is what your experiencedbf!sukuna asked after you tried to catch.. his print?
you have been plotting and waiting for the perfect opportunity to do this popular trend on your boyfriend for almost a month. he’s manspreading(of course) on your shared couch his back basically making a dent in it. your resting your back on the armrest your feet on his thighs as he massages your feet. you inconspicuously stare at his couch trying to see if he’s a A, B, C or.. eh you doubt it no way.
you narrow your eyes and tilt your head pretending to be “look” at your phone. “the fuck you looking at?” his rough voice snapping you out of your trance.
you quickly look up into his narrowed crimson eyes. “huh?” he knits his eyebrows together, pressing his thumb into the bottom of your foot trying to get a answer out of you.
you whimper and flinch “ow! and im not looking at anything” he sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes continuing to rub your feet “I ain’t even press that hard brat” you hum. “okay you can go back to what you were doing” “you first” he looks at your phone that has been playing the same video over 20 times, shit, that’s probably what gave it away.
you look down at your phone and play a random netflix series and you look up to see he’s looking back at his phone. you adjust your head so it looks like you’re eyes are on your phone but whole time you staring at his—
“do you wanna fucking bite or sum?” he catches you, again. at this point you give up and continue tilting your head and squinting. “C?..” he scowls, loudly and unashamedly.
“no way your a D..” he grabs your chin and pulls you close to his face. “is that all I am to you, a dick to stare at when your bored, mm?” he questions you quietly.
“no, no of course not!” “well I’d hope so, fucking virgin” your expression drops as he smirks. “what do you mean by C and D?” he looks actually curious now not trying to just tease you, “well, there is this thing called catching print—“ he pinches his nose bridge letting go of your jaw, sukuna shakes his head and sighs. “seriously? how does it work”
you gasp and cover your face, the butterflies scattering around in your stomach from embarrassment. “you don’t know what it is?” “i mean no but im not fucking stupid, and you wanna see how big my dick is, just ask dont be a creep” your eyes widen your eyebrows raising simultaneously.
“w-what no?!” you immediately get flustered due to the fact you’ve never even seen one, well in person that is. “why not?” you just shake your head and try to get up but he quickly grabs your ankle. “sit.” he says low but loud enough for you to ear, so of course you sit down.
“good, now I said why, answer.” he runs his rough hands up and down your legs, making you shiver. “well, I guess you know, you know sukuna im a virgin I’m nervous!” you slap his arm(he doesn’t even flinch, he’s way too big for his own good). “i can be gentle you know, im not almost a ‘monster’” sukuna says sarcastically with a grin, your friends called him that while you were on the phone getting ready and he was listening.
“stop!” you look away but he slides his hand up further. “fine” he shrugs “whenever your ready, I’ll be too” you lookn back at him to see his eyes are boring into yours already. you nod and he continues to rub your feet and you both lie into your previous positions.
ps. i was gonna tag the creator of the 18+ divider but i genuinely forgot so if you know pls tag them💔
Summary: When exhaustion leads to a dumb fight between you and your boyfriend, Spencer, he shows up for you in ways you did not expect. Feel free to listen to I’m With You by Avril Lavigne while reading this.
Pairing: Spencer Agnew x GN!Reader
Tags: Fluff, light angst, established relationship
Word count: 2.5k
Note: Just something short and sweet for anyone still interested in my writing lol! Good to be back! :3
☆
You loved your boyfriend, Spencer. You loved him more than words could describe. You’ve loved him for the past two years of your relationship. Hell, you probably loved him from the moment your close friend, Angela, set you two up. You loved him in the morning when he was all messy hair and sleepy eyes. You loved him when he was calling you during his break just to hear your voice. You loved him when you were cuddling on the couch together after dinner, watching whatever series you were binging together at the time. You just loved him so much.
You loved him even when you two were fighting.
It didn’t happen often and it was usually resolved just as quickly as it started. Honestly, they were more like simple disagreements than fights. The same could not be said for some of your previous relationships, Spencer knew vaguely that you didn’t consider your time with your exes healthy, but he never wanted to pry into your past too much. You two were creatures of logic, so it was easy to remedy the situation, all you needed was a proper conversation and the entire ordeal was over. After all, whenever people came to either of you for relationship advice, you always told them communication was key.
But sometimes, things aren’t so simple. And sometimes both of you come home from your respective jobs stressed from overtime and with a million things on your minds. He had some strict deadlines mixed with technical issues and last minute urgent schedule revisions, with a healthy dose of corrupted footage to top it all off. At the same time, you happened to be dealing with a new manager breathing down your neck, an issue with the filing system at work that meant you needed to do physical filing all week, half your team calling in sick, and worst of all, the coffee machine broke yesterday.
By the time you got home, you were hangry and so tired you felt like you could collapse at any moment.
You rummaged through your bag for your apartment keys when you almost rammed directly into Spencer in front of the door.
“Oh, hey babe”, you gave him a tired smile he returned before pecking you on the lips.
“Hi honey”, he replied sweetly while unlocking the door, “looks like we’re both home late today.”
You sighed as you walked inside, he was holding the door open like the gentleman he was.
“Yeah”, you kicked your shoes off and dropped your work bag by the door like it weighed a tonne, “what a long day.”
“Tell me about it”, he mirrored your sigh and he also took his shoes off, almost losing his balance and stumbling. He was clearly just as exhausted as you. “What do you want to do about dinner? I’m thinking of ordering either Chinese or Thai, but you get the final call.”
“Spence”, you started, trying not to sound frustrated, “I thought we agreed we would only order in once a week to save money. We already got takeaway yesterday.”
“I know, Y/N”, he seemed to be trying to show the same restraint as you, “but we’re both late today and clearly tired, so I thought it was a better idea than cooking something ourselves.”
“Yes, but”, you entered the kitchen as he trailed behind you, “it’ll be faster if we just cook something, we already have a bunch of ingredients here, they’ll go to waste if we don’t use them soon.”
“I understand that”, he sounded like he was losing his patience, you could feel yourself losing yours too. “But I really don’t have the energy to cook something. Do you?”
You were starting to feel annoyed, you tried to push down the feeling, knowing it was unreasonable, you were just tired.
“No”, you replied, opening up the fridge and crossing your arms as you inspected the groceries inside, “but if you don’t want to help, I’ll do it.”
“Don’t do that, babe”, he groaned, leaning against the kitchen counter and hanging his head down.
“Do what?” You furrowed your brow, bending down to see how many eggs you had left.
“Make me the bad guy”, he responded, lifting his head, “making it out as if I don’t want to help you when you know I would normally, I’m just so tired.”
“Well, so am I”, you tried to keep your voice level.
“Then let’s just order in!”
You sighed even heavier than before.
You two were going in circles. Ironically, logical as you both were, you were also incredibly stubborn. Part of you wanted to concede, give up and let him order some takeaway food. But the other part of you, the fiery argumentative part of you wanted to fight back, prove you were right. It was the side of you that would normally lose out, but the exhaustion was causing a severe lack of judgement and your emotions were too heightened.
“Whatever”, you muttered, shutting the fridge loudly without looking back at him. “I’m not even hungry”, you lied as you left the kitchen, heading to the bathroom to take a much needed hot shower.
You regretted your childish actions almost as soon as the bathroom door clicked shut. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, the dark circles under your eyes and slight downturn of your lips. You looked a mess, felt it too. You were so glad it was Friday and you could sleep in tomorrow. But your gut twisted thinking about that whole interaction with Spencer, you probably could have handled it better, but he could have too. You both had agreed to limit your spending on takeaway food, he was even the one to suggest it.
You shook your head, trying to empty it from the thoughts that were getting too loud, and started undressing to take your shower.
☆
When you emerged from the bathroom later, the apartment was noticeably silent.
You braced yourself, “Spence?” You called out to him. Nothing.
You checked around all the rooms, he was nowhere to be found.
Great, you thought to yourself, you’ve really gone and done it now, he’s probably gone off to stay somewhere else for the night because you threw a tantrum about bloody dinner of all things.
You walked into the kitchen again, placing your hands on the counter where he had just been before you stormed out. It was cold now.
You’d never had an actual argument like that with Spencer, it was so dumb but the feelings felt legitimate. You were doing so well, not letting your temper or bad habits from previous relationships interfere with you and him. Your last couple of exes would have turned the conversation into a screaming match, that was part of why you escaped to the bathroom so quickly, not wanting either of you to start yelling. You knew in your heart that Spencer would never raise his voice at you like they did, but you also thought that about your exes before they went and did exactly that. You’ve never told Spencer about what your past relationships were like, partly because he didn’t pry, partly because you were ashamed.
You cut off the buzz from the old light fixtures by flicking the switch off. You had lost your appetite for real now. Still too proud to contact him, you crawled into bed. The exhaustion made your bones ache and they felt like they were creaking as you relaxed into your soft bedding. You were too tired to think hard about sleeping so early with an empty stomach and without your beloved boyfriend beside you. You were so drained, you didn’t even have time to plan how you were going to try to fix things tomorrow before you dozed off.
☆
You weren’t sure how long you had slept for, but there was bright light flooding into the room between the blinds and you felt reasonably refreshed as you sat up, stretching. You were still a little drowsy, but the absolute exhaustion from last night, hell, from the entire last week, was all gone. You glanced at the bedside table, you had probably slept about fourteen hours.
“Shit”, you mumbled to yourself as you rubbed your eyes, the memories of your little argument with Spencer flooding back. You scrambled to grab your phone from where it was charging on the floor, squinting at the screen to see if there were any notifications from Spencer.
No missed calls. No new text messages besides a few from your friends. Your heart ached in your chest, you could feel the guilt settling on your mind like a weight. You had to reach out to him, say something, make sure he was safe, wherever he was.
You sat back in your empty bed, leaning against the headboard. You glanced down at Spencer’s side of the bed. At some point in the night, you had cocooned yourself in the blankets, so it was bare. You reached out, feeling like you might cry out of frustration at yourself and your big mouth, but before you put your hand down, you heard the sound of metal being banged around, something clattering to the floor and voice faintly swearing. You knew that voice better than any other sound in the world.
You jumped up, practically ripping the bedroom door open as you rushed to the kitchen. You appeared in the doorway, greeted by the sight of Spencer by the counter, hair messy and wearing those green plaid pyjama pants you always thought he looked so cute in.
Hearing you approach he turned to you quickly, holding a dirty mixing bowl with the remnants of batter inside.
“Hi”, he said awkwardly, grimacing, “did I wake you? I dropped the bowl when I was trying to put it in the sink.”
You blinked at him, not sure what to say. He wasn’t mad at you?
“Um, no”, you responded, “I was already awake.”
“That’s good”, he hummed, continuing what he was doing, rinsing out the bowl, “you were sleeping like the dead, so I was afraid to wake you before you were fully rested.”
You stared at him before turning your gaze away.
“Where did you go last night?” Your voice came out so much smaller than you expected, you weren’t sure he even heard you until he stopped his motions.
He dried his hands, turning to you, resting his backside against the counter.
“I know you didn’t want me to order in but”, he crossed his arms, “I went down the street to get some takeaway.”
You leaned against the side of the doorway, attempting to appear nonchalant, like the weird foreign tension between you two wasn’t bothering you.
“I’m sorry, honey”, he said softly, you lifted your eyes from the spot on the floor you had been inspecting. “You’re right, we did agree to cook at home more, and I should have tried to get home earlier so we could do that. I was so tired from work, I just didn’t have it in me to stay awake and cook.”
You just quietly nodded, searching for your own words, your own apology.
“I went and got takeout, but by the time I came back you were asleep”, he continued, shuffling his foot as if to occupy himself, “I’m sorry for eating without you, I left your portion in the fridge. I wasn’t sure if you wanted me sleeping next to you, so I slept on the couch.”
Your heart was aching again, you felt so bad making him feel unwelcome in his own bedroom.
“But that meant I could get up early without waking you and make your favourite breakfast”, he looked at you sheepishly, a shy grin on his face.
You stepped into the kitchen immediately, and as you scanned the kitchen table the scent hit you. The sweet, sweet aroma of fresh pancakes. They were the most gorgeous stack you’d ever seen, drizzled with syrup and a little bit of butter resting on top, a bowl full of berries sat next to it.
All the emotion hit you at once, like a wave you didn’t properly brace for. The stupid, meaningless argument last night, going to sleep without him, waking up without him, worrying you had ruined everything, finding him labouring over pancakes for you after sleeping on the couch. You felt tears prickle in your eyes and you felt your body tremble with a sob you couldn’t hide.
“Baby?” Spencer rushed over to you, gently grabbing your sides, “hey, hey, what’s wrong?”
“I’m so”, you hiccuped as another sob hit you, “sorry, Spence.”
“What? You don’t need to be sorry”, he chuckled, pulling you into a hug, letting you wet the crook of his neck with your tears.
“I argued with you over nothing”, you cried, “and you never yelled at me and you even bought food for me and you slept on the couch and you made me breakfast.”
As your body was racked with guilty sobs, he held you tightly, hand coming up to stroke your back comfortingly. He was quietly shushing you in that gentle, sweet tone he always did whenever you got upset.
“It’s okay, honey,” he whispered, “I’m sorry for fighting with you when you were so exhausted.”
“Any way you look at it”, another hiccup, “I was the problem. Why didn’t you tell me off?”
He pulled away slightly at that so he could see your face. You looked at him through wet lashes, embarrassed to be crying over something like this.
