⋆.˚ ★— summer isn't over yet pt.2
part one| part two
synopsis: you didn’t move to a tiny island to fall in love — you moved for sun, waves, and a fresh start. unfortunately, the island comes with a problem: an insufferable, cocky local surfer who wipes out like it’s a personality trait and won’t stop showing up exactly where you are. what starts as a petty rivalry over waves and ego slowly turns into something way worse — shared sunsets, stolen drinks, and a boy who keeps inserting himself into your life like he belongs there. and the worst part? you might actually like him.
surfer!sukuna x surfer!reader
content warning:MDNI explicit sexual content (including unprotected sex / creampie, rough sex, nipple play, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, dubcon/alcohol-influenced consent, drunk sex) brief enemies-to-friends-to-lovers / rivalry dynamic with initial hostility, verbal sparring, and public call-outs / teasing
wc:4.4k enjoy♡
the beach is alive after dark in the way only island nights can be—bonfire spitting sparks into the black sky, string lights looped between palms like someone got drunk and decided to decorate the whole shoreline, bluetooth speaker blasting old-school reggae remixes so loud the bass rattles your ribcage. plastic coolers are overflowing with ice and whatever cheap beer kai could carry, red solo cups scattered like casualties, and leo’s running around with a glow stick necklace he stole from ryo’s bag, screaming that he’s “the glowstick king” while everyone ignores him.
you show up late because you spent twenty extra minutes deciding on the bikini—white with tiny embroidered seashells, halter top that ties behind your neck in a bow you already know will come undone if someone breathes on it wrong, matching bottoms with side strings you double-knotted just in case. sheer sarong in pale lavender knotted at your hip, gold ankle chain jingling every step, lip gloss reapplied twice because nerves are a bitch and you refuse to look anything less than weaponized cute tonight.
the second your flip-flops hit the sand, kai spots you.
“there she is! the pink menace graces us with her presence!”
heads turn. cheers. someone wolf-whistles—probably ryo. you flip them off with both hands and keep walking.
sukuna’s already there, of course.
he’s leaning against one of the coolers like he invented leaning, black tank stretched across his chest, board shorts slung low enough you can see the sharp cut of his hip bones when he shifts. hair loose and messy from the wind, tattoos catching firelight. he’s holding a beer bottle by the neck, thumb rubbing the label absentmindedly, and the second he sees you his whole posture changes—just a fraction, shoulders squaring, eyes locking on like radar.
you pretend not to notice.
you grab a drink instead. crack it open. take a long sip. ignore the way your pulse kicks up when he pushes off the cooler and starts walking toward you.
kai intercepts first.
“yo, sukuna, look who finally showed up. you gonna stop staring holes through her or what?”
sukuna doesn’t even flinch.
“mind your business, dreads.”
kai grins wider. “nah, this is group business now. we’re all suffering.”
ryo appears out of nowhere with leo in tow. “yeah, man. the tension is killing the vibe. just kiss already so the rest of us can breathe.”
you choke on your beer.
sukuna’s jaw ticks.
“shut the fuck up.”
leo—twelve years old and zero filter—pipes up. “you two are worse than my parents before they got divorced. just make out or whatever.”
you point at him. “you’re grounded from glowsticks.”
“you can’t ground me, you’re not my mom.”
“try me.”
sukuna grabs your elbow—light, but enough to steer you away from the roasting circle. “come on. before they start a petition.”
you let him pull you toward the fire. shoulders brushing. heat from the flames licking your skin, heat from him worse.
someone cranks the music. someone else starts a terrible game of never-have-i-ever that immediately devolves into chaos. kai yells “never have i ever wanted to punch someone i also wanted to kiss” and half the circle drinks—including both of you.
you lock eyes over your cup.
he smirks.
you roll your eyes.
but you drink.
the group notices.
ryo claps. “there it is! progress!”
