You arrive at Sukuna's palace as his third wife—a political offering, nothing more. Unlike your predecessors, you don't arrive with expectations of love or power. You arrive with seeds for a dead garden and kindness for forgotten servants. In a palace built on fear, you plant hope. And the Emperor notices.
WC: 2,891 ───〃★ masterlist
The cherry blossoms had long since fallen.
Winter gripped the palace grounds in skeletal fingers, leaving behind bare branches and frozen earth. It was fitting, you thought, for a place like this—a palace ruled by a man they called a monster, a curse, a demon in human skin.
Ryomen Sukuna.
Your husband, as of three hours ago.
The wedding ceremony had been efficient. Cold. You'd been dressed in the finest silk—crimson and gold, colors that complemented the tattoos you'd glimpsed on his skin—and led through corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly. The few servants you'd passed had kept their eyes down, their footsteps hurried, as if lingering too long in these halls might invite catastrophe.
You didn't blame them.
You'd heard the stories. Everyone had. The Emperor who'd conquered lands with nothing but his cursed energy and ruthlessness. The man who'd taken a first wife and cast her aside when her jealousy became tiresome. A second wife who'd lasted even less time—too vapid, too eager to please, ultimately too boring to keep his interest.
Now there was you.
The third wife.
A treaty offering from your father's province, a political band-aid for a conflict your family couldn't hope to win. You'd accepted your fate with the same quiet grace you'd accepted everything else in life—with steady hands and a calm heart, even when your mother had wept.
"Someone will show you to your chambers," the officiant had said after the ceremony, and then you'd been alone.
Not entirely alone, you supposed. Somewhere in this sprawling palace, Sukuna's concubines resided. You'd seen a few during the ceremony—beautiful women dripping in jewels, their eyes sharp as they assessed the new wife. You'd met their gazes evenly, offering a small nod of acknowledgment.
You weren't here to make enemies. You weren't naive enough to think you could make friends either.
The shoji door slid open, and two young women entered—both looking no older than yourself. They bowed in perfect unison, their movements practiced but stiff with nervousness.
"Empress," the first one said, her voice barely above a whisper. She had gentle brown eyes and her hands trembled slightly. "I am Danielle. This is Haerin. We've been assigned to attend to you."
The second girl—Haerin—kept her eyes downcast, her posture rigid with fear. She was as pretty as Danielle, with delicate features and long lashes, but she looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor.
"Thank you, Danielle. Haerin." You kept your voice soft, gentle, and watched as both girls' eyes widened in surprise. "I appreciate your help. This palace is... quite large. I'm afraid I'll get lost without guidance."
Danielle blinked rapidly, as if kindness was unexpected. Perhaps it was, in a place like this. "Y-yes, Empress. Your chambers have been prepared. If you'll follow us?"
They led you through more corridors, these ones slightly warmer, touched by braziers that cast dancing shadows on the walls. You noticed how they walked—Hana slightly ahead, Haerin trailing behind, both of them glancing nervously at closed doors as if expecting something terrible to emerge.
Your chambers, when you finally reached them, were surprisingly beautiful—spacious, with painted screens depicting cranes in flight, and a small garden visible through the windows.
A dead garden, you noted. Winter-killed and abandoned.
"Will there be anything else, Empress?" Danielle asked, while Haerin began arranging your few belongings with quick, efficient movements.
You turned to them both, offering a small smile. "Please, when we're alone, you can call me by my name if you'd like. And yes—do you know if there are gardening tools available? Seeds, perhaps?"
Both girls froze. Haerin's hands stilled on the silk robe she'd been folding.
"G-gardening tools, my lady?" Danielle stammered.
"The garden outside." You gestured to the window. "It seems a shame to leave it barren. I'd like to plant winter camellias. And perhaps some early plum blossoms, if the soil can support them."
Haerin finally spoke, her voice soft and uncertain. "But my lady... it's winter. Nothing will grow until—"
"Spring," you finished gently. "I know. But seeds need time to root, even in the cold. And hope needs something to tend to."
The two girls exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them. Then Danielle straightened her shoulders. "I... I'll inquire about the tools, my lady. We should have such things in storage."
"Thank you, Danielle." You looked at Haerin, who was still staring at you with wide, uncertain eyes. "And Haerin, if you're not too busy tomorrow, would you help me plan the garden layout? I'd appreciate another perspective."
The girl's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "M-me, my lady?"
"Yes, you. I imagine you know this palace better than I do. You'd know where the sun hits, where the shadows fall."
A faint blush colored Haerin's cheeks. "I... yes, my lady. I would be honored."
You didn't see Sukuna for three days.
It didn't surprise you. Political marriages rarely involved actual interaction, and you imagined an emperor had better things to do than visit a wife he'd been forced to take.
So you kept yourself occupied.
The garden became your first project. You worked alongside Danielle and Harin—much to their shock—kneeling in the cold earth with your sleeves tied back, planting camellia seeds with careful hands.
"My lady, please," Danielle had protested on the first day, looking genuinely distressed. "This isn't proper. If the Emperor sees—"
"Then he sees," you'd said simply, patting soil over a seed. "My mother always said that anything worth having is worth working for. Besides, I like the feel of earth under my fingernails. It reminds me that I'm alive."
Haerin had knelt beside you then, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. "My grandmother used to garden," she'd said softly. "Before she passed. She said that plants were like people—they needed patience and care to thrive."
"Your grandmother sounds wise," you'd replied, and the smile Haerin gave you was like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Word spread quickly through the palace. The new empress, kneeling in the dirt like a common servant. The new empress, who spoke gently to her attendants and worked alongside them. The new empress, who didn't demand or throw tantrums or weep dramatically like the others.
You pretended not to notice the whispers, but you noticed how Danielle and Haerin began to relax around you. How Danielle started humming while she worked. How Haerin laughed—actually laughed—when you made a joke about your dirt-stained hands.
On the fourth day, you encountered your first concubine.
She was beautiful—of course she was—with long dark hair and sharp, calculating eyes. She found you in the garden again, wrapped in a thick cloak against the winter wind, sketching plans for a stone path while Danielle and Haerinarranged tools nearby.
"So you're the new one," she said without preamble.
You looked up, setting down your charcoal. Danielle and Haerin immediately tensed, bowing low. You gestured for them to rise. "I am. And you're...?"
"Ningning." She tilted her head, studying you like a cat studies a mouse. Her gaze flickered to your attendants dismissively before returning to you. "I've been here two years. Longer than either of your predecessors."
"Then you must be very special," you said simply, without irony.
That seemed to throw her. Her eyes narrowed. "You're not what I expected."
"I'm sorry to disappoint."
"I didn't say I was disappointed." She crouched down, her fine robes pooling around her, seemingly unconcerned about the dirt. "The first wife was a shrew. The second was a fool. What are you?"
You considered the question, then smiled. "A gardener, apparently."
Despite herself, Ningning laughed. It was a surprised sound, quickly stifled. "You're planting flowers in winter. That makes you a fool too."
"Perhaps," you agreed. "But even fools can hope for spring."
She studied you for another long moment, then stood. "He'll break you," she said, not unkindly. "Sukuna breaks everything eventually. It's his nature."
"Maybe," you said softly. "Or maybe some things are strong enough to bend instead of break."
Ningning left without another word, but you thought you saw something like respect in her eyes.
After she was gone, Haerin leaned closer to you. "My lady... you weren't afraid of her."
"Should I have been?"
"The second empress was," Danielle said quietly. "She used to cry after the concubines visited. Said they were cruel to her."
You looked at both girls thoughtfully. "Did you know the second empress well?"
They exchanged glances. "We didn't serve her," Haerin admitted. "We worked in the kitchens usually. But we heard things."
"She screamed at the servants," Danielle added, her voice barely a whisper. "Threw things when she was angry. We were... surprised when we were assigned to you. We thought..."
"You thought I'd be the same," you finished gently.
