Ink & Ice
𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀
SYNOPSIS: An Olympic figure skater is forced to share an apartment with a tattoo artist who wants nothing to do with her—and somehow, they start to fit. What begins as a temporary arrangement turns into quiet routines, sharp tension, and something neither of them is ready to lose. WORD COUNT: 17.6k
The smoke didn’t roar. It crept.
It slid through the vents of your luxury high-rise like an unwelcome rumor, carrying the sharp, chemical bite of burnt plastic and insulation. By the time the alarms finally screamed, you were already awake. Years of 5 a.m. training had rewired your body to sense disaster before it fully arrived.
Your manager, Haru, burst into your apartment less than two minutes later, hair sticking up on one side, tie askew. “Fire in the mechanical room. Grab your skates and documents. Everything else can burn.”
You moved on autopilot. Competition skates first always. Passport, training logs, sponsor contracts, the small bag of skincare you couldn’t live without. The rest of your elegant, perfectly styled life could wait. Within four minutes you were in the lobby with the other residents: some in silk robes, others clutching designer handbags like shields. Camera flashes already flickered beyond the emergency tape outside. Someone had leaked your name.
No one was hurt. The fire was small, contained. But the smoke damage was ruthless. Your apartment. With those cream walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Tokyo’s glittering skyline, the minimalist luxury you’d earned after two Olympic cycles was now off-limits for months. Renovations, they said. Air quality testing. Legal bullshit.
You stood on the sidewalk at 2:17 a.m. in leggings, an oversized team Japan hoodie, and a black mask, watching the controlled chaos. Your body ached from evening practice. Your mind was already spiraling toward the upcoming Grand Prix series. This was the last thing you needed.
Haru paced nearby, phone pressed to his ear. “Yes… private, secure, no media presence. She can’t be photographed coming and going from a hotel every day.” A pause. “Above a tattoo shop? Are you serious?” Another pause. “Fine. We’ll take it. Send the address.”
He hung up and gave you the look you hated most. The one that said this is damage control. “Temporary housing is sorted. It’s… unconventional. But the landlord owed a favor. Second-floor apartment above a tattoo studio in a quiet neighborhood. Two bedrooms. You’ll have your own space. The guy who lives there is apparently reliable enough.”
You were too exhausted to argue. “As long as its quiet and no one knows I’m there.”
The cab ride was silent. Tokyo blurred past, neon signs bleeding into wet streets from an earlier drizzle. You kept your hood up and mask on, staring at your reflection in the window. Elegant on the ice. Hollow off it. You barely recognized the woman looking back.
The building was narrower than you expected, tucked between a late-night ramen stall (still steaming) and a closed flower shop. The ground floor windows were blacked out, dominated by a blood-red neon sign that read MALEVOLENT in sharp, aggressive strokes. A metal staircase ran up the side of the building to the second floor.
You dragged your suitcase up alone. Each clack of the wheels felt deafening in the quiet alley. Haru had promised to handle the rest of your things tomorrow. Right now, you just wanted a bed and silence.
The door opened before your knuckles could touch it.
Ryomen Sukuna stood there like the building had grown him out of its bones.
Tall. Broad. Shirtless beneath an open black button-down that hung loose on his shoulders, revealing a canvas of black ink: snarling beasts, tribal patterns, sharp lines that crawled across his chest, down his arms, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants. His hair was a messy pinkish-red, sticking up like he’d run his hands through it after waking. His crimson eyes narrowed, unimpressed which locked onto you immediately.
“You’re the skater,” he stated, voice low and rough, like it had been dragged over gravel and left there.
You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle. “And you’re… my temporary landlord?”
“Something like that.” He stepped aside with obvious reluctance, arms crossing over his chest. The motion made the ink on his forearms shift. “Ground rules. Shoes off at the door. Don’t touch my equipment. Don’t blast that classical skating music at full volume. Thermostat stays where I fucking set it. You’re gone most of the day, right?”
You wheeled the suitcase inside. “Training starts early. I’ll be out of your hair.”
The apartment hit you all at once.
It was sparse in a way that felt deliberate. A large black leather couch faced a massive TV. Sketchbooks and loose sheets of tattoo designs covered the low table. One expensive-looking coffee maker gleamed on the kitchen counter like the only luxury item allowed. A single plate, one bowl, and one pair of chopsticks sat drying on the rack. A motorcycle helmet rested on the entry shelf like a silent threat. The place smelled of antiseptic, strong coffee, and something woodsy.
Sukuna closed the door behind you with a solid click. Not a slam, but the sound still carried weight.
“Bedroom on the left is yours. Mine’s on the right. Bathroom’s shared, don’t leave your glitter shit everywhere.” He eyed you again, slower this time. Something flickered behind the irritation. Maybe mild surprise at how small and drained you looked under the harsh hallway light. Dark circles. Tense shoulders. The kind of exhaustion that sponsors paid you to hide.
You tried for politeness. Media training kicked in automatically. “Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice. I really appreciate it. I’ll keep to myself.”
Sukuna snorted softly. “You’d better.” He scratched the back of his neck, tattoos rippling. “Fridge has beer and curry. Don’t touch the good coffee beans.”
His bedroom door shut a moment later.
You stood in the quiet for a long beat, then exhaled. This man lives like a criminal raccoon, you thought, staring at that single lonely plate again.
Still, the guest room was clean. The bed looked soft. And for the first time in what felt like years, no one was waiting for a statement, a smile, or a perfect triple Axel.
You collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed, mask still on.
Through the thin wall, you heard the low murmur of a TV, something about tattoo history, before it clicked off. Then silence.
Sleep took you fast, heavy and dreamless.
For the first time in months, you didn’t set an alarm.
You woke up convinced you had fallen asleep inside a meat locker.
The air was frigid. Your breath puffed visibly in the pale morning light filtering through the blinds. The guest room’s thin blanket felt like tissue paper. You checked your phone, it was 4:58 a.m., you let out a groan. Training started in less than an hour, but first you needed to regain feeling in your toes.
Padding into the hallway in thick socks and an oversized hoodie, you found the thermostat glowing mockingly at 16°C. You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers pushed the temperature up to 22°C with quiet defiance.
Sweet, blessed warmth began to hum through the vents minutes later while you brushed your teeth. Victory tasted like mint toothpaste.
Then the front door slammed.
You froze mid-brush. Heavy footsteps. The sound of keys hitting the entry table. Sukuna had apparently just gotten home from whatever nocturnal tattoo-artist activities he engaged in. You heard him pause in the hallway. A low, dangerous grunt. Then the unmistakable click of the thermostat being forcibly returned to 16°C.
You marched out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in your mouth, and stared at his broad back. He was shirtless again. His black sweatpants riding low, fresh ink on his shoulder looking irritated and shiny, probably from a new piece he’d been working on.
“Cold-blooded?” you asked around the toothbrush.
Sukuna glanced over his shoulder. Crimson eyes dragged over your messy bed-head and fuzzy socks with zero amusement. “I run hot. You run cold. Natural selection says I win.”
You walked past him, reached up, and turned it back to 21°C. Compromise. Your arm brushed his side. The warm skin, hard muscle, the faint scent of antiseptic soap and cedar. He didn’t move away.
“Touch it again,” he said slowly, voice low and rough with exhaustion, “and I’ll hide the entire unit. Good luck finding it, princess.”
You met his gaze. “I have four Olympic cycles of discipline and spite. Try me.”
Something almost like amusement flickered across his face before it disappeared behind the usual scowl. He snorted and headed toward his room. “Whatever. Just don’t crank it so high the walls sweat.”
You finished getting ready in record time, layering up for the cold rink. When you emerged again, Sukuna was in the kitchen pouring pitch-black coffee into a mug that read “Die Mad About It” in chipped white letters. He didn’t offer you any. You didn’t ask.
As you laced up your sneakers by the door, he spoke without turning around.
“There’s a spare key on the counter. Don’t lose it. I’m not waking up at 3 a.m. to let your glittery ass in again.”
You pocketed the key. “Noted. Thanks.”
He made a noncommittal sound.
The rest of your day was the usual blur: ice, sweat, repetition, coach’s critiques, sponsor calls during breaks, forced smiles for the rink’s social media team. By the time you returned to the apartment at 6:15 p.m., your body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry.
The place smelled unexpectedly good. Faint smell of garlic and soy, something fried. Sukuna was at the stove, back to you once again, stirring a pan with precise flicks of his wrist. Still no shirt. You were starting to wonder if he owned any.
You set your bag down quietly. “Didn’t know you cooked.”
“I don’t cook for guests,” he replied flatly. “I cook because I’m hungry. Made extra by accident. Eat or don’t. I don’t care.”
A plate slid across the counter toward you: rice, perfectly seared chicken, stir-fried vegetables, and a fried egg with a runny yolk. Simple. Arrogantly good-looking. Exactly one set of chopsticks beside it.
You stared at the plate, then at the single plate still drying from earlier on the rack.
“You only own one plate,” you observed.
“Two now,” he corrected. “Bought a spare when I heard I was getting a roommate. Don’t get used to it.”
You sat on the stool and took a bite. It was unfairly delicious. Warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the thermostat.
Sukuna leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat with that unnerving silent intensity. He noticed everything. The way you winced when you shifted your weight, the exhaustion etched under your eyes, how quickly you were devouring the food like you’d forgotten to eat all day.
“Rough practice?” he asked. Not kindly. Just… observing.
“Triple Axel still isn’t clean,” you muttered between bites. “Coach wants it perfect by next week.”
Sukuna grunted. “You people just spin in circles and hope judges like the way you land. Sounds stupid.”
You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” A smug smirk tugged at his mouth. “Aggressive ice dancing for points. At least in my line of work, people choose the pain.”
You set your chopsticks down, staring at him in disbelief. The sheer audacity. “I’d like to see you land a quad jump after doing it for twelve hours straight.”
“I’d like to see you sit still for six hours while someone lets me stab them with needles,” he shot back, but there was no real heat in it. More like dry entertainment.
You ate the rest of the meal in charged silence, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. When you finished, you washed your plate and set it to dry next to his singular original one.
Sukuna watched the entire process without comment.
Later that night, after you’d showered and done your extensive skincare routine (products inevitably spreading across the bathroom counter), you stretched in the narrow hallway at 11:30 p.m. Legs extended in a split against the wall, breathing through the deep pull in your hamstrings.
You didn’t hear Sukuna approach until his voice cut through the quiet.
