☆ мαѕтєяℓιѕт - mostly fanfiction, anime/manga, jjk, bleach, my ocs one-shots, smuts, rewrites alt
𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰/18+ 𝐰riting.
JJK
ADULT TRIO SPIN - adult.yuji/megumi/nobara
ANGEL MAID CAFÉ! - 𝗒𝗎𝗃𝗂/𝗆𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝖿𝗍. 𝗀𝗈𝗃𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗂
HEADCANONS ANTHOLOGY
Ryomen Sukuna - sfw AND nsfw!
Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez - sfw AND nsfw!
Ichigo Kurosaki - sfw AND nsfw!
Renji Abarai - sfw AND nsfw!
Kenpachi Zakari - sfw AND nsfw!
OSAKA CAMPUS: THE MASTERPOST
- my ocs and sukuna sensei!
🖤 What to Expect:
– Fluff, slow burns, actions, chaos, gremlins energy, sometimes depressing, sometimes too much, lot of gen z humor, school campus, osaka vibes
– Modern AU, Beach AU, Jujutsu Kaisen AU & more
------------------------
💭 Requests are open! Drop a name + trope and I might write it 🖤
Every step up the path to the freshmen dorms sounds like a small localized earthquake. Windows hum in their frames. One poor first-year peeks through the curtain—
—and sees their special grade teacher swaggering across the courtyard like a problem in Gucci and Tom Ford.
His shirt is half unbuttoned, tie missing, hair even messier than usual. There’s a red flush high on his cheekbones, and his grin is WIDE.
Very not-good.
Very “Sensei is drunk” not-good.
He stops in the middle of the courtyard, sways a little, then throws his arms out like he’s about to perform a rock concert.
“OSAKAAAAAA!” he roars, voice echoing off the buildings. “YOUR FAVORITE SENSEI HAS RETURNED FROM HUMILIATING GOJO SATORU—”
A beat.
“…in alcohol war.”
Every light in the freshmen building goes off and on like someone just collectively panicked and hit the wrong switches.
“Turn the lights off,” whispers one Kaito, clinging to his roommate. “If we pretend we’re not here he can’t see us.”
Inside the Freshmen Building....
“That’s for curses, not for Ryomen Sukuna,” the boy, Luke next to him hisses. “He can smell fear and bad grades.”
Somewhere down the hallway, someone mutters a shaky prayer to Tengen, to God, to whoever is on duty rn.
And then—
CREAK.
The entrance doors swing open. No footsteps, no warning, just that suffocating cursed pressure pouring down the hallway like a wave of heat.
“Baby roaches,” Sukuna croons, voice far too soft for the amount of menace behind it. “I knooow you’re awake. Your king is hooooome.”
Several first-years spontaneously reconsider their entire career path.
He slams a hand against the wall with a loud thunk, leaning in like a delinquent who forgot where his gang is.
“Freshman Building,” he says, very seriously, patting the concrete. “You are doing…such a good job. You’re so… rectangulary. Strong. Supporting my little monsters. I almost...hic...respect uu."
The wall cracks.
“S-sensei, please don’t praise the building,” one boy, Lun chokes out. “It’s not reinforced for this…”
Sukuna’s head snaps toward him, and the kid freezes like a rabbit under a car.
“You.” Sukuna squints, then stomps closer, grabbing the front of the boy’s hoodie and yanking him in until their noses almost touch. “You’re the brat with the… shadow… dog-thing. No. Rat-dog. Cat-weasel. Whatever. That cursed pet of yours, it bit a curse clean in HALF last week.”
The boy trembles. “Y-yes, sensei.”
Sukuna’s eyes soften in a way that is somehow worse.
“GOOD. FUCKING. JOB,” he says, each word punctuated by a shake. “That’s my boy. You see that cursed spirit again, you make it regret ever manifesting. RRRRAH.”
He lets go only to slap the kid’s shoulders like he’s dusting him off. The boy spins a little in place, dazed.
Down the hall, someone whispers, “He’s in the praising stage. We’re doomed.”
"He's kinda sexy though."
"Bruh."
A fourteen years old girl, Yuna steps out, looking annoyed. “Sensei, maybe you should, um, rest in your office? Or the infirmary? Or—”
He’s in front of her before she finishes.
