lulumineul

[lulumineul]

[lulumineul]

sukuna with an absolute nerd

He honestly had no idea how he ended up here.

One minute he was at the club with his friends, fucking around, being insufferable little shits—and then he saw you.

Sukuna couldn't put a finger on it at first, but something about you felt familiar. And you looked fine as hell, he decided to get up and try to chat.

You just stood there for a full minute, staring at him.

"Sukuna?"

Hearing you say his name made him squint. Okay, yeah. Definitely met before. But where? High school? College? Some messy hookup he mentally deleted?

The club was packed, neon lights flashing, the bass making the floor shake, but somehow it felt like it was just the two of you.

"Have we met before?" he asked, squinting slightly.

"...It's Y/N. You used to bully me."

Oh.

Ohhh.

There it was.

Sukuna remembered now. You. The nerd. The absolute gremlin who sat in the back of the class pretending not to exist, sneaking Green Lantern and X-Men comics behind your textbooks like some low-rent super spy.

You were worse than him back then. And that was saying something. He at least pretended to care about passing. You spent more time in the comic book club than actual classes. You were even the damn president. Like it was an achievement or something.

It had been, what, five years? Maybe more? And somehow, the memory of you—tiny, awkward, buried in a pile of comic books—was still burned into his brain.

He leaned on the bar, his grin lazy and obnoxious. "So? You still a comic book freak? Or did you move on to...I dunno, astrology charts and crystal magic bullshit?"

You raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "Still a nerd."

He snorted, tossing back a sip of his drink, "Love that for you."

--

About an hour and thirty minutes later, Sukuna found himself standing in your flat.

Honestly? He thought maybe you two were gonna hookup or something. Normal people stuff. Flirt at the club, stumble into an Uber, make some mistakes you pretend never happened in the morning.

Nope. Not even fucking close.

You showed him around a bit, all casual, while he tried to hide the way his brain was short-circuiting.

Because yeah—you were still a nerd. Still a massive, certified loser just now, you had money to fund that loser lifestyle. This was insanity.

One wall—twenty goddamn feet tall and thirty feet wide—was crammed with comics and manga. The rest of the apartment looked like a pop culture fever dream exploded. Posters. Art prints. Drawings. Entire shrines dedicated to everything from Bratz dolls to Barbie movies.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, staring around like he was in a zoo exhibit.

"...What do you even do now, loser?" he asked, almost awed.

You shrugged, flipping on a light shaped like a Hello Kitty head. "Chief Editor at Marvel."

Sukuna just stood there.

Blinking.

Processing.

"You're telling me," he said slowly, voice filled with genuine horror, "that you made a whole-ass career out of being a nerd?"

You grinned. "Jealous?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. No words. Just pure, vibrating confusion and rage at the universe for allowing this.

One second he was minding his own business, trying to process that you made more money than God drawing superheroes in spandex — and the next, you were standing in front of him with a goddamn whiteboard.

A whiteboard.

Where the hell did that even come from?

"Okay, so," you said, clicking a marker open like this was a college lecture, "the Marvel multiverse is basically a system of alternate realities that exist parallel to each other. Each universe has its own version of events, characters, and histories—"

Sukuna stared at you. This couldn't be happening to him. Not to him.

He was Sukuna. He threw chairs at referees. He got suspended from bars for fighting bouncers. He had a reputation for being a menace to society and somehow you — a girl he once bullied for reading comics — had him held hostage in your living room explaining the fucking multiverse.

You pointed at a diagram you had somehow drawn in thirty seconds flat.

"So you see, Universe 616 is the main continuity—"

Sukuna rubbed a hand over his face. He wasn't drunk enough for this.

"—but then there's Universe 1610, which is the Ultimate universe," you continued, getting way too excited, "and that branches off when—"

He blinked slowly, feeling his soul leave his body. He could hear the words you were saying, technically. But his brain had tapped out somewhere around ‘alternate realities’ and was now just playing elevator music at full blast.

"—so technically, Spider-Man could meet himself, but it’s a different version depending on the timeline—"

He slouched deeper into the couch, legs spread, arms crossed, head tilted back to look at the ceiling like he was praying for mercy.

"This is my karma," he muttered under his breath.

After about twenty minutes of explaining the entire multiverse, you finally noticed Sukuna slumped like a corpse on your couch, eyes glazed over.

You clapped your hands once. "Okay, enough theory. Wanna see what I'm working on now?"

He lifted his head with a grunt, like a man who had been through a war.

"Is it another 'alternate timeline' bullshit thing?" he asked, voice raspy from pure despair.

You just laughed and padded over to your desk, grabbing a thick black folder. You tossed it onto the coffee table with a heavy thud.

He raised an eyebrow, sitting up a little. Big folders usually meant important shit. Or lawsuits. Both of which he was familiar with.

He flipped it open lazily — and then froze. Inside were full script pages, production notes, and concept art.

For a Marvel movie.

Not just any Marvel movie.

The Marvel movie.

The one the entire world was foaming at the mouth over.

"You—" he croaked, throat suddenly dry. "You're working on this?!"

You shrugged, all casual, like you hadn’t just rocked his entire worldview.

"Yeah. I'm helping with the script, character designs, and some marketing stuff. Also, I pitched an idea for a post-credits scene. They loved it."

Sukuna just stared at you, flipping through the pages like they might catch fire in his hands.

Character sketches. Dialogue rewrites. Your notes, in red ink, scribbled all over million-dollar ideas like it was nothing.

You were so deep into it that you were the reason a movie he was planning to illegally stream might actually slap.

He put the folder down carefully, like it was a bomb.

"This is a prank," he said flatly. "This is God punishing me. I bullied you for drawing Green Lantern in high school and now you're out here running the fucking MCU."

You just smiled sweetly and plopped down next to him.

"Guess who's playing the villain?" you said, nudging him with your elbow.

He blinked."...Who?"

You leaned in dramatically, whispering, "Pedro Pascal."

Sukuna immediately flopped back against the couch like he had been shot. Maybe throwing himself into the sun wouldn't be too bad.

"You’re living my dream," he muttered, staring at the ceiling again. "I hope you know that."

You grinned wider. "I do. Thanks for the free motivation, by the way."

He turned his head to glare at you, but there was no heat behind it. Only deep, deep regret.

------

Is this self indulgent? Maybe. Do I care? Absolutely not. Also, yes, I will be first in line for Superman and Fantastic Four—fight me.

also so sorry for disappearing. getting back to posting again I promise 😤

[lulumineul]

[lulumineul]

📸📸

[lulumineul]

Mga pormahan ng Haikyuu vb captain boys nung 2010 pt. 1:

Kuroo

Oikawa

Bokuto

[lulumineul]

I'm sorry for bothering you 🙏

Please Repost/Donate my family to survive

https://bit.ly/3GP17Rb

https://bit.ly/3GP17Rb

[lulumineul]

I'm sorry for bothering you 🙏

Please Repost/Donate my family to survive

https://bit.ly/3GP17Rb

https://bit.ly/3GP17Rb

[lulumineul]

practice w my muse

[lulumineul]

🌅

[lulumineul]

she tripped

[lulumineul]

Hi everyone! 💜

I’d like to encourage everyone to please share these gofundme links across the platform to support, help, and donate to Mahmoud and Ahmed. Shares and Donations are truly appreciated. Thank you!

https://www.gofundme.com/f/hnyew-help-me-save-my-children-from-death-in-the-gaza-war?attribution_id=sl:c160abec-ed8b-41bd-b87c-5ec87203df6d&utm_campaign=man_sharesheet_dash&utm_medium=customer&utm_source=whatsapp

https://chuffed.org/project/127680-help-mahmoud-survive-in-gaza

https://gofund.me/3f02ce6d

I also have gofundme links listed in my carrd. Please check it out :) ! Donations are highly appreciated 💜

https://lulumineuul.carrd.co/

[lulumineul]

Hi everyone! 💜

I’d like to encourage everyone to please share these gofundme links across the platform to support, help, and donate to Mahmoud and Ahmed. Shares and Donations are truly appreciated. Thank you!

https://www.gofundme.com/f/hnyew-help-me-save-my-children-from-death-in-the-gaza-war?attribution_id=sl:c160abec-ed8b-41bd-b87c-5ec87203df6d&utm_campaign=man_sharesheet_dash&utm_medium=customer&utm_source=whatsapp

https://chuffed.org/project/127680-help-mahmoud-survive-in-gaza

https://gofund.me/3f02ce6d

https://www.gofundme.com/f/please-help-me-to-live-in-safety?attribution_id=sl:eeb5641e-9d0a-4657-ad7f-963c1d955c78&lang=en_US&utm_campaign=man_ss_icons&utm_medium=customer&utm_source=copy_link

I also have gofundme links listed in my carrd. Please check it out :) ! Donations are highly appreciated 💜

https://lulumineuul.carrd.co/

[lulumineul]

Part 2 (it's long so get your wine and popcorn) Part 1

Three weeks later…

It seems like all you do is work for 14 hours, sleep for 7, and spend the rest of your time driving back and forth or showering. That’s it. How can someone be this workaholic and borderline insane?

In the span of these three weeks, Sukuna could count the number of times he’s run into you—and you're living in the same house. Sure, he’s doing exactly what you both agreed on: working on the garage and the garden. Given that it’s winter, it’s tough, but at least it’s not snowing. He had even quit his jobs. All of them.

You’d been leaving $500 on the table for him every week. It’s obvious you don’t want to give it to him directly—maybe to avoid making him uncomfortable or embarrassed.

But even now, after three weeks, he’s only spent $300 of the $1500 you gave him. And it makes him wonder: What the hell do you even do for work to hand out money like this so casually every week?

The house, the cars, your clothes, your bags... everything looks expensive. The first day he arrived, when you showed him around, he almost couldn’t believe it.

How could a house this big, this beautiful, be so empty? Bare. Lifeless.

“Did you just move in? Are you waiting for furniture?” he had asked, dropping his two bags on the kitchen counter while you led him through the house toward his bedroom.

You had looked up, a bit puzzled. “I mean… yeah, it’s recent. Like, four months. But I have all the furniture I need. I’m barely here anyway. Why all the clutter?”

“…You don’t even have a couch. You live like a divorced dad or something,” he said—half joking, half dead serious—because honestly, it was just so empty. The kitchen barely had anything, just a few utensils and mugs.

Three other bedrooms in the house were completely untouched. Two massive bathrooms. Nothing. It was like walking through a luxury model home no one ever moved into. One of the rooms was just full of stacked paper, and your own bedroom—he couldn’t believe it.

There was one of those expensive mattresses he’d seen at one of his sugar mamas’ places, but no frame. Just the mattress on the floor. Surrounded by designer clothes, high heels, and shopping bags from stores he didn’t even know existed.

He never thought a girl would live like this. And he wasn’t even trying to be sexist. It just didn’t seem possible.

Even the broke guys he knew had more life in their places. Some crappy posters, a gaming setup, clothes thrown everywhere—something.

This? This was just expensive emptiness.

After you showed him to his room, he stood there confused. The bed had a frame. There was a desk. Some shelves. A lamp.

“Wait… was this your room?” he asked. “Did you give me your room or something?”

You shook your head casually. “No. It’s just the guest room. Why? You don’t like it? You can get another frame if it’s not your style. It’s no big deal.”

He crossed his arms. “Y/N, I’m saying you only have a mattress on the floor. What’s up with that?”

“Oh,” you said, like it hadn’t even crossed your mind as weird. “I just get claustrophobic really easily. That’s why it’s mostly empty. I like it that way—it’s easier to clean. The less stuff I have, the better.”

“You get claustrophobic from furniture?” He said it slowly, as if tasting the word, trying to make sense of it. “It’s a bed frame, not a prison cell.”

You shrugged. “Still feels like one when I wake up in the middle of the night. I don’t like feeling boxed in.”

He squinted at you like he was trying to psychoanalyze you through sheer will. “That... explains a lot actually.”

“Like what?”

“Like your commitment issues with furniture.”

You snorted softly. “I like my space. That’s all. Not everything needs to be filled.”

He looked around the guest room again. It was nice—simple, but decent. Definitely not something you'd just throw together last minute.

“…Does that apply to that pile of clothes in your room?” he asked, nodding in the direction of your room, smirking.

You turned slowly to face him, met his eyes with a blank stare that could’ve frozen lava.

He raised both hands in surrender. “Alright. I’m shutting up.”

“Good.”

He stepped back, pretending to admire the blank wall. “Still think it’s a little serial killer-y in here.”

You turned and walked off.

But he swore—he swore—there was the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

You both walked back to the kitchen to go over the plan again.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, looking at him. “Just so we’re clear again—you can stay as long as you need while you finish the job. There's no rush.”

He nodded, but you could tell he was still trying to process the whole situation.

“And you don’t have to worry about finding a job right away. When you’re done with the garage and the garden, I’ll pay you for it. Full price,” you added, before he could protest. “You’re not doing it for free.”

You pulled a black card out from a drawer and slid it across the counter toward him.

“I’m giving you a card just for that job—any supplies, anything you need to get it done. Just don’t go buying a TV or something.”

He blinked, staring at the card like it was burning a hole in the granite.

“Oh—and here.” You pulled a key off from your pocket and tossed it to him. He caught it with one hand, still confused.

“That’s for the truck. I barely use it, but you’ll need it for hauling stuff.”

He was quiet for a second, holding the keys in one hand and the card in the other, like they didn’t belong to him.

“…You’re really trusting for someone who doesn’t even have a couch,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow.

You gave him a dry look. “I don’t like it when people steal from me. Trust me—I’ll hunt you down over one dollar.”

He grinned and held his hands up in surrender. “Yes ma’am.”

//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//

Two months later...

Winter is something you’ve always hated. You’re not sure why. You’d think it would be your favorite—cold, quiet, numb. It matches how you feel most days, inside and out. But somehow, the numbness becomes too much. The gray skies, the hollow cheer of endless holidays—it all presses down in the worst way.

Work has always kept it at bay. The noise, the pace, the deadlines—it keeps you from feeling anything at all. No time to think, no space to breathe. Just keep going. But now… there's been a break.

Your boss practically forced it on you. You never take days off, not even weekends. He’s a good man, and so is his wife. They've helped you more than they know. They don’t know everything—just enough. Enough to understand.

Today, he unplugged your computer mid-sentence, handed you your coat, and physically pushed you out the door while the others laughed and waved. You didn’t protest. You just stood there blinking.

And now, here you are—sitting in your car in front of your house, staring at the dark driveway like it’s a void.

Three whole weeks of nothing stretch out in front of you.

You had picked up some takeout—decided to be an adult about things and actually go inside for once.

But it seems you stepped into the wrong house.

Your once beloved, empty, soulless, and colorless home was now full of Christmas lights. There was a massive tree in the corner, glowing warm with ornaments and tangled tinsel. Lights framed the walls—uneven and a little chaotic, clearly decorated by a man.

And there was music playing. Soft, jazzy Christmas music, the kind you usually hate.

Sukuna was in the kitchen, back to you, stirring something. He turned the second the door slammed shut behind you.

“Oh wow... you’re early,” he said, blinking. Then his eyes dropped to the bag in your hand and he grimaced. “Also, do you always eat takeout? My god—your health matters, woman.”

You didn’t answer.

You were frozen, still standing by the door, staring at everything.

The colors, the noise, the warmth of it all—it was too much. You were easily overstimulated to begin with, and this felt like sensory overload. Your throat tightened. Part of you wanted to rip it all down.

But then there was Sukuna. He looked... proud. A little smug. But mostly happy.

And that part made you pause.

You weren’t sure how you felt about any of it. But for now, you walked to the fridge without a word, ignoring his comment. You opened it and shoved the takeout inside, like that could delay this conversation somehow.

“When did you buy the decorations?” you asked finally—not suspicious, just… flat. Like your brain was still buffering.

He turned around fully, grinning like he’d won something.

“Oh, I was at Home Depot and saw they were on sale. Figured, why not? Y/N, I’m telling you—this house needs some personality. Some life, for God’s sake. It’s like a damn mausoleum in here.”

You closed the fridge a little harder than necessary.

“I realized you didn’t have a single decoration. Not one. I mean, you don’t even have dish soap, but okay.” he continued, now leaning against the counter.

You opened your mouth, ready to tell him to take all this shit down. To put everything back the way it was—quiet, still, yours. But the words got stuck somewhere behind your tongue.

Instead, you swallowed them.

“…Thanks,” you said softly, barely above a whisper. Then you turned on your heel, heels clicking sharply against the cold marble floor as you made your way to your room.

The moment you stepped inside the dark space, it was like a breath you didn’t know you were holding finally released. The silence was thick, comforting. The faint hum of the heating system, the way the shadows wrapped around the edges of the walls—it was familiar. Safe.

It’s hard to explain to anyone else, but you did your best in the dark. Sometimes you showered with the lights off, ate dinner without turning a single lamp on. It wasn’t sadness, not exactly. It was peace. The absence of noise, color, chaos. Just… nothing.

You peeled off your long coat and work suit, tossing them to the side before stepping into the bathroom. The warm water ran over you like relief, washing off the weight of the day, of the cheer, of the colors.

When you came back out, skin still damp, hair sticking to your shoulders, you slipped under the expensive sheets in just your towel. The mattress dipped softly beneath you—familiar, cool, untouched by garlands or flashing lights.

And for the first time that day, you were alone again.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there—minutes maybe. Just listening to the silence of your room wrap around you like a blanket. Your breathing had finally evened out, your eyes half-lidded as the quiet settled over your shoulders.

It was strange, how your body relaxed only when you were here, alone in this darkness. As if being seen—even by someone like Sukuna—was too much. His energy had always been loud, but lately, it was warmer than you expected. Maybe that’s what made you feel off balance. Maybe it was the lights. Maybe it was the music.

Or maybe it was the simple truth that someone had touched your space without asking.

Then came the soft knock. Three quiet taps.

You didn’t answer. Maybe he’d take the hint.

A pause. Then the door creaked open slightly, letting a sliver of warm hallway light cut into the dark.

“Y/N?” His voice was low, uncertain. Not teasing like usual.

You turned your head just enough to glance at the door, where Sukuna stood awkwardly with one hand still on the knob. His brows furrowed slightly when he saw you lying there, barely covered, in the dark.

“I didn’t… mean to piss you off or anything,” he said, quieter now, almost hesitant. “I just thought it’d be nice. You know. The lights. The tree. It was getting depressing as hell in here.”

You didn’t respond. Just blinked slowly at him.

He stepped in a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know you like things a certain way. I’ll take it down if you want. Just… say the word.”

Still nothing.

He sighed through his nose, not frustrated—more like unsure. You could tell he wasn’t used to checking on people. Not like this. Not gently.

After a second, he added, “You want me to bring your food? Or tea or something?”

The gesture was so oddly domestic, it almost broke something in your chest.

You looked away again. “I’m fine.”

He lingered, just a moment longer. Then, finally, he nodded. “Alright. Just… let me know if you’re not.”

The door clicked shut behind him, the light vanishing, and the room fell back into shadow.

You stared at the ceiling for a while after that—heart a little heavier, throat a little tighter.

Maybe the house had changed more than you thought.

Maybe… you were changing too.

//---//---//---//---//

The next morning, you woke up far too early—even earlier than Sukuna, which was rare. You stayed in bed for a while, tucked under the heavy covers, reading a book you'd been putting off for months. After a long shower, you decided to try something wildly out of character: cooking breakfast.

You knew you needed to talk to him anyway. About yesterday. About the decorations. If you were going to live together—even temporarily—he deserved to be comfortable too. He shouldn’t have to tiptoe around you like you’d shatter from the wrong comment or gesture.

Heading downstairs, you paused when you noticed the lights were unplugged. The tree, the string lights on the wall—all dark again. You weren’t sure why, but the sight made your chest tighten. Quietly, you plugged them back in, wincing a little at the burst of brightness against the soft gray of early morning.

Then came the pancakes.

Or… whatever sad, unholy thing your attempt at pancakes had become.

The kitchen filled quickly with smoke and a sharp, acrid smell. You waved a towel at the smoke alarm, muttering curses under your breath. You’d never learned to cook properly—never had the time. There were always chefs who came in weekly, or you just relied on takeout. Efficiency over effort when it comes to cooking. That was always your way.

So naturally, that was the exact moment Sukuna shuffled in half-asleep, wearing a man undershirt and a gray pair of sweatpants. His buzzed pink hair had grown out since he arrived—now a messy crown of soft spikes.

He squinted toward the stove like he’d stumbled into a crime scene. “I see now why you only eat takeout.”

You jumped, nearly dropping the spatula. “Holy fuck—you scared me.”

His voice was rough with sleep, but his tone was teasing. “You’re trying to kill us, huh?”

You glared at him as you turned off the burner. “I was trying to cook you breakfast. Thought it’d be nice.”

He blinked, rubbing his face. Then, softer, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” you mumbled, scraping the blackened pancake into the trash. “I wanted to.”

A beat passed. The kitchen still smelled like failure.

Then he came closer, grabbing a towel and waving it near the smoke alarm casually. “You always this dramatic with apologies?”

You sighed, shoulders slumping. “I don't like upsetting people or making them uncomfortable. I was kind of an ass yesterday and... yeah, sorry. I'm just not used to people being in my space, you know? But thanks for decorating the place. I do appreciate it. I just get overstimulated easily, and yesterday was one of those days. Again, sorry.”

Sukuna looked at you for a long moment—really looked. Something in his expression shifted, like he was reading between the lines. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but there was a softness beneath it.

“You’re apologizing because I overstepped?”

You blinked, thrown off. “No. I’m apologizing because how I acted.”

“Yeah, but... I came into your house, decorated your stuff, played music without asking. That’s not exactly subtle.”

You paused, biting your cheek. “Still. Doesn’t mean I had to be a bitch about it.”

Sukuna leaned back against the counter, arms crossed now. “I wasn’t offended. I just thought... I dunno, maybe it’d cheer you up a little. This place feels like a crime scene.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” You looked down at the half-burnt pancake remains. “I’m trying.”

“I can see that.” He nodded toward the stove. “You’re just not succeeding.”

"Shut up," you muttered, rolling your eyes and stepping aside as he took over the stove like he’d been waiting to. He smirked without looking at you, way too smug for someone who only just started helping around the house.

You sat at the kitchen table, watching his back as he moved. The tattoo on his shoulder stretched slightly every time he reached up. Somehow, Sukuna was still Sukuna—loud, blunt, intense—but quieter now in ways that mattered. Less explosive. More present.

Still annoying, but…

Your thoughts drifted, involuntarily, to high school. The anger. The fights. The way his name was always being called in the hallway or over the loudspeaker like a warning.

And then the kiss....

You blinked back to the present as he placed a plate in front of you—a fresh, golden stack of fluffy pancakes.

“Here,” he said simply, sliding the fork next to it.

“…Thanks.” You hesitated before picking it up, taking a bite. Your eyes widened despite yourself.

“Don’t moan over pancakes,” he said dryly, leaning on the counter across from you, watching your expression.

“it's eatable,” you said around another bite, “I didn’t know you could cook like this.”

“I had to learn. Takeout every day gets expensive,” he replied, like it wasn’t a big deal. Then his tone softened just a touch. “Also, you kind of looked like you were about to set yourself on fire.”

You snorted quietly, then cleared your throat. “I’m… free the next three weeks. Holiday break. So…” You looked up from your plate. “Do you wanna do anything? Or go somewhere?”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into that signature smirk again. “You asking me on a date?”

You puckered your lips like you’d just tasted a sour lemon. “Please… don’t ruin it.”

He laughed at your reaction but stayed silent, just watching you eat. It felt nice to do something for you, even if it was something small. And he was definitely going to make the most of these three weeks.

“How about we go to the winter festival? I heard rich neighborhoods do crazy things and sell cool stuff.”

You frowned, puzzled. You’d been here a while but never really made an effort to introduce yourself to the neighbors or get familiar with the area. Honestly, it wasn’t their business who you were, and you doubted they even cared.

But Sukuna kept going, grinning. “The moms told me it’s going to last a week. Oh, and by the way, they all think we’re married — no matter how much I explain. But I’ve met most of them already.”

“Wait—you’ve—wait, what?” You blinked, completely baffled. He’d met the neighbors? And apparently knew them well enough for all of them to think you two were married? What the hell was he even telling them?

Sukuna shrugged, looking half amused, half proud of himself. “Alright, alright. So, one of them came over while I was working in the garden. At first, I thought she was just trying to flirt, so I told her to fuck off.” He smirked. “But turns out, she’s not so bad. We actually talked. She introduced me to the PTA and a bunch of other clubs or whatever.”

You raised an eyebrow, still trying to process this flood of information.

“And yeah, they all think you’re some kind of freaky scary person. Like, really scary,” he added with a grin. “They wanted to talk to you, but I guess you scared one of them off one day. Do you remember that?”

You stared at him, caught somewhere between confusion, being impressed, and a little bit offended.

“I… well, I don’t really remember, and honestly, I don’t care,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “But wait—you actually talk to them every day?”

He smirked like you’d just asked the dumbest question ever. “Yeah, and they added me to the neighborhood group chat. Now I’m the proud owner of all the latest sales alerts, neighborhood drama, and, of course, the hottest gossip.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Gossip?”

“Oh, it’s juicy. Like, one of them messaged me in private, begging me to beat up her cheating husband. Apparently, he was getting cozy with his secretary.”

You blinked, half amused, half horrified. “And what did you say to that?”

Sukuna shrugged, like it was nothing. “I told her I’m not a hired thug, but I did pass her Toji’s number.”

“It seems they like you more, even in such a short time,” you said, sipping your orange juice and propping your head on your hand while eyeing him.

He smirked. “What can I say? The ladies love me. But seriously, you should meet them properly. You’re like their mysterious puzzle they haven’t cracked yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t care about being friendly with anyone, Sukuna. And please, no sleeping with any of them, alright?”

He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Whoa, possessive much? Should I be worried?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “No. I just don’t want to move. Took me ages to find a quiet, safe place.”

//---//---//---//---//

Apparently, you had to leave the house by 5 in the evening —because someone (read: Sukuna) had promised to help set up decorations and “some stuff,” whatever that meant. You were still in a bit of a haze, trying to piece together how this became your life.

You were not mentally prepared for human interaction, you threw on a long black coat over a black sweater and black cargo pants. Jewelry, check. Black boots, check. A bit of eyeliner and red lipstick—just enough to look like you cared, It was cold anyway. Who were you trying to impress? Exactly. No one.

Sukuna drove the truck, casually like it was a normal thing, as if you two hadn’t just bought two literal beer tanks and enough food to host a Viking feast.

You stared ahead from the passenger seat, arms crossed. “You do realize we’re not running a bar, right?”

“Relax,” he said, tapping the wheel with his thumb. “It's just for the festival. You want the moms to like you or not?”

“I thought I was the scary neighborhood witch?”

“You are. But now you’ll be the scary witch who brings beer. That’s like, elite tier.”

You sighed, letting your head thunk lightly against the window. “We have to be home by 12 PM. I can only take so much chit-chatting before I snap and start hissing.”

Sukuna laughed, shaking his head. You were such a menace anytime someone dared to be cheerful around you. You reminded him of a black cat: undeniably cute, but always one second away from clawing someone's face off.

“Don’t worry,” he said, glancing at you with a smirk. “I won’t let them talk your ears off. I’ll run interference. Like a social bodyguard.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I so much as see you encouraging small talk, I’m leaving.”

“Noted. Operation: protect grumpy princess from suburban mom squad is now in effect.”

You didn’t respond. Just looked out the window again, lips twitching ever so slightly. Maybe today wouldn’t be the worst.

By the time you got there, the cold air had fully kicked your ass and your nose was already red. Sukuna, on the other hand, looked perfectly warm in his jacket, gloves, and that smug expression he always wore when he knew something you didn’t.

He parked the truck, hopped out, and casually walked around to open your door like he wasn’t dragging you into a suburban warzone.

“Ready to face your fans?” he asked with a grin.

You squinted. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

As you both unloaded the beer tanks and food, Sukuna waved over to a group of women who had gathered under a pop-up tent, sipping from thermoses and wearing color-coordinated scarves like a tactical team.

“That’s them,” he whispered like it was a horror movie.

You raised a brow. “Why are they in a circle?”

“They always do that. I don’t know if it’s witchcraft or PTA strategy, but don’t break the formation or they might bite.”

You were about to tell him to shut up when one of the women spotted you and gasped like she’d seen a celebrity in the wild. She elbowed the one next to her, who elbowed another, and suddenly the entire mom circle turned their heads like synchronized swimmers.

“Oh my god, is that her?” one whispered—loudly.

Sukuna, the traitor, didn’t help. Instead, he gave you a smug look and started marching you toward them.

“Ladies,” he said, voice slick with charm. “This is her. The one and only, Y/n.”

You were ready to throw him into traffic.

The moms stared at you like they were afraid to ask anything, but dying to. It was like you were a cryptid and Sukuna had finally brought proof you existed. You stood there, hands in your coat pockets, red lipstick perfect and patience wearing thin.

One of them, a perky blonde in Ugg boots and an offensively cheerful sweater, stepped forward cautiously. “Hi! I’m Brittny. You’re…wow. You’re really pretty.”

You blinked. “…Thanks?”

Another one, with a clipboard and intense Karen energy, piped up. “Do you remember me? I came to welcome you into the neighborhood but you shut the door right in my face.”

“Talking isn't my best suit.” You were not going to apologize if that's what she was expecting.

They all laughed nervously, still very much not making eye contact with you. One of them whispered to another, “I told you she was intimidating.”

“So, Y/N,” One of them began, practically vibrating with curiosity, “you’re always so busy! We only ever see your husband. What do you do?”

You try to answer casually, “I do financial quantitative and blockchain analysis. Mostly portfolio optimization and market behavior modeling.”

Dead silence.

One of them blinked. Another tilted her head like a confused puppy.

“I… I don't know what any of that means,” one finally admitted, laughing nervously. “But it sounds so smart!”

“It is,” Sukuna chimed in, popping a pretzel in his mouth. “She’s always been a wizard with numbers. Sometimes I think she sees into the future.”

“Or she’s hacking the Matrix,” another mom said, nodding slowly like she just unlocked a conspiracy theory.

You smirked a little. “I’m not hacking anything.”

“Right,” Marcy said, still clearly processing. “So like… do you work at a bank?”

“No.”

“Ah. Okay.” She nodded sagely as if that explained everything.

Another mom leaned in. “Can you explain what you do again but like… if we were in kindergarten?”

You paused. “Imagine a very big piggy bank.”

“Okay.”

“And I tell people which piggy banks are lying to them and which ones will be rich in ten years.”

“Ohhh,” they all said at once like you just revealed state secrets.

“She’s cool and scary smart,” someone whispered to another.

“So tell us,” one of the moms leaned forward, eyes gleaming with gossip-hunger, “when did you two get married? How long has it been?”

You and Sukuna both turned to each other at the same time.

He raised an eyebrow. You smirked.

“Oh, you know,” you said smoothly, “I don’t really believe in big weddings. But we got married not too long ago.”

The moms all “ooh”-ed softly like a cult of curious doves.

“And,” you continued, turning slightly toward Sukuna with the fakest sweet voice you could muster, “he’s a stay-at-home husband now. Aren’t you, honey?”

Sukuna choked on his drink.

“Hell no—”

You interrupted him with a pat on his back. “He takes care of the garden, handles the PTA moms, and makes excellent dinner. He’s very domestic.”

The mom with the pumpkin spice latte (because of course) gave you a very tight-lipped smile. “I know it’s inappropriate to ask,” she began, which always means the next thing out of someone’s mouth will absolutely be inappropriate, “but since we all know each other here, and it’s such a small, safe community…”

You blinked slowly, already bracing yourself.

“…how much do you make, honey? I mean—this house is expensive. My husband and I are struggling even with two incomes, we’ve been thinking about moving. The mortgage is sky-high these days…”

You paused. Honestly, shook at how fast they went from PTA to IRS.

Sukuna himself is curious because this is the first time he is hearing about your work too.

You straightened a little. “Well… I got lucky about two years ago with crypto trading.”

A couple of them nodded like you just said astrology worked.

“I made around five million, give or take, and bought the house up front.”

Dead. Silence.

You continued, like this was just a casual Tuesday. “Now I make about $300k a year as a financial quantitative and blockchain analyst. Good benefits. Has excellent health insurance ”

Pumpkin Spice blinked. “Oh.”

Another mom nervously laughed. “So… you bought the house. Full price.”

You nodded. “He waters the plants....”

//---//---//---//---//

The whole thing had been—surprisingly—kind of fun.

After a while, the neighborhood wives drifted away, busy corralling kids or checking on the food. Sukuna helped with the heavy lifting like he promised—carrying tables, moving coolers, lifting beer tanks like they were made of feathers. But eventually it was just the two of you again, walking side by side through the soft glow of string lights and half-baked Halloween decor.

He'd been quiet. Which was weird. Too weird.

Normally he’d be whispering jokes in your ear, mocking someone’s sweaters from “meh” to “looks like it lost a fight with a pumpkin spice candle.”

But not now.

You felt it—his eyes on you. That weighty, unspoken something in the air.

So you cut through it.

“Is there something you want to say or ask me?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze was somewhere ahead—past the fairy lights, past the music and soft laughter, into something else.

Finally, he said, “Nothing. I just… I’m really impressed by you, you know? You’re so young, and you could retire right now. You have all this. But you still work so hard.”

You stopped walking, letting the cool wind brush over your face. Hands tucked in your coat pockets, you looked up. The sky was already dark, and not a single star was out. Just the void and the buzz of the streetlights.

You spoke plainly, without flinching. “I’ll be honest with you.”

He turned to face you fully.

“I never had money growing up. That house you saw back in high school was about to be taken. My mom had a gambling addiction. We were drowning in debt. I watched the repo guy tow our car when I was ten. I heard the landlord banging on our door more times than I heard my mom say ‘goodnight.’”

You swallowed, voice steady but cold with memory.

“I promised myself I’d never be poor again. I don’t want to feel poor. I don’t want to worry. I don’t want to ask if I can afford something. I just want to get it. If I want something, I want the power to own it—immediately.”

You let the words hang between you, breath curling in the night air.

“I am materialistic. I love money. I love expensive things. I like the security it gives me. That’s it.”

Sukuna was watching you quietly, eyes unreadable.

“You’re terrifying in the best way.”

You let out a low laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not scary.”

He chuckled, leaning against the light pole lazily. "How about boyfriends? Or any candidates at all? Y/N, you can't seriously still be single after all this time."

You glanced behind him, your eyes locking on the ice cream shop glowing warmly in the distance. Then you looked back at him with a shrug.

"I guess I just hate men." You said it so flatly, it made him bark a laugh.

"Most of them get intimidated or emasculated by me—or at least that’s what one of them said. Like I give a shit." You rolled your eyes, adjusting your coat. "You’ve seen my life. I think it’s perfect. Maybe just missing a cat to complete the set."

He snorted. "A cat, huh?"

"Yeah. Something that hisses at people and minds its business. Soulmate energy, honestly."

Sukuna tilted his head, grinning like he was trying to picture it. "Right. You and some gremlin-ass black cat, judging everyone from the balcony."

"Exactly. Me and my familiar, living the dream." You smirked, but there was a flicker of something under your voice—like maybe, just maybe, a part of you had gotten tired of being alone.

But if Sukuna noticed, he didn’t press. He just looked back at the ice cream shop and said, “C’mon. I’m buying. Grumpy girls with commitment issues get two scoops.”

//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//---//

A/N: Girlys, sorry this was late but oh my God, the first week at the job kicked my ass not gonna lie BUT I’m back, and I HAVE IDEAS so don’t worry sit tight, lovelies 💖

also, the comments on part 1?? hello?? Literally so sweet. You guys are honestly the nicest ever, like really really. also the other day my sister even told me I’ve been doing a lot better mentally and that I look better too?? Like what??? 😭 She also helped me with some parts because I was kinda stuck ngl but don’t worry—Parts 3 and 4 are coming soon, sooo yeahhhhhhh 💗💗

-----------

@strxberryicecream , @akio-ayashi , @ynvxh , @lillycore , @venussdovess , @dairyfaerie , @sunabff , @princessrabi , @t4ters , @c43rr13s , @aikakoski , @gatitazero , @fluffycinnamonrollgirlie , @terralupa , @lilkactuz , @clumsyeli02 , @justanotherdayforthesurveycorps , @sweetdream333 , @not-aya , @queenbloody , @gina239 , @asuritam , @azalieee , @h0ney-mushroom , @inoluvrr , @coldbreadbouquetworld , @blurpleuni-squid , @hxteurgutz , @misslovingpearl , @idontwannatalkrn1 , @minabear123 , @rr0ckst4rr , @imnotabot28 , @noone1233nobody , @deeoccasionallyspeaks , @bbear1313 , @blueemochii , @book0fdr3ams , @theariesview , @error-cant-function , @honey-boyyoongimain

[lulumineul]

ANG BOBOBO NIYO PUTANGINA AS IN

[lulumineul]

Messiah of Standards

Sukuna runs one of the most chaotic and unintentionally iconic TikTok and YouTube channels on the internet. It’s low quality. Grainy. Shaky camera. Just him—yelling, ranting, pacing like a man possessed. Half the time he’s shirtless. The other half, he’s mid-walk or mid-meal. There’s no structure. No intro. No outro. Just unfiltered fury.

And people eat it up.

His content is mostly him yelling at women to “do better,” “get better,” and some are genius advice on how to get your shit together.

But one video? One video broke the internet.

It was late at night. He seemed to be walking somewhere, maybe home, maybe to a convenience store. It was dark. The footage was low-res, shaky. A street light flickered overhead. His voice was already raised when the video started.

“YO,” he shouted. “I JUST MET A PREGNANT WOMAN.”

He’s holding the camera way too close to his face, already heated.

“She asked me if I could help her with the door. I say yes, of course, I’m a decent human being. AND THEN—I say, because I have manners, I say: ‘Oh! Congratulations to you and your husband.’”

He stops walking, looking around like he needs the world to confirm this madness.

“She looks at me weird. I’m thinking, okay, maybe it’s her wife. I’m inclusive. I’m respectful. I GET IT. So I say: ‘Oh—my bad—your wife, then?’”

He pauses. His jaw twitches.

“And this bitch… this—B I T C H—opens her mouth and says to me: ‘Oh, I’m not married. It’s my boyfriend’s.’”

He stares into the camera like it just stabbed him.

“BITCH. I’M—SORRY???”

His voice cracks.

“Not fiancé. Not husband. BOYFRIEND.”

He's beginning to unravel.

“You mean to tell me you’re making a whole HUMAN BEING with someone who still calls you ‘bae’ over text? Not even a fiancé? A boyfriend? That’s the 7-day free trial of commitment!. That’s a man who still says ‘we’ll see how it goes’ while you’re over here building his bloodline.”

He’s gesturing wildly now.

“You’re renting your womb to a maybe?? A let’s feel it out??? You’re putting your whole spine and hormones on the line for a dude who still wears basketball shorts in winter???”

He laughs—but it’s dry. Bitter. Unhinged.

“Get better. I’m BEGGING you. Bring shame back. Bring fear back. Bring STANDARDS back. I’m losing HOPE IN THE HUMAN RACE.”

The video ends abruptly.

And just like that, it went absolutely viral.

It wasn’t the lighting. It wasn’t the production. It wasn’t even the topic. It was the rage. The disbelief. The audacity in his tone. He sounded like a man who had witnessed a crime against nature and couldn't move on.

Because deep down, Sukuna wasn’t raised like this.

His father and mother are still married. Still happy. He grew up hearing stories about how hard his dad had to fight to earn his mom’s love—how he had to prove himself, earn her trust, protect her dignity. His father told him every day: “Your mother was never an option. She was the prize. Treat her like one.”

From a young age, Sukuna thought it was a given—women were proud. Women were sharp. Women were queens. That they demanded respect because they deserved it.

So the whiplash he got once he started growing up, stepping out into the real world, scrolling, watching, hearing—

It was like a bucket of ice water to the soul.

No one warned him that some people would settle for less. That dignity could be optional. That love could be replaced with vibes and commitment with a situationship.

And so now he yells.

Yells at his camera. Yells at his screen. Yells for those who still believe what he believes:

That love is serious. That women are worth everything. And that some of y’all are doing entirely too much for entirely too little.

-------

Video Two

This one was different.

A spiritual experience. A sermon. A digital relic passed down from the internet gods themselves—delivered by none other than Sukuna, in pain, half-naked, and furious.

The camera is angled awkwardly, propped up against a cup of water or someone’s phone. Everyone can see part of Sukuna’s tattoo artist in the corner, focused on inking something elaborate on his back. Sukuna’s shirt is off.

His body is tensed. And despite being in pain—he’s not flinching from the needle.

He’s flinching from the story.

His voice cuts through the buzzing.

“Nah. No. I’m done. I’m done. I cannot make this shit up.”

He leans forward slightly, muscles twitching under the needle, but he doesn’t care. The artist pauses. Sukuna waves them off.

“KEEP GOING. I want the pain. I deserve to feel this while I say what I’m about to say.”

He looks dead into the camera, voice rising.

“So apparently—APPARENTLY—this girl, right? 19 years old. Met some dude on a night out, starts seeing him casually—casually—for TWO. WEEKS.”

He raises two fingers. Then one hand clenched into a fist.

“Fourteen days, my guy. They haven’t even hit the third-week mark. Haven’t even had a proper fight yet. And she—get this—she walks into a tattoo parlor and gets his NAME. TATTOOED. ON HER BODY.”

He stares at the lens, horrified.

“NOT her dad’s name. Not her dead cat. Not her MOTHER WHO GAVE HER LIFE. Some dude who probably still has an active Tinder account.”

He throws his head back and laughs. It's a broken sound.

“She said it felt right. Said it was romantic. Said it was spontaneous.”

His jaw tenses. He points at the half-finished piece on his arm.

“THIS tattoo? Took me four months to design. It’s my great-grandfather’s war crest, my mom’s birthday in kanji, and a dragon holding my siblings’ initials. You know—real things. Things that matter. Things that STAY.”

He leans in. Voice drops.

“You tattooed a maybe. You inked a potential. You permanently branded yourself with someone who probably still says ‘I don’t like labels.’”

He glares, incredulous.

“What happens when he ghosts you, huh? You gonna tell people it's your cousin’s name? Your dog? You gonna turn ‘Jayden’ into ‘Judgment’ and call it a rebirth era??”

He slaps the tattoo bed in disbelief.

“Y’all think love is a side quest. It’s not! It’s the final boss. And you’re out here giving cheat codes to strangers.”

The tattoo artist starts again. Sukuna winces—but nods, letting it continue. He breathes deep, visibly restraining himself, before delivering the final blow:

“Bring hesitation back. Bring doubt back. Bring the fear of God back. Because some of y’all are out here branding yourselves with men who still say ‘lol’ in lowercase.”

He points one last time.

“DO. FUCKING. BETTER.”

----------------

The third video is sukuna just fed tf up. HE IS FED UP WITH all of us!

Sukuna’s car, at night, after a date with you. He’s still in date clothes, hair tousled, lip gloss smudged on his neck (yours, obviously). The glow from the dashboard light barely softens the unfiltered rage on his face. He's not yelling yet. But he’s right on the edge of snapping.

Sukuna’s already seated, hand gripping the steering wheel, eyes staring blankly through the windshield. He’s quiet for a beat. Too quiet.

He looks into the camera, tight-lipped. Furious.

"We just left that cute little Korean place, right? Me and my girl—we’re happy, full, she got that sparkle in her eye 'cause I ordered dessert without asking just to surprise her. That’s how I move."

He signed heavy and shook his head, running a hand over his face.

"Then I hear it. This table behind us, right near the register. Some girl’s voice—real small, real awkward—going, ‘Wait, so you want to split it?’"

He comes close to the camera now. silent for a moment. "I think, oh no. Not another one. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it’s mutual. Maybe she ate four appetizers and he got water."

He inhales sharply. "NO. This bastard—this demon in disguise—looks her dead in the face and says, ‘Well, you had the fries. That’s not really fair.’"

He posed before exploding. It's unbearable to him. "The fries, bro? THE FRIES?! That $4.99 basket that y’all probably SHARED?!"

He leans closer, his voice tightening. "You invited her out. Picked the place. Ordered a beer. Had steak. Then sat there—watching her nibble like a damn bird—only to bring up fries like they were gold-plated?"

His jaw clenches. You hear his ring clink softly against the steering wheel. "Be ashamed. Be humiliated. And don’t even get me started on the ‘well, it’s the 21st century’ argument. Shut UP. So is murder. Doesn't make it right."

His voice rises now, tone cutting. "Dating is not Uber Pool. It’s not a subscription service. You don’t get to go Dutch when you’re the one who begged for the date and said ‘I got you’ in the DMs. Grow a spine. Or don’t date."

He points at the camera, tapping it once. "You’re not proving anything by making her pay. Except that you’re broke in the wallet and the soul."

Then, softer. With contempt. "And ladies. Please. When a man shows you that he’s cheap with his money? He’ll be cheap with his effort. Cheap with his time. Cheap with his love."

-----

People were quoting "Dating is not Uber Pool” like it was scripture. Edits of Sukuna’s videos circulated with dramatic violin music, gospel choirs, and even K-drama slow-mo filters. His fans began calling him the “Messiah of Standards,” the “Father of Feminism,” and—perhaps most alarmingly—“King Behavior Incarnate.”

He doesn’t respond to the hype.

He just posts again. And again. More rage. More truth. More grainy footage with zero editing and 100% conviction.

Because Sukuna’s not trying to go viral.

He’s trying to save the world.

One furious, shirtless, late-night rant at a time.

[lulumineul]

Rockstar Girlfriend 🎸

You were probably his first real listener. First fan, even. His account had no followers. No clout. No tags. He wasn’t even looking for one. He just posted banger songs—heavy and haunting. You were high out of your mind one night, scrolling through underground tracks, trying to find something that hadn’t been overplayed into dust.

Then you hit the bottom. Clicked on his album.

And it changed everything. The voice was deep, like smoke and rage. The beat was grimy and sharp. It wasn’t just rap. Or rock. Or alt. It was all of it. And none of it. It sounded like a demon crying through broken speakers.

You thought for sure he’d be famous. But he wasn’t. So you DMed him. Didn’t even think he’d see it.But that same night, he replied. You talked for hours. He asked for your number. You FaceTimed until the sky turned grey.

The next day, he invited you to his spot. To listen. To smoke. To just... be.

Honestly it could have ended badly and it would have been the worst decision you ever made. But the vibe—the intensity— You didn’t have to speak. Just your eyes did all the talking.

It wasn’t lust. Not really. It was that aching, desperate something that clutches your ribs and won’t let go. You didn’t know if he felt the same, so you played it casual.

Casual as in… Basically living together. Unspoken everything. No sex. No labels. Just you and him.

He’d send you unreleased tracks. Half-finished verses. You started running his page, organizing stuff, posting updates. You weren’t official. But you kind of became his manager. His shadow. His safe place. His favorite ear.

He never said thank you. Not in words, anyway. But every song had pieces of you in it. A line that sounded like something you once whispered. A beat that matched the rhythm of your laugh. A song titled with your birthday, but flipped backward so no one else would know.

And then it happened. One day, everything changed. Some random TikTok kid found one of the old tracks and used it for an edit. A week later—millions. Plays, likes, followers. He hated it. You watched him pace around the apartment, wild-eyed, muttering, “They don’t even get it.” “They’re just biting now.” “Where were they before?”

But you were still there. Sitting on his kitchen counter. Hoodie that wasn’t yours. Eyes tired but soft.

You handled it. Emails. DMs. Interview requests. Labels circling like vultures. You told him which ones to ignore. Which ones to play with. He let you do it. Trusted you. Only you.

He didn’t post selfies. Didn’t talk in interviews. He just kept making music. And every time, you were the first to hear it. Headphones passed between you. Knees touching. Eyes closed.

One night, he paused a track halfway through. You looked up at him. He didn’t say anything for a while.

Then “You think I’d be doing any of this if it weren’t for you?”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You just reached for the play button.But he stopped you. Caught your hand in his. Held it for a second too long. Then another.

Your chest felt like it would crack open. Still, nothing happened. Still, it was... casual.

A year into the fame, you were all the way in. No more crashing at his place—you lived there. The two of you had upgraded to a bigger apartment, one that felt more like a bunker than a home. Dark walls. Concrete floors. Unfinished ceiling that looked like it belonged in a warehouse.

But it was warm. It smelled like weed and sage and your shampoo. Music always humming from a speaker somewhere. Sometimes his guitar was just lying on the couch. Sometimes your books were. You shared space like you shared silence—easily.

You were still juggling school, barely hanging on some days, but you made time to manage his account, answer emails, line up deals. He made music and money. A lot of both. Labels wanted him. Brands begged. Venues called. You handled most of it. He hated everyone except you.

And the relationship is still undefined. Still everything.

He’d hold your hand in public. Pull you close when crossing the street. His arm would always be around your shoulders like it belonged there. To anyone watching, you were together. Like… together together. And maybe you were, just not officially. No titles. No pressure.

He kept his mystery locked up tight. Still no face. No selfies. No stories. That was about to change though. His first concert was coming, a real one. Not an underground event or livestream, but a sold-out, packed venue with screaming fans.

You asked him, quietly one night, “Are you nervous?” He just looked at you, exhaled smoke, and said, “Not about them. Just about you seeing me like that.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t need to. Just reached over, took his hand, and held it like you always did—like it was normal. Like he was yours.

---

The city was buzzing like a live wire. You could feel it in your teeth. The venue was packed, lines curling around the block. People had signs. Painted their faces. Screamed lyrics. It was insane.

You watched from backstage, heart beating a little too fast, wearing his leather jacket and tight short black dress.

He was pacing a little, fingers twitching, jaw tight. But he looked good. Too good. Tall, jacked, inked up— black tank clinging to him, tattoos peeking from his neck to his fingers. Hair messy like always, like he rolled out of bed and still looked like a god.

No mask tonight. No hood. This time, they’d see him.

You caught his eye just before he walked out. Just looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him. You nodded once. That was enough.

Then he stepped out.

And the place. Exploded.

Screams. Like actual shrieking. Phones shot up so fast the light almost blinded you. Someone in the front fainted. A girl sobbed. The crowd was feral.

He didn’t flinch. Just walked to the mic like he owned the world. When he finally spoke— “Yeah. It’s me.” —people LOST it.

A whole different war broke out online . “WHY IS HE HOT??” “I THOUGHT HE WAS UGLY???” “HE LOOKS LIKE HE KILLS PEOPLE AND WRITES POETRY ABOUT IT.” “Someone said he was faceless—why is he the face of my future now???”

His name trended within an hour. Clips went viral before the second song ended. People were pausing videos just to zoom in on his hands, his tattoos, his jawline. New fan accounts popped up in real-time.

But he only looked at you. Once. Halfway through the set, spotlight behind him, crowd screaming his name, he glanced toward the side of the stage. Found you. Smirked like the devil. Then tore into the next song like his soul was catching fire.

When it was over, and the venue started to empty out, he came offstage drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling. Still high off the energy, off the chaos. You handed him water. He took it, but didn’t drink. Just stared at you.

“They love me now,” he muttered. Then, quieter, “But I still only care what you think.”

Your throat closed up. You didn’t answer, didn’t need to.

He tossed the bottle. Stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. His hand found your face like he’d been meaning to do it for years. Fingers on your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. His forehead rested against yours, and he whispered, “Say something. Anything.”

You looked up at him, breath caught.

“You’re mine,” you said.

And this time, he kissed you.

---

The concert was over, but the night wasn’t.

You two didn’t even go back home. He tugged you into the car, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, saying nothing but “Let’s go out.” You didn’t ask where.

The club was already dark and pulsing by the time you got there. Lights flickering red, music loud enough to feel in your ribs. People turned when you walked in, like they knew. He hadn’t even been unmasked for four hours, but already, the city recognized him.

He didn’t care. Just grab your hand and pull you to the middle of the floor. Bodies everywhere, sweat, bass, smoke. And still, it felt like it was just you two.

He was behind you, hands on your waist. Not even grinding, not all sexual—just close. Like he wanted to keep you tethered to the ground. His face buried in your neck every now and then, lips ghosting skin. You leaned into it. Eyes closed. Smiling.

Someone recorded it. Of course they did.

Posted it within minutes.

On Twitter (or X whatever that cursed app is):

@.cryboutitgrl: this man just revealed his face and already pulled up to the club with the baddest girl i’ve ever seen????

@.undergroundangel666: bro was faceless yesterday now he’s 6'4 tatted and got a mysterious girlfriend. i’m sick. 😭

@.smokysylvia: wait wait wait. is she the one from the side stage?? the one he kept looking at????

@.hotguyshateus: yeah i zoomed in. it’s her. same leather jacket. same girl. he’s in love i’m sorry.

@.helooksinlove: she whispered something to him before the encore and he kissed her after the show. we lost. I fear the album’s gonna be sad and horny now 😩

The internet was spiraling. Fan edits were already in motion. Clips of him touching your face, that blurry club video, someone even managed to catch a shot of the two of you leaving the venue— his arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into his chest.

You checked his account the next morning. A million new followers. Inbox was flooded. Everyone wanted to know: Who was she? Who was the girl?

And all he did was post a blurry photo of the two of you sitting on the floor that night, you leaning against him, laughing into your cup, and him looking at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believe in.

Caption: “She been here since zero followers. Don’t ask again.”

--------

bonus::: the first text and meet up...

It was around 2:37 AM when you messaged him.

“idk why no one knows abt you yet. this is actually insane.”

You didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t even think he’d see it.

But twenty minutes later— “yo.” One dot. No emojis.

You blinked at the screen.

“that was you?” “the message?” “yeah. thanks.”

Simple. Dry. But then he asked: “wanna hear some unreleased?”

Your breath caught. “yeah.”

He sent a file. No title. Just noise at first. Then the beat dropped— low, almost crawling. His voice— raspy, like smoke and teeth. You could barely breathe.

Before you could even process, your phone lit up again.

“what’s your number” Not a question. Not begging.

You gave it.

Thirty seconds later: FaceTime.

Your heart slammed. You almost didn’t pick up. But your thumb moved on its own.

Click.

It was dark.

No light but the red glow of a monitor on his side. Backlit tattoos. Shadows across his jawline. Hair messy. Shirtless. Sitting back in a desk chair like he owned time.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

He looked at you. Eyes flickering across your face through the screen like he was studying something rare. A small smirk tugged at his lips.

“damn.”

One word. But it cracked something open.

You laughed, too soft. Told him he looked like a villain.

“good.” Then: “you real?”

You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head. Let him stare.

And then, just like that— you both started talking. Not loud. Not excited. Just low. Whispers like secrets in a church.

He showed you the corner of his room. Posters. Wires. A mic stand leaning. Unfinished lyrics on the wall in sharpie.

“i stay up all night,” he said. “no one to talk to.”

“you do now,” you whispered.

His lips twitched. He leaned forward like he was trying to see more of you through the screen.

“can i call you again?”

You bit your lip.

“i’m not hanging up.”

And you didn’t. Not until the sun started bleeding through your windows. Not until your eyelids got too heavy. He didn’t say goodbye. Just watched you drift off to sleep. And whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it:

“don’t leave.”

You woke up with your phone in your hand, battery barely alive. Your screen still had his name on it. Still connected. He never hung up.

You sat up slow, blinking through sleep. Heart pounding when you remember everything. The music. The call. His voice. The way he watched you fall asleep like he meant to remember it forever.

And then—your phone buzzed.

him: “u still down to pull up?”

No address. No time.

Just that.

And still… you replied: “drop the pin.”

You didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t even think it through. He could’ve been a killer. Could’ve chopped you up, turned you into a beat.

But your chest was quiet. Calm.

It was cold when you stepped out. Your hoodie swallowed your frame. Headphones in, but no music playing— just replaying his voice in your head like a loop. When you reached his spot, it looked like nothing. Gray building. No buzzers. Just a metal door and the pin.

You texted him once.

No reply.

Then the door creaked open. And there he was. Tall. Sleeves rolled up. Tattoos crawling up his arms. Hood half on. Eyes heavy like he hadn’t slept.

He looked at you for two full seconds before stepping back.

“come in.”

You did.

It was dark. Not scary dark—just dim. Curtains closed. Cigarette smoke faint in the air. There was a speaker set up on the floor and wires running like veins all over the place. A mic stand crooked in the corner. A mattress on the ground, black sheets. And his scent—something between weed, laundry, and the ghost of cologne.

You stood there like you were in a museum.

He didn’t touch you. Just nodded toward the couch.

“u want tea? or... water? i got like 4 capri suns too.”

You laughed. He smiled for real that time.

You stayed for hours. Then one day.

Then two.

The playlist never stopped. He let you read his notebooks. You found one where your name was scribbled on the top corner of a page.

He didn’t explain.

At night, he didn’t try anything. Just let you lay next to him, in his clothes, backs turned but feet tangled.

You remember the first time he turned to you in the dark and whispered: “i don’t like being alone anymore.”

And you said, without thinking:

“me neither.”

------

any band recommendations??

[lulumineul]