like a man dying in the desert. And you—” he pointed at you dramatically, “—are the only oasis that can quench my thirst.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, completely unapologetic.

And then you burst out laughing. “You’ve been watching those trashy romance dramas again, haven’t you?”

“Shut up and take your clothes off,” he growled, yanking you back into his chest.

--

Well, he put you through it.

The second things started, he didn’t let up—wouldn’t even let you move. Like he was trying to make up for all the time apart in one night. No breaks, no mercy. Just Sukuna, with that feral look in his eyes, making it very, very clear just how much he’d missed you.

When it comes to sex with him, there’s no such thing as “taking it slow.” He’s intense. Greedy sadistic bastard.

By the end of it, you were completely spent—legs shaking, voice hoarse, body humming with overstimulation—and he? He came so hard he passed out on top of you. Just collapsed like a full-grown jungle cat that wore itself out hunting. Arms wrapped around you, dead weight pressing you into the mattress, and a low satisfied grunt rumbling in his chest.

So yeah. He missed you. A lot.

You laid there for a few minutes, trying to catch your breath, hair a mess, skin sticky and flushed, heart still racing. His head was tucked into your neck, breathing deep and slow, already asleep.

You shifted a little beneath him, tapping at his back.

“Sukuna. Hey—get off, you’re heavy.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

“Suku. Babe. You’re crushing my lungs.”

A beat of silence. Then, a soft, almost childish grumble: “Mine…”

You blinked. “What?”

He nuzzled deeper into your neck, voice sleepy and muffled. “Mine. Stay still.”

“You’re literally crushing me—”

“Die then. Still mine.”

You snorted, trying not to laugh, even as he wrapped one of his massive arms tighter around your waist like a damn seat belt. It was useless. You were trapped. Claimed. Claimed by a half-conscious, overgrown menace of a man with not enough self-control.

“…Fine,” you sighed, brushing his hair back from his face. “But if you drool on me again, I swear to god—”

Extra:

3 hours later...

You were still drifting between sleep and reality, body aching in all the right places. Sukuna was no better—completely sprawled beside you, arm draped over your waist like you were his favorite plushie. His breathing was slow, warm against your shoulder. He hadn’t even moved yet.

Eventually, he lifted his head groggily from your skin, eyes heavy-lidded, hair wild like he lost a fight with a thunderstorm. Lips red and swollen, scratch marks visible on his chest and neck. He looked wrecked.

In the best possible way.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of him.

“Why are you laughing?” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep and pure bass.

You were about to answer, still giggling like a fool under the covers, when—

BANG.

His bedroom door slammed open.

“Oh my god, it’s too early for this—Sukuna, please, stop moping—” “Bro, we brought you breakfast ‘cause you haven’t eaten in like, two days—” “IF YOU’RE GONNA DIE OF HEARTBREAK, DO IT QUIETLY—”

The room exploded with voices as Uraume, Gojo, Geto, and Toji stormed in like a damn intervention squad, expecting to find Sukuna in his usual spiral: half-dead, face-down in takeout, and angrily listening to toxic love songs.

What they didn't expect… was you.

Or him. Completely naked. Tangled up with you in the aftermath of what could only be described as biblical levels of destruction.

They all froze.

Eyes wide. Mouths open. Silence like a slap.

Sukuna sat up, completely bare-assed and utterly unfazed. He looked over his shoulder at them slowly—murder in his eyes, sleep still in his bones.

You scrambled, yanking the blanket up to cover your very exposed self, cheeks flaming.

He didn’t care. Not a blink of shame.

“Get the fuck out,” Sukuna grunted, dragging the comforter up higher over you—only you. His back muscles flexed like they were doing it on purpose. “You can scream later. She just got here. And I’m not done.”

Geto immediately spun on his heel. “Nope. Nope. I saw ass. I’m out.”

Gojo gagged dramatically, covering his eyes. “I think I just went blind. Why is your whole spine flexing like that?!?”

Toji just whistled low, grinning. “Damn. No wonder he’s been out of commission.”

Uraume didn’t even flinch, deadpan as always. “Do you want me to bring water or a priest?”

“DOOR.” Sukuna roared.

It slammed shut behind them.

You lay back down, breathless with laughter, still hidden under the blanket. Sukuna rolled over, eyes half-lidded, grin spreading across his stupidly handsome face.

<><>

It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You just didn’t see the point in forcing communication for the sake of it. When something actually happened, you'd tell him. You’d call. You’d text. If the world was ending, you’d let him know. Probably.

