- sukuna as your +1 for coachella 2025 | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl ؛ ଓ
coachella 2025 was an apocalypse in flower crowns.
the heat index was unholy, the porta-potties were already declaring war by noon, half the guest list looked like AI-generated influencers, and the wi-fi situation? don’t even talk about the wi-fi. but you? oh, you were perfect. radiant. so annoyingly hot that the dust parted in your presence like you were moses in mesh. and naturally, that’s all thanks to the one-man war machine beside you—sukuna.
he’s already barking at the traffic before your shuttle even slows down. you’re sipping your overpriced electrolyte drink while he’s hanging out the window yelling, “get your tesla outta the fuckin' way, nobody cares about your solar panels, brad!”
and no, he doesn’t have a pass for yelling. but yes, people do move when he does it.
your outfits? synchronized to the minute of the lineup. sukuna printed out spreadsheets. he made you try on three different shades of green just to find the right one for charli xcx’s set. “the chartreuse makes your legs look longer,” he muttered, slapping your ass lightly as you passed him. “wear that.” you swear he color-coordinated your bracelets to the stage lighting. don’t ask how. just accept it.
and him? sukuna went full punk-purist. black muscle tee (distressed by hand), chains, combat boots that’ve seen real warzones (probably), eyeliner he insisted wasn’t eyeliner. “it’s shadow. shut up.” he looked like he was about to dropkick a CEO, which made it all the more hilarious when—
mid-green day set, as "wake me up when september ends" echoes across the desert, you glance over…
and he's crying.
not the ugly sob kind. no. just one single tear, tracking dramatically down his tattooed cheek like he’s in a coming-of-age netflix movie. he wipes it aggressively with the back of his hand and snarls at you, “say one word and i’ll bury you in the sahara.”
you don’t say anything. not then. not during the bernie sanders surprise speech either, where he's talking about labor rights and free healthcare with fire in his voice and sukuna’s just nodding slowly, eyes suspiciously misty, hand gripping yours tight like your skin’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
but later, when the festival’s winding down, when you’re curled in the grass eating the sad little vegan tacos you paid forty dollars for, you nudge him.
“punk’s not dead, huh?”
he side-eyes you. mutters, “shut up.”
then passes you a napkin. gently. silently.
(later, he wears that charli xcx merch crop top you bought him ironically.
but don’t bring that up either.)
