seated in sukuna’s chambers, clad in your robes, you were half asleep, slowly drifting to slumber, right before your husband walked into the rooms.
“rough day?”
he only offered a slow nod and a grunt, eyeing your sleeping form, while an irrational part of his brain just told him to crush you.
cuteness aggression—a term unfamiliar to the king of curses, seemed to take over his brain, something whispering in the back of his mind to crush you, to throw you around, squish your face until it popped.
before he could stop himself, he surged forward, caging you underneath him as he pinned you down—
“kuna, what’re you—”
sukuna then proceeded to plop right on top of you, knocking the wind out of your lungs, the entirety of his two metre form laying on top of you, his four arms curled around your waist while his entire weight rested upon you.
“sukuna, you’re heavy!!” you giggled underneath him, trying to smack his massive shoulders, trying to pry your clingy husband off of you.
“as a curse i’m not used to mortal pleasures, let me have this, my petal.”
he was uncharacteristically soft, his eyes taking you in, right before he nuzzled his face into your chest like an overgrown wildcat. his muscles caging you in, tightening around you until the two of you were practically fused together.
soft snores soon echoed in the chambers, the king of curses fast asleep in the embrace of his wife, holding her against him, his face in your chest—and at long last, mortal selfishness and worldly pleasures finally made sense to sukuna ryomen.
i lav hiiim
divider credits: @//pixopix .
🖇️: all works belong to @waterlilispetals do NOT: copy, translate or feed to AI.
“i hate how lovey-dovey your disgusting boyfriend gets when he spots you in a crowd.” shoko huffed, exhaling a thin stream of smoke as her lips curled in mild disgust.
“what do you mean?” you asked.
“well,” she shrugged, tapping ash off lazily, “he walks around with this whole terrifying aura like he’s seconds away from ripping someone apart just for breathing wrong. the kind of look that screams ‘i’ll cut your arm off if you meet my gaze.’”
she glanced at you sideways, a smirk tugging at her lips.
“but the second he finds you?” she added, voice dropping with amusement, “it’s like a switch flips.”
shoko’s words lingered in your mind for days after that conversation, replaying over and over.
so when you and sukuna made plans to go to the cinema (and for once, he didn’t argue or override your choice of movie) you found yourself thinking about it again.
you stood in the crowded lobby, surrounded by a restless sea of people waiting for the theater doors to open. the air buzzed with chatter, the scent of popcorn thick and buttery, lights reflecting off polished floors. yet none of it held your attention. your eyes stayed locked on the entrance, anticipating the moment a certain tall, pink-haired menace would stroll in like he owned the place.
your heart picked up just a little, curiosity bubbling under your skin.
and soon enough, a familiar tuft of pink hair slipped into your vision, and your breath caught just a little as you focused on him.
the moment he stepped inside, his eyes immediately began searching, sharp and restless. a small frown sat on his face, brows drawn together in concentration, hands tucked into his pockets as he turned his head, scanning the crowd like nothing else in the room mattered.
someone bumped into him on the way, a girl mumbling a rushed apology but he didn’t even react. not a glance, not a pause. she lingered for a second, clearly taken aback at his looks before walking off.
his gaze really did scream “i’ll cut your arm off if you meet my gaze.”
he moved further in, slow and deliberate, eyes still sweeping over every face until they passed over you. paused. and then snapped back.
for a brief second, he just stared, like his mind needed that extra moment to catch up that it was you.
you watched it happen right in front of you: the shift.
his steps faltered slightly, shoulders easing as if some invisible weight had slipped off them. the tension that clung to him softened, just a little, just enough to notice. a quiet exhale leaving him, almost relieved.
and even though his brows were still faintly furrowed there was something warmer there now. something softer.
something that was only ever meant for you.
“there you are,” you murmured, a soft, almost giddy smile tugging at your lips now that you’d seen it for yourself. your fingers curled lightly around his sleeve. “was looking for you.”
“were you?” he hummed, voice low, like he didn’t quite believe you. he dipped his head just enough to press a brief kiss to your hair, lingering for half a second longer than necessary before his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. “could’ve fooled me.”
“mm,” you glanced up at him, smile turning a little smug, “maybe not as much as you were looking for me.”
your hand slid into the back pocket of his jeans, giving a small, teasing squeeze. “you looked ready to fight someone.”
he clicked his tongue, eyes flicking down at you with a warning look that didn’t quite land, not when his grip on your waist tightened just slightly.
“watch it,” he muttered, though there was no real bite behind it. still, he didn’t move your hand away as he guiding you toward the snack counter, keeping you tucked close to his side like it was instinct. “get whatever you want for the film.”
he pulled out his credit card without a second thought, barely glancing at the menu. “consider it compensation for making me sit through your pick.” the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“you literally agreed,” you pointed out, nudging him with your shoulder.
“yeah,” he scoffed lightly, eyes softening when they landed on you again, "because it’s you.”
★ very short n shitty but i just got a idea so i barfed it out.... sadly i think i'm consumed not only by writers block but art block WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
papa!kuna’s daughter is a little confused . . . ໒ ݂𓈒𓏼 .﹏. 𓏼ིྀ ̥১
the house smelled like warm rice and miso when you walked through the front door, returning from a long day of work to your little family. ryomen was in the kitchen, massive frame somehow fitting behind the counter as he stirred a pot one-handed, his other arm cradling your two-year-old daughter on his hip like the toddler weighed nothing.
“hey, baby,” he rumbled the moment he saw you, voice low and warm in that way that still made your stomach flip even after years together. “missed you.”
your little girl’s head popped up at the sound, chubby cheeks flushed from playtime earlier. “baby!” she echoed brightly, reaching both arms out toward you with a delighted squeal. “babyyy!”
you blinked, pausing mid-step. “did she just—”
ryomen smirked, that sharp-toothed grin softening at the edges when he looked at his creation. “yeah. little brat’s been calling you that all morning.”
you set your purse down and crossed the room, scooping your toddler into your arms. she immediately buried her face in your neck, giggling. “baby,” she mumbled again, patting your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“sweetheart, my name isn’t baby,” you said gently, pressing a kiss to her messy hair, pink like her father’s. “it’s—”
“baby,” ryomen cut in smoothly, abandoning the pot to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you both against his chest. his lips brushed your temple. “my baby. always have been.”
the toddler nodded solemnly against you, as if that settled it. “my baby,” she declared, then pointed at her father with a triumphant little fist. “papa’s baby!?”
he let out a low chuckle that vibrated through all three of you, the sound so fond it made your heart squeeze. “that’s right, little princess. papas baby.”
you sighed, half-laughing, half-melting as your daughter kept repeating the nickname like it was the best word she’d ever learned. every time you tried to correct her—“no, love, it’s mama”—she’d just beam wider and say “baby!” even louder, completely amused by your reactions, looking between you and sukuna like you were both in on the world’s greatest secret.
later, when the three of you were curled up on the oversized couch after dinner, little girl fast asleep on ryomen’s chest with one tiny hand fisted in your shirt. he tilted his head toward you, a fond smile tugging at his lips again.
“let her call you that for a while,” he murmured, voice quiet so he wouldn’t wake the little one. his fingers traced slow circles on your shoulder. “she’s not wrong. you were my baby before we actually had a baby. and it’s… it’s pretty cute to hear from her, kinda makes me wanna have another one.”
you rolled your eyes playfully before leaning into him, smiling softly against his skin. “ryo… she’s gonna keep thinking that’s my actual name, you know. you call me that more than my actual name.”
“good,” sukuna said, unrepentant, pressing another kiss to your hair. “she’ll probably let go of it soon enough anyway. like when we had yuji babysit her for a few hours and we came back to her calling me unc, remember? only lasted about a week, so just enjoy it for now.”
your toddler stirred just enough to babble in her sleep before going back to his soft snores, and ryomen grin turned impossibly softer, reduced to putty by the two people who held his whole world.
“yeah,” you whispered, closing your eyes as his big arm tightened around you both. “alright. i’ll be baby just a little longer.”
spreading the stayathome girldad kuna agenda imma need u to also image him sitting in a plastic chair that’s way too small for him with a tiny pink backpack on one shoulder thank u
this lowk is the first fully fluff fic i’ve posted here let’s all cheer yayayay
Sukuna gives me a big mommy issue vibe. Suppose slime Sukuna is getting taken care of by a woman, but suddenly he transforms into the real Sukuna.
Anon, you can't just say things and expect me to act fucking casual
art is from my beloved @frenzied--flame
Not exactly a Pet.
For almost a year, you don’t let yourself think too hard about how absurd it is.
It starts off as necessity — because if you don’t feed him, he looks… thinner. Like even the little blob of him can wither, in its own way. The first time you notice it, you panic so badly you spill your tea all over the counter and nearly drop him trying to scoop him up.
He glares at you with his single eye and snaps with that little mouth.
You snap back, because you’re already halfway into this, apparently.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying.”
He makes a noise like a scoff — impressive, for something the size of your palm — and then presses himself against the warmth of your wrist anyway, as if your body heat is a resource he’s entitled to.
So you learn.
You learn what he will and won’t take. The first few weeks you treat it like a science experiment, because that’s safer than thinking about it like a relationship with a cursed calamity that once tore cities apart. You try ordinary food, he rejects most of it with offended wet little spitting sounds. You try salt, he reacts like you personally attacked him. You try sugar, he hates it even more.
