𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐲
idk the @‘s of the artwork, found all on pinterest
synopy; a quirky art student struggling with anatomy gets an unexpected tutoring session from her sports medicine boyfriend, sukuna. when sukuna offers himself as a live model for her colorful study methods, innocent body-painting quickly turns into teasing, hands-on lessons, messy affection, and a very unconventional anatomy practical.
wc; 12,5k
a/n; BOOOOOOOOOOO, i hate this one lol. anyways, thank you for the love on the last one even though to me it was absolutely garbage. but anywhoooo, i hope you can enjoy this one and i put a lot of work into learning the human anatomy for this (not really but the name was HORRIBLEE to type). i love any feedback, constructive criticism, and appreciation :) enjoy!
warnings; unprotected sex, breeding talk, implied creampie, rough/aggressive sex, deep penetration, size kink, oral sex (female giving), throat fucking/deepthroating, gagging, choking/breath-play elements, hair pulling, spanking, heavy manhandling, doggy, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting, spit kink/spitting into mouth, messy sex, body-paint play, body marking/tracing, praise kink, mean teasing, degradation-lite, possessive dirty talk, aggressive dirty talk, reader getting overwhelmed by pleasure, restraint/pinning, body worship, slight breeding implications, reader is implied to be black (but anyone can imagine themselves)
according to sukuna, your vastus lateralis looked like a fern.
you disagreed.
it looked nothing like a fern. it was obviously supposed to be a flowering branch, although the petals had started crowding the narrow margin of your notebook until they curled around three separate muscle labels and swallowed half of the iliotibial tract.
the little creature sitting beneath the diagram was unrelated.
he had six eyes, crooked antennae, and a small speech bubble that said, remember to stretch or perish.
sukuna stared down at the page for so long that you began wondering whether he was genuinely attempting to understand it.
then his red eyes shifted toward you.
“this shit medically useless.”
you pulled the notebook closer to your chest.
“you understood it.”
“i understood it ’cause i know anatomy. somebody who actually need these notes gon’ think the rectus femoris got leaves growing out that motherfucker.”
“the leaves help separate it from the other quadriceps.”
“you drew a damn moon inside the patella.”
“that’s so i remember it’s a sesamoid bone.”
“what the moon got to do with sesame?”
you paused.
sukuna’s mouth curved.
“exactly.”
the two of you sat in the rear of the campus library, occupying a table meant for six people because sukuna refused to sit close to strangers. his enormous black backpack was on one chair. his motorcycle helmet took another. your canvas tote bag, overstuffed with paint markers and sketchbooks, rested on a third.
any student searching for an open seat usually took one look at him and continued walking.
sukuna had that effect on people.
even seated, he appeared imposing. he was tall enough that his knees touched the underside of the table, with a thick, athletic build shaped by years of weight training and recreational fighting he insisted did not count as fighting because the people involved had agreed to it beforehand.
his pink hair was cropped closely along the sides and left longer on top, the thick strands naturally rising in sharp points. black markings framed his red eyes and crossed the bridge of his nose. more ink curved along his jaw and chin, matching the bands circling both wrists. whenever he wore short sleeves, additional geometric tattoos stretched over his shoulders and down the solid muscle of his arms.
your classmates initially assumed the markings were temporary.
you had made the same mistake the first afternoon you met him.
you had been sitting in functional anatomy, carefully drawing eyelashes around an illustration of the eye, when the man beside you leaned over and said your optic nerve looked like an earthworm.
you had stared at the black lines covering his face.
“does washing your face take a long time?”
sukuna had looked at you as though no one had ever spoken to him like that before.
“the fuck that mean?”
“all your makeup.”
the silence afterward lasted nearly ten seconds.
then his head tipped back, and he laughed loudly enough for the professor to stop speaking.
you learned the truth after class when he pulled a cleansing wipe from your bag, scrubbed it roughly against his cheek, and presented the clean cloth to you.
“tattoos, genius.”
you had touched the marking beneath his eye before thinking better of it.
“did it hurt?”
his gaze dropped toward your fingers.