“You’re going to wear a hole in my floor doing that at midnight.”
You glanced up. He was leaning in his doorway, fresh from a shower, towel slung low around his hips, hair damp. More ink on display than usual.
“Flexibility is part of the job,” you replied, switching sides.
He made a low sound. “Try doing it somewhere I don’t have to step over you.”
But he didn’t move. He just watched for another few seconds, then retreated into his room without another word.
You lowered into the stretch further, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
This was going to be a long few months.
The single plate situation was becoming a problem.
By day four of your stay, the lone original plate had been joined by its temporary sibling, but the kitchen still operated like a minimalist war zone. Every time you cooked (or attempted to), Sukuna would hover nearby with crossed arms, watching you use “his” counter space like you were committing a minor felony.
This morning was no exception.
You had woken up at 4:45 a.m. again, your body clock was unforgiving. Now decided to make a proper breakfast before heading to the rink. Rice, miso soup from a packet, grilled salmon, and some quick tamagoyaki. The smells filled the small apartment, warm and savory. You were humming softly to yourself, still half-asleep, when Sukuna emerged from his room like a disgruntled bear.
He stopped in the doorway, hair messy, wearing only black sweatpants. His eyes narrowed at the two plates on the counter.
“You’re using both plates,” he observed.
“One for you, one for me,” you replied without turning around. “Consider it rent payment.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“You do today.” You slid a plate toward the end of the counter where he usually leaned. “Eat before you go back to sleep or whatever nocturnal creatures do.”
Sukuna stared at the plate for a long second. Then, with a dramatic sigh that could have won awards, he sat down and picked up the chopsticks. He ate in silence, but you caught him taking seconds on the tamagoyaki when he thought you weren’t looking.
Progress. Sort of.
Later that evening, after another brutal practice where your coach had made you repeat the same combination until your vision blurred, you returned to find Sukuna gone. A note that was scrawled in aggressive handwriting on a scrap of flash paper was stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a skull.
Out late. Don’t wait up. And stop buying those stupid expensive face waters. Bathroom looks like a cosmetics store exploded.
You smiled despite yourself. Your skincare had indeed begun its slow, inevitable colonization of the shared bathroom shelf. Serums, creams, patches, and sheet masks lined up like tiny disciplined soldiers. Sukuna’s single bar of soap looked lonely and judgmental beside them.
You took a long shower, letting the hot water ease the screaming muscles in your back and legs. When you came out in soft shorts and a tank top, hair damp, you found Sukuna already home. He was sprawled on the couch, sketching in one of his large books, the TV playing a muted tattoo documentary in the background. A fresh wrap covered part of his left forearm. His new work, probably.
He glanced up. His eyes flicked over your bare legs for half a second before returning to his sketch.
“Practice go to shit?” he asked.
“How could you tell?”
“You have that kicked-puppy look again.”
You flopped onto the opposite end of the couch with a groan, stretching your sore legs across the cushions. Your foot accidentally brushed his thigh. He didn’t move it away.
“It was fine,” you lied. “Just… pressure. Nationals are coming up fast. Sponsors want new content. Media wants interviews. Everyone wants perfection.”
Sukuna flipped a page in his sketchbook. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” You hesitated, then added quietly, “Sometimes I miss when it was just fun. Before it became… this.”
He didn’t respond right away. The scratch of his pencil filled the silence. Eventually he muttered, “Then stop letting other people decide what it means.”
You turned your head to look at him. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have cameras following you everywhere.”
“Neither do you, technically. Yet here you are, hiding in my apartment like a fugitive.”
You laughed softly. It felt strange, it was genuine and tiring, but real.
The next afternoon, the universe decided to test the fragile peace you’d built.
Your manager texted that basic groceries were needed because “you can’t live on takeout and protein bars forever.” Sukuna happened to be heading out for supplies for the shop when you mentioned it.
“We’re going to the same supermarket,” he said gruffly. “Just get in the damn sidecar.”
You blinked. “You have a sidecar?”
“Temporary. Friend’s bike.”
Ten minutes later you were clinging to the sidecar of Sukuna’s motorcycle, helmet slightly too big, oversized hoodie and mask on as camouflage. The wind whipped past as he navigated Tokyo streets with practiced ease. For once, you weren’t thinking about jumps or scores. Just the rumble of the engine and the strange, unexpected freedom.
At the supermarket, the domesticity felt absurd.
Sukuna grabbed meat and beer like a man on a mission. You loaded the basket with vegetables, rice, your fancy oat milk, and an embarrassing amount of skincare-adjacent snacks. An old lady stared at Sukuna’s tattoos, then at you, then back at him. You could practically see the gossip forming in her head.
You bickered in the aisle over pasta sauce.
“You’re buying that weak shit?” Sukuna scoffed, holding up your chosen jar. “This one has actual flavor.”
“It’s not weak, it’s balanced,” you argued, reaching for it.
He held it higher, smirking when you had to jump slightly to try and grab it. “Short.”
“I’m graceful, not tall.”
A teenager nearby snapped a quick photo. You didn’t notice. Sukuna did, but said nothing.
Back at the apartment, you unpacked together in surprisingly comfortable silence. He even let you use both plates again without complaint.
That night, while you stretched in the hallway again, Sukuna paused on his way to the bathroom.
“You know there are photos of us online already,” he said casually.
You nearly pulled a muscle. “What?”
“Some kid at the store. Internet’s calling it a ‘mysterious tattooed boyfriend’ situation.” He shrugged, clearly amused. “They’ll get bored in a week.”
You groaned, pressing your forehead to your knee. “My manager is going to kill me.”
“Or he’ll use it for publicity. Either way, not my problem.” Sukuna’s voice dropped slightly. “You really hate it that much? Being seen with someone like me?”
You looked up at him, surprised by the question. “No. I just… hate the lies they’ll make up. The scrutiny.”
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. “Then stop reading that shit.”
Easy for him to say. But as he disappeared into the bathroom, you realized something unsettling.
You hadn’t felt this relaxed in someone else’s space in years.
The thermostat war had evolved from childish bickering into something almost ritualistic.
Every morning you crept out of bed before dawn and nudged it up to 21°C. Every evening when Sukuna returned from the shop. Usually smelling of ink, antiseptic, and the faint metallic tang of his motorcycle, he would walk straight to it and knock it back down to 17°C without a word. Neither of you acknowledged the game out loud anymore. It had become a silent conversation: I exist here. So do I.
Tonight, you returned from the rink later than usual. Practice had run long because your coach wanted to perfect a new step sequence for the upcoming competition. Your shoulders burned. Your ankles felt swollen. The cold from the ice had seeped so deep into your bones that even the apartment’s naturally frigid temperature felt almost welcoming.
You pushed the door open at 10:42 p.m. and paused.
Sukuna was on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest. He wasn’t sketching for once. Instead, he was watching something on his phone with the volume low. It was the highlights from your last Grand Prix performance, it looked like. The commentator’s voice faintly praised your “elegance under pressure.”
He didn’t look up as you entered. “You fell on the triple Lutz in the short program.”
You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Thought figure skating was supposed to be graceful. Looked like you were fighting the ice.”
You dropped your bag and shot him a glare. “We are fighting the ice. That’s the entire point, you caveman.”
Sukuna’s mouth twitched. The closest he ever got to a real smile. “Caveman with better taste in entertainment. At least when I stab people they sit still.”
You huffed a tired laugh and headed for the kitchen. True to the new, unspoken routine, there was a plate waiting. Chicken katsu this time, reheated but still crispy, with shredded cabbage and a generous drizzle of sauce. One plate. Yours.
You glanced toward the couch. “You ate already?”
“Hours ago.”
“Liar. You waited.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, but didn’t deny it.
You ate standing at the counter, too exhausted to sit properly. Sukuna eventually wandered over, leaning against the opposite side with a fresh mug of coffee. His third of the night, probably. He watched you eat in that quiet, observant way of his. Not staring. Just… noticing.
“You’re favoring your right leg,” he said after a minute.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s something.” His crimson eyes narrowed. “You landed weird on that last jump. I saw the clip.”
You paused mid-bite. “You watched my old competitions?”
He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Curiosity. You’re living in my apartment. Might as well know what kind of lunatic I let in.”
The words were classic Sukuna but the fact that he’d looked up footage at all felt heavier than it should. You finished the meal in silence, washed the plate, and set it beside his original one. Two plates now lived permanently on the drying rack. A small, ridiculous victory.
Later, after your shower and the inevitable spread of moisturizers across the bathroom counter, you found yourself unable to sleep. The pressure was building again. Nationals were three weeks away. Sponsors had been calling. Social media was already dissecting your every practice video. You slipped into the hallway at 1:15 a.m. in soft shorts and a tank top, pressing your back against the wall and sliding into a deep stretch.
The floor creaked.
Sukuna’s door opened. He stepped out in nothing but black sweatpants, hair messy from whatever half-sleep he’d managed. A fresh tattoo wrap peeked out from his side, he’d been adding to the piece on his ribs again.
“You’re going to wear grooves in my hallway,” he grumbled.
“Helps with the soreness.” You switched legs, breathing through the pull. “Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t. You’re making too much noise existing.”
You expected him to retreat. Instead, he leaned against the wall opposite you, arms crossed over his broad, inked chest. The silence stretched, comfortable in its awkwardness.
After a few minutes, you asked quietly, “Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“People coming in, wanting something permanent on their skin. Wanting you to make them look cool or meaningful or whatever.”
Sukuna was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Sometimes,” he finally said. “But they choose it. They sit through the pain. No one’s forcing them. That’s more honest than most shit in life.”
You lowered yourself further into the stretch. “On the ice… it feels like everyone’s forcing it. The judges. The audience. The sponsors. Even when I win, it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”
He studied you. Really studied you, the exhaustion you couldn’t hide, the way your shoulders curled inward when you talked about skating lately.
“Then stop skating for them,” he said simply.
You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’s not that easy.”
“Never said it was easy. Said it was honest.”
The words landed heavier than you expected. You finished your stretch and sat on the floor, knees drawn up. Sukuna didn’t move. For once, the apartment didn’t feel too cold.
Eventually he pushed off the wall. “Come on. Couch. I’ll put something mindless on.”
You followed him without argument. He dropped onto one end of the leather sofa. You took the other, curling your legs beneath you. He flicked on a random action movie. Something loud and stupid with explosions, and turned the volume low.
Halfway through, without looking at you, Sukuna grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over your legs.
“Don’t read into it,” he muttered. “You’re just blocking the screen.”