What he does take is… strange.
Leftover cursed objects you keep sealed in jars, because you’re not an idiot. The lingering residue from exorcised things that cling to paper talismans. The faint, metallic taste of your own cursed energy when you press your thumb to his mouth and force a thread of it in, jaw clenched as you watch his eye narrow like you’re doing him an indignity.
He hates that most of all.
He also — when he thinks you’re not looking — leans into it.
You end up with a routine that would make you laugh yourself sick if you heard it from someone else.
Morning: check him.
He likes to sleep tucked into the little bed you made out of an old scarf and a shallow wooden bowl, like some ridiculous shrine offering. Sometimes he’s on top of it, like he fell asleep mid-protest. Sometimes he’s under it, like he burrowed down to hide from the cold.
He never admits that he gets cold.
He just glares at you when you pick him up, and his texture is a little firmer in winter mornings, less pliant, like gelatin left too long in the fridge.
You warm him up between your palms. He complains. You do it anyway.
Afternoon: feed him.
A small measure. Not too much, because once — early on — you get anxious and overdo it, and he swells in your hands like a balloon, eye widening, mouth distending in a way that makes your stomach flip. He starts making wet, violent choking noises, and you go pale, whispering his name like it’s a prayer and an insult at once.
He survives. Of course he does. He’s Sukuna, the King of Curses, he won’t die from overfeeding.
But afterward he spends three days pressed into the farthest corner of the bowl-bed, facing away from you like a sulking cat, and every time you come close he bares a tiny, sharp line of teeth.
Even like that, he’s still Sukuna.
Petty. Proud. Vicious in miniature.
Night: you talk to him.
At first it’s just you, filling silence, because leaving him in the quiet feels wrong. You tell him what you did that day — grocery run, train delay, the way your neighbor’s dog barked all night — and he watches with that single eye like you’re a strange animal he hasn’t decided whether to eat.
Then one evening you’re exhausted, sitting on the floor with your back against the couch, and you say,
“Do you even understand me?”
He opens his mouth and, very clearly, says,
“Idiot.”
You stare.
He stares back.
Your face gets hot.
“Oh, so you can talk.”
He closes his mouth like he regrets it, and his eye narrows to a thin slit.
After that, you keep talking, and he keeps pretending he doesn’t understand, except now you know he does. You catch it in the way his eye follows the shape of your mouth. The way he reacts to certain words — king, curses, bored — like they’re splinters.
And the way he reacts when you’re hurt.
The first time you come home with a shallow cut across your knuckles from a broken jar, you haven’t even finished washing your hands before you feel him — his tiny, warm weight — thump against the inside of your wrist like he launched himself from the counter.
He latches onto you.
Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough that you yelp.
He makes a sound that’s not quite a growl, and his single eye is sharp, fixed on your blood like he’s offended by it.
You grit your teeth through the sting and pry him off gently.
“I’m fine.”
He bites you again, as if correcting you.
You look down at him, and you find yourself saying, softer,
“I’m fine. Look. It’s nothing.”
Only then does he release you, sliding back into your palm, and the pressure of him — warm and insistent — stays against your skin for a long moment, like he’s checking you with the only language he allows himself.
After that you start catching the little things.
How he creeps closer when the heater breaks and the apartment gets too cold. How he migrates to your lap when you’re sitting on the couch, pretending he’s there because the fabric is convenient and not because you are.
How, on the nights the wind screams against the windows and you can’t sleep, you lift him and place him on your chest, tucked under your chin, and he goes still — stubborn, silent — until your warmth sinks into him and his body loosens, almost melting against you.
He never thanks you.
He doesn’t have to. You can feel it in the way he doesn’t leave or tries to slit your throat when you sleep.
So when it finally happens — when the year of routine shatters like glass — you almost don’t recognize it at first.
It’s a normal day. An ordinary day. The kind you’ve built around him to make him manageable.
You come home with groceries, kick your shoes off, set the bags down.
“Hey,” you tell him automatically, because you’ve started doing that, like you’re greeting a roommate.
He’s in his bowl-bed, eye half-lidded, like he’s bored by your existence.
You move closer, shrugging your coat off, and you notice the air feels… heavy.
Not humid. Not warm. Heavy like pressure. Like the atmosphere is bracing.
Your skin prickles.
His eye opens fully.
His mouth splits wider than it ever does, and for the first time you see something like strain in the way he holds himself, as if the blob of him is too small for what’s inside.
“Okay,” you whisper without meaning to. “Okay. What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead the cursed energy in the room spikes so violently your teeth ache.
The lights flicker.
Your warding charms — things you hung half out of habit, half out of fear — flutter like they’ve been slapped by wind.
The blob in the bowl swells.
You take a step back, instinct screaming, brain racing through options the way you trained yourself to in every story you’ve ever heard about him.
Exit. Phone. Talismans. Run.
But your feet don’t move fast enough, because you are still staring, still trying to understand how something you’ve been lifting with two fingers could possibly be…
The bowl cracks.
The scarf-bed is ripped apart as if it’s paper.
And then he expands so quickly the air itself seems to recoil.
It’s not a gentle shift. It’s not a smooth transformation. It’s a violent, sudden reclaiming, like the world is being forced to accommodate a shape it forgot how to hold.
The room fills with him.
Four arms unfold first — corded muscle, tattoos like brand marks, hands flexing as if he’s waking them from sleep. Then the shoulders, the chest, the towering frame, the weight of him settling into your tiny space like a throne being dropped into a dollhouse.
Four eyes open.
And when the stomach maw splits into existence, teeth gleaming wetly, your throat tightens so hard you nearly gag.
He stands there, bare and colossal, breathing in slow, steady pulls like the air belongs to him now.
Your coffee table groans under the shockwave of cursed energy and tips, clattering.
You stand frozen beside the doorway, grocery bags still in your hands like an idiot, heart hammering so loud you swear he can hear it.
He turns his head.
All four eyes fix on you.
You feel very, very small.
Your mind tries to sprint ahead of your body — If he moves first, you die. If you provoke him, you die. If you run, he might let you die slower just to enjoy it. You swallow hard, forcing your fingers to loosen around the bag handles before they cut into your skin.
“Right,” you say, because apparently your mouth is suicidal. “So… that happened.”
One of his brows — one on the left, one on the right, it’s hard to track, he used to have one eye and now there’s three more — lifts with slow disbelief.
His upper mouth curls.
The mouth in his stomach shifts too, like it’s tasting your words.
For a long moment he says nothing.
Then he exhales through his nose — sharp, irritated — like you are the inconvenience here.
“You kept me,” he says finally, voice low and rough from disuse, the sound filling the apartment and making the windows vibrate. “In that.”
You swallow again. Your pulse stutters.
“I — ” Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. You force it free. “I didn’t exactly have a spare palace.”
One of his lower hands flexes. The tendons stand out, thick and brutal, like he could crush your skull without noticing.
He doesn’t move toward you.
He doesn’t lunge.
He doesn’t rip the roof off your building to announce his return to the world.
He just looks around with a slow, disdainful sweep of his gaze, taking in your small kitchen, your couch, the ridiculous bowl-bed remnants scattered on the floor.
“Pathetic.” he mutters.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding — half relief, half rage, because of course he comes back into full monstrous glory and his first reaction is to insult your decor.
“You’re welcome.” you say, before you can stop yourself.
All four eyes snap back to you.
Your stomach drops.
Then — unexpectedly — he huffs, like a laugh that doesn’t want to admit it’s a laugh.
“You have nerve.” he says, and there’s something almost… amused beneath the contempt.
Your hands tremble. You keep them at your sides so he won’t see.
“Yeah,” you manage. “I’ve had practice.”
He stares at you like he’s cataloging you again, reassessing.
Not prey.
Not worshiper.
Not sorcerer trying to prove themselves.
Just… you.
The person who fed him, warmed him, scolded him, put him on their chest like he was something that deserved comfort.
It should make him angry. It should make him punish you for the audacity.
Instead he turns away and walks — two steps, then another — toward the center of your living room, ducking slightly so his head doesn’t hit the ceiling. His presence shifts everything. The air warms with him, thick with cursed energy and body heat.
He reaches down with one hand and picks up the cracked wooden bowl, examining it like it’s an insult.
“This?” he says, voice dripping disdain.
You set the grocery bags down slowly, carefully.
“It was… the right size.”
He squeezes it.
The wood splinters in his palm.
You flinch at the sound.
He flicks the pieces aside, like scraps.
“And you fed me like this,” he continues, eyes narrowing as if the memory is sour. “Little scraps. Little sips. Like I was some — ” he pauses, mouth curling, “ — pet.”
Your face goes hot.
You don’t know why it embarrasses you now, with him towering there in true form, when you spent a year doing it with your head held high. Maybe because now he can say it with a voice that can crack stone.
You lift your chin anyway, because pride is sometimes the only thing you have.
“If I didn’t,” you say, “you would’ve… withered. Or whatever the cursed equivalent is.”
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then he clicks his tongue, annoyed.
“Hmph.”
Which is not an apology, not gratitude, not anything you can hold onto.
But he still doesn’t leave.
He lingers in your space like he belongs there.
Like he’s deciding to.
Like a cat that intruded your house and decided it lives there now.
But the cat is the size of an elephant and it has strong opinions about everything you do.