To you, that was how relationships worked. You didn’t love him any less just because you weren’t glued to your phone. If anything, you were doing him a favor by not flooding his notifications. You’d seen what some people did in relationships—24/7 access, reporting live from their kitchen. You’d rather not become that.

And besides, you knew yourself. You knew what happened when you got tired and overstimulated. You got snappy, said things like “Why are you breathing so loud?” and suddenly there’s a fight over a tone that didn’t exist. So no, you were doing the mature thing by keeping your distance. For everyone’s safety.

What you needed was someone who respected your space, but knew when to push—gently. Someone who didn’t take your quiet as coldness. Sukuna, for all his big talk and bigger ego, was starting to realize he might not be that someone… or worse, that he cared more than he thought.

-------------,------------------,-----------------,------------------,----------

You and Sukuna first crossed paths at a loud, crowded bar during a group night out. He was there with his friends. You were with yours.

You didn’t say much—just smiled politely, laughed at a few jokes, sipped your drink, and left early without a trace. Quiet. Low-key. Unbothered.

And for some reason, that stuck with him.

It wasn’t even anything dramatic. You didn’t flirt, didn’t throw glances his way. Honestly, it felt like you barely noticed he was there. Like the noise of the bar, the people, even him—none of it seemed to register.

Your eyes were distant. Detached. Not cold, exactly, but...unreadable. Like you were tuned into a different frequency the rest of the room couldn’t access. And Sukuna—who was used to being the center of attention—had no idea why he noticed you so much, and why you didn’t seem to care that he existed.

He never asked for your number. Didn’t even speak to you that night. But after that? He started showing up at those same friend gatherings more often than he’d like to admit. Not for the drinks. Not for the people.

Just to see if you would be there.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. Halfway through one of those meetups, he casually brought your name up. Real smooth. “So... your friend. Y/N, right? She doesn’t come out often?”

One of your friends snorted, already a little tipsy. “Ahhh, Y/N? Yeah, she’s quiet. That time we were at the club together? Didn’t see her for like four months before.”

Another chimed in, laughing. “She’s hilarious though. I heard a bunch of guys tried to get her number, but she just... works from home and sleeps all day. Like, aggressively avoids being perceived.”

The first friend nodded. “Back in high school, there was this super popular guy who liked her. She ghosted him in real life. Just full-on ignored him and didn’t even realize he was crying until someone pointed it out.”

The whole group burst into laughter. Sukuna blinked. You've made a popular guy cry... by accident?

Sukuna leaned back on the worn-out couch, beer bottle in hand, watching your friends lose it over the story like it was some iconic tale of legend. Which, apparently, it was.

He didn’t even realize he’d zoned out until someone waved a hand in front of his face.

“You good?” one of the guys asked. “Yeah,” Sukuna muttered. “Just thinking.”

Which was a lie. He didn’t think. Not like this. Definitely not about some girl he’d only seen once. But here he was, piecing together your entire personality based off half-drunk friend chatter like he was a detective on a case no one assigned him.

She sleeps. She works. She ignores people into tears.

Sukuna tilted the bottle to his lips and stared blankly at the wall. Why the hell was that so attractive?

He’d been with needy girls. Loud girls. Girls who texted “???” if he didn’t reply in thirty minutes. Girls who demanded constant validation, presence, connection. He was used to being the one pulling away.

And now… He was the one showing up to events, hoping to catch a glimpse of you like some kind of side character.

It was humiliating.

He didn’t even know what your voice sounded like beyond a polite laugh. He didn’t know what your job was. Or your hobbies. Did you even have hobbies? Or were you one of those people who simply... existed?

And yet, he was in a group chat called “Friday Night Drinks 🍻” and actually replying to it. Voluntarily.

This was rock bottom.

“Y/N’s cool though,” one of your friends added, completely unaware of the identity crisis unfolding in his head. “She’s just hard to read. Not mean or anything, just... in her own world, you know?”

In her own world. Yeah. That sounded about right.

Sukuna smirked to himself. “Sounds like she needs someone to drag her out of it,” he muttered.

The group just laughed and kept drinking, not realizing that was the moment Sukuna decided he was going to make you notice him. And not in a subtle way.

He wasn’t desperate. He was just... curious. Painfully, violently curious. Which, in his case, might as well be the same thing.

--------

A week later, you showed up again.

Same group. Same vibe. Some random bar with dim lighting and overpriced drinks.

You walked in late, like someone who didn't owe the world punctuality. Your hair was half-up, half-down—pitch black and the outfit in question was just a long, tight, black dress. Nothing flashy. Just clean lines and fabric that fit too well. He had never seen something so normal be so sexy.