Both girls looked down, ashamed.
"It's alright," you said, reaching out to squeeze Danielle's hand briefly. "You can't be blamed for expecting the worst. But I promise you both—I'm not here to make anyone's life harder. We're all just trying to survive in our own ways."
Haerin's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Thank you, my lady," she whispered.
You met Sukuna on the fifth night.
You'd been preparing for bed, braiding your hair by candlelight, when the door opened without warning. Danielle and Haerin had left for the evening—you'd insisted they rest, that you could manage alone—so when his massive frame filled the doorway, you were alone.
Completely alone.
With the man they called a monster.
He was... larger than you'd expected. Taller. The tattoos you'd glimpsed during the ceremony covered more of his skin—intricate patterns that seemed to move in the flickering light. His eyes, all four of them, fixed on you with an intensity that would have made lesser women tremble.
You set down your brush and stood, bowing respectfully. "Emperor."
"Sukuna," he corrected, his voice like gravel and silk. "You're my wife. Use my name."
"Sukuna," you repeated softly.
He moved into the room with predatory grace, and you noticed he was studying you the same way Ningning had—like he was trying to solve a puzzle. His eyes traveled from your simple sleeping robe to your bare feet, to the loose braid draped over your shoulder.
"You're not afraid," he observed.
"Should I be?"
"Most people are."
You met his gaze steadily. "Most people haven't been raised by a father who negotiated with warlords since childhood. I learned early that fear is only useful if it keeps you alive. Otherwise, it's just... exhausting."
Something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity?
He moved closer, and you caught his scent—sandalwood and something darker, like smoke and steel. He reached out, and you held perfectly still as he caught your braid between his fingers, testing its weight.
"You've been gardening," he said.
Not a question. A statement.
"Yes."
"In winter."
"Yes."
"Why?"
You considered how to answer. Honesty, you decided, was probably safest with a man who could smell lies. "Because the garden was dead, and I don't like looking at dead things. Because even in winter, there's potential for growth—you just have to be patient enough to wait for it. And because..." you paused, then continued softly, "because I needed something beautiful to tend to."
His eyes—all of them—focused on you with unnerving intensity. "You think you can make something beautiful here? In my palace?"
"I think," you said carefully, "that beauty exists everywhere, if you're willing to look for it. Even in unlikely places."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled—a sharp, dangerous thing that should have terrified you.
It didn't.
"The others tried to change me," he said, releasing your braid. "The first wife wept and begged me to send away my concubines. The second tried to seduce me into compliance, thinking her body was enough to hold my attention."
"I have no intention of changing you," you replied. "You are who you are. An emperor. A force of nature. I'd have better luck trying to convince winter to become spring ahead of schedule."
"And yet you plant flowers."
"I plant flowers," you agreed, "because that's who I am. Not to change the winter, but to be ready when spring comes on its own."
He stared at you for so long you wondered if you'd said something wrong. Then he turned and walked to the door.
"The servants say you work alongside them," he said without looking back. "That you learn their names and ask about their families."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because they're people," you said simply. "And people deserve to be seen."
He paused in the doorway, his massive frame silhouetted against the corridor light. "You're strange."
"I've been told that before."
"I haven't decided yet," he said, "if you're wise or foolish."
"Perhaps I'm both," you offered. "Most interesting people are."
You could have sworn you heard him laugh—a low, rumbling sound—before he disappeared into the darkness.
Sleep came surprisingly easily that night.
The next morning, you found something waiting in your garden.
A single winter camellia, already in bloom, planted in the center of the space you'd been preparing. Its petals were the palest pink, almost white, delicate against the frozen earth.
Impossible. Camellias from seed took years to bloom.
But there it was.
Danielle and Haerin found you staring at it, your fingers pressed to your lips.
"The Emperor's work," Danielle whispered, her eyes wide. "His cursed energy can manipulate growth. Force life from death." She hesitated. "He's never used it for flowers before. Only for... other purposes."
Haerin clutched your arm gently. "My lady... what does it mean?"
You knelt beside the camellia, touching its petals with reverent fingers. They were real. Alive. Beautiful.
"Even monsters," you whispered, "can create something gentle."
Behind you, your two attendants exchanged hopeful glances.
And high above, unseen and unheard, Sukuna watched from a window.
He told himself it was a whim. A momentary curiosity about the strange woman who'd invaded his palace with her quiet voice and dirt-stained hands.
with the rise of islamophobia on twitter and tiktok id just like to say if you genuinely harass hijabis under the guise of being 'woke' and criticising religion, get off my page
with the rise of islamophobia on twitter and tiktok id just like to say if you genuinely harass hijabis under the guise of being 'woke' and criticising religion, get off my page
r.grace x fem!reader ⋮ angst ⋮ estab. relationship ⋮ alludes to character death ⋮ reader refers to ryland as 'honey' ⋮ 539 words
Today was the day– again.
Another year that crawled by at the same speed of your grief. Time, that was once your friend, had become your worst enemy. It worked against you. Wielding a sharpened knife that plunges into your back, twisting deeper every minute.
Ryland had been gone for three years. Three long years.
In the middle of the night, you still found yourself reaching out across the bed. You were always met with cold sheets. You still found yourself in the morning reaching for two mugs. The realization that dawned on you felt worse than a gunshot. There was no need to grab another mug, nor was there a need for you to reach for something—someone–that wasn’t there.
Your world shattered when Strat told you. Ryland. Your sweet, silly, Ryland decided to give up his life and go to Tau Ceti. He left his students behind. He left you behind. The man who would grasp onto your hand and make you do an odd shuffle like run across a street. He’d gone up to space.
“Hey, Ry.” You murmur softly, face upturned towards the starry sky.
The clouds had cleared. The fog from the last few days had disappeared—a dull ache lingers as you remember how fond Ryland was of the fog. He’d say something smart if he were with you now. He’d wish for the fog back so he wouldn’t have to see your sad expression.
Your fingers grasp onto your jeans so hard the fabric wrinkles. It’s only then do you realize you’re shaking. And tears are slowly dripping down your cheeks.
“It’s been a while.” You continue, voice starting to waiver. “Too long. I.. I miss you. I always do.”
The stars twinkle. It’s almost like you can pretend he’s there.
“I miss the way you used to grade papers at the dinner table. All those papers littered everywhere, the bouts of red pens you used to go through. All the empty sticker sheets I’d find balled up under the table.” A choked sound falls from your lips. “And I miss the way you always got us tickets to the kids’ fundraisers. I still go. Did you know that? Abby is raising money for the STEM club now.”
Talking to Ryland became a nightly ritual. You’d stand outside before you went to bed—no matter the temperature. Rain or shine. It brought you comfort. But the anniversary of the launch always had you outside for hours.
“You’d be so proud of them, honey.” You whisper. “They’ve gotten older but they always stay in contact. They miss you. We.. we all do.”
If he was here today, he’d be grinning ear to ear. His students’ were his kids. Each year, each class, his little family grew. It was inspiring for you to have been able to watch it happen. All the drawings he brought home, the letters during teacher appreciation week, even gift cards from parents. Ryland was a movable ball of sunshine. He lit up the world wherever he went.
Your only hope would be he brought his light to space.
“I love you.” Tears drip down your cheeks in droves. They splat onto your sweater and the breeze makes your cheeks feel raw. “Always.”
r.grace x fem!reader ⋮ angst ⋮ estab. relationship ⋮ alludes to character death ⋮ reader refers to ryland as 'honey' ⋮ 539 words
Today was the day– again.
Another year that crawled by at the same speed of your grief. Time, that was once your friend, had become your worst enemy. It worked against you. Wielding a sharpened knife that plunges into your back, twisting deeper every minute.
Ryland had been gone for three years. Three long years.
In the middle of the night, you still found yourself reaching out across the bed. You were always met with cold sheets. You still found yourself in the morning reaching for two mugs. The realization that dawned on you felt worse than a gunshot. There was no need to grab another mug, nor was there a need for you to reach for something—someone–that wasn’t there.
