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@sukubusss
doodles
sukuna asks you to cut his hair ♡︎
more trueform!sukuna x his favourite chubby concubine here
"he is asking for you," uraume says, entering your chamber just as you were preparing for bed.
you don’t question it. it wasn’t uncommon for sukuna to ask for you at this time, in fact, you often spent most nights with him, all four arms wrapped around you as you drift off to sleep.
not that he’d ever admit he finds your presence somewhat comforting — or that he enjoys your soft, warm body pressed against him at night.
you smile and nod to uraume, fastening your robe as you follow them to sukuna’s chamber. before entering, they hand you a pair of large, silver scissors.
you flash them a confused look, taking the scissors before opening the large doors before you.
sukuna is already there waiting for you in bed, sat up, one pair of arms crossed over his chest. “you asked for me?" you say, padding over to him, the cold stone floor biting at your feet.
there was no trace of his usually cold demeanour, in fact, he appeared somewhat nervous — vulnerable. "my hair, fix it," he says, gesturing to the scissors in your hand.
“you’d like for me to cut your hair?" you say, making no effort to hide gentle the smile growing on your face.
to be trusted with such a task was greatly endearing. you could only imagine how difficult it must’ve been for him to ask someone for help — especially a human.
"you find this amusing," he says, observing the smile on your face.
you climb onto his lap, two of his large hands almost instantly find your hips, squeezing the supple flesh there possessively.
”not amusing… but sweet," you respond, knowing you were the only person on earth that could get away with calling the king of curses "sweet" and live to tell the story.
“watch your mouth, woman," he grumbles, feeling you thread your fingers through his pink strands.
you were almost certain this was just an excuse to get you to play with his hair.
"keep your chin up," you say, taking the scissors and beginning to trim the sides. "do not give me orders," he says, closing all four of his eyes as you get to work.
his words had no real malice behind them.
“you should be careful how you address me whilst i’m holding a sharp object this close to your head," you joke, watching how one of his eyes flicker open defensively.
"do not test me, brat" he responds, closing his eyes again, sharp fingernails pressing into the flesh on your hips just enough to issue a warning.
trimmings of pink hair begin to fall onto your lap as you cut them away, concentrating carefully as you neaten up the longer strands at the top.
you fail to notice how your robe begins to loosen at the top, revealing your cleavage. of course, sukuna looks down, staring shamelessly as you continue your work.
but you eventually feel his gaze on you.
"you’re staring," you say, biting your lip in concentration. if you were to be sat on anyone else’s lap, their eyeline would be at the perfect level.
sukuna had never wished to be smaller before, until now, that is.
"i am only looking at what’s mine," he responds, a third hand now occupying itself by squeezing your full breasts, making your breath hitch.
he was making it extremely difficult for you to maintain your concentration.
“you’re distracting me, kuna" you say quietly, close to finishing up with his hair, gently sliding to the side and turning his head so you could get a better view of the back.
he smirks faintly in response, clearly entertained by your lack of restraint when it comes to him.
you examine your work a few times over before setting the scissors aside. "i’m finished," you say, threading your fingers through his hair once more, pushing it back and styling it just how he likes it.
"would you like to see?" you ask, expecting him to want to see the result.
"no."
clearly he trusted your skills enough.
before you can say another word, he rolls you over, flipping your positions so he had you pinned against the bed.
“i suppose i will reward you now," he purrs, ripping your robe open in one smooth tug, revealing your breasts and soft stomach that only make sukuna’s cocks twitch impatiently.
perhaps you should cut his hair more often…
A/N; feel free to suggest some ideas! tag list open <3
.ೃ࿔*
taglist; @teajus-world @lua-1201 @electrifiedmachinesage @susulmmyy
sukuna and his favourite chubby concubine ♡
⊱ ۫ ׅ✧ m.list
you were practically the only concubine sukuna ever asked for anymore.
because why would he ask for anyone else? you were the only woman that satisfied him. the only woman that dared to challenge him.
not that he’d ever admit it, but there was something special about you — intriguing. he often caught himself watching you pad around the gardens, barefoot, cupping the roses in your hands as you inhale their sweet scent, appreciating the little things in life as they came.