You smiled into the blanket, small and hidden. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You fell asleep there sometime after 3 a.m., the low rumble of movie gunfire mixing with Sukuna’s steady breathing on the other end of the couch. When you woke briefly at dawn, the blanket was tucked more carefully around you, and Sukuna was gone. Probably retreated to his own bed.
But the thermostat had been left at 20°C.
A truce, maybe.
Or the start of something neither of you wanted to name yet.
The rumor mill had officially spun out of control.
Your phone buzzed incessantly on the kitchen counter while you attempted to eat breakfast. Headlines ranged from “Mystery Tattooed Man Spotted with Olympic Figure Skater: Secret Romance?” to “From Ice Princess to Bad Boy’s Girl? What We Know.” One particularly creative tabloid claimed you’d been seen arguing passionately outside a convenience store over “sauce preferences” which was annoyingly accurate.
Sukuna leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee, reading over your shoulder with zero shame. A smirk tugged at his lips.
“Passionate sauce debate,” he read aloud. “They’re not wrong.”
You groaned, locking your phone. “Haru wants me to ‘lay low’ and ‘avoid public appearances with unknown men.’ Too late for that.”
“Not my problem,” Sukuna said, but there was a glint of amusement in his crimson eyes. “Though if they’re going to call me your boyfriend, I should at least get some perks.”
You nearly choked on your rice. “Perks?”
“Free labor. You can clean the bathroom since your army of bottles conquered it.”
You threw a piece of cucumber at him. He caught it mid-air and ate it without breaking eye contact. The casual domesticity of the moment hit you harder than expected.
Later that afternoon, after a particularly brutal practice where your coach had torn apart your program components, you found yourself walking toward MALEVOLENT instead of straight back to the apartment. Your legs carried you there almost on autopilot. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the early evening light. You hesitated outside for a full minute before pushing the door open.
The shop was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it.
Heavy metal played at a respectable volume. Black walls covered in framed tattoo flash and photography. Three stations were occupied. A heavily pierced woman at the front desk looked up and her eyes widened.
“Oh shit,” she muttered.
The entire shop went still as every artist and client turned to stare.
Sukuna was at the back station, gloved hands working on a large back piece. He glanced up, irritation flashing across his face until he registered it was you. Then the irritation shifted into something closer to resigned surprise.
“The hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice carrying across the shop.
“I… needed to walk. Ended up here.” You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious in your post-practice hoodie and leggings. “Is that okay?”
The pierced woman at the desk whispered loudly, “That’s the figure skater. The Olympic one.”
One of the other artists, a tall guy with a bleached mohawk, dropped his stencil. “No fucking way.”
Sukuna peeled off one glove with his teeth. “All of you, back to work before I kick you out on your asses.” The shop slowly, reluctantly, resumed movement, but the energy had completely changed.
He jerked his head toward a stool near his station. “Sit. Don’t touch anything sterile.”
You sat. The client on his table was a tough-looking man in his thirties who twisted his head to look at you. “Wait, you’re that skater girl? The one who does the spins?”
Sukuna pressed the tattoo machine back to skin with perhaps more pressure than necessary. “Focus on your breathing, not her.”
You watched him work in silence for a while. His hands were steady, precise, almost gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with his personality. The concentration on his face was intense. Every so often he’d glance at you, checking that you were still there.
After twenty minutes, the client took a break. Sukuna wiped down the area and turned fully to you.
“You look like shit,” he said bluntly. “Bad practice?”
“Coach says my edges are lazy. Timing’s off on the combo.” You rubbed your temple. “Everyone’s expecting gold again. No pressure.”
Sukuna made a low sound. One of the other artists walked past carrying supplies and did an obvious double-take at the two of you talking so casually.
Sukuna noticed. “Problem?” he growled.
The artist scurried away.
You smiled faintly. “Your staff looks terrified that you’re being… almost civil.”
“They’ll get over it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. The movement pulled his black t-shirt up, revealing a strip of inked skin at his waist. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
He stood, stripping off the rest of his gloves. “I’m taking thirty. Uraume, watch my station.”
The pierced woman at the front nodded, looking equal parts shocked and delighted.
Ten minutes later you were sitting on the curb outside the shop sharing a bag of takoyaki from the stall down the street. Sukuna ate like he was annoyed at the food for existing, but he kept offering you the best pieces.
“Those idiots in there are going to talk about this for weeks,” he muttered.
“Sorry for ruining your scary reputation.”
“You didn’t ruin it. You’re just… unexpected.” He glanced sideways at you. “Most people who look like you don’t walk into places like this.”
“Places like this?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“Real ones.” He wiped sauce from his thumb with a napkin. “Not the polished bullshit you’re usually stuck in.”
The words settled warmly in your chest. You bumped your shoulder against his arm, just a small, deliberate touch. He didn’t pull away.
When you returned to the apartment that night, the atmosphere felt different. Charged in a quiet way. Sukuna disappeared into his room for a while, then emerged while you were stretching again in the hallway.
He stopped in front of you, crouching suddenly. Before you could ask what he was doing, his hands were on your skate boot, the one you’d left by the door. He examined the laces with a critical eye.
“You tie these like a child,” he grunted. “No wonder your ankles are fucked.”
“I do not—”
He ignored you and began re-lacing with quick, efficient movements, double-looping in places you never thought to. His tattooed fingers looked strangely elegant against the white laces. When he finished, he gave the boot a firm tug and stood up.
“Better tension. Try it tomorrow.”
You stared at him. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make it weird.” He headed toward the kitchen. “I’m making curry. You’re eating. No arguments.”
You smiled behind his back, pressing your forehead to your knee to hide it.
Later, as you both stood at the counter eating steaming plates of curry (still only two plates total), Sukuna spoke without looking at you.
“Next time you feel like the rink is going to eat you alive… just come to the shop. Sit in the corner. I won’t bother you.”
You looked up, surprised. He kept his eyes on his food, ears just slightly redder than usual.
“Okay,” you said softly. “I might take you up on that.”
The thermostat remained at a peaceful 19.5°C that night.
Neither of you commented on it.
The apartment was dark when you got home, except for the single lamp in the living room.
It was past midnight. Practice had bled into extra sessions again. Your coach pushing for cleaner landings on the new quad attempt, the federation wanting footage for promotional material, and your own head refusing to let you stop. Your body felt like it had been through a meat grinder. Every muscle screamed. Your right ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent warning that you chose to ignore.
You closed the door as quietly as possible, expecting Sukuna to be asleep or still at the shop. Instead, he was on the couch, one arm slung behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the TV. Some old yakuza movie played on low volume, subtitles flickering across the screen. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table next to an open sketchbook.
He didn’t greet you. Just flicked his gaze over.
“You look like death warmed over,” he said flatly.
“Feel like it too.” You dropped your bag by the door and kicked off your shoes with a wince. “Don’t start.”
Sukuna watched you limp toward the kitchen. You opened the fridge out of habit more than hunger, staring blankly at the contents. The thought of cooking anything felt impossible. Even standing felt optional.
A heavy sigh came from the couch. Then the sound of him getting up.
“Sit,” he ordered, brushing past you. His shoulder bumped yours deliberately. The contact wasn’t hard, it was just enough to steer you toward the couch. “I’ll heat something up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up.”
You collapsed onto the leather with a groan, the cool material heavenly against your overheated skin. The TV flickered with dramatic sword fights while Sukuna moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency. Within ten minutes, the smell of reheated chahan and miso reached you. He set a bowl and plate on the low table in front of you. Still the same two plates that now felt like an established fact of life.
“Eat,” he said, dropping back onto his end of the couch. “Or don’t. But if you pass out from starvation I’m not dragging your ass to the hospital.”
You picked up the chopsticks. The food was simple, salty, and perfect. Warmth spread through your chest with every bite. Sukuna pretended to watch the movie, but you caught him glancing sideways every few minutes, tracking the way you favored your right side or how slowly you lifted the spoon for the miso.
When you finished, you set the dishes aside and leaned back, intending to rest your eyes for just a moment before dragging yourself to bed. The exhaustion crashed over you like a wave.
You were out cold in under five minutes.
Sukuna noticed immediately when your breathing evened out. Your head had tipped sideways against the armrest, lips slightly parted, one hand still loosely gripping the edge of the blanket that had been tossed over the back of the couch.
He sat there for a long minute, arms crossed, staring at the TV without seeing it.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Can’t even make it to your own room.”
But he got up anyway. Moved quietly for someone his size. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking it around your legs with careful, almost irritated movements. His tattooed fingers lingered for half a second on the edge near your ankle, where a fresh bruise was already blooming from an imperfect landing.
He noticed the way your brow was still furrowed even in sleep. The faint lines of tension that never fully left your face anymore.
Sukuna stood over you for another moment, jaw tight. Then he grabbed his sketchbook and moved to the armchair instead of his room, turning the TV volume even lower. The movie played on as background noise while his pencil scratched across paper. Quick, rough lines that slowly began to take the shape of a figure mid-spin, blades carving ice, hair whipping with motion.
He didn’t know why he was drawing it. He told himself it was just practice. New subject matter. Nothing more.
You woke up sometime around 3:30 a.m., disoriented and warm. The blanket was tucked tightly around you. A different movie was playing now, something quieter. Sukuna was still in the armchair, head tipped back, eyes closed, and sketchbook resting on his chest.
You watched him for a moment in the low light. The harsh lines of his tattoos looked softer in the lamplight. His usual scowl was absent in sleep, making him look strangely younger.
You carefully got up, folding the blanket and draping it over him instead. He stirred but didn’t wake. You padded to the bathroom, did your nighttime routine on autopilot, then hesitated at the hallway.
On impulse, you turned back, grabbed a spare throw from the closet, and laid it over his lap.
When you finally crawled into your own bed, the apartment felt less like borrowed space and more like something dangerously close to home.
The next morning, neither of you mentioned the blanket situation.
You woke to the thermostat set at a luxurious 20.5°C and the smell of coffee. Sukuna was already up, pouring a second mug as you entered the kitchen in your practice clothes.
He slid the mug toward you without a word. It was exactly how you’d started drinking it since moving in.
You took it. “Thanks.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he grunted, but his ears were faintly red again.
You hid your smile behind the mug.
Later that evening, after another long practice, you returned to find a new addition on the counter: a small tube of bruise balm and a note in Sukuna’s aggressive handwriting.
For the ankle, dumbass. Use it before you ruin your season.
