Cw: Size Kink, Belly Bulge, Unprotected Sex, Rough Sex, Lmk If I Missed Something

LOOK AT HIM!

THIS IS SO ME

i love being a little freak on tumblr nobody can stop me

Sukuna is the type of boyfriend who tells you to shut up when you’re talking—and to talk when you’re silent.

He “hates” it when you cuddle him. He “hates” when you kiss him or show any kind of affection in public.

He “hates” saying “I love you,” and even mocks you for saying it. He says he hates it when you try to hold his hand. He just hates everything.

He says he hates it, hates you, and hates this relationship. That’s what he tells you—every single day.

At first, you thought maybe being mean was just his twisted way of showing he cared. It was weird, but you tried to be okay with it. But slowly, it started getting to you. When you reached for his hand, he would swat yours away. When you leaned in to kiss his cheek, he would push you back.

You weren’t a talkative person by nature—you only spoke when he asked you something. But even then, when you answered, he’d tell you to shut up or say, “Why are you talking so much?”

By the sixth month of your relationship, you had grown painfully quiet inside. You barely said anything, barely did anything. It felt like he had sucked the spark and life right out of you. You were constantly second-guessing yourself.

Every time you had a date with him, it felt like a chore—a heavy, anxiety-inducing task you had to get through. It wasn’t fun anymore. It made you lose sleep.

You started to doubt whether he even liked you as a person, let alone as a girlfriend.

Today was the fourth time you canceled a date on him. —The first time was because you were on your period and didn’t feel up to going out. He had grumbled, gone out to get takeout, then shoved the bag onto your chest and left without a word. —The second time, you had to babysit your cousins. —The third, you had to pick up your baby brother from a different state. —And now today, the fourth, you had a migraine.

For the past three weeks, you’d barely seen or spoken to each other. It seemed like life kept pulling you away—and honestly, you didn’t mind.

But he did.

He was already outside your house, waiting in his car when you texted him that you couldn’t come. He didn’t take it well.

Sukuna slammed his phone onto the passenger seat, got out, and slammed the car door behind him. Then he stormed up to your front door and started banging on it, hard.

You were lucky your parents weren’t home.

You flinched at the sound of his fists slamming against the wood. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten angry, but something about tonight felt worse. Maybe it was the pounding in your head, or maybe it was just the way your stomach dropped when you heard him yell your name through the door.

“Open the damn door, Y/N!” he barked.

You rushed to open it, heart racing—not because you wanted to see him, but because you didn’t want the neighbors hearing and calling your parents… or worse, the police.

His fist was mid-air when the door swung open.

He froze, standing in your doorway, chest heaving with fury. His eyes burned as they locked onto yours, and for a moment, you genuinely weren’t sure what he was going to do.

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

“I don’t feel well,” you said quietly. “You should go.”

He scoffed, stepping forward. Sometimes you wondered just how big he really was—how he seemed to fill the doorway with his presence alone. Broad shoulders brushing both sides, head nearly grazing the top. It was like he was built to block the exit, to make everything feel smaller when he entered.

He walked you backward into the house and slammed the door shut behind him.

“Are you serious right now? I’ve been waiting out there for an hour—again—and you’re gonna pull this shit?”

“I said I don’t feel well,” you repeated, your voice a little steadier this time.

He laughed, that same bitter, cutting sound that made your stomach turn. “Yeah, right. Another excuse.”

You went quiet, eyes dropping to your socks. You didn’t want to look at him. You couldn’t.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he snapped. “We haven’t gone on a date in weeks. You barely text or call. Spit it out—what the fuck is your issue?”

Your fingers nervously played with the hem of your t-shirt, tugging it slightly as if that could anchor you.

Then, softly—firmly—you said it:

“Let’s break up.”

Silence.

It was immediate and deafening. He went completely still. You could feel the shift in the air, like all the heat had been sucked from the room. You swore you couldn’t even hear him breathing.

But you still didn’t look up.

You stood there, staring at the floor, heart pounding in your chest like a warning drum.

You didn't want to see the look on his face. You didn’t want to see the moment he realized you meant it.

And you did.

You really meant it.

The silence didn’t last.

It cracked.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

His voice was low. Dangerous. Like the calm before a storm that you’d been caught in too many times before.

You still didn’t move. Didn’t respond.

“I said,” he growled, stepping closer, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

You finally looked up. Just once. And what you saw made your chest tighten.

His eyes were wild—red with fury, disbelief twisting his face into something almost unrecognizable. His jaw clenched, vein ticking in his temple.

“Oh, I get it now,” he sneered, voice dripping venom. “There’s another guy, right? That’s why you’ve been so distant, so fucking weird lately.”

He stepped forward again, and you instinctively took a step back—until your back hit the wall.

He bent down slightly, crouching just enough to be level with your eyes. His face was so close, you could feel the heat of his breath, the way it shook with restrained anger.

“So tell me,” he whispered, voice low and mocking, “is that it? Is it because of some guy?”

You blinked rapidly, trying to fight off the tears burning your eyes. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling with the effort to stay calm.