“tsk… pathetic humans and their need to romanticise everything…" he hisses under his breath, observing you from his window.
yet he refuses to look away, all four crimson eyes drawn to you, the way your soft body moves with such natural grace, the way you were alive with such warmth and curiosity.
the other concubines lived in fear of sukuna, moving like frightened birds when he was near — desperate to please.
but you?
you always adressed him with such casual confidence, like he wasn’t twice your size with four gigantic arms, four eyes, and a mouth on his stomach that looks like it wants to eat you alive.
what he enjoyed most about you was that you weren’t some frail, petite little thing like the rest of them.
sure, you were still pathetic compared to him, but at least you had some meat on your bones — full breasts, a soft stomach, hips wide enough to bare his children.
it got to the point where no one dared to say one bad thing about you, or even so much as look at you the wrong way. anyone that did seemingly ended up deceased or "missing."
sukuna would deny up and down that it was him when you’d ask, the man who takes pride in killing wouldn’t admit the lengths he’d go to for you.
"how strange," he’d say, his expression bored and stoic as always.
but you knew. of course you knew.
although, you only realised the depth of his quiet obsession when he began asking you to his chambers every single evening without fail.
you often take your time before meeting with him, combing your hair fifty times over, spending an extra hour bathing, not because you need to, because you can.
because you know he’ll wait.
"have i kept you waiting long?" you say, entering through the large doors as uraume closes them swiftly behind you.
sukuna’s eyes immediately find you, looking you up and down, both of his monstrous cocks hardening knowing what he’s about to do to you.
"…not at all," he purrs, a slight grin forming on his face.
A/N; making this a series so feel free to req some stuff! this is just kinda an intro post to it hehe
.ೃ࿔*
taglist! (open) ; @teajus-world @lua-1201 @electrifiedmachinesage @susulmmyy
Can Men and Women Be Friends?
Pairing: Sukuna x reader
Word count: 14,605 (more dialogue than typical for me)
Tags/warnings: Angst to comfort, fluff, my most suggestive/sexual story but no actual smut, mentions of painful/toxic past relationships, discussions of coercion, hypersexual undertones for Sukuna, avoidant attachment undertones for reader, weird passages of time, flawed characters, discussions of drug usage and addiction (side character), unhealthy coping mechanisms, culturally accurate misogyny, retiredteabag's first scary adventure into dialogue-heavy storytelling
When Harry Met Sally AU: (see summary)
Recent College graduates share a contentious car ride from their hometown to the big city where they have been newly employed, during which they argue about whether men and women can ever truly be strictly platonic friends. Years later, they meet again, and in the company of their respective friends, attempt to prove the lifelong question one way or another. Can they move from unwilling to deep friendship without sex becoming an issue between them? And after the pain of their previous relationships, are either of them even fit for love?
The two of you met in late spring.
The car ride from your hometown to the big city stretched ahead of you, the excitement laden with an unwanted obligation. You shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Sukuna's beat-up sedan, already regretting your mutual friend's bright idea to carpool the six-hour journey.
Itadori Sukuna had been sat beside you, having agreed to drive "the first leg of the journey", which ended up as him driving the whole way. His music was loudly playing through the speakers, one hand was draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting on the gear shift.
He had that look about him, the kind of casual confidence that you really only ever saw on a man like himself. Though you both were recent alumni of the same university, and by some insane chance actually had a connection through one of your roommates, you had never hung out with his crowd.
Even so, post graduation, you were headed to the same city. So there you were, buckled into his carpeted seats.
His girlfriend had sadly said goodbye with a messy kiss before he hopped in, embarked toward a full-time job, and coincidentally, your boyfriend waited for you in the very same direction.
It was supposed to be convenient, sharing the trip.
Ruin or ruin?
⤷ ゛ Easy Tiger | ch.2
Pairing: Fem!Reader / Tiger Hybrid!Ryomen Sukuna
Sukuna is a highly sought after tiger hybrid who was returned by his latest buyer for “performance issues”. You are a revered hybrid researcher personally tasked with getting to the bottom of the hybrids apparent disinterest in all of his potential mates.
warnings. tigerhybrid!sukuna/doctor!reader, mating cycles/in rut, minor injuries, breeding, mating bites, animal instincts, licking, biting, rough piv, creampie, multiple rounds, knotting, cunnilingus, kissing, crossing of ethical/professional boundaries, possessive/protective behaviour, soft/needy sukuna. nsfw 18+ mdni.
