intoxicated by your love (ch. 3)
bartender!Sukuna x f!Reader, dddne
340 days sober and one dating app disaster later, you didn't expect your new addiction to be a bartender at one of NYC’s most popular speakeasies, who makes some mean cocktails and becomes your new drug.
cw (updated) mdni, 18+ only: slow burn, au sukuna, alcoholism, themes of sobriety and addiction, attempted assault , assault, child abuse, domestic abuse, arguments, violence, poor mental health themes, self-hatred, mentions of self-harm, unrequited love, angst, insomnia, vomit, smut in later chapters, happy ending (will be updated for future chapters)
ch. 1 ch. 2 <- ch.3 -> ch.4 (Coming Soon)
*ੈ🍸✩‧₊˚ Sukuna POV *ੈ🍸✩‧₊˚
Ryomen grew up as the pastor’s son in Long Island, where every family knew each other’s business but never spoke a word about it.
His whole life, until his teenage years, was built on a single, unshakeable truth: faith above all. His father's sermons echoed through the church walls every Sunday, a melodic voice promising salvation, redemption, and eternal love. His mother sat in the front, her bruises hidden beneath long sleeves, her smile painted on like a doll.
Every evening, after his father's wrath had been spent from too much alcohol, she'd wipe Ryomen's tears with trembling hands and whisper the same hollow promise: "God will save us, son."
Ryomen watched his mother's body become increasingly bruised and battered over the years. The purple splotches across her arms were the same shade as the petunias in the garden she religiously watered. She wore her chain like a trophy: a delicate silver cross around her neck, conservative dresses that covered every inch of her damaged skin. But even that wasn't enough. If her neckline were even an inch lower than his father deemed appropriate, his father's fury would ignite, and Ryomen would witness a fresh scar on his mother’s frail body.
For the longest time, he promised himself he’d never become like his father. When everyone in high school had begun experimenting, having their first introductions to the sins of alcohol, he always denied. His friends thought he was being pure, pious – being a good son to the pastor.
But deep down, he knew he wanted nothing to do with his father, whose blood pumped through his veins like a curse.
His only joy in life had been his brother. A ray of hope, Yuji, 8 years younger than him, had become the reason he still breathed. The reason he hadn’t left. Yuji was blissfully unaware of the constant abuse that terrorized their household. Because the moment a conversation was about to escalate into a new conflict, he’d scoop Yuji up in his lanky arms, put headphones on his small ears, and carry him upstairs to his room.
They’d play house together. Ryomen was the father, Yuji was the son, and Mr. Teddy was Yuji’s “besto frendo”. A fake family. Fake holiday trips. Fake hypothetical houses they built with Lego blocks, and for just a couple of hours, Ryomen could pretend he was just a normal teenager with a normal little family.
The game felt more real than whatever was downstairs.
It wasn't until the summer of 2014 that Ryomen finally broke. His mother was on the floor again. His drunk father was standing over her, threatening to crack open her skull, with his fist raised, rage contorting his face into something unholy. And something inside Ryomen snapped.
He grabbed the Bible from his father's study with his delicate fingers, the very Bible his father preached from, the same Bible that promised love and forgiveness, and he struck his cheek without warning. The impact of the smack echoed through the room. His father stumbled backward, shocked. The edge of the book cut through his lips, blood streaming down his jaw. Just for a fleeting moment, Ryomen felt powerful. The Bible was heavy in his hands, while the leather cover was now stained with splotches of red.
His father hadn't expected his son to fight back. Hadn't expected his sweet boy to finally scream. Hadn't expected the replica of himself to raise a hand against his creator. But when he looked up at his father’s eyes, he saw a flicker of pride. It made Ryomen’s stomach turn.
His father didn't stop completely. Not overnight. But slowly, the physical violence faded. The beatings stopped. His mother's bruises began healing, and she learned to walk a little taller. Ryomen thought he was her savior.
But he didn't realize he'd already lost himself.
Years of witnessing abuse had changed him in ways he didn't fully understand. He had become distant from his peers, especially because a majority of them were from his suburban neighbourhood. Ryomen was full of anger that simmered beneath his skin, like he was about to combust in flames. He'd developed a temper that made people nervous, and the coldness in his eyes pushed them further away.