You laughed quietly in the empty apartment, pressing the tube to your chest like it was something precious.
The rumors online were getting worse. Paparazzi photos from the supermarket run had multiplied. Comment sections were a mess of speculation. Your manager had texted three times demanding damage control.
But for the first time in years, when you looked around the sparse apartment with its two plates, single motorcycle helmet, and growing invasion of your skincare products, the pressure felt just a little further away.
The rumors had escalated from “mysterious boyfriend” to full-blown conspiracy theories.
Your manager sent you a collage of screenshots that morning: blurry photos of you and Sukuna at the supermarket, another of you climbing off his motorcycle (sidecar), and one particularly bad angle where he appeared to be looming over you outside the tattoo shop. The internet had decided you were either secretly engaged, pregnant with a “tattooed bad boy’s love child,” or involved in some underground yakuza skating scandal.
You showed Sukuna the messages over breakfast. He was eating actual breakfast now. It was another small surrender to your influence. Just chewing on rice and grilled fish while scrolling through the photos with a bored expression.
“Idiots,” he grunted. “If I was fucking you, they’d know. I don’t do subtle.”
You nearly dropped your chopsticks. Heat flooded your face. “Sukuna.”
“What? It’s true.” He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax, princess. Let them spin their little stories. Keeps them busy.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Haru wants me to issue a statement saying you’re just a ‘friend from the neighborhood.’”
“Tell him to fuck off.” Sukuna pushed his empty plate toward you. The ritual was established now: whoever cooked, the other washed. “Or better yet, tell them I’m your bodyguard. That’ll shut them up for five minutes.”
You ended up doing neither. The rumors continued to simmer.
That evening, the apartment became a battlefield over something far more serious than paparazzi: pasta sauce.
You had claimed kitchen rights after practice, determined to make something that didn’t come from Sukuna’s limited “protein and rice” repertoire. The pot simmered on the stove, filling the space with garlic, tomatoes, and herbs. You stirred with satisfaction, humming under your breath.
Sukuna appeared like a summoned demon, fresh from the shower, towel around his neck, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders.
“What the hell is that weak-ass smell?” He peered into the pot like it had personally offended him. “Where’s the heat? The flavor?”
“It’s balanced,” you defended, adding a pinch of sugar. “Not everything needs to taste like it was marinated in regret and chili oil.”
He reached past you, grabbed the red pepper flakes, and dumped a generous amount in before you could stop him.
“Hey!”
“Now it’s worth eating.” He tasted a spoonful straight from the ladle, ignoring your glare. “There. Actual food.”
You snatched the ladle back. “You ruin everything.”
“You cook like a sponsor-approved robot. Needs soul.” His crimson eyes gleamed with smug challenge. “Admit it tastes better now.”
You tasted it. It did. You refused to admit it out loud.
Dinner was eaten on the couch that night. Your plates balanced on knees, a new comfort level neither of you commented on. Sukuna had put on one of your old competition videos “for research,” he claimed. Every time you landed a jump cleanly, he made a low, unimpressed sound.
“Too safe,” he critiqued during a spin sequence. “You’re holding back on the last combination. I can see it in your shoulders.”
You paused mid-bite. “You don’t know anything about skating.”
“I know body language. You’re tense as fuck. Scared of falling in front of cameras instead of just skating.”
The observation hit too close. You set your plate down. “It’s not that simple. One mistake can cost everything. Sponsorships, national team standing, my entire future—”
“Sounds like shit,” he interrupted. “You’re out there performing for vultures. No wonder you come home looking dead.”
You didn’t have a response. The silence stretched, broken only by the commentators praising your “elegance” on screen.
Sukuna eventually changed the subject by nudging your foot with his. “Eat. You skipped lunch again. I checked your bag.”
“You went through my bag?”
“Looking for the good coffee you keep stealing.” He didn’t even sound apologetic. “Found three protein bars and nothing else. Idiot.”
You ate. The sauce was better with the extra spice.
Later, while you were doing your post-practice stretches in the living room (the hallway had become too small for both of you now), Sukuna sat at the coffee table sketching. The scratch of pencil on paper mixed with your steady breathing. It was strangely soothing.
After a particularly deep hip flexor stretch, you hissed in pain.
Sukuna’s pencil stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Groin pull from that fall last week. Its fine.”
“It’s not fine.” He set the sketchbook aside and moved behind you without asking. His hands pressed against your lower back and hip. “Here?”
You nodded, breath catching at the contact. His fingers dug in with precise pressure, working the tight muscle. Not quite a massage, more like clinical assessment. Still, the heat of his palms soaked through your thin tank top.
“Better form next time,” he muttered. “You twist too much on the landing.”
“You watched the practice footage?”
“Shop was slow. Had time to kill.”
He kept working the knot until the sharp pain eased into a dull ache. Neither of you spoke for a while. When he finally pulled away, his hands lingered a second longer than necessary on your waist.
“Don’t push it tomorrow,” he said gruffly, returning to his sketch. “Or I’ll drag you back from the rink myself.”
You turned to look at him. “Why do you care?”
Sukuna didn’t meet your eyes. “Because if you break yourself, I’ll have to deal with your moping around my apartment. Annoying.”
But the thermostat stayed at 20°C again that night.
And when you woke up briefly at 4 a.m. for water, you found a new tube of muscle balm on the counter next to your skincare bottles, with another note in his sharp handwriting:
Use it, or I’ll do it for you. Don’t test me.
You smiled in the dark kitchen, pressing the tube to your chest the same way you had with the bruise balm days earlier.
The single plate had become two. The thermostat had found compromise. And slowly, painfully, so had the two of you.
The pressure was starting to crack you open.
Nationals were two weeks away. Your coach had added extra ice time. Sponsors wanted exclusive interviews. Your social media handler begged for more “relatable” training content. Every jump felt heavier. Every spin carried the weight of expectations. You were smiling for cameras at the rink and coming home hollowed out.
Sukuna noticed.
He always noticed.
Tonight you returned after 11 p.m. again. The apartment smelled like garlic and sesame oil, Sukuna had cooked. Again. Two plates waited on the counter, covered with upside-down bowls to keep them warm. You ate standing up, barely tasting the stir-fry, your mind still looping through the same flawed combination jump.
When you finished, you didn’t head to the shower like usual. Instead, you drifted toward the small balcony off the living room, sliding the glass door open. The night air was crisp, carrying distant city noise and the faint smell of rain on concrete.
You leaned on the railing, arms wrapped around yourself. The city lights blurred.
The door slid open behind you a few minutes later. Sukuna stepped out, two cigarettes in hand. He didn’t ask if you wanted one, just offered. You rarely smoked, but tonight you took it.
He lit yours first, then his own. The flame illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the black ink crawling up his neck. For a while, you both just smoked in silence, shoulders almost touching.
“You’re getting worse,” he said eventually. No sugarcoating. Just a fact.
You exhaled smoke toward the sky. “Thanks.”
“Not insulting you. Observing.” He tapped ash over the railing. “You come back later every night. Eat like a ghost. Stretch like you’re punishing yourself. That shit on the ice isn’t sustainable.”
You laughed bitterly. “Welcome to elite sport. This is what winning looks like behind the clips.”
Sukuna leaned his forearms on the railing beside you. His presence was solid and warm against the cool night. “I watched more of your old stuff today. You used to skate like you enjoyed it. Now you look like you’re at war.”
The words landed hard. You took another drag, the smoke burning your throat in a way that felt grounding.
“I don’t know how to do it any other way anymore,” you admitted quietly. “It stopped being fun years ago. Now it’s just… proving I’m still worth something. To the federation. To the fans. To myself.”
Sukuna was quiet for a long beat. The cherry of his cigarette glowed.
“People who need you to prove shit constantly aren’t worth the effort,” he said. His voice was low, rough. “They’ll just move on to the next pretty face who spins good when you inevitably burn out.”
You turned your head to look at him. “Is that your idea of comfort?”
“It’s honesty.” He met your gaze, crimson eyes steady. “I don’t do the fake cheer shit. You want pretty lies, go talk to your manager.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I think I prefer the asshole version.”
“Good. Because that’s all I got.”
You finished your cigarette and flicked it into the small ashtray he kept out here. Neither of you moved to go back inside. The city hummed below. For once, the silence between you felt full instead of empty.
After a while, you asked, “Do you ever get lonely up here? Before I showed up, I mean.”
Sukuna snorted. “Lonely? I like the quiet. No one bothering me. No expectations.” He paused, staring out at the skyline. “Didn’t realize how fucking loud quiet could get until you moved in, though.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Loud?”
“You talk to yourself when you stretch. Leave your hair ties everywhere. Make the whole place smell like fancy cream and whatever the hell that face mist is.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Ruined my perfectly good solitude.”
The words were complaining, but the tone wasn’t. There was something almost soft underneath the sarcasm.
You bumped your shoulder against his arm. “Sorry for existing so loudly.”
“Don’t be.” He didn’t move away from the contact. “It’s not the worst thing.”
The balcony light caught the edge of his smirk as he lit another cigarette, offering you the pack again. You declined this time, content to just stand there beside him.
Later, back inside, you ended up on the couch again. Sukuna put on another mindless action movie. You lasted twenty minutes before your head dropped onto the armrest. This time, when you woke up hours later, the blanket was tucked around you properly, and Sukuna had fallen asleep sitting up, one hand resting near your ankle like he’d been checking on the old bruise in his sleep.
You studied his face in the blue glow of the TV. The permanent scowl had smoothed out. The tattoos that usually made him look intimidating now just looked like art on someone who pretended he didn’t care about anything.
You carefully adjusted the blanket over both of you and closed your eyes again.
The next morning, you woke up alone on the couch. A fresh mug of coffee waited on the table with a note:
Rink better not eat you alive today. There’s leftover stir-fry. Eat it. — S
You smiled into your coffee, the warmth spreading deeper than usual.
The rumors online had shifted from scandal to something almost affectionate “Ice Princess and Tattoo Beast” was trending with fan edits. Your manager was losing his mind. You didn’t care as much as you should have.
Because when you left for practice that morning, Sukuna’s spare key felt heavier in your pocket. Like it belonged there.
And when you came back that night fully exhausted, but slightly less hollow. The thermostat was still at 20°C, the lights were on, and the apartment no longer felt temporary.
The apartment no longer felt like a temporary refuge. It felt like a heartbeat.
