Commission !!! <3
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
wallacepolsom
dirt enthusiast
AnasAbdin
Acquired Stardust
YOU ARE THE REASON
Keni
One Nice Bug Per Day
Not today Justin
art blog(derogatory)

roma★

PR's Tumblrdome
Cosimo Galluzzi
styofa doing anything
we're not kids anymore.
Stranger Things
Sade Olutola
$LAYYYTER

Kiana Khansmith

seen from Canada
seen from Belgium
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from Türkiye
seen from Canada

seen from New Zealand
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@hitsuo
Commission !!! <3
Malevolent shrine returns to its king in a shower of black sparks
where can i commission u?
hi! Dm me)
Quick little Sukugo comic. Don’t mind that i colored outside of the lines tbh, all of these are just doodles
Good fortune follows upon disaster, disaster lurks within good fortune
A little miracle commossion for a wonderful @derangederensimpowner It’s sad, but I like it so much
Another commission I'm posting everything I've drawn during my absence
commission for @derangederensimpowner <333
Heard something?
Thank you for the wonderful commission!!! I really enjoyed working on this piece and with the person who was inspired by this AU 💖
Here are the festive Azula-kitsune and Katara-naga. I'm having a hard time with color, so here are two versions of the image. ____________________________________ I apologize for making Katara white, but please refrain from writing angry comments.
AAAAAA MY CUTIEEEESSSS
can you pls use the correct tag next time? i mean your art is "gosuku" so can you use it instead of sukugo? (No hate it's just a question, you can ignore it if you want)
I try to use all hashtags)) Maybe this time I forgot to tag “sukugo.” Actually, my favorite tag is “Satokuna,” but for some reason, no one uses it 🥺
⸻ Past Self ⸻
art by the perfect @hitsuo of course Satoru is annoying, doesn't fit in his life and yet, he makes his mother laugh and trains with him whenever he's around. Sukuna sucks it up and promises not to be an ass while trying to figure out what is this strange sensation unspooling under his ribs.
Sampling Kid
Round 1 — Pad work?
He only comes because Sayo works the desk and his membership rides her employee comp. Without that, he’s not here — no way he’s paying the city’s “youth rate” with what they don’t have.
Wraps in his pocket, homework half-finished in his bag, ink peeking under his sleeves because Sayo let him get tattooed if — and only if — he didn’t drop school.
He almost did
She almost killed him.
The lobby smells like disinfectant over rubber. A box fan hums behind the counter. Sayo looks up and the whole place brightens, she’s all long hair the same soft pink as his — pulled into a loose tail that slides over one shoulder — and eyes the cool, impossible blue people remember.
When she smiles, her nose and eyes wrinkle the way they do when she’s actually happy.
It looks like sunlight.
It also looks like a warning label if you know her.
Oh my goodness, another masterpiece. They are so adorable!
This artwork is full of pain Just like the fanfic it’s based on I’ve been reflecting on it for days — how do I stop crying? My boy… 😭 Thank you so much again, @belimah , for this beautiful work
⸻ The Apparition ⸻
After the ending of Aqua Regia, we have to face Sukuna's choices and deal with their consequences.
IV. WE FIX WHAT YOU BROKE
Day 18 — The Door
The clearing builds itself the way a bad habit does — piece by piece, nothing dramatic at first, just the square of rope staked into the dirt, four bells hung at the corners, the priest with the lacquer box, the elders in their careful coats, the junior who can’t keep his fingers still, the light is exactly wrong in the same way, the oil pot sits by the same stake, the paper in the box has the same red cord, and when the eldest lifts his chin to speak, Sukuna’s stomach drops because his body remembers this day faster than his mind wants to and his heart skips hard once, then steadies because he knows what comes next and he also knows what will not.
There is no hum here, no technique to hide inside, only air and the pressure of memory.
Satoru steps forward to the spot he took then, not a field around him, not a weapon in his hand, only posture and eyes, and Sukuna feels the first bad thought uncoil — the old reflex that says end the lever now and you end the cycle, cut the paper, cut the hand, cut the voice — and he sees the rope, hears the bell’s ready quiet, tastes the dryness that always comes before a mistake, and he lets the thought pass without picking it up, because he has already chosen how this ends.
The elder opens his mouth and the first syllable of “vow” comes out flat as a lid, the priest raises the folded paper, the junior starts to circle, the bells don’t need to ring because Sukuna is already moving, and there is no plan in the movement, no test running in the back of his head, only a simple order that lands where his feet do — person first.