When his P.E. teacher accused him of breaking his soccer teammate's legs deliberately, Ryomen didn't deny it.
The boy had been taunting him. Calling him names. Mocking his frail body. Pushing him, until something scary uncoiled in Ryomen's chest. He'd tackled him, a bit too hard, too deliberately, and the crack of bone had been sickeningly satisfying. He felt relief like he had in that moment when he had struck his father.
His mother was called to school. She cried all night. Cried about how he had turned out “just to be like his father”. But he didn’t understand. He was not like his father. He had saved her from abuse. He’d protected her when no one stood up for her. In that moment, he felt the fury inside him again, clenching his fists, realizing that he had, indeed, become the person he despised.
He was kicked off the team. People started spreading rumours about how unlucky the pastor had become. How polar opposite Ryomen was compared to his pure, Samaritan nature. How the devil had clearly taken root in the pastor's eldest son.
Ryomen could feel the hatred building in his father's eyes. For his father’s reputation had been above all.
On his 18th birthday, with the gift money he had received from his father as a peace offering to behave like a better adult, the first thing he did was get a tattoo on his face. He hated that he looked just like his father, and he wanted to erase any similarities that he could find between them. Every time he looked into the mirror, the desire to become unrecognizable grew. He had initially just wanted a face tattoo. After the artist looked at the self-inflicted cuts on Ryomen's arms, the evidence of years of pain that Ryomen couldn't talk about, he’d asked:
"I can cover those too," the artist said, smiling pitifully. "If you want."
The design was an intricate piece that would snake from his face down his neck, across his chest, over his arms, wrapping around his body like armor. It would take months, maybe even a couple of years. AND it would hurt like hell. But it would hurt less than years of living in a body that made him feel like his own enemy.
The only problem was that his allowance money was barely enough for half the piece. The artist generously agreed to let Ryomen pay the rest as soon as he found stable work.
When he returned to his parents’ house that evening, he could hear the two voices arguing again. His mother was a little too ‘friendly’ with the new neighbour, which led to his father accusing her of being unfaithful. All hell broke loose the moment he walked in, looking like the damn devil himself reincarnated. His parents threatened to disown him because his father was afraid of being labeled an “irresponsible” father by his church members. The irony was that they never bothered about all the self-inflicted scars that had been clearly visible on his limbs.
“You’re a disgrace, son. You have 2 weeks to find a job and get the hell out of my house before I see anyone questioning why I couldn’t discipline my eldest enough.” Ryomen’s father, Wasuke, bellowed.
If this were about his mother, Ryomen would’ve punched a hole through the wall. But his mother's muttering “disgusting child” was the final nail in the coffin. He wanted nothing to do with them anymore.
“They look… so cool, big bro!” Yuji shrieked. “I want to grow up quickly so…so I can also have such cool designs on me Ryoryo! I want a pikachu here, a charizard there and…”
That was the only thing that had kept Ryomen sane. His brother, who had loved him unconditionally. And now he couldn’t bear the thought of having to leave him alone with the two devils while he started a new life of his own. The thought of leaving him behind was scary, but losing himself had become scarier.
With the faith in his tattoo artist, Kai, who had slowly become a friend in need for Ryomen with every tattoo session, he trusted him to keep him in the loop about Yuji. Ryomen promised to visit every weekend to pick Yuji up, but he didn't trust his parents enough. Kai had gladly accepted.
Ryomen gave Yuji his iPad to talk to him whenever he needed his older brother while he was away. He was barely 10, but he understood the weight of the situation.
After their parents had returned to their bedroom that evening, his father's anger spent, and his mother's tears dried, Ryomen sat on the floor of Yuji's room, watching his brother play with his Lego creations.
Yuji was building a castle, hummingwhile he worked, a tuneless melody that filled the silence between them.
"Are you really leaving?"
Ryomen's heart sank. He'd known this conversation was coming. He had been dreading it since the moment his father had given him the ultimatum. Yuji had stood in the hallway, hearing the conversation.
"I have to…" he said, his voice soft. "You heard them. They don't want me here anymore."