You noticed it gradually. Hiw your skincare army had permanently claimed two full shelves in the bathroom, how Sukuna’s second plate now lived in the cupboard instead of on the drying rack, how his sketchbooks had started migrating into the living room alongside your training notebooks. The thermostat had settled into an uneasy truce at 19.5°C. Small victories everywhere.
But tonight, the pressure finally snapped.
You came home at 1:07 a.m. after yet another overtime session at the rink. Your eyes were red. Your right ankle was taped so tightly it hurt to flex. Nationals were ten days away, and your program still had one stubborn combination that refused to cooperate. Coach had screamed. Sponsors had called. You’d smiled through all of it until you couldn’t anymore.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Sukuna was already there.
He’d clearly been waiting. The TV was off. A fresh pot of curry sat warming on the stove. He leaned against the kitchen counter in a black tank top, arms crossed, crimson eyes sharp.
“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said. Not angry. Just… tight.
You dropped your bag. “Phone died on the ice. Sorry.”
He studied you for three long seconds, then pushed off the counter. “Sit.”
“I’m fine—”
“Sit the fuck down before you fall down.”
You sank onto the couch. Sukuna disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of curry and a cold beer. He set both in front of you, then crouched to examine your taped ankle without asking permission. His large, warm hands carefully unwrapped the tape, thumbs pressing lightly along the bone.
“Swollen,” he muttered. “You’re pushing too hard.”
“It's Nationals,” you whispered. Your voice cracked on the word. “If I don’t medal, they’ll start talking about retirement. About how I peaked too early. About how the new girls are younger, fresher—”
Sukuna’s hands stilled. He looked up at you from his crouched position, expression unreadable.
“Then let them talk.”
You laughed, wet and bitter. “Easy for you to say. You don’t live under a microscope.”
“No. I chose not to.” He finished re-wrapping your ankle with the bruise balm, movements surprisingly gentle for someone so blunt. When he finished, he didn’t stand up right away. Instead, he stayed there, one hand resting on your calf. “You keep letting them decide what your worth is. That’s why you come home looking like this.”
The words hit deep. You stared at him, throat tight.
Sukuna stood slowly. Instead of moving away, he dropped onto the couch right beside you, closer than usual. His thigh pressed against yours. He reached over and tugged you sideways until your head rested against his shoulder.
You froze.
“Don’t make it weird,” he grumbled, voice low. “Just… stay there. Eat your damn curry.”
You stayed.
The warmth of his body seeped through your hoodie. He smelled like ink, soap, and the faint trace of cigarettes from the balcony. You ate slowly while he flipped through channels, eventually landing on a silent nature documentary. His arm eventually settled along the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder in absent, almost reluctant strokes.
When you finished eating, you didn’t move. Neither did he.
After a long stretch of quiet, you spoke into his chest.
“I don’t know how to exist without the pressure anymore. Skating used to be mine. Now it feels like it belongs to everyone else.”
Sukuna’s hand moved to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into the tight muscles there. “Then take it back. Even if it’s messy. Even if you fall on your ass in front of the whole country.” His voice dropped. “At least it’ll be honest.”
You tilted your head to look up at him. Your faces were dangerously close. You could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they flicked down to your mouth for half a second.
The air thickened.
For one suspended moment, neither of you breathed. His fingers tightened slightly on your neck. You leaned in a fraction.
Then Sukuna pulled back first, jaw clenched.
“Shower,” he ordered, voice rougher than usual. “You smell like ice and regret. I’ll clean up.”
You retreated to the bathroom on unsteady legs, heart hammering. When you came out twenty minutes later in soft shorts and one of his oversized black shirts (you’d stolen it weeks ago and he’d never asked for it back), Sukuna was on the balcony.
You joined him.
He handed you a cigarette without looking at you. You took it. The city lights stretched below like scattered stars.
“I hate that I need this,” you admitted after a while. “The validation. The scores. All of it.”
Sukuna exhaled smoke. “Everyone needs something. At least you’re starting to admit it.” He glanced sideways. “You staying here… it stopped feeling like a favor a while ago.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Yeah?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted closer until your arms brushed. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything neither of you was ready to say yet.
When you finally went inside, Sukuna didn’t retreat to his room. He pulled you back onto the couch, blanket over both of you, and let you curl against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Sleep,” he muttered into your hair. “I’ve got you tonight.”
You fell asleep to the steady rise and fall of his chest and the low rumble of his breathing, his arm locked around your waist like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
The next morning, you woke up tangled together. Sukuna was already awake, staring at the ceiling, but he hadn’t moved. His fingers traced idle patterns on your hip.
Neither of you spoke about it.
But when you left for practice later, he grabbed your wrist at the door, pressed a protein bar into your hand, and said. “Come home before midnight tonight. Or I’m coming to get you.”
You smiled the entire way to the rink.
The walls were cracking faster now. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of what was on the other side.
The spiral had been building for days.
Nationals were eight days away. Every practice felt like walking a tightrope over broken glass. Your coach was relentless. The federation wanted media sessions. Online comments dissected every wobble in your practice clips. You smiled through it all during the day, then came home and quietly fell apart in small ways. Sometimes forgetting to eat, stretching until your muscles screamed, staring at competition footage until your eyes burned.
Sukuna watched it happen in real time.
He didn’t push. He simply made sure there was food waiting, left balm on the counter, and waited up later each night. But tonight, something felt different.
You had left for “one last short session” at 8 p.m. You told him you’d be back by 10:30.
It was now 1:17 a.m. and you still weren’t home.
Sukuna paced the apartment like a caged animal. He’d texted you four times:
Sukuna: Answer. You dead? If you’re bleeding on the ice I’m not paying your medical bills. Come home.
No replies. Your phone was probably on silent in your bag.
He grabbed his motorcycle keys, jaw tight. “Fuck this.”
The rink was nearly deserted when he arrived. Only emergency lights and a few security lamps were on. He slipped inside through a side entrance that a tired cleaner had left propped open. The cold hit him immediately. It was sharp, biting, and nothing like the controlled chill of the apartment.
And there you were.
Alone in the center of the massive ice, under a single spotlight that made the surface glow like fractured glass. You were skating the same combination over and over. Triple Axel into a quad attempt. Fall. Get up. Loop. Fall harder. Get up slower. Your form was deteriorating with every repetition. Your shoulders tense, landings sloppy, exhaustion carved into every line of your body.
Sukuna stayed in the shadows near the boards. He didn’t call out. He just watched.
You tried again. The jump was ugly this time. You crashed hard onto the ice, skidding several feet. For a moment you stayed down, chest heaving. Then you slammed a gloved fist against the ice once before forcing yourself up. Your hands came up to cover your face. Your shoulders shook.
Not from the cold.
Sukuna’s chest tightened painfully. He took one step forward then stopped.
He knew you.
If he walked out there right now, you’d shove the vulnerability down immediately. You’d smile that polished media smile and tell him you were fine. He didn’t want that version of you.
So he stayed hidden. Watched you breathe through it. Watched you wipe your face, reset your shoulders, and skate to the center again like the ice owed you something.
After another brutal fall, you finally skated to the exit boards. You sat on the bench, head bowed, medal dreams and public expectations crushing you under their weight.
Sukuna slipped out the same way he came in.
When you finally dragged yourself through the apartment door at 2:41 a.m., you expected darkness and silence.
Instead, the lights were on low. Takeout bags from your favorite late-night spot sat on the kitchen counter, still warm. Two plates. Two sets of chopsticks. A note in Sukuna’s aggressive scrawl was propped against one bag:
Eat before you collapse, idiot. Food’s still warm. Don’t make me come find you next time.
You stared at the note for a long time. Your throat closed up.
He’d gone looking for you. He’d seen… something. And instead of confronting you, instead of demanding answers or forcing comfort, he’d done this. Given you space and food and quiet proof that he was paying attention.
You sat at the counter and ate slowly, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the ramen. Not from sadness exactly, just overwhelming relief that someone saw the ugly parts and didn’t flinch or try to fix them with pretty words.
Sukuna’s bedroom door was cracked open. You could see the faint glow of his lamp.
You finished eating, washed both plates, and padded softly to his doorway. He was sitting up in bed, shirtless, sketching. He didn’t look up, but his shoulders tensed like he knew you were there.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
He grunted. “Told you to eat.”
You lingered. “You went to the rink.”
A pause. The pencil stopped moving.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t come out.”
“No.”
You stepped inside his room for the first time. “Why?”
Sukuna finally looked at you. His crimson eyes were darker than usual. “Because you hate being seen like that. Figured you’d rather I didn’t watch you break.” He set the sketchbook aside. “But I’m not letting you do it alone anymore.”
The simple honesty cracked something deep inside your chest.
You crossed the room and climbed onto his bed without asking. Sukuna exhaled sharply but opened his arm. You curled against his side, face pressed to his warm, inked chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
“I know.” His hand slid into your hair, fingers gentle despite their roughness. “But you’re not performing for me. You get that, right?”
You nodded against him.
He held you tighter. No grand speeches. No promises. Just the solid weight of him and the quiet knowledge that he was there.
For the first time in years, the pressure felt bearable.
The morning after the rink incident, everything felt slightly shifted.
You woke up in Sukuna’s bed.
Not tangled in some dramatic, passionate way. You were just curled against his side, his heavy arm draped over your waist like it belonged there. He was already awake, staring at the ceiling with one hand behind his head. When you stirred, he didn’t pull away. He simply tightened his grip for half a second before letting go.
“Morning,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and leftover emotion.
“You drool,” was his reply. Classic Sukuna.
You laughed softly and hid your face against his chest. The tattoos there were warm under your cheek. He let you stay like that for a few quiet minutes before finally sitting up.
“Get up. You’re not skipping practice today, but you’re eating first. No arguments.”
He made breakfast while you showered. On the menu was rice, eggs, and vegetables, again. When you emerged, he was plating food with the same focused intensity he used for tattoos. You ate together at the counter in comfortable silence. No pressure talk. No rehashing last night. Just the two of you and the quiet understanding that something had changed.
That night, after a more manageable practice, you found yourself on the balcony with him again. The city glittered below. Sukuna smoked while you leaned against the railing beside him, stealing occasional drags from his cigarette.
Your eyes kept drifting to the ink covering his arms and chest. The designs were intricate. Filled with demons, sharp florals, abstract patterns that looked like they told stories.
“Can I ask about them?” you said quietly.
Sukuna glanced down at his own skin like he’d forgotten it was there. “Most people don’t get to ask twice.”
“I’m not most people.”