“I would never”, his stare was unwavering, you hardly ever see him so serious, “never, ever, shout at you. Okay? You are not the problem. I’ll never raise my voice at you, I’ll never ‘tell you off’, because I love you. You’re my partner, not my pet.”
You sniffled, you suspected this was how he felt but it was still somewhat shocking to hear him lay it out so plainly in front of you.
“I love you too”, you choked out, voice taut from crying. “I’m not used to fights resolving without screaming.”
You had intended for your comment to lighten the mood, but instead, Spencer pulled you in tight, one hand stroking your hair.
“I hate that”, he murmured, his breath tickling your ear and sending little shivers down your spine, “you don’t deserve that. You’re safe with me.”
You felt the last of your tears stray down your face as you squeezed him back. You weren’t sure if it was because of his tone of voice, or the way you were slightly swaying together in a quiet kitchen on a sunny Saturday morning, but you believed him. His arms felt like home.
“Thank you, honey”, you whispered back, your eyes drifting to the kitchen table. “Shit”, you groaned, “those pancakes look amazing.”
He chuckled as he pulled away, wiping the few wet patches left on your face dry before guiding you to the table.
“Come on”, he breathed, ever gentle, ever sweet, his hand so warm in your own, “eat up before they get cold. If you want more, I’ll make as many as you want”
☆
Note: Sorry for disappearing for so long! Life has been super hectic, so I’ve been too busy to write, but I would love to get back to it. I’ll try to work through the absolutely backlog of requests in my inbox first! Please be patient with me and let me know what you think about my latest work!! Thank youuu <3
♡ Masterlist | Taglist: (send me an ask to join!) @adresstayaa @cloverrwritess @spennininomenon @thewayilikemycookie
frat!sukuna, who first insisted that your relationship was strictly sex, nothing more—with some flimsy excuse about how he doesn’t have the time for a relationship, doesn’t have the time to commit to something that serious, and about how a relationship would only drag him down.
so he does what any good friend situationship?would do—he shows up to your place, fucks you until you can’t remember your own name, and leaves before something in his chest convinces him to stay.
frat!sukuna, who has to have you facing him to cum, something about just looking at your face contort in pleasure while you take him in, the way tears rim your eyes while he thrusts into you languidly—he simply can’t bring himself to cum if he isn’t look at you and your pretty face drunk on his cock.
frat!sukuna, who tries to walk out of your apartment the second he’s done with you, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. so he lingers, hovers around your sleeping form until you finally drag him back under your sheets, calling him ridiculous while he presses soft kisses to the back of your neck.
frat!sukuna, who has your drink order memorised to perfection, always leaving your sugary concoction of a drink on your desk before each class begins with a scrawled on note that says ‘don’t get any ideas.’
frat!sukuna, who never denies anything when his frat brothers start calling you his girlfriend—it’s too much work to correct them, he says, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks tinge the same shade as his hair every single time one of them pats him on the back and calls you his girl.
frat!sukuna, who always has to have you close to him, with his arm slug around your shoulders or wrapped around your waist when he’s near you.
“it’s to make sure you don’t run away.”
“now, why would i do that?”
frat!sukuna, who almost decks toji in the face when he sees him flirting with you, his split lip curled into a girl while you laughed at his stupid jokes and for one second, sukuna’s afraid he’s going to lose this, that he’s going to lose you.
frat!sukuna, who starts tiptoeing around the idea of a relationship, insisting he takes you on dates—taking you out to fancy restaurants and late night bike rides when he knows exam stress starts to take over your brain. he’s spent enough time around you to know everything there is to know, but what sukuna doesn’t know is how to handle a relationship.
frat!sukuna, who’s been treating you like his girlfriend since the start, never skipping aftercare, always being there at your every beck and call—and avoiding every girl that had eyes for him like the plague since he met you.
“good god, did she neuter you, kuna?” toji slurred between drinks while sukuna tried to dodge the sorority girls coming his way.
“shut up.”
frat!sukuna, who’s softer during sex now, worshipping your body endlessly, covering you in soft kisses and bites marks before he eats you out like a man starved.
frat!sukuna, who’s basically a guard dog around you, glaring at everyone who so much as shows even mild interest in you, clinging to you like a needy puppy every second of the day that he possibly can.
frat!sukuna, who has words stuck in his throat every single time he tries to ask you out, always stuttering out nonsense he didn’t mean to say because, what if you turn him down? and what if there’s someone better?
frat!sukuna, who gets you a massive bouquet of your favourite flowers, showing up to your apartment in the dead of night, flowers scrunched in his hand, his chest heaving when he finally asks you out.
frat!sukuna, who tries to hide his flustered face when you finally say yes, spinning you around in his arms while he kisses the top of your head—because after all the mental gymnastics he’s done to have you in his arms, he finally gets to call you his girl.
You knew Sukuna worked too much. You’d known that before you ever started whatever this was with him. You knew that every extra shift, every call‑in, every overtime hour usually meant the difference between him scraping by and actually having enough money left at the end of the week to breathe. You knew that. It didn’t mean you had to like it.
The afternoon had started suspiciously well, which should’ve been your first warning. You and Sukuna had been sitting on a bench outside a convenience store, sharing a carton of fries you’d bought after wandering aimlessly around the city for nearly two hours. Not a date… definitely not a date. Just the two of you hanging out. Alone. On a Saturday. After he’d specifically cleared his afternoon. Totally not a date.
“You keep stealing the good fries,” he complained.
You looked up from the carton. “The good fries?”
“The crispy ones.”
“Those are all the fries.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
You grabbed another one, and Sukuna immediately narrowed his eyes. “That was a crispy one.”
You giggled. “Too slow.”
“I literally bought them.”
“And?”
His jaw twitched, and for a second he almost smiled back at you. Almost–until his phone rang. The smile vanished instantly. You watched him pull it out, and his expression shifted. Not annoyed or irritated, just tired, which made your stomach sink because you knew that look.
He stared at the screen for a moment before answering. “Yeah.”
Silence followed. You kicked your feet against the pavement, picking at the corner of the fry carton while he listened, sighed, and ran a hand through his pink hair.
“How long?” he asked.
Your stomach dropped.
NOoOooOoOOoOoOooO. Not today. Not now. You already knew. You knew before he even said it. Sukuna pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”
You looked away before he could see your face. The call ended. A few seconds passed, then he said, “I gotta go.”
There it was.
You nodded. “Oh.”
His brows furrowed. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged, trying to sound casual. Normal. Totally unbothered.
“Okay.”
Sukuna stared at you. You stared at the road. He knew. You knew he knew, but neither of you were going to say it.
“They need someone to cover,” he said.
“Okay.”
“You mad?”
“No.”
A lie. A terrible lie. Possibly the worst lie ever spoken.
Sukuna scoffed. “You’re literally pouting.”
“M’not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You shoved another fry into your mouth aggressively. Sukuna stared, then snorted–actually snorted, the jerk.
“I’m not pouting.”
“You look like someone kicked your dog.”
“I don’t even have a dog.”
“You look like someone would kick your dog.”
You glared at him. He looked annoyingly amused, until his expression softened slightly.
“They’re short‑staffed.”
“Okay.”
“I need the hours.”
“I know.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Yuji needs new shoes.”
Your gaze flickered up. Sukuna looked away. “Kid grew out of the last pair in like three damn months.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “And Choso’s helping with rent already. I’m not dumping more on him.”
Your chest tightened, because there it was–the real reason. Not cigarettes, not stupid spending, not because he wanted to leave. Because there was a five‑year‑old waiting for him at home who somehow managed to outgrow everything the second it was bought. Because Choso was already carrying enough at sixteen. Because Sukuna had been playing the role of provider for so long that saying no almost wasn’t an option anymore.
“I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to,” he said quietly.
You hated that, because you knew it was true. He wasn’t ditching you because he wanted to. He needed the money. You knew that, but the stupid hurt feeling wouldn’t go away. Because for one afternoon–one stupid afternoon–you wanted him to pick you. Just once.
You immediately hated yourself for thinking it, because that wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. Bills weren’t fair. Rent wasn’t fair. And Sukuna had never gotten the luxury of putting feelings before survival.
Still… it hurt.
“Whatever,” you muttered. There it was–the dangerous whatever.
Sukuna sighed. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m literally not.”
“You get this tone.”
“What tone?”
“That one.”
You stood up. “There is no tone.”
“There is.”
“There isn’t.”
“There is.”
You grabbed your bag. “Go to work, Sukuna.”
His jaw clenched. You knew that look too–the one where he wanted to argue but couldn’t, because he really did have to leave. So instead he stood, towering over you.
“Walk home safe.”
“Yeah.”
“You got your keys?”
“Yeah.”
“Phone charged?”
“Yes, dad.”
That earned you a glare.
Good. Maybe he should suffer too.
“You being annoying on purpose?”
“Maybe.”
His eyes narrowed, then he reached over and flicked your forehead. Hard.
“Ow!”
“Brat.”
Then he started walking backwards toward the street. “Text me when you’re home.”
You rolled your eyes.
He pointed. “Seriously.”
“Okay.”
“Promise.”
You huffed. “Promise.”
Only then did he finally leave, and somehow watching him disappear around the corner felt way worse than you’d expected.
The walk home sucked, mostly because it gave you time to think, which was terrible. Thinking was terrible. You replayed the afternoon over and over–the way he’d looked disappointed too, the way he’d tried explaining, the way he’d said he wouldn’t leave if he didn’t have to–and somehow that only made you more upset, because if he’d been a jerk about it, you could’ve stayed mad. Instead, he’d been reasonable, which was annoying.
Your phone buzzed.
Ryo🤰: Made it.
You ignored it.
Another buzz.
Ryo🤰: You home yet?
Ignored.
Five minutes later:
Ryo🤰: Answer your phone idiot.
Ignored.
Then–
Ryo🤰: Don’t make me come check.
You immediately typed back:
You: You’re literally at work.
His reply came instantly.
Ryo🤰: So you’re alive.
You stared at the screen for a moment, then locked your phone.
Nope. Not doing this. You were too sad and too grumpy to talk.
Three hours later, you were curled up in bed, still grumpy, still refusing to text him properly, and still pretending you weren’t checking your phone every ten minutes. The quiet of your room made everything worse, and when the sudden knock at the door echoed through the apartment–three sharp raps–you froze. It was nearly midnight, and before you could even process who would be knocking at this hour, your phone rang. Sukuna’s name lit up the screen, making your stomach flip as you answered with a flat, “What?”
“Open the door,” he said.
You sat upright, confused. “...What?”
“Door.”
“Sukuna.”
“Door.”
“You were literally at work.”
“I still am.”
“What?”
“Open the damn door.”
Still confused, you dragged yourself out of bed and opened the door, only to find him standing there in his work uniform with tired eyes, messy hair, and a paper bag in his hand. You blinked at him. “What are you doing here?”
“You wouldn’t stop sulking,” he said.
“I wasn’t sulking.”
“You ignored me for three hours.”
“That’s not–”
“Sulking.”
You glared at him, but the irritation didn’t hold. He looked genuinely exhausted–dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped like he’d worked a twelve‑hour shift–and yet he’d still come all the way here. Your anger weakened immediately, traitorous thing that it was.
He shoved the paper bag into your arms, and when you looked inside, you found your favourite takeaway–the exact thing you’d mentioned wanting earlier but never ended up getting. Your chest tightened just a little.
“Sukuna…”
He looked away, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. “I know today sucked,” he muttered.
You stared at him.
“And I know you were upset.” You opened your mouth to deny it, then closed it again, because pretending now felt pointless.
Sukuna sighed. “I just…” He struggled with the words, like saying them physically hurt. “I need the money.”
Your heart squeezed because he sounded almost guilty, like he'd done something wrong when he hadn't. Not really. “I know,” you said softly.
His shoulders loosened slightly, just a fraction.
“I know,” you repeated.
Silence settled between you, and before you could think better of it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Sukuna froze completely, like you’d hit him with a truck, but after a moment his arms came around you–slow, heavy, warm. You felt him exhale, the kind of breath someone lets out only after holding it in all day.
“I’m still annoyed,” you muttered.
“Mhm.”
“You left me.”
“Mhm.”
“You suck.”
“Mhm.”
He rested his chin on your head. “Still bought you food.”
“…Yeah.”
“Still came here.”
“…Yeah.”
“Still got another shift tomorrow.”
You groaned, and he actually laughed–a low, tired sound against your hair. And despite everything, the stupid hurt feeling finally faded. Because maybe Sukuna couldn’t always choose you first; life didn’t give him that luxury. But even after a miserable shift and an exhausting day, he still ended up on your doorstep at midnight. And maybe that counted for something too.
a/n: Inspireddd by the faaact exams are preventing me from talking to my girlfrieeends :(
lowkey me every time they tell me they gottaaa goo (also, I wrote this while listening to snoozeeee just in case anybooody else wanted to do that too😓)
brat! reader demanding boyfriend 𝒔𝒖𝒌𝒖𝒏𝒂 to hold her hand while he carries all the bags
your hands feel weird. empty, you note suddenly.
then you look at your boyfriend walking just 2 steps ahead of you. both of his hands full of shopping bags and grocery packets.
it must be heavy. it is heavy. that's why sukuna is carrying them and not you. you give a sigh of appreciation as your eyes roam over his frame.
tall , dressed in dark shades, muscles pulled taut. quite the head turner. and more than capable of carrying a few bags, you mentally note.
your friends often complained about their partners expecting to split the baggage. half n half and shit that felt so absurd to you that you had obnoxiously bragged about your husband demanding that you 'do not lift a single finger'.
the girls had the audacity to look skeptical.
you pull up the camera app on your phone and click record.