"But I want you here!" Yuji's small voice was vulnerable in a way that made Ryomen's heart ache. "I don't want you to go."
"I know, Yuji. I don't want to leave either."
"Then don't." Yuji looked up from his Legos, wide-eyed and pleading. "I'll talk to Mama and Papa. I'll make them understand"
"It doesn't work like that, Yuji."
Ryomen didn't have an answer. Or rather, he had too many answers, which were all too complex and dark for a 10-year-old to absorb.
"You know how Mom and Dad get," he said finally. "When they've made up their minds, there's no changing them."
Yuji was quiet for a long moment. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:
"Who's going to protect me?"
The question hung in the air between them suffocatingly. Ryomen had always been Yuji's guardian angel, the one who stepped in front of the chaos, who carried him upstairs when things got bad, who made up silly games to distract him from the screaming contests.
If he left, who would do that?
"I'm not going to leave you," Ryomen said, his voice rough. "I promise. I'll come back every weekend. Every single weekend. I'll pick you up and we'll hang out,just like always. You have the iPa–"
"But you won't be here," Yuji interrupted, his lips trembling. "You won't be here to play with Legos. Or..or when I wake up! You won't be here when I come home from school. You won't be–”
Ryomen reached out and pulled his brother into a tight hug. A hug was the only answer he could conjure in that moment.
"I know it's not the same," he murmured into Yuji's pink hair. "I know. But I'm going to call you every day. And you better pick up, brat. I’ll be here every Friday night. I'm not going to let you go till Sunday. We'll have sleepovers at my new place. The arcade you wanted to go to. We'll watch all the shows you want."
"Promise?" Yuji's voice was muffled against his chest.
Yuji pulled back, sniffling, and held out his pinky finger.
Ryomen smiled, trying to contain his tears as he linked his pinky with his little brother's.
*ੈ🍸✩‧₊˚ Reader's POV *ੈ🍸✩‧₊˚
When you decided to do an impromptu single-day trip to visit your best friend, Lex, she had texted you this morning asking to hang out for brunch on Sunday with the rest of the friend group.
BREAKFAST AT DENNY’S. SUNDAY. BE THERE OR BE SQUARE.
The “friend group” consisted of Lex and her boyfriend Kento, plus your university acquaintances Gojo, Geto and Shoko. You weren't particularly close to any of them initially. They were Lex's people. Her history. Her foundation. You were just... there. But they’d adopted you like a stray cat they’d found in a rainstorm, nevertheless. It was three years ago, when you ended up being the only other girl besides Lex in your Data structures and Algorithms course, it was destiny. That’s how the two of you had become best friends.
In a crowd full of musty comp-sci dudes who desperately needed a shower and exposure to the outside world, divine intervention had led you two to be matched as lab partners.
Lex was also very, very cool. She was in a sorority (which, in hindsight, should've been a red flag) but she was ALSO an athlete who babysat on the side, juggling three major life responsibilities while somehow still acing her exams. She was the kind of person who made you feel like you could do anything, if only you had a fraction of her energy.
You’d classified yourself as a nerd all your life, with your reading habit and big round glasses, but once university opened doors, and you could let loose with your newfound post-puberty Princess Diaries glow-up, you didn’t mind your grades slipping a bit.
You weren’t in any student groups or an athlete like Lex. But that’s part of why she drew you in. Her happy, cheerful, and extremely hardworking nature that was inspiring to be around.
When you were about to drop out of your degree, just a year before graduating, questioning whether redoing exams was really worth it, breaking the news to Lex felt like a burden.
That’s when you bumped into Geto.
He'd overheard your conversation with the registrar's office while you were grabbing caffeine for yet another all-nighter at the local cafe. You didn't even see him approach while you were too busy spiraling over the phone.
"Hey." His voice was soft. Gentle. "Are you okay?"
You wanted to lie. You really, really did. But when he asked again, the floodgates opened.
You cried in the middle of the cafe, surrounded by strangers, and Geto just... held you. His arms were warm and steady, stabilizing you in the middle of your breakdown.
"You're not stupid," he said, his voice firm but kind. "You're just caught up in a series of unlucky decisions. That doesn't define you."