“not enough.”
most people became nervous when sukuna looked at them that way.
you had smiled and told him the design reminded you of an ancient protective mask.
that was the beginning.
the first month consisted mostly of him insulting your notes while borrowing them every time he missed class. he claimed your drawings were distracting, yet he could somehow describe each one from memory. when the professor asked about the brachial plexus, sukuna muttered that it was “the ugly purple tree with eyeballs” before giving the correct answer.
by the second month, he was carrying your art supplies without acknowledging that he had offered.
by the third, you were sitting on his kitchen counter at two in the morning, painting his nails black while he reviewed kinesiology terminology.
he kissed you for the first time after you added a tiny red star to his thumb.
he had inspected it, looked at you, and said, “you do entirely too much.”
then he caught the back of your neck and pulled you into his mouth.
you had been together for eight months now.
sukuna remained mean.
not cruel, although strangers rarely understood the distinction. he was blunt, arrogant, and almost pathologically unwilling to soften his opinions. when you asked whether an outfit looked good, he told you exactly which part he disliked before dragging you against him and reminding you that he would still remove it with his teeth.
he didn’t believe in comforting lies.
he also didn’t believe anybody else had permission to hurt your feelings.
when a classmate called your artwork childish, sukuna spent the remainder of the semester referring to the man as “the one who draw hands like oven mitts.” when a professor dismissed one of your sculpture concepts without allowing you to explain it, sukuna appeared outside the department building the following afternoon despite having classes across campus.
he had leaned against the brick wall with his arms folded.
“which one?”
you grabbed his wrist before he could go inside.
“you cannot intimidate my professor.”
“i ain’t said shit ’bout intimidation.”
“your face is doing it.”
“this just my face.”
you had eventually convinced him to leave by promising lunch.
he complained the entire walk to the restaurant, but he held your hand and purchased the expensive fruit tea you always talked yourself out of ordering.
sukuna liked pretending you irritated him.
he liked you far more.
unfortunately, being liked by someone who had memorized the body’s major nerves and considered mockery a valid teaching technique didn’t prevent you from failing your practice quiz.
the paper sat between you now.
fifty-eight percent had been written across the top in red ink.
you had decorated the number with rain clouds.
sukuna looked from the page to you.
“how?”
you shrank lower in your cardigan.
“the questions were confusing.”
“it asked you to identify the deltoid.”
“the picture was from a strange angle.”
“it was a shoulder.”
“it was an unsettling shoulder.”
“all shoulders look like that without skin.”
“not spiritually.”
sukuna closed his eyes.
you quietly added another raindrop.
he reached over and took the pen from your fingers.
“stop drawing and explain how you mixed up the tibialis anterior and gastrocnemius.”
“they both live in the lower leg.”
“so do several other muscles. that ain’t mean you can swap ’em around when you get bored.”
“i didn’t get bored.”
“you drew a tiny hat on the fibula.”
“because the fibula is overlooked. everybody pays attention to the tibia.”
“the tibia bear weight.”
“that doesn’t mean the fibula shouldn’t feel included.”
sukuna stared at you.
your lips began twitching.
he fought his smile for almost three seconds before one corner of his mouth rose.
“you lucky you cute.”
“am i?”
“don’t fish.”
you placed your elbow on the table and rested your cheek in your palm. several gold bangles slid down your wrist, clinking softly. your long braids were pinned into a loose bun, little silver stars and polished stones woven between the strands.
you had dressed that morning according to the planetary hour.
sukuna had asked whether the planets knew you had an eight-thirty lecture.
“i studied,” you said. “i really did.”
the amusement faded from his face.
he looked at the quiz again, this time with genuine concentration. sukuna knew you joked whenever you felt embarrassed. he had learned that within weeks of meeting you.
“how long?”
“three hours last night.”
“with the television on?”
“no.”
“music?”
“sound bowls.”
“same difference.”
“sound bowls improve concentration.”
“clearly they ain’t do enough.”
you frowned.
sukuna tapped the paper against the table.
“what was you doing for three hours?”
“reading the chapter.”
“reading ain’t studying.”
“it is.”
“not when you forget everything soon as the page turn.”
you looked down.
his foot nudged yours beneath the table.
“quit that.”
“what?”
“lookin’ sad. i ain’t call you stupid.”
“you were thinking it.”
“no, i wasn’t.”
“how would i know?”
“’cause i’d call you stupid if i thought you was stupid.”
you considered that.
it was true.
sukuna leaned back and drummed his fingers over the table. his nails were painted black again, although the polish on his right index finger had chipped during his athletic rehabilitation lab.
“you learn better when you draw.”
“yes.”
“and when you touch shit.”
your eyebrows lifted.
“that sounded inappropriate.”
“your mind inappropriate.”
“you said it strangely.”
“i said you a visual and tactile learner. that mean you need to see where the muscle is and feel how it move instead of staring at some flat-ass diagram.”
you slowly straightened.
sukuna’s eyes narrowed.
“why you look excited?”
“i’m listening.”
“you look too excited.”
“keep explaining.”
he turned the practice quiz around.