Hours pass in a state of tense unreality.
He makes rude remarks about your cooking when you force yourself to move, to put things away, to keep your hands busy so you don’t shake. He criticizes the way you cut vegetables. He leans over your shoulder, too close, crowding you on purpose, and you refuse to step back even though every survival instinct tells you to fold yourself smaller.
“You’re slow.” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear.
“I’m trying not to lose a finger.” you shoot back, voice tight.
One of his hands — upper, left — reaches past you and steadies the cutting board.
The other — lower, right — snags the knife from your grip and slices through the rest in two swift strokes, perfect and brutal.
“Better,” he says, handing it back like he’s doing you a favor.
You stare at the neat pieces, then at him.
“Show-off.”
He bares teeth, pleased.
He doesn’t touch you beyond that.
Not really.
But his presence is constant — behind you, beside you, watching you like you’re something that fascinates and irritates him in equal measure.
And when the sun goes down and the apartment cools, you finally run out of things to do.
You stand in the doorway of your bedroom, staring at the bed that suddenly looks… impossible.
He fills the hall behind you like a wall.
“You can take it,” you say carefully, because offering him space feels like the safest thing in the world. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
A low sound comes from his throat, dismissive.
He steps closer.
You feel the heat of him before you feel his hands.
Four arms move at once.
Two slide around your waist, lifting you off your feet with such effortless strength your stomach lurches.
The other two brace under your thighs and behind your back, shifting you like you’re nothing but a bundle of blankets.
“Hey— ” you gasp, instinctively grabbing at his forearm.
His skin is warm, solid, tattooed, real.
Your pulse goes wild.
“You think I’ll sleep in your pathetic nest,” he snarls near your ear, voice like velvet over a knife edge, “while you freeze out there?”
“I didn’t say—”
He ignores you, so you cut yourself short.
He carries you past the bedroom entirely, into the living room, where the couch now looks like a joke under the shadow of him.
He sits down anyway.
The couch protests — springs creak, cushions compress flat — but it holds.
And then he pulls you down with him.
Not beside him.
On top of him.
He settles you against his chest with the same careless certainty you used to have when you placed his blob version on your sternum in winter, letting your warmth seep into him.
Except now the warmth is him, all of him, pouring into you like a furnace.
You go rigid, breath shallow.
His arms wrap around you.
Not tight enough to hurt — tight enough to make it clear you aren’t going anywhere.
His heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek, heavy and slow, like something ancient and unbothered.
You stare up at him, trapped between four arms and the sheer reality of his body.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
He looks down at you with half-lidded eyes, expression set in irritation like you asked a stupid question.
“Sleeping,” he says. “Hush, woman.”
Your mouth opens, then closes.
“You don’t fit.”
He glances at the couch like it personally offended him.
“It’s tolerable.”
Then one of his hands — lower, left — slides up your back, not groping, not crude, just… positioning you more securely. Making you comfortable, despite his scowl.
“You used to do this,” he adds, voice quieter, as if the words are being dragged out of him. “When it was cold.”
Your throat tightens.
Because he remembers.
You remember, too — the nights you couldn’t sleep, the way his blob body would go still against your chest, the faint, reluctant way he’d press closer as if he couldn’t help it.
“I didn’t think you noticed.” you admit, voice rough.
His mouth curls in a sneer.
“I notice everything.”
The stomach mouth shifts, and you hear it murmur something under its breath — too low to catch, like it’s commenting in its own language.
You swallow hard.
“So this is… payment?”
His eyes narrow.
“Don’t call it that.”
“Then what is it?”
For a moment, you think he might snap at you.
He does, kind of — his jaw clenches, his lips pulling back with annoyance, like you’re forcing him to name something he refuses to hold.
But he doesn’t push you off.
He doesn’t stand up.
He doesn’t leave.
He simply adjusts his grip, pulling you closer until your cheek presses against the tattoos on his chest and the heat of him wraps around you like a heavy cloak.
“Shut up,” he mutters. “Sleep.”
You should be terrified.
You are terrified, in a quiet, buzzing way that never fully goes away.
But your body — traitorous, practical — registers the warmth first. The steadiness of his breathing. The fact that he’s not hurting you.
The fact that his arms, for all their power, are holding you like something he intends to keep safe.
Outside, the wind rattles the windows again, cold pressing against the glass.
Inside, Sukuna’s heat makes your eyelids heavy.
You lie there on his chest, listening to the monster’s heart like it’s an ordinary thing, and the strangest thought settles into you — soft and unsettling and impossible to ignore.
He’s not saying he’ll stay.
He’s not promising anything.
But for now, he’s here.
And in his own vicious, prideful way, he’s giving back the only thing you ever truly gave him without asking for anything in return.
Warmth.
Stillness.
A place to sleep.
His hand pauses at the back of your neck, fingers spread wide, holding you in place for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he grunts, annoyed at himself, and settles.
“Don’t get used to it.” he murmurs, voice already sinking into sleep.
This is part of my 300 follower event! If you noticed that the original fics were supposed to be 2k…no you didn’t
wc: 6k
Fluff, reader is a lil insecure about her work, Sukuna is down bad
dividers by @pixopix
“You’re staring,” Shoko comments dryly.
Well, yes. “Shut up,” you mutter.
She elbows you, taking a drag from her cigarette. “It’s reeeally obvious.”
“O—kay,” you shoot back, refusing to move your eyes away. “Has that guy always been here?”
You’re sitting on the quad, parked up at one of the picnic tables and trying to blow through some schoolwork. It’s early in the semester, early in the new school year, but you and Shoko decided that this year, you aren’t messing around when it comes to your classes. No more all nighters, no more desperate projects slap-dashed together that you cringe at the next day. This year, you’re serious.
“His name is Sukuna,” Shoko informs you, glancing at the man herself. “Yes, he’s been here since orientation. Most of the student body agrees with you and thinks he’s hideously attractive.”
You start, head whipping towards her. “Is that why you think I’m staring?” you say, affronted. “‘Cause I think he’s hot?”
She looks at you, unimpressed. “What, you’re gonna lie to me? On the day my mother died?”
“She’s still alive, Sho,” you say scornfully. “That won’t work on me again.”
“Sure it won’t,” she mutters with a small grin.
“I’m staring because of his tattoos,” you reply indignantly. “Because I’m an artist.”
“You are drawing One Punch Man fanart right now,” she points out. “Literally as we speak.”
“And it’s art!” you insist, flipping to a new page in your sketch book. “And so are they,” you gesture with your chin at the tattoos.
And they are. Summer clings on for a few more weeks, and Sukuna wears a black muscle tank that shows off his art exquisitely. Thick black bands around his biceps, matching ones at his wrists. Inked in circles on his shoulders, circles surrounding those circles.
It’s simple but—beautiful. Efficient. There’s not a lot there, but there doesn’t need to be. And what is there is—perfectly executed.
It’s the kind of simple, block-solid work you’d like to create. You sigh almost wistfully.
“Wish I could make art like that,” you murmur in admiration.
“Hn.” Shoko ashes her cigarette. “Heard he designed them himself.”
That derails you. “What?”
She looks up at you, amused. “That’s an issue?”
“He’s not an art major,” you hiss. “I haven’t seen him in our building!”
“Yeah, Yuki said he’s in the culinary program,” she says, off-handedly.
Your eyes just about bug out of your head. “He’s in the culinary program,” you growl, “and he created that? What the fuck am I even studying for if he can just whip that out?”
“Babe.” She flicks you. “Relax. It’s a tattoo.”
You mutter under your breath.
“Oh, look, he’s coming over here,” she observes. “You can tell him off to his face.”
“Great,” you grumble. Now you can be pissed at them up close.
Sukuna ambles over, wearing a face that—you’re not even looking at his face. The tattoos on his arms swim toward you, and of course they’re even better within spitting distance. Simple, but made of so many minute decisions. Your brain spins away from you.
How thick are the bands around his wrists? Are they the same as the ones around his biceps? Are they equidistant on both arms? How big are the circles on his shoulders? How many centimeters are there between them and the rings surrounding them? How thick are those rings? Did he have to use trig to get it right? How—
He clicks his tongue. You glance at him to see a smirk at his lips.
“You’re staring, sweetheart,” he drawls.
“Yes,” you say shortly. We’ve established this.
And you’ll do it again, because now you’re looking at his face and the tattoos that adorn it.
Ugh. Beautiful, of course. Bare bones, yet incredibly effective. And what does that symbol mean—?
“Doing it again,” he notes, amused.
You grimace. “My bad,” you say flatly.
He smiles, wide and sharp. Your lip curls, you don’t give a shit what he thinks about you.
“She likes your tattoos,” Shoko says casually.
You kick her under the table.
“That so?” he says, chest puffing up. “Designed ‘em myself.”
Prick. “I know,” you say bluntly. “Shoko, I’m out.” You stand up, beginning to pack your things.
“What, really?” Shoko asks, eyes glinting.
“Yeah, really?” Sukuna asks, with an entertained, shit-eating grin.
“Really,” you say flatly. “Shoko, see you tomorrow. Sukuna…bye.”
You turn on your heel and storm off.
Unfortunately, Sukuna’s tall as all hell and keeps pace with you easily. “Where’re you heading?”
Up your ass and around the corner.
“I’ll walk you,” he continues, heedless of your obvious attempts to get away.