He sat with you the entire evening, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He listened to your vulnerable thoughts, your irrational fears, your anxiety about disappointing everyone.
And then he said something that stuck with you: "You could do both, you know."
"Stay in the program. And pursue art. There's never enough options in life. But giving up purely based on the lax judgment of you being stupid, when you've survived so many years… isn't wise."
He reached across the table, his hand squeezing yours. "I've seen how smart you are. Lex thinks so too. We're here for you. I'm here for you. Just... stay strong, okay?"
That year brought Geto and you really close.
Visiting Lex's home had been a regular ritual during university holidays because her parents lived close to campus, and they loved having you over. But when you started making excuses, when you lied about why you couldn't make it yet another holiday weekend, Lex became suspicious.
"Are you seeing anybody?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.
"No, I'm not. I'm just... really exhausted with these assignments."
"You know," she paused, "I've taken that course before. You could just borrow my older assignments."
You felt horrible lying to her. But it was a long, twisted lie that was too hard to untangle now. She didn't know you'd almost dropped out. She never knew Geto was the one who talked you out of it and your newfound source of comfort during this period of time.
In hindsight, you'd been a really bad friend. But Lex had so much on her plate already, that the last thing you wanted was to burden her with your sob story.
Things had been strictly platonic with Geto. Until one singular event changed it all.
You were hanging out at his place, half-asleep on his couch after classes ended, while he made dinner for the both of you. The smell of steak was wafting from the kitchen, and you were sinking into the cushions like you'd been drugged.
"You better wake your ass up!" he yelled from the kitchen. "I'm not reheating this expensive steak even if you ask me to!"
"I don't even want it, Geto," you mumbled sleepily. "I don't want to shove protein in my mouth all the time. Let me cook my own thing, okay?"
And you fell asleep again.
You're not sure how long it had been – minutes? hours? when you felt a soft hand tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. A warm gesture.
Until that very hand reached your cheek with a gentle caress.
"You have no idea how much I like you."
That's what you heard. A whisper in the room, so quiet, you almost convinced yourself it was all a dream.
You never brought it up. You were too scared. Surely you'd hallucinated it, scared you'd misinterpreted it, scared of what it would mean if it was real.
But coincidentally, he started texting you less and less. Whenever you proposed a movie night, he was busy. Whenever you suggested grabbing coffee, he had plans. And the next thing you knew? He posted a picture with a blonde girl named Yuki, captioned "hard launch."
He was still friendly. Polite. But distant. The depth of your newfound friendship with Geto had dissipated into thin air, and you never got any closure.
Lex knew nothing. It was a secret only the two of you shared. And you weren't even sure if you felt bad about the entire thing, but your heart would ache when you realized you'd lost a brilliant friendship, simply over a lack of communication.
"Well, well, well!" Gojo stood up from the diner booth, his arms spread wide. "Look who decided to bless us with her presence today!"
You walked in with Lex, and Shoko immediately launched herself at you, her hug tight enough to make you lose your balance.
"It's been so long!" she screamed, pulling back to look at you. "Your hair grew longer, too!"
"I missed you too, Shoko."
You meant it. You really, really meant it.
Because you did miss the group – the way they always tried to make you feel included, despite the fact that they were more of a family by default. They had history, inside jokes, shared memories. But they always made room for you. It had been more than five months since you'd seen them. Your job was on the opposite coast now, and flying every now and then wasn't very economical. You talked to Lex every day (she'd visited you last month, too), but besides the group chat, this was the first time you'd seen their faces this year.
Gojo immediately launched into a story about his newfound interest in baguettes after travelling to Paris, complete with dramatic oui oui reenactments and a questionable French accent. Shoko retaliated by calling out how much weight he had gained from that trip and how his pudgy belly was proof enough that he should stop shoving the Denny’s pancakes in his mouth, coated in sugary syrup. Kento was too busy pretending not to be in a Zoom meeting with his colleagues, unmuting every few minutes to say “yes, I’m here” which made everyone laugh. Lex kept you close, her arm looped through yours, squishing your cheeks open to force-feed you the last slice of pizza you loved.
