Synopsis: you got into an accident and lost your memories. to learn about what happened and how you ended up in the hospital in the first place, you must start at the beginning and contact your six exes
and perhaps on your path to recovering what you lost, you may end up back together with the one who loved you most...
Warnings: angst, memory loss, reader's morality questioned, flawed characters, realistic depictions of relationships?, crude language, modern/non curse au, each men's part can be technically read as a standalone but they are part of the series
summary: tempt and revolt are the band everyone loves, crazy punk superstars, insanely popular. onstage, sparks fly between you, the magnetic lead singer, and sukuna, the tattooed guitarist fans swear youāre in love with. offstage an old fling with toji, the bassist, resurfaces. a scandal explodes, and the press circles like vultures. in the chaos, you and sukuna find yourselves pulled into something deeper than late nights and lust. fame is brutal, but so is love, and this time, neither of you can hide behind the 'bestfriend' label. (smut, angst, fluff!)
the walls shake with the loud roar of the crowd. they're screaming, your band's name spilling out of their throats like they canāt get enough even though you havenāt stepped on stage yet.
tojiās draped across the leather armchair to the right of you, his bass balanced on his knee, heās tuning it with his fore finger, a fresh blunt hanging from his lips, one he doesnāt even take out when he talks.
ācrowdās loud as fuck tonight,ā he mutters, strumming a line that vibrates filthily through the room. āgonna eat you alive out there, y/n.ā he stares you down like he knows you inside and out, and maybe he does, but it doesn't make it any less dominating.
āthey always eat her alive,ā choso says. heās sitting on the floor, back against the wall, twirling his drumsticks like he was born with them in his hands. dark eyeliner smudged underneath his tired eyes, hair tied back but already slipping loose. ātheyāll probably cry when we finish up too, like they always do.ā
you laugh, you can still hear them out there, chanting and begging, and you want it, need it, the way you always do before a set.
and then he walks in.
sukuna.
guitar strapped across his back, black beater already sticking to his skin like he came straight from hell. the tattoos peppering his face glow dark under the shitty overhead light, sprawling across his chest, down his arms, up his throat. he doesnāt bother with a greeting, just drops into the seat next to you, body pressed warm against yours like he owns the space.
you could feel it, the constant gaze of ryomens velvet eyes, watching you as if he was watching a deer in a cage. like all he wanted to do was pounce, take you away and keep you all to himself.
you were perfect, a glistening pice of heaven.
your voice was smooth and sexy in the way that made men weak in the knees and caused women to scream and cry in anticipation, your beauty only added to the effect, earning you the title of hottest rocker in your country's daily rock magazine almost weekly.
sukuna knew how precious you were, how utterly mesmerising one person could be, and he treasured you as such. your best friend, the one you turned to when shit got rough, the one you'd fall asleep on thousands of times after long rehearsals, the one who'd carry you to his bed, tucking you into his side and kissing your forehead goodnight.
your relationship was far from labeled, but everyone close to you knew the two of you were never just friends.
āso, let's confirm the setlist." he says, voice low, rough, dripping with boredom he doesnāt really feel.
you flip through the scribbled paper on the coffee table, the ink smudged where your fingers have dragged over it a hundred times.
āstart with venom,ā you say. āthen into sugarcoat, do a few from the newest album, then end with blackout.ā
toji grins around his blunt. ālusty as fuck. crowdās gonna lose their shit.ā
āthey better,ā sukuna mutters, leaning back, stretching out until his arm drapes across the back of the couch behind you. his smirk is lazy, sharp at the edges where his fangs protrude. ādonāt make me carry your ass through the whole set again, y/n.ā
you shoot him a look, lips pressed together to keep from smiling. āyou couldnāt carry me if you tried.ā
his grin widens, teeth flashing. āplease. you live off my riffs.ā
the room hums with it, that charge that always sparks between you. choso rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath about 'sexual tension', and goes back to drumming a rhythm against his knees.
toji laughs, low and slow. āheās not wrong though. you two sound like youāre fucking on stage half the time.ā
heat spikes in your chest, crawling up your throat, but you cover it with a smirk. āthatās the point,ā you say, letting your voice drip honey. āthe crowd eats it up.ā
āyeah,ā sukuna says, leaning closer, his breath warm against your cheek. āthey eat it up. but you? you like it too.ā
you look away, pretending to fuss with the setlist, ignoring the way your pulse skips. his hand is close, too close, resting on the back of the couch like it could drop to your shoulder at any second. ignoring the way one of his fingers begin slowly stroking your shoulder.
your eyes flutter to the tattoo on his right bicep, 'tempt & revolt' inked in a pretty font, the name of your little band, he was always one for promotion.
the muffled roar outside rises again, louder, like the crowd knows youāre just behind the wall. you can almost hear your name tangled in the noise, chanted, begged for.
ātheyāre fucking rabid,ā choso mutters,
"let's give them something to scream louder for then."
the stage manager knocks on the door, shouting five minutes. the noise outside swells again, pounding, fevered. you stand, smoothing your clothes, mic clutched tight. your heart is already racing.
toji hauls himself up with a grunt, slinging his bass over his shoulder, lazy grin plastered on his face. choso pushes off the wall, rolling his shoulders, spinning his sticks like heās bored of waiting.
sukuna rises last, towering, dangerous, every inch of him electric. he looks down at you, smirk softening just enough to make your stomach flip.
and when you step into the hall, the sound of the crowd slams into you, so loud it feels like the world itself is about to split open.
you take a deep breath, and let the comforting opening of venom wash over you, your voice igniting a fiery passion in each and every person who sold out the show.
"welcome to tempt and revolts 'wreck me' tour!"
~
the set flew past with ease, a loud mess of people throwing their undergarments on stage, toji throwing his shirt off stage causing a free for all, and of course, thousands of adoring voices screaming your name over and over again.
with a final riff of sukunas guitar, the stadium went quiet as you approached the mic for the last time that night.
you glance at choso, whoās grinning through the crash of his cymbals, and then at toji, whoās playing it cool but canāt hide the smirk tugging at his mouth. sukunaās nursing his guitar, strings humming, eyes locked on yours despite the other thousand people infront of him.
you toss him a smile, grabbing the mic with both hands, leaning into the heat of it as the crowd quietens.
āyouāve been fucking insane tonight,ā you breathe, voice raw but charged. the roar that comes back nearly knocks you off balance.
āthatās what iām talking about,ā you laugh, dizzy with the high. ātempt and revolt loves you. every single one of you. thank you for being here, thank you for screaming with us, thank you for sweating with us. we see you.ā
the crowd explodes. phones wave in the air, lights strobing across faces twisted with joy.
"this was our last show of the tour, and i just want to say how incredibly special this performance was to me, to us. i really can't thank you enough for being such an amazing crowd." the drawback was even louder than before, like every single person was cheering with their entire being.
"god she's such a sap." sukuna interrupted, coming up behind you with his own mic, shaking an arm around your waist. you laugh and so does the crowd, but before he could crack another joke, a fan in the front row screams out the one thing you had been begging not to hear tonight.
"y/n! is it true you and toji used to hook up!?"
...
silence.
from you, at least.
the rest of the stadium blew up with 'ooo's', and 'oh shit''s. you could feel your cheeks heat up,
this wasn't supposed to happen.
you awkwardly cleaned your throat into the mic as sukuna shifted uncomfortably in his place, his arm dropping from your side. recently in the media, all anyone was talking about was how it had come to light that an old friend from your early band days had exposed you and toji's dirty little secret.
and yeah, you fucked.
but it wasnāt love with toji. it was sweat and impulse, youth and recklessness. back then the band was in dingy garages after you'd all decided to drop out of college, half- empty bars, crashing on floors, barely enough cash for food. you and toji were two restless bodies orbiting each other, all hunger and zero promises.
heād drag you into bathrooms between sets, chain against your chest while he pressed you to the tiles. he always left you you raw and shaking, still coming back.
āwell... it wasnāt like we were hiding it,ā toji says, suddenly into his stage mic, and oh god, the fans erupted. you and sukuna both whipped your heads around to see him smirking shirtless into the mic, stepping up to the front of the stage to address the fans.
"i mean, look at her." he gestures you you can the fans go wild.
"everyone wanted her then, and they all want her now, lucky me just got there first." he joked, and the crowd ate it the fuck up. you were sure some even fainted at the revelation.
you looked around helplessly as sukuna stalked towards toji, throwing an arm around his neck a little too rough, taking the mic from his hand. "this guy talks way too much am i right?"
the fans laughed, taking this all as some lighthearted banter, but you could tell, sukuna was about to snap. ever since tempt and revolt got big, your manager, nanami, always reminded you to never speak about your past encounters with toji, said it would complicate things, and now he was up here airing out your dirty laundry to a stadium of over two thousand people.
real professional.
behind you, choso was making a cut throat action to the producers on set to finally put a stop to this moment, but toji just kept on going.
"i think lover boy over here's just jealous i had her screaming before he did." he smirked.
you had never wanted to curl up and die more than you did right now. not knowing what to do, and seeing sukuna getting visibly more pissed with each word out of tojis big mouth, you did the only thing you could.