He exhaled smoke through his nose, then gave a small shrug. “Fine. Ask.”
You reached out slowly, tracing a finger along a snarling face on his forearm. His skin was warm. The muscle underneath twitched at your touch but he didn’t pull away.
“What does this one mean?”
Sukuna watched your finger move. “Strength through pain. Got it after my old man died. Bastard used to say I’d never amount to shit. Proved him wrong with every needle.”
You moved to another piece. Now a intricate wave pattern flowing into sharp teeth. “And this?”
“Control.” His voice dropped lower. “Everything in life is temporary except what you choose to keep forever. Ink stays. People don’t.”
The words hung between you. You looked up at him.
“Is that why you live like this?” you asked. “One plate. Minimal shit. No attachments?”
Sukuna smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Smart girl.” He took another drag. “What about you? All that spinning and glitter on ice. Temporary as fuck. One bad landing and it’s gone.”
You nodded slowly. “Exactly. Everything I do gets judged in seconds. Forgotten in months. Your work… it stays on people. Becomes part of them.”
He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face in the dim balcony light.
“You want one?” he asked suddenly.
Your eyes widened. “A tattoo?”
“Not now. But someday. If you stay long enough.” The last part came out almost too casual. Like he hadn’t meant to say it.
Your heart stuttered. “You’d tattoo me?”
“Only if you’re sure.” He flicked ash away. “I don’t do half-assed work. Especially not on you.”
The implication made heat bloom in your chest. You stepped closer, until you were nearly chest to chest. Sukuna didn’t retreat. Instead, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
“You’re dangerous,” he muttered. “Coming in here, messing up my routine. Making me give a shit.”
“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want this to be temporary anymore.”
The air thickened. Sukuna’s hand lingered on your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. His crimson eyes darkened as they dropped to your mouth. You rose onto your toes slightly.
This time, he didn’t pull away.
The kiss was slow at first, almost testing the waters between you two. His lips were surprisingly soft against the roughness of his personality. Then it deepened. He pulled you flush against him, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist with clear possession. You tasted smoke and something uniquely him. The kiss wasn’t sweet or gentle. It was hungry, restrained, years of tension finally breaking.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.
“Don’t expect me to say flowery shit,” he rasped. “But you’re not leaving when the renovations finish. That’s not happening.”
You smiled, a little dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
He kissed you again but shorter this time, no less intense. When he pulled back, that familiar smug smirk was back.
“Bed. Now. Before I drag you there.”
You laughed as he guided you inside, his hand firm on your lower back. For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like something you had to fight for alone.
That night you slept in his bed again, properly this time. No walls. No pretending. Just Sukuna’s steady heartbeat and the quiet certainty that this apartment had stopped being temporary a long time ago.
The shift was quiet, but undeniable.
By the next evening, the apartment had stopped pretending to be two separate lives sharing a space. It was one life now, the space completely messy, stubborn, and intertwined.
You woke up in Sukuna’s bed again, this time with his face buried against the back of your neck and one heavy, tattooed arm locked around your waist like he was daring the world to try and pull you away. His breathing was slow and warm against your skin. You stayed still for a long time, just feeling the solid weight of him.
When you finally tried to slip out for morning practice, he tightened his grip.
“Five more minutes,” he growled, voice rough with sleep.
“You’ll fall back asleep.”
“Don’t care.”
You laughed softly and stayed. When you finally left forty minutes later, Sukuna was in the kitchen making you a protein-packed onigiri to take with you. He pressed it into your hands at the door, then caught your chin and kissed you..
“Come back before you’re dead on your feet,” he muttered against your lips.
“Yes, sir.”
He smacked your ass as you left, smirking at your startled squeak.
That night you returned earlier than usual. The moment the door opened, Sukuna was on you.
He pulled you inside by the front of your hoodie and kissed you like he’d been thinking about it all day. Hard. Hungry. One hand fisting in your hair, the other sliding under your shirt to press against your lower back. You melted into it immediately, skating bag dropping forgotten to the floor.
“Missed you,” you breathed between kisses.
“Shut up,” he replied, but the way he walked you backward toward the couch said otherwise.
You ended up straddling his lap on the leather, hands exploring the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. Sukuna’s mouth moved to your neck, sucking a mark just below your jaw that made you shiver.
“Been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted, voice low. “Mark you up so those gossiping idiots know exactly who you’re coming home to.”
You pulled back slightly, flushed. “Jealous?”
“Possessive.” His hands gripped your hips tighter. “Different thing.”
The makeout session was heated but didn’t go further. Sukuna seemed content to just touch and taste, learning every small sound you made. When you finally broke apart, lips swollen, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Food first,” he said gruffly. “Then you’re telling me how practice went.”
You ate together on the couch. With your legs thrown over his lap while he fed you bites of grilled mackerel between his own. Domestic. Easy. Terrifying in how right it felt.
After dinner, you showed him the new step sequence you were working on. You demonstrated in socks on the living room floor while he watched with sharp, focused eyes.
“You’re still hesitating on the entry,” he observed. “Too much thinking. Stop trying to be perfect.”
You groaned. “Easy for you to say.”
Sukuna stood up, towering over you. He tilted your chin up. “When you skate for me, I don’t give a shit about perfect. I want to see you out there. The one who talks to herself during stretches and steals my shirts.”
Your heart clenched.
Later that night, after showers and skincare. Sukuna now had his own small shelf you’d forcibly assigned him, you ended up in bed again. This time clothes came off slowly. Sukuna mapped every bruise and sore muscle with his mouth and hands, muttering curses at how hard you pushed yourself. You traced every line of ink on his body like you were memorizing a map.
He didn’t let it go all the way. Not yet.
“Not while you’re this exhausted,” he said, pulling you against his chest despite your protest. “When I fuck you, I want you present. Not half-dead from the rink.”
You fell asleep with his fingers stroking through your hair and his heartbeat steady under your ear.
The next few days followed the same rhythm, growing more intimate each time.
Sukuna started coming to watch you practice occasionally. Sitting in the back rows with a cap pulled low, arms crossed, looking entirely out of place among the pastel athletic wear and screaming parents. He never cheered. He just watched. And every time you landed a clean jump, his smirk was pure satisfaction.
One afternoon he surprised you by showing up at the rink with hot tea and your favorite snacks during a break. The other skaters stared openly. Your coach raised an eyebrow but said nothing when Sukuna leveled him with a flat, terrifying stare.
At home, the teasing had turned filthier. He’d corner you in the kitchen, press you against the counter, and kiss you stupid before walking away like nothing happened. You retaliated by wearing his shirts and nothing else after showers.
The rumors online had evolved into something almost affectionate. Fan accounts shipped “Ink & Ice” hard. Your manager had given up trying to control it and was now asking if you wanted to lean into it for publicity.
You told Sukuna while curled against him on the balcony one night.
He laughed lowly. “Let them. As long as they know you’re mine.”
Yours. The word settled deep in your bones.
Nationals were five days away now. The fear was still there, but it felt smaller with Sukuna’s solid presence beside you every night. He had become necessary. Essential. The person you came home to, not just the place.
One night, as you lay tangled together in bed, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back to my old apartment when it’s ready.”
Sukuna’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed.
“Good,” he said simply. “Because I wasn’t letting you.”
He kissed the top of your head, and for the first time in your entire career, you fell asleep thinking less about gold medals and more about the man holding you like you were something worth keeping.
The text from your manager came during breakfast on a rare day off.
Haru: Renovations finished early. Your apartment is ready next week. We can move you back this weekend if you want. Less stress before Nationals.
You stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen. The luxurious high-rise with its perfect view, soundproof walls, and zero tattooed roommates suddenly felt like a cage you’d already escaped.
Sukuna noticed immediately. He always did.
“Bad news?” he asked, setting a fresh coffee beside your plate. He was shirtless again, sweatpants low on his hips, fresh hickeys from last night blooming faintly on his collarbone.
You showed him the text.
His expression didn’t change, but his shoulders tightened. He read it once, then turned back to the stove like it didn’t matter.
“So you’re leaving,” he said flatly.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Bullshit.” His voice was low, edged. “It’s your fancy place. Of course you’re going back.”
The warmth that had been building between you for days suddenly felt brittle. Sukuna shut the stove off with more force than necessary and disappeared into his room without another word. The door didn’t slam, but it closed with heavy finality.
You gave him space. You knew how he operated when emotions got too real, he retreated behind sarcasm and distance like armor.
By evening the tension was unbearable.
You found him on the balcony smoking, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. You stepped out and closed the door behind you.
“Sukuna.”
“Don’t,” he cut you off. “You don’t owe me anything. This was always temporary. I knew that.”
The words stung. You moved closer anyway. “It stopped feeling temporary months ago. You know that too.”
He laughed, bitter and rough. “Yeah? Then why the fuck are you even considering going back?”
“Because it’s easier,” you admitted. “My apartment is closer to the main rink. Better security. No paparazzi camping outside a tattoo shop. My manager thinks—”
“I don’t give a shit what your manager thinks.” Sukuna finally looked at you, crimson eyes burning. “I care what you want. But you’re already pulling away. I can feel it.”
You stepped into his space and grabbed his face with both hands. “I’m not pulling away. I’m scared. Nationals are in four days. Everything is too much right now.”
He stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. His hands came up to grip your wrists, not pulling you away, just holding.
“You’re not sleeping in my bed for three months and then walking out like it was nothing,” he said, voice low and rough. “I don’t do that half-in, half-out shit.”
“I don’t want half-in either.”
Sukuna searched your face, then leaned down and kissed you hard. It was possessive, almost punishing, like he was trying to brand the memory of him into you. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers threading through his pink hair.
When you broke apart, he pressed his forehead to yours.
“Stay,” he said. Not a plea. A demand wrapped in vulnerability he’d never show anyone else. “Not because of the apartment. Because of me.”
Your chest ached. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your bare waist. The balcony air was cool, but his skin was burning. You ended up inside quickly, clothes disappearing between heated kisses and stumbling steps toward his bedroom—your bedroom now.
This time Sukuna didn’t hold back.
He took you apart with the same focused intensity he used for his art. Learning every sound, every shiver, every place that made you gasp his name. There was nothing gentle about it, but it wasn’t just lust either. Every touch felt like a claim. Every mark he left was a promise.
Afterward, you lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless. Sukuna’s fingers traced slow circles on your back while you rested your head on his chest.
“I’m telling Haru I’m staying,” you whispered.