Your world shattered when Strat told you. Ryland. Your sweet, silly, Ryland decided to give up his life and go to Tau Ceti. He left his students behind. He left you behind. The man who would grasp onto your hand and make you do an odd shuffle like run across a street. He’d gone up to space.
“Hey, Ry.” You murmur softly, face upturned towards the starry sky.
The clouds had cleared. The fog from the last few days had disappeared—a dull ache lingers as you remember how fond Ryland was of the fog. He’d say something smart if he were with you now. He’d wish for the fog back so he wouldn’t have to see your sad expression.
Your fingers grasp onto your jeans so hard the fabric wrinkles. It’s only then do you realize you’re shaking. And tears are slowly dripping down your cheeks.
“It’s been a while.” You continue, voice starting to waiver. “Too long. I.. I miss you. I always do.”
The stars twinkle. It’s almost like you can pretend he’s there.
“I miss the way you used to grade papers at the dinner table. All those papers littered everywhere, the bouts of red pens you used to go through. All the empty sticker sheets I’d find balled up under the table.” A choked sound falls from your lips. “And I miss the way you always got us tickets to the kids’ fundraisers. I still go. Did you know that? Abby is raising money for the STEM club now.”
Talking to Ryland became a nightly ritual. You’d stand outside before you went to bed—no matter the temperature. Rain or shine. It brought you comfort. But the anniversary of the launch always had you outside for hours.
“You’d be so proud of them, honey.” You whisper. “They’ve gotten older but they always stay in contact. They miss you. We.. we all do.”
If he was here today, he’d be grinning ear to ear. His students’ were his kids. Each year, each class, his little family grew. It was inspiring for you to have been able to watch it happen. All the drawings he brought home, the letters during teacher appreciation week, even gift cards from parents. Ryland was a movable ball of sunshine. He lit up the world wherever he went.
Your only hope would be he brought his light to space.
“I love you.” Tears drip down your cheeks in droves. They splat onto your sweater and the breeze makes your cheeks feel raw. “Always.”
r.grace x fem!reader ⋮ angst ⋮ estab. relationship ⋮ alludes to character death ⋮ reader refers to ryland as 'honey' ⋮ 539 words
Today was the day– again.
Another year that crawled by at the same speed of your grief. Time, that was once your friend, had become your worst enemy. It worked against you. Wielding a sharpened knife that plunges into your back, twisting deeper every minute.
Ryland had been gone for three years. Three long years.
In the middle of the night, you still found yourself reaching out across the bed. You were always met with cold sheets. You still found yourself in the morning reaching for two mugs. The realization that dawned on you felt worse than a gunshot. There was no need to grab another mug, nor was there a need for you to reach for something—someone–that wasn’t there.
Your world shattered when Strat told you. Ryland. Your sweet, silly, Ryland decided to give up his life and go to Tau Ceti. He left his students behind. He left you behind. The man who would grasp onto your hand and make you do an odd shuffle like run across a street. He’d gone up to space.
“Hey, Ry.” You murmur softly, face upturned towards the starry sky.
The clouds had cleared. The fog from the last few days had disappeared—a dull ache lingers as you remember how fond Ryland was of the fog. He’d say something smart if he were with you now. He’d wish for the fog back so he wouldn’t have to see your sad expression.
Your fingers grasp onto your jeans so hard the fabric wrinkles. It’s only then do you realize you’re shaking. And tears are slowly dripping down your cheeks.
“It’s been a while.” You continue, voice starting to waiver. “Too long. I.. I miss you. I always do.”
The stars twinkle. It’s almost like you can pretend he’s there.
“I miss the way you used to grade papers at the dinner table. All those papers littered everywhere, the bouts of red pens you used to go through. All the empty sticker sheets I’d find balled up under the table.” A choked sound falls from your lips. “And I miss the way you always got us tickets to the kids’ fundraisers. I still go. Did you know that? Abby is raising money for the STEM club now.”
Talking to Ryland became a nightly ritual. You’d stand outside before you went to bed—no matter the temperature. Rain or shine. It brought you comfort. But the anniversary of the launch always had you outside for hours.
“You’d be so proud of them, honey.” You whisper. “They’ve gotten older but they always stay in contact. They miss you. We.. we all do.”
If he was here today, he’d be grinning ear to ear. His students’ were his kids. Each year, each class, his little family grew. It was inspiring for you to have been able to watch it happen. All the drawings he brought home, the letters during teacher appreciation week, even gift cards from parents. Ryland was a movable ball of sunshine. He lit up the world wherever he went.
Your only hope would be he brought his light to space.
“I love you.” Tears drip down your cheeks in droves. They splat onto your sweater and the breeze makes your cheeks feel raw. “Always.”
a/n: this is literally just extra bits i chose not to use/a KIND OF sequel to my first grace fic. i just wanted to let these see the light of day :p (check out the fic here!)
engagement party. justin hurwitz
The sound of music filled his ears, something he hadn’t heard in too long of a time.
It was familiar and warm and so you.
Grace let out a shaky laugh, pressing the earbuds closer like they might slip away if he didn’t hold them there.
For a second—just a second—it felt like he was in the kitchen again. Like you were over the stove, cooking and humming like you always did when it was your turn to make dinner.
“Grace sad, question?”
“Uhm,” Grace sniffled, shaking his head. “Yea, I… I am.”
“What is that, question?” Rocky extended one of his arms, pulsing his little fingers in and out. “Rocky hear sound from box.”
“This is old Earth technology,” Grace paused the tape and lifted up the little box. “It’s called a cassette player.”
Grace reached back into his spacious bag and grabbed another one of the cassettes.
“You put this little rectangle into the box, and it makes music.” Grace smiled, pressing the play button again, the sound of The Beatles’ Across the Universe playing out of the earbuds.”
“Amaze, amaze, amaze.” Rocky replied, and Grace could hear the pitch in Rocky’s ‘voice’ raised slightly.
“This…” Grace paused as he listened for a second. “This belonged to my mate.”
“Woaaa.” Rocky’s frequency analyzer glitched slightly.
☆
Grace’s hand wrapped tightly around yours.
He smiled.
You were too.
“You look incredible.”
“You don’t look too bad yourself.” You chuckled, and he leaned in closer, hand now cupping your cheek.
“You’re pretty awesome, you know that right?”
“Of course I do,” you snorted quietly. “You’ve been telling me that for the past week.”
“Well you’re my wife. I want you to know it, not just think it.”
“You’re so cheesy.”
You both smiled as you walked down the steps of the courthouse, hand in hand, eyes locked.
No one waited for either of you outside. It was just the two of you together, no one else to call a friend or family. That's just how it was.
Your silky white dress flowed in a breeze that came through.
You giggled, using his body as a shield against the wind.
Grace watched you with a glimmer that was only recognizable in a man head over heels.
☆
“So the nebby… neb-neb thing,” you chuckled, scratching your cheek.
Grace tried not to laugh in your face. It was too hard for him when this was your attempt at flirting.
“A nebula?” he asked through clenched teeth, holding in his chuckles.
“Yes– are you okay?” You worried, leaning on the cafe table.
“I’m just–” he wheezed a laugh, now reaching his hand up to cover his mouth. “I’m sorry—” He started laughing.
☆
Hatch let himself into Grace’s makeshift office.
[blah blah blah, talking about important science stuff]
“Pete? I thought you were naming them after The Beatles.”
“Well,” Hatch settled the heavy metal probe on Grace’s desk. “Before Ringo Starr, the Beatles had a drummer named Pete. This—” he patted the probe, “—is Pete.”
He pointed towards the general area of the sky. “The ones going on the ship will be named after the fab four.”
Grace nodded, leaning back as best as he could in his folding chair, listening as he continued to rant on about Beatles facts.
“My wife was a bit of a Beatles fanatic, too.”
“Really?”