"okay guys! tonight was so amazing but it's time for us to go. thank you for being such an electric crowd tonight! this was the tempt and revolts 'wreck me tour' we hope you enjoyed!"
you waved your final goodbyes and swiftly walked off stage despite the uproar from the crowd, the band followed suit after saying their last stage send off's, choso threw his drum sticks into the crowd to try and distract them from the sudden and incomplete ending to the show, blowing them kisses as he winked to really get them going.
you ran right into the greenroom where nanami stood with a look of utter disbelief etched into his face, looking past you, right at toji with the scariest scowl you had ever seen.
.
"what the actual fuck was that?!" the blonde snapped.
you usually hated nanami when he was angry and yelling, but right now? you were right there with him.
"we promised to keep that shit a secret toji! i'm not some stage puppet you can use to make yourself look better!" you clipped.
you had half a mind to slap him across his big ugly face, but you restrained, choso grabbing your shoulder before you could get any closer to the towering man. "c'mon y/n, calm down a sec babe."
sukuna on the other hand, he had long since grabbed toji's shoulder and backed him harsh up against the nearest wall.
"i'm gonna kill you, you think that little comment was funny, huh?"
before he could ring his neck, the security guard on duty in the green room pulled them apart. this gave toji some time to taunt before nanami could lecture him.
ācan you all chill the fuck out? the fans swallow it up like gospel." he stretches out his arms with a shit eating smirk. "hey, maybe i should do a podcast, hm? 'confessions of a bassist.' tell āem all about our little secrets.ā
your jaw tightens. āyou're such a dick! no one wants to hear your shitty two cents.ā
ānah,ā he says, low and amused, glancing between you and sukuna with a bored look, ātheyād line up for it. you should see the dms i get begging me to spill, half of āem wanna know what it was like to fuck you, the other wanna know if i still am.ā
the room stills.
sukunaās head turns, slow, sharp, eyes locked on him. his breath is steady, but thereās nothing calm about the way his jaw ticks.
choso mutters a curse under his breath, shifting like heās about to intervene, but nanami steps in before you can retort.
"that's enough. your behaviour was absolutely disgusting, you have no fucking idea how much of a job this clean up is gonna be, toji. you're almost as problematic as that pop singer gojo and his little boy band. it's embarrassing."
the accused just rolls his eyes with a scoff, pulling at his studded cuffs.
"god! i pick you assholes up out of shitty bar gigs, make you famous, line your damn pockets with gold and this is how you repay me? for christ sake i need a career change!"
.
the night ends with nanami still snapping at toji, but you donāt stay long enough to hear the rest. youāre already shoving your heavy leather jacket on, slipping past the scowl on your managers face, ignoring the way the venue crew are very clearly gossiping.
your pulse is still hammering like youāre on stage, except itās not adrenaline now, itās complete and utter dread. sukuna follows with a reassuring hand on your lower back, keeping you close as your navigate through the back stage hallways.
you keep your head down, but you can still hear it. the crowd outside, scattered, buzzing, already alive with speculation. someoneās probably tweeting in real time, uploading shaky videos of what just went down.
sukunaās black mercedes truck is waiting out back, gleaming, hulking like him, tinted windows hiding you from the frenzy. he pulls his guitar off his shoulders and lays it down in the boot, then opens the passenger door for you, jerking his chin at you. get in.
the leather is cold against your thighs, the smell of him clinging to the seats, smoke, sweat, faint aftershave. he slams the door shut and stalks around to the driverās side.
choso slides into the back, quiet for once, drumsticks gone, hair coming loose in strands that cling to his temple.
toji takes his sweet time, climbing in last, bass slung across his back like a shield, smirk still curling his mouth even though the tension is thick enough to choke on.
nobody speaks as sukuna pulls onto the street.
the city rushes by in streaks of light, windows fogging with your collective breath. your phone buzzes nonstop in your hand, notifications stacking so fast the screen lags. you open one out of instinct and regret it instantly, headlines already stamped bold across your feed.
'lead singer y/nās past exposed live on stage by bassist toji fushiguro.'
'is tempt and revolt breaking apart? fans react to shocking confession.'
'was the chemistry with sukuna fake all along? was it always toji behind closed doors?'
your throat tightens. you canāt stop scrolling. itās a freefall, you, center stage, your face frozen in clips mid-reaction, eyes wide, lips parted like youāve been caught in the act. some fans are defending you, screaming about boundaries, others are dissecting every old video, pausing on every look you ever gave toji like it was evidence.
sukunaās fingers tighten around your thigh. not painful, just firm, a silent command. breathe.
you glance sideways at him. his jawās locked tight, eyes fixed on the road, tattoos shifting over muscle as his grip on the wheel flexes. he looks like heās one second from pulling over and tearing the whole world apart. but that hand stays steady, burning into your skin, holding you still.
choso leans his head back against the seat with a sigh that fogs the window. his voice comes soft, low, not directed at anyone. āfuck, man. this is all anyone's gonna talk about for months, why'd you go and do it when we have an album to release.ā
no one answers.
you catch tojiās reflection in the side mirror. heās sprawled out like he hasnāt got a care in the world, wrist draped over the door, eyes on the city lights. but his jaw ticks when he thinks no oneās looking, his smirk wobbling at the edges.
your chest aches with something you canāt name. rage, embarrassment, fear. you snap the phone shut in your palm and press it hard against your thigh, leaning into sukunaās hand like you can absorb some of his steadiness.
the silence is crushing. every second that ticks by, it feels heavier. you can hear the hum of the engine, the rattle of something in the back, the low bass of the city outside.
finally choso mutters, āwish i couldāve stopped it sooner.ā
you turn slightly, catching him in the rearview. heās got his hands over his face now, fingers dragging down, eyeliner smearing worse. he looks exhausted, guilty.
āwasnāt your job,ā sukuna says at last, his voice gravel in the dark. āwas his.ā his eyes flick once to toji in the mirror, sharp enough to cut.
toji doesnāt bite. just chuckles low, like itās all beneath him. āpress is probably already writing about it. good for publicity.ā
you whip around in your seat, glare slicing into him. āgood for publicity? you humiliated me in front of two thousand people.ā
ārelax, sweetheart,ā he says, smirk flashing in the dark. āyouāll survive.ā
the truck jerks as sukunaās hand twitches on the wheel. his knuckles go white.
youāre two seconds from snapping back when choso cuts in, his voice sharper than usual. ātoji, just shut the fuck up. for once.ā
the backseat goes quiet again.
sukuna exhales through his nose, a slow, dangerous sound. his hand slides higher on your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles, not for show but for you, a reminder heās there, that heās not letting this go.
the hotel looms into view at last, glass and steel, shining like itās mocking you. youāve stayed here a hundred times on tour when in this city, suites big enough to hold all four of you, but tonight it feels like a cage waiting to close.
the valet stares when sukuna pulls up, wide-eyed like he recognizes the truck. you donāt wait. you push the door open, heavy black boots clumping against pavement, the night air hitting you cold.
.
the doors slide open, the suite is massive, marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows, couches too big to fill. but the second the door clicks shut behind you, the silence swells again, thick, choking.
your phone buzzes again. sukuna plucks it out of your hand before you can look.
āthat's enough, y/n,ā he says.
he looks so stern, yet his hand comes up to your chin and his thumb brushes your cheek once before dropping away.
yet, you donāt wait for the rest of them to settle in. the second the suite door clicks shut behind choso, you grab your phone back and stalk through the golden-lit living room, past the velvet couches and polished bar cart, straight toward the bedroom wing.
āc'mon babe-ā toji starts, voice lilting, all teeth and false charm.
you spin on your heel so fast he actually stumbles a step back. your voice is razor-sharp, clear even though your throat burns.
ādonāt. just shut the fuck up, toji. donāt speak to me.ā
his smirk falters for a breath before he laughs low, rough, forcing it back onto his face. āalright, sweetheart. message received.ā he holds his hands up like heās harmless, like he hasnāt just gutted you in front of thousands.
you glare one last time, then slam the bedroom door behind you.
the silence that follows is thick, suffocating. only the muted hum of the city filters through the glass walls.
sukuna is still standing where you left him, fists clenched at his sides, every vein in his forearms threatening to split.
toji stretches his long legs out, still acting casual. choso sinks into the couch across from him, hunched over, elbows on his knees, hair falling forward.
...
āsheāll cool off,ā toji mutters, leaning back, draping an arm over the chair like he owns it.
sukunaās head snaps toward him, eyes like knives. āyou donāt get it.ā his voice is low, guttural. āyou donāt get what you just did to her.ā
toji scoffs, rolling his shoulders. āwhat, told the truth? everyoneās so damn sensitive. fans eat this shit up-ā
āshut up.ā chosoās voice cuts sharp, surprising them both. he drags a hand down his face, smearing even more eyeliner, dark eyes hard. āseriously, shut the fuck up, toji. no oneās defending you right now.ā
for once, tojiās mouth closes.
sukuna steps forward, slow, deliberate, until heās towering over the armchair. his shadow swallows toji whole. āif you were anyone else,ā he growls, āiād have had my hands around your throat the second you opened your mouth on that stage. i donāt care if it made the crowd scream. i donāt care if it trends. you humiliated her. you humiliated the band.ā
toji leans his head back against the chair, smirk twitching like he canāt decide whether to hold it or let it drop. āryo-ā
ādonāt,ā sukuna snaps, voice like a whip. ādonāt fucking call me that right now.ā
the room goes still.
toji exhales slow, the bravado bleeding at the edges. āalright. i get it. i pushed too far.ā
choso barks out a laugh that isnāt amused. ātoo far? you aired out shit you swore youād keep to yourself. we all agreed, bandās private life stays private. and then you go and pull that in front of thousands.ā he shakes his head, disgust rolling off him. ādo you even realise how shitty that is?ā
tojiās jaw ticks. his smirk finally slips, leaving something harder, older, underneath. āyeah. i realise. fuck.ā he pulls a hand over his stubble, suddenly looking his age. āi wasnāt thinking. thought itād be a joke, thought the fans would-ā
āthe fans donāt matter,ā sukuna bites out. āy/n does. and you made her feel like nothing but a joke.ā
toji stares at the floor. his throat works, but no words come for a long moment. when he finally speaks, itās quieter. āyouāre right.ā
admission felt really wrong coming from toji, but a win was a win, sukuna guessed.