He walks straight to Satoru, not fast, not slow, both hands coming up to his face the way Satoru once put warm hands on his, thumbs along the jaw, fingers behind the ears, and Satoru doesn’t flinch, doesn’t joke, doesn’t ask, he leans into the touch like it’s a normal thing on a normal day, and Sukuna tips his head, not to bow, just to set the angle.
He turns Satoru’s face toward the trees and says, “With me,” steady, even, and Satoru breathes out like a knot he’s been holding loosens.
And then they walk, not running, not checking if the rope tightens or the elders call a sanction, just stepping out of the square and past the torii — Sukuna’s hand sliding down to Satoru’s wrist and staying there until he feels Satoru walk on his own, behind them the words die mid-breath, the bells don’t get their second peal, the rope sags into ordinary straw, the priest lowers the empty box like he forgot why he opened it, and the whole scene folds from the edges like paper taken back to flat.
The path up to the hall is the same path it’s always been in here, regular stones, cedar needles, the door that slides right — Sukuna’s lungs finally catch up to the fact that there was nothing to fight except the urge to fight, his stomach unspools slow, heavy first, then light as the clearing dissolves without needing him to break it, and when they stop under the eave because the air above the torii splits open into a narrow bright seam that carries real wind and the old, exact weight of cursed energy.
Satoru looks at him — one set of bright blue eyes, clear and familiar — and Sukuna understands without being told that the hard part of this day wasn’t the leaving, it was deciding to leave before the bells had permission to ring.
“You’re ready,” Satoru says, and there’s no ceremony in it, only relief and a little pride he doesn’t try to hide.
Sukuna’s mouth goes tight and then soft.
“I know,” he says, and it’s not arrogance, it’s inventory, the same way he would note water in the pot and a vent set right — he looks at the seam of air and doesn’t step yet, because he has one more thing to do here, not for a rule, for them.
Satoru sees it the same moment and steps in, close enough that Sukuna can feel breath on his cheek, there is no Infinity here to manage, no field to keep the world off, just contact.
Satoru’s hand comes up to Sukuna’s sternum, palm over the place where the old seam lived in another life, fingers steady, and he says, soft and sure,
“You lived,” and then, because he never wastes a good line on silence,
“I’m proud of you.”
Sukuna’s throat tightens, not the kind that chokes action, the kind that means this lands where it should. He holds Satoru’s face again because it’s the truest thing his hands know how to do, and Satoru tips his forehead to Sukuna’s, a clean touch — and for a few breaths they stand like that with nothing to fix.
Satoru kisses him, not to test anything this time, not to push him through a door, just because this is the last moment they have like this before he changes shape to stay, and Sukuna kisses back the way he learned to, focused and honest, no performance. And when Satoru breaks it, he doesn’t move far, only enough to speak against Sukuna’s mouth.
“I love you,” he says, simple, the same way he says “water” and “sleep” and “stay,” and it does not crush, it steadies.
Sukuna doesn’t make it into a speech, he gives it back the way it was given, quiet and without edge.
“I love you.”
Satoru nods once like a deal has been kept, then he lifts Sukuna’s hand and sets it on his own collarbone, right where flesh met bad math on another day, and Sukuna feels skin and pulse and remembers, and Satoru draws a small circle with two fingers there, and something like an eye of pale blue ink opens under Sukuna’s touch — not on Satoru, on Sukuna, faint at first, then clear enough to be seen, set right in the notch between his collarbones where his own breath lives.
“This is where I stay,” Satoru says, voice even, not sad, “not as a wall, not as a leash, as a tether — when you start confusing control with safety I’ll open this, I’ll speak, I’ll refuse, I’ll pull you a half step left, and if you insist on hurting yourself I’ll make you start over in here until you don’t,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging like he hates the line and loves that it’s true, “outside I can’t reset the day, I won’t hold your hands on the wheel, but I will say no and stand where you have to see me, I will not attack first, I will not leave”
Sukuna exhales because that is the shape of mercy he can accept, not pardon, not punishment, just a rule with a cost he can carry.
His palms are still on Satoru’s face and he can feel the small muscles by the jaw ease under his thumbs, he can feel his own pulse even out under Satoru’s palm at his sternum, he thinks, this is the last second like this, and the thought doesn’t panic him for once.
“One more,” Satoru whispers, not bargaining, not buying time, and he rises into him again, a kiss without urgency because there is nothing left to prove, only the simple fact of two mouths that have found the right pressure, the right pace.
Sukuna leans in and lets the relief come up like warm water, heavy first and then light, it slides down the back of his neck and out through his hands, he holds without clutching, he lets go without flinching.
Satoru threads their fingers and draws him inside in the next moment.
The shōji slide, the room holds the right kind of quiet.
The futon comes out with the soft sound of cloth over reed.
Satoru turns off everything that could stand between them and the absence sits like shade on a hot day. They don’t pretend to be nineteen and they don’t refuse the memory either, Satoru touches the old places first — the hinge where headaches used to live, the small scar Sukuna never names — then newer places that mean we stayed.
Sukuna answers without grabbing for control.
They undress like people with nothing to prove — neither careful like glass nor rough like penance — only the right pace for breath to keep up.
Satoru laughs once into Sukuna’s throat at a stubborn knot, something tight comes loose. Sukuna makes a small sound he’ll deny later when Satoru trails his fingers on the seam on his stomach's maw, and yet he doesn’t pull away.
Satoru lays kisses all over Sukuna — face, neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, the maw which grants him a very subtle grin from it, then below it, going down on the kempt trail of pink hair, brushing his lips and letting open mouth kisses send shivers down Sukuna's body.
Sukuna's four crimson eyes are transfixed on his face and Satoru's many eyes have their full attention on his lover's body, face, reaction, soul. He sees it all.
One of Sukuna's hands closes on Satoru's stark white hair with a tight grip when Satoru decides to slide down Sukuna's upper dick inside his throat without warning — he just swallows it, sheathing the length with ease until his nose tip presses against the pink hair once again. Sukuna's eyes roll, dart to a few places and then go back to the other man's face. He feels heat taking over his body like he's being cooked alive just by the face Satoru makes when their eyes meet. It's pure glee.
He nuzzles Sukuna's lower belly and start to move his head after a few seconds, bobbing it up and down with no rush, lodging the girthy shaft inside his throat with ease, bottoming out Sukuna's dick in his mouth every single time and relishing in all the groans and snarls that leave his throat.
One of Sukuna's forearms is laid across his eyes, one hand is still clamping on Satoru's hair, the other one is gripping the futon like his life depends on it and the fourth hand is cupping Satoru's face gently, calloused fingers trying to be steady and yet trembling against the pale warm skin as his head goes up and down and up and down and his tongue works in ways made to drive Sukuna insane with cheer pleasure, he's sure of it.
They fold into each other the way they did the first time — Satoru taking the lead because Sukuna would not allow himself to, Sukuna allowing it because he trusts the hands and the mouth and the insistence that asks and answers at once — and they move until breath stutters, holds, and lets go.
Satoru's hands settle behind Sukuna's knees when he raises both to rest over his broad shoulders — he leans in, slowly, gently, allowing Sukuna to feel every inch of him as he slides in. He presses his thighs to his chest, then, Sukuna's lower hands settle on his own legs to keep them there as Satoru falls into the embrace of his upper arms looping around his neck and slowly clawing at his pallid back.
Satoru moans against Sukuna's lips and he drinks all of his pants, whines and curses, moving his hips, thrusting, slow at first, then building the pace like they built the trust between each other, and later, love.
No show.
The kind of hot, passionate joining that leaves a room more itself after.
The word love is said, swallowed, cursed and moaned a few more times — always ending up against lips, skin, hair, shared breath, wet lips, wet eyes.
After, they lie with their foreheads together, the blindfold folded between them as a pillow, breath evening while sweat cools.
Satoru’s hand lies warm and broad over Sukuna’s sternum the way you keep a map flat. Neither speaks until the turn of leaving arrives on its own.
They rise together and dress without fuss.
Satoru smooths Sukuna’s collar, Sukuna straightens the futon seam.
Right is repeatable.
Satoru steps back half a pace and nods once like a task finished well, then he lifts Sukuna’s hand from his collarbone and lays it on Sukuna’s own, two fingers drawing the smallest circle where breath lives, and under the skin a pale blue iris opens and looks once, not outward but through, a quiet eye set in the notch he used to aim past, it blinks and sleeps, a promise that doesn’t need audience
“there,” Satoru says, eyes on him and not the seam, “if you start mistaking control for safety, this wakes, I speak, I refuse, I pull you half a step toward the person, you hate me for a breath, then you breathe again, and when you are set I go quiet,” he squeezes Sukuna’s wrist, not restraint, contact, “we will not make a weapon out of you to keep you safe”
Sukuna thinks, I can live with that, I can live, and the weight in his stomach that has been a stone since the clearing loosens into something he can carry in a pocket, not gone, not meant to be, just smaller than his hands
The seam above the torii holds, a thin bright mouth in the air, it smells like rain and iron and the old pressure of technique, he faces it and for once he doesn’t have to count to move, he takes Satoru’s face in his hands again because he wants to, he presses their foreheads together because he can, “stay,” he says, a request he used to be too proud to make, and it doesn’t taste like begging, it tastes like accuracy.
“Always,” Satoru answers, and the word is not big, it’s plain.