Grace reached into his desk and pulled out your letter, flipping it to show Hatch the back where you had the list of songs.
The Beatles took up a majority of the list.
“Her favorite song was [insert favorite Beatles song].”
Hatch handed the paper back to Grace.
“Well, I must say, your wife has impeccable taste.”
☆
It had been a little under thirty years since Grace had left.
Thirty long years.
Laika passed. You went through menopause. Your hair started graying. Your skin wrinkled.
On a random day, you received a call from an unknown number.
You hung up.
They called again.
What a nuisance.
You begrudgingly answered.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Grace?”
That voice was familiar.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Eva Stratt. I worked with your husband on the Hail Mary. I have some news about your husband.”
“Grace?” Your voice wavered.
But you didn’t remember seeing anything on the news about the ship returning. There hadn’t been any news at all, just war and famine. So many people died. Nations fought for resources. Oceans were rising. Temperatures fluctuated sporadically.
The world had gone to shit after the Hail Mary left.
Your world had gone to shit when Grace left.
But, you tried your best to continue.
For Grace, you told yourself.
“Yes,” Stratt sighed. You could hear her typing. “I would like to show you this in person since this information has not been revealed to the media yet.”
“What?” You mumbled.
“I will see you tomorrow, Mrs. Grace.”
The connection ended.
You huffed. It had been too long since some ominous government figure called you about your husband.
The next day, just like she said, she showed up.
It was almost eight p.m.
You had finished dinner, one too many servings somehow. Leftovers for tomorrow.
There was a knock at the door.
Who would be knocking at this hour?
You shuffled towards the door, opening it to find an older woman. She was accompanied by a younger man in a black suit.
“Oh.” You murmured. “Eva Stratt?”
“Yes. May I come in?” She asked, already letting herself in.
“Oh– You already let your—” the man also stepped in. “Okay, both of you then.”
She sat herself in your living room, sighing quietly.
“You remember Project Hail Mary, correct?”
You nodded, sitting yourself on the couch across from her.
“Your husband was a part of the mission. He sent the probes back and we’ve recently recovered them. My team has reviewed all the footage and we found a message he left for you.”
You sat back, a shaky hand reaching to cover your mouth and drown any sobs that might escape you.
“He’s alive?”
Stratt opened her mouth, then closed it, glancing at the coffee table and then back at you.
“We… we don’t know.”
Both your hands covered your eyes, stopping the tears as they rolled down your cheek and spread into the ridges of your hands.
“But, he left you this.”
She glanced at the man next to her and he pulled out a tablet.
You looked up at him, a mess of tears.
You scoffed.
“A tablet,” you chuckled, shaking your head as you grabbed it. “I hated this.”
“Please, watch the video.”
You nodded slowly, powering the tablet on to find his face the first thing on the screen.
He looked just like you remembered him. He was… younger than you expected.
Time dilation.
You sighed shakily, wiping the tears away to better your vision.
And you clicked play.
“Hello!” his voice chimed.
“It’s uh… it's been a while, hasn’t it?”
Stratt got up, exiting the room with her bodyguard for privacy.
“I miss you, but I’m sure you know that.” He paused, looking over the camera.
“Gee,” he huffed. You could see his eyes getting teary. “I thought I was gonna say more than this but what is there to say? I– I found the answer to getting rid of astrophage. I– I made an alien friend! His name is Rocky, and he knows all about you. Which, by the way, I got your little gifts.”
The USB drive floated in front of his face.
He seemed to push himself up and drift.
“Rocky, come say hi!”
“Hello Grace mate!”
“Hello Grace mate?!”
“Rocky–”
“Hello?!”
“Rock, she can’t hear you. This isn’t like a real-time thing, remember?”
You covered your mouth as a laugh broke through your sobbing.
Even now. Even after thirty years.
He was still Grace. The Grace you had met in university. The Grace you married. The Grace you loved.
The screen jostled slightly. There was a metallic clatter somewhere off screen
Grace laughed quietly to himself, wiping beneath one eye.
“Sorry. He’s excited.”
He adjusted the camera. For a moment he just stared into it. Into you.
“I don’t know when this will reach Earth.”
He paused, his smile fading softer.
“I don’t know what Earth will look like. I don’t know what you’ll look like.”
A shaky hand drifted towards your mouth.
“But I know you’ll still be beautiful.”
A sob tore out of you.
Grace swallowed hard, eyes shining.
“I used to think the worst thing that could happen to me was dying out here,” he shook his head, inhaling like he always did to stave off tears. “It wasn’t. It was realizing I might live and still never see you again.”
You bent forward, crying into your palm.
“I’m sorry I left you waiting and wondering.”
He looked into his shirt, letting the chain float out to reveal his wedding band hanging on it.
“I wore this every day after I found it.”
He laughed once through his tears.
“Rocky says that's weird because humans don’t have carapaces.”
You smiled helplessly through your sobbing.
Grace smiled at the sound he would never hear.
“If you moved on… good,” he nodded to himself. “If you hated me sometimes… fair.”
His voice broke as he spoke again. “If you waited for me…”
He couldn’t finish for a moment.
“I’m sorry.”
The room behind him hummed softly.
“I loved being your husband.”
Tears slid down his face freely now. “More than I loved being a scientist. More than I loved being right. More than my students.”
He inhaled shakily.
“You were the best thing that ever happened to me.”
The screen trembled as he reached forward.
“I love you, nebby.”
The video ended.
You stared at your reflection in the black screen, older than him now. And for the second time in your life, Ryland Grace was gone.
—
It had been a few months since Stratt brought you the video.
A few months since you had seen your husband’s face for the first time in three decades.
A few months since you had lost him again.
You watched the recording often. Too often, maybe.
Sometimes it was comfort, other times to punish yourself, and other times just to hear his voice filling the house once more.
A knock rang at your door, an odd occurrence that could only mean one thing.
You opened the door to find Eva Stratt standing there, older still, hands clasped behind her back.
You stepped to the side and she entered without thanking you.
Some things never changed.
You led her into the kitchen, where coffee had long gone cold on the counter.
She did not sit.
“Memorials of Grace are being built. There is going to be one here in San Francisco.”
You frowned. “A memorial?”
“Yes. Statues of Dr. Grace.”
You stared at her.
“And… Rocky.”
“The– The alien?”
“Of course.” She sounded mildly-offended you would question it. “Alien helps save the world.”
A small laugh escapes you.
Grace would have loved that.
Stratt reached into her coat and placed a cream-colored envelope on that table.
“They want a ceremony. A ribbon cutting and a speech.”
You looked down at the envelope but didn’t touch it.
“Why me?”
“Because you are what he left behind.”
The kitchen fell silent. Even after all these years, the woman still knew how to wound with plain truth.
You reached for the nearest chair and sat down.
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Yes you do.” She glanced toward the living room where the tablet rested on the coffee table. “You have already survived worse.”
—
San Francisco was damp.
Rain from the morning hung heavy in the air. There was a slight fog blanketing the city. It was his favorite weather.
A stage had been built in front of the memorial plaza, rows of chairs stretching outward in neat lines.
Cameras and reporters were everywhere. Civilians gathered as well. Officials hurried around like frightened birds.
There were too many people; too much noise.
A young woman approached you, all business.
“Mrs. Grace? We’re ready for you.”
You nodded.
—
The applause was loud when your name was announched.
You hated it.
You stepped carefully to the podium, notes trembling in your hands. Beyond the crowd, Stratt stood with arms crossed, expression unreadable.
You leaned toward the microphone.
“It’s strange,” you began, voice thin. “To be asked to speak about a man the world seems to know so well.”
The crowd quieted.
“You know Ryland Grace as a hero.” Pause. “I knew him as the man who got nervous on elevators.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
You smiled faintly.
“He could explain things no one asked about for hours. He left cabinet doors open. He cried when his students gave him gifts.”
More laughter echoed.
You swallowed.
“His kindness never made headlines.”