It didn’t make sense. Sukuna turned back to his drink and muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

Across from him, one of your friends noticed. “Oh hey, Y/N’s here.”

You walked in, nodded at a few friends, and sat down like you hadn’t just months. You ordered a drink, checked your phone once, then stared off like the wall was playing a movie only you could see.

So, he did what any self-respecting man with dignity and a very fragile ego would do: he waited five full minutes before casually sliding into the seat next to you.

“Didn’t think you were real for a second,” he said.

You blinked. Slowly. Turned your head just slightly.

“Oh,” you said. Then a pause. “You’re... friends with Satoru and them?”

Not even fake recognition. Just stating facts like a very underpaid receptionist.

Sukuna smiled, the kind of smile that said, I’m confused but I want more of this suffering.

“Yeah.” “Cool.”

You turned back to your drink like he hadn’t just walked over here, full of unearned confidence and possibly cologne.

He’d once had a girl cry because he forgot to like her Instagram story, and now he was sitting next to a woman who couldn’t be bothered to pretend to know who he was.

“You’re hard to get a hold of,” he tried again.

You glanced sideways. “Not really. I just don’t answer if I don’t feel like it.” No shame. Just the emotional equivalent of a blank screen.

“That’s brutal.” “It’s honest.” “You ghost all your friends too?” “If I’m tired, yeah.” “That’s it?” “...Should there be more?”

You were so damn dry, it felt like talking to someone whose phone was stuck on Do Not Disturb—except it was you in real life.

“Right. So what do you do when you’re not ghosting humanity?” “Work. Sleep. Eat.” “Sounds thrilling.” “I’m living the dream.”

You said it so flatly that it nearly knocked the sarcasm out of him.

He leaned back, watching you sip your drink like he was studying a wild animal he wasn’t allowed to pet. He studied your face. Still unreadable.

Sukuna rubbed the back of his neck, and for the first time in a long time, didn’t know what to say next.

You turned back to your drink.

“...You’re not going to ask for my number, are you?” you asked casually.

He blinked. “Was thinking about it.”

You hummed. “Don’t bother if you’re expecting good morning texts.” “Oh, so you do give your number out.” “Occasionally. To people who can handle the silence.”

He exhaled through a laugh, suddenly unsure if he was flirting or being screened for a psychological experiment.

You looked over again, one brow raised. “Still want it?”

Sukuna grinned, absolutely down bad already.

“Yeah,” he said. “I really, really do.”

-----

Day 1 Sukuna waited two hours before texting you. Not because he was playing it cool—he actually just stared at your contact name for that long, wondering if “Y/N 😐” was appropriate or too accurate.

[ Sukuna | 8:42 PM ]

hey, it’s me from the bar. the tall one. tattoos.

He stared at the screen. Three dots appeared.

Then vanished.

He went through five stages of grief before your reply finally came.

[ Y/N | 8:47 PM ]

ok

That was it. Just ok.

You can kill him, and he’d say thank you.

Day 3 Sukuna, being bold (read: delusional), texted again.

[ Sukuna | 2:13 PM ]

you ever wanna get coffee or is texting already too much interaction for you

[ Y/N | 2:56 PM ]

depends do i have to sit and talk to you for a full hour or can i just get coffee and leave

He read it five times. Was she joking? Was this her flirting? Was this a cry for help??

[ Sukuna | 2:57 PM ]

that was cold i think i liked it

[ Y/N | 3:10 PM ]

ok then get coffee i don’t mind sitting i just don’t like people who chew loud

[ Sukuna | 3:11 PM ]

…do i look like a loud chewer to you??

[ Y/N | 3:13 PM ]

we’ll see

This was, by far, the most energy you’d given him, and he celebrated like he just won the lottery.

Date Day

You showed up exactly on time. Not early. Not fashionably late. Just… on time. Dressed in all black again, minimal effort but somehow looking like you were cast in an expensive indie film.

He opened the café door for you.

You nodded. “Thanks.” That was it.

You ordered a black coffee. No sugar, no milk. Just like your personality. He got some sweet sugary thing and decided not to comment out of fear you’d actually judge him out loud.

Ten minutes in, you said nothing.

Fifteen minutes in, still nothing.

Sukuna, finally: “Do you always just… sit in silence?” You sipped your coffee. “Only when there’s nothing important to say.” He blinked. “You don’t believe in small talk?” You made a face. “It’s like diet conversation. Empty calories.”

He nearly dropped his drink. “Jesus Christ.” You shrugged. “What?”