“That’s okay,” you grit out. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” he says, with a raised eyebrow. “This part of the campus isn’t very safe at,” he glances at the sky. “Midday.”
That pulls a snort out of you, and you hiss at yourself, furious. Sukuna raises his eyebrows, smiling in disbelief.
“Let me get your bag,” he offers smoothly. “Might get stolen, you never know around here,” he adds, with a knowing look.
“No thanks,” you say grimly, tightening the strap over your shoulder.
He nods thoughtfully. “Sure. What about—”
“Sukuna.” You stop in your tracks, turning to look at him. “What are you doing?”
He pauses, licks his lips. There are those tattoos again, sitting on a face that’s—really attractive. Like, really attractive. Made all the better by tattoos that are beautifully designed, and also hot as fuck.
All of his tattoos are like that, you realize with a start. Technically perfect, practically…obscene. Obscene, the way they hug the curve of his biceps, show off the strength of his shoulders. Draw attention to the clean line of his jaw, his high, arching cheekbones.
Wow. Sukuna’s stupid hot. It’s insane that this is just registering.
“I’m trying to ask you out,” he drawls, eyes lazy and heated
Huh.
A few seconds ago you were hell-bent on despising him, but…well, a face like that makes you rearrange your principles.
You let yourself grin. “Yeah? What’s stopping you?” you let your voice drop an octave.
He smirks like he’s won something. “‘Dunno. Got myself a pretty girl who loves making things difficult.”
You laugh, slightly flustered. He catches it and the smirk widens, almost predatory.
“What do you say, huh?” he asks, voice low and velvet. “Come over, let me cook for you. I’m in the culinary school, tell me what—”
Your brain comes to a screeching halt. That’s right. He’s in the fucking culinary program, and he still designed those tattoos.
The ire comes rushing back. “I’m on a hunger strike,” you snap.
His smirk freezes in place. “You’re—what?”
“Bye, Sukuna,” you say forcefully, then stalk off without a backward glance.
•
Of course that isn’t the end of it. Before, Sukuna never hung around your part of the campus, but now he’s everywhere. Smoking outside of the Fine Arts building, getting a coffee at the spot right next to your favorite library, sitting with his friends on the lawn right next to where you sit with your friends on the lawn.
It’s fucking ridiculous. You glare at him where he lounges, casually smoking, five feet away.
Sukuna feigns innocence. You grind your teeth.
“You’re staring again,” Satoru notes gleefully. It’s become an irritating refrain over the past two weeks.
“I’m glaring daggers, Satoru,” you mutter. “I’m killing him with a look. There’s a difference.”
“Sure as fuck looks the same,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.
“Just admit you like him,” Utahime goads.
“I like the tattoos,” you say primly. “They’re beautiful. I don’t like that a stupid-ass culinary student was able to design them.”
Utahime rolls her eyes. “It’s an insult to my profession!” you screech.
“You don’t have the degree yet,” Suguru cuts in smoothly. “What profession?”
“Ouch,” Utahime says sympathetically, while Satoru cackles.
“Yo.” You close your eyes as Sukuna’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Suguru.”
“Mmh?”
“You’ve still got the notes from the intro to bio course? Uraume said they got them from you last year.”
“Oh, yeah,” Suguru says easily. “Do you want to use them? I can share them with you.”
“For free?” Sukuna asks archly.
Suguru clicks his tongue. “No.”
You hear Sukuna let out a huff. “I can make you something?”
“Fine.”
Sukuna whistles. “Hey. Sweetheart.”
Your eyes snap open. He’s wearing that smirk, again.
“What do you like to eat?” he purrs.
Utahime chokes, while Satoru barely smothers his laughter.
You grimace and close your eyes again. Fucking shameless.
“Think she’d like to eat your tattoos,” Satoru teases. Eyes still closed, you kick him in the shin.
“No denial,” Suguru murmurs. Utahime lets out a snort.
You feel your hands clench into fists. They’re only joking, but you’re reaching your limit.
“Y’know, I’ve heard a couple times now that you like ‘em,” Sukuna says conversationally. “But you never act like you like ‘em.” He sucks his teeth, but you can hear the grin. “What is it, sweetheart, you jeal—”
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Wrenching your eyes open, you rise to your feet, mechanically throwing your bag over your shoulder. “See you guys later,” you mutter, before walking quickly off the lawn.
“Sukuna, don’t,” you hear Satoru say evenly, voice uncharacteristically serious.
Mercifully, he doesn’t, and you get away in peace.
You move briskly through the campus, heading for your apartment building a few blocks away. Sukuna’s words churn in your gut.
You jealous?
You grin cruelly to yourself. Yes. Yes. You are.
Not that he has the tattoos, but that he designed them. They’re exactly the kind of simple, perfect work you struggle with. You agonize over the details and fuss too much at the end, adding unnecessary elements that sometimes make the piece worse. Your professor fucking eviscerated you for it in crit last week, you remember miserably.
Strip it down, she’d said. Make a decision and then leave it.
That’s what Sukuna did, that’s why you’re so jealous of his work. It’s stripped down, bare bones. Six simple elements on his arms: four bands, a circle, and a ring. Nothing more, nothing less. And it works.
Ugh. You wish you could do that.
You’ll just have to practice, you think wearily. Just keep at it and hope for the best.
Practice, but not now. Now, you’re going to take a hot shower and order takeout. Try not to think about those tattoos, and the pretty face they lie on.
•
“Utahime, I’m so fucking fucked,” you mutter, stomping down the building staircase after your class.
“Cheer up,” she says ruefully. “The project’s not that bad.”
“‘A meal preparation process piece?’” you say archly. “How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I live alone, and I can’t cook for shit!”
“Mmh,” she says, seemingly unbothered.
You narrow your eyes. “What have you figured out?”
“Shoko’s gonna cook for me,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Problem solved.”
“And what about me?” you hiss. “We can’t present the same fucking piece! Who am I gonna get?”
“Ahem.”
You close your eyes. No. Not happening. No way Sukuna overheard that.
You turn around to see the man himself. Band t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, tattoos fully on display. Smirking like the fucker he is.
“Seems like you need some help,” he says, eyebrows raised in faux-concern.
“Nope,” you say immediately. “I’m very resourceful.”
You make to turn on your heel, but Utahime stops you.
“It’s going to be, like, fifteen percent of our final grade,” she says in a low voice.
You grind your teeth.
Sukuna smacks his lips with a pop. “Fifteen percent, huh? Damn. Wouldn’t want to leave that up to chance.” He looks at you meaningfully.
Damn it. He’s right.
“It’s, it’s going to be charcoal,” you argue weakly. “It’ll get everywhere.”
He shrugs, gleam in his eye. “I think I’ll take my chances.”
You bite your tongue, nodding slowly.
Sukuna’s face lights up with a wicked grin. “What should I make you, sweetheart?”
“Something cheap,” you say immediately. “And not too labor intensive.” He’s doing you a huge favor, you don’t want to make it harder than it needs to be.
He makes a face. “Not all that helpful.”
“We need something with at least four stages,” Utahime cuts in. “Three drawings of process, last one can be of the finished meal.”
“Two if you count the ingredients lined up as one of the stages,” you add grudgingly.
Sukuna narrows his eyes at you. “You want that?”
Not really, it feels like a cop out. But you don’t want to ask any more of him.
“That’s all,” you say quickly. “And I’ll pay for the ingredients, of course.”
He rolls his eyes, ignoring you completely. “Sweetheart. What. Do you like. To eat?”
“Whatever you want to make,” you shoot back. You don’t want to owe him any more than you have to.
He narrows his eyes. You fold your arms over your chest with a scowl.
Eventually, he backs down. “Tch. Fine. When are you free?”
“When are you free?” you counter immediately.
“You’re being extremely difficult,” he mutters.
“No, I’m being flexible,” you inform him. “I’m already putting you out, I’m not going to make you work around my schedule.”
He clicks his tongue. “Friday?”
You nod. “Sure.”
He flashes a smirk. “It’s a date.”
You jolt, then force yourself to relax. Fifteen percent of the grade.
“It’s a date,” you say begrudgingly.
•
You reluctantly give Sukuna your number, just in case something comes up before Friday. Turns out that was the right move, because something occurs to you Thursday morning.
what’s ur lamp situation?
You grimace. Awkward, but the lighting’s going to be critical.
He responds a few minutes later.
uh, ive got some
I just mean the lighting. Like, in ur kitchen. Is it ass?
it’s p ok I think
do u need pics?
Um. Maybe. But you’re being difficult enough.
no its ok. as long as its not totally dark it’ll be fine
ty
u sure? i can take some pics now i dont mind
You think it over.
nah its cool.
ty tho thats rlly nice of u
You swallow roughly. It is really nice of him, this whole thing’s really nice of him. Even if admitting it will have unintended consequences.
Sukuna doesn’t disappoint.
Anything for u, sweetheart.
You leave him on read.
•
You agonize over the lighting in Sukuna’s kitchen as you lug your supplies over to his place. You had downplayed its importance because you didn’t want to give him more work, but it could make a huge difference in the quality of the finished piece.
You chew your lip as you press the number for his apartment at the building door. Lighting’s the type of thing you lose sleep over, agonizing and fussing to get it just right before you start drawing. And now you’re going in practically blind.