✎ Words: 15k | Ao3 | Masterlist | Prev in this series
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Your finger moved slowly around the rim of the glass, tracing the smooth ring. It was slippery beneath the pad of your manicured finger, still a little wet with wine and rouge remnants of your lip gloss, the collection of which was turning the glass a sticky pink as you traced the shape around and around and around.
You weren’t even really sure what you were saying, you only knew that your lips were still moving, something plain and pleasant and entirely boring slipping out from between them. Hell, you were even managing to bore yourself as you droned. A shallow sentence strung together in pretty reply to your date sitting across from you, who was equally plain and pleasant and entirely boring as your meaningless drivel. A fittingly mediocre reply for a fittingly mediocre date, you supposed.
baby yuji loves his pretty auntie who brought him his favorite plush tiger! I wanted to do something cute cos I love bby yuji
“auntieeeeeeee!!!” the little glob of sunshine screeched and crashed face first into your thigh. he always loved when you visited him and his uncle kuna. you always indulged his childish antics, let him ramble for literally hours about tigers and his best friend megumi (poor kid had the attention span of a hyperactive puppy) how could he not love you?
“can she at least get through the damn door before you go tacklin’ her?” sukuna scolds the tot but there’s no true bite to his bark. “and stop calling her that, punk.” the kid hisses at him, bearing his two missing front teeth, all the while you chuckle above him. the man couldn’t get two seconds alone with you while the kid was around, but honestly it seemed healthy to have you around. yuji opened up about some of the things he was going through to you a lot easier than he did with his uncle. sukuna had temporary custody of the little boy until his twin brother and sister in law got themselves together. you gave both of them some relief when it came to that delicate situation.
back to the present, yuji clings to your leg, arms and legs wrapped around you in a vice grip. he tries to take a peak inside the paper bag you’re keeping out of his reach.
“stop being mean to my nephew,” you say, and commence an awkward waddle-walk to the couch where sukuna’s leaned back on. once you finally coax the boy off of your leg, he squeezes in between his two favorite people on the couch to watch, in sukuna’s words a “boring ass movie,” to which you reminded him a child was present and not to swear in front of a kid.
“auntie?” he asks, brown eyes magnetized to the movie still.
“yes?”
“whats in the baggie?” he notices the glance you give up to sukuna, who’s casually snuck his arm across the couch behind your head. sukuna shrugs. your bones pop as you stretch, and you hop off the couch to head to the dining room table where you placed the bag. yuji springs up right after you, feet pitter pattering across the apartment floor.
“close your eyes,” you say, but yuji’s too excited and is already barreling a plethora of questions at you. it’s so cute—you honestly would let him go on for the rest of the night, but ryomen cuts the toddler off.
“just close your eyes, brat,” he commands with a slight bass in his voice. he snaps his eyes shut and puffs out his cheeks, holding his breath in anticipation as he hears you rustle the bag for a moment.
“okay, you can open them now!” he slowly opens his eyes, and as he does, they nearly pop out from his head. he squeals excitedly and bounces up and down, his tiny body spasming in pure joy.
“baby, the neighbors!”
“sowwy!” sukuna sighs. yuji reaches for the tiger, but recoils, as if he’s not sure if he wants to take it or not.
“uncle sukuna told me you were having a hard time sleeping, so I thought this little guys would help keep the nightmares away,” you explained. you urged him to take the toy. he looks back between the stuffed tiger and his uncle, who was watching from his spot on the couch.
“you just gonna stand there or are you gonna take the damn tiger?” yuji snatches the tiger and squeals a bunch of rushed together “thank you’s!”and crushed the toy in a death hug.
“THANK YOU THANK YOU! I LOVE YOU FOREVER!! I WISH MY UNCLE WOULD MARRY YOU!!!”
“alright, bedtime,” sukuna suddenly says and gets up from the couch and ushers the child to the back of the apartment. you giggled at the scene before you. sukuna glares but you pay him no mind. you of course, also help him get ready for the night.
later on, you tell the little boy goodnight, and leave him with his uncle for a few moments. he looked so comfy and snug with his little tiger he affectionately named after you.
as yuji drifts off into sleep, he reaches his stubby fingers for his uncles strong hands.