“fuck off,” you both say at the same time.
everyone loses it.
later the energy shifts—someone drags out a beat-up acoustic guitar, someone else starts passing around shots of something that tastes like coconut and regret. you end up sitting on a driftwood log, knees pulled up, sarong slipping off one shoulder. sukuna drops down next to you without asking. thigh pressed to thigh. deliberate.
you don’t move away.
neither does he.
“you’re quiet tonight,” he says. low. just for you.
“i’m plotting your demise.”
“again?”
“it’s a full-time job.”
he huffs a laugh. takes a pull from his beer. “you’re shit at it.”
“says the guy who’s still wearing my bracelet.”
he glances down at his wrist. the thin silver chain with star charms glints in the firelight. he hasn’t taken it off since that night on the curb.
“it’s stuck,” he mutters.
“sure.”
silence stretches. comfortable. crackling.
then kai—fucking kai—stands up on a cooler like he’s about to give a speech.
“alright listen up! we’ve all been patient. we’ve watched the staring. the snaking. the fake fights. the jewelry. the rescue mission when she overslept. we’re done.”
groans from the group. someone yells “get on with it!”
kai points between you and sukuna.
“you two are either gonna admit you’re into each other or we’re tying you together with leo’s glowsticks until you figure it out.”
leo cheers. “i have more in my bag!”
you feel your face burn.
sukuna’s grip tightens on his bottle.
“you’re all idiots,” he says. flat.
“and you’re both cowards,” ryo adds helpfully.
you stand up fast. “i need another drink.”
you walk away before anyone can stop you. heart hammering. cheeks hot. you grab a fresh beer from the cooler, twist the cap off too hard, take a swig that’s mostly foam.
sukuna follows.
of course he does.
he corners you near the edge of the light, where the fire fades into shadow and the waves sound louder.
“you running?”
“i’m walking aggressively.”
he steps closer. blocks the path back to the group.
“they’re not wrong.”
you look up at him. firelight dancing in his eyes. red on red.
“about what?”
“the tension.”
your breath catches.
“you admitting something, big guy?”
he doesn’t answer right away.
just looks at you.
long.
slow.
like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.
“maybe.”
you swallow.
“maybe’s not an answer.”
he reaches out. slow. fingers brush the bow at the back of your neck—the one holding your bikini top together. he doesn’t pull. just traces the knot.
“you tie this too loose on purpose?”
“maybe.”
his thumb presses—just enough to feel your pulse jump.
“stop saying maybe.”
“stop being vague.”
he leans in. close enough you can smell salt and smoke and whatever cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear.
“fine.”
his voice drops.
“i like you.”
three words.
simple.
devastating.
your brain blanks.
“you—what?”
“i like you. the attitude. the pink board. the way you surf like you’re trying to prove the ocean wrong. the way you wear those stupid necklaces and act like they’re armor. i like you. been liking you since you stole my wave and smiled like you invented smiling.”
you stare.
heart in your throat.
“you’re serious.”
“dead serious.”
you open your mouth. close it.
then—because you’re you—
“took you long enough, fatty.”
he laughs. low. rough.
“yeah. i’m slow.”
you step closer. tip your chin up.
“so what now?”
he looks at your mouth again. longer this time.
“now i—”
a scream cuts through the night.
high-pitched. panicked.
“LEO!”
you both whip around.
leo’s standing knee-deep in the water holding a live crab by one claw. the crab is not happy. leo is screaming like it’s a horror movie. kai’s doubled over laughing. ryo’s filming. the whole group is losing their minds.
sukuna exhales. forehead drops to your shoulder for half a second.
“fucking kids.”
you laugh. shaky. adrenaline still buzzing.
“timing.”
“worst timing.”
he pulls back. looks at you.
“we’re not done.”
you nod. small smile.
“not even close.”
he reaches down. laces his fingers through yours. squeezes once.