“Look at you,” Sukuna says, voice suddenly weirdly warm. He pinches the sleeve of her uniform. “Look at this little diligent gremlin. Studying at—” he checks a clock, squints. “At…satan o’clock. What’re you reading?”
She squeaks, but he snatches the top book anyway.
“Hm. Barrier theory. Advanced.” He flips it open, eyes scanning way too fast for someone who definitely drank half of Tokyo. “You’re on chapter seven? ALREADY? That’s my fucking student right there. Look at that brain. Look at that...hic...ambition. You wanna live? Good. You wanna survive this cursed world? Even better.”
He throws an arm around her shoulders like a drunk uncle.
“You’re not allowed to die,” he declares. “You hear me? That’s an ORDER. Anyone tries to kill you, you tell them your sensei will flay them and salt their soul. Yeah?”
“Yes— yes, sensei,” she squeals, crushed against his side.
He tightens his grip, swaying. “Mmm. You’re warm. I’m keeping you. You’re mine now. Emotional support freshman.”
“Sensei I can’t BREATHE—”
The rest of the first-years watch in horror.
“This is it,” someone whispers. “This is how we go. Not in a noble battle. In a cuddle hostage situation.”
One brave kid pulls out his phone and starts typing.
Freshmen GC
[URGENT]: HE’S BACK. DRUNK.
SOMEONE CALL URAUME.
URGENTLY.
This is NOT a drill.
As if summoned by collective suffering, the temperature drops two degrees.
Footsteps, calm and precise, echo behind Sukuna.
“My Lord.”
That one word, flat and cold, slices through the hallway.
The freshmen collectively sag in relief.
Uraume stands at the end of the corridor like an ice dagger in human form, hair immaculate, eyes narrowed just enough to signal: I have dealt with this before and I am already tired.
Sukuna turns around, still latched onto his Emotional Support Freshman.
“Uraume!” he beams. “My angel. My sous-chef of slaughter. My—”
“You smell like cheap bars and Gojo’s bad decisions,” Uraume cuts in. “Release the child.”
Sukuna clutches the girl tighter, lower lip jutting in an actual pout. “No. She’s my baby. They’re all my babies. They’re so small and breakable and full of potential murder. Look at them. Look—”
He gestures vaguely; several freshmen flinch like the arm swing is an attack.
One kid blurts, “Uraume-sensei, please exorcise him— I mean, escort him! Escort! I said escort!”
Uraume’s eye twitches the tiniest bit.
“Sensei,” they repeat, stepping closer, their aura a calm, suffocating chill. “You are scaring the first-years.”
“I’m PRAISING them!” Sukuna protests, offended. “That one—” he points at a boy whose cursed technique is literally mild telekinesis— “threw a vending machine at a third-grade curse last week. It was beautiful. I almost cried.”
“You also screamed ‘THAT’S MY GREMLIN’ across the entire campus,” Uraume replies smoothly. “Three teachers filed noise complaints.”
“Cowards, all of them,” Sukuna mutters, then leans his entire weight onto Uraume’s shoulder like a collapsing building. “Take me home. The hallway is spinning. And the building is flirting with me.”
“The building,” Uraume repeats. “Is not flirting with you.”
“It’s standing all tall and stoic and holding my children. That’s hot,” Sukuna says seriously.
The freshmen are now just… watching their strongest teacher openly simping after architecture.
Uraume peels Sukuna off the poor girl with the strength of a glacier.
“You,” they say to the students, voice calm. “Return to your rooms. Lights out in ten minutes. I will make sure your sensei does not… wander back.”
“Yes, Uraume-sensei!” the chorus of relief is instant.
Sukuna, halfway draped over Uraume, lifts his head.
“HEY,” he barks. The freshmen freeze.
Silence. Only the humming of the hallway lights.
He grins, sharp and bright.
“You brats did good this week,” he says, and for a moment his voice is sober, even if his eyes aren’t. “Keep training. Keep surviving. Don’t get complacent. I didn’t build this campus for funerals.”
Something in his cursed energy flickers—less chaotic, more… grounded. Just for a second.
Students swallow, nodding rapidly.
“Yes, sensei,” one whispers.
He blinks, then the drunk comes back full force. “ALSO— who was the genius who replaced Gojo’s drink with water and mine with something stronger? I felt that. I respect you. You’re me-coded.”