“uncle ‘kuna, um, can she stay?” it was a loaded question. he watches as his nephew falls asleep instead of giving him an answer.
“yeah, punk, i’m working on it.”
Babe? No! I'm Mom!
The sun is streaming through the kitchen windows, the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes is filling the air, and you are currently standing at the stove, flipping a slightly burnt blueberry pancake.
Sukuna is sitting at the kitchen island. He’s fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging gray sweatpants, his damp pink hair falling into his eyes. He’s scrolling through his phone, sipping his black coffee, completely relaxed.
“Hey,” you say, not looking away from the frying pan. “Can you grab the syrup from the pantry?”
“Yeah, I got it babe.” Sukuna rumbles. He stands up, his massive frame easily reaching the top shelf of the pantry. He sets the bottle on the counter next to you, leaning in to press a lingering, warm kiss to your bare shoulder. “Smells good.”
“Thanks, babe,” you smile, leaning into his touch.
It’s a normal morning. A perfectly domestic, quiet morning. And then, the patter of tiny, bare feet echoes down the hallway.
Yuji waddles into the kitchen. He’s wearing his favorite dinosaur pajamas, his spiky pink hair sticking up in every possible direction. He’s clutching an empty plastic sippy cup in one chubby hand, looking incredibly serious for a toddler who just woke up.
He stops in the middle of the kitchen floor. He looks at you. He looks at Sukuna.
Then, he takes a deep breath, puffs out his little chest, and yells, “Babe!”
You freeze. The spatula in your hand halts mid-air. Sukuna stops mid-sip of his coffee. He slowly lowers the mug, his eyes blinking in confusion.
“Did he just…” you whisper, slowly turning your head to look at your husband.
“There’s no way,” Sukuna mutters, his brow furrowing. He looks down at the two-year-old. “What did you say, little man?”
Yuji marches over to Sukuna. He stops right at his father’s bare feet, tilts his head all the way back to look up at the towering 6’4” wall of muscle, and holds up his empty sippy cup.
“Babe,” Yuji says, his voice completely clear and demanding. “Juice. Pwease.”
Sukuna’s jaw drops.
You slap a hand over your mouth, your eyes going wide. “Oh my god.”
“Did you…” Sukuna stammers, looking from Yuji to you, completely bewildered. “Did he just call me babe?”
“He definitely just called you babe,” you wheeze, a laugh bubbling up in your throat.
Yuji, growing impatient with the lack of service, turns his attention to you. He waddles over to the stove, tugging on the hem of your pajama shorts.
“Babe,” Yuji insists, pointing a chubby finger at the frying pan. “Pancake.”
A loud, booming bark of laughter erupts from your husbands chest. He throws his head back, his massive shoulders shaking as he braces his hands on the kitchen island. “Holy shit,” he wheezes.
“It’s not funny!” you scold, though you are biting your lip so hard to keep from laughing that it actually hurts. “He’s going to go to daycare and call his teachers babe!”
“The kid’s got swagger, what can I say?” Sukuna laughs, wiping his eyes. He crouches down, bringing himself to Yuji’s eye level. “Hey. Buddy. Who am I?”
Yuji looks at him like it’s the stupidest question in the world. He reaches out, patting Sukuna’s tattooed cheek with a sticky hand. “Babe.”
Sukuna bites his fist, his face turning red from the effort of holding in another hysterical laugh. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“Stop swearing!” you hiss, swatting Sukuna’s shoulder with the spatula. You kneel down next to him, putting on your most serious, gentle mom-face. “Yuji, sweetie, look at me.”
Yuji blinks his big, golden eyes at you. “Yeah?”
You let out a long groan, dropping your head into your hands. Sukuna is practically vibrating next to you, completely useless.
“No, baby,” you say, looking back up. You point to yourself. “I am Mama. Ma-ma.”
Yuji stares at you.
You point to Sukuna, who is currently trying to compose his face into something resembling a responsible parent. “And he is Dada. Da-da. Not babe.”
Yuji looks at Sukuna. He looks at you. His little eyebrows furrow in deep toddler concentration. He’s processing the information. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.