“come on. let’s save the idiot before he loses a finger.”
you let him pull you back toward the chaos.
hand in hand.
group notices immediately.
kai whoops so loud it echoes off the water.
“finally!”
leo—still holding the crab—yells “does this mean i can stop being the third wheel?”
sukuna flips him off with his free hand.
you squeeze sukuna’s fingers tighter.
he squeezes back.
the night spins on—music louder, drinks stronger, laughter sharper.
but under it all—
his thumb keeps brushing the back of your hand.
your shoulder keeps bumping his.
and when the fire dies down and people start drifting home, he doesn’t let go.
the bonfire’s down to glowing coals by the time the last of the group stumbles off toward their places. music’s faded to a low hum from someone’s forgotten speaker, waves louder now in the quiet. you’re both buzzed—more than buzzed, really. the coconut rum shots caught up fast, warm and loose in your limbs, everything soft at the edges. sukuna’s arm is slung around your shoulders like it belongs there, heavy and warm, fingers tracing lazy circles on your bare upper arm where the sarong slipped down hours ago. you lean into him because it feels good, because the sand is shifting under your feet and because his body heat is the only thing keeping the night chill off your skin.
he walks you back slow. no rush. path winds between palms, string lights from the party fading behind you until it’s just moonlight and the occasional flash of bioluminescence in the shallows. your flip-flops dangle from one hand; his are long gone somewhere near the cooler. bare feet in sand, toes brushing every few steps. neither of you talks much. just the sound of breathing, the rustle of your sarong against his thigh, the low scrape of his voice when he mutters something about how you’re walking like you’re trying to trip on purpose.
“i’m not,” you say, but you’re giggling anyway, the kind of drunk giggle that makes your stomach hurt.
“sure you’re not. you’re doing it on purpose so i have to carry you.”
“try it. see what happens.”
he stops. looks down at you. red eyes glassy from the alcohol, pupils blown wide in the dark. firelight’s gone but the moon catches the sharp line of his jaw, the faint smirk that never quite leaves.
“tempting.”
you sway closer. chest brushes his. the thin fabric of your bikini top does nothing to hide how hard your nipples are from the night air and from him looking at you like that.
he exhales rough. thumb hooks under the bow at your neck—same one he teased earlier. tugs once. not enough to undo it. just enough to make the top shift, fabric sliding against sensitive skin.
“keep walking,” he says. voice gravel. “before i do something stupid out here.”
you laugh again. breathy. “like what?”
“like fuck you against the nearest palm until you forget how to talk back.”
your thighs clench. heat pools low and immediate.
“promises.”
he growls—actual growl, low in his chest—and starts walking again. faster this time. arm tight around you. you stumble once. he catches you. hauls you up against his side like you weigh nothing.
your place appears too soon. little wooden stairs. porch light flickering because the bulb’s been dying for weeks. you fumble the key. he takes it from your shaking fingers, unlocks the door one-handed, pushes it open.
inside smells like salt and your coconut candle and the faint trace of sunscreen still on your skin. door clicks shut behind you both. he doesn’t bother with lights. moonlight spills through the cheap curtains, enough to see the shape of him, the way his chest rises fast.
you turn. back against the door. look up.
“you gonna stand there all night or—”
he kisses you.
not gentle.
not slow.
his mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it. one hand fists in your hair, angles your head, tongue pushing past your lips without asking. tastes like rum and salt and him. you moan into it—loud, shameless—hands scrambling up his chest, nails digging into the black tank. he groans back. deep. vibrating.
he breaks away just long enough to yank the tank over his head. throws it somewhere. skin hot under your palms. tattoos rough against your fingertips. you trace the lines without thinking—while he works the knot at your neck. bow unravels easy. bikini top falls. cool air hits your nipples. they pebble instantly.
“fuck,” he mutters. stares. then ducks his head.
mouth closes over one nipple. hot. wet. tongue flicks. then sucks. hard. you arch. gasp. fingers twist in his hair. he switches sides. teeth graze just enough to sting. pleasure spikes sharp and bright. your hips jerk forward, seeking friction.
he pulls back. eyes dark. pupils swallowing red.