Half the hallway gulps and looks away.
Uraume decides not to ask.
As Uraume hauls Sukuna away by the wrist like a badly behaved Rottweiler, he calls back over his shoulder:
“IF A CURSE TOUCHES YOU WHILE I’M SLEEPING I’LL KILL IT IN MY DREAMS TOO, YOU HEAR ME?!”
The doors shut behind them with a firm click.
Silence descends.
One girl finally exhales. “I… I thought he was going to eat us.”
“Nah,” someone says weakly, sliding down the wall. “That wasn’t ‘eat’. That was ‘adopt’.”
“Which is worse?” another whines.
No one has an answer.
Somewhere down the hallway, a boy clutches his textbook and whispers, “I… I think he’s proud of us.”
“Yeah,” his roommate replies, staring at the ceiling. “And that’s terrifying.”
"Did y'all see his muscles in that shirt? Grr."
"BRUH GO SLEEP—"
Meanwhile, outside, Uraume is grinding out the longest sigh in existence while Sukuna leans on them, humming.
“Uraume,” he says, voice dropping softer, sloppier. “Did you see them? They’re getting stronger.”
“I saw.”
“They’re gonna survive,” he mutters, words half-slurred. “My brats. My little disasters.”
Uraume’s gaze softens for a heartbeat before turning back to ice. “Only if you stop using their building for midnight monologues.”
MDNI 18+ 〃 Ryomen “beefin’ with my chick while I’m in jail” Sukuna.
A/N: it's finally here oh rejoice i am free flies away
Criminal!Sukuna who’s scary as fuck. He’s so jacked it borders on obscene – muscles stacked on muscles and veins crawling beneath tattooed skin, shoulders stretching at the seams of his uniform. He’s got this sorta unperturbed vibe. Real musky and muscular, stalking around like he’ll beat up the first guy that looks at him wrong.
Criminal!Sukuna who got locked up for some undisclosed highly illegal bullshit nobody ever gets a straight answer about. Speculations are thrown around the prison yard – drug dealing. Drug trafficking. Body-part-trafficking. Cannibalism (yay!).
He doesn’t bother to correct anything. Just sits in the corner with an arm slung over one knee, brooding, grumbling “King of Curses, they used to call me..” beneath his breath. The nutjob.
Criminal!Sukuna who has the whole wing convinced there’s no way in hell he’s got a girl on the outside. Surely not. He’s so immature and ill-natured – even more so than his cellmate, Gojo. Which is saying something.
To the little lady who might end up having to deal with this brutish man, well.. Gojo extends his sincerest condolences. He’s fairly certain any sane person would run for the hills.
You are not sane. He supposes this is why you and Sukuna get along.
Criminal!Sukuna who lights up in the most feral way whenever your name comes up. Won’t admit it, of course. But it’s obvious how he stops pacing when the mail comes. He snatches your envelopes out of the stack like a territorial dog, scowling at anyone who looks over.
Criminal!Sukuna who sits in his cell reading pages upon pages of you calling him a brain-dead brute with no sense of decorum. Threats piling up saying you’ll break things off completely if he doesn’t clean up his act when he gets out.
He smiles anyway. Because the letters smell like your perfume. Lips splitting wide in that creepy, clinically unwell way that has Gojo surmising Sukuna must have stockholm-syndromed his way into his relationship somehow.
Criminal!Sukuna who writes back instantaneously. Pencil scritching against paper like he’s got a vendetta – and perhaps he does, because he writes venomous, downright heinous shit. All watch your tone and you won’t find a better fuck, signed with a little sketch of his dick. For good measure, of course.
𓀐𓂺 𓀐𓂸
Criminal!Sukuna who spends half his sentence arguing with you through busted-up phone receivers and glass partitions. Sometimes you’ll be face to face at the visitation area, nary a word spoken. Once, you threaten to “start seeing someone normal”, and he slams the counter so hard the whole thing jostles.
There’s something special in the way you speak to him. Like he’s an exceptionally stupid man, and not a dangerous bastard with an egregiously extensive crime record.
“Do you want to get out of prison,” you hiss, enunciating each syllable with a finger jabbed hard at the glass, “or do you want to buttfuck your cellmate?”
Sukuna’s sprawled in his chair, massive arms folded with a sleazy grin, eyes glimmering with mirth. He leans closer.