āi fucked up. i shouldnāt have said it. shouldnāt have said any of it.ā he peers into sukuna's eyes and looks genuinely upset. āiām sorry.ā
it's silent, like, awkwardly so.
choso leans back, running both hands through his hair, tugging hard enough to sting. āyou better be. because i donāt know how the hell we'll fix this. the new album drops in two months. press tours, interviews, promo shoots, how the fuck are we supposed to shine light on that when everyone's too focused on this bullshit?ā
tojiās mouth opens, then shuts again.
sukuna finally moves, pacing toward the window, fists buried in his pockets. the city glitters outside, oblivious to the war in the room. āwe canāt pretend,ā he says flat. ātheyāll chew us out if we act like nothing happened.ā he turns, gaze cutting sharp between the two of them. āweāll have to spin it. somehow.ā
ānanamiās already losing his mind,ā choso mutters. āheāll probably ban us from speaking to press for a month.ā
āgood,ā sukuna says. āless chances for him to open his mouth again.ā his eyes slice to toji.
toji meets it, steady now, the weight of the mess finally settling on his shoulders. āi said iām sorry,ā he repeats, voice firmer this time. āi'llā¦ fix it. somehow.ā
āyou canāt fix it,ā sukuna growls. ānot alone. you just make sure you donāt make it worse.ā
toji nods once, jaw tight.
the silence that follows is different. not forgiving, not yet, but less lethal. the stormās eye, the part where you breathe before it starts again.
choso rubs his temples, exhaling long. āfuck, man. tonight was supposed to be a celebration. end of tour, new album on the horizon.ā he drops his hands, glances at sukuna. āinstead weāre here cleaning up another mess.ā
sukuna doesnāt answer. his eyes flick toward the closed bedroom door, the one you disappeared behind.
choso notices. his voice softens. āsheās not okay, you know.ā
sukunaās sighs. āi know.ā
āyou should go to her.ā
sukunaās head snaps around, eyes narrowing.
āwhat?ā choso shrugs, leaning back into the couch cushions. āyouāre the only one sheāll actually let in right now. she trusts you more than anyone.ā
sukuna looks away and toji shifts in his chair uncomfortably, but doesnāt argue.
sukuna pushes off the window, heading for the bedroom wing. his steps are heavy, deliberate, every muscle in his body still humming with restraint. his hand hovers on the door handle for a second, the muffled silence of your room pressing against his palm.
behind him, the suite is quiet. choso watching with tired eyes, toji staring at the floor, the city burning outside the glass.
and then sukuna pushes the door open, stepping into the dark where youāve been carrying all the weight alone.
the bedroom is gloomy when he steps inside, lit only by the thin glow of the outside lights shining through the curtains. it takes a second for his eyes to adjust, but he doesnāt need them to find you. he can hear you, the shaky sound of your breathing, the restless shuffle of fabric as you pace near the bed.
you freeze when the door clicks shut.
āgo away,ā you whisper, though itās not sharp, not like it had been with toji. your voice cracks halfway through, frayed thin.
sukuna doesnāt move closer yet. he leans his back against the door, watching you through the dim. āi'm not going anywhere.ā
your shoulders tense. you turn toward the window, arms wrapped tight around yourself, head bowed like you can fold in half and disappear.
ātheyāre tearing me apart already,ā you mutter, voice rough. āevery blog, every fan account, theyāre-ā your breath hitches, hands clenching into fists. āitās everywhere.ā
sukuna takes one step, then another, slow and deliberate, until heās close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off him. his hand comes up, brushes against your elbow. you stiffen, then sag.
ālet me see it,ā he says. not a question.
you blink, confused.
āyour phone.ā he wiggles his fingers. āgive it.ā
you hesitate before handing it over. it buzzes twice in his palm before he hits the lock button and tosses it onto the bed like itās nothing more than dead weight.
ādonāt-ā you start, reaching for it, but he catches your wrist.
āstop,ā he says, low and steady, eyes pinning you. āthat little box isnāt gonna fix anything. you staring at it all night? just lets āem win.ā
your throat closes. you nod, barely.
sukunaās thumb drags slow across the inside of your wrist before he lets go.
ācome on,ā he mutters, tilting his head toward the bathroom. āa showerās gonna help.ā
āi donāt-ā
ādonāt argue with me.ā his voice cuts through the dark, calm but absolute. āyouāre running on fumes. youāll feel better after.ā
your legs move before your brain agrees. sukuna steers you with a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway into the marble-bright ensuite.
the space is warm, steam already clinging to the mirrors, he mustāve flipped it on before. he pulls a towel from the rack, tosses it onto the counter, then crouches to twist the handle until water thunders from the showerhead.
you stand frozen, hands limp at your sides.
he straightens, looks you over once, then steps closer. āarms up.ā
your breath catches. āryo-ā
āit's just me,ā he says, softer now, teasing edge curling around the words. ādonāt act shy on me now. iāve seen you naked ontop of me lots of times, okay?ā
your lips twitch, but you lift your arms anyway.
his hands are careful as he pulls your black tank over your head. he works your skirt, garters, and stockings next, fingers brushing over your hips as he eases them down. when youāre left in underwear, you fold your arms across your chest, suddenly small.
you and sukuna slept together on occasion, when tension was high and emotions were higher, the type of fuck that left you fulfilled, but you'd never put a label on anything, the both of you choose to forget the next morning between whispered love.
his gaze lingers for a beat too long before he clears his throat as to not get too worked up since you were clearly not in that kind of mood. āgo on. in you get.ā
you slip your underwear off and move to the steady spray, the hot water crashing down, washing sweat and makeup and tension from your skin.
he waits until your shoulders unknot, until the shaking in your hands eases. āfive more minutes. donāt prune up. iām gettinā the bed sorted.ā he stated, stepping out quickly to let the tent in his pants settle.
by the time you step out, wrapped in a towel, the bedroom is dim again. the sheets are turned down, pillows piled, your phone sitting untouched on the nightstand.
sukuna is waiting by the bed, a white hotel robe draped over one massive hand.
ācome here, pretty girl.ā he says again, smirk tugging at his mouth.
you roll your eyes but obey, letting him wrap you in the soft fabric. his fingers brush the nape of your neck as he ties the belt loose around your waist, tugging it into place with a little flourish.
āthere,ā he mutters, satisfied. āfits like a glove, you look adorable.ā
you huff a laugh, the first real one all night.
he grins, sharp and soft all at once, before stepping back toward the bathroom. āmy turn. donāt run off.ā
you grab his arm, "are you sure you don't want me to join... it's the least i could do for you taking such good care of me."
he just smiles, pushing past you and kissing your cheek. "i don't see you as just a prize for a good deed, y/n."
.
when he reappears, damp hair curling around his temples, towel slung low on his hips, showing off all of his sharp abs and tatoos. you flush despite yourself, and he smirks like he knows exactly what you're thinking.
ālike what you see?ā he teases, grabbing his own robe.
āshut up,ā you mutter, turning away.
he chuckles low, tugging the robe on, tying it with a lazy knot. then he pads over, grabs your phone off the nightstand, and flips it facedown.
āno more of that tonight,ā he says, sliding into bed beside you.
he tugs you in without asking, his arm sliding around your waist, his chest a wall of heat at your back. his chin drops to the top of your head and for a long moment, neither of you speak. just the steady thump of his heart under your ear, the soft drag of his thumb along your hip through the robe.
ātalk to me,ā he says finally, voice rough but coaxing.
your throat tightens. āryo, theyāre all going to think so badly of me. that iā¦ā your voice breaks. āthat iām some slut who just moves from one bandmate to the next.ā
sukuna stiffens against you.
āfuck what they think,ā he says, sharp. āthey donāt know shit. they see ten seconds on a stage and think itās the irrevocable truth. they donāt know you.ā his hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up so you meet his eyes. theyāre burning, velvet red, soft only for you. āi do.ā he kisses your nape tenderly.
you swallow hard. ābut the album-ā
āit'll be fine, we'll fix this up somehow.ā
āwhat if the band-ā
he snorts, low and amused. āplease. you think iād let this fall apart ācause toji canāt keep his mouth shut? nah. iāll drag his ass through every interview myself if i have to.ā
you huff a laugh, watery, against his chest.
āthere it is,ā he murmurs, lips brushing the crown of your head. āknew iād get that laugh back.ā
you close your eyes, sinking deeper into him, the exhaustion finally pulling at your bones.
āyouāre too good to me,ā you whisper.
his chest rumbles with a chuckle. ādonāt spread that around. gotta keep my reputation.ā
you smile against him, small but real.
his hand slides up your spine, slow, soothing, pressing you closer. āget some sleep, baby. iāve got you.ā
and you believe him. for once, you let the world burn outside. you let the headlines scream without you. you let yourself rest, held in the arms of the only person who makes you feel untouchable, despite not being his. not fully.
