The first thing Sukuna noticed about you was that you never stopped smiling.
It was irritating. Every time he turned a corner in the compound, there you were. bouncing on your heels, eyes bright, waving like you hadn’t seen him in years instead of the ten minutes it had actually been.
He scowled. The name. You’d given him a nickname. No one called him that. No one dared. But you had chirped it out the second week you’d arrived, and when he’d snarled at you to shut up, you’d just giggled and said, “What? It suits you.”
He should have killed you then. Would have killed anyone else.
But you’d looked at him with those wide, earnest eyes, and something in his chest had twisted. He’d ignored it. Ignored you.
Except you didn’t let yourself be ignored.
“I brought you tea,” you said now, skipping up to him with a ceramic cup balanced in both hands. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim. “It’s the blend you liked last week. I had to bribe the old woman in the village for the recipe. Took forever.”
He stared down at you, arms crossed, unimpressed. “I didn’t ask for tea.”
“I know.” Your smile didn’t waver. “But I wanted to bring it anyway. You seemed tired after the council meeting.”
He grunted, but his fingers twitched. He didn’t take the cup.
You held it out higher, rocking on your heels. “Come on, just try it. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop bothering you for the rest of the day.”
He snorted. “You never stop bothering me.”
“That’s true.” You laughed, bright and unapologetic. “But I’d try. For the tea.”
Against every instinct, he reached out and took the cup. His fingers brushed yours, and you beamed like he’d handed you the moon. He looked away, lifting the tea to his lips. It was warm, fragrant, not terrible. He took a long sip.
“Well?” You leaned in, hopeful.
“Fine? That’s it?” You pouted, but your eyes sparkled. “I spent two hours on this, Ryou. Two hours. You could at least say thank you.”
He handed the cup back, his expression flat. “Thank you.”
It was dry, dismissive. But you clapped your hands together like he’d offered you a crown. “You’re welcome! See? That wasn’t so hard.”
He turned to walk away, but you fell into step beside him, uninvited. Your shoulder brushed his arm, and he stiffened.
“Walking with you,” you said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Where are we going?”
“That’s not a destination.”
He stopped abruptly, and you nearly collided with his chest. He looked down at you, lips pressed thin. “Why do you keep doing this?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely, irritation bleeding into his voice. “The tea. The smiling. The following me around like a lost puppy. What do you want?”
For a moment, your smile faltered. He saw the flicker of vulnerability, a crack in the relentless cheer. Then it was gone, replaced by something softer, warmer.
“I just like you,” you said simply. “Is that so strange?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He had a hundred sharp retorts ready. You don’t know me. You’re a fool. I’ll eat you alive. But none of them came out.
Instead, he said, “It’s annoying.”
“I know,” you said, and you laughed again, that damn laugh that made his teeth ache. “But you’ll get used to it.”
He didn’t respond. He walked away, and this time, you let him.
But he could feel your gaze on his back, warm and persistent. And later that night, when he found the small bundle of tea leaves tied with a red ribbon outside his door, he stared at it for a long time before picking it up.
The pattern continued for weeks.
You brought him food you’d cooked yourself, always slightly burnt, always seasoned with too much salt, but he ate it anyway. You left notes tucked into his books, little drawings of flowers and badly drawn smiley faces. You found excuses to touch him: a hand on his arm when you laughed, a pat on his shoulder when you passed, a gentle shove when he was being “too grumpy.”
He growled at you. Snapped. Told you to get lost.
One evening, you found him in the training yard, sitting alone on a worn stone bench. The moon was high, casting silver light across the empty space. You approached quietly, your usual bounce subdued.
He didn’t answer. You took that as permission, settling beside him. Not too close, but close enough that your knee almost touched his.
“You seem sad tonight,” you said, your voice soft.
“I’m not sad.” His tone was clipped. “I’m thinking.”
He didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on the distant treeline. You waited, patient, unchafed by his silence.
After a long moment, you shifted, reaching out tentatively. Your fingers brushed his hand where it rested on his thigh. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to talk,” you murmured. “I just wanted you to know you’re not alone.”
He looked at you then, really looked. The moonlight caught your face, illuminating the gentle curve of your lips, the earnest light in your eyes. There was no fear there. No hesitation. Just… you.