“bed.”
you don’t argue.
he scoops you up—easy, like you’re nothing—carries you the five steps to the mattress. drops you down. follows. knees bracketing your hips. kisses you again while his hands roam. palms rough over your ribs, your waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. you arch into it. whine when he pinches a nipple between thumb and finger. rolls it slow. then harder.
“you're sensitive,” he murmurs against your mouth. sounds pleased.
“your fault.”
“good.”
he slides down. kisses a path—collarbone, sternum, stomach. pauses at the knot of your sarong. unties it with his teeth. fabric falls away. bikini bottoms next. strings pulled slow. deliberate. he peels them off like unwrapping something fragile. you’re bare under him. wet. aching.
he looks.
stares.
“pretty,” he says. rough. reverent.
then lowers his head.
first lick is broad. flat tongue dragging from your entrance to your clit. you cry out. hips buck. he pins them down with one forearm. heavy. unyielding. then goes to work.
sucks your clit between his lips. flicks. circles. two fingers slide inside—slow at first. curls. finds the spot that makes your back bow. pumps steady while his tongue works faster. you’re loud. can’t help it. moans turn to gasps turn to pleas. “sukuna—fuck—please—”
he growls against you. vibration sends you spiraling. fingers crook harder. tongue relentless. you shatter. thighs clamp around his head. back arched. vision white. he doesn’t stop. works you through it. draws it out until you’re shaking. whimpering.
pulls back. lips shiny. chin wet. looks feral.
climbs back up. kisses you deep. you taste yourself on his tongue. filthy. perfect.
he shoves his shorts down. cock springs free—heavy, thick, flushed dark. tip leaking. no condom. doesn’t even ask. neither do you.
you reach down. wrap your hand around him. stroke once. twice. he hisses. hips jerk.
“want you inside,” you breathe.
“yeah?”
“now.”
he notches at your entrance. pushes in slow.
you both groan.
he’s big. stretches you wide. inch by inch. you feel every ridge. every vein. he bottoms out. pelvis flush to yours. stays there. lets you adjust. forehead pressed to yours. breathing ragged.
“move.”
he does.
first thrust shallow. testing. then deeper. harder. you wrap your legs around his waist. heels dig into his ass. urge him faster. he obliges. pace builds quick. rough. bed creaks. headboard thumps the wall. skin slaps skin. wet sounds fill the room.
he tries to be careful—you feel it. the way his hands grip your hips instead of bruising. the way he angles so he hits deep but not too deep. but it’s sukuna. gentle isn’t in his wiring.
he snaps his hips harder. once. twice. you cry out. nails rake down his back. leave red lines. he likes it. growls. fucks into you deeper. faster. one hand finds your breast. pinches the nipple. rolls it. tugs. pleasure-pain shoots straight to your core.
“again,” you gasp.
he does. switches sides. mouth on your neck now. teeth scrape. sucks a mark just under your jaw. you’ll have to cover it tomorrow. don’t care.
he shifts. hooks one of your legs over his shoulder. changes the angle. hits deeper. harder. you scream—actual scream. he covers your mouth with his palm. not to silence. just to feel it.
“gonna come,” you mumble against his skin.
“do it.”
you do.
clench around him. hard. pulsing. vision blacks out for a second. he fucks you through it. relentless. chasing his own.
he groans. broken. hips stutter. buries deep. comes hard. hot pulses fill you. you feel every one. clench around him to milk it out. he shudders. collapses half on top of you. breathing harsh against your neck.
stays inside. softening slow. neither of you moves to pull away.
his hand finds yours. laces fingers. squeezes.
you turn your head. kiss his temple. salty.
“still an asshole,” you whisper.
he huffs a laugh. breath hot on your skin.