“Good.” His arm tightened around you. “Because if you tried to leave, I would’ve dragged your shit back up the stairs myself.”
You laughed softly against his skin. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” He kissed the top of your head. “Now sleep. You’ve got Nationals soon, and I’m not letting you burn yourself out the night before.”
For the first time in weeks, you fell asleep without the weight of your old apartment hanging over you.
But Sukuna stayed awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling with a rare flicker of unease in his eyes. He’d never needed anyone before. Now the thought of you choosing to stay, even after saying it out loud had terrified him more than he wanted to admit.
Nationals arrived like a storm.
The arena was packed. With bright lights, a roaring crowd, and cameras everywhere. You were back in your element: elegant, composed, media-trained smile firmly in place during warm-ups. But underneath, your nerves were razor-sharp.
Sukuna had driven you there on his motorcycle that morning. He hadn’t said much, just handed you your skates at the door and kissed you hard enough to leave you breathless.
“Skate like you fucking mean it,” he’d growled against your lips. “Not for them. For you.”
You’d nodded, heart pounding harder than it had in years.
Now, as you waited in the kiss-and-cry area after your short program, your leg bounced uncontrollably. You’d landed everything cleanly, but the quad had been slightly under-rotated. The scores were about to come up.
Sukuna was somewhere in the stands. He’d refused the VIP seat your manager offered, choosing instead to sit in a shadowed upper section where he could watch without being mobbed. You knew he was there. You could feel it.
The scores flashed.
First place. Narrow lead.
The crowd erupted. You bowed politely, waved, and slipped backstage the moment the cameras turned away. The smile dropped instantly.
You found an empty hallway, a medal from the short program still hanging around your neck, and leaned against the cool wall. The pressure was crushing. One more program tomorrow. One mistake and everything would crumble.
Footsteps echoed.
You looked up. Sukuna was walking toward you, hands in his pockets, black jacket and cap doing little to hide how out of place he looked among the sequined costumes and corporate suits.
Your manager had given him a pass “as security.” Bullshit excuse, but it worked.
“You came backstage,” you whispered.
“Told you I wasn’t letting you do this alone.” He stopped in front of you, eyes scanning your face. “You okay?”
“No,” you admitted. “I’m winning and it still feels like I’m drowning.”
Sukuna pulled you into his chest without hesitation. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head. The familiar scent of him grounded you instantly.
“Most people are fucking stupid,” he said quietly. “They don’t see how hard you work. They just want perfection so they can feel something for five minutes. Don’t let them live in your head.”
You laughed wetly against his shirt. “Since when are you good at pep talks?”
“I’m not. I’m just telling you the truth.” He tilted your chin up and kissed you. The kiss was slow, deep, and completely uncaring if anyone saw. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “Tomorrow, skate like you’re alone on the ice at 2 a.m. Like no one’s watching. That’s when you’re actually good.”
You nodded, forehead pressed to his. “Stay with me tonight? At the hotel?”
“Already told the shop I’m not coming in tomorrow.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of interviews and sponsor obligations. Sukuna waited for you like a shadow. From the back, he was quiet, intimidating, and fiercely protective. When one pushy reporter tried to ask about “the mystery man in your life,” Sukuna simply stepped into frame, stared the man down, and the questions stopped immediately.
Back at the hotel, the tension finally broke.
The moment the door closed, Sukuna had you against it. Clothes came off in a heated rush. This time there was no restraint. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. His mouth and hands were everywhere.
He fucked you like he was afraid you might disappear in the morning. Deep, slow, then rough when you begged for more. You came apart under him twice before he finally let himself go, groaning your name against your neck as he finished.
Afterward, he held you close, your back to his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your stomach.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he murmured into your hair, “you’re still coming home with me. Got it?”
“Got it,” you whispered, intertwining your fingers with his.
For the first time before a major competition, you slept deeply wrapped in tattooed arms and the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat.
The free skate felt like walking into battle wearing silk.
The arena was louder than the day before. Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Your name echoed through the speakers as you glided to center ice. You searched the stands once, just once, and found him. Sukuna. Arms crossed, leaning forward, crimson eyes locked on you like nothing else in the world existed.
You took a breath. Skate like you’re alone at 2 a.m.
The music started.
You poured everything into it. All the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet love you’d found in a sparse apartment above a tattoo shop. Every jump was fought for. Every spin carried emotion instead of just technical perfection. You fell on the quad attempt, hard, but got up faster than you ever had before. The crowd gasped, then roared when you landed the next combination cleanly.
When the final pose ended, the arena erupted.
You bowed, chest heaving, tears already stinging your eyes. The scores came up faster than expected.
Gold.
You won Nationals by a narrow margin.
The crowd chanted your name. Your coach hugged you. Sponsors swarmed. Cameras flashed relentlessly. For three full minutes, it felt like victory.
Then the backlash started.
While you were still in the kiss-and-cry, the online comments flooded in live:
“She fell. That shouldn’t have been gold.” “Underscored the younger girls again.” “Overrated. Time to retire.” “Bet the judges only gave it to her because of the pity narrative.”
By the time you escaped backstage, the medal around your neck felt like lead.
You slipped away from the celebration area into the quiet service corridors, still in full costume, skates dangling from your hand. The gold medal clinked against your chest with every step. You found a dimly lit spot near some stacked equipment crates and sat down hard on the floor.
The numbness hit.
You’d won. And it still felt hollow.
Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
Sukuna crouched in front of you, elbows on his knees. He studied your face in silence for a long moment.
“They’re already tearing you apart online, aren’t they?” he asked.
You nodded, laughing weakly. “I won gold and they’re acting like I stole it.”
Sukuna reached out and flicked the medal with one finger. “Most people are stupid,” he said, echoing his words from before. “They weren’t on that ice with you. They didn’t see what I saw.”
“What did you see?” you whispered.
“You.” His voice was low, intense. “Fighting. Getting up. Still fucking beautiful even when you fell. That’s not the version they want. They want a doll that never makes mistakes.”
You felt the tears spill over. Sukuna wiped them away with his thumb, surprisingly gentle.
“Come on,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “We’re leaving.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He grabbed your team jacket from a nearby chair, draped it over your shoulders, and led you out through a side exit used by staff. No cameras. No reporters. Just cold night air and the distant roar of the crowd still celebrating inside.
His motorcycle waited in the back lot.
You climbed on behind him in your competition dress and jacket, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Sukuna revved the engine once, then took off into the city streets. The wind whipped past, cold and freeing. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and breathed.
He drove you up to the quiet overlook above the city. The same spot you’d imagined in quieter moments. The lights of Tokyo spread out below like a sea of stars.
Sukuna killed the engine and helped you off. He pulled you against his chest immediately, arms locked around you.
“Winning doesn’t feel how I thought it would,” you admitted against his jacket.
“That’s because you keep letting strangers decide what it means,” he replied. “Fuck their scores. Fuck their comments. You skated like you tonight. That’s the only version that matters to me.”
You looked up at him. The city lights reflected in his eyes. The tension, the adrenaline, the overwhelming emotion of the day, it all crested at once.
You kissed him first.
Sukuna met you halfway, hands sliding into your hair, tilting your head back as the kiss turned deep and desperate. There was nothing restrained about it this time. Months of slow burn, tension, and need poured out between you under the night sky.
When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.
“I’m keeping you,” he said roughly. “Not just until spring. Not until your lease is up. I’m fucking keeping you.”
You smiled, tears mixing with the cold wind on your cheeks. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed you again, slower this time. A promise sealed in the quiet above the noisy city.
The gold medal rested between you, warm from your body heat.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like a burden.
The city lights blurred into streaks of neon as Sukuna drove you home. You pressed yourself tighter against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, the gold medal still resting cold against your chest beneath the team jacket. Every turn of the motorcycle sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline and heat through your body. The competition was over. The performance, the fall, the win, the backlash, none of it mattered right now. All that existed was the solid warmth of Sukuna’s body between your thighs and the promise of what waited the second you crossed the threshold of the apartment.
He parked roughly in the narrow alley beside the shop. The moment your feet touched the ground, he grabbed you.
Sukuna pushed you up against the metal staircase railing, mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed possessively. Sliding under your jacket, gripping your waist, then lower to squeeze your ass as he lifted one of your legs around his hip.
“Fuck, I’ve been hard since you took the ice,” he growled against your lips, biting down on your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. “Watching you fight like that… all grace and fire. Wanted to drag you off the rink and fuck you right there.”
You moaned into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Then stop talking and do it.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
The climb up the stairs was clumsy, hands groping, mouths barely separating. The second the apartment door slammed shut behind you, Sukuna had you pinned against the wall. He peeled the team jacket off your shoulders and yanked the competition dress down your body in one rough motion, leaving it pooled around your ankles. You kicked it aside while working on his belt.
Clothes scattered across the floor. Sukuna lifted you again, carrying you to the couch and dropping you onto the leather. He followed immediately, settling between your spread thighs.
He didn’t tease for long.
His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a dark, claiming mark just below your jaw while two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning. You were already dripping.
“So fucking wet for me,” he groaned, curling his fingers deep. “This pussy been aching for me all day?”
“Yes— God, Sukuna—”
He pumped his fingers faster, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. His mouth moved lower, sucking hard on one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing sensitive skin. When your thighs started trembling, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, licking broad stripes through your folds before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking.
You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the couch, fingers twisted tight in his pink hair. Sukuna didn’t stop. He worked you through it, licking you clean until you were shaking.
Then he flipped you over.
He pressed your chest down against the couch, ass up, and pushed into you in one deep, relentless thrust. The stretch burned so good you moaned loudly into the cushion.
“Fuck— so tight,” Sukuna hissed, gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Taking me so well. Like you were made for this.”
He set a punishing rhythm immediately. With deep, powerful strokes that made the couch shift beneath you. The gold medal swung wildly between your breasts with every thrust. One of his hands slid up your spine and wrapped loosely around your throat, pulling you back against his chest without slowing down.
“You’re mine,” he snarled in your ear, voice wrecked. “Not the ice. Not the federation. Not the fucking fans. This body, this pussy, every moan, all mine.”
You came again hard, clenching around him, vision whiting out. Sukuna followed with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled deep inside you.
For a moment, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the faint creak of the couch.
Sukuna pulled out slowly, watching his release drip down your thighs with dark satisfaction. Then he gathered you into his arms, cradling you against his chest on the couch.
“You still with me?” he asked, voice surprisingly soft as he brushed damp hair from your forehead.