~
nanami lays it out the morning after. slanting up to the hotel room coffee in hand, glasses low on his nose, he looks at all of you like heās choosing who to strangle first.
ānot a word to the press,ā he says flatly. ānot a glance, not a slip, not a clever comment. i donāt care how charming you think you are. radio silence until i say otherwise.ā
you nod. choso salutes with his breakfast spoon. sukuna smirks like heās itching to argue, but one glare from nanami shuts him down. toji only hums, eyes on his plate, the picture of indifference.
thatās week one: silence while you traveled back to your home town.
the band moves like ghosts through airports and venues. sunglasses indoors, hoodies pulled low. no interviews, no off-the-cuff soundbites, just music and the echoing roar of fans who donāt know how close things came to breaking.
choso fills the downtime with sunshine and noise. he finds skateparks in every city, drags you along until sukuna glares and you bail, then he posts blurry photos of sunsets and ramen bowls to his socials, pretending nothing is wrong.
toji disappears into hotel gyms. he lifts until his arms tremble, until sweat soaks through his shirts. itās penance, maybe, or maybe just distraction. when he surfaces, heās quieter than usual, mouth twitching when he almost makes a joke but swallows it back.
sukunaā¦ he stays with you.
he drags you out of bed for midnight walks through empty streets, buys cheap wine from corner stores, makes you laugh until youāre breathless, fucks you mindless when the thoughts get too much. he sits with you through bad tv, through silence, through nights where the headlines still claw at your chest. he never lets you spiral alone.
ādonāt look at that shit,ā he mutters when your phone lights up. ālook at me instead.ā
and you do.
by the second week, the sharp edges dull. the band is holding together by muscle memory.
then comes the apology.
toji corners you one night after a quick rehearsal to keep the sounds sharp, jaw tight, eyes somewhere over your shoulder.
āi fucked up,ā he says simply. āshouldnāt have said what i said, okay. shouldnāt have dragged you like that. iāmā¦ sorry.ā
you want to bite, to spit something cruel, but you donāt. the exhaustion is bone-deep. instead you stare at him until he looks back, until you see the flicker of something real behind the calm.
ādonāt do it again,ā you say, voice hard.
āwasnāt planning on it,ā he mutters, then forces a laugh. it dies quick in his throat. you sigh and give him a small hug, "it's all goods. i forgive you."
he smirks and hugs you back tighter, "couldn't let my recklessness ruin this. you're my favourite girl y'know." he teases.
"can you just shut up toji."
he chuckles into your hair.
little did you know, a tall brooding figure watched over from around the corner, scoffing with jealousy as he stared daggers through tojis head.
~
two weeks bleed past. the press is restless, fans louder than ever, rumors multiplying like wildfire. but the band is still here. youāre still here.
and sukuna hasnāt left your side once.
the city feels different when itās your city.
the skyline that once looked untouchable presses close through the glass walls of sukunaās penthouse, a space too big for one man but perfect for the four of you to crash into after weeks on the road.
youāre half-curled on the couch, legs tucked under you, head pressed against the armrest. sukuna sits right beside you, thigh brushing yours every time he shifts, a presence so heavy and warm it feels more like armor than comfort.
choso is draped across the other couch with a bag of chips, and tojiās sprawled in an armchair, balancing his phone on his stomach as if he canāt even be bothered to hold it up.
the tv is on just for noise. some music show rerun. flashing lights, studio audience screaming. youāre not even watching, until a familiar voice cuts through the chatter.
āwait,ā choso says, chip halfway to his mouth. āis thatā¦ satoru?ā
your head snaps up.
yeah. itās him.
satoru gojo, center stage in a glossy studio chair, legs crossed at the knee, laughing like the world itself is in love with him. platinum hair falling perfect into his eyes, smile white and blinding, a silk shirt half-unbuttoned like heās never known shame.
and the crowd does love him. screaming, swooning, eating from his palm.
āfor fucks sake.ā toji mutters. āthat guys everywhere now, almost as big as us.ā
āalmost?ā sukuna scoffs, leaning forward, tattoos shifting with the motion. āheās everywhere. charts, tv, endorsements. guy probably has his face on billboards in tokyo.ā
"well, so do we it's not like he's that much bigger." choso adds.
you canāt look away. itās surreal, seeing him like this. you remember the classroom instead: messy desks, the smell of cheap coffee, gojo leaning back in his chair with his guitar across his lap, cracking jokes while professors rolled their eyes. you all used to skip lectures together. smoke breaks on the back steps. nights when heād tag along to gigs just to watch, grinning wide under stage lights.
and then he got signed.
gojo didnāt drop out with you. he stayed. got scouted. while tempt and revolt were grinding in garages and shitty bars, he was being polished into a star. and now here he is, glowing on tv.
āhe looks the same,ā you murmur before you can stop yourself.
āyeah,ā sukuna says, tone unreadable. āsame cocky prick.ā
the interviewerās voice cuts in, smooth and prim: āgojo, youāve been climbing the charts nonstop this year. fans adore you, critics praise your vocal range, and your boy band āsix eyesā is selling out arenas worldwide. how does it feel to be at the top of the pop game?ā
gojo leans forward, grinning. āhonestly? feels overdue. i told everyone back in college i was gonna do this. guess i was right.ā
the audience screams.
ājesus christ,ā choso mutters, rolling his eyes.
āshh,ā sukuna growls. ālet it play.ā
the segment rolls on, talk about tour dates, album sales, brand deals, but you can feel something brewing. the interviewerās smile sharpens like a blade.
and then it comes.
ānow, satoru,ā she says, tone casual, almost too casual. āi have to ask. you studied music with some very famous faces before you debuted. tempt and revolt, for example. the band is in the news right now for someā¦ controversy.ā
your stomach drops.
gojo tilts his head, feigning innocence. āoh? the toji and n/n thing?ā
the room goes still.
āfuck,ā choso whispers.
the interviewer leans in. āso you have heard about it. what can you tell us?ā
gojo laughs, slow and easy. āwhat canāt i tell you?ā he says, eyes glittering.
your blood goes cold.
he launches in like heās been waiting for the invitation.
ālook, we all went to the same collage. we all knew each other. toji and y/n? not exactly subtle. half the course knew they were hooking up. theyād disappear for whole nights, come back looking wrecked, pretend nothing happened. nobody bought it. they werenāt hiding shit.ā
the crowd gasps, eats it up like candy.
āheās lying,ā you whisper, throat dry. āheās fucking exaggerating-ā
but he keeps going.
āand it wasnāt just a fling, not at first. they wereā¦ intense. fights in practice rooms, making up in bathrooms. it was kind of legendary, honestly. everyone was waiting for it to blow up. and when it did? oh, it was ugly.ā
toji sits up, eyes narrowed. āthat little-ā
āshut up,ā sukuna snaps. his hand lands heavy on your thigh, grounding you even as your pulse spikes.
the interviewer looks delighted. āso youāre saying the rumors are true?"
āmore than true,ā gojo says smoothly. āif anything, the rumors are tame. those two burned hot, burned fast, and left nothing but ash. i was there. i saw it. y/n and toji-"
click.
the tv goes black. sukunaās thumb is still pressed to the remote, jaw locked so tight you can hear the grind of his teeth.
silence.
your hands are trembling. your phone buzzes on the coffee table, notifications piling in, headlines already forming, but you canāt bring yourself to pick it up.
āfuck,ā choso mutters again, running a hand over his face.
toji leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the blank screen like he could punch through it. āhe didnāt have to do that. he didnāt-ā
āshut. up.ā sukunaās voice is low, lethal. āyou donāt get to talk right now.ā
toji glares back but says nothing.
sukunaās hand is still on your thigh, fingers curling, not moving away. he looks at you finally, eyes sharp but soft at the edges where no one else can see.
āyou okay?ā he asks, voice low, just for you.
you shake your head. your chest feels caved in.
choso exhales, long and slow. āthis is bad. this is really, really bad.ā
bad doesnāt cover it.
gojo hadnāt just confirmed the scandal, heād blown it wide open. painted it vivid for the world, added color where youād tried so hard to keep things black-and-white. now it wasnāt just whispers or headlines. now it was real.
and you know the world is about to devour you for it.
(y'all know i had to throw some gojo in here, c'mon.)
.
half an hour later and sukuna is still sitting rigid on the couch, one arm around you, the other curled into a fist on the leather. choso lounges with the bag of chips forgotten at his side, eyes darting to the TV every few seconds as if he expects gojo to pop back on. toji sits forward in the armchair, fingers drumming on his knees, smirk gone, replaced with tight jawlines and twitching eyelids.
and then the phone buzzes.
nanami.
sukuna picks it up with a growl, pressing it to his ear.
āhave you seen it?ā nanamiās voice comes through, clipped, razor-sharp. even through the speaker, you can feel the fury vibrating.
sukuna exhales slowly. āwe just did, all of us are at my place.ā
āfor fucks sake,ā nanami snaps. āi just got off the phone with his PR manager. that little shit- i donāt even know why i bothered trying to reason with him. heās insufferable, just like gojo. every sentence he spat was another finger poking a hole in our control over this mess.ā
choso groans audibly.
āso,ā sukuna says, jaw tight. āwhat now?ā
āwhat now?ā nanami echoes, voice tight with anger. āmiguel, our pr manager, wants to have a meeting tommorow morning. we figure out how to get you four through this without having the press and fans devour you alive. this is going to be tricky. and i mean tricky, not like the usual āignore a scandal and hope it diesā trick. gojo made it public, detailed, and heās smiling while the world hears about it. the narrative is already out there, youāre in damage control mode, whether you like it or not.ā
you feel the squeeze of sukunaās hand on your hip tighten.
āweāll get through it,ā he says, low, just for you.
nanami cuts in again, tone sharp as a knife. āi know ive said this already, but you guys have to listen carefully: no interviews. no statements. no fucking social media posts beyond what I authorize. i donāt care if you feel cornered, or humiliated, or like the worldās on fire. you follow me, step for step. got it?ā
āsukuna, i mean everyone,ā nanami continues. āi donāt want half-assed apologies or excuses. not to the press, not to fans. and donāt even think about confronting gojo directly. i donāt care if you want to strangle him, heās untouchable right now. we play this smart, or this blows up worse than it already has.ā
choso shakes his head, lips pressed tight. āso basically we sit on our hands and bleed quietly while the internet loses it.ā
ābasically,ā nanami says, voice flat. āand yes, i will be calling every outlet that picks this up, every social media account that reposts it. iāve got half a dozen people on it already. but you four? you do not make it worse. period.ā
thereās a beat of silence.
you rest your head against sukunaās shoulder. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, murmuring, āweāve survived worse.ā
nanami sighs. āand we have to act fast. PR is tricky here because gojo wasnāt just a casual acquaintance, he was there. he saw it. he knows details, stories the fans canāt even imagine, and heās selling it like a performance. so we spin it carefully, or we look like idiots. got it?ā
āwe got it,ā sukuna says, tone flat but controlled.
āgood,ā nanami snaps, ābecause if you screw this up, i swear iāll-ā he stops, cuts himself off, probably realizing yelling more wonāt help. ājustā¦ follow instructions. no off-the-cuff comments, no nothing. stay in the penthouse until i give the signal. understand?ā
āunderstood,ā choso and sukuna reply in unison.
you just nod against sukuna, feeling the weight of his arm around you, the only shield in a world that suddenly seems impossibly loud.
nanami grunts. āiām going to start coordinating. phones off unless i call. keep your heads down. and for fuckās sake, donāt do anything stupid. meet at the record label tommorow 10am.ā
the line clicks dead, leaving a silence heavy enough to press your chest flat.
toji leans back, shaking his head. āsoā¦ thatās it. we just sit here andā¦ stew?ā
sukunaās gaze snaps to him, hand tightening on your waist. āwe donāt stew. we survive. understand?ā
toji raises his hands in surrender. āyeah, yeah. no stress, got it.ā
choso rolls his eyes. āsurvive. thatās comforting.ā
you let out a shaky laugh, finally, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. sukuna shifts so he can wrap both arms around you, pressing his chest to your back. you can feel the heat of him, the slow heartbeat beneath your ribs.
āweāll get through this,ā he murmurs again. āwe always do. nothing, gojo, PR disasters, stupid fans, nothinā breaks us.ā
"yeah, right."
~
the record labelās conference room is all glass and chrome, the city skyline stretching out behind floor-to-ceiling windows.
you hate it immediately, too open, too exposed, like someone could press their face to the glass and watch every twitch of your expression.
miguel is already waiting when the four of you walk in, perched on the edge of the polished oak table like itās a runway. tight trousers, a floral silk shirt unbuttoned just low enough to scandalize, rings glinting on every finger. he stands out against the stiff, corporate blandness of the room like paint on a blank canvas.
āfinally,ā he says, throwing his arms wide, voice lilting and dramatic. āmy favorite disasters. come in, come in, sit down, donāt make me beg, iām too fabulous for that.ā
sukuna grunts under his breath and pulls a chair out for you anyway, guiding you down before taking the seat beside you. choso slumps into his chair like heās about to nap through the apocalypse. toji hangs back a second, scanning the room like it might bite, before settling across from you.
miguel claps his hands once, sharp, commanding. āso. yesterday.ā his smile is blinding, but his eyes are all calculation. āthat white-haired menace with a god complex decided to drop a nuclear bomb on live television. and now? we are in crisis.ā
āwe know,ā sukuna mutters. miguel waves a hand, dismissive. āno, darling, you think you know. but i have been in three separate war rooms since last night. nanami, his ulcer, and i, brainstorming, calculating. and what i have for you today?ā he leans forward, grin widening. āitās bold. itās dangerous. and itās the only thing that will save your beautiful, messy little band.ā the room goes still.
āexactly,ā miguel says, voice sing-song. āthe internet already believes in this delicious little scandal. theyāre eating it up, hashtags, edits, tweets, stan wars. we canāt bury it. we canāt out-scream gojo. but we can flip the narrative.ā he pauses, milking the silence like a pro. āwe give them what they want.ā
your stomach sinks. āwhat does that mean?ā miguel swivels toward you and toji, eyes glittering. āit meansā¦ you two.ā he points between you with a flourish. āa relationship. public, messy, passionate, whatever flavor sells best. we manufacture it, we control it, and we drown gojoās noise with our own story. instead of being victims of his little truth bomb, you become the stars of the drama. headlines bend to you.ā dead silence.
your jaw goes slack. sukuna goes rigid beside you, muscles coiling like heās ready to lunge across the table. choso blinks once, twice, as though processing takes physical effort. and toji, he actually barks out a laugh, though thereās no humor in it.
āyou want us toā¦ fake date?ā you ask slowly, because maybe you hallucinated it. āyes, darling.ā miguel beams. āisnāt it delicious? the tension, the angst, the history. fans will lose their tiny minds. and more importantly, the press will focus on your supposed romance instead of tearing apart your bandās credibility. itās perfect.ā
āperfect?ā sukunaās voice is a growl. āare you out of your mind?ā miguel doesnāt even flinch. āoh, big scary sukuna, put your claws away. iām not suggesting a marriage license. just a story, a narrative. a little pda here, a couple photos there. let the world believe what it already wants to. in six months, we can stage a tasteful breakup, release a heartbreak song, sell out stadiums. itās pr gold.ā
choso leans forward, tone sharp. āso youāre telling me the only way out of this is turning them into a circus act.ā
ānot a circus,ā miguel corrects primly. āa spectacle. thereās a difference. circuses are tacky. spectacles sell.ā
you feel heat creeping up your neck, part anger, part dread. āand if i donāt want to?ā miguel tilts his head, softening his smile just a fraction. āthen you donāt. iām not nanami, i donāt bark orders. but, darling, the wolves are at the door. theyāre not just sniffing, youāre bleeding, and they smell it. this buys you time. it buys you control. it buys you choice.ā
toji finally speaks, voice rough. āand what do i get out of it?ā miguel smirks. āredemption, sweet cheeks. you think the fans like you right now? youāre the villain. the home-wrecking, stage-wrecking, loud-mouthed disaster man. but if youāre in a tragic, passionate romance? suddenly youāre not the villain, youāre the anti-hero. people eat that shit up.ā
tojiās jaw ticks, but he doesnāt argue.
sukuna slams a hand on the table, making the water glasses jump. āthis is bullshit.ā
āitās survival,ā miguel shoots back, sharp now, the camp gone from his voice for just a moment. āyou want to tank the album before it even drops? you want sponsors pulling out, venues canceling dates? because thatās whatās on the line if you donāt get ahead of this. your art dies on the vine. youāre too talented for that.ā
the room throbs with silence again.
miguel straightens, composure slipping back into place like a mask.
ālook. i know itās not ideal. i know itās messy. but itās also brilliant. lean into the chaos, and you control it. run from it, and it controls you.ā he slides a neat stack of papers across the table, mock-ups of headlines, fake paparazzi shots, hashtags trending overnight.
āthink about it,ā he says softly, finally. āyou donāt have to say yes right now. but tomorrow? the press is going to demand blood. give them a romance instead.ā he winks, then flops back into his chair, folding his hands in his lap as though the fate of the band isnāt balanced on your answer.
"we'll do it."
.
the penthouse is quiet when you pile back in, the kind of quiet that doesnāt soothe but hums sharp beneath your skin. city lights spill through the windows, throwing long streaks of light across the polished floor. the four of you move automatically into the living room, shedding jackets, bags, instruments, but the air feels weighted, like everyoneās still carrying miguelās words pressed heavy against their backs.
you sink into the couch first, pulling your knees up to your chest, and before you even blink sukuna drops down beside you, thigh pressed to yours, arm sliding behind you across the back cushions. itās not casual, itās a claim. his gaze cuts across the room toward toji like a dare.
choso slumps into his usual corner, legs stretched out, hair half falling from its tie. heās quiet, chewing on his lip, tapping out some absent rhythm on his thigh. his eyes keep flicking between you and sukuna, then to toji, like heās bracing himself for impact.
toji doesnāt sit right away. he stands there with his hands on his hips, jaw flexing, shoulders tight like heās stuck between lighting another blunt and walking straight back out the door. finally he lowers himself into the armchair opposite you, elbows braced on his knees. his eyes find yours, then snap to sukunaās arm curling closer behind you.