And Geto? He’d waved at you with a gentle smile, but he never got up to greet you. Yuki and he were going stronger than ever, even after graduating from university a while back. You respected that and never bothered to clarify any past events.
*ੈ🍸✩‧₊˚ Sukuna's POV *ੈ🍸✩‧₊˚
Ryomen wasn't a social butterfly in any sense of the word.
After his peers isolated him after the violent attack on his teammate, he'd struggled with making friends, small talk, and just new conversations in general. But when he moved out at 18, although he hated his parents’ guts, he lost his only emotional and financial support system.
Every dollar had to stretch. Every meal had to be planned. Every decision had to be weighed just so he could keep renting a random basement in Long Island to see Yuji every weekend.
But as Yuji grew older, now 16, Ryomen became even more lonely.
Yuji would text beforehand: "Hey bro. Hiking with the gang this weekend. See ya next weekend? I promise I’ll make it up to you."
"No problem. Have fun, kid.", Ryomen would text back.
He never pushed him to see his older brother. He wanted Yuji to have a life outside of him and his family – something Ryomen never got to experience. A normal life with friends and freedom. Space, to let him grow and become his own person, while he tried not to feel the ache of being left behind.
He'd heard about the opportunities New York City could offer.
The city that never slept.
"London is satisfied, Paris is resigned, but New York is always hopeful..."
That quote by Dorothy Parker had been stuck in his head. All his life, he’d been chasing the wrong goals when he knew he existed because of hope. The city didn't care about one’s past reputation or the tattoos that marked one's skin, and he wanted that fresh start.
He'd always been tempted to move, and always wondered what it would be like to disappear into a crowd of millions… disconnecting from his old self to become anonymous.
But moving costs money. Rent in the city costs more money. More money than his suburban basement residence in Long Island. Five times more money. Money he didn't have.
So alongside his already taxing barista shifts and his pet-sitting gigs in the suburbs, he decided to pick up work at his martial arts gym. Anything to save up enough for a deposit on a shared studio in Bushwick.
He’d begged the owner to let him clean, to help around the gym, to do anything for minimum wage, literally. He hesitated, his eyes scanning Ryomen's ever-growing tattoos, his scarred knuckles, and the bitterness in his gaze. He treated Ryomen like he was part of the mafia or something.
But the owner was also struggling to keep the place running solo alongside his wife, and desperation eventually outweighed his overthinking. He let Ryomen volunteer, unpaid, at first, just to prove himself. "Show me you're worth keeping around, kid" he'd said. "Then you’ll be one step closer to moving to the city."
Ryomen gave it his all. Sometimes, it seemed desperate. But he never actually cared about the studio. The martial arts studio also had a gym. And as staff, he'd be able to train anytime. Build strength. Become powerful. Powerful enough that no one could ever hurt him or a close one.
He'd watch the trainers during their 1-on-1 sessions, memorizing their techniques, then practice on his own time. Shadow boxing in the empty gym at midnight, his fists punching through the air, while the owner would sometimes catch him doing so and scoff.
Eventually, after a patron suffered a nasty foot injury and Ryomen rushed them to the hospital without calling an ambulance, saving the gym from a potential lawsuit, the owner finally agreed to hire him.
"Pay’s barely enough for food, I suppose." The owner admitted. "But it's something."
Ryomen nodded, grateful. It was more than he'd ever had before.
He'd graduated from high school a while back and didn't care about it now. Further education wasn't an option. Not because he didn't want it, but because he could simply not afford it.
College was for people who had safety nets and kids with gentle parents who were their birthgivers and financial providers. People who didn't have to choose between paying rent and leaving their younger brother alone.
One unexpected quality that Ryomen possessed, in spite of not going to college, was that he loved learning. Late at night, after his shifts ended and the suburbs had gone quiet, he'd scroll through YouTube, finding random educational videos. Sometimes about time and space, other times about genetics, the way traits were passed down like curses, like the anger in his blood that he couldn't escape.
One of those evenings, his recommended feed offered him something different.
A video with no description. A single title: "Free." And a thumbnail of a girl with a canvas in a dimly lit room, her back to the camera.