The plaza stilled again.
“When the Hail Mary launched, the world gained a savior.”
You fingers let the papers go.
“I lost my husband.”
Your voice shook as you continued.
“For many years, I was angry.”
You glanced toward the draped statues. “At the mission. At the world. At everyone who needed him more than I did.”
You drew a breath.
“But grief is stubborn. It changes shape. It softens where it can.”
You look back out over the crowd.
“And then, after thirty years, I saw his face again.”
A murmur passed through the audience.
“He was younger than me.”
You closed your eyes for a second.
“And I realized time had taken him from me twice.”
Stratt looked down.
You shuffled the final page forward, even if you didn’t need it.
“Thank you for remembering what he saved.”
You stepped back.
Applause came slow and soft after.
—
Stratt joined you at the ribbon.
“You did good.”
“Thank you.” You murmured.
She placed the scissors in your hand.
Together, you cut the ribbon.
The dark cloths dropped.
Bronze shone in the gray daylight.
Command Yao stood on the right, chin lifted. Ilyukhina on the left with folded arms and fierce eyes.
And Grace with one hand raised, mouth slightly open as if caught halfway through explaining something. Beside him was Rocky, in a strange ball, pressed right against Grace’s calf.
The crowd cheered.
You heard none of it.
He looked thirty-nine.
You were in your seventies.
Your legs moved before thought could stop them, and you crossed the plaza until you stood before him.
Bronze smile. Bronze eyes. Bronze hands that would never hold your again.
You reached up, fingertips brushing the cold metal of his cheek.
“I hated this,” you whispered, thinking of his videos. A shaky laugh left you. “Seeing you younger than me.”
Your hand slid down to his, the sculptor having included the ring around his finger.
Tears blurred your vision.
Around you, cameras flashed and strangers celebrated.
But in that moment there was only two of you. Just like the courthouse steps. Just like before the world took him.
You rested your forehead against the statue.
“Thank you for coming back,” you whispered.
The metal, of course, said nothing. But for one impossible second, with the crowd fading far away, you could almost hear him laugh.
―୨୧ ryland 'yapper' grace who genuinely cannot stop talking when he's comfortable with someone. he's spitting out science facts whenever they come to his mind in a conversation. "well, uh, actually, the earth's rotation is gradually slowing down." he says, fixing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "at the end of each century. well, it's lengthening about 1.7 miliseconds. but still. the days are getting longer. so, uh, that's probably why you feel like you've been working longer than you have."
―୨୧ ryland 'yapper' grace who deliberately makes his students cringe. whenever there's trash on his desk, he's balling it up with a silly little grin, then launching it at the trash saying "Kobe!" he also uses brainrot back at his students. so much so that it's slipped into his everyday vocabulary.
―୨୧ ryland 'yapper' grace who somehow gets to talking even more when he's nervous. which usually happens when you're close to him. at the end of the night out, where you're looking so pretty under the porch light, he's opening his mouth like a goof. "I actually had a lot of fun tonight- u-uh, not that I don't always have fun when we're together, because I do. tonight was just extra fun-" you cut him off by pressing your lips to his. when he realizes what had happened, he's gasping against your mouth and wrapping an arm around your waist.
―୨୧ ryland 'yapper' grace who only shuts up when you stick your fingers in his mouth. it startles him every time, whether you're doing it innocently or when things are getting heated. a laugh bubbles up in his throat, too flabbergasted to even remember what he was talking about. his jaw hangs open, eyes wide as he looks down at you. "really?" he mutters, voice muffled around your digits.
This is for my bb @sugusplaything just this once event ♥︎
Tw: MDNI, 18+
Loving Ryomen Sukuna is a bit like willingly walking into a burning building and being surprised when you get third degree burns.
You knew the fire was there. You saw the flames. You smelled the smoke. And your dumb ass walked in anyway because the warmth felt nice.
Sukuna Ryomen: A selfish bastard, commitment phobe, serial heartbreaker, occasional decent friend, and…for the past six months… the man whose bed you crawled into like a pathetic little moth drawn to an extremely hot, emotionally unavailable flame.
Friends with benefits.
Six months. That's how long you'd been doing this little dance with him. Six months of watching him leave your bed to go to someone else’s and telling yourself it was fine because you agreed to this.
No strings. No feelings.
The problem? You forgot to tell your heart about the arrangement.
Your phone buzzed at 11:47 PM. You already knew who it was
Sukuna: you up?
And there it was. The modern equivalent of a booty call smoke signal. Your thumb hovered over the screen while your dignity staged a small protest somewhere in the back of your skull.
Don't do it, the last remaining brain cell screamed. Have some self respect.
You typed back: maybe
See? Growth. That was practically playing hard to get.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Sukuna: that a yes or a no?
You: depends. what's in it for me?
Sukuna: me.
God, the audacity of this man. But It worked. It always fucking worked. Because you were a clown, and this was your circus.
Twenty minutes later, you were in his apartment, and his mouth was on your neck, and his hands were everywhere, and for a few blissful hours, you could pretend this meant something. That the way he held you after…meant something. That when he murmured "stay" against your hair, he meant it the way you wanted him to.
You'd known Sukuna since forever. Since you were eight years old and he was the mean kid who pulled your hair on the playground. Since you were fourteen and he showed up at your door at midnight because his dad was drunk again and he had nowhere else to go. Since you were seventeen and he held your hand at your father’s funeral without saying a word because he knew you didn't need words.
He was your person. Your best friend. The one constant in your life.
And then, six months ago, shit happened. Maybe it was the way he looked at you… both of you drunk on cheap wine. Maybe it was how he said "I've always wondered" before he kissed you
"This doesn't have to change anything," you'd whispered after, your forehead pressed against his.
"No feelings," he agreed.
"No strings."
Famous last words.
The first time you saw him with someone else, you told yourself it was fine. Expected, even. That was the deal, right? He could do whatever…. whoever…. he wanted. You had no claim to him. No right to the jealousy that clawed at your throat when you watched her laugh at something he said.
You went home and cried in the shower for forty five minutes, then texted him like nothing was wrong.
The second time, you learned to swallow it faster. Shove it down into that little box where you kept all the feelings you weren't supposed to have.
The third time. The fourth. The fifth….
You got good at it. You could watch him flirt with someone at a party and still end up in his bed two hours later, because you were built different. Damaged different, but who's keeping score? Pathetic, really. Truly embarrassing behavior for a grown woman.
March 15th.
Your birthday.
You woke up to seventeen texts from various friends and family, a call from your mom that went to voicemail, and radio silence from the one person who'd never missed it.
Sukuna had remembered your birthday since you were nine years old. The year his mom was sick and his family had no money, he'd stolen flowers from the neighbor's garden and presented them to you with dirt still clinging to the roots. "They're not dead yet," he'd said, like that was the selling point.
You'd kept them until they were.
But today? Nothing. Not a text, not a call, not even a stupid meme with the crying cat that he always sent because he knew it made you laugh.
He's busy, you told yourself. He'll remember later.
You checked your phone at least eight thousand times throughout the day. Totally normal. Just a girl, standing in front of her phone, waiting for a man who promised her nothing to give her something.
By 7 PM, you'd graduated from "he's busy" to "maybe his phone died" to "maybe he's dead in a ditch somewhere and I should call hospitals."
9 PM, you were on Instagram.
And you saw his story, time stamped thirty minutes ago. Sukuna at some fancy restaurant with fairy lights and candles, and across from him sat a girl with perfect hair and pretty eyes,
He was on a date.
Something in your chest cracked. Like ice under pressure, spiderwebbing outward until the whole surface was compromised. You stared at that story for longer than you'd ever admit. Watched it loop three times. Four. Let the image burn itself into your retinas.
And then, finally, something clicked.
You were hurting yourself.
Every time you answered his late night texts. Every time you convinced yourself that maybe this time he'd look at you different. Every time you swallowed your feelings . You were doing this to yourself.