“Depends. You gonna dump me if I do?”
“Maybe.”
The phone receiver slams against the cradle on his side so hard the inmate six seats down flinches. Sukuna stands to full height, chair scraping back loud across the floor. Hunched over the counter.
“You try it,” he sneers. “See what happens.”
A normal person would back down right about now. Think: hey, this probably isn’t a healthy or sustainable relationship! I should end things right here!
You do not. Instead, you stand and collect your things, a vein pulsing at your forehead as you muster a sweet smile. “Maybe I will.”
He stares ahead three long seconds after you leave, then drops back into his chair, muttering curses beneath his breath as a reprimanding guard draws near.
Criminal!Sukuna who finally gets that long-awaited conjugal visit slot after years of good behavior (read: not slamming anyone’s head into a wall for about a week and a half). And lucky him, you’ve requested special accommodations! – a little trailer just off prison grounds.
He would’ve been fine fucking you for all to hear, too, but he digresses.
He’s half-hard just from the walk out the confine, veins prominent as his cuff-clad hands twist together. Too busy thinking to bother snarking at the guards who trail behind him.
He wonders what he’ll do when he sees you first. Maybe he’ll smirk, make a snide comment. Or maybe instinct’ll take over, and he’ll bury his face in your hair and his dick in your pussy. Who’s to say?
He’s excited. Very. In many ways.
Criminal!Sukuna who’s one foot into the trailer when he freezes up. The guards have to push him through, slamming the door behind him as his system reboots.
Something tambourines across his ribcage as his eyes meet yours, pounding, pounding– fuck. There you are.
God, he’s missed you.
“You’re staring.”
“..you’re breathing.”
“Yes, that tends to happen.”
His fingers twitch, a soft exhale escaping.
He can’t even find it in himself to be pissed. You’re so pretty. Especially when you’re mad. The angrier you get and the sharper you snap back, the brighter that little gleam in your eyes burns.
Sukuna likes it. He likes it a lot.
He likes you a lot.
The sole reason he even bothered to behave long enough to earn this visit was so he could see that exact frown on your lips once more.
Criminal!Sukuna who’s snapped out of his reverie with the telltale warning of your fingers threading through his hair.
Then those exact lips slam against his with a hiss, your teeth clashing, biting and pulling at his bottom lip as if punishing him for all the time you’ve lost.
His hands – still restrained – press into your waist.
He can’t be bothered to care.
He’s on a sugar high for the first time in months, swallowing down your sativa taste until he’s lightheaded and preening, the outline of kuna junior™ peeking out his orange garb to wave hello.
Your grip on his hair tightens, tugging when his metal cuffs digs into you. In the way. You shoot him a glare, and he snarls beneath his breath.
“Hold still, woman.”
“I am holding still, you dolt–”
There’s a sharp crack!
All you see is the flex of his forearms before the cuffs give way, steel snapping like cheap jewelry and skewing across the trailer floor.
Criminal!Sukuna who hauls you up by your thighs, slamming your back against the flimsy trailer wall so hard a framed motivational poster clatters to the floor. His mouth’s on your throat, kissing tattoos into your skin while he grinds his aching length against the warmth of your clothed cunt.
Criminal!Sukuna who swipes your panties to the side instead of bothering to take them off. There’s a wet spot where he’s been grinding that has his smile spreading mean, two fingers rubbing at your clit before dipping in and crooking up.
“No one’s been spreading you right, huh? Miss me that bad?”
“Missed the dick. Didn’t miss the mouth.”
He snorts at that. Mutters “brat” beneath his breath as he drags his fingers out, slow and glistening, smearing slick along your folds before pushing them back in deep. “Lucky the mouth missed you.”
Criminal!Sukuna who drops to his knees. More collapse than kneel, weight falling hard as he plants himself to the floor, thighs spread wide, hands gripping at your ass to pull you closer. Then he smiles up, tongue running along his molars in anticipation.
Criminal!Sukuna who eats you out like he’s starved. Who dives in with no preamble, mouth sealing over your cunt, tongue flat and broad and greedy as he drags it from your entrance up in one long, lewd-sounding swipe. He takes a moment to grin against your clit, tongue swirling messy circles as his nose presses to the warmth of your skin. Then he’s enveloping the puffy nub between his lips and sucking hard enough to make your hips jerk, humming low when his fingers swipe through your folds and meet a gush of arousal. You buck into the feeling with a whine his name, nails scraping through his scalp, and he practically groans, a hand dropping down to unzip and jerk himself off.