He clicked out of morbid curiosity and stayed because he couldn't look away. The video was silent with no music and no captions – just the sound of soft rustling of a brush against a canvas. Her movements were slow and fluid. It was a meditative experience watching her create. Unlike Bob Ross, she didn't explain any part of the painting or the techniques to her audience.
The final product was breathtaking – a canvas covered in butterflies trying to escape. The wings were spread out intentionally, reaching for the edges of the frame like they were desperate to break free.
Now, Ryomen wasn't an artsy guy. He'd never understood the appeal of galleries, the pretentiousness of art critics. But something stirred in him after watching that video. Something he couldn't put into words. He clicked on her profile. Just two videos. That was all she'd posted.
Without hesitation, he followed her page named ‘codedemon’.
Then it became a nightly ritual. He always rushed back home to enjoy his dinner in the comfortable silence of her painting videos. The sound of the paint strokes was like music to his ears, polar opposite to the volatile environment he grew up in.
He found her charming, too. She’d follow the same comforting ritual in every video. First, she’d appear from the left of the screen, bow her head as if it were to pay respect or some sort of homage to the process of creating art. Every painting, interestingly, was somehow always connected to a butterfly. Different themes. Sometimes nature, the city, the mountains – but there was always at least one butterfly. It was her way of having an artist’s signature, he supposed.
He loved them so much that one weekend, when Yuji finally let him visit, he asked his tattoo artist, Kai, to help him get a tattoo inspired by her art.
"Wouldn't that be plagiarism?" Kai joked, placing a sample stencil on Ryomen's skin.
"Nah. Just showing you inspiration," Ryomen said. "Trust you to have your own vision for it, brother."
And boy, did he have a vision.
Kai decided that the placement for the tattoos would be best if it were conspicuous. His chest. The centre – on his sternum. His vision was unique. Kai decided to extend the lines of the butterfly’s wings to spread out like veins in all four directions, until they blended in seamlessly with Ryomen’s pecs. A basic butterfly tattoo that everyone in his studio wanted? No, this was far from it.
When she arrived at the bar wearing those reddish-burgundy kitten heels that matched her lipstick, and his eyes, his heart had skipped a beat. Not just because she looked nice, but because he recognized her from somewhere before.
The years he had spent watching the video on loop stopped, frame freezing. Every movement of her fingers holding the brush, the button nose he wanted to pinch, the way paint smudged her cheek as she tried to tuck her hair behind her ear – all while creating art. He never expected his favourite artist to show up in front of him.
He didn’t doubt it was her. He recognized her instantly. He had memorized every detail of her face.
She’d stopped posting videos two years back. Two years of refreshing her page, hoping for a new video. He logged in with optimism every time, only to be met with the same ‘account not found’ error. Two years of wondering what happened to her.
Had she moved on to other things? Lost interest in art? Gotten too busy with life?
Or had something bad happened to her? He'd wake up, worried late at night. Life had changed now; he was in the city, finally chasing his dreams, but the quiet comfort of weekend nights had vanished from his reach. He’d wished he'd saved the video before they disappeared.
“She's just taking a break.” He'd told himself. “Maybe she'll come back.”
And he'd accepted the loss of loving someone whose name he never even knew.
a/n: guys um... this turned out to be way darker than I anticipated... I'm SO SORRY T_T my shayla went through so muchhhh and trust we have optimistic things ahead that will all tie in together 🙂↕️
i will say this though ~
sukuna's identity in the jjk universe as a villain is often labeled as heinous without understanding the history behind his sufferring as an outcast. ofc this is au sukuna, but i believe he'd still carry the weight of "sukuna" being isolated in his early years, in every universe.
whether sukuna will eventually warm up to the idea of opening closed doors (his heart and his parents), we don't know yet (yeah even i don't, fyi this is the latest plot i've written), but i'm hoping that you can enjoy the eventual yin/yang dynamic i want to showcase between the reader and him! 👀👀👀👀
ALSO SORRY FOR MAKING GETO LOWKEY AN ASSHOLE LMFAOOOOO 💀
+1 here's how i imagine the butterfly tattoo design would look like on his chest!! found it on pinterest and her tiktok handle is umidlertidig i believe!!
Taglist open:
@man1cslut @warlove13 @winniethepoohjusttookapooh
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