His throat tightened. He looked away.
“You’re too soft,” he said, his voice rough. “The world will break you.”
“Maybe,” you said, and you smiled, small and sad. “But you won’t.”
He didn’t have a response to that.
You leaned in, resting your head against his shoulder. He went rigid. Every muscle locked, his breath catching. But you didn’t move away. You just stayed there, warm and trusting, your hand slipping into his.
He should push you off. Should stand up and walk away. Should remind you that he was a monster.
But his hand, against his will, turned over. His fingers curled around yours, hesitant, gentle, a gesture so foreign it felt like betrayal.
He heard your soft intake of breath, felt you relax against him. And for a terrible, beautiful moment, he didn’t want to let go.
The night it finally happened, it was your doing.
You found him in his chambers, seated by the window, a scroll unrolled before him that he wasn’t reading. You slipped in without knocking, you never knocked, and crossed the room to stand in front of him.
He looked up. The usual scowl was there, but softer around the edges. “What now? More tea? Another drawing?”
“No.” You bit your lip, a nervous habit he’d noticed weeks ago. Then you dropped to your knees in front of him, your hands resting on his thighs.
His breath hitched. “What are you doing?”
“I want you,” you said, your voice steady despite the blush spreading across your cheeks. “I know you act like you hate me. I know you push me away. But I see you, Ryou. I see how you look at me when you think I’m not watching. I feel how you hold my hand when no one’s around.”
He said nothing. His fists were clenched at his sides.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you whispered. “Not anymore.”
Something cracked behind his eyes. The mask slipped, just for a second, and you saw it, the want, the fear, the desperate hope he’d never let anyone see.
“You’ll regret this,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“I know.” You leaned up, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “I don’t need gentle. I need you.”
His hands shot out, gripping your shoulders, hauling you up until you straddled his lap. His mouth crashed into yours, hard, hungry, desperate. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a siege. He devoured you, tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
He tore at your clothes, robe, sash, undergarments, all discarded in frantic, impatient movements. He laid you back on the tatami mats, his body covering yours, his cock pressing against your thigh, hard and leaking.
“You’re sure?” he asked, the question strained, almost pained.
In answer, you reached down, wrapping your fingers around his length. He hissed, his hips jerking forward. You guided him to your entrance, slick and waiting.
“I’m sure,” you breathed.
The stretch was exquisite, a burn that melted into pleasure as he seated himself fully inside you. He stilled, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. His eyes were squeezed shut, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Fuck,” he whispered. Just that.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He groaned, low and guttural, and began to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, searching. But the pace quickly unraveled. His hips drove faster, harder, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew there would be bruises.
You clung to him, matching his rhythm, your moans filling the room. He was relentless, chasing his release with a single-minded intensity. But as your own pleasure built, as you clenched around him, you heard it.
A broken sound, torn from his throat.
He tried to stifle it, burying his face in your neck, but it escaped again, high and vulnerable, completely at odds with the powerful body fucking into you.
“Ryou,” you gasped, your hand finding his cheek, turning his face toward yours.
His eyes were wet. Not crying, not quite, but glassy, raw. The expression on his face was one of utter surrender, of a man who had never let anyone see him like this.
“Don’t look,” he rasped, trying to turn away.
But you held him there, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He came with a shuddering cry, his body convulsing against yours, his voice breaking into a series of soft, desperate whimpers. He spilled inside you, hot and thick, and you held him through it, your arms wrapped around his shaking frame.
When it was over, he stayed buried inside you, his face hidden in your hair. His breath was uneven, his hands trembling where they pressed into the mat on either side of your head.
Minutes passed. Neither of you spoke.
Finally, he lifted his head. His eyes were raw, his expression unguarded in a way you’d never seen. He looked at you, and his mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“Stay,” he said. It was barely a whisper. More plea than command.
You smiled, that same warm, bubbly smile that had driven him mad for weeks. “I’m not going anywhere, Ryou.”
He didn’t say thank you. But when he pulled out and gathered you into his arms, pulling you against his chest, his hold was possessive and tender. And when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, so soft you almost missed it, you felt his lips tremble.
He didn’t let go all night.