“yeah. your asshole now.”
you smile. sleepy. sated.
“good.”
he rolls to the side. pulls you with him. keeps you tucked against his chest. cock still inside. softening. warm. full.
his hand strokes down your spine. lazy. possessive.
“sleep,” he murmurs.
you hum. already drifting.
moonlight spills across the bed.
waves crash outside.
his heartbeat thumps steady under your cheek.
tomorrow can wait.
right now—
this is enough.
you wake up tangled in sheets that smell like salt, rum, and him. sunlight filters through the thin curtains in lazy stripes across the bed, catching on the silver star bracelet still looped around his wrist where it rests heavy on your hip. sukuna’s arm is slung over you like he’s claiming territory even in sleep, chest rising slow against your back, breath warm on your neck. his cock—soft now—is still pressed against the curve of your ass from when he pulled you close sometime in the night and refused to let go.
you shift. just a little. test the waters.
he grunts. low. annoyed. tightens his hold.
“stop moving.”
“i have to pee.”
“hold it.”
“i’m not gonna hold it.”
he exhales through his nose like you personally offended him, then rolls onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arm flopping off you. “fine. abandon me.”
you laugh—scratchy, morning voice—and crawl out of bed. legs feel like jelly. thighs sticky. deliciously sore. you don’t bother covering up; he’s already seen everything. twice. three times if you count the shower you never made it to last night.
the bathroom is tiny. mirror fogged from the humidity that never leaves. you pee, splash water on your face, brush your teeth with the spare toothbrush he apparently decided was his now. when you come back he’s sitting up against the headboard, sheets pooled at his waist, tattoos stark in the morning light, hair a disaster of pink spikes and bedhead.
he looks at you. slow. appreciative.
“you gonna stand there naked or come back?”
“shower first.”
“together?”
“if you behave.”
he smirks. “no promises.”
you roll your eyes but don’t argue when he follows you into the bathroom. water’s lukewarm—hot water heater gave up years ago here. it was always too hot outside to notice anyway. he crowds you against the tiles the second the spray hits. hands everywhere. soap suds sliding down your back, his chest, between you. he washes your hair like it’s a chore he secretly enjoys, fingers massaging your scalp until you’re humming against his throat.
he’s gentle in the shower. almost. thumbs brushing your nipples slow circles while he kisses the mark he left on your neck. you soap his chest, trace the ink with slippery fingers, feel him harden against your thigh again.
“already?” you murmur.
“you’re naked. what’d you expect?”
you laugh. rinse the shampoo out. rinse him off. rinse yourself. he turns the water colder at the end just to make you yelp. payback for something. you don’t remember what.
towels. half-assed drying. you pull on the flamingo bikini again because it’s closest. he grabs yesterday’s black board shorts from the floor. no shirt. obviously.
breakfast is instant coffee and the last two bananas from the counter. you eat sitting on the edge of the bed, legs swinging. he stands between your knees, feeding you bites of banana like you’re incapable.
“i have hands.”
“yeah. busy ones.” he nods at where your fingers are already tracing the line of hair below his navel.
you flick his stomach. he catches your wrist. kisses the pulse point. soft. unexpected.
then he clears his throat. “beach.”
“beach.”
the walk down is lazy. sun already high. air thick with salt and sunscreen and the faint smell of last night’s bonfire smoke still clinging to your skin. your tote bounces against your hip. his board under one arm, yours under the other because he insisted on carrying it. “don’t argue,” he said. you did anyway. lost anyway.
the lineup is small today. smaller swell. clean but lazy. kai’s already out there, dreads tied back, waving like an idiot when he sees you two walk up together. ryo’s sprawled on the sand with leo building some kind of sand fortress that looks more like a crime scene.
“morning lovers!” kai yells from the water.
sukuna flips him off without breaking stride.
you drop your stuff in the usual spot. wax your board. he watches you do it, arms crossed, smirk permanent.