He buzzes you in, and you get on the elevator. Ugh. You’ll just have to—make it work with what he has. Maybe this is practice, a sign for you to stop tormenting yourself over every detail.
Ugh.
The elevator dings, and you walk down the hall to his unit. Stealing yourself, you knock smartly on the door.
“It’s open!” he calls. Carefully, you turn the knob and push the door open.
Stepping inside, you survey his apartment as you shut the door behind you. It’s—surprisingly clean. Boy apartment, obviously, so the wall art is minimal and stupid and there’s a pile of laundry on the couch, but it seems to be washed laundry. Haphazardly folded, at least.
“Ah, there she is,” a voice hums dangerously. You turn from the living room to the open kitchen across from it. There’s an island in front of the stove, and Sukuna leans on it, palms braced against the wood. T-shirt on, tattoos flexing. “Was wondering whether you’d show.”
You glance at the clock on the microwave. “I’m right on time.”
“Even so.” He watches you as you set down your bag and toe off your shoes.
“Nice apartment,” you say bluntly.
Sukuna flashes a grin. “You like katsu curry?”
“Everyone does,” you say easily. Including you. But—
“It’s…well, isn’t it a lot of work?” you say anxiously.
He raises an eyebrow. “Lot of stages,” he says with a shrug. “Prep, frying, sautéing. Seemed like a good idea.”
That’s…really thoughtful. “Um, okay. Thanks.”
“Mmh.” He grins, clearly pleased. “Want to check the lights?” he asks with a glance overhead.
“Uh, yeah.” You look at the space critically. “Where are you going to work?”
“I’ll prep on the island and cook on the stove.”
You suck your teeth. Okay.
The lights in the ceiling are fluorescents; sterile and unforgiving. It’s a choice: do you want it to be a harsh piece, or do you want something softer?
You deliberate. It’s charcoal, does it even really matter?
Yeah.
Ugh.
“Uh, the lights—” You shake your head. You really don’t want to be difficult. “What lights are on when you cook?” you ask instead.
Sukuna cocks an eye at you. “Not those eyesores,” he says eventually. He messes with some switches. “I usually go for these.”
He flicks on a warm light above the stove and a few small lights dangling above the island. You smile wide. Softer, light yellows instead of harsh whites. Much better.
“Yeah, this is great,” you say thankfully. Then you raise an eyebrow. “You use knives in all that shadow?”
He smirks. “I’m good with my hands.”
You roll your eyes. Walked into that one. “Where do you want me?”
Sukuna gestures at the island. “Sit on the barstool, you’ll be able to see.”
You bite your tongue. “Sukuna, it’s charcoal. It’s really messy, I don’t want to get it near the food.”
He brushes you off. “Tch. It’ll be fine.”
“Let me just lay down a tarp,” you insist, turning to get one from your bag. “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, honestly,” you mutter under your breath. He lets out a snort.
“I’m serious,” you say, wrestling it out of your bag and glaring at him. “This shit gets everywhere, I don’t want to ruin your countertops.”
Unfolding the plastic carefully, you spread it over the counter and tape it down. Then you eye the chair critically.
“That barstool looks nice,” you mutter, before taking an Xacto knife and cutting a neat section off the bottom of the tarp, moving to drape it over the chair.
“You’re working too hard,” Sukuna says, amused.
“You’re doing me a huge favor,” you grind out. “I’m not gonna fucking trash your kitchen, this is where you—you do your homework, or whatever!”
He bursts out laughing. “Is that what you think?” he teases. “That our homework is to go home and practice making brownies?”
“My homework is lines,” you say clearly. “My homework is colors.” You pull out the rest of your materials while he snickers under his breath.
Two kinds of charcoal sticks, erasers, blending stomp, tissues, q tips. You set it up neatly on the tarp, then pull out the big square of reinforced cardboard that you’ll draw on. You get out your nice paper and gingerly tape it to the board.
Last: two rags. You hold one in your hand and raise an eyebrow. “You mind if I wet this real quick?”
Sukuna holds out a hand for it and runs it quickly under the sink before passing it back. You nod, putting it carefully beside the dry cloth.
You survey your workspace. “I’m good.”
He clears his throat. “You got enough light to work? I’ve got more if you need.”
Sukuna jerks his head, and you look at the corner of the living room to see three standing lamps cluttered together.
You look at him quizzically. The tips of his ears redden. “Pulled ‘em from some other rooms,” he mutters. “Just in case.”
Oh. “Uh, this is fine,” you say awkwardly. “Thank you.”
He nods forcefully. You look at your hands.
Why is he going out of his way to be nice to you? You had never spoken to him before that day on the quad. Why—why do all this?
He raps his fingers on the counter, and you look up to see he’s got an onion, a few carrots, and a potato resting on a cutting board, along with a peeler and a knife.
Sukuna looks at you, eyebrows raised. “Good to go?”
You swallow, taking your seat. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Let’s have some fun,” Sukuna mutters, placing a hand on the onion and lopping the top off.
You pick up a charcoal stick and get to work. The cutting board quickly takes shape on your paper, along with the scattered onion peel and scraps he neatly sets aside. Sukuna cuts the onion into thick spears you draw with easy, wide curves. He’s clearly skilled, the knife is quick, hard to follow. It sets your tongue between your teeth.
His hands still. “You need me to go slower?”
You glance up at him. “Uh-uh.” Make decisions and stick to them.
He rolls out his shoulders; keeps going. You push through the challenge of the knife and get into a groove; make thick marks for the shadows, blend them out like hell with your fingertips, wipe them on your thigh and swap out your stick for a pencil to get the details.
By the time Sukuna finishes the onion and moves onto the potato, you’re ignoring him completely, filling in the dead space of cutting onions one.
You’re also crying.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks playfully.
“Damn onion,” you sniff, wiping your tears on your shirt. “If I drip on this I’m going to drop out,” you add, gesturing to the drawing.
“Don’t worry, pretty thing, I’ll put it over here,” he says smoothly, dumping it into a bowl and setting it by the stove.
“Thanks,” you mutter, willing your hand not to crack the charcoal in your fist.
Pretty thing.
He picks up the knife like nothing happened. You look up suddenly. “You’re going to peel the carrot?” you ask archly.
Sukuna furrows his brow. “Yeah?”
“Cool. Do you mind, uh, waiting, before you start that?”
He shakes his head, eyebrows raised. “You got something planned?”
“Second piece,” you say easily. “This one’s about done.”
You eye it critically, snagging a q-tip and blending lightly.
The knife stills again. “Can I see?”
You freeze, the sound of his hand setting down the knife ringing in your ears. You watch him circle the island, the tattooed bands resting easy on his upper arms.
“Uh…” you’d really prefer he didn’t. But with how he’s let you turn his place into a workshop while cooking you a damn meal, you don’t have much choice.
Sukuna rounds the corner and comes to stand beside you, looking over your shoulder.
“Wow.” He clicks his tongue softly. “Knew you were good, sweetheart.” He bumps his shoulder into yours, sweet and easy.
Something tightens in your chest. “Thanks,” you mutter, reaching for the wet rag. Wiping the charcoal from your hands, you dry them before carefully peeling the paper from the board and putting it in your portfolio folder. You grab a fresh sheet and tape it down as before.
You look up to see he’s got one of the carrots in his hand. He raises an eyebrow. “Ready?”
You quickly take your place. “Yeah, go ahead.” You can’t quite keep the excitement from your tone.
Sukuna furrows his brows. “Why’re you so thrilled about this?”
You huff. “Cause you’re gonna—”
He starts peeling, and you fall silent, charcoal flying over the page. He’s all movement; quick, efficient flicks of his wrist sending long orange peels elegantly onto the board. His hand is clean and the tool is sharp, and it’s going to look fucking excellent. As soon as you saw the carrot, you knew you’d struck gold.
You have to draw his hands, though. That’s unavoidable.
Which means you have to look at them, really look. They’re big, you note absently, scribbling away. Sukuna keeps his nails short—culinary student. He’s got a scar just above the second knuckle of his left ring finger and what looks to be a burn mark on the back of his right hand, off-center. Band-aid around his thumb, you observe, switching to pencil.
Then the knobs of his wrists. You stop, biting your tongue.
Sukuna clocks it; makes a questioning noise in his throat.
You raise your head evenly. “You wanna be identifiable?”
He cocks an eyebrow at you. You gesture roughly at the page, and Sukuna leans over and freezes.
You watch him take it in, eyes pouring over your drawing. “Do I want people to know that’s me you drew?” he says finally, looking at you with eyes that are far too hot. “What do you think?”
Asked and answered. Picking up the charcoal, you add four quick lines before you can second guess your movements.
Pulling back, you survey your work. You glance at the tattoos around his wrists, then look back at your piece.
You hum happily. “Pretty good, no?”
Those wrists enter your field of vision as Sukuna steps closer for a better look.
He’s silent, and you look up to see him staring at you, eyes inscrutable.
You look back because you don’t know what else to do.
Eventually, he laughs quietly, like he’s at the end of his rope.
“Yeah, sweetheart. ‘Course it’s fuckin’ perfect,” he says, low and soft.
You only manage to hold his gaze for another second before your eyes drop. He steps away, and you quickly finish the second piece.
You complete the third one in almost total silence, picking up the board and moving it next to the stove to watch him fry the vegetables. It’s when you’re unsticking it from the board and taping down a new paper that he clears his throat.