“i’ll teach you.”
“really?”
“yeah. i got all the practical equipment at my place.”
“you have a skeleton?”
“partial one.”
“does it have a name?”
“no.”
“can i name it?”
“no.”
“i’m going to call her belladonna.”
“you ain’t naming my skeleton.”
you pulled the quiz toward yourself.
“what else do you have?”
“resistance bands, joint models, charts. all the shit you would’ve seen already if you ever came into my study room without touching everything.”
“your study room feels sterile.”
“it’s supposed to.”
“it needs a rug.”
“no, it don’t.”
“and a plant.”
“the plant gon’ die.”
“not with encouragement.”
sukuna leaned across the table, close enough that you caught the warm scent of his cologne.
“you wanna pass this class or decorate my apartment?”
“both.”
“pick one.”
“pass.”
“good. come over friday.”
“what are you going to use to teach me?”
his gaze moved slowly over your face.
“a live model.”
you became completely still.
sukuna noticed.
of course he noticed.
his smile widened, exposing sharp canines.
“that got your attention.”
“you mean you?”
“who else?”
you tried to appear thoughtful instead of immediately enthusiastic.
it didn’t work.
“okay.”
“okay?”
“yes. that seems academically responsible.”
“academically responsible,” he repeated.
“very.”
“you ain’t even ask what the lesson involve.”
“muscles.”
“you wanna touch my muscles that bad?”
your brown skin warmed all the way to your ears.
“this is about my education.”
“you damn near failed with enthusiasm.”
“i didn’t.”
sukuna caught your chin between his fingers before you could turn away.
“look at me.”
you reluctantly met his eyes.
he studied your expression with open amusement.
“friday. six o’clock. bring that little paint set you use on them canvases.”
“body paint?”
“washable.”
your thoughts immediately scattered.
sukuna released your face and gathered his books as though he had not just invited you to paint his body.
“kuna.”
he glanced at you.
only you called him that.
the first time the nickname slipped from your mouth, he had stared at you for a long moment before allowing it. one of his teammates tried it days later and left the conversation with sukuna’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck.
“what?” he asked.
“how much of you am i painting?”
the expression that crossed his face was slow, wicked, and entirely too pleased.
“whatever you need to learn.”
—
friday took three weeks to arrive.
logically, you knew only four days had passed.
emotionally, you had endured an entire season.
you spent tuesday choosing paint colors. wednesday involved researching whether certain shades improved memory retention. by thursday evening, you had assembled three brushes, two packs of cosmetic sponges, a white body pencil, reusable stencils, and a small jar of biodegradable glitter.
sukuna discovered the glitter when he collected you from the fine arts building.
he stood beside his motorcycle, dressed in black cargo pants and a fitted charcoal shirt that clung obscenely to his chest. two silver chains rested against his throat. his tattoos disappeared beneath the short sleeves, only to emerge over his thick forearms.
his eyes lowered to the transparent case in your hands.
“what the fuck is that?”
“supplies.”
“why it sparkling?”
“educational glitter.”
“take that shit back inside.”
“it helps identify attachment points.”
“you ain’t putting glitter on me.”
you hugged the case against your chest.
“then i cannot guarantee academic success.”
“you already failed. i’m the guarantee.”
sukuna took the case from you and opened the motorcycle’s rear compartment.
“helmet.”
you accepted the spare helmet he kept for you. it had been plain black when he purchased it. you had since covered one side in small reflective moons and painted a red eye on the back.
sukuna complained every time he saw it.
he also reapplied the protective sealant whenever the designs began peeling.
you climbed onto the seat behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist. your cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.
“ready?” he asked.
“yes.”
“hold tight.”
“i am.”
his hands closed around your wrists and pulled your arms more firmly around him.
“tighter.”
you squeezed him.
“good.”
the motorcycle started beneath you.
sukuna drove more carefully whenever you rode with him, although he would never admit it. he avoided sudden lane changes, kept both hands steady, and checked the mirrors constantly to ensure you remained close.
you reached his apartment shortly after six.
the space looked almost unnaturally orderly for a college student. sukuna didn’t collect unnecessary objects. his furniture was dark, his counters clear, and his shoes arranged beside the entrance with military precision.
your belongings disrupted nearly every room.
a purple mug shaped like a mushroom sat beside his coffee machine. one of your sweaters hung across the back of his couch. three crystals rested along the kitchen windowsill because you said the apartment needed protection from stagnant energy.
he called them expensive rocks.
he dusted around them every sunday.
your favorite discovery waited on the refrigerator.
it was a scrap of paper you had drawn on during your first study session together. the sketch showed a furious-looking anatomical heart with four legs, a sword, and sukuna’s facial tattoos.
you had assumed it was thrown away.
instead, he had secured it beneath a plain black magnet.
you touched the paper.