He wasn't the villain here. He'd been honest from the start. No strings. He'd kept his end of the deal.
You were the one who broke the rules.
You crawled into your bed, and let yourself cry. Ugly crying that leaves you dehydrated and blotchy
~~~
You're packing when he finally texts. Not packing packing. Just... putting things in boxes. His hoodie that had somehow came to your closet. Little pieces of him scattered around your apartment like landmines.
For one stupid, hopeful second, your heart leapt. Maybe he remembered. Maybe this was him texting to apologize, to explain…
Sukuna: come over
Translation: I’m horny, come over and spread your legs.
Ah, the late night classic. The mating call of the emotionally unavailable fuckboy. Your fingers itch to respond.., muscle memory at this point… but you don't.
When have you become this person? This pathetic, desperate girl who waits by her phone for scraps of attention from a man who can’t even remember her birthday?
You stare at the message until your screen goes dark, then you go back to shoving his things into the box
Twenty minutes later, there's a knock at your door.
Of course. Because god forbid Sukuna not get what he wants.
You consider ignoring it. But then he knocks again, harder, and calls out: "I know you're in there. Your light's on."
Oh ffs
You yank the door open. Sukuna's standing there in that leather jacket you've always secretly loved, hair pushed back
"Didn't answer my text," he says, inviting himself in.
"I was busy."
What are you doing?" He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like you were the confusing one here.
“Cleaning."
Sukuna pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you, and God, you hate how your heart still stutters. How your body still remembers every place his hands have been.
"You're being weird," he sys, reaching for the box. "What's…” He stops and stares at the contents. "Why is my shit in here?"
"Because it's yours." You yank the box away. "Take it.”
Sukuna stares at you. That look he gets when he's trying to figure out an angle. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing's wrong.” you say, starting to feel numb. You are so tired you can barely feel anything at all.
He steps closer. That gravity pulling you in, same as always. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and your treacherous body leans into it
"Can I stay," he murmurs. The voice that's gotten you into bed more times than you can count.
And for one pathetic second, you almost say yes.
Then you remember… The candles. The other girl's hand in his.
You pull back. "Not tonight."
He looks confused because Sukuna doesn't hear "no" very often. "Why?"
You look up at him, his eyes are fixed on you, waiting for your response. "I'm tired. Just…. go home, Sukuna."
He doesn't move. "Did I do something?"
"No. You didn't do anything."
That's the problem. You didn't do a single fucking thing.
"Then what…”
"It's my birthday." The words fall out flat and exhausted.
Silence.
You watch it hit him. The slow widening of his eyes. Confusion, then realisation, then guilt showing on his face before he smothers it
"Shit," he breathes. "Fuck, I….."
"Don't." You hold up a hand. "Don't do the thing where you apologize and I pretend it's fine and we fuck and nothing changes. I can't…. " Your voice cracks. Goddamn it. "I can't keep doing this."
Sukuna's face has gone still. You've never seen him look like this before.
"You were my best friend," tears stream down your face "For fifteen years. And now I'm just... what? Just someone you fuck when you're bored?"
Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
“We agreed no feelings.” He finally says. And there it is. The rejection you’ve been expecting, wrapped up in his typical Sukuna way.
A laugh rips out of you. You are crying and laughing at the same time. You wipe your eyes roughly with the back of your hand. Your face is probably a mess… puffy eyes, snotty nose
"You're right," you whisper. You feel like throwing up. Youre so exhausted but the only thing you can think of is how you needed to get out and away from Sukuna “I think we should stop”
You expect him to argue. To charm his way out of it like he always does.
"Okay," he says finally.
Okay. Just like that.
You weren't expecting it to hurt this much.
He leaves.
You sit on your bed and cry until you can't breathe, then cry some more.
Happy fucking birthday to you.
~~~
What you don't see is Sukuna in his car, parked outside your building for two hours, staring at his steering wheel.
What you don't see is him pulling up fifteen years of photos on his phone. You at eight, cake on your face. You at sixteen, asleep in his passenger seat. You at twenty, laughing so hard you spilled champagne all over your clothes.
What you don't see is the moment he realizes the hollow feeling he's been ignoring for months isn't boredom, isn't restlessness, isn't anything fixable by another nameless girl in another forgettable bar.
His lips twitch, fighting back a smile. “Yes, precisely.”
You sigh as you step into the man’s chambers, walking up to the vanity that’s more fitting for a queen, in your opinion. If only people saw this side of the lord. Zuko, the pretty boy. He has zero insecurities over the scar his tyrant of a father left on his face, but he’d faint at the sight of seeing too much hair shed on the marble floors of his bathhouse.
“When you decide to have me summoned like this, do you ever wonder, hm— what would her father think?” you ask as you grudgingly pick up the boar bristle brush and begin to brush his hair.
“I do,” he dryly responds. “I like the way you do your hair though, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell on me. You wouldn’t want me getting in trouble, right?”
Zuko might be the fire lord, but he still has to watch his relationships with the other clans in this nation— especially with a certain hot-headed strategist that just so happens to be your father. You can only imagine his outburst upon learning that his daughter is playing with the lord's hair, rather than playing your role as his advisor.
Most fathers would be pleased by the information— not yours, he’s a little more… strict. He already doesn’t like him from a joke made over a decade ago, suggesting you’d make a fine concubine.
Your father threatened to usurp the throne, sending a chill running down a then 21 year old Zuko’s spine.
There was no way in hell he’d hand you off to the imperial palace to become a concubine. You’re the only child of his that inherited firebending. If your father had it his way, you’d be a warrior, for fucks sake.
Lord Zuko may have a dry sense of humor at times, but you have your doubts on how much of a joke that statement was, especially with how much he likes to bug you throughout the day.
Perhaps another conflict should erupt, the man has too much time on his hands. Maybe then you’d fulfill your fathers wish of finally working in the military— put your talents to use, as he’d say.
But would Lord Zuko allow the gentle hands running through his hair to commit such violence? Or would that be when he’d draw a hard line with the aggressive strategist?
As progressive as he is, you sometimes wonder just how much it extends to you. Even as children, he’d go easy on you during trainings. He’s only grown softer with you as the years passed. Despite not being a concubine yourself, you wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you as one of the flowers in his garden— one he’s not allowed to touch.
You slide the hair stick through his headpiece, securing the top knot he had you redo. It looks the same, but you hold off on making a comment. “Is that better?”
“Much better.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, lips curving into a sly smile. “Now— what are we doing today?”
We. You hate how much he likes to emphasize that at times.
“Well,” you sigh. “Aside from the usual council meeting, nothing much. Perhaps you can visit one of your concubines today… for once.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Are you saying I don’t fuck my concubines enough?”
“Precisely,” you say almost mockingly.
It’s all they ever complain about, and honestly, you’re sure you would, too, if you were one of them. Having to wake up and sit around all day, waiting for a man that never comes. And when he does, he doesn’t stay long. He’ll show up, fuck the shit out of you for a couple rounds, then leave right after. Allegedly.
“Don’t you want an heir?” you ask.
“Depends,” he hums.
With the way he’s looking at you, you can already tell what it depends on, and it has nothing to do with his current concubines. Lucky for you, he never gets the chance to actually say it because he gets interrupted right after, putting a conversation you’d rather not have to screeching halt.