"baby?" you call out, pretending to scroll. the camera records your man as he half turns his head.
"why aren't you holding my hand?" you demand like a spoiled brat. you catch the faint upward tug of his lips as he turns his head to face forward again.
then he releases his pinky from under his grip on the bags and slightly points it. you let out a happy sound and grab onto it. making a point of zooming in your camera on the view.
then you reverse the camera and film your face.
sukuna often tells you to wipe that smug look off your face. but how can you when you bagged such a hot deal?
so you give your brattiest grin and lean your head against his bicep. the camera doesn't capture his face, he is too tall for that.
sukuna doesn't comment, even as he watches the display. what can he say? he quite likes being shown off by his princess.
After a tragic accident erased your memories, you no longer remember the man you married. Unfortunately for you, Ryomen Sukuna remembers everything. And he'll do whatever it takes to make you remember him too.
Everything was so much weird.
When you first opened your eyes, the world was a blur of harsh lights and a rhythmic, annoying beep that made your head throb. A crowd of people were hovering over your bed, their faces twisted into expressions of pure horror and desperation. It felt like they were looking at a ghost or maybe a god that had suddenly fallen from the sky. The moment you blinked and stared back at them with blank, unrecognizing eyes, the room dissolved into quiet, breathless weeping.
You were completely utterly lost. Who was the woman with the dark circles under her eyes calling herself Shoko? Why was she gripping your hand like her entire world was ending? You knew your own name y/n echoed clearly in the empty caverns of your mind, but beyond that single fact, there was only a vast, terrifying void. You understood the modern world. you knew what a smartphone was, you recognized the concept of Wi-Fi, and when you mumbled those details, the doctors in the room let out collective, gasping sighs of relief.
But the real shock came twenty minutes later.
The heavy door to the hospital room burst open with a violent slam. A man lunged inside like a madman, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. You had never seen anyone look like him. His hair was a soft, striking shade of pastel pink so pretty and unexpected that you wondered for a fleeting second if he had dyed it just to stand out. Dark, intricate tattoos mapped across his skin, curling around his sharp cheekbones and framing his eyes. And those eyes... they were a piercing, burning red, swirling with a volatile mixture of terrifying rage and profound, shattering sadness.
You just sat there in your oversized, faded blue hospital gown, looking small and fragile as your confused gaze met his. The man froze, roughly brushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. His clothes were covered in a layer of grey dust and dried grit, looking as though he had sprinted straight off a construction site the second he got the news.
"Fucking... God. Hey, princess... fuck, don't you ever scare me like that again" he breathed, his deep, gravelly voice cracking as he took two massive strides toward your bedside, staring down at you with a desperation that made the air feel heavy.
You shrank back into the pillows, your brow furrowing. Princess? Were you in some bizarre historical simulation? Did kings and horses still exist? No, the blinking medical monitors around you disproved that immediately.
"Mr. Sukuna, please. I need to speak with you in private for a moment" a woman in her mid forties interrupted, her expression incredibly grave as she stepped between you and the huge man. She glanced at the other people lingering by the door. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, who had the exact same pink hair as the tattooed man, his face streaked with tears. Beside him stood another boy with unruly, spiky black hair and a dull, stoic expression that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. At the doctor's quiet command, they all slowly filed out into the hallway.
Left alone for a moment, you stared at the stark white walls, the untouched glass of water on the bedside table, and the crushing, dull monotony of the room.
When the door clicked open again, the female physician returned, holding a thick medical chart. The tattooed man followed closely behind her. He tried to offer you a small, reassuring smile, but it looked incredibly strained on his rugged face. His crimson eyes locked onto you, tracking every breath you took as if you might literally vanish into thin air if he dared to look away for a single second.
"Hello, y/n. I am Dr. Jennifer" the woman said kindly, stepping up to the mattress. "Do you know why you were brought here today?"
You frowned, looking between her and the towering man. "No."
The syllable was short and hollow. Beside the doctor, Sukuna’s entire frame stiffened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently beneath his tattoos, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hands into fists.
"Right. But you do remember your name?" she pressed gently.
"Yes... y/n I am Y/N." you answered firmly. You knew the name belonged to you, even if the history attached to it was completely gone.
"And do you know where you are right now?"
"A hospital?"
"Correct" Dr. Jennifer nodded, opening the document in her hands. "Look, I am going to explain exactly what happened, and I need you to listen very carefully, alright?" You gave a small, hesitant nod. "You were in a severe accident yesterday evening. You were walking home from the local market when a car veered off the road and hit you. It is a miracle you walked away with minor physical injuries, but the trauma to your head has caused a severe case of retrograde amnesia. Honestly, it's a surprise you even remember your name right now."
You let out a quiet hum, your eyes drifting down to your own hands resting on the thin blanket. That was when you noticed it a slender, platinum band set with a brilliant, flawlessly cut diamond resting securely on your left ring finger. It looked incredibly expensive, classy, and entirely foreign
So you were married.
"Y/n" Dr. Jennifer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You snapped your head up to look at her. "This man standing beside me... he is your husband."
The doctor tilted her head toward the giant. He was massive easily over six feet of raw, intimidating muscle, his tattooed face giving him a terrifying, dangerous aura. Your very first instinctual thought was that this man looked incredibly scary.
Sukuna didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting you analyze him, before he offered you a tiny, incredibly vulnerable nod. You tilted your head, staring into his intense red eyes, desperately searching for a single spark of familiarity. Did I really marry this giant?
"His name is Ryomen Sukuna, and he is going to take care of you" the doctor continued, closing her chart. "For the next few weeks, you need to let your brain rest, but you also need to gently stimulate it to try and regain those lost memories. Spending time in a familiar environment, in your own home with your husband, is going to be the best medicine for you."
You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly have a choice. You were being handed over to a complete stranger who happened to hold a legal claim to your entire life.
"Alright then. I wish you a safe and speedy recovery" Dr. Jennifer said with a final, empathetic smile before slipping out of the room.
The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Sukuna cleared his throat roughly, taking a few slow, tentative steps toward the edge of your bed. He moved with an immense amount of caution, as if he genuinely believed a sudden movement might break you into pieces. He pulled up the small plastic chair, sinking into it.
"Hey" he said softly. Even in a whisper, his voice was incredibly manly, deep, and rough.
"Hello" you replied shortly, your eyes tracking his hands.
To your surprise, his large, scarred fingers were trembling slightly as he fidgeted with them, refusing to meet your eyes. When he finally looked up, you realized the piercing red of his irises was completely glossy, swimming with unshed tears.
"Yo... you're getting discharged today" he choked out, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the mere act of speaking was causing him physical pain. "I'm going to go sign the paperwork, and then I'm taking you to... our house. I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to help you remember, princess."
You stared at his rugged, tattooed face for a long moment before letting out a soft, distant hum.
An hour later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, black Jeep, The man Sukuna kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked toward you every sixty seconds, his intense gaze making a nervous flutter erupt in your stomach.
You stared out the window, watching the city buildings, sprawling neighborhoods, and vibrant green trees blur past. Intrigued by the warm breeze, you raised your hand, pressing your palm gently against the glass as if you wanted to touch the passing leaves. Instantly, the window smoothly rolled down. Startled, you turned your head to find Sukuna adjusting the master controls, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable warmth.
"Can I ask you something-" you murmured softly.
"Yes." The answer came incredibly fast, almost desperate. He was hanging on your every word, practically begging for you to speak to him.
"How... how did we meet?" you asked, leaning your elbow on the door frame as the wind whipped through your hair.
"We met in high school" he answered quickly, navigating a sharp turn onto a quiet, "We've been married for seven years."
"High school?" You tilted your head, a faint smile touching your lips as you extended your hand just slightly out into the rushing air. "Were we friends back then?"
"Careful" he commanded firmly, though there was no real heat in his voice. You obediently pulled your hand back inside. A faint, nostalgic softness crept into his red eyes as he looked ahead. "Friends? no. You could say we didn't liked eachother each other when we first met. You thought I was a loud, arrogant mannerless jerk and I thought you were a stubborn, bossy brat."
He smoothly pulled the Jeep into a long brick driveway, coming to a stop in front of a breathtaking, modern two story house. It was painted a crisp, elegant white with sleek charcoal-grey accents, boasting massive, floor to ceiling windows that caught the afternoon sun.
"This is...our house" Sukuna murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "We've been living here for about four years."
He killed the engine, threw his door open, and practically sprinted around the hood of the car to open your door before you could even reach for the handle. He extended a massive, tattooed hand toward you, his palm open and waiting. You stared at his hand, your eyes traveling up the thick muscles of his forearm, before you deliberately stepped down onto the driveway without taking it.
Sukuna’s hand froze in mid-air. You watched his fingers slowly curl back into a fist before he pulled his arm away, a flash of pure, agonizing heartbreak crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.
As your feet hit the pavement, you looked up at the towering structure, desperately begging your brain to spark even a single ounce of familiarity. Nothing came. But as you turned around, you caught a glimpse of the man standing beside you. He was on the absolute verge of tears. His chest was tight, his jaw locked as he stared at you. You were his entire world, his beautiful wife, and yet you were looking at him like he was a total stranger. He suddenly felt a wave of profound hatred for every single time he had ever been mean or stubborn with you in the past, even in jest. He just wanted his girl back. His sweet innocent girl.
"The house is beautiful" you murmured gently, walking toward the porch.
'The house.' Not our house. The detached wording made Sukuna’s jaw clench painfully.
"Of course it is. I built the damn thing" he muttered, following closely behind you.
It was your exact dream house. Years ago, back when you were just broke college students dating in a cramped apartment, you had traced a clumsy design on a napkin, telling him you wanted a modern white house with endless windows, three bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough for the two of you to bake and slow-dance together while listening to old jazz records. Sukuna had kept that napkin. The moment he made his fortune, he hired a crew but did the vast majority of the heavy structural work with his own two hands. He had gifted you the keys on your third wedding anniversary, and he could still vividly remember the way you had wept tears of joy, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him until you were both breathless. He wanted that smile back. He would give anything just to have you look at him the way you used to.
You stepped inside, ignoring the heavy emotion rolling off him. Sukuna quickly gathered your small hospital bags and followed you into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.
Your eyes immediately gravitated toward the kitchen. It was vast, open, and undeniably stunning, featuring a massive quartz island and a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into a manicured backyard garden. The entire layout felt strangely perfect.
"Let me show you... around" Sukuna offered quietly.
He spent the next half hour guiding you through the corridors of what was supposed to be your life. But as he showed you the grand master bedroompointing out the side of the bed where you used to curl into his chest every single night your face remained entirely blank. You felt a twinge of heavy guilt pooling in your stomach. He showed you the living room, drawing your attention to a collection of large, breathtaking canvas paintings hanging on the walls.
"You painted those" Sukuna noted, a faint trace of pride in his rough voice. "You're a brilliant artist, princess."
You blinked in genuine surprise, looking down at your hands. "I drew these?" You were suprised, you don't even remember touching a brush in your life. But this is your new life. New start.
"Yeah." Sukuna stopped at the edge of the hallway, looking down at you with completely bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept a single second since the hospital called him about your accident. All he wanted to do was wrap his massive arms around your waist, pull you flush against his chest, and bury his face in your hair until the nightmare ended. But he couldn't. "Look... you can sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall, or you can take our bedroom and I'll stay in the guest room. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable you."
"Okay" you hummed softly.
His heart broke a little more at the compliant, distant tone. "I'll go start on some dinner, and then I'll get your medication ready. If you need a single damn thing, you just call out for me, alright? Your clothes are all in the dresser, undergarments in the top drawer, pajamas in the second..."
You nodded, offering him a polite murmur of thanks before retreating into the guest room. You changed into a simple, comfortable t-shirt and sweats. A little while later, his deep voice echoed up the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the dining room, sitting at the large table like a polite houseguest waiting to be served.
"Do you need help?" Sukuna asked, carefully sliding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a large spoon toward you. You shook your head, grasping the utensil and taking a quiet sip. He sat across from you, his own bowl entirely untouched as he just stared at your face. "Y/n... you really don't remember a single damn thing about me?"
His voice cracked completely on the last word, the raw vulnerability of a ruthless man exposed right in front of you. You looked up, meeting his glossy red eyes.
"No... I don't. I'm really sorry" you whispered genuinely.
He let out a slow nod, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."
"Do I... do I have parents? Or friends?" you asked, a sudden curiosity about your own forgotten life bubbling up.
"Yeah. You have parents. Your father—"
"Where are they?" you interrupted quickly, leaning forward. "Do they know I was in an accident? Why aren't they here?"
"They haven't spoken to you in over seven years. Not since the day you married me" Sukuna said, his tone dropping into something cold and bitter.
"Why?"
"Your family is rich as fuck. Extremely strict, arrogant aristocrats" Sukuna explained, his red eyes locking back onto yours. "They completely forbade you from seeing me because I was just a rough, tattooed bastard from the wrong side of the tracks with a criminal record and a unstable future. They told you that if you walked out that door with me, you’d be cut off permanently."
You stared at him, a sudden spark of heat flaring in your chest. "Well, that's so stupid of them. It sounds like a good thing we don't talk to them then."
The sheer, unyielding loyalty in your voice made Sukuna’s lips twitch, a genuine, heartbreaking smile threatening to break through his stoic mask. Even with a wiped memory, his sweet wife still possessed that exact same fiery, protective spirit.
"Yeah" he chuckled hoarsely, letting out a long sigh. "You have an incredible best friend named Shoko. You two are both doctors. you work in the exact same surgical unit at the city hospital. We have a ton of mutual friends we met back in our high school days. And those kids at the hospital? The pink-haired teenager is my nephew, Yuji, and the dark-haired one is Megumi, our friend's kid. They practically worship the ground you walk on, princess. You love those brats to death."
"Can I see them?" you asked, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.
"Of course. Whenever you want." he promised, his eyes tracking the way your lips curved.
Sukuna let out a sudden, rough snort, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Old or not, woman... you're still completely breathtaking."
A deep, violent blush instantly stained your cheeks. You hadn't been around an attractive man or any man, for that matter in your conscious memory, and having this giant, dangerously handsome individual throw such a raw compliment at you made your heart do a chaotic somersault. You quickly looked down at your soup, missing the way his eyes softened at your reaction.
Over the next three weeks, the fragments of a life began to surround you, even if the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite lock into place.
Yuji and Megumi came over to the house constantly. Yuji spent hours enthusiastically teaching you how to make his signature protein shakes and weird jello molds, his loud laughter filling the quiet house, while Megumi sat nearby with his usual serious expression. But the moment you offered Megumi a soft, encouraging smile, his sharp features would instantly melt into something deeply tender. Yet, beneath their smiles, you could see the underlying sadness in their eyes every time you failed to remember a shared inside joke.
When Shoko finally visited, she broke down completely, throwing her arms around your neck and sobbing into your shoulder. It was a bizarre maybe stupid too, overwhelming feeling being fiercely loved by people you couldn't even remember and a heavy weight of guilt began to settle deep in your chest. You even met Toji, Megumi's father, a tall, stoic man who didn't say much but looked at you with a quiet, profound pity that made you realize just how broken your situation truly was.
And then, there was Sukuna.
Your husband spent every single day patiently guiding you through your routines, driving you past your old university, cooking your favorite meals, and trying every gentle trigger possible. But your mind remained a stubborn, locked vault. Sukuna was growing desperate furious and completely fucked up by the stagnation.
To make matters worse, just one week before the accident, you had playfully taken down every single one of your framed marriage photographs to rearrange the living room gallery wall, hiding them away in a "genius spot" that Sukuna had completely forgotten more like you didn't even told him. He had spent hours frantically tearing the house apart while you were out, searching for a single modern photo of the two of you together.
He was completely unraveling. He couldn't sleep. The woman he loved was sleeping in the room next to him, yet she looked at him with the polite, distant eyes of a stranger. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home. One evening, he sat alone in the dark kitchen and wept the third time he had ever cried in his entire life. The first had been tears of pure joy on your wedding day when he saw you walking the aisle. the second had been out of terror when the ER doctor told him a car had struck you. and now, he was crying simply because he missed his wife so damn much
His phone offered no help either. his gallery was filled entirely with candid photos he had taken of you you stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head, you laughing in a department store dressing room, or a hilarious picture of you biting into a raw lemon and making a completely disgusted face. He had no photos of the two of you together on his device, you had always been the one insisted on keeping the physical, printed albums. The only joint photos he could find were a few faded, wrinkled prints from your high school days, showing a younger, wilder version of himself wrapping his arms around you from behind while you laughed into the camera. When he showed them to you, you just stared at them blankly. It was killing him.
At the end of the third week, Sukuna was sitting heavily on the living room sofa, completely exhausted after another failed search through the house. He was mindlessly scrolling through the candid photos of you on his phone, a faint, melancholy smile touching his lips. His fingers traced your face on the photo, your bright smile. your bubbly laughter at his most unfunniset jokes, now all of that are vanished.
The heavy front door clicked open. Shoko had taken you out for an afternoon of shopping to get you out of the house, and she had just dropped you off at the curb. You stepped into the foyer, balancing several shopping bags in your arms.
Sukuna instantly locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket as he stood up, his red eyes drinking in the sight of you. "Had fun, princess?"
"Yes, I did. And thank you... for letting me use your credit card" you said softly, walking over to the coffee table and gently sliding the black card back toward him.
"You bought dresses?" he asked, pointing toward the bags. Honestly, he didn't give a single fuck about the money. you could have emptied his entire bank account and he would have gladly signed it away just to see you happy.
"I bought a few things..." You cleared your throat nervously, your fingers twisting together. "But... I actually bought something for you, too."
The words hit his chest like a physical blow. Even with her mind completely wiped, your beautiful, kind soul was still looking out for him. "Really?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Can I see it?"
You gave a small nod, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down right next to him. The close proximity made his heart start to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"I don't know if it's really your style, or if you'll even like it..." you mumbled bashfully, reaching into a small velvet pouch and pulling out a heavy, intricately braided silver bracelet studded with raw, brilliant red stones. "The color... it just immediately reminded me of you. Of your eyes."
You gently reached out, grasping his massive, calloused wrist to drape the metal over his skin. Oh God, if you only knew how fast his heart was racing beneath his chest. Your soft, warm fingers lingering against his pulse point was pure, exquisite torture.
"It looks incredible, Y/n. Thank you." he whispered, a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile spreading across his tattooed face as he looked down at the crimson stones.
"Thank you... for being so incredibly patient with me" you said quietly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
Sukuna let out a long, ragged sigh, his hand hovering over yours for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. "I will always be patient with you, princess. Always."
You looked directly into his burning red eyes, and for the first time in three weeks, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face. Sukuna felt his breath hitch. he was entirely certain he was about to pass out from the sheer weight of his love for you.
"Can you stay right here for a bit? I need to go jump in the shower real quick. I'll be fast" he muttered hoarsely, his hand instinctively reaching out to gently ruffle your hair a comforting, domestic habit he had carefully maintained. You let out a soft chuckle at the gesture.
The moment his heavy footsteps disappeared up the stairs and the sound of running water echoed through the pipes, you stood up, wandering aimlessly around the quiet main floor. Your feet pulled you toward the small, cozy library nestled just off the living room. The walls were lined with hundreds of books some ancient leather volumes, others modern art textbooks. You pulled one off the shelf, flipping through the pages before sliding it back into place.
As you stepped back, your eyes caught a glimpse of something hidden on the absolute highest shelf, shoved far back into the shadows near the ceiling. It looked like a massive, heavy frame leaning flat against the back wall, obscured by a decorative ceramic vase. Intrigued, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arms up as high as they could go, blindly reaching for the top edge of the wooden frame.
Your fingers caught the molding, but as you pulled, the heavy ceramic vase shifted, losing its balance.
Crash!
The vase shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing smash. Startled, you let out a sharp cry, stumbling backward as the massive hidden frame came tumbling down from the top shelf, striking the edge of the desk before landing flat on the rug. The backing of the frame split completely open upon impact, and a massive cascade of loose, glossy photographs erupted across the floor hundreds of them, scattering like playing cards across the room.
You gasped, placing a hand over your racing heart as you looked away from the broken pottery, your eyes drifting down to the sea of images covering the floor.
You froze.
Right at your feet lay a massive, professionally printed portrait. In the photograph, you were sitting securely on Sukuna's lap. You were wearing a breathtaking, flowing white lace wedding dress, holding a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers, and laughing so brightly your eyes were crinkled shut. Sukuna was clad in a sharp, tailored black tuxedo, his massive arms wrapped fiercely around your waist from behind, an absolutely massive, unbothered, triumphant grin plastered across his face.
Your breath hitched violently. You stumbled forward, falling to your knees as your hands frantically snatched up another photo from the pile. In this one, you were hoisted high up on Sukuna's broad shoulders at a crowded, flashing outdoor music festival; your mouth was wide open in a breathless scream of laughter, while his large hands were clamped firmly around your thighs to keep you safe, both of your faces painted with pure, unadulterated euphoria.
You grabbed a third photo, and the entire world stopped spinning. It was a quiet, intimate shot taken right in the backyard garden outside. You were sitting cross-legged on the green grass, wearing a simple summer dress with a soft, shy smile, while Sukuna’s heavy head was resting completely in your lap. He was looking up at you with an expression of such pure, unconditional adoration it made your soul ache, while your fingers were woven gently through his soft pink hair.
Pink hair.
The backyard.
The jazz music.
The napkin.
A sudden, violent explosion of memories ripped through the barriers of your mind. It wasn't a trickle; it was a catastrophic, roaring tidal wave. Seven years of laughter, fierce arguments, passionate late-night apologies, the smell of his skin, the exact weight of his body pressing you into the master mattress, the sound of his deep voice whispering "I've got you, princess" into the dark. It all hit your brain at once with the force of a freight train.
The sheer, overwhelming velocity of the memories made the room spin violently. Your vision blurred into a vortex of white light and crimson eyes. You let out a choked gasp, your strength entirely giving out as your body collapsed sideways onto the hardwood floor with a loud, heavy thud, the scattered photographs of your life pooling around your unconscious form.
When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights was gone, replaced by the warm, dim ambiance of the living room. You were laying flat on the soft fabric of the sofa.
"She's waking up! Sukuna, look, her eyes are moving!" Yuji’s panicked, loud voice cut through the quiet room.
You blinked heavily, your vision slowly focusing. Megumi was standing right beside his cousin, his dark eyes wide and completely swimming with anxiety. Shoko was hovering over you, a small medical flashlight in her hand, her face pale as she checked your vitals.
But your heart didn't care about any of them. Your eyes frantically scanned the tight circle of people, instantly landing on the massive, tattooed man standing frozen at the foot of the couch. His pastel pink hair was damp from the shower, his chest heaving under a plain black t-shirt, and his face was a mask of pure, absolute terror.
As your eyes met his, a single, heavy tear spilled over your eyelid, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The vast, terrifying void in your mind was completely gone, replaced by the roaring, beautiful fire of your reality.
"Ryo..." you choked out, your voice a broken, breathless sob.
Sukuna froze, his entire frame visibly violently shuddering at the sound of the nickname the private, intimate name only you were ever allowed to call him.
Before anyone else could even blink, you threw yourself forward off the sofa cushions, completely ignoring the dull ache in your muscles. You lunged straight into his space, your arms wrapping fiercely around his massive neck. You buried your face in the crook of his collarbone, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you pressed a hard, crying kiss directly against his tattooed jaw.
"I remember... us" you sobbed violently into his skin, your entire body trembling as the tears flowed freely. "I remember everything, Ryo... I remember you."
Sukuna’s mind completely blanked. For a single, breathless second, he couldn't even process the words. And then, a raw, ragged sound escaped his throat a mixture of a sob and a laugh. His massive, powerful arms came crashing down around your frame, pulling you so close against his chest you could barely breathe, lifting your knees entirely off the floor as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.
And there, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his family and the scattered photographs of your love, Ryomen Sukuna closed his eyes and wept for the fourth time in his life.
"I fucking love you" he whispers
(not me me writing all night just for 36 like and one reblog😣🙏🏾)
"You're not my boyfriend." Try telling Ryomen Sukuna that when another man gets a little too close.
A/N: you aint my boyfriend and i aint your girlfriend 🤨 if u couldnt tell, this was inspired by boyfriend by ari and social house ✌️😗 this is also an old fic i dug out 🚬 anyways exams have been fucking me raw lately and not in a fun way. i should be out here bussing it down at the club, getting lit, making questionable decisions. instead im bussing it down with textbooks and practice exams. tragic. devastating, even. it's okay though, bc i got bts tickets 😛
Art: @/pattyi.i on insta <3
Sukuna never asked for a commitment. Somehow, the arrangement just fell into place anyway. It started with small things: late night texts, showing up without warning, and a heavy black leather jacket tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there.
Your phone buzzed softly against the counter.
you home.
No greeting, no question mark—just the absolute assumption of an open door.
yeah.
Three dots appeared instantly.
open up.
A heavy knock followed seconds later.
"Geez. No 'please' or anything" you mumbled, tossing your phone back onto the counter.
Opening the door revealed Ryomen Sukuna leaning against the frame as if he’d been waiting all night. A familiar presence filled the doorway before he even spoke, the air growing heavy with his warm, spicy cologne. Red eyes flicked down, assessing the view. “Thought you were asleep.”
“Bruh, you literally just texted me.”
He hummed, brushing past without waiting for an invitation. His hand lingered briefly on the small of your back, pressing just enough to claim the space before letting go. You shut the door behind him. “You’re going to start paying rent at this point." Sukuna stretched out on your couch, arms draped lazily across the cushions with a smirk. “You’d miss me.” An eye roll was the only response you gave him, but neither side pushed the argument.
Weeks passed in a blur of late nights and shared silences. A heavy hand would rest on your waist during trips around the kitchen, fingers brushing the curve of your hip and teasingly lingering during the morning coffee brew. On walks together, he closed the distance entirely, slipping a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. No matter how many times that hand was swatted away with a muttered, “People are going to think we’re dating” the pink haired man just shrugged, keeping his hand firmly planted against ur ass. He always stood slightly behind or beside you, a silent declaration: I’m here.
Sometimes he waited after lectures, leaning against the campus gate with a lazy, half smirk, arms crossed as the crowd filtered past. Spotting him always made your stomach twist, knowing he’d been waiting long before the dismissal bell. His gaze would lock on, serving as a quiet warning to anyone walking too close.
Nights were spent sharing the couch and stealing blankets, half tangled around his large frame while the remaining fabric barely covered your lap. Sometimes he drapes himself across you, a hand brushing lightly down your arm or against your thigh—never intrusive, but entirely claiming the space. When he relaxed completely, your fingers wander over his tattoos, tracing the sharp lines along his face and chest. Each mark felt almost magnetic under the skin. He would hum low, letting the attention slide, a thumb occasionally brushing your wrist to claim the movement. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your fingertips, a slight smirk evident in the way he adjusted his posture to keep your hand exactly where he wanted it.
There were nights spent falling asleep in his bed after an argument left unfinished—bodies pressed tight, the quiet between you louder than any words. Other mornings started tangled in his arms, hair brushing his chest, fingers clutching his shirt before fully waking up. His hand would curl around your wrist, a thumb tracing small, slow circles. The habits became second nature to notice: how he leaned a fraction closer when a stranger got too near. The amused smirk whenever a tease was thrown back at him. The trademark "tch" or scoff of annoyance that left his lips. Pressing his forehead to yours in the early mornings, claiming the first minutes of the day. Playing the thief with a tilted head and a lazy, "Oops, that's my spot now" daring an argument.
Almost like a couple. But without labels or promises, the unresolved tension grew nearly unbearable.
Tonight, gojo's house was packed. The bass vibrated faintly through the floorboards, drowning out the roar of the crowded room. People moved in a blur of red cups and loud laughter.
Pausing near the entrance to scan the room, your eyes landed across the living room. Sukuna leaned against the back of a couch, looking entirely too comfortable. A few girls crowded his space, laughing a little too loudly at whatever he’d just muttered. One girl rested a hand on tattooed arm. Another leaned in close, fingers brushing his shoulder. He let them.
Your jaw tightened.
His eyes found yours instantly, as if he’d known the exact second you walked through the door. The crowd seemed to fade under his direct stare. Across the room, through flashing lights and shifting bodies, he just watched. A slow smirk pulled at his lips, waiting to see the reaction. The girl beside him kept talking, her fingers resting on his arm, tracing the very same tattoos you usually spent hours mapping out. Sukuna didn’t move away. He just looked on—unbothered and thoroughly amused.
Typical.
Turning away before he could read anything else on your face, you made a beeline for the kitchen. A quick adjustment was made to the hem of the mini black off shoulder dress, the fabric hugging your waist and tight at the hips. Gold open toe heels clicked softly against the floorboards, gold hoops swaying with the quick tilt of your head. The reflective surface of the fridge offered a quick glimpse—makeup intact, shoulders tense, face slightly flushed from the scene in the living room. Pulling the door open, the cool light spilled out as you grabbed a drink.
“Careful with that one” a voice warned.
Turning around revealed a guy leaning against the counter, sporting a charming smile. “Trust me. It’s stronger than it looks.”
A small laugh escaped you. “I’ll take my chances.”
The guy laughed, stepping a bit closer to be heard over the booming music. “So… what brings you here alone?”
A shrug followed. “Just needed a drink and a break from… life.”
His smirk widened. “I get that. Same here.”
The conversation began to flow more freely, a genuine laugh sparking at a joke he made. It felt easy. The guy leaned in, lowering his voice. “You know, you’ve got this energy. Makes people really want to talk to you.”
A smile crept up, a sudden flutter stirring in your chest—until a familiar scent hit the air. Warm, spicy, and impossible to ignore. The exact aroma that lingered on your clothes every time he pulled you in.
Sukuna.
A heavy pair of arms slid around your waist from behind. His broad chest pressed flush against your back, almost swallowing you as he pulled you back. One hand settled flat against your stomach while the other grazed your hip, fingers brushing the edge of your short dress to anchor you firmly against him. The fabric shifted under his grip, lifting fractionally as you instinctively braced on your heels. Sukuna wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked dead on the guy across the counter. Slowly, the pink haired man dipped his head, his nose brushing the side of your neck before settling into the crook of your shoulder. Warm breath ghosted over your bare skin, his fingers tightening just enough to claim you. The gentle sway of gold hoops brushed against him with every shallow inhale.
The guy stiffens. “Oh—uh. Sorry, man, I didn’t know—”
“No” you interrupted, trying to shift out of his grasp. “We’re not—”
“Yeah” Sukuna cuts in smoothly, his voice low. “You should go.”
The guy hesitated, muttered a quick, “Right… my bad” and vanished into the crowd.
You turn inside Sukuna’s arms, looking up at him. “Bruh, what's your problem?”
Sukuna looked down as if nothing had happened.
“You’re not my boyfriend” you huffed out.
His eyes slowly searched your face before letting out a slight scoff.
Pushing lightly against his chest, you snapped, “Stop acting like you own me.”
He simply watched, absorbing the defiance. Then, with a sudden tug at your waist, he pulled you closer. The hem of your dress rode up your ass slightly before his hand reached behind to pull the fabric back into place.
“You want a boyfriend?” His thumb dragged slowly along your jawline, tilting your face up to force eye contact. "That what this is about?”
Silence was the only answer, making his eyes narrow. “Tch. Greedy.”
The music and chatter faded into background noise—the space between you grew heavy. Sukuna hummed softly, his hand sliding back down to the small of your back. His fingers settled there as if they had never left, pressing into the curve. Your heels click softly against the floor as he adjusts his hold, keeping the fit perfect. “And yet” he murmured, leaning closer, “you still let me do this.” Your breath catches when he pulls you a fraction closer.
“Doesn’t really sound like you want a boyfriend” Sukuna said lazily. Dipping his head lower, his lips trailed light kisses along your neck—the same familiar routine he’d done a thousand times before. It made your stomach twist. A sharp inhale brought in his spicy cologne, mixing with the soft sweetness of vanilla perfume until your head spun.
“Sounds like you just want me.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, a low, teasing vibration. “Go ahead… say you’re leaving me.”
The words never came.
A slow smile spread across his face. Because he already knows you won’t.
The air is sharp and smells of damp earth and pine, but inside the Jeep, the atmosphere is pure, unadulterated adrenaline. Sukuna’s in a state of total, infectious joy, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as he maneuvers the heavy vehicle through the rugged terrain.
Whenever a tire catches air or a spray of gravel hits the undercarriage, he erupts in loud laughter, and it’s a cheerful, hearty, boisterous sound you absolutely adore.
"Hold on, brat!" he shouts with a feral, wide-eyed grin plastered across his face.
He guns it toward a stretch of lowland that looks more like a soup of dark, sludge-like mud rather than a proper trail. For a few glorious seconds, the Jeep surges forward, its tires spinning and throwing massive plumes of dirt and sludge into the air. Then, with a squelching sound, its momentum dies. The engine roars, tires turn with a whine, but the Jeep keeps sinking until the mud reaches the doors.
Sukuna kills the engine, but he doesn't look annoyed. He’s just been handed a challenge he’s been waiting for all day.
"Stuck," he grunts, though he sounds almost pleased.
He hops out of the driver’s seat, his legs sinking knee-deep into the muck with a wet shuck. You watch from the dry, elevated safety of the passenger side as he trudges toward the front bumper. He’s already covered in filth, his tee clinging to his broad shoulders as he wrestles with the winch cable.
It’s a struggle. The winch is stubborn, the cable slick with mud, and despite the cool breeze, Sukuna sweats. He’s swearing loudly with every heave. His muscles strain as he pulls the heavy line toward a nearby oak tree, a streak of black grease across his cheek, looking wild and undeniably strong.
He pauses for a second to catch his breath, wiping a hand across his forehead and only leaving more mud behind. That’s when he catches you staring at him through the open window with unshielded adoration, resting your chin on your hand.
The thing is—he knows exactly how good he looks right now and that you’re impressed. So he stops his work, standing upright in the muck, and calls out with a smug, pleased smirk, “I know, I know—it’s the best I’ve looked all week. Take a picture. It'll last longer. But try to keep your tongue in your mouth while I’m working, brat.”
You huff out a laugh and lean out further, batting your eyelashes with exaggerated enthusiasm, flashing him a sickly sweet, condescending grin.
“Oh, Kuna,” you coo, your voice syrupy-sweet. Two can play this game. “You’re just so big and strong, aren’t you? Look at you, all muddy and manly, fixing the big, scary truck all by yourself. Such a good boy.”
The smirk vanishes from Sukuna’s face, and he stops abruptly, his hands frozen on the winch cable. He stares at you with a look that’s half a genuine laugh, half a vow to abandon you in the wilderness forever. The smugness is instantly replaced by a deep grumpiness.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ leave you in this swamp,” he growls, his voice dropping to what he thinks is a dangerous, dark rumble, but to you it’s just another Tuesday. “I swear to fucking god, I’m never doing anything manly in front of your ungrateful ass again. Fix your own goddamn struts next time.”
“Don’t pout, baby. Do you want a treat?” you tease, laughing at the pure indignation radiating from him as his ears turn bright red with embarrassment. “Is that what this is about? Come on, who’s my favorite boy?”
Sukuna’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t snap back immediately. Instead, his eyes dart away, and he lets out a sharp, jagged exhale through his nose. He tries to look busy with the winch, but his movements have lost their usual precision as he’s fumbling with the hook.
"Stop it," he mutters, though his tone has lost its edge and is now thick and strained. "I’m not a damn dog. Don't talk to me like that."
"But you’re doing such a great job with that heavy cable!” you chirp, seeing the way his shoulders go stiff. “And just look at those big muscles! I think I might have to get you an extra large pizza tonight just for being so hardworking."
He’s having a battle with himself not to storm over and pull you out through the window. Finally, he lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a huff of suppressed laughter, and you catch him biting his lower lip to keep from grinning. He actually leans into the task with a sudden, renewed burst of energy, as if he’s subconsciously trying to earn more of that ridiculous praise even while he pretends to hate it.
“I’m done with you.” He turns his back to you to finish hooking the winch, his ears not just red now, but a deep, burning crimson that spreads all the way down to his neck. “Go find a stick and build a hut. You’re living here now.”
You can’t help it. You kick off your shoes and hop out of the Jeep, the cold mud squelching between your toes as you splash through the pit. He hears you coming and tries to stay focused on the tree, but you’re relentless. You reach him and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his head down.
He tries to stay rigid, to keep up the act of being over it, but as you pepper his grumpy, mud-streaked face with kisses, his resolve crumbles. After finally hooking the cable, his large, muddy hands instantly find your waist, and he hoists you a little too enthusiastically for a man claiming to be annoyed.
"Get off," he grumbles, even as he pulls you tighter against his chest and buries his face in the crook of your neck to hide the smug grin he can't hold back anymore, leaving massive mud prints on your back. "You’re getting filth everywhere."
"You love it," you murmur against his cheek.
"I hate it,” he lies, his voice vibrating warmly against your skin as he squeezes you. “But whatever. Just stay still so I don’t drop you in it, you menace.”
nanami’s high maintenance girlfriend and her emergencies
nanami had learned, over the course of loving you, that your definition of emergency and everyone else’s definition of emergency existed on entirely different planes of reality.
his phone buzzes against the conference table. then again. nanami glances down with a frown while someone drones on about curse logistics.
baby 💗 kento this is bad
baby 💗 like actually bad
baby 💗 emergency
nanami’s brows knit. across the table, gojo leans halfway over in blatant nosiness. “what’s with the face?”
nanami ignores him, already standing. “excuse me for a moment.”
nanami shuts the door behind him before answering. “hello.”
your voice comes through watery and upset. “kento.”
his posture straightens immediately. “what happened?”
“it’s awful.”
his chest tightens. “are you hurt?”
“worse.”
nanami pauses. “…worse?”
there’s a tiny, devastated inhale. “my nail broke.”
“…your what?”
“my nail, kento!” your voice cracks. “the pretty one. the one with the little bow.”
nanami closes his eyes, slowly exhales out his nose. “i see.”
“it fully broke,” you whisper, sounding genuinely shattered. “like all the way. the shape is ugly and i tried to fix it but it looks worse and i hate it. and—and i tried calling my nail place but they can’t fit me in for any times right now.”
nanami pinches the bridge of his nose. behind his closed eyelids, he can picture you perfectly. sitting somewhere in your apartment, lower lip trembling, staring at your hand. he can hear the tears in your voice.
ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. “give me a moment, honey,” he says, voice even despite the faint headache blooming behind his eyes. “my meeting is almost over.”
your sniffle crackles through the speaker. “okay…”
“i’ll call you back.”
“i love you.”
another quiet exhale “…yes, i know. i love you too, sweetheart.”
he hangs up and returns to the conference room. for approximately one minute, nanami tries. he sits back down. someone resumes talking. gojo keeps looking at him with this expression and waggling his eyebrows.
“…and if we reassign the patrol routes,” someone says, voice fading into background noise. nanami thinks of your watery little kento through the phone. your sniffles. the dramatic devastation in your voice.
he shuts his eyes briefly. for a sane, rational person, this would not constitute an emergency. for you… nanami exhales quietly, standing. “i’m sorry, but something’s come up. please email me the rest of the meeting.”
gojo wheezes loudly and nanami ignores him, already grabbing his coat. he knows, against all logic and reason, knew the second he sees your face all crumpled up and teary-eyed, he’dllsigh, kiss your forehead, take your hand gently in his, and spend the rest of the evening fixing your crisis.
because unfortunately for him, he loves you.
and because even more unfortunately, your emergencies have become his too.
arguing with your boyfriend over something so petty—actually funny that it's still ongoing.
nanami kento made a vow to never let you go to bed with a heavy heart.
your boyfriend, who'd take the blame and apologize for every argument no matter who was at fault.
the same man who swore he'd love you even if you were a louse (put you on his head just so you'd survive typeshi).
it all started on a wednesday afternoon. sunlight streamed through the windows as you both curled into the couch. the tv played a movie—something about high schoolers singing—but your mind drifted off elsewhere.
"are we meant to be?" you queried the man slumped against you.
"not really." he said, entirely unfazed.
"excuse me?"
***
it was day two of ignoring nanami.
he stepped into the bedroom, spotting you curled under the covers with your back to him. the room was dark except for the faint glow from the hallway.
"darling?" he padded over and gently sat on the edge of the bed.
he reached out to brush a strand of hair away from your face.
"i apologize but i still find the notion of fate disagreeable."
you don't respond.
"it could've picked anyone for me. any random person across town or some celebrity i don't like." you turn, glaring daggers at your boyfriend.
"fate didn't choose you." nanami said softly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. "i did."
he turned his head slightly and tucked the duvet under your chin.
"i believe i chose you every single day since we met." his voice dropped almost to a whisper. "i chose to be the first one you see when you open your eyes. and be the last before you sleep."
his thumb brushes your cheekbone.
"even when my hair turns white. even if my skin starts to wrinkle. even if i won't be able to open my eyes. even if you can't hear me anymore."
There is a very specific, highly entertaining phenomenon that occurs whenever you take your husband out in public. You like to call it the “Terror and Thirst” effect.
Today, at the crowded public beach, it is in full swing.
You are currently lounging under the massive shade of a navy blue beach umbrella, a trashy romance novel resting on your lap, watching the spectacle unfold at the shoreline.
Ryomen Sukuna is, objectively, a masterpiece of a man. Standing at a towering 6’4”, he is built like a heavyweight champion—broad shoulders, a thick chest, and a torso carved out of solid granite. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung, black board shorts that sit dangerously low on his hips, putting the intricate, sprawling black tattoos that cover his chest, arms, and stomach on full, glorious display.
He is hot as fuck. It’s a fact that is currently not lost on the group of college girls sitting on a blanket about twenty yards away. They haven’t stopped staring, whispering behind their hands, and aggressively adjusting their bikini tops for the last half hour.
But here is the catch: Sukuna is also terrifying.
He has this natural, resting aura of absolute disdain for anyone who isn’t you or your son. He’s a snob, plain and simple. He doesn’t smile at strangers, he doesn’t make polite small talk, and if someone stares at him for too long, he gives them a dead-eyed, chilling glare that practically drops the surrounding temperature by ten degrees.
Case in point: one of the girls giggles a little too loudly, pointing in his direction. Sukuna, who is currently standing ankle-deep in the surf, slowly turns his head. He doesn’t say a word. He just narrows his crimson eyes, his face completely blank, and stares her down.
The girl visibly pales, her hand dropping instantly. She quickly turns around, suddenly very interested in the contents of her cooler.
Sukuna lets out a quiet, dismissive scoff, turning his attention back to the water.
“You’re going to give those poor girls a complex, babe,” you call out, unable to hide your amusement.
Sukuna looks over his shoulder at you, and the transformation is instantaneous. The cold, intimidating mask melts away, replaced by an expression so incredibly soft and devoted it makes your chest ache. The corners of his mouth twitch up into a small, fond smile.
“Not my problem that they are annoying,” he says, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the crashing waves. “Besides, I only want one woman looking at me.”
You roll your eyes, though your cheeks heat up. “Smooth, Ryomen. Very smooth.”
“Dada! Splash!”
A tiny, high-pitched voice interrupts the moment. Yuji, currently sporting a pair of tiny black swim trunks that perfectly match his dad’s, is waddling furiously through the shallow water. He’s got a pair of bright orange floaties strapped to his chubby arms, his pink hair plastered to his forehead from the ocean spray.
Sukuna’s attention snaps to his son. He doesn’t say anything, just calmly wades deeper into the water, his massive hands reaching down to scoop the toddler up under the armpits.
“You want to splash, little man?” Sukuna asks quietly, his tone a low, soothing rumble.
“Yeah! Big splash!” Yuji cheers, kicking his little legs.
You watch, completely mesmerized, as your terrifying, snobbish husband hoists your two-year-old high into the air. Sukuna tosses him up—just high enough to make Yuji squeal with delight—and catches him effortlessly, dipping him down so his little toes drag through the water.
It’s a beautiful, chaotic contrast. The giant, tattooed wall of muscle, gently playing in the waves with a giggling, chubby-cheeked toddler.
They play in the water for another twenty minutes. Sukuna is quiet, mostly just listening to Yuji babble about the “big fishes” and the “salty water,” occasionally offering a calm nod or a soft chuckle. He is completely in his element, entirely unbothered by the rest of the world.
Eventually, Sukuna wades out of the water, carrying Yuji on his hip. Water is dripping from Sukuna’s pink hair, running down the hard planes of his chest and tracing the lines of his tattoos. It is a sight that should be illegal.
He walks over to the umbrella, grabbing a towel with his free hand and tossing it over his shoulder. He sets Yuji down on the sand.
“Go to mama, buddy. Let her dry you off,” Sukuna murmurs, running a hand through his wet hair.
But Yuji has other plans.
He shakes himself off like a wet puppy, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. He takes two steps toward you, stops, and then his head snaps to the left.
You follow his gaze. A new group of girls—three of them, looking like they just stepped out of a swimsuit catalog—have set up their chairs near the shoreline.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter, dropping your book. “Not again.”
Yuji’s eyes go wide. He completely ignores you, turning on his heel and marching straight toward the girls. His little chest is puffed out, his arms swinging with an unearned amount of swagger for a kid who still wears pull-ups at night.
“Sukuna,” you warn, pointing at your son. “Stop him.”
Sukuna doesn’t move. He just stands there, drying his chest with the towel, watching Yuji with a quiet, amused smirk. “Why? He’s on a mission.”
“He is two! He is literally a baby!” you hiss, standing up. “Why does he act like a frat boy on spring break?”
“Son't ask me,” Sukuna replies, clearly avoiding your eyes, he took a sip from the bottle of water. He doesn't say it, but you can hear the lingering amusement in his voicd. “Let the boy have fun, babe.”
You groan, watching helplessly as Yuji reaches the girls.
He stops right in front of their beach chairs. He puts his chubby little hands on his hips, tilts his head, and unleashes the weapon: your bright, disarming smile.
“Hi!” Yuji chirps loudly. “I Yuji!”
The girls immediately stop talking. They look down at the tiny, pink-haired toddler, and the collective swoon is almost audible.
“Oh my god, hi!” one of them coos, leaning forward. “Aren’t you just the cutest thing ever?”
“Pweety,” Yuji says, pointing a tiny finger at the girl’s sparkly bikini top. He then flexes his little arm, showing off a completely non-existent bicep. “Look! Strong like dada!”
“I can’t believe this,” you whisper, burying your face in your hands. Sukuna lets out a low, quiet chuckle next to you.
“You are a terrible influence,” you glare at him.
“Babe, I didn’t do anything,” Sukuna says, his voice completely deadpan, though his eyes are dancing with mirth. “I’m just standing here.”
Down by the water, the girls are eating it up. They are giggling, offering Yuji a plastic beach toy, which he graciously accepts. But then, one of the girls looks up. Her eyes scan the beach, looking for the parents, and she spots Sukuna.
You can practically see the cartoon hearts pop out of her eyes.
She stands up, brushing sand off her legs, and walks over to Yuji, taking his little hand. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go find your dad.”
She leads Yuji back toward your umbrella, her eyes locked entirely on Sukuna. She has that look—the look of a woman who thinks she’s about to shoot her shot with a single dad.
“Excuse me,” the girl says, her voice dropping into a sultry purr as she approaches. She completely ignores you, standing right in front of Sukuna. “Is this little guy yours? He wandered over to us.”
Sukuna stops drying his hair. His smilr vanishes, instantly replaced by that cold snobbery. He looks down at the girl, his expression completely blank, his eyes devoid of any warmth.
He doesn’t say a word to her.
Instead, he steps forward, completely invading her personal space with his massive frame, forcing her to take a nervous step back. He reaches down and scoops Yuji up into his arms.
“Dada! Pweety girl!” Yuji babbles, pointing at the woman.
Sukuna looks at the girl for one more second. It’s a look that clearly says, You are entirely beneath my notice.
“Thanks,” Sukuna says. His voice is quiet, but it carries a heavy, chilling finality that makes the girl flinch. “Come here buddy lets go to mama”
He turns his back on her without another word, walking the two steps over to you. The girl stands there for a second, her face flushed bright red with embarrassment, before she quickly turns and scurries back to her friends.
You are trying very hard not to laugh. “You didn’t have to be so mean to her.”
“I wasn’t,” Sukuna scoffs, setting Yuji down on your beach chair. “I just didn’t care to speak to her.”
“She was totally hitting on you.”
Sukuna finally looks at you, and the ice in his eyes melts completely. He steps into your space, his large hands coming up to cup your face. His thumbs gently stroke your cheekbones.
“Whatever,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate register. “I'm married”
Your breath hitches, your heart doing a familiar, stupid little flip in your chest. Even after all these years, he still knows exactly how to render you speechless.
“You’re such a sap,” you whisper, leaning into his touch.
“Only for my wife,” he replies, leaning down to press a slow, deep kiss to your lips. It’s a possessive kiss, one that clearly communicates to anyone watching exactly who he belongs to.
When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Mama!”
You both look down. Yuji is standing on the beach chair, holding up a slightly crushed, sandy seashell. He shoves it toward you, his big golden eyes shining.
You melt. You absolutely melt. You take the sandy shell, pulling Yuji into a tight hug and kissing his salty, sun-warmed cheek. “Thank you, baby. It’s beautiful.”
Sukuna watches the two of you, his hands resting casually on his hips. “See?” Sukuna says quietly, reaching out to ruffle Yuji’s pink hair. “The kid might have my charm, but he knows the truth.”
At the end of the day, despite the playboy genes and the endless chaos, they were yours. And you were theirs.
And mom was, undeniably, still the best.
an: we're close to 1k what the hekk!!! what one shots do you wanna see next? i can't write smut for the life of me, english is saurrrr hard!! divider by: @pxrce-lain | the art and gif i got from pinterest! feel free to comment who is the orig art creator pls 🙏
"ken, are you even listening to me?" you scolded the man lightly, after finding he had planted yet another kiss to your face as you spoke, his expression was playful when he pulled away; almost childlike.
"i am. what made you think otherwise?" both corners of his lips turned upward just a tad, as though unmoving if you didn't know any better, if you hadn't spend the past few years of your life staring at your husband's handsome face, memorizing its features.
you narrowed your eyes in disbelief but spared him anyway, decided to continue away the story you'd been telling him. "and then she said..." you carried on, chattering animatedly about something you'd claimed was the craziest thing ever all the while nanami was proceeding with his initial plan; bringing both of his hands to tuck your hair behind your ears, stroking it over and over softly. never forgetting to nod a few times like letting you know that he's still listening.
"mhm, keep going, my pretty wife." he murmured, cupping your face as he stared at you adoringly before sprinkling kisses atop of it, different spots each time making sure he didn't miss even a single inch of your skin. a kiss to your eyelids each, cheeks, and when he reached your nose you couldn't help but let out a chuckle, at that nanami beamed.
"i'm starting to think you're not listening at all," you berated the man with an ear to ear grin, your attempt at scolding was failing miserably. as that too was swallowed by a prompt kiss to your lips.
"how presumptuous. i could listen and admire my wife's beauty at the same time." his hands were now on the sides of your face, his thumb rubbing your cheeks subtly. the smile he's wearing as he said that was blinding, contagious in every way.
"you're lucky you're cute." you raised an eyebrow at his apparent flirtation and sweet excuse that still made your inside fluttered despite of years of marriage.
"i am lucky," nanami concurred easily, his tone made it obvious that he was talking about a different thing. to be yours, the implicit meaning was loud inbetween the silent spaces. once more you were swarmed with a barrage of kisses, this time to the corner of your brows, your jaw, forehead.
you tried to hid yourself between the crook of his neck, feeling how it shook along with nanami's laughter. "seriously, what's gotten into you?" you mumbled into his skin, giggling slightly. your chest lightened, bursting with fondness.
you felt another gentle nudge atop of your head. "what? am i not allowed to kiss my lovely wife?"
"you can. but in moderation."
"nonsense. there is no moderation when it comes to you."
Thinking about Gojo Satoru using you as gym equipment ♡
୨୧ — "Need something heavier than plates," Gojo muses in the training room, those blue eyes sparkling with mischief as they land on you. Before you can protest, he's already scooped you up.
"Satoru!" you squeal as he positions himself on the exercise mat, settling you to straddle his hips while he lies back. "This is not what I meant when I said l'd help you workout," you giggle. His hands grip your thighs firmly as he starts his "workout."
"But you make such perfect resistance training," he pouts, flexing his abs as he starts thrusting his hips upward, lifting you effortlessly.
Each movement has you bouncing on his pelvis, your core clenching involuntarily... "the perfect weight-" he grins, powerful hips driving up to lift you again, "Though maybe I should add some resistance..."
His fingers slip beneath your workout shorts, finding you already slick, "Oh~?" He wiggles his eyebrows at you, "Someone's enjoying being used as gym equipment~"
You bite your lip as he starts timing his thrusts with teasing circles against your clit. "N' t-this isn't... proper exercise form..."
"No?" His hips snap up sharply, making you gasp, "Seems like excellent muscle engagement to me. Plus..." he slides two fingers inside you while maintaining his rhythmic thrusts, "my fingers are getting some bonus cardio."
Your hands brace on his chest as he continues his "workout," each upward drive of his hips pushing his fingers deeper, "Satoooru... some-someone could come in... this is hah~ a public g-gym..." you bite your lip to stifle a deep moan.
"Better hold on tight then," he groans, increasing not only his hips pace, but his fingers as well, "Got about fifty reps to go... unless you tap out first~"
You whimper as he curls his fingers, knowing full well you won't last nearly that long... and that's exactly what he's counting on.
"Besides," he smirks up at you, "this is much more fun than regular weights. They don't make such pretty noises."
"Satoru!" you moan as he hits a sensitive spot, your nails biting into him.
"That's it, baby," he encourages, his movements growing more intense. "Help me work up a sweat."
sukuna doesn’t know what it is like to receive a touch that is gentle.
sukuna has spent his life being a man who lived up to every bit of his reputation—terrifying, horrific, menacing, everything befitting a king. a lord. a curse.
everything he’s been on the receiving end of has been tainted with violence, hatred and malice. he is deserving of every bit of it, he’s sure.
but you, his queen, the lady he’s sure he’s conceived from his feverish nightmares, you touch him as if he was a prize.
you eye him like one would eye diamonds, something precious, not a curse. and that has his heart beating a rhythm dangerously akin to a person in love. but a curse’s heart cannot beat for cause other than violence, now can it?
he has you by his side because it’s convenient. because it’s an advantage—or so he tells himself, as he paces around his chambers in the dead of night, staring at your sleeping form, hoping to get close enough to touch you, but he never does.
but once you get to touch him? your hands are gentle, softer than his own calloused palms, as you glide them across his beastly body, slowly making way to his face.
sukuna feels his eyes well up with a sensation he’s never felt before, while you stood before him, studying him, your arms prodding, prying, your nails grazing his skin before they came up to cup his face.
tracing his jaw while your eyes met his, one of your hands finding their way into his hair, slowly brushing past the knots with the gentleness one would use only with something, someone that was adored.
the way your eyes softened as they met his face, your touch indicating nothing but reverence had his eyes pool with the unfamiliar sensation of tears. they pricked at his eyes shamefully—he was a king. he didn’t, nay, never cried, he never had that privilege bestowed upon him.
but before he could swallow the tears, they slid down his cheeks, meeting your palms that cupped his face oh so tenderly—you didn’t question it. it wasn’t your place. you swiped them away with your thumb, his tears pouring out his four eyes while a pair of his arms held on to your waist.
burying his head in your chest while you slowly pet his head—he should’ve had you killed for that. treating him like a common dog. but with his breath unsteady as he fought off tears that’d never left his eyes before, his heart swelled with an emotion he thought he had never possessed—he was grateful.
as the tears that were shed left behind salt tracks to make their presence known, you lifted his head only to plant the softest kisses against them—the saltiness coating your lips while he looked up at your form like you were a goddess that descended before him.
you held him in your arms like you would a baby—and sukuna held himself close to your heart, listening to the sound of your blood rushing through your veins just to make sure that you were here. that you were really before him, holding his cursed heart in the palm of your hands while you softly sighed against his head.
he would stay here, frozen in time if he could. ryomen sukuna didn’t know what it meant to shed tears, he didn’t know what it meant to have your heart swell merely in the presence of someone. he didn’t know what it meant to be held close to a heart without having to rip it out with his bare hands. but maybe, he’d finally be deserving to have this. to have you.
maybe, he was finally deserving of being held by a pair of arms that didn’t wish to tear him apart.
repost from liliklei :p. i loved this fic. @yoonsucks @yorikae @satorusdreamer @kireampie ok bai.
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
❥ olderbf!kuna sees you without makeup for the first time (cw: shyinsecure!reader)
you were standing outside of your boyfriend’s apartment, waiting patiently, you held onto the strap of your overnight bag with so much emotion.
it’s your first time spending the night at his place. you hear his footsteps get closer. you anxiously take out your phone and get a quick good look at your appearance, i mean, you might lose your virginity tonight?
shit.
you’re completely barefaced. not even a coat of mascara. you look like a complete mess.
before you could dig something out of your bag. sukuna was towering over you. “hey” he says softly, the corners of his mouth twitched at the sight of you.
you don’t speak at first—you don’t even look him in the eye, your eyes glue themselves to the ground.
the shame and embarrassment you felt burned. it felt like your face was on fire. so many thoughts kept crossing your mind.
would your boyfriend still have feelings for you if he knew how you really looked?
would he still be attracted to you if he saw your body bare.
would he still hug and kiss you?
would he still find you beautiful?
would he even want to be around you if he saw all your imperfections?
would ryomen sukuna still love you if he saw you..?
you nervously chewed at your bottom lip, blood threatened to show.
“brat.” he lifts up your chin. “why are you hiding your face from me. what’s the matter?”
your eyes fill with salty tears that threaten to fall at any moment “i- can’t you see? i’m n-not pretty.” your eyes still don’t meet his.
sukuna felt his heart drop all the way down to his feet. you don’t think your beautiful?
how could you not see the beauty you carry within yourself?
you’re the most precious thing to him ever.
you’re his pretty girl.
“is that what this is about? sweetheart c’mon” he pulls you inside, flush against him, your face presses against his broad chest, his palms rub soothing circles on your hips. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry— sniffle— you have to see me like this.” your fingers clutch onto the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
your warm tears seep through. soaking the fabric.
“stop apologizing and look at me, let me see your face.” you slowly lift your head up, fully staring into his red irises.
“you are so incredibly precious to me, it pains me to know you feel that way about yourself—how can you not see the beauty in yourself ?” his thumb gently caresses your face, wiping all those sad tears away.
“and ‘m not the only who sees it y’know? you got no idea how many stares you get from everyone around you.” he smirks “just the other day that guy was hittin’ on you thinkin’ he stood a chance tch.” you give him a sweet smile, tugging him closer. “you really should be more cocky.” he pokes your cheek.
“thank you ryo. i’m sorry if this upset you, or caused you any trouble.” you mumbled quietly.
“you just keep on apologizing? you sure are a damn pathetic brat” he laughs mockingly, ruffling the top of your hair.
you smile, burying your face into his chest. “don’t make fun of me kuna!”
𝒜ITA FOR EATING MY GIRLFRIEND OUT ON HER PERIOD ´ཀ`
(even tho i’m a vampire?)
pairing: vampire!choso x fem!reader
you didn't even know your super sweet boyfriend was a vampire until he was on his knees, begging to eat you out right now, while you were on your period.
you had told him prior, but he doesn’t seem to care. he seems to get off on it. in fact, you could feel a stiff, persistent bulge that definitely wasn’t his hands that were on your waist.
his pupils were dilated. he was licking his lips every two seconds. damn, he really did want this— and you couldn't fathom why. eating a girl out on her period.. isn't that weird? don't most guys hate that? most guys recoil at the sight of even a little body hair, and choso had been the opposite throughout your relationship. it was like breathing fresh air, like walking through a beautiful floral field painted in a plethora of colours.
you reluctantly nod, placing your hands over his.
“fine, cho. just saying, it isn't pretty. or clean, in fact. especially around this time of the month.” you were willing to give it up to him, eager, in fact— but why now? he knew you had your period.
a small smirk forms on his ethereal face, warm tongue going over his teeth— wait, wait. were those fangs? was your totally super sweet and gentle boyfriend a vampire?
it would make sense. he’s quite literally on his knees begging to eat you out on your period. and he has fangs, which you have never seen before. weird.
but you decide to go with it. see where the pleasure takes you. you’ll know then.
and as soon as choso could’ve got on his knees to begin feasting, your panties are slid underneath you and dropped to the ground as your possibly vampire boyfriend leads you to your shared bedroom.
he lays you down on the bed, locking the bedroom door like anyone was there nobody was and makes his way to kneel in front of your wet, bloody pussy, running a finger down the crimson folds.
out of the corner of your eye, you see his pupils dilate. where are you getting these super hot vampire guys?
he breathes in the aroma of.. well, blood. like he's done this millions of times before. he most likely has.
and like so, his tongue latches onto your soaked heat, ruby webs coating his pink tongue.
and you must say, this is most definitely the best cunnilingus you've recieved. ever.
he moves a hand, resting it on your waist as soothing circles rub into your skin, matching the pace of his tongue delving deeper and deeper into your folds.
an almost desperate moan leaves your lips, shaking hands reaching his raven colored hair.
he groans at the contact, pearly white fangs pressing against your sensitive pussy as he rolls his tongue repeatedly, lapping up the red dripping from your pussy, drooling down his chin as he does.
out of your glossy eyes, you see that his jugular seems to be moving in sync with every lick, swallowing motions filling your sight.
proves your claims even more. this isn't the right time to think about them though. now it was time to focus on not losing your breath completely while cumming.
you let out one last porn star worthy moan, pussy spasming while gushing white cum filling choso's mouth. both his hands grab your hips as a mixture of red and white spill down his plush lips.
he swallows it all, wiping it off his mouth.
"you caught onto me, didn't you, sweetheart?" he says, wiping a stray lock of hair out of your exhausted face.
content ꩜ 3.7k words ， fluff ， heian era ， true form sukuna ， sukuna being sukuna or whatever ， established feelings ， casual violence and canon-typical violence ， it's sukuna
taglist ꩜ @nightmarenyxx ， @spectranix 𖥻 taglist form
notes ꩜ im sick. please coddle me. i made this on a whim to fulfill a friend's request
Ryōmen Sukuna is a man of strength and two faces.
Children are quieted by his name. Warriors pray they shall never glimpse his shadow. Courtiers lower their eyes when tales of him reach the capital. Sorcerers clasp at their prayer beads so as to not have him take what is theirs to keep, some day.
He does not bow. He does not plead. He does not seek permission from the gods nor men. He does not let those who call themselves higher beings dictate his presence, nor his frame. Ryōmen Sukuna creates law. He is law. This is known.
Therefore, Ryōmen Sukuna abides by five pillars.
Firstly, Ryōmen Sukuna does not coddle.
Sukuna does not mince his words and Sukuna does not mince his actions. There is a reason why he has earned his reputation. The disgraced one does not succumb to those who reveal themselves to be weak. Men cry and women pray. They are all the same.
A servant once shattered a lacquered bowl in his presence. Sukuna tore off the servant’s arm. Another stumbled while carrying a bowl of boiling water. It had burned their skin. Sukuna did not look up. There once came a woman, shivering from the rain whom Kuraokami poured, kneeling at his doorstep. He had not spared her a glance.
Sukuna does not do silken touches. He does not offer consolidation. He does not hold compassion in the face of feebleness. Sukuna does not soften. Sukuna does not spare any for those who are weak. He did not change even after his disgrace. Even before he had become Ryōmen Sukuna, when he was living as a man with a name he does not remember anymore, Sukuna did not falter for kindness in the presence of the frail.
He had not been once accused of gentleness.
Your hand had wounded under a thorn. It leaks a dark red, some color that only exists in the presence of royalty with its velvety robes. The sting does not hurt much, but the drip does not control itself. It twitches under your clothes. As quickly as you can, you try to hide it under your sleeve.
Sukuna notices immediately.
Your arms retreats behind your back but his hands find them quicker than the countless fires that spread from his doing. He retrieves the prickled by a plum hand.
You try to release from his grasp, but he grips you steadily.
“Hold still.”
His fingers close around your wrist. The motion is effortless, irritatingly so.
“It is only a scratch.”
“Hold still.”
You expect a reprimand. Instead, Sukuna reaches for a roll of linen resting beside a stack of scrolls. His hand still wraps around your wrist. He does not grip on it tightly, you do not recognize the iron grasps those who fear him like to utter.
For a moment, neither of you speak. He cleans the wound with water that he had barked to be prepared for before. The cloth is wrapped twice. Then a third time. Then on the fourth, you notice something wrong.
"My lord," you utter. "You are wrapping my hand."
His eyes sharpen at you. "You possess eyes."
The bandage is tied far more carefully than necessary. It does not tug at your circulation. It also does not scratch at your wound. When he releases your hand, the knot is neat. Your hand is covered. It does not sting when you move it, and the red of spider lilies does not seep into the cloth.
You stare at it. Sukuna pretends not to notice.
Only four days later, you have become ill. You are bedridden and tied to the straw mats; they are sat atop each other. Layer by layer. However, it does not help the seeping cold through your body.
You are a mere herbalist and the kin of an apothecary. You have been mistaken, perhaps accused of being a court physician many times. However, your status does not deceive its bedding. The straw mats are uncomfortable. You do not have the standing to request more adequate items, let alone luxuries.
There is hollowness between your cheeks. When you awake, a bowl has appeared beside your bedding. Steam curls from its surface and it expels a pleasant smell. You do not know how exactly it smells. Your nose has been suppressed of its usual sharpness. You open your eyes and find Sukuna in the small room.
“My lord,” you suspect that Sukuna believes the rasp in your voice is the result of some trivial, passing ailment.
“What?”
“Did a servant bring this?” you ask, gesturing weakly toward the steaming bowl.
“No.”
“Oh,” you wait. The silence stretches and you watch the dim light of your room playing across the tattoos that snake over his skin. Sukuna does not shift, but the air seems to grow tighter, as if he is waiting for you to dismiss him so he can return to his throne of bones.
“So you did?” you venture.
“I was present.”
“You made soup.”
He stiffens, his two lower arms twitching in a brief, almost irritated motion. “I boiled water.”
“You made soup,” you repeat insistently. A faint, lopsided smile touches your lips.
