ryōmen sukuna has a clingy s/o.
genre: fluff / comfort
the king of curses mutilates people for less than any of the things you do to him on a daily basis.
walking into the room to inform him of the latest update on the warfront, uraume decides they have certainly witnessed more compromising states than this.
they bow down before the king of curses, who is currently lounging on his throne with you draped over his shoulders—like some human mink coat or a sentient scarf of sorts, snoring softly into his unkempt hair.
“lord sukuna.” they rise and address him, tone within the emotional range of a stone.
“speak.”
“...i can return later.”
“no, report.”
uraume’s eyes divert to the snuffling form of you for exactly half a second, a monumental display of curiosity for the permafrost-carved servant. they begin their report, speaking in their usual monotone intonation, but sukuna catches note of the way their eyes keep drifting upward.
“what.”
“nothing, my lord.” uraume meets his four eyes, choosing the addition of words with care. “it’s just... interesting, to see you so—”
“watch your mouth before i slice it off.”
“accommodating.” uraume finishes, deadpan, because they've served him long enough to know when he’s all bark.
sukuna's upper set of eyes narrows, but the lower pair flicks upward—toward your head, where your exhales stir the fine strands of his light crimson hair.
“i am going to flay you,” he says, deeply flat.
burrowed so deep into the crook of his neck, sukuna feels the damp warmth of your huff against him like a warm parasite that had somehow convinced itself the king of curses is a personal mattress. your previously limp hand curls into the fabric of his dark kimono, loosely holding on to a fistful of the silk robe as you exhale harder into his thick neck.
uraume's eyebrow twitches, a fraction of a millimeter—practically a scream of emotion from them.
“finish the report,” sukuna growls, low enough that it vibrates through his wide chest—and through you, because you're plastered to his body like a second skin. you stir, mumble something unintelligible, and he stills again.
uraume continues, detailing the skirmish in various territories, relaying information on sorcerers who think they could exorcise a fragment of their lord’s power. standard fare and utterly boring, sukuna only half-listens. the other half of his attention tuned into the way your breath starts to even out again, deep and slow, weight becoming heavier against him—fully asleep and dead to the world, completely vulnerable in the lap of the most deadly being in existence.
reckless, sukuna thinks. how idiotic.
his lower left arm moves, the rough hand settling against the small of your back, steadying you as you slip dangerously close to sliding off his shoulder.
he adjusts without thinking—tugging you close against him, rearranging your limbs so you lay across his lap instead.
uraume stops mid-sentence.
“continue.” sukuna snaps.
“the latest front has been... largely pacified.” uraume’s voice is perfectly measured. their eyes are not—intrigued gaze fixing on the way sukuna’s thumb traces an absent circle against your spine. “we anticipate the remaining forces will mobilize. shall I—”
“no.”
uraume continues theorizing as sukuna's second mouth, the one on his stomach, lets out this tiny rumble—not quite a growl, nor a purr. something in between. something possessive.
he cuts uraume off without looking away.
“speak quieter.”
“very well.”
silence engulfs the quarters. uraume remains perfectly still, head bowed, waiting for the inevitable command to execute the upcoming massacres. the only sound is the rhythmic, maddeningly peaceful puff of oxygen against sukuna’s skin.
your hand finds one of his in your sleep, palm curling against two of his fingers. he stares at your grasp like it offends him.
"i am going to kill the rest," sukuna announces.
uraume nods, faint and brief.
“in the morning.”
“naturally.”
“when they’re awake.”
“i’m sure they’ll be devastated.”
sukuna’s eye twitches. he could kill uraume. he won't. but he could.
then you sigh in your sleep—soft, contented—and press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, right over his pulse point, where the skin is thinner and no one has ever been dumb enough to put their mouth.
sukuna’s grip tightens around yours, his chest tightening. he grits his teeth.
“uraume.”
they perk up.
“find a blanket.”
uraume blinks, most expressive they've been in decades. “...a blanket.”
“you heard me.”
“of course, lord Sukuna.” they bow, and sukuna picks up on the hint of a smile his servant holds off.
the sliding doors shut behind uraume.
then sukuna is alone. with you, your breath—the hands, tiny compared to his, enveloped in his, and the infuriating, tight heat spreading through his torso.
a curse user who has unraveled sorcerers from the inside out, yet he cannot bring himself to move.