“you kept him.”
sukuna walked past carrying your paint case.
“kept what?”
“my heart warrior.”
“that ugly-ass thing?”
“his name is myokardius.”
“don’t care.”
“you put him on the refrigerator.”
“needed somethin’ to cover that scratch.”
you lifted the drawing.
there was no scratch.
sukuna had already disappeared into the hallway by the time you looked toward him.
you smiled to yourself.
his study room occupied the smaller bedroom. two walls were covered in anatomical charts and rehabilitation diagrams. resistance bands hung from labeled hooks. a treatment table sat along one side, while a whiteboard dominated the other.
in the corner stood a half skeleton containing a spine, pelvis, and legs.
someone had placed a knitted hat over its skull.
you turned slowly.
sukuna was setting the paint case onto a rolling cart.
“what is that?”
“what?”
“belladonna’s hat.”
“her name ain’t belladonna.”
“you gave her a hat.”
“you left that shit here.”
“and you put it on her.”
“it was in the way.”
you approached the skeleton.
“you care about her.”
“keep talkin’ and she gon’ end up in the closet.”
you greeted belladonna quietly before joining him.
sukuna had prepared.
your failed quiz lay beside a stack of blank worksheets. the whiteboard contained a neatly written list of muscle groups divided between anterior and posterior views. he had even purchased a large roll of disposable paper to protect the treatment table from paint.
you looked at him.
“you did all this for me?”
“don’t make it emotional.”
“it is emotional.”
“it’s tape and paper.”
“acts of service are one of your love languages.”
“you been watching them fake therapy videos again.”
“i’m serious.”
“so am i. sit down.”
you perched on the rolling stool.
sukuna placed your quiz in front of you.
“first, tell me why you got number three wrong.”
“the image frightened me.”
“real answer.”
“i mixed up the origins.”
“why?”
“because the words blend together when i only read them.”
“good. we fix that first.”
he moved behind you.
one heavy hand settled on your shoulder.
“what muscle am i touching?”
your mind went blank.
sukuna squeezed.
“don’t embarrass me this early.”
“trapezius.”
“which portion?”
“upper fibers.”
“action?”
“elevation and upward rotation of the scapula.”
“good.”
his thumb dug slowly into the tense muscle.
a quiet sound escaped you.
sukuna paused.
“you sore?”
“a little.”
“from what?”
“painting. i had to hold my arm above my head for nearly four hours.”
“and you ain’t stretch.”
“i forgot.”
“got a creature in your notes telling everybody else to stretch while you walking around tight as hell.”
his thumb pressed deeper.
you lowered your chin as he worked along the knot.
“that hurts.”
“good.”
“mean.”
“relax.”
“you told me pain does not always mean progress.”
“this ain’t progress. this punishment for ignoring your own damn notes.”
you smiled despite yourself.
sukuna massaged your shoulder for several minutes, using the opportunity to quiz you on every muscle beneath his hands. when you hesitated, he guided your fingers toward the corresponding structure on your own body.
“sternocleidomastoid,” he said, pressing two fingers to the side of your neck. “turn your head.”
you obeyed.
the muscle tightened beneath his touch.
“feel it?”
“yes.”
“now find it yourself.”
you lifted your hand.
sukuna caught your wrist before you touched the wrong place.
“too far back.”
he guided your fingertips forward, placing them against the firm band along your neck.
“there.”
his fingers remained over yours.
you swallowed.
“attachment points?” he asked.
“sternum and clavicle to the mastoid process.”
“better.”
his thumb brushed beneath your jaw.
you forgot the next question before he asked it.
sukuna noticed the shift in your breathing.
his eyes narrowed slightly, but he stepped away without commenting.
“paint.”
you opened the case.
“what color?”
“don’t matter.”
“it matters to me.”
“of course it do.”
you studied the palette. “red for major movers, blue for stabilizers, green for synergists, and gold for—”
“no gold.”
“spiritual importance.”
“muscles ain’t got astrological signs.”
“everything has a relationship with the stars.”
“your glutes don’t know what mercury doing.”
“perhaps yours do not.”
sukuna looked at you.
“you think my ass spiritually disconnected?”
you pressed your lips together.
he pointed toward the palette.