He leaned back and stared at you. “You’re either going to ruin my life or accidentally fix it.”

You stirred your coffee, unfazed. “50/50 chance. Either way, not my problem.”

Day 5

He sent a voice note.

Which was already wildly out of character, but he couldn’t help it—texting wasn’t working and the silence from you was making him feral.

He tried to sound casual. Cool. Unbothered.

But he played it back twelve times before hitting send.

[Voice Note – 0:07] “Hey. I saw this ugly painting today that reminded me of you. Thought that was romantic. Hope your coffee sucked without me.”

No response.

Then—

[ Y/N | 6:03 PM ] i didn’t get coffee today but if i did, it would’ve tasted fine you’re not the milk or the sugar

He laid down on the floor. Just. Flat. Face to the hardwood.

Day 6

He invited you to a small art exhibit.

You agreed.

Sort of.

[ Y/N | 1:32 PM ] only if you don’t talk through the whole thing

He kept his mouth shut the entire time.

Except once, when you stopped in front of a painting and tilted your head.

“Looks like something you’d like,” he said.

You glanced at him. “Because it’s moody and boring?”

“No. Because it’s sharp. Kind of brutal. But it still makes you stop and stare.”

You didn’t say anything.

But he saw your lip twitch like you were trying very hard not to smile.

Day 10

He didn’t text.

You didn’t either.

He paced.

Did pushups.

Almost posted a thirst trap but deleted it last second because what if you thought it was about you?

It was about you.

Everything is.

Day 18

He texts you at 2AM.

He’s been staring at the ceiling for hours, trying to figure out what your favorite color is like it’s a government secret.

[ Sukuna | 2:01 AM ] be honest. what color do you think you are?

You reply instantly.

[ Y/N | 2:02 AM ] dark green. like the kind that looks black until you shine a light on it.

He stares at that.

Then stares at the ceiling again.

Then texts back:

[ Sukuna | 2:04 AM ] yeah i think i’m completely fucked

You don’t reply.

Because you know.

-----

The club was packed, neon lights flashing, the bass making the floor shake, but somehow it felt like it was just the two of you.

"Have we met before?" he asked, squinting slightly.

"...It's Y/N. You used to bully me."

Oh.

Ohhh.

There it was.

Sukuna remembered now. You. The nerd. The absolute gremlin who sat in the back of the class pretending not to exist, sneaking Green Lantern and X-Men comics behind your textbooks like some low-rent super spy.

You were worse than him back then. And that was saying something. He at least pretended to care about passing. You spent more time in the comic book club than actual classes. You were even the damn president. Like it was an achievement or something.

It had been, what, five years? Maybe more? And somehow, the memory of you—tiny, awkward, buried in a pile of comic books—was still burned into his brain.

He leaned on the bar, his grin lazy and obnoxious. "So? You still a comic book freak? Or did you move on to...I dunno, astrology charts and crystal magic bullshit?"

You raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "Still a nerd."

He snorted, tossing back a sip of his drink, "Love that for you."

--

About an hour and thirty minutes later, Sukuna found himself standing in your flat.

Honestly? He thought maybe you two were gonna hookup or something. Normal people stuff. Flirt at the club, stumble into an Uber, make some mistakes you pretend never happened in the morning.

Nope. Not even fucking close.

You showed him around a bit, all casual, while he tried to hide the way his brain was short-circuiting.

Because yeah—you were still a nerd. Still a massive, certified loser just now, you had money to fund that loser lifestyle. This was insanity.

One wall—twenty goddamn feet tall and thirty feet wide—was crammed with comics and manga. The rest of the apartment looked like a pop culture fever dream exploded. Posters. Art prints. Drawings. Entire shrines dedicated to everything from Bratz dolls to Barbie movies.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, staring around like he was in a zoo exhibit.

"...What do you even do now, loser?" he asked, almost awed.

You shrugged, flipping on a light shaped like a Hello Kitty head. "Chief Editor at Marvel."

Sukuna just stood there.

Blinking.

Processing.

"You're telling me," he said slowly, voice filled with genuine horror, "that you made a whole-ass career out of being a nerd?"

You grinned. "Jealous?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. No words. Just pure, vibrating confusion and rage at the universe for allowing this.

One second he was minding his own business, trying to process that you made more money than God drawing superheroes in spandex — and the next, you were standing in front of him with a goddamn whiteboard.

A whiteboard.

Where the hell did that even come from?