“That’s three, right?” He flips the veg in the pan without looking.
“Uh, yeah,” you say distractedly.
“You still wanna do the last when everything’s finished?”
You glance at him to see him staring adamantly at the wall.
“Uh…why?”
Sukuna blows a stream of air through his teeth. “Food’ll get cold,” he mutters grudgingly. “If you wait to eat till after you draw.”
You nod slowly. Oh. He wants you to eat while it’s hot.
“Okay,” you find yourself saying. “Doesn’t have to be the finished product. What else is left?”
He relaxes, enough for you to realize he was tense. “Chicken frying and the rice.” Sukuna grins. “You wanna draw the rice?”
Ha. “I’d sooner die.”
His eyes light up. “Want to draw me tenderizing the chicken?” He reaches for the mallet.
You purse your lips. “Do you have to, like, dip the chicken in egg and breadcrumbs?”
“And flour,” he nods.
“Let’s do that,” you decide.
By the time Sukuna’s actually frying, you’ve finished all four pieces and have taken them out again, adding some touch ups on his floor.
You don’t allow yourself to touch the eraser. Charcoal, pencil, blender, but no eraser. Hopefully it’s progress.
Minutes slip by, and then Sukuna clicks his tongue.
“Sweetheart,” he calls out, painfully domestic. “Dinner’s ready!”
His teasing cadence falls flat; you’re too focused to care. “Hm, smells good, thanks,” you mumble absent-mindedly.
The silence lasts ten seconds. “Sweetheart,” Sukuna says again, this time with real force. “Come eat.”
“Uh-huh.”
You hear him stomp over. “Sweetheart,” he growls. “There is a plate with food. Go eat it.”
You twist up to scowl at him. For a second, he scowls right back.
Then, his face solidifies. Then, he bursts into laughter.
“Christ, what?” you hiss at him.
Sukuna whips out his phone and snaps a picture before you can stop him, turning the screen to show you.
Oh. You’ve got charcoal all over your face.
“Yeah, that happens,” you mumble, scrambling to your feet. That’s not the only picture of you covered in the stuff, you’re pretty sure every one of your friends has a photo of you, just like that, saved as your contact photo. It’s Shoko’s home screen.
Still, Sukuna finds it hilarious. “You look like me,” he snickers, holding the phone beside his face for comparison.
That stops you short, because he’s right. You kind of do.
You don’t…you’re not really sure what to do with that. You grab the rag and quickly clean yourself off.
Stowing the rag and washing your hands, you find your gaze drifting to Sukuna’s phone.
He notices. “Want me to delete it?”
You pause, then shake your head. “You want it, you keep it.”
Sukuna laughs under his breath. “Eat, before it gets cold.”
You turn to the island and realize he’s set two places at a corner, the far end from where you were drawing. There are two bowls each piled with steaming white rice, thick curry sauce, and a piece of fried chicken. He’d even put napkins under the chopsticks.
“Damn. Looks amazing,” you say easily. He grunts, satisfied.
You sense an opportunity. “But I forgot to tell you,” you say, turning to him apologetically. “I already ate.”
You see the anger fly clean across his face. “You what—”
Your stomach growls, obnoxiously loud. You grin helplessly.
“I swear to fucking god,” he growls, running a hand over his face. “Eat the damn food.”
Smirking, you take a seat, waiting for him to join you. He does, but he doesn’t pick up his chopsticks.
You glance at him, sidelong. Sukuna’s tense, a muscle in his jaw working. His eyes are riveted on your plate.
He’s waiting for you to try it, you realize.
Taking a deep breath, you snag a piece of chicken, dredge it through the sauce, and pop it in your mouth.
You don’t look at him, you can feel him watching you. Instead, you carefully let the food settle on your tongue, chewing thoughtfully.
Mmh. Yeah. That fucks.
“Damn, Sukuna, that’s incredible,” you say honestly, shoving a clump of rice in your mouth.
The exhale hits you from where he sits. “I know,” he says easily, but it doesn’t land. You glance with a raised eyebrow to tell him so.
Sukuna gestures at your bowl. “Eat your damn carrots, spent so much time drawing them,” he growls.
You comply, shoveling your way through the rest of the bowl. You don’t really want to talk, so you ask him which brand of curry paste he used. That sparks a long rant on the ideal choice, as you suspected it would.
It’s nice. Gives you time to…settle.
You like this, you realize. Being here with Sukuna, listening to him talk. Eating his food, which tastes unbelievable.
Even drawing with him there wasn’t the minefield you thought it’d be. It was…okay. Easy. So was showing him your work, even though you’re so insecure about his.
Your eyes flick to it now, gaze resting on his wrists, the bands surrounding them. Still jealous, you think ruefully, but the flame’s dimmed.
He tsks, and your eyes fly up to his. He wears a light smirk.
“The tattoos, huh?” Sukuna glances at them meaningfully.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“You like ‘em?” Sukuna prompts.
“I love them,” you admit easily. He brightens immediately, and you almost laugh. “They’re exactly the kind of work I wish I could do. Simple. Deliberate. Few elements, all utilized effectively.” Your mouth twists. “I add too much. Agonize over decisions, go back and correct until it looks bad. Overthink. Your work isn’t like that. You’ve mastered the thing I can’t seem to fucking get.”
You stare straight ahead, unable to meet his eyes.
Eventually, he clears his throat. “You know why I came up to you in the quad a few weeks ago?” His voice is gruff
Looking over, you shake your head.
Sukuna blows a stream of air through his teeth. “I saw your work. An end of semester thing last year.”
“For Drawing I,” you agree. Then your eyes narrow slightly. “Why were you there?”
“Had a friend in the class. Didn’t see you, but uh,” he thumbs the tattoo on his wrist absently. “Saw your self-portrait.”
You jolt. That’s right, you remember. That was the piece you chose to exhibit.
“I—didn’t get it,” he says bluntly, giving you a small grin.
“It was really abstract,” you reassure him. It was, you’re not even sure you gave yourself eyes. “They let us go crazy with it.”
“Yeah, it was—crazy,” Sukuna sucks his teeth. “I remember thinking ‘the hell kinda fuckass self-portrait is that?’”
You snort. His lip ticks up. “Thought the artist was on drugs,” he adds, egging at you. You roll your eyes.
He flashes you a grin, before the line of his jaw settles. “Yeah. Didn’t understand how it was a self-portrait at all. But, when I saw you in the quad, I recognized you. I knew it was yours.”
That hits you hard. Sukuna watches you carefully as you manage the impact.
He—he really could tell it was you? He recognized you from that insane, experimental portrait? It didn’t even really look like you, the assignment wasn’t even a self-portrait. It was ‘draw a portrait of how you see yourself.’
And Sukuna recognized you from it. That’s—wow.
He looks at you, eyes almost wary. You meet them shakily. “That—that’s a really nice thing to say, Sukuna,” you tell him in a low voice.
“Not saying it cause it’s nice,” he adds frankly.
Your throat bobs. “I know. That makes it better.”
He nods slowly, like he wants to make sure you understand. That’s almost better than saying it at all.
You look down at his wrists. They’re closer than before, you realize, he’s shifted.
Taking a deep breath, you bow to the inevitable and lay your hand across them.
Sukuna freezes, then exhales. You give him a light smile. “What’s the width of the bands?” you ask quietly.
“An inch,” he answers, voice rough. “Seemed neat.”
“It is,” you answer truthfully. Your eyes move slowly up his arm, muscles thick and perfect, second pair of bands wrapped around them tantalizingly. You hear him grin, arm flexing.
“Narcissist,” you breathe, ignoring them completely. He snickers under his breath.
Feeling brave, you brace your hands on his shoulders and lean toward him, eyes level with his forehead. “What’s up with this symbol?” you murmur.
You feel him tense, then shrug. “‘Dunno,” he rasps. “Looks cool.”
You grin, laughing softly. “It does,” you agree. “Symmetrical?”
Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Of course.”
“Symmetrical all the way down?” you ask, taking a hand and running it down his arm.
“Mmh.” The rumble of his chest reaches all the way to his shoulders. “Thought I’d commit.”
You nod absently. “It works.”
You feel his arm move more than hear it, slowly dragging through the air until it comes to rest on your jaw. Carefully, he tilts your head down, eyes meeting yours.
They’re so hot they pin you there, holding you for a moment. Sukuna licks his lips, and you thaw, raising an eyebrow.
He leans even closer. “Yeah?” he murmurs, eyes searching your face.
You nod, smiling lightly. “Yeah.” You close the distance, meeting his lips with yours.
It’s soft. Sweeter than you thought he’d be. Sukuna kisses you cautiously, like he doesn’t want to mess this up.
Cute, you think, before licking into his mouth. He’s got a face that makes you want to turn the volume up.
Sukuna grins, groans, follows your lead. Soon you’re in his lap, fingers in his hair while his hands knead your ass.
He pulls back to nose along your throat. “I got more, you know,” he hums.
It takes a second for you to catch up. “Huh?”
He huffs a laugh. “More tattoos,” he clarifies. Smirking, he takes a hand and runs it over one of his traps, across his chest, down to his thighs.
yuji is a very rotund baby. (part of my endless baby!yuji series)
“he’s getting fat.”
“gasp!! how dare you—that is my SON.”