āweāre doing this,ā sukuna snaps back before you can even open your mouth. his fingers brush your shoulder, deliberately slow. ābut itās not some free pass for you to play the clown again. you treat this seriously, or iāll bury you before the press ever can.ā
toji exhales hard, rubbing a hand down his face. āi get it.ā he leans back, eyes flicking to you once more, softer this time. āiām not looking to make shit worse, alright? iāll play it your way.ā
āitās not his way,ā choso cuts in, sharp. āitās all our asses on the line. miguel wasnāt joking about the album tanking and investors pulling out if this goes bad.ā he shifts forward, elbows on his knees. āso we keep it tight. no slip-ups. no freelancing.ā
toji snorts. āyou think i donāt know that?ā
āi donāt think you do,ā sukuna growls, low and dangerous. his hand drops from the couch to your hip now, squeezing hard enough that itās more warning than comfort. āthis isnāt a joke. you donāt touch her, you donāt talk slick to her, you donāt even fucking breathe too close unless itās rehearsed. clear?ā
your stomach twists, heat burning your cheeks, but you donāt say anything. tojiās eyes flick to you again, linger just a second, and then he nods, slow, grudging. āclear.ā
choso lets out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. āfuck. this is gonna be a circus.ā
āa controlled circus,ā sukuna says, voice like steel. āmiguel wants a spectacle, fine. but weāre not letting this spiral. if weāre doing this, we keep y/n safe.ā his hand tightens once more on your hip, anchoring you to him like heās daring anyone in the room to argue.
toji looks away, jaw ticking. āwasnāt planning on hurting her.ā
āyou already did,ā sukuna spits, the words like knives.
the silence that follows is heavy, pressing, broken only by the hum of the city outside. you tuck closer into sukunaās side without thinking, his heat steady against you, grounding.
choso sighs, leaning back again, head tipped against the cushion. āalright. then itās settled. we play the game, we donāt fuck it up, and we live long enough to drop the album.ā
āand after that,ā sukuna says, voice low, his mouth close to your ear, āwe make sure no one ever drags her name through the mud again.ā
you close your eyes, breathing him in, while across the room toji sits rigid, hands fisted on his knees, and choso drums his fingers against his thigh like a ticking clock counting down.
"it'll all be okay guys, let's not get so tense ok. gojo did a real shitty thing, all we need to do is fix it and we'll be sweet for the album release. we can do this."
choso chuckles. "you really are such a sap."
~
week one is the photo ops, and miguel doesnāt waste time.
day one, you and toji step out of a restaurant neither of you actually ate at, hand in hand, flashes exploding like gunfire. he holds the door, flashes that lazy grin, and leans in just enough to make it look like heās whispering something filthy in your ear. in reality, he mutters, ādonāt strangle me.ā
the next morning, headlines scream: TEMPT AND REVOLTāS Y/N AND TOJI CONFIRMED ROMANCE?
by day three, thereās a coffee run. you and toji walking out of some overpriced place with matching cups, both in sunglasses, both stone-faced. fans online split into factions instantly. one tweet with 200k likes reads: 'i canāt believe iām saying this butā¦ they look hot together.' another says: 'betrayal. i was rooting for her and sukuna. delete this.'
miguel sends screenshots of the trending hashtags at 10pm. #tojiandyn, #temptedbytoji, #y/nl/n, and the worst one of all: #sukunathesidepiece.
through it all, said man barely says a word. at shoots, at rehearsals, at the penthouse, he keeps you close, but his touch is tighter, his silence heavier. when the cameras are gone, his sarcasm sharpens into something edged. āyou looked real cozy with him today,ā he says one night, voice flat. āshould i start practicing my fake smile too?ā
you donāt answer, because you donāt know how. so instead of getting your frustration out with a night of ryomen, you stewed in the tension.
week two is the socials. miguel orchestrates the whole thing.
tojiās instagram posts first: a candid of you smiling up at him with those big wide eyes, his caption reading: she makes it worth it.
the internet combusts. comments pour in, half in swooning caps, half in vomit emojis. one fan writes, 'if this is PR iām eating it up anyway.' another: 'sukunas punching the wall rn.'
your own account stays silent, just carefully timed reposts of official band shots. sukuna doesnāt post at all. his last photo is still you, passed out on his couch from weeks ago, captioned simply: home.
little did anyone know it was after a long night of passion and intimacy, more real than anything toji could dream up.
fans start stitching it with tojiās post, screaming about āunspoken turf wars.ā
miguel calls it perfect. āyou donāt understand, the tension is selling. youāve got the press hooked, the fans obsessed, the album pre-saves climbing again.ā
but at night, in the penthouse, sukunaās jaw ticks when you take your phone out, the muscle tightening under your fingers. itās a warning youāve felt before. the heat between you two, already thick from the tension of the day, snaps to something almost dangerous.
you glance at him, breath still ragged from your slow teasing earlier. āyou okay?ā you murmur, brushing a strand of hair from his sweaty forehead.
he growls low in his throat, pushing into you suddenly, hard enough to draw a moan from your throat. his hands grab your hips, chest pressing to yours, and you feel the familiar, aching swell of desire between your thighs. but thereās a storm behind his eyes, one that isnāt lust, itās possessiveness, frustration, jealousy.
āi canāt,ā he mutters, voice rough, low, almost painful. āiā¦ i canāt focus right now.ā
your brows knit together in confusion and teasing disbelief. āwhat do you mean you canāt? weāre alone, sukuna, your rules, your penthouse. you wanted to relax after all of this stress.ā
he bites his bottom lip, gaze dark, hands gripping you tighter, rocking you against him just enough to make you shiver. āi canātā¦ not after today. seeing those posts, seeing him, heās not even real,ā his voice cracks slightly, the heat and anger mixing together in a way that leaves your core throbbing. ābut itās twisting me up.ā
he shakes off the desire and hops up from his position over you on the bed, wrapping a robe around his shoulders and walking out of the room.
.
week three is the full performance.
paparazzi shots leak of you and toji outside the studio, his hand on your waist, your laugh caught mid-frame. they trend within minutes. miguel books you two for a joint radio interview, carefully scripted.
āso howās it going?ā the host grins, voice sticky sweet. āthe fans are losing their minds.ā
āitās good,ā you say, trained smile in place. āweāre really good.ā
toji plays his part too, smirk in place, voice steady. āi guess people just love a little history, huh?ā
the fans suck it up. gifs spread like wildfire, headlines multiply, and the story cements itself: the messy past turned passionate present. miguel beams like a man who just cheated death.
but when you scurry back to his apartment that night, sukuna isnāt waiting on the couch. heās in his room, door half shut, guitar in his lap. the music is his own. sad, violent, tearing through the air like itās the only thing keeping him from breaking something.
when you step inside, he doesnāt look up. āyouāre getting real good at lying.ā
it hits harder than the headlines, harder than the staged smiles.
the days blur after that. three weeks of hand-holding, fake laughs, magazine spreads, every glance dissected by millions of eyes. the band survives, the numbers climb, the press spins the narrative miguel promised.
but beneath it, the cracks deepen.
sukuna still holds you at night, but tighter, like heās afraid youāll slip away. he still makes you laugh, but his eyes stay sharp, searching, never softening like before.
choso avoids the tension, throwing himself into rehearsals and long walks, pretending not to see the way you and sukuna orbit closer and closer yet somehow feel further apart. toji keeps his distance, respectful, careful, but the weight of his presence is always there, the ghost of your history weaponized into a headline neither of you wanted.
three weeks, and the world believes the act. but behind the penthouse walls, youāre not sure how much longer you and sukuna can keep things civil.
.
the newest stunt comes on a friday night, perfectly timed. miguel calls it āorganic,ā but nothing about it feels anything like that.
you and toji step out of a nightclub downtown, the kind youād only go to with your girl friends, bodyguards hovering just enough to let the paparazzi swarm. youāre dressed to kill, black sequins catching the flash, ripped stockings with chunky garters, and tojiās in all black dripping in expensive alternative jewellery. itās all choreographed.
the cue is a stumble. the curb, your big boots, his steady hand on your waist. only this time, he doesnāt just steady you, he leans in, lips brushing your temple, eyes locked on the cameras like he knows exactly what theyāll make of it.
clickclickclick.
and by morning, the internetās on fire.
a tabloid headline screams: Y/N AND TOJI: CLUB NIGHT CONFIRMATION?
another: SUPERSTAR Y/N AND BAD BOY TOJI SHARE INTIMATE MOMENT OUTSIDE VIP VENUE.
fans post screenshots, slowed-down clips, red circles around the exact second his lips touched your skin.
one tweet racks up half a million likes in minutes: the way he holds her like sheās HISā¦ iām gonna be sick.
another: sukuna could never lmaoooo.
and worst of all, the hashtag: #tojioversukuna
miguel beams over brunch, saying itās āthe nail in the coffin of doubt.ā you and toji look official, the fans are convinced, the story is watertight.
but sukuna hasnāt said a word since the photos dropped.
back at the penthouse that seemed like your shared home rather than just his, the silence cuts sharper than any silly headline. heās sprawled on the couch, tattoos half-hidden by his tank, remote untouched on the coffee table. you step into the room, and he doesnāt even look up.
āso... youāve seen it,ā you say softly.
his jaw ticks. āiāve seen it.ā
"look ryo... miguel-ā
āmiguel,ā he spits, finally meeting your eyes, theyāre burning. āmiguel says this, miguel says that. and you? you just go along with it. let toji touch you. let him kiss you. like itās nothing.ā
you flinch. āit wasnāt a real kiss.ā
ādoesnāt fucking matter what it was.ā heās on his feet now, looming, voice low and rough. āyou think anyoneās looking at those pictures and thinking, āoh, that was stagedā? no. they see him with his mouth on you and they believe it. they believe he owns you. and you let him.ā
his hand curls into a fist at his side, veins straining.