His red eyes searched yours. But this time, it wasn’t just rage in them—it was something else. He was looking at you like he was trying to memorize you. Like deep down, some part of him knew he was about to lose you for good.

“There’s no one else,” you said. “It’s just you. It’s only ever been you.”

He shook his head, his frustration growing by the second. His hands balled into fists at his sides, like he didn’t know where to put them, didn’t know what to do with the energy coiling in his chest.

“Then why?” he demanded, his voice cracking with desperation. “Why? You need to tell me. I need to know. Why?”

His breath came quicker now, but his eyes—they were wild, searching. As if you held the answers to a riddle he couldn’t solve, no matter how many times he asked.

And then, the question slipped out. The one you’d been too afraid to ask, too afraid to even let yourself think about.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, barely above a breath, “do you even like me?”

You didn’t want to ask it, but something in you had to know. Something inside you had to hear him admit it—whether he cared, whether this had ever been real, or whether it was all just a game to him.

You didn’t dare look at him directly, too scared to see the answer, whatever it was. You focused on the floor, trying to steady your breath, trying to hold yourself together.

There was a long pause.

And then, when he spoke again, it wasn’t with the anger or spite you’d grown accustomed to.

It was softer. Almost too soft.

“Of course, I fucking like you,” he muttered, though there was no confidence in it.

You shook your head, unable to believe a single word he said. “No, you don’t, Sukuna. No, you don’t. You hate me. You always say you find me annoying, and you hate this relationship. You don’t like me, let alone love me.”

The words tumbled out faster than you could stop them, like once you started, you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Sukuna...” You took a shaky breath, voice breaking despite your best efforts. “I... I can’t even sleep. I don’t know how you feel about me or what we have. You’re so angry all the time. I get scared to talk to you or ask you anything...”

You almost felt like you were rambling, but the words were all that needed to be said, finally out in the open.

The truth, ugly and raw, spilled out of you like a dam breaking, everything you’d been bottling up for so long.

Sukuna stood there, staring at you with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t comprehend what you’d just said. For a moment, you could almost see the walls crashing down around him.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. He was still processing, still trying to piece together the pieces of what you’d just revealed.

And then, his eyes softened—not in the way they usually did, filled with mockery or disdain—but with something far more terrifying: regret.

“I... didn’t mean for any of that to happen.” His voice was rough, hoarse, as if the words scraped against him.

“I didn’t know... I didn’t realize that it was like this for you.”

You looked up at him, your chest tight with emotion, heart pounding in your ears.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost defeated. “I was just—damn it, I…I do love you, Y/N. I love you so much I don't know what to do with it.”

You blinked, stunned, It felt surreal, like a dream or some twisted joke, but the look in his eyes—was undeniable.

For a second, you just stared at him, trying to piece it together. He loved you? After everything? After all the anger, the cruelty, the distance?

His eyes were searching yours desperately, as if he was afraid you wouldn’t believe him, afraid that you would push him away before he could prove it to you.

“I don’t know how to show it, okay?” he said, his voice cracking, frustration and fear bleeding through.

“I don’t want to be like this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible now. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to make you feel scared or… or small.”

You swallowed hard, your heart a tangled mess of conflicting emotions. Was this just another lie? Another empty confession meant to keep you close, or was this the real thing?

Sukuna’s eyes bore into you, pleading, desperate for you to see past the anger, past the walls he’d built up over the years.

“Please,” he breathed, his voice rough. “Please don’t leave me like this. I can’t lose you. I know I fucked up, but I swear I’ll do anything to fix this”

You wanted to believe him. God, you did. But the fear still lingered. The fear that his words would fade, that the old habits would return, that the anger would drown out whatever this feeling was between you.

But... the way he was looking at you, the way he was fighting to keep you—maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something different.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you slowly took his hand in yours. His fingers tightened around yours almost immediately, as if he were afraid you’d pull away again.

“We... we don’t need to break up, Sukuna,” you said softly, eyes still fixed on the floor. “But I need time. A break.”

You felt his body tense, his hand trembling in yours.

“A break?” he echoed, the word landing heavy between you both like a thunderclap. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I need space,” you said, more firmly now. “I need time to think. To breathe. I need to figure out if I can still be in this... if you really mean what you say.”

His jaw clenched again, but he didn’t pull away this time. His other hand ran through his hair, dragging it back with a frustrated sigh as he looked away from you.

“I don’t want space,” he muttered. “I want to fix this now.”

“But we can’t,” you said, stepping back a little, your fingers slipping from his hand. “Not all at once. You can’t just say the right words and expect it all to go back to normal. I’ve been walking on eggshells for months, Sukuna. I’m tired. I need to feel like I matter to you—not just when you’re scared I’ll leave.”

Silence settled like fog between you. He didn’t argue. He didn’t yell. He just stood there, staring at you with an expression you’d rarely seen on him—something close to remorse. Maybe even understanding.

“I’ll wait,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “I don’t know how, and I’ll probably mess it up, but... I’ll wait. Just don’t disappear on me.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “I won’t.”