“pick a color before i change my mind.”
you chose dark red.
sukuna gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.
you had seen him shirtless countless times.
that didn’t prevent your breath from catching.
his body looked built specifically to intimidate. broad shoulders tapered toward a lean waist, every muscle dense and defined without appearing ornamental. his chest was thick, pectorals divided by a deep line. his abdomen held eight distinct ridges, tightened even while he stood relaxed.
black tattoos cut across the muscle.
bands surrounded his upper arms. solid lines curved over his chest and stomach, echoing the markings on his face. the ink sharpened his anatomy rather than concealing it, drawing your attention toward each shift of muscle beneath his skin.
sukuna tossed the shirt aside.
“close your mouth.”
you closed it.
“i was breathing.”
“through your eyes?”
“that doesn’t make sense.”
“neither do your notes.”
he turned toward the treatment table.
“start with anterior upper body.”
“all of it?”
“that’s what anterior upper body mean.”
“you have many muscles.”
“you supposed to know ’em.”
“i do know them.”
“fifty-eight percent say otherwise.”
you opened the red paint.
“you are enjoying this too much.”
“damn right.”
sukuna leaned against the edge of the table and spread his arms slightly.
you approached with the brush.
your first stroke began near his collarbone.
the paint appeared bright against his skin, crossing the black ink beneath it. sukuna watched your face while you outlined the upper edge of his right pectoral.
“what muscle?” he asked.
“pectoralis major.”
“origin?”
you recited the attachment points, concentrating on keeping the line steady. your brush travelled toward his sternum, then down along the rounded lower border of the muscle.
“insertion?”
“lateral lip of the intertubercular sulcus of the humerus.”
“action?”
“adduction and internal rotation.”
“clavicular head?”
“flexes the shoulder.”
sukuna’s mouth curved.
“look at you. almost sound competent.”
you painted a small flower at the center of his chest.
his hand closed around your wrist.
“what the hell is that?”
“a landmark.”
“that ain’t no landmark.”
“it helps me remember the sternum.”
“erase it.”
“no.”
“i ain’t ask.”
“you should not interfere with the artist’s process.”
“this ain’t art class.”
you added two leaves before he could stop you.
sukuna stared at the flower.
“you childish.”
“you are still holding my wrist.”
his grip loosened.
rather than releasing you, he turned your hand and examined the paint coating the side of your finger.
“messy too.”
“body paint washes off.”
“better.”
his thumb dragged through the red smear.
he wiped it deliberately across your cheek.
you gasped.
sukuna smiled.
“now we even.”
“i didn’t paint your face.”
“you was thinking about it.”
you dipped two fingers into the paint and reached toward him.
sukuna caught both wrists.
the stool rolled backward when you tried to escape, but he followed effortlessly, towering over you with your hands pinned near your shoulders.
“don’t start no shit you can’t finish.”
“you started it.”
“and i’ll finish it.”
his red eyes dropped toward your mouth.
the air shifted.
you felt the change immediately, heat settling low inside your stomach while his chest rose slowly beneath the red lines you had painted.
sukuna studied you for another moment.
then he released your wrists.
“lesson first.”
you blinked.
“right.”
“thought you wanted to pass.”
“i do.”
“then quit lookin’ at me like that.”
“like what?”
“like you already picked what muscle you wanna study.”
your face burned.
he laughed and returned to the table.
the following hour was almost respectable.
you outlined his deltoids in blue, carefully dividing the anterior, middle, and posterior portions. he corrected your angle whenever the line drifted, guiding your wrist with a firm hand.
you marked his biceps and triceps, tracing the muscle while he flexed on command.
“brachialis,” sukuna said.
you touched the side of his upper arm.
“under the biceps.”
“go deeper.”
your fingers pressed into the muscle.
“there?”
“little lower.”
he moved your hand himself.
his palm covered the back of yours, forcing your fingers into the separation between muscles.
“feel the difference?”
“yes.”
“tell me.”
“the brachialis feels broader here when you flex the elbow.”
“good.”
you looked up.
sukuna was already watching you.
“what?”
“you learn fast when you stop putting moons on shit.”
“the moons help.”
“my hand help.”
“both can be true.”
“nah.”
you drew a crescent moon over his biceps.
sukuna slapped your backside.
the sound cracked through the room.
your entire body jumped.
the paintbrush left a red streak over his shoulder.
silence followed.
your eyes widened.
sukuna looked down at you.
he had spanked you before, both playfully and in bed, but the unexpectedness sent heat rushing between your legs.
sorryyy to stop right here, but since the oneshot is 12k.. tumblr does have limitations on how much you can write, so the rest is below! soooo sorry for this, but enjoy the rest :)
the rest of it (click this)