“you’re slow.”
“you’re impatient.”
“same thing.”
you paddle out together. sit side by side on the peak. knees bumping under the water. no one snakes. no one drops in. just riding. trading waves. carving lazy turns. you catch one clean, kick out near him. he’s already paddling back, grinning like he’s proud.
“not bad.”
“high praise.”
“don’t get used to it.”
you splash him. he splashes back harder. you both end up laughing, water dripping from lashes, sun hot on your shoulders.
back on the sand later—lunch break. kai tosses you a bag of chips. ryo’s playing some playlist that’s half reggae, half bad pop. leo’s trying to teach sukuna how to do a handstand. sukuna’s pretending not to care but he’s spotting the kid anyway.
you’re lying on your towel, sunglasses on, sarong half-open, letting the sun dry the salt on your skin. sukuna drops down beside you eventually. steals half your water bottle. drinks like he’s dying.
“thirsty?”
“your fault.”
“how?”
“you look like that.” he gestures vaguely at your bikini, your legs, the way the sun catches the gold chain around your ankle.
you snort. “smooth.”
“i’m trying.”
someone—probably ryo—decides it’s time for chaos again.
a girl from one of the tourist groups wanders over. tall. tanned. board under her arm. clearly knows how to surf. she smiles at sukuna. bright. interested.
“hey. you’re the guy who rips on that black board, right? saw you yesterday. insane cutbacks.”
sukuna barely glances up. “yeah.”
she doesn’t take the hint. leans on her board. “you give lessons?”
you feel something hot and sharp twist in your chest.
he feels it too—because his hand lands on your thigh. possessive. casual. thumb stroking once.
“nah. taken.”
the girl blinks. looks at you. back at him. smiles anyway. “cool. maybe i’ll see you out there.”
she walks off.
you sit up. sunglasses pushed into your hair.
“taken?”
he doesn’t look sorry.
“problem?”
“you didn’t even hesitate.”
“why would i?”
you stare.
he stares back.
then—quiet, almost annoyed—
“i like you, alright? like, i stupid like you. i like waking up checking if you’re still breathing like some idiot. like carrying your dumb pink board because i want an excuse to walk next to you. i can’t look at anyone else without comparing them to your attitude and your stupid lip gloss and the way you surf like you’re pissed at the ocean for existing. so yeah. taken. deal with it.”
silence.
waves crash.
your heart slams.
then you laugh. sharp. disbelieving.
“that’s the worst confession i’ve ever heard.”
he scowls. ears faintly red.
“fuck you then.”
“you already did.”
he groans. scrubs a hand over his face.
“you’re impossible.”
“you like it.”
“yeah. i do. asshole.”
you lean in. kiss him quick. salty. sun-warm.
pull back.
“i like you too. stupidly. annoyingly. i like showing up every day just to see if you’ll call me princess again. like keping that claw clip in my tote for weeks hoping you’d steal it. i hate how good you are at surfing because it makes me want to beat you even more. i like you too. don’t let it go to your head. it's already big enough.”
he stares.
then smirks. slow. dangerous.
“too late.”
you shove his shoulder. he catches your wrist. pulls you down until you’re half in his lap.
“still gonna fight you for waves though.”
“good. i’d be bored otherwise.”
kai yells from ten feet away. “they’re finally admitting it! someone record this!”
ryo’s already got his phone out.
sukuna flips them both off.
you laugh into his neck.
back in the water later.
sun dipping lower.
waves still coming.
you paddle out together.
sit side by side.
next set rolls in.
you both spin.
he takes the peak.
you drop in behind him anyway.
he yells over his shoulder.
“snake!”
“earn it!”
he laughs. loud. real.
carves hard. sprays you on purpose.
you chase him down the line.
still competitive.
still bickering.
still together.
still arguing over who gets the last wave of the day.
still holding hands under the water when no one’s looking.
still everything you were before.
just more.
a lot more.