( 18+ mdni ) frat!sukuna fumbled what could’ve been love, and now he’s helplessly chasing after you. part 1 / part 2
fratboy!sukuna who doesn’t take rejection well. not because he’s used to having everything handed to him— though, let’s face it, he is— but because the thought of you walking out of his life makes him physically ill. he tried pretending he wasn’t fazed at first, leaning back on the couch with his usual sharp-toothed grin when his frat brothers teased him about what happened. “y/n?” he scoffed, playing it off. “she wasn’t even that special. just another girl. plenty more where she came from.” but there’s a tightness in his chest now that wasn’t there before, and when the laughter dies down and he’s left alone in his room with your name burning in his mind, reality punches him square in the gut. he fucked up. he really fucked up.
you’re gone. really gone.
fratboy!sukuna whose smooth reputation starts to unravel. at first, he tries to brush it off like nothing happened, and maybe the others buy it. but sukuna isn’t eating. he’s skipping practices, skipping classes, surrounded by half-drunk bottles of jack and filled ashtrays that stink up the room. his room feels bigger now, quieter, almost suffocating, and no matter how many times he tries to drown himself in distractions— shots, parties, even other girls dragging their hands over his chest, it doesn’t fucking work because none of them are you.
you weren’t supposed to mean anything, but now you haunt him. you’re in the curve of every laugh that doesn’t sound like yours, in the soft scent of your shampoo that still lingers on his stupid bedsheets no matter how many times he washes them. he aches for the glimpse of you in his classes, on campus, anywhere, but you’ve tucked yourself away from his world, leaving him drowning in a sea of mistakes he’ll never get to undo.
he doesn’t even realize how bad it’s gotten until one of his frat brothers mentions, “you hear she’s been hanging out with gojo?”
fratboy!sukuna who freezes, tension coiling in his chest so hard it feels like he might snap. “gojo?” he asks, eyes narrowing as he leans back in his chair like this isn’t a big fucking deal, like his heart hasn’t just started pounding harder in his chest. “that fucking nerd? the dude who hangs around the library and pretends like he’s better than everyone?”
his brothers laugh, oblivious to the storm building in sukuna’s head. “yeah, man,” one of them replies. “he tutors her in math or chemistry or some shit. heard they’ve been spending a lot of time together lately.”
that’s it. that’s all it takes to ruin whatever fragile piece of self-control sukuna has left. he sits quietly, his expression unreadable except for the sharp, tell-tale tick in his jaw. but inside, he’s seething. bitter jealousy claws at him, curling in his belly like hot poison. the image of you with gojo— gojo with his obnoxious glasses and clean-cut, self-righteous attitude— makes sukuna sick.
because sukuna knows guys like gojo. he’s thoughtful, polite, safe— the kind of guy your parents would love. the kind of guy who’d ask how your day was, who’d hold your books for you, who wouldn’t tear your clothes off the second you walk into a room. but does he fuck you stupid the way sukuna did? does he know how you squirm when someone’s fingers tweak that one spot between your thighs, or how you go from a sweet little angel to a fucking mess when he pins you down and makes you take it? no. he doesn’t know you like i do.
sukuna knows all of this. he knows gojo could never take you apart the way he can, but that doesn’t stop the bile from rising in his throat whenever he hears his friend mutter something like, “i think y/n’s into him.”
he’s not in any position to be mad. he knows that. but fuck, it doesn’t matter when gojo’s name is all he can hear, and the thought of you slipping further from his grasp turns into white-hot rage bubbling under his skin.
fratboy!sukuna who doesn’t even realize how pathetic he looks when he starts trying to fix this. it starts small— running into you “accidentally” on campus, trying to force his usual cocky grin as he leans against hallway lockers and says, “hey, stranger. you avoiding me or something?” but you barely meet his gaze, brushing past him with nothing more than a cold, “what does it matter?” he tries texting you. his fingers hover over his phone for hours, typing, deleting, then typing again until, finally, he sends, ‘we need to talk’.
no response.
so he tries another approach. he shows up to the same library you’ve started hiding in, dragging his big, hulking frame into the back corner where you sit buried behind books. your eyes widen when he says your name— always your full name, spoken with a quiet intensity that sends a shiver down your spine— and he swears he catches a flicker of emotion behind your glasses.
“just give me five minutes,” he pleads, uncharacteristically soft. not the loud, arrogant sukuna you’re used to. not the guy who always had some snarky remark ready. just a man who’s clearly losing his mind, desperate for even a crumb of your attention.
“no,” you reply shortly, returning to your notes even though your hands shake. “there’s nothing to talk about, sukuna.”
he lingers, his throat tight, fists clenched uselessly at his sides. he knows you’re shutting him out, but it doesn’t stop the words from slipping from his mouth in a low, heart-wrenching whisper, “i’m sorry.”
he’s sorry for everything— the dare, the way he couldn’t tell you sooner. but you don’t look up, even though he can see the way your pen falters just slightly in your hand.
“if you were sorry,” you murmur after a long pause. “you wouldn’t have done any of it.”
fratboy!sukuna who realizes nothing— not his smirks, not his charm— will pull you back. everything he did wrong has cemented itself too deep. you don’t believe him. not when all he’s ever been to anyone else is a walking red flag. so one night, after stewing in his jealousy and self-loathing, after imagining your stupid fucking times with gojo on a loop, sukuna snaps. he shows up at your dorm unannounced, pounding on the door like his life depends on it.
you groan when you crack the door open, only to freeze when you see him. he’s disheveled— dark under-eyes, hair a wilder mess than usual. it’s like he hasn’t slept in days. “sukuna,” you hiss as you glance over your shoulder for your roommate. “what the hell—”
“are you seeing him?” he blurts suddenly, leaning into the doorway, his low voice strained and almost... pleading? he’s never looked at you like this before, not with his walls broken down, not this fucking wrecked over anyone.
“you’re showing up at my dorm for this?” you spit, defensive. but when your voice wavers, he knows the question landed exactly how he wanted it. you’re shaken, even if you hide it well.
“i just need to know,” he says, softer now, his large hand pressing flat to the doorframe. “is it true? is he the one you’re fucking around with now?”
you exhale sharply, trying to slam the door, but sukuna pushes it back open. “damn it, y/n,” he growls, his voice breaking slightly. “just fucking talk to me. does he make you happy? does he even know the first thing about you? does he make you feel the way i did when i—” he cuts himself off, swallowing roughly, like admitting any of this aloud hurts more than he expected.
you glare, crossing your arms tight over your chest. “why does it matter? you don’t get to be mad, sukuna.”
“because i love you!” he shouts suddenly, louder than he intended, the words punctuated with raw frustration. they echo down the hallway of your dorm, a sharp admission that knocks the air from your lungs.
everything stalls for a second as you try to process his words— the way his voice cracked, the way his broad shoulders sag after he says it like he’s finally given in to whatever feeling he’s been fighting. “i love you,” he repeats, quieter this time, more desperate. “fuck, i’ve loved you from the moment you smiled at me. i know i don’t deserve you. i know i fucked it all up, but i—”
“stop.” your hand trembles on the door, cutting him off even though tears sting your eyes. because this is what you wanted to hear. this is everything you wished he’d told you weeks ago, before everything shattered. but now? now you don’t know if you can trust him.
“i meant it,” he mutters, his tall frame leaning closer as if begging you to believe him. “none of this was supposed to happen. i wasn’t supposed to fall for you. but i did. i don’t want anyone else, y/n. just... you.”
for a moment, you almost let yourself believe him. almost let yourself fall for that soft, pleading look pooling in his sharp crimson eyes. but instead, you wipe your tear-streaked cheek and whisper, “it’s too late.” and then, before he can stop you, the door clicks shut in his face.
fratboy!sukuna who stands dumbfounded in front of your door for what feels like hours, his head tilted back against the frame as he curses himself for never realizing what he had until it was gone. no parties feel the same, no walks across campus, not even the stupid dares his friends egg him on for. he used to own this place, the loudest and cockiest guy on campus, but now he feels like a ghost— his head spinning with the sound of your voice telling him it’s too late.
maybe it is. maybe it isn’t. he has no idea. all sukuna knows is that no matter who else he touches, no matter what he does to fill the hole you’ve left behind, nothing will ever come close to you.