āitās apart of my job,ā you bite out, sharper than you mean. āthis is what we all agreed on. you heard nanami! we donāt get to just ignore it.ā
sukuna laughs, humorless, jagged. āyeah. funny how it looks a hell of a lot like you're not acting anymore.ā
the word slices through you. you step closer, desperate now. ādonāt. donāt you dare say that. iām doing this for us. for the band. for you!ā
he shakes his head, eyes scanning your face like he doesnāt recognize it. āfor me? thatās rich. because all i see is you in his arms. you in the headlines. you making the world believe heās the one you want.ā
your throat tightens. āand what about what i actually want!?ā
his chest heaves, silent, furious.
you step closer still, fingers grazing his wrist, but he pulls back like your touch burns.
āyou want me?ā he rasps finally, broken in a way that makes your stomach twist. āthen why the fuck does the whole world think itās him?ā
you donāt have an answer. not one that will fix this.
the silence is deafening. somewhere outside, horns blare, the city buzzing oblivious to the implosion inside this penthouse.
sukuna scrubs a hand over his face, shoulders rigid. āi canāt keep watching this,ā he mutters, softer now, but no less raw. āi canāt keep seeing his hands on you and pretending itās fine. iām not built for that. iām not built to share.ā
your blood suddenly runs hot. anger surges, sharp enough to cut through the guilt that had been gnawing at your ribs all night. you step closer, fists clenching.
āshare?ā you bite out, voice rising. āwhat the fuck are you even talking about, sukuna? you donāt get to talk about how mad you are about sharing when you never made any sort of claim on me in the first place.ā
his head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing.
āyou never said we were together. you never put a label on us. not once. so donāt you dare stand there and make me feel like i betrayed you when you were too much of a coward to say what you wanted.ā
his jaw tightens, but you keep going, the words spilling like gasoline on fire.
āyou hold me after shows, you touch me like iām yours, you make me feel like- like weāre something. but then what? nothing. silence. no promises, no sort of closure. just thisā¦ half-way bullshit! so if youāre jealous of my stupid fake relationship now, thatās on you, not me!"
he takes a step toward you, towering, but you donāt flinch. your chest heaves with the force of it, the frustration thatās been festering for months.
āyou donāt want to share? then maybe you shouldāve told me i was yours before the whole world decided to make me his.ā
the room falls deadly quiet, the city hum bleeding in through the glass windows. sukuna stares at you, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and for once, he doesnāt have a quick comeback, doesnāt have a snarl or a tease. just silence.
your heart hammers, breath coming hard, and you realize this fight isnāt just about toji, or miguel, or a staged kiss. itās about the truth youāve both been running from, finally ripping through the seams.
your words hang heavy, sparking in the charged air between you. sukunaās chest rises and falls, sharp, like heās been holding back a storm too long.
then he laughs, low and bitter. āso thatās it, huh? because i didnāt slap a label on it, you get to let him put his hands on you? you get to let him kiss you in front of the whole goddamn world?ā
you snap back instantly, fire licking your throat. ādonāt twist this on me. i didnāt let him do shit. i played along because miguel shoved us into a corner and because you-ā your voice cracks with the force of it- āyou never gave me anything real to hold onto.ā
sukuna steps closer, towering, tattoos flexing as his fists tighten at his sides. ādonāt you fucking say i never gave you anything. i gave you everything. my time, my bed, my-ā he cuts himself off, teeth grinding, like heās biting back something too dangerous to say.
you glare up at him, heart slamming against your ribs. ābut not your name. not once did you say i was yours. not once did you tell me you wanted me. so what the fuck was i supposed to think? that you just wanted someone to warm your sheets?ā
his eyes blaze, wild and wounded all at once. āyou think this is about sex? you think iād be tearing myself apart over you if this was just about fucking? fuck, y/n.ā
you stagger back a step, but he follows, crowding your space until your back hits the edge of the couch. he plants a hand on the armrest beside your head, trapping you there, his voice rough and low.
āi didnāt put a label on it because i thought you already knew. i thought it was obvious. you think i hold anyone else like i hold you? you think i lose sleep over anyone else the way i do with you? fuck the label- i thought you felt it. i thought you were mine without me having to carve it into your skin.ā
your breath catches, fury colliding with something else, something fragile, terrifying. you want to scream at him, shove him away, but your body wonāt move, caught in his gravity.
āwell you thought wrong,ā you snap, voice shaking now. ābecause while you were busy assuming, i was drowning. waiting for something youād never say. and now the world thinks iām with him, and you-ā your throat tightens, ā-youāre blaming me for it.ā
his hand slams down on the couch beside you, the leather groaning under his weight. ābecause it kills me. every picture, every headline, it feels like my fucking chest is getting ripped open. i canāt stand seeing you with him. i canāt stand the idea that someone else gets to touch whatās mine.ā
āyou belong with me, not him. never him.ā
the words hit you like a lightning strike, and suddenly everything, your anger, your frustration, your own desire collides with his. your pulse jumps, breath hitching, and you realize this isnāt just jealousy talking. this is raw, untamed sukuna, the version of him thatās always been yours, but somehow sharper, hungrier tonight.
he closes the gap between you in an instant, hands sliding to your waist, fingers digging in possessively. his forehead presses to yours, lips hovering, breath ragged. āyou think iāll watch anyone else touch you? think iāll let the world steal you from me?ā
you swallow hard, chest heaving, and reach up, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. āyou never said anything,ā you whisper, lips brushing his, teasing him like a dare. āso why now?ā
ābecause now i canāt wait, y/n,ā he growls, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he captures it, claiming it. his hands roam your back, pulling you flush against him. the familiar heat of him hits different, older, deeper, a storm brewing between the two of you that feels more dangerous than any of your previous nights together.
you respond without thinking, tilting your head, pressing into him, tongue tracing the seam of his lips. sukuna groans low, chest pressing harder, hips nudging yours with a force that makes you gasp. itās not just desire, itās possessive, urgent, like heās marking you with every touch, every press of his body.
āfuck,ā he mutters between kisses, voice rough, āyou have no idea how much it fucks with my head.ā
your hands slide down his sides, nails grazing the skin under his shirt, making him hiss. āthen why do you make me feel like this? like itās my fault iām with him?ā
he pulls back just enough to glare, eyes dark, lips swollen. ābecause it is my fault, damn it. i let it happen. i let you slip through my fingers when i shouldāve said it all along. now iām paying for it, and iām not letting anyone else near you. not again.ā
the words are fire, and before you can breathe, heās back on you, mouth slamming against yours with a force that takes your balance. hands tangle in your hair, thumbs brushing along your jawline, holding your face like he canāt trust you to stay in place without him.
your own hands roam over him greedily, tracing the contours of his chest, feeling every taut muscle, every tattooed line. he moans into your mouth, rough and ragged, and your knees press together, rocking instinctively against him. the heat of him against you, the memory of every night youāve shared, it all ignites into something explosive.
he pulls back for just a second, forehead resting against yours, breath coming fast. āgod, you have no idea what you do to me,ā he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes blazing. āevery time we do this, i swear itās the last time i can hold back.ā
you tilt your head, daring, lips brushing his again. āthen stop holding back.ā
he doesnāt hesitate. teeth scrape your bottom lip, tongue fights yours, hands roaming like heās trying to memorize every inch of you. his hips grind against yours, pressing you into the couch, and you arch into him, breathless, moaning into his mouth.
āyou're mine, y/n,ā he growls, voice vibrating against your lips, and the possessiveness, the desperation, the raw hunger behind it makes your chest tighten in ways you didnāt know you needed.
your hands dig into his back, tugging him closer, dragging him flush against you, hips rocking in sync, mouths desperate, teeth occasionally clashing, and the room seems to shrink until thereās only the two of you, the fire between you, the heat thatās always been there but somehow sharper tonight.
his hands trail down to your thighs, gripping, pulling you impossibly closer, and you wrap your legs around him instinctively, deepening every kiss, every touch letting out groans of pleasure. the penthouse, the world outside, the staged photos, the headlines, it all disappears. itās only him, only you, only this hunger thatās been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.
he breaks away for a breath, forehead resting against yours, panting. āso loud,ā he mutters, voice thick with desire and frustration. āso fucking loud, and itās all for me now. you hear me?ā
you nod against his chest, letting the heat of him ground you, letting the intensity of it wash through you, and with a growl, heās back, lips slamming into yours with renewed ferocity, hands relentless, teeth teasing, hips pressing, tongue tangling, marking, claiming, reminding you in every possible way that this, you, are his.
"i'll remind you over and over, make you scream my name until it finally sets in, y/n. i need you to be mine, in every way."
~
the morning after was rough. rough in the way that felt fake. you'd spent years pining after ryomen, letting him have you however he wanted in an attempt to make him love you. in reality, all it took was another man threatening what you had to make him see the light. you stirred naked in his bed, but his big hands held you strong against his chest, grabbing your thigh tight as a way of pinning you against his body.
"keep moving like that and i'll take you for a round four, sweetheart."
your legs clenched as he whispered profanity in your ear, and suddenly, this all felt real. the man you'd loved so hard was here, with an open heart loving you without the smoke screen. yet, there was still a whole world of questions that needed answering.