“he’s not your son.” sukuna gruffs out, almost mad at the attention you were giving his nephew—attention that you could’ve been giving him.
all the sugary cookies stuffed with chocolates seemed to be stashed away for yuji now, with you hiding them in jars far, far from sukuna’s reach. he always complained about you making him lose his ‘gains’ or whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.
but now, you had a baby with a sweet tooth more than willing to indulge in every sugary concoction you seemed to cook up, every ridiculous dish lathered up in butter and spices and yuji always seemed more than happy to comply.
he was getting a little chubby though, his cheeks rounder, his arms a lot pudgier and gods it just made you wanna keep him in your pockets and hide him away from everyone.
sukuna on the other hand, was fuming. you used to bother him with your stupid experimental dishes, you used to overfeed him until his abs were softening, and now here you were cooing at yuji before giving yuji a spoonful of your curry while yuji babbled.
“y…yummy!!” he squealed while you fed him the rest of the curry, while sukuna pouted in the corner.
“am i invisible in my own house?”
“don’t pout, kuna i make enough food for everyone.”
“yeah, but you don’t feed me.” he was still pouting, his lips jutting out while he looked away from you dramatically, his arms crossed before him.
you moved in front of him, a spoonful of a piping hot curry in hand, slowly bringing it to his lips while sukuna’s pout slowly melted away.
his face began to flush almost immediately, his tastebuds aflame—he almost forgot how much chilli you put in post of your dishes, the spices clouding him while his face went beet red.
yuji was giggling like a menace, his little cheeks puffed out while his big, scary uncle struggled to swallow the curry.
“too spicy?” you giggled staring at yuji while you both laughed at sukuna’s little predicament.
“how did the brat eat this just fine?”
“well, he’s used to my cooking now.”
“…give me that spoon.”
“as long as you don’t burn the roof of your mouth.” you giggled handing over a bowl of curry over a bed of piping hot rice over to him.
“just admit you have a worse spice tolerance than a four year old, kuna.”
this is inspired by this artwork !! here i didn’t wanna go on hiatus out of the blue!! so have a lil smtg okay <3 and i have a birthday fic lined up for @yoonsucks so look out for that >_0 !! and ill be cooking the cross over fics too!!
divider credits: @angeliicide .
all work belongs to @liliklei , do not copy, repost, translate or feed into AI !!
⎯ uh oh ! boyfie sukuna finds your tomodachi life . .
when sukuna asked if he could play something on your switch, you didn’t think twice—figuring he just wanted to mess around for a bit . . . hence, you barely had time to register him creeping closer before his sharp voice cut through the quiet.
“hey, what’s this?”
you looked up to see sukuna holding your nintendo switch high in the air, the screen glowing with your tomodachi life island — tiny miis of you and him wandering around in their own little world flirting and chasing each other.
his was hair the perfect shade of pink — caught the light perfectly, every micro spike and subtle fade of his undercut on full display. the crease of his brows, the perpetual scowl… even in miniature form, sukuna was just so... sukuna.
your face heated up instantly, heart jumping up to your throat.
“give it back!” you practically yelled, lunging for the device, pressing yourself against him in a sorry attempt to retrieve the device from him.
but, to your dismay, he held it high above your reach with one strong arm, the other casually resting on his hip, not even acting to stop you.
a low, rumbly laugh escaped him. “what? you said i could play. besides, that ‘pose to be me or somethin?” he tilted his head, feigning confusion, but the glint in his eyes gave him away.
“sukuuunaaaaaa,” you groaned, standing on your tiptoes, trying desperately to grab his wrist—but nope, completely out of reach.
“and why does mini me have a crush on you in this game? now that’s just stupid.”
and it only gets worse when it starts talking . . .
“i… love… you… sukuna!!!”
you swear you were going to die right then and there.
your face burned hotter than ever — part of you wanting to slap him and run, the other half wanting to crawl under the table and hide forever.
“pleaseeee, just give it!!” you whined.
only after about a minute of straight up laughing in your face, he finally handed it back — snatching it from him before turning your back with a huff.
“you jerk. you’re never touching my games again…” the pout was practically audible in your voice.
you felt his large hands settle on your waist, pulling you back against him, his head resting lightly on your shoulder. “so dramatic…”
he paused, tilting his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “should i see what you have on the sims then?”
“NO!” voice ripping through your chest in panic, spinning slightly to face him, cheeks burning.
he let out a low chuckle before pressing a quick kiss to your temple and letting you go, standing upright, crossing his arms over his chest looking down at you.
“i don’t know why you put me in your simulation games when you have the real thing right here.”
“have you ever considered that the real thing is big and annoying?”
“well good thing you like big and annoying.”
you huffed, your heart doing traitorous jumps in your chest..
yeah. real annoying.
more sukuna && his cutie gf ྀི 𓏼 ◜ - ◝ 𓏼১ ❤︎ join the taglist !
+ shawty defo has wicked whims
thank you sm nonnie!! i will 100% without a doubt miss some so definitely check out my tag for all of my sukuna-specific reblogs here, as well as my ao3 bookmarks here BUT here are some faves off the top of my head!
as always, please read the warnings and each individual author's rules before interacting! they're all fantastic authors <33
controller by @yenayaps [series] - office au with hints of forbidden romance
not just anybody by @yenayaps [series] - baby daddy au
ceaseless by @yenayaps [series] - apothecary diaries au
thursdays by @beaniesayshi [series] - non-curse au
pour it up by @madamechrissy [series] - stripclub au
no. one party anthem by @indiewritesxoxo [series] - rockstar au featuring geto (and gojo)
faking it by @indiewritesxoxo [series] - college au/arranged marriage with someone else au featuring geto (and gojo)
vault boy by @indiewritesxoxo [series] - fallout au featuring geto
megalodon by @belimah [series] - hybrid au
sweet tooth by @sukunahs [series] - college au
tamed by @bluukive [series] - hybrid au
persephone by @creamflix [series] - office au
tomorrow is gone by @creamflix [series] - college au featuring gojo
high tides by @feyrinnn [series] - historical au
starburned and unkissed by @sukunahs [series] - magical girl au
mama i'm in love with a criminal by @cinnamorollcrybaby [series] - criminal au
jealousy, jealousy by @cinnamorollcrybaby [smau series] - best friend au
the ex files by @reignpage [smau series] - memory loss au featuring all the jjk men
we're just friends by @suku-enthusiasts [oneshot series] - best friend au
me and the devil by @yenayaps [oneshot] - modern sorcerer au
veni, vidi, vici by @emphistic [oneshot] - ancient rome au
knock her out by @screampied [smut oneshot] - boxer au featuring toji
waiting room by gojotojis (ao3) [angst oneshot] - best friend au
so i know who i'm looking at by @fushitoru [smut oneshot] - ghostface au
worst behavior by @kunareads [smut oneshot] - non-curse au
test drive by @indiewritesxoxo [oneshot] - f1 au
first time? by @kamiflix [smut oneshot] - college au
l is for licking wounds by deactivated [oneshot] - canon au
friday night lights by @epicderpface [oneshot] - mascot/sports au
cross over! by @hazedrat [oneshot] - ghost au
tracing trueform!sukuna's markings by @retiredteabag [drabble] - canon au
tattoo artist sukuna by @succunabus [headcanons] - non-curse au
wish I could see that it feels much better when I'm with you
pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (university au)
summary: sukuna has a notorious reputation on campus of being terrifying, but it's hard to be too scared of the guy when he shows up to your family’s failing bakery every day to buy strawberry shortbread.
when your life feels like its falling apart you discover just how sweet he can be.
content: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, university au, FLUFF, angst, humor, slow burn, idiots in love, miscommunication, parental illness/death, grief, money issues, stress and overwork, harassment, introverted reader, both reader and sukuna are kinda insecure in their own way, reader's life is falling apart but sukuna is there to make things better
I'm expecting to write around 20 chapters for this fic!
episode 1: going through it
episode 2: under your spell
episode 3: anyone out there?
episode 4: expectations are too high
episode 5: crush
episode 6: I just don't know right now
episode 7: late nights
episode 8: so come a little closer
episode 9: beating like a hammer
episode 10: stop the world I wanna get off (with you)
episode 11: I'll stand here all night long
episode 12: sugar mice
episode 13: wonderful life
episode 14: how I’ve longed for you
episode 15: tell me that you love me
episode 16: let me always be with you
episode 17 (coming soon!)
Taglist open! Let me know on this post if you want to be added <3
papa kuna + papa toji when their wifes put their daughters in matching outfits .✦ ݁˖
the second they walk in, toji spots them.
he cuts himself off mid sentence, grin already forming as he nudges sukuna. "oi, look at em."
sukuna turns, and the second he sees them, he lets out a low huff, shaking his head. their daughters are waddling toward them hand in hand, dressed exactly the same. same dress, same shoes, same little hairstyles like someone copy pasted them. they bump into each other as they walk, giggling.