He breathes out and lets the curse-body fold, the extra eyes shut and sink like fish into deep water, the outline of him tightens to what the world first learned to love and fear, one set of blue eyes where they belong, the seam-eye at Sukuna’s collarbone the only sign of what he has become, and even that sign sleeps.
They do not look back at the square that isn’t there, they do not wait for permission from a room that never gave it, Sukuna steps into the seam and the weight of the real world settles on his skin like tools finding their pegs, the hum returns to his bones and his body tries the old habit — cut first, control first, prove you’re safe — and in the same breath a cool awareness opens at his collarbone, a blink he feels more than sees, and Satoru’s voice is there without echo, person first, not a reprimand, a correction.
He adjusts his angle before the thought finishes, he smiles without showing teeth because the fix was clean
The hill beyond carries a sloppy bell array and a human heartbeat too quick under it, he goes to the heartbeat first because that is who he is now when he does not think, a child crouched with hands over ears, a real weight in his arms, a real thanks he does not require.
He sets them down in the wind shadow of a cedar and only then he breaks the bells on the second peal wrong on purpose, neat, quiet, still no show, and the field the array tried to pretend it had collapses like wet straw.
When he comes back to the threshold, Satoru is there the way thresholds sometimes keep things worth keeping, no scattered eyes, no distance, just presence.
Sukuna stops under the eave because leaving and arriving both deserve one breath.
Satoru lifts his hand and with two fingers taps the place over the sleeping eye like a door that doesn’t need knocking, “go on,” he says, tenderness without softness, “we have work”
Sukuna thinks of Sayo counting in whispers, of a boy with a reed whistle he pretended not to want praise for, of a cleared mat and a soot line he will sand tonight, of a rule that is his now because his feet moved before his head did, of a voice that will say no when he aims himself at the wrong salvation.
He thinks, I will survive and I will live, and when the old ache shifts — he lets it, heavy and then light. He nods once, not to Satoru only but to the door and the day and the long work ahead, and he steps inside to put the kettle on, because the world is waiting and he is ready to go meet it.
Why are you never real? Whenever you appear You leave me with that grace I am trembling with fear
But I know that you will disappear Just as I awake Whisper in my ear
Well, I believe Somewhere in the past Something was between You and I, my dear
And it remains With me to this day No matter what I do This scar will never fade
So let's make trouble in the dream world Hijack heaven with another memory now I make the most of the turning tide It just split what's left of the burning silence Don't wait, 'cause this could be the last time You turn up in the reveries of my mind I wake up to a suicide frenzy Loaded dreams still leave me empty
I believe Somewhere in the past Something was between You and I my dear
And it remains With me to this day No matter what I do This wound will never heal
Why are you never real? The shifting states you follow me through Unrevealed Just let me go or take me with you
So let's make trouble in the dream world Hijack heaven with another memory now I make the most of the turning tide It just split what's left of the burning silence Don't wait 'cause this could be the last time You turn up in the reveries of my mind I wake up to a suicide frenzy Loaded dreams still leave me empty
Sleep Token · Take Me Back To Eden · Song · 2023
Once again I need to thank @hitsuo for the inspiration for the AU and for the constant cheering and supporting of my writing, you're an amazing artist and a wonderful creative person who has perfect AU ideas. The AU arts are below and linked to hitsuo's posts so make sure to go there and leave your like and your reblog and also loving words if you like this piece. ♥ I hope you all enjoyed this series as much as Aqua Regia, and it's now officially over — it's a story about self forgiveness and the permission to keep living after making mistakes that cannot be repaired.
Today I'm crying again. I can't express my feelings, but I'm truly overwhelmed by what's written here. I can't calm down.
⸻ The Apparition ⸻
After the ending of Aqua Regia, we have to face Sukuna's choices and deal with their consequences.
III. STAY
Day 11 — Place or Person
Afternoon settles into the room without asking.
The pot ticks on low heat. Paper dries flat under two weights. Sukuna planes a thin curl off a board that never needed it, just to feel the even pull against his palm.
The air is ordinary — that helps.
A coal pops.
He smells it first — hot dust, then the sharper edge of singe.
He turns. A corner of the reed mat by the brazier has taken a live spark. The straw has not flamed yet, it’s browning, beginning to curl.
He registers — water in the pot, wet cloth folded on the shelf, windows closed.
A small voice carries up from the path below the torii before he can move.
A child’s cry.
I'm hysterical....
The final version of baby Sukuna and his mommy. I think I've developed a new hyperfixation. Expect more art... Sayo has a smile like Satoru's /cries/ This art is dedicated to the wonderful @ belimah and her magical work
You can read the fanfic here: @ belimah Love you, little reed <3