"so... ryo, does this make me your girlfriend?"
he laughed into your neck, stroking your bare chest. "if that's what you want, baby. just don't let nanami know yet, he'll be pissed."
speaking of nanami, a dial from your phone on the bedside table sounded like he was calling. before you could grab it, sukuna had it pressed to his ear, speaking in that low sexy gravel you loved to hate.
"yeah?"
"ryomen? what the fuck? where is y/n? i swear to god if you two are fucking at a time like this-"
"a time like what? it's 8am in the morning bro, chill out." sukuna rolled his finger over your lips as he pressed your body into the mattress with his weight, just to tease.
"have you not seen the news?! our cover is fucked! that stupid idiot toji decided to get his dick wet last night, and the paparazzi caught him halfway through. that bonehead didn't shut his window when he was on the second story of some shitty love hotel."
sukuna couldn't help but laugh, the entire plan backfiring because of toji was so on brand.
"oh no, what a shame. looks like the whole toji and y/n things gotta be put to bed, how tragic."
nanami started yelling about how he needed to take this seriously and that he was being selfish, but all sukuna could manage was a halfhearted apology and a dead line.
the silence after nanamiās call felt like the world had finally exhaled. you were flat on your back, ryomenās weight pressed half into you, your phone discarded face down on the nightstand like it had never mattered. his laugh still hummed against your throat, warm and reckless, but you were too aware of the words nanami had hurled through the receiver.
toji, another girl, love hotel, paparazzi.
the bandās biggest scandal to date had just collapsed in on itself, and you shouldāve been panicking. but sukunaās hand was heavy on your thigh, grounding, possessive, and it was impossible to care when his mouth was tracing lazy lines over your collarbone.
āyouāre really not worried?ā you asked, voice muffled as he kissed his way back up your neck.
ābaby,ā he drawled, lips dragging against your skin, āfor once, the universe did us a favor. let that dumbass crash his own ship. means you and me donāt have to play pretend anymore.ā
your chest tightened, not with fear, but with something softer, sharper. you tipped his chin up so his eyes met yours. āso thatās it? no more fake headlines. no more staged kisses. no more pretending iām-ā
āhis?ā sukuna cut in, growling low. he kissed you hard, biting at your lip before pulling back with a smirk. āyou were never his. youāre mine. always have been... as a matter of fact," he took out his phone and snapped a candid of you curled into his bare chest, looking as beautiful as ever in the morning glow. he quickly uploaded it to his instagram story and captioned it: guess the gigs up š¤·āāļø @y/n.
"and you say i'm corny." you giggled.
"yeah, but who cares. i think the world could end and i'd die content."
his words sank into you, settling deep where years of quiet pining had left a hollow.
you kissed him back, slow this time, gentle, letting him taste the truth in it.
~
the fallout wasnāt as bloody as youād expected.
nanami spent the next forty-eight hours in full meltdown mode bless his soul, barking orders through group calls, his voice cracking under the weight of the mess. but for once, the chaos wasnāt on you. it wasnāt your body in grainy photographs or your name trending alongside some scandal. it was toji, again.
the fans went feral. screenshots of the paparazzi shots spread like wildfire. headlines screamed about his recklessness, the betrayal of the āromanceā theyād been sold for weeks. hashtags flipped overnight, from #tojiny/n to #y/nandsukuna, fans swearing theyād āknown all alongā that the real story was between you and your guitarist.
miguel, dramatic as ever, spun it like a magician. āsometimes the best PR is no PR,ā heād purred on a call. ālet the world eat itself. theyāll forget about the scandal in a week, but the chemistry between you two on stage? oh, darling, thatās forever.ā
so you and sukuna stayed quiet. no interviews, no statements, just the two of you back in his penthouse, the city sprawling beneath you like a living, breathing stage.
it was the first time in months youād been able to justā¦ exist. no hotels, no flights, no soundchecks. mornings were soft and warm, both of you cuddled into one another like yin and yang. afternoons blurred into perfect music.
heād sit cross-legged on the couch, guitar balanced against his inked thigh, fingers coaxing out riffs that vibrated through the air like a heartbeat. sometimes heād get lost in it, head bowed, lips pursed, the kind of concentration that made you ache to watch. other times, heād play for you, strumming something light, expectant eyes daring you to hum along.
you did, always. wordless melodies at first, then lines of lyrics scribbled down on scraps of paper when inspiration struck. he teased you when you got shy, his gravel voice mocking your faltering notes, but it was never cruel.
āsing it again,ā heād say, tapping his pick against the guitar body. ālouder this time.ā
āyouāre bossy.ā
āyeah, but you like it.ā
youād roll your eyes, but the truth was, you did. afternoons stretched long and golden, filled with half-finished songs, laughter, the occasional make-out break when his hands itched too much to stay on his guitar.
"wow, sing that part again baby, i think we can turn it into an actual song."
sometimes choso wandered in with toji not far behind when they happened to be passing by, the brunette plopping down with his drumsticks, tapping out rhythms on the coffee table while toji slung his bass over his shoulder and into his hands, ready to rock out a rhythm.
you all messed with chords, beats, potential lyrics, the sound filled the space, messy and alive, and for the first time it didnāt feel like the tense rehearsals you'd been attending for the past few weeks. it felt like creation. like something only the four of you could build together, right there, in that sunlit room.
"okay guys, drama aside, i forget how talented we are lowkey." choso mutters, toji laughs and rubs his neck.
"yeah, sorry about all of this guys. i know i started this shit but i swear, i'll make up for it by putting out some good music." he said bashfully.
you all forgave him through banter and teasing, and went back to brainstorming ideas for a potential new album. you'd use the coffee table as your personal stage as the boys belted out music to accompany your voice.
.
nights were a different kind of chaos.
neither you or sukuna could cook worth a damn, but that didnāt stop you. he would raid the absurdly expensive fridge nanami had stocked the last time he was over, pulling out random ingredients with a smirk.
āpasta?ā he suggested one night, holding up spaghetti in one hand andā¦ mayonnaise in the other.
āabsolutely not,ā you said, snatching the mayo away. āweāre not psychopaths.ā
he laughed, deep and wicked, and leaned across the counter to steal a kiss before you could scold him again. somehow, the two of you always ended up covered in flour or sauce, chasing each other around the kitchen with spoons like kids.
the meals were disasters nine times out of ten. overcooked noodles, burnt chicken, rice that crunched between your teeth. but you ate them anyway, sitting cross-legged on the counter, sipping cheap wine straight from the bottle while he fed you bites off his fork.
ābest chef in the city,ā he bragged one night, holding up a plate of charred vegetables.
āliar.ā
ānah, you love it.ā
and maybe you did. not the food, but the way he leaned against the counter beside you, shoulders brushing, laughter echoing through the cavernous space that didnāt feel so empty anymore.
it was messy. it was imperfect, but it was yours.
mornings tangled in his sheets, afternoons humming beside his guitar with the rest of the band, nights burning dinners in a kitchen too big for just two people.
for the first time in years, it felt like a home.
~
the album dropped two weeks later.
against all odds, the scandal hadnāt killed it. if anything, it sold more records. every lyric you sang, every riff sukuna played, every crash of chosoās drums and each note strummed by toji felt heavier, sharper, truer. the fans played it half to death, over 10 million streams within a month.
on stage, the tension between everyone has subsided. the only thing left was the connection between you and sukuna, the way his gaze burned into you when you hit a high note, the way your hand always found his shoulder during final bows. it was electric, and this time, it wasnāt performance. it was real.
off stage, you were inseparable. nights blurred into mornings, your laughter echoing through the penthouse halls, his teasing drawl filling every silence.
but it wasnāt just the lust anymore. it was the way heād brush your hair back when you were too tired to move, the way heād hand you his hoodie without asking when you shivered, the way heād mutter stupid jokes into your ear just to make you laugh when the weight of the world felt too much.
and maybe, just maybe, it was the way he said āmy girlā without hesitation when he finally introduced you as such to miguel, to nanami, to anyone who dared to ask.
.
the world kept turning. scandals came and went. toji eventually managed to keep his head down long enough to repair some of his image.
but none of it mattered when you woke up with ryomenās arm slung heavy around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his sleepy growl in your ear.
āmorning, sweetheart.ā
āmorning,ā you whispered, rolling to face him, pressing your forehead to his.
āstill mine?ā he asked, voice rough, teasing but vulnerable under the edges.
you smiled, kissing him slow, soft, sure. āalways.ā
his grin was lazy, dangerous, the kind that once belonged to a man whoād never say the words out loud. but now? now his mouth brushed yours again, and he whispered it against your lips like a vow.
āgood. because iām never letting you go.ā
and you believed him.
in the end, it wasnāt the scandal that defined you. it wasnāt the staged photos or the hashtags or the headlines. it wasnāt even the years of tension, the push and pull, the unspoken longing.
it was this. the quiet mornings. the shared laughter. the unshakable truth that after all the chaos, all the noise, all the fights and the fire,
you were his. and he was yours.
always.
and the band had never felt more on the same wavelength than right now, finally back in the studio, putting lyrics on paper and music on sell out records.
"so, boys, what do we think about 'scandal' being the name of the new album?"
You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what couldāve, wouldāve happenedā¦ or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the f*ck on.
āThereās beauty in simplicity. But heās not simple at all. Heās so complex to the point of no definition. He is the unknown. But there is beauty in the unknownā