Criminal!Sukuna who gets slower when he’s about to insert himself. Who brushes his tip through your folds, kissing gently at your clit before going back down to gather slick. Then he notches himself at your entrance and thrusts in, agonizingly unrushed, grunting as he sinks into your warmth.
It’s been a while, but his dick still recognizes the feeling like a soldier coming home from war. The fluttering, the way you suck him in like you never forgot him at all – like you waited for him just like he waited for you and worried for him wholly more.
The stretch aches. Your nails rake bloody reality down his back. A groan escapes unbidden – guttural and painstricken and all the more relieved that he’s here, and you’re here, and you’re his.
Criminal!Sukuna who fucks you mean. At first. Sharp and punishing, hips snapping like he’s trying to escape by rocking the trailer to nirvana. Each thrust has a gasp slipping out of your pretty lips, of which he drinks down with fervor, tongue swirling and coaxing yours to muffle the sounds so the guards outside don’t get a free audio show. His balls slap wet against your skin, swollen from months of nothing but his own fist and your perfume-stained letters.
Criminal!Sukuna who slows down when your legs lock tighter around him and your teeth find the side of his neck. He’s still buried to the hilt. His hips rolling in filthy circles, grinding his length against that sweet spot that makes your toes curl and your vision go blurry.
His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick hair sticking to skin as his voice lowers.
“..say you love me.”
Criminal!Sukuna who lets out a tch when you don’t answer fast enough. Who pulls almost all the way out, letting you feel the drag of every veiny inch, then slams back in so deep your mouth opens in a silent cry.
“Say it. Tell me you’re mine, tell me you– fuuuuuck. Been thinking ‘bout you. Dreaming ‘bout you, every night. Jerked off so much I thought my dick would fall off.. c’mon, baby. Say it. C’mon.”
Criminal!Sukuna who starts begging when your walls pulse around him. Not pretty begging, either – pissed-off. Hoarse.
“Don’t do this to me, please– fuck– just say it. Say you love your piece-of-shit boyfriend. Say you’ll wait. I’ll be good, I swear– only you, just for you, I’ll get out– so say it. Say it. I need you.”
His thrusts turn erratic. Sloppy. He’s close, and he’s trying not to be, trying to drag it out as long as possible before the moment fades into steel bars and white walls of nothing.
Criminal!Sukuna who shivers when you finally card your fingers through his hair, yanking his head back so you can look him in the eye.
You’re pretty. Always pretty, but especially pretty like this, lips swollen and tears pooling at your eyes out of overstimulation.
“I love you, you stupid, stupid man.”
Criminal!Sukuna whose whole body locks up. Whose cock pulses violently inside you – once, twice – and then he’s cumming with a strangled groan, doubling over to hold you tight as he fills you up. He keeps grinding, encouraged by the way your walls milk his length, cum leaking out in a frothy little ring that has his chest preening.
Criminal!Sukuna who doesn’t pull out after. Just stays seated inside, trembling, face buried in the crook of your neck and arms wrapped around you like you might disappear. Who mumbles against your skin, barely audible –
“..missed this pussy.”
He’s still half-hard, twitching every time your walls clench around his oversensitive length. Already thinking about round two.
But despite his perverted words, and his overeager dick, you know exactly what he’s trying to say.
Criminal!Sukuna who spends the rest of your visit inside you in some capacity – fucking, eating you out with your thighs locked around his head, making you ride him on the tiny bed ‘til the frame creaks dangerously. Every time he cums, he begs to hear you say you love him again, hissing it back at you like a promise.
When the guards finally bang on the door to collect him, he snarls “five more minutes” and shoves his tongue back in your mouth. Trying to swallow you whole and take you with him.
Criminal!Sukuna who leaves the trailer with his shoulders loosened, lips swollen, fresh bite marks ringed around his throat and oh-so visible with his head held high. The dopiest, most lovesick grin painted fond across his lips.
He’s gonna get out of here. And when he does, his girl’s gonna be waiting.
––––
Criminal!Sukuna who gets released on parole after god knows how long. The guards walk him out, and the world feels a little different. The air is clearer. And his woman–
.