"Okay, so," you said, clicking a marker open like this was a college lecture, "the Marvel multiverse is basically a system of alternate realities that exist parallel to each other. Each universe has its own version of events, characters, and histories—"

Sukuna stared at you. This couldn't be happening to him. Not to him.

He was Sukuna. He threw chairs at referees. He got suspended from bars for fighting bouncers. He had a reputation for being a menace to society and somehow you — a girl he once bullied for reading comics — had him held hostage in your living room explaining the fucking multiverse.

You pointed at a diagram you had somehow drawn in thirty seconds flat.

"So you see, Universe 616 is the main continuity—"

Sukuna rubbed a hand over his face. He wasn't drunk enough for this.

"—but then there's Universe 1610, which is the Ultimate universe," you continued, getting way too excited, "and that branches off when—"

He blinked slowly, feeling his soul leave his body. He could hear the words you were saying, technically. But his brain had tapped out somewhere around ‘alternate realities’ and was now just playing elevator music at full blast.

"—so technically, Spider-Man could meet himself, but it’s a different version depending on the timeline—"

He slouched deeper into the couch, legs spread, arms crossed, head tilted back to look at the ceiling like he was praying for mercy.

"This is my karma," he muttered under his breath.

After about twenty minutes of explaining the entire multiverse, you finally noticed Sukuna slumped like a corpse on your couch, eyes glazed over.

You clapped your hands once. "Okay, enough theory. Wanna see what I'm working on now?"

He lifted his head with a grunt, like a man who had been through a war.

"Is it another 'alternate timeline' bullshit thing?" he asked, voice raspy from pure despair.

You just laughed and padded over to your desk, grabbing a thick black folder. You tossed it onto the coffee table with a heavy thud.

He raised an eyebrow, sitting up a little. Big folders usually meant important shit. Or lawsuits. Both of which he was familiar with.

He flipped it open lazily — and then froze. Inside were full script pages, production notes, and concept art.

For a Marvel movie.

Not just any Marvel movie.

The Marvel movie.

The one the entire world was foaming at the mouth over.

"You—" he croaked, throat suddenly dry. "You're working on this?!"

You shrugged, all casual, like you hadn’t just rocked his entire worldview.

"Yeah. I'm helping with the script, character designs, and some marketing stuff. Also, I pitched an idea for a post-credits scene. They loved it."

Sukuna just stared at you, flipping through the pages like they might catch fire in his hands.

Character sketches. Dialogue rewrites. Your notes, in red ink, scribbled all over million-dollar ideas like it was nothing.

You were so deep into it that you were the reason a movie he was planning to illegally stream might actually slap.

He put the folder down carefully, like it was a bomb.

"This is a prank," he said flatly. "This is God punishing me. I bullied you for drawing Green Lantern in high school and now you're out here running the fucking MCU."

You just smiled sweetly and plopped down next to him.

"Guess who's playing the villain?" you said, nudging him with your elbow.

He blinked."...Who?"

You leaned in dramatically, whispering, "Pedro Pascal."

Sukuna immediately flopped back against the couch like he had been shot. Maybe throwing himself into the sun wouldn't be too bad.

"You’re living my dream," he muttered, staring at the ceiling again. "I hope you know that."

You grinned wider. "I do. Thanks for the free motivation, by the way."

He turned his head to glare at you, but there was no heat behind it. Only deep, deep regret.

------

Is this self indulgent? Maybe. Do I care? Absolutely not. Also, yes, I will be first in line for Superman and Fantastic Four—fight me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the relationship is still undefined. Still everything.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

Then he stepped out.

And the place. Exploded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked up at him, breath caught.

“You’re mine,” you said.

And this time, he kissed you.

---

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

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

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

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

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

Someone recorded it. Of course they did.

Posted it within minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked at the screen.

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

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

Your breath caught. “yeah.”

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

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

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

You gave it.

Thirty seconds later: FaceTime.

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

Click.

It was dark.

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

You didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

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

“damn.”

One word. But it cracked something open.

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

“good.” Then: “you real?”

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

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

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

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

“you do now,” you whispered.

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

“can i call you again?”

You bit your lip.

“i’m not hanging up.”

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

“don’t leave.”

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

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

And then—your phone buzzed.

him: “u still down to pull up?”

No address. No time.

Just that.

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

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

But your chest was quiet. Calm.

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

You texted him once.

No reply.

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

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

“come in.”

You did.

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

You stood there like you were in a museum.

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

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

You laughed. He smiled for real that time.

You stayed for hours. Then one day.

Then two.

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

He didn’t explain.

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

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

And you said, without thinking:

“me neither.”

------