"who did that," sukuna mutters, amused.
tojis already moving, crouching down and scooping his daughter up with ease. she squeals, grabbing his shirt, and keeps hold of the other girl, nearly pulling her along with her.
toji laughs, big hand coming up to steady them both. "oi- you takin' her too?"
sukuna steps in right after, lifting his own daughter, grip secure and easy. "greedy," he says, but theres a grin on his face.
now they're both up in their arms, still holding hands, legs kicking as they laugh right in each others faces. toji shakes his head, watching them with a proud smirk. "hah! wont even let go."
sukuna huffs, adjusting his hold when his daughter leans closer again. "thats her person," he says simply.
the girls press their foreheads together, giggling like its the best thing in the world. toji lets out a quiet laugh, bouncing his daughter once. "think they slick, matchin' like that."
your gait had started to resemble one of a penguin.
it wasn’t your fault really, carrying the king of curses’s spawn was no easy task.
but the fact still stood.
almost full term, your belly had grown round swollen with child, your cravings and moods heightened to very much their peak.
the worst of all were the body aches.
well it sufficed to say that your four-armed husband was not having it. the moment you came into his life he’d dismissed all other concubines, his eyes set on you. marriage ceremonies another right of passage long done and dusted.
“you have four arms my lord, why not put them to use?” you’d suggested one quiet evening.
so now here you lay with sukuna massaging your lower body.
seriously, he thought, is this what his reign of terror had succumbed to? as he rubbed his palm against your feet. your satisfied moans reached his ears, un-admittedly motivating him further in the act.
he’d do anything for you, if you’d only so ask.
finally relaxed, you twirl your hair with one finger and look over to the bowl of grapes set aside by the maids right next to your bed.
“my lord” you call sukuna and receive a hum in response.
“the grapes look delicious” you smile cheekily at him, eyes twinkling with mischief.
sukuna looks at you long and hard, amazed at your boldness. suggesting that he shall feed you, what are servants for then?
he opens his mouth, the motion as if to beckon a servant over but pauses when your face contorts into a pouty frown.
he knows what you want. and he abides.
two of his arms continue working on your foot and leg while the other two reach forward to pluck a grape and feed it to you. you lick your lips relishing the taste.
“it’s not for me, you know” you add “it’s for her”
“her?”
sukuna leans forward to wipe some grape juice off of the side of your face, with his hand-mouth which certainly never failed to amaze you.
“i have a hunch, that she’s a girl” you gesture towards your belly.
“it will be a boy” sukuna says, his tone final.
you pause, a hint of insecurity lacing your voice.
“what-what if it’s a girl?” you cringe when you hear your own voice crack.
silence. no remark from sukuna.
and then a low, very low grumble, almost missable for the untrained ear.
“i wouldn’t know what to do…”
however, you don’t miss it, “do explain,” you urge.
“a man, an..abomination like myself doesn’t deserve a daughter, i wouldn’t know what to do with myself or her” you feel a rush of such adoration flow through you at his sincere concern.
you’d assured him he would be a great father but he refused, stubborn as ever, never budging.
a month later when you welcomed a baby girl into the world, with the same raging hair as her father and a temper much like his own, no one not even you held onto her tighter than sukuna.
your husband, held your daughter like she was a petal, so fragile and precious, as he muttered curses towards the poor servants that were just trying to help and the mid-wife that got too close.
you could’ve sworn you saw a pearly sheen to his eyes, but gods forbid you kept that to yourself.
firefly; little bit of this, little bit of that ahh drabble i’m so sorry if this is bad #forgiveme
you’re currently doing your hair next to the pink haired duo.
sukuna wants to get rid of the faint stubble scratching his jaw before it annoys him all day, and the bathroom mirror is still foggy from your shower earlier.
he wipes it with the side of his hand, squinting at his reflection.
“stay there,” he tells the small boy sitting on the counter next to him.
big brown eyes watch everything like it is the most fascinating thing in the world.
“uncle kuna… what’s that?”
“shaving cream,” he says while spraying a puff into his palm.
yuji gasps. “looks like snow!”
“it’s not—” sukuna stops mid-sentence when yuji reaches up with both hands.
“i wanna help!”
sukuna looks at him and then sighs.
“fine. but don’t make a mess.”
yuji scoops a handful of foam and very carefully reaches up toward sukuna’s face. his tongue sticks out in concentration as he smears it across his cheek.
not evenly at all.
now there’s one giant white streak across half his face, and you look over just in time to see it.
“…oh my god,” you cover your mouth, trying not to laugh.
sukuna slowly turn his head toward the mirror.
“good job,” he deadpans. “you missed half of my face.”
yuji blinks, thinking hard about that.
then both of his tiny hands come up to rub the foam across both of sukuna’s cheeks.
“like this?”
“mhm.”
yuji nods seriously, like this is very important information. then he scoops another handful of foam and aggressively plants it on sukuna’s forehead.
you finally let yourself laugh.
sukuna groans. “why are you encouraging him?”
“i’m not!” you say between laughs. “i just didn’t know the bathroom has a professional barber.”
“i’m a barber!” the little boy says, swinging his hands with foam now flying everywhere.
sukuna looks at the mirror again— foam on his cheeks, forehead, and now a little in his hair.
“…i look ridiculous.”
you walk over, kiss the clean spot on his temple, and ruffle yuji’s hair.
“i think you look cute.”
yuji claps happily.
“you too!!” he practically yells, already reaching for your face.
“yuji no! i just showered!” you try your best to dodge, but feel two big hands hold you in place.
“get her,” sukuna says with a smirk plastered on his face.
yuji’s hand reaches out, but what sukuna didn’t expect was for you to duck down, so the tiny hand smacks right into his face.
“okay okay! truce!” you yelp, holding your hands up. “i’ll just do it for you!”
sukuna narrows his eyes for a moment, then shrugs. “fine.”
you grab the razor and step closer, standing right in front of him. carefully, you even out the shaving cream over his stubble, hands working carefully. sukuna tilts his head slightly, letting you work, and before you realize it, his hands find your waist.
yuji fidgets on the counter, clearly getting bored.
“i’m gonna go play—” and with that, he hops down, running off somewhere else to entertain himself.
alone now, you and sukuna are quiet except for the soft sound of your hands moving over his jaw. sukuna’s eyes soften as he watches you, and you feel your cheeks heat up under his gaze.
he gently grabs your hand to stop you in your movements, and leans in to press a quick kiss to your lips. you freeze for a second, then pull back, wiping a little shaving cream from your face.
“ryo! now it’s on me!” you whine.
he smirks, unfazed. “deserved.”
you roll your eyes, giggling, but you’re content either way as you finish the last strokes on his jaw.
⸝⸝ if you enjoyed this, consider checking out the masterlist for this series. ♡
⋆.𐙚 ̊ heian era!sukuna refuses to let his wife do anything on her own
you’re in the kitchen when sukuna appears behind you, both sets of arms folded, watching you stir something over the stove with that familiar face of judgment.
“you are still performing this task yourself,” he says.
you don’t turn. “yes. it‘s called cooking.”
a pause. “uraume is a good chef.”
“i know.”
“then why are you doing this yourself?”
“because i want to. people can have hobbies that don‘t involve bloodshed, ryo.”
he goes quiet for a moment, like that answer doesn’t make sense to him. then he steps closer, looking into the pot with faint disdain.
“in my estate,” he scoffs, “no one of significance wastes their time with such trivial labor.”
you give a small shrug. “it’s not a waste to me.”
that makes him watch you more closely, like he’s trying to categorize the concept and finding no proper place for it.
“so you enjoy unnecessary effort,” he says finally.
you turn to look at him. “…what?”
“you could summon an attendant. you could command them. you could have it done quicker.” his eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s concluding something obvious. “and yet you choose this.”
you turn back to the pot. “it’s not unnecessary if i like it.”
“…strange,” he says.
there’s faint movement somewhere in the hall, servants are passing carefully, avoiding even breathing too loudly near his presence.
“you should not be here alone,” he adds suddenly.
“i’m not alone. you’re standing right here.”
“that is not what i mean.”
he watches you for a while longer, then steps slightly closer, voice calmer now.
“when i rule,” he says, “those beneath me do not hesitate. they obey. they serve. they understand their place.”
you lean lightly against the counter. “and what’s my place in all that?”
his gaze settles directly on you.
“above them,” he says simply. “as my wife.”
then he looks away, like the matter is already decided, and speaks again as if continuing a thought that has nothing to do with kitchens or cooking.
“i‘ve grown tired of this room,” he says. “and of all who move through it.”
then he steps closer, his figure practically looming over you.
“come,” he demands.
you blink. “come where?”
he tilts his head slightly, like the question is unnecessary.
“to our chambers.”
then, in that same tone—
“you enjoy unnecessary effort… so i shall spare you none.”
his eyes narrow faintly.
“i shall have you there. now.”
before you can even fully react, he lifts you off the ground.
all four arms adjust with ease, like your weight is nothing at all. he holds you securely against him without effort, already turning away from the stove.
“sukuna! put me down,” you protest, grabbing onto his shoulders.
“no,” he dismisses you, and instead begins walking.
servants immediately step aside, lowering their gaze as he passes. none of them speak.
you look over his shoulder. “what about the food?”
he doesn’t slow. instead, one of his upper arms comes up to snap his fingers.
“you,” he says to the servant. “see that it is properly prepared. if it fails, you will not be excused.”
only then does he continue forward, carrying you effortlessly through the halls.
“you will remain where i choose, woman,” he says calmly, already turning down the corridor toward the bedroom.
i wanna make another masterlist layout i wanna change some aesthetic i wanna keep reviewing sugar pills i wanna write more i wanna workout i wanna eat a big tray of tiramisu i wanna draw i wanna sleep
turnnoffyourmind
jacobvanloon
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
dededos
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