He turns his head and his secondary face is shadowed. His primary one fixes on you with annoyance. He wants to say something it seems, but does not. Instead, he makes to stand. His four arms shift as he prepares to withdraw. You reach out, your fingers tugging against the fabric of his robes. You are a mere herbalist, but momentarily you always forget the fear you are meant to feel with the king.
Your gaze lingers on the extra set of arms that frame his silhouette. Then back to his sets of eyes. You shake your head at him. You tug him once more and he freezes until the room goes still. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders breaks. He settles back down. His extra arms unfold as he keeps his eyes locked on yours.
It is imperative to note that the next day, you are still sick and helpless, as even with your herbalistic knowledge, you are far too weak to heal yourself. Your straw mats were doubled that following day.
Secondly, Ryōmen Sukuna does not share.
It is only natural that Ryōmen Sukuna does not share. A being made not from the earth does not share.
Possession is simple. If Sukuna desires something, it becomes his. If it is his, it remains so. The distinction is clear enough that even children understand it. A provincial lord once presented him with a sword forged over seven years. Sukuna took the blade, admired its craftsmanship, and kept both sword and smith.
A shrine offered tribute during a season of famine. The priests begged him to leave a portion behind. Sukuna accepted every grain of rice and left the shrine standing solely because he was in a generous mood. There are stories of warriors dividing spoils after battle. Sukuna had never participated in such discussions. What he claims is his. What remains belongs to whoever is brave enough to take it from the corpses.
Even before his disgrace, when he still walked among men beneath a forgotten name, Sukuna did not understand the instinct to split bread in half.
During the seventh year of Emperor Daigo’s reign, another provincial lord arrived bearing tribute. He had carried many things. Gold, much of it and silk. Swords forged by masters whose names have since been forgotten. Sukuna took everything. When the lord’s retainers protested, Sukuna did not falter. He had killed them. When the lord protested, Sukuna killed him as well.
The gifts remained in his possession until they rotted. He had no use for them. They were simply his.
It is the heart of a bitter winter. The gardens are stripped of all color save for the white shroud of snow that smothers the earth.
There is a peach.
It is an anomaly. It should not exist. You know this because you spent the morning listening to merchants complain about frost and harvests. A singular fruit, salvaged from the final, fleeting gasps of the autumn. It sits on a low table between you. Its skin is a pale, fading blush. It is the last of the season.
Sukuna is reading as he sits upon his dais. There is a sprawl of ancient scrolls and his fingers trace calligraphy that predates the current Emperor. His two lower arms—the ones that have been restless—shift. A hand, one that is large enough to crush a man’s skull, picks up the fruit. He does not eat it. He moves it across the space between you, placing it squarely on the hem of your sleeve.
“Eat.”
You blink, tearing yourself from his form to the fruit. Sukuna consumes what he desires and destroys what he finds beneath him. To share is a concept that does not exist.
"What?”
Sukuna had been tapping his talons against his knees. It stops. The silence that follows eats the breath from your lungs. His primary face turns towards you. “Must I repeat myself?”
His secondary face tilts slightly, watching you intensely. You stare back and blink. He is waiting. Not for gratitude, for he would loathe that. He is waiting to see if you have the courage to take what he has offered. And so you reach to pick up the fruit. Your fingers brush the fuzzy skin of the peach.
The winter is unrelenting. The cold manages to seep through the floorboards and you are huddled near the hearth. You are shivering and your body is frail; you have not been blessed with the intensity of everbearing health. You are wrapped in the voluminous and heavy silk of one of Ryōmen Sukuna’s discarded robes. It smells of him and is too big on your frame.
You did not ask for it. You did not offer a bow of apology or a trembling “Sukuna-dono, I extend my apologies,” for the audacity of taking what belongs to him. You had also begun referring to him by that. Sukuna-dono. He sees, eventually.
He is aware. He feels the shifting of the silk against your skin as you pull the stiff sleeves over your trembling hands. You retreat into the cowl of the collar. By every law he has penned for his own existence, this is theft. It is an unearned comfort. In the eyes of any other inhabitant of the Heian capital, this would mark death.
He does not reach for a blade, nor blink. It should be a trivial affront to be met with a casual dismemberment.
The two arms that had been idling, the ones that had been resting against his knees, move with the sound of grinding stone. He rises from his position and reaches towards you. You stiffen and wait for the reprimand once more. Instead, he looms over you and he does not reach for the fabric to reclaim it. He reaches for you.
His hands ignore your attempts to shrink away. One of them catches your shoulder and another adjusts the heavy silk, pulling the neckline up until it shields the sensitive nape of your neck. He tucks the edges in, sealing the warmth against your body.
He does not wait for a reaction. Sukuna simply leaves. Sukuna does not share as this robe belongs to him. Therefore, he is free to do whatever he pleases with it. He does not take it back. Ryōmen Sukuna’s things started to disappear ever since that day. They are found in your room some weeks later. He does not take them back either.
Third, Ryōmen Sukuna does not wait.
Sukuna does not wait. The world moves slowly. It hesitates and negotiates; it bores him. Sukuna has never possessed the patience for such things. When a governor delayed delivering tribute, Sukuna crossed three provinces and arrived at the man’s residence before the messenger carrying the excuse.
There was once a sorcerer who challenged him. The fool requested three days to prepare and Sukuna granted him nothing. Before sunset, the sorcerer’s head decorated the palace gates. Sukuna had said, if he required three days, he was not worth meeting.
There are tales of armies gathering for months before marching. Sukuna finds this incomprehensible. If he desires battle, he walks towards it. If he desires destruction, he begins. The seasons may linger and men may deliberate, gods will always scheme. Sukuna has never seen the purpose, even before he became the calamity sung about in frightened whispers.
The stone corridors of the fortress are vast. They swallow the unworthy. You should have been here at dusk but you had been distracted. Herbs. You had been gathering herbs. Instead of arriving during the promise of the coming night, you arrive when the moon has already climbed to its zenith.
You find him in the main hall. It smells of incense. He is sitting on the elevated dais and Sukuna holds his position still. His true form is fully manifest. You are but a mere herbalist, and they do not frighten you somehow. All four arms are visible and the upper pair are crossed over his chest. The lower pair rests upon his thighs. His second face is twisted into a scowl while watching the entrance.
As you step into the light of the flickering wall-torches, he does not move. Sukuna does not greet you. Your pulse skips once, yet you walk forward until you are standing at the base of his dais.
“You are angry,” you state.
“I am not,” he responds trimly.
“You are.”
“I am not,” his eyes—all four of them—narrow. The secondary face on his neck sneers, its lips curling back to reveal rows of sharp, inhuman teeth.
You take a step closer. You are unbothered by the lethality. You brace yourself for a reprimand however, you know the texture of his temper now. It is not a wildfire. To you. “I forgot,” you offer a clumsy and honest confession. It is insufficient.
His upper set of arms unfolds, fingers splayed out against the floorboards. “You did.”
The bluntness of his agreement takes you back. It is far more discomforting than a rebuke. You look at him and the shadows clinging to his extra limbs he has now selectively hidden in your presence. You realize the magnitude of the time he has just spent staring at the wall.
“How long?” you ask.
“What?”
“How long have you waited?”
The precarious question hones within another silence. You are asking him to quantify his wait. He stands suddenly, so swiftly that the air in the room displaces. He towers over you. His upper set of arms come back to cross in front of his chest.
“You concern yourself with foolish matters,” he growls. Sukuna turns with his heavy robes swaying with the motion. He is angry at you, and you do not like that.
“My lord,” your voice has turned soft. You refuse to let the moment dissipate so you call out. You have learned that he does not care for pleas, but you are not pleading.
Sukuna freezes. The secondary face on his neck tracks you. It is well known that Sukuna and his two faces scour those he finds unworthy like predators. His primary face remains imperious. He does not look back immediately, however, his fingers twitch. It betrays his uncooperative frame. You are sure he would rather carve out of his own flesh than admit it out loud.
“Three hours.”
He pauses.
“...Perhaps four.”
Fourthly, Ryōmen Sukuna does not yield.
Ryōmen Sukuna has never lost a battle. He has seen countless bloodshed, and he has caused countless bloodshed with his own body. Ryōmen Sukuna, for all parts, enjoys winning, he does not yield.
The mountains bend beneath storms, rivers alter their course, dynasties collapse. Sukuna remains. An Emperor once demanded his submission. The messenger returned without his horse. A clan of sorcerers assembled to force him from sacred territory and the territory changed ownership instead. When temples cursed his name, Sukuna took shelter beneath their roofs during the rain simply because the insult amused him.
Defeat is a language spoken by ordinary men. Compromise is spoken by clever ones. Sukuna has never been interested in either dialect. Stubbornness clung to him more faithfully than any companion. The world may push. Sukuna definitely pushes back.
Snow drifts beyond the open engawa. The winter air carries a scent. It is cedar and smoke. There is residual warmth against your cheeks. It is the cycle’s next winter, the one after you had stolen his robes and his brushes. He still had not bothered to look for them, and he still had not taken them back.
You are carrying a bundle of herbs in your hands. They stain your fingertips and your palms but you will wash them later. Sukuna is here. He does not look up from the scroll spread across his lap despite your shadow casting over him.
“You promised.”
The lie arrives instantly. “I did no such thing.”
“You said you would return before winter,” you utter. You do not use the tone of a priest viewing a miracle. You use the tone of yourself. Interrogative, curious. You had told Sukuna that he must come back before winter comes. It would not be terrific if he had been caught in a storm, and it would not be pleasant if he had come back immobilized from the cold.
“And?”
You stare. The audacity of the response settles over the room like dust.
“You returned before winter.”
His brush pauses. “I did.”
The answer arrives without hesitation. Matter-of-fact. There is not a hint of bother and it makes you lower the bundle of herbs in your hands. Sukuna finally glances up. There is no shame in his expression. No realization. No understanding whatsoever of the trap he had already walked into.
You step closer to him. “You came back before winter because you said you would.”
His hand twitches as he utters the syllables. A muscle jumps in his jaw. For the first time since the conversation began, he looks vaguely irritated. “Foolish.”
You tilt your head. You do not speak anymore for just a few moments. Sukuna narrows his eyes, but you have become accustomed to his mannerisms within the winters you’ve shared with him. You can practically see the moment he had realized what you said and what he responded with. It offends him deeply.
“Sukuna-dono,” you mutter.
“What?”
There is a silence again and his fingers tighten around the scroll. Sukuna believes you are a fool. An irritating fool. A persistent fool. There is a smile that threatens to paint on your lips, perhaps using the brush Sukuna is holding. For several moments, neither of you speak. Then, Sukuna returns his attention to the scroll. The discussion is over until one heartbeat, two, three.
“I am pleased you returned before winter.”
The brush snaps cleanly in half.
Finally, Ryōmen Sukuna does not love.
Love is a weakness that poets celebrate because they possess no strength worthy to be spoken of. It inspires promises that cannot be kept and grief that cannot be escaped. It turns warriors into fools and rulers into beggars.
A noblewoman once offered Sukuna her hand in marriage and he laughed until she cried. A monk claimed love was humanity’s greatest virtue and Sukuna asked him whether virtue would stop a blade. The songs sung in court speak of devotion enduring across lifetimes. Sukuna has heard them all. He has never cared for any of them.
Love is for poets, courtiers, for fools who mistake devotion for strength. Ryōmen Sukuna has never required such things.Court poets have attempted to assign Ryōmen Sukuna lovers. They have all died. Some imagined beautiful noblewomen. Others imagined celestial maidens. Love is for creatures who fear solitude and Ryōmen Sukuna has never feared anything.
Love requires surrender. Love requires trust. Love requires placing something in another person’s hands and believing they will not crush it. Sukuna has never surrendered. Sukuna trusts no one. Ryōmen Sukuna does not love. This is known. It is known by children. It is known by emperors. It is known by sorcerers. It is known by gods. It is known by Ryōmen Sukuna himself.
Unfortunately, it is not known by you. And because you do not know it, Sukuna finds himself breaking the fifth pillar with alarming regularity.
You are standing by the engawa in spring. Sukuna’s gaze is fixed on the garden. It is rare for you to catch him like this. His arms, the lower ones, are restless as always. And the other is resting idly. The plum blossoms have long since surrendered their petals to the wind. The cherry trees are beginning to follow. The gardens below the engawa are awash with pale pink.
The King of Curses is not a contemplative creature. He destroys. He conquers. He takes. Reflection is an indulgence usually reserved for weaker men. Yet, he remains still.
You approach and make no effort to hide your footsteps. There is no hesitation in them. You have long since stopped treating him the way everyone else does. No one else would dare and no one else survives long enough to try.
“My lord.”
He turns and you smile. Nothing more, nothing less. He does not respond to you any further.
“Sukuna-dono.”
You say his name gently for the second time, hoping it would change. One of his hands curls into a fist. This feeling is familiar now; one that he dislikes. A petal catches the back of your hair, then with a jolty shift of your head, it falls down. His gaze follows it, not because he is avoiding looking at you. Certainly not.
“Sukuna.”
He finally responds. “What is it?”
Your lips form a smile before you can stop it. "Nothing."
Love requires placing something precious into another person’s hands and believing they will not destroy it. Sukuna has placed nothing in your hands. Nothing at all. Not his attention. Not his patience. Certainly not his heart. Ryōmen Sukuna does not love. This is known.
Therefore, the fact that he has spent the last six years ensuring that you never walk alone after sunset is irrelevant.