⊹ + * ⊹ °. * ✧
idk if i’m very good at this angst shit, but i tried LOL sukuna is suffering real bad in this fswsfs. also, are y’all taking him back or cutting him off for good ??? 👀👀👀👀👀👀 #lmk
( 18+ mdni ) frat!sukuna breaks the only rule he cared about: don’t catch feelings.
fratboy!sukuna who notoriously doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. everyone knows he’s trouble— tattoos crawling up his arms, that sharp tongue dripping with sarcasm and filth. everyone adores him just as much as they loathe him. it’s sukuna, for fuck’s sake. the unpredictable, sharp-edged party boy who lives in constant chaos. girls rotate through his bedroom like clockwork, only for him to discard them the moment he’s done. he doesn’t text back, doesn’t offer breakfast the morning after, and never promises shit, but that’s fine, because everyone knows where they stand with him. sukuna doesn’t do strings. he doesn’t do relationships. but he definitely does dares.
fratboy!sukuna who sits sprawled out on the dingy leather couch in the middle of another friday night dorm party, ignoring the blaring music and cheap vodka in someone’s hand. the conversation has turned into a game, one of his frat brothers leaning back with a shit-eating grin and that look that screams, it's your turn. “i’ve got one for you, sukuna,” one of the others slurs, leaning close and pointing across the room. “see that girl? nerdy little thing, y/n. bet you couldn’t pull her.”
sukuna’s eyes flick lazily to you, tucked in the corner. you’re chatting it up with one of your friends, wearing those little wire-rimmed glasses that make you look harmless, a sweatshirt pulled snug over your frame like you're hiding yourself from the party. you don’t belong here. and that’s exactly why the dare piques his interest.
“i could pull anyone,” sukuna scoffs, grinning slow, sharp, and smug. “but, sure. why not?” he doesn’t even think twice about it. it’s just a game. always has been. he strides over to you like he owns the room, all confidence and heat, sliding himself into your conversation without hesitation. that cocky smile is burned into your memory by the time the night is over.
fratboy!sukuna who wasn’t expecting you to be so fucking pretty up close. when you finally tilt your head up to look at him, his world stutters for half a second. you’re biting your lip nervously, adjusting your glasses, and your voice is sweeter than he expected when you mutter, “do you... uh, need something?” pretty. soft. so completely opposite everything he’s ever gone for before. something about it makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t like or understand, but still, sukuna pushes deeper— complimenting your smile, teasing you subtly until you flush, and offering to walk you out when the party dies down. you let him, much to his surprise.
but at first? it’s just harmless fun. he wasn’t expecting to fuck you right away— thought you’d be one of those ‘pure’ types, the ones that get all flustered if someone stares too long at their lips. but you surprise him almost immediately. when he leans in closer and murmurs, “you seem tense, sweetheart. never had a guy flirt with you before?” you blink up at him, smirk tugging at the corners of your lips, and say, “not like you.” it’s enough to make his cock twitch in his jeans before you excuse yourself with a cute little “goodnight,” leaving sukuna more frustrated than he’s been in a loooong time.
fratboy!sukuna who starts bumping into you more often after that night. in class. at the library. in the quad. it shouldn’t mean anything, but everytime he runs into you, there you are— dressed modestly but with this soft, natural kind of beauty that drives him insane. your hair always smells sweet, and when you look up from your books and push your glasses up the bridge of your nose, it fucking wrecks him. he turns it into a game; teasing you relentlessly, taking the empty seat next to you in lectures just to mutter filthy things under his breath that make your cheeks heat up, watching out of the corner of his eye as your thighs subtly clench. sukuna can tell you don’t play games like this, and that’s why it’s so fun for him.
fratboy!sukuna who decides to make a move during yet another party. you don’t go often, but this time sukuna had a hand in convincing you to show up. tossing careless words your way all week, like, “i don’t get why you hide all the time. bet they’ve never seen you in a dress,” followed by a wink. to his surprise, you actually show up— looking fucking gorgeous, no less. your usual baggy sweatshirt gone in favor of a tight little dress that hugs your curves. he wasn’t supposed to react to this, wasn’t supposed to notice how good you look, but fuck, now his mouth is dry, and he wants you bad.
it starts with small talk, heated glances, subtle touches— his fingers brushing the back of your thigh when no one’s watching, the deep rasp in his voice when he leans in close and murmurs, “you’re gonna ruin me tonight.” you giggle nervously, but he sees the way your eyes light up. like you can’t decide if you want to slap him or kiss him.
fratboy!sukuna who ends up with you pinned against the wall of his room an hour later, tearing that tight little dress straight off your body. the whole night had led to this— him pushing boundaries, you not stopping him— and now, sukuna admits, you’re better than any fuck he’s imagined. he’s fucking obsessed already. you’re shaking, clinging to his shoulders, your soft moans muffled against his neck as he whispers filthy shit into your ear, voice dipping low like gravel. “knew you’d be fucking sweet, baby. that tight little pussy just begging for me to ruin it.” he lifts you easily, shameless about the way he palms your ass roughly, swirling his thick cock around your entrance before thrusting in completely.
you cry out as he stretches you, and sukuna loses his mind with how tight and wet you feel. he rams into you relentlessly, sweat dripping from his forehead as he fists the back of your hair, tilting your head to force you to look at him. “see that, sweetheart? look at yourself. cockdrunk already, yeah? can’t take your eyes off me, huh?” his grin spreads wider as the tears stream down your cheeks, overwhelmed sobs escaping your lips as your body trembles with every brutal thrust. he knows it’s nasty. he knows he’s going too far, sucking marks into your neck, positioning you how he wants, legs thrown high over his shoulders so he can jackhammer into you, then face down on the mattress so he can admire the pretty way you arch your back for him.
fratboy!sukuna who falls harder than he ever thought he could. it’s not just about fucking anymore— the way you unravel under his touch, the soft, nervous laugh you make when he teases you about being a little nerd, the way you whisper “missed you” everytime he leave— it leaves an ache in his chest, one that spreads further every time he sees you. he wasn’t supposed to like you. you were a fucking dare. but now, you giggle and ramble about some book you love after he’s fucked you raw, completely naked in his lap as you tuck your face under his chin, and sukuna realizes he doesn’t want anyone else in the room except you.
fratboy!sukuna who’s falling, and you notice. you see the change in how he touches you— his hands lingering longer on the curve of your back, the soft way he tucks your hair behind your ear. it terrifies you because for as much as he looks at you like you’re the only girl in the room, you know what he is. you know every girl he’s fucked, every name he’s probably forgotten. men like sukuna don’t fall. they don’t change. he can’t love you— not someone like him.
but then he fucks up. after sneaking you out of his room following another sleepover, one of his frat brothers makes a comment when you pass. “finally bagged her, huh, sukuna?” his friend grins, smug as ever, not noticing the storm brewing in sukuna’s sharp glare. “always knew you’d win the da—” the word doesn’t finish before sukuna slams him against the wall, snarling something about shutting the fuck up and staying in his lane. you freeze. the dare. you weren’t stupid— you put it all together as all the pieces fell into place, and the betrayal sinks deep into your chest.
“what dare?” you ask quietly when sukuna catches up to you afterward, his favorite cocky mask faltering. “tell me, sukuna. was i just some bet to you?”
and the thing is— he wants to deny it. to explain that he didn’t think you’d matter to him, to admit you were supposed to be nothing... but then somehow became everything. but he can’t form the words, and you’re already pulling away.
fratboy!sukuna who doesn’t know how to fix it. he doesn’t know how to look you in the eyes and admit, i fucked up. i fucked up, but i’m in love with you. and now you're gone, just like that, leaving him empty in a way he’s never felt before. of all the shit he’s landed himself in, none of it compares to the ache of knowing he lost you, the one girl he never intended to care about in the first place. you were supposed to be a game. why does it feel like his whole world just shattered?
fratboy!sukuna who hates himself, realizing too late that he never gave a fuck about the dare— that the first time you smiled at him, he was already yours. but now? now he’s sitting alone on that same couch with his cock in his hand, scrolling through blurry photos of you, drunk and desperate because no matter who he tries to touch now, nothing feels like you. maybe he fucking deserves it…
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