You nodded, smiling dazedly. “Yeah. That was… intense.”
He kissed your temple. “You earned it. Gold looks good on you, by the way.” His fingers traced the medal still hanging between your breasts. “But it looks better when it’s the only thing you’re wearing.”
You laughed breathlessly and kissed him again but slower this time, savoring the taste of yourself on his tongue.
The shower was supposed to be practical.
It wasn’t.
Hot water cascaded over both of you as Sukuna pressed you against the tiled wall. He lifted one of your legs over his hip and slid back inside you with a smooth thrust, groaning at how easily you took him now.
“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, nipping at your collarbone. “Can’t get enough?”
“No,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he rolled his hips deep and slow. “Never enough.”
He fucked you like that under the spray. His deep, grinding strokes that hit every perfect spot. Steam filled the small bathroom. Your moans echoed off the tiles. When you came again, trembling in his arms, Sukuna held you through it, then spilled inside you once more with your name on his lips.
You barely made it to the bed afterward.
Sukuna laid you down gently this time. The frantic need had eased into something deeper, more intimate. He crawled over you, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. The fading bruises on your hips from training, the new marks he’d left tonight, the sensitive spots along your ribs that made you shiver.
When he finally pushed back inside you, it was slow and deliberate. He intertwined your fingers above your head, eyes locked on yours as he moved.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
You did. The intensity in his crimson gaze made your chest ache with something far bigger than lust.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, thrusting deep and staying there for a moment. “You’re staying. This apartment. This bed. With me. No more temporary bullshit.”
“I’m staying,” you whispered, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “I’m yours, Sukuna.”
Something raw and vulnerable flashed across his face. He kissed you deeply as he picked up the pace again, hips rolling in a devastating rhythm that had you gasping into his mouth. This orgasm built slowly, then crashed over you like a wave. Sukuna followed right after, burying his face in your neck as he came with a low, broken groan.
You stayed connected for a long time afterward, trading lazy kisses and soft touches.
Eventually Sukuna rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, your head resting over his heart. His fingers stroked slowly up and down your spine.
“You did good today,” he said quietly. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up. That’s the part I’m proud of.”
Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time they were warm. You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over a snarling tattoo.
“I couldn’t have done it without you waiting for me,” you admitted.
Sukuna’s arm tightened around you. “Then it’s a good thing you’re never doing anything without me again.”
The gold medal lay forgotten on the nightstand. The only thing that mattered was the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek and the quiet certainty that you had finally found where you belonged.
The morning after Nationals arrived gently, sunlight filtering softly through the apartment curtains.
You woke slowly, wrapped securely in Sukuna’s arms. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, one heavy, tattooed arm draped across your waist, holding you close even in sleep. The gold medal sat quietly on the nightstand, catching the light whenever it shifted. Your body ached from the competition and the intensity of the night before, but it was a satisfying kind of tired.
Sukuna stirred when you shifted slightly, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy grunt. His lips brushed the top of your head.
“Too early,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t move.”
You smiled and relaxed against him, letting the warmth of his body soothe your sore muscles. For once, there was no alarm, no rush to the rink, no obligations waiting. Your coach had given you two full days to recover, and you intended to use every minute of it.
After nearly forty minutes of quiet cuddling. Sukuna’s fingers lazily tracing patterns on your back, he finally sighed and rolled out of bed.
“Stay,” he ordered, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants. “I’ll make breakfast.”
You watched him leave the room, admiring the way his tattoos shifted across his broad back with every movement. A few minutes later, the comforting smells of rice, miso soup, and grilled salmon drifted through the apartment. You slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen wearing one of his oversized black shirts that reached mid-thigh.
Sukuna glanced over his shoulder, his crimson eyes softening at the sight of you. “You look good in my clothes.”
You hopped up to sit on the counter, swinging your legs. “I basically live in them now.”
He stepped between your knees, hands resting on your thighs as he leaned in to kiss you. When he pulled back, there was a rare softness in his expression.
Breakfast was simple but made with care. Sukuna fed you bites of salmon between his own, the two of you sharing comfortable silence broken only by occasional teasing remarks. The domesticity of it all still felt new and precious.
After eating, you migrated to the couch together. You curled against his side, legs tangled with his, while Sukuna picked up one of his sketchbooks. His free hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absentmindedly as he drew.
“So,” he said after a while, not looking up from the page. “You really told Haru you’re staying?”
“I did. He’s handling the sublet paperwork for the old apartment.” You traced a finger along a bold tattoo on his forearm. “I don’t want to go back there. This feels right.”
Sukuna’s hand paused on your thigh. He set the sketchbook aside and turned to look at you fully, his gaze intense.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I wasn’t going to make it easy for you to leave.”
You shifted to straddle his lap, cupping his face in both hands. “I’m not leaving. This apartment… you… this is home now.”
Something raw flickered across his face. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a deep kiss not rushed or demanding, but full of quiet emotion. When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.
“You ruined living alone for me,” he admitted, voice low. “Can’t imagine coming back to an empty place anymore.”
Your heart swelled. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to.”
The rest of the day unfolded in peaceful domesticity.
You spent the afternoon properly unpacking the last of your belongings. Sukuna watched from the doorway as you arranged your skincare products across the bathroom shelves and hung your clothes beside his in the closet. Without saying anything, he cleared out an entire drawer for you and even made space on the coffee table for your training notebooks.
Later, you dragged him out to the balcony. The air was cool and fresh. Sukuna lit a cigarette while you leaned back against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. The city hummed quietly below.
“Everyone’s still losing their minds online,” you told him, showing him a few headlines on your phone. The “Ink & Ice” ship had only grown stronger since last night.
Sukuna snorted, smoke curling from his lips. “Let them talk. As long as they know you’re off-limits.”
You turned in his arms to face him. “Very off-limits.”
He smirked and kissed you against the railing slow and steady, one hand cradling the back of your head. When he pulled away, his expression was softer than usual.
That evening, you cooked together for the first time in a while. Sukuna stood behind you at the stove, arms around your waist, occasionally stealing tastes from the spoon while offering (mostly critical) commentary. The kitchen filled with laughter and the clatter of now three plates being used.
After dinner, you ended up back on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket while a random movie played on low volume. Sukuna’s fingers ran gently through your hair as you rested against his chest.
“I’m proud of you,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up after that fall. That’s the shit that matters.”
Tears pricked at your eyes. You hugged him tighter. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you waiting for me at home.”
Sukuna’s arms tightened around you. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me now.”
You fell asleep that night in his bed, curled against his side with his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The apartment felt fuller than it ever had. Your things mixed with his, two toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, your skates resting near his motorcycle helmet by the door.
No more temporary arrangement.
No more hesitation.
Just the two of you, choosing each other every single day.
Spring had finally arrived in Tokyo.
Cherry blossoms drifted lazily past the apartment windows, and the air felt lighter somehow. The renovations on your old luxury apartment had been completed for weeks now, but the keys to that place still sat untouched in a drawer. This apartment, the one above the tattoo shop with its creaky floors, single original plate (now joined by many), and thermostat that still sparked occasional minor wars had become home.
You stood in the kitchen late one afternoon, chopping vegetables while Sukuna leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed, “supervising.”
“You’re cutting those too big,” he criticized, reaching over to adjust your grip on the knife. “They’ll cook unevenly.”
You bumped him with your hip. “Says the man who used to eat plain rice and protein straight from the container.”
“I had standards. Low ones.” He smirked when you glared at him. “Now move. I’ll finish this before you ruin dinner.”
You refused to move. The two of you ended up cooking side by side, shoulders brushing, exchanging sarcastic commentary the entire time. Sukuna still refused to admit your seasoning was better, and you still refused to admit his knife skills were superior. The argument was comfortable now. Familiar, almost affectionate.
After dinner, you migrated to the living room as usual.
You stretched on the floor in your usual spot while Sukuna sat on the couch, sketchbook balanced on one knee. The scratch of his pencil was a soothing background noise. Every so often he’d glance up, watching the way you moved through your post-training stretches with quiet focus.
“You’re favoring your left side again,” he noted.
“It’s nothing. Just tight from practice.”
He grunted but set his sketchbook down anyway. A moment later, his warm hands were on your hip and lower back, pressing into the muscle with careful, practiced pressure. Not quite a massage, Sukuna would never call it that but close enough.
“Better?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Much. Thank you.”
He didn’t reply, just gave your hip one last squeeze before returning to his drawing.
You eventually gave up stretching and curled up on the couch instead, head resting on his thigh. Sukuna’s free hand immediately dropped to play with your hair, fingers combing through the strands as he continued sketching.
The apartment had changed so much.
Your skincare collection had officially taken over the entire bathroom counter and one full shelf. A second helmet that was smaller, sleeker, and yours now sat on the entryway table beside his. Your competition skates lived permanently by the door next to his motorcycle helmet, a sight that still made you smile every time you came home. Shared keys hung on a new hook he’d installed without comment.
Sukuna eventually set his pencil down and looked at you.
“You still happy here?” he asked, voice low. The question was casual, but you heard the weight behind it.
You turned your head to look up at him. “I’m happier here than I’ve been in years. This place… you… it feels real. No cameras. No pretending to be perfect. Just us.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded once.
“Good,” he said simply. “Because you’re stuck with me.”
You laughed softly. “I like being stuck with you.”
Sukuna’s hand continued stroking through your hair as you drifted closer to sleep. The TV played some random documentary on low volume. Outside, the city hummed its usual rhythm, but inside these walls, everything felt peaceful.
Later that night, you woke briefly when Sukuna carried you to bed. He tucked you in carefully, then slid in behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist like it always did, possessive even in sleep.
In the quiet darkness, he spoke against your hair.
“Never thought I’d want someone in my space this much,” he murmured. “You changed that. Ruined me for peace and quiet.”
You smiled, intertwining your fingers with his. “You ruined me for being alone.”
He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. No flowery declarations. No dramatic promises. Just Sukuna. Honest, rough around the edges, and entirely yours.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Sukuna moving around the kitchen. When you wandered out, still sleepy and wrapped in his shirt, he slid a mug toward you without a word.
Two plates waited on the counter.
Two helmets by the door.
Two lives that had quietly become one.
And as you stood there drinking coffee while Sukuna argued with you about whether the thermostat should be at 19°C or 21°C, you realized this was it.
This was the ending you’d never known you needed.
Not perfect. Not glamorous.
Just real.
Just yours.
© 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 ; 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 - 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝