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

i opened the doc thinking I was about to emotionally cripple and obliterate myself with some god-tier angst but no for some reason my brain and hand said....what if… love???

like wdym you don’t play tick tack toe with ur wrist??? wdym ur normal???

Sometimes I wonder how other people go through life without wanting to k1ll th3ms£lves

could you do johnny cade x fem reader

johnny comes back from a rumble and reader cleans him up and etc... 😼

────۶ৎ patching up

your boyfriend got into a rumble, uh-oh! quick, choose what to do!

warnings : canon typical violence & classism, pure tooth-rotting fluff!

ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: caring for johnnycakes' wounds after a fight, coming right up ma'am!

The first knock on the door is timid. The second is louder. The third sounds like someone’s leaning their whole weight against it, and that someone has definitely lost the ability to care about the sanctity of sleep.

It’s 2:07 AM.

You shuffle down the hallway, wrapped in your favorite robe, hair in a lazy braid, blinking through sleep. The porch light flickers as you swing open the door-

-and your heart drops straight to your toes.

There stands Dallas Winston, all crooked teeth and bleeding knuckles, looking like he got into a brawl with a brick wall and only barely won. And half-slumped beside him, leaning on Dally’s arm with the quiet desperation of a boy too proud to ask for help, is your boyfriend.

Johnny Cade.

His lower lip’s split, his right eye’s puffing up like a blueberry, and his poor knuckles are raw and scraped to hell. He looks like he’s been through a tornado, a bar fight, and an exorcism all in one night—and your chest goes tight.

“What the hell?!” you gasp, grabbing for Johnny immediately, one hand to his cheek, the other catching his wrist.

Dally barks a laugh, stepping aside so you can usher Johnny in. “Chill out, sweetheart. We won.”

“Won? Won?!” you snap, eyes shooting daggers at him as you guide Johnny to the couch like he’s made of porcelain. “Are you insane, Dallas Winston? You look like someone ran you over with a damn Ford! And Johnny-”

Johnny blushes. The tips of his ears go pink, his gaze glued to your floor like it might swallow him up and save him.

Dallas just smirks. “Don’t go blaming me, doll. Your little boyfriend over here—” he gives Johnny a hearty slap to the back that nearly knocks the poor boy over “—started it.”

You spin toward Johnny, mouth open, scandalized. “You started it?!”

Johnny mumbles something that sounds like “He looked at me wrong,” and you can’t even process it before Dallas is already halfway out the door, throwing a wink over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to your mating season. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“DALLAS—!”

Too late. The door slams behind him, and it’s just you and Johnny and the soft, steady beat of your heart trying not to explode.

You sigh, turning back to him.

“Alright, Mr. Rumble Royale. Get your butt to the bathroom. I’m getting the first-aid kit.”

Johnny opens his mouth to argue—but you give him that look, the one that says Don’t test me, Cade, and he shuffles off in silence, cheeks aflame.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s sitting on the toilet seat, shirtless, with a towel over his lap and that helpless baby deer look in his big brown eyes as you dab at the dried blood on his cheekbone.

“Ow-ow, babe, easy!”

“I am being easy,” you mutter, dabbing extra carefully now. “You know what’s not easy? Watching my boyfriend get dragged into my house by a human cigarette burn in a leather jacket at two in the damn morning.”

Johnny chuckles, then winces. “Sorry.”

You kiss his temple. “You better be.”

You trail kisses across his cheek, featherlight and sweet, every brush of your lips an apology for the sting of the disinfectant. Johnny sighs into them, leaning into your touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

He’s so warm. So boyish. So broken-in and soft and yours.

“Starting fights, huh?” you murmur between kisses. “That how it is now?”

“He shoved me when Dallas n'I were walkin',” Johnny huffs, eyes low. “Didn’t even say sorry. Just laughed. Like we were dirt. I wasn’t gonna let him get away with it.”

You pause.

“You’re such a silly one,” you whisper, stroking his hair back. “Since when does it bother if socs think you and Dally are trash, huh?”

Johnny goes red as a cherry soda. “since I started goin' out with you”

“that so?” you hum, a smile on your lips, kissing the tip of his nose.

You clean his knuckles next, brushing over every scrape and bruise with warm water and even warmer hands. He hisses when you touch a particularly bad one, but you kiss the pain away immediately, letting your lips linger on his skin.

“You spoil me,” Johnny breathes, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good. You deserve to be spoiled.”

You rub ointment into the bruises on his ribs, careful and reverent, and he melts under your hands like butter on a summer sidewalk. He’s quiet now. Humming. Drowsy. A sleepy little housecat being doted on.

“I love you,” you whisper. “So much. Even when you act dumb. Especially then.”

“I love you too,” Johnny mumbles. “If getting my ass kicked gets me this, I’m gonna pick fights every week.”

You smack his shoulder—gently. “Johnnatan Cade, don’t you dare.”

“Can’t help it,” he grins, dazed and golden. “I just like when you take care of me.”

I know her tumblr would be fire