Where the hell are you?
Criminal!Sukuna who’s a little disappointed when his parole officer is the one to escort him home. But he can’t be too upset about it. You must’ve had it hard, too. He’ll make it up to you.
Criminal!Sukuna who almost breaks down the door on his way in.
DAAAARLING. GUESS WHO’S BACK FROM JAIIIIIIL–
You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, remote in one hand. Unimpressed.
“Hi,” you sniff.
His eye twitches.
“Woman.”
“Yes?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
He drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud. “Yeah. I can see that.”
Criminal!Sukuna who starts prowling around the apartment like a bloodhound. He checks the kitchen and the hallway and the bathroom and the bedroom – including the closet, the door to which he swings open so hard it bangs against the wall.
Bathtub. Bed. Under the bed. Back out again.
He stands silent for a long moment before storming back into the living room, planting himself in front of the couch and looming over you with a scowl.
“You told me you were seeing someone.”
You lean a little to the left so he doesn’t block your view of the TV, ignoring the freshly released menace like you haven’t been yearning for his presence for the past four years. Serves him right. “I told you maybe.”
“Maybe means yes.”
“No,” you reply, calm, “Maybe means maybe.”
“Maybe means there could be some guy sitting in my apartment right now.”
“Our apartment.”
“Same difference.”
You don’t respond, and he feels the panic set in.
Sukuna trusts you. He knows you waited, and he knows you didn’t have to.
What he’s more uncomfortable with is the memory of all those nights in his cell staring at the ceiling wondering if he would come back changed.
It’s not like he’d know if or when that would happen. It’s not like you’re blind to that possibility. You’ve probably spent just as much time wondering the same thing – if the man who came home would still be the one you loved, or just some asshole you’d have to learn to live with until your lease was up.
And if you did anticipate that, and you did move on, and there is some other guy? What then? What useless method of intimidation or blackmail or torture could possibly earn back your heart if he had already lost it somewhere along the way?
You glance up after a bit. A wry smile blooms across your lips when you see the worried set of his brow.
“There is no guy,” you snort.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you pick me up?”
“You know where the apartment is.”
“..would’ve liked balloons, at least.”
You register the little quiver in his voice with a hum.
It’s kind of funny, because when he first got into prison four years ago, he was the one who tried to cut things off. Said he didn’t know you at first – assumed you wouldn’t want to associate with a convict. And now here he is, asking for welcome-home balloons.
“Wow,” you muse, pausing your show, “prison really softened you.”
He glares down at you. You smile back.
And then he lets out a long, aggravated exhale, drags a hand down his face, and plops down onto the couch. The whole thing dips under his weight.
“Missed you,” he murmurs.
You laugh and let him pull you into his arms.
“You big baby.”
Criminal!Sukuna who’s “reformed”. On paper. Ankle monitor long gone and patrol officer off his case. He’s even scored a legitimate (albeit mundane) part-time mechanic gig, which you’re 90% sure he got solely because the owner of the shop used to joyride with him. Some big burly guy named Toji who overcharges his clients and busts all his earnings in a casino at 4am, no doubt.
Still, the itch never leaves.
Criminal!Sukuna who can’t quite give up that pesky little habit of his. He’ll steal anything he can. Snatching your lacey panties right out the hamper just to shove them in the washer four hours later after jerking off until the fabric is soaked. And if ever you ask, he’ll just shrug and feign innocence.
“Dunno. Maybe they ran away from your stank ass pu–”
You don’t let him fuck you for the next two weeks, and from the desperate look on his face when you pass by, it isn’t difficult to assume he’s in just as much agony as he was when he was behind bars.
Criminal!Sukuna who “borrows” your car keys and drives off. He doesn’t have anywhere particularly important to be, but the jingle in his palm and the roar of the engine give him that good ol’ dopamine hit. He goes down three blocks to the gas station just to buy the same energy drink you already have three packs of in the fridge, then comes back home and acts like he wasn’t just driving on a suspended license.
Criminal!Sukuna who’s reintegrated into society. And yet he’ll never truly get rid of the urge – the whisper that he could do something, and he could probably get away with it, too.
But he won’t. He’d kill himself before getting locked up again.
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*credits to a dear friend of mine for this idea.