“Mama,” Yuji says slowly, pointing at you.
“Yes!” you cheer, clapping your hands. “Good boy!”
Yuji then points at Sukuna. “Dada.”
“Exactly,” Sukuna nods, looking incredibly proud. “Nailed it, little man.”
Yuji smiles, a massive, gummy grin that lights up his entire face. He looks thrilled with himself. He holds up his sippy cup again, looking right at Sukuna.
“Dada babe! Juice!”
“I give up,” you sigh, standing back up and walking over to the fridge to get the apple juice. “We’re raising a tiny frat boy. This is entirely your fault.”
“My fault?!” Sukuna gasps from the floor, trying to catch his breath. “How is this my fault?!”
“Because you call me babe every five seconds!” you argue, pouring juice into the plastic cup. “You never use my actual name! You never call me mama! He literally thinks ‘babe’ is a universal pronoun!”
“You call me babe too!” Sukuna defends himself, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees. He looks entirely too amused by the situation. “I haven’t heard you call me ‘dada’ unless we’re in the bedroom, and even then—”
“RYOMEN SUKUNA!” you shriek, your face flushing a shade of red as you shove the sippy cup into his chest. “Not in front of the child!”
“What? He doesn’t know what that means,” Sukuna smirks, standing up and effortlessly pulling you by the waist until your back is flush against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, wrapping his arms around you.
Yuji happily takes his juice, taking a long sip before waddling over to the living room to watch his cartoons, completely oblivious to the absolute crisis he just caused.
“We have to actively start calling each other Mama and Dada around him. Seriously. I am not having my two-year-old walk around the grocery store yelling ‘babe’ at me.”
“Alright, alright,” Sukuna chuckles, his chest vibrating against your back. He presses a soft kiss to your hair. “We’ll be better. Strictly Mama and Dada from now on.”
“Promise?” you ask, turning your head to look up at him.
“Yes, mommy..” he laughs, kissing your cheek. You groan, elbowing him hard in the ribs. “I hate you.”
an: i'm laughing my ass out with the tiktoks of toddler calling their parents babe! please let me marey Sukuna :c art by: umeka ryomen on pinterest here! the dividers and GIF i got from pinterest! please let ne know who the owners are if u know!
꩜ — THE FIVE PILLARS RYOMEN SUKUNA ABIDES BY
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 I asked you to.”
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.
૮꒰˵• ﻌ •˵꒱ა ㅤ© kayuekou, 2026 𖥻 do not copy, reconstruct, or upload on other platform nor feed my works into AI.
Dragon hybrid!Sukuna who controls whirlwinds, who controls volcanoes, who controls the storms that crash down upon Earth. Dragon hybrid!Sukuna who’s such a powerful being - sought out for blessings (and even curses) from far and wide, and sometimes even gets…sacrifices. Though he cares not for such things, of course- Dragon hybrid!Sukuna who gets you—brought up to his shrine as if a pretty gift. And he’s never seen anything prettier, you don’t want to go back to the village that left you: so would you mind if he kept you?
i imagine my yumeship in a historical kdrama kinda lens, and lemme tell u this song would def be one of the osts
You’ve worn your boyfriend Sukuna to the bone, so your other boyfriend Toji takes over.
warnings. fem!reader/tojikuna, threesome, multiple orgasms, piv, kissing, creampie, overstim, ovulation, switch!toji if you squint, dom!sukuna. nsfw 18+ mdni.
──── ୨୧ ────
The first thing Toji noticed when he stepped through the front door was the heat. A subtle humidity lacing the air like the sweet lingering remnants of perfume. There was your lotion, sweet and familiar, and the smell of fresh sweat, layered with something primal and musky - the smell of sex.
The second thing he noticed was Sukuna, splayed over the couch like he’d just run a marathon. Tank top soaked through and sweatpants riddled with little damp patches, dotted across the fabric like stray petals. Toji’s gaze dipped without bothering to hide the way he was blatantly staring at Sukuna’s chest, at the heaving pecs peeking out from his neckline, eyes tracking the little bead of sweat beginning to trail a hot path down the center.
“What’s your problem?” Came Toji’s eventual greeting as he paused by the door, tearing his eyes away just to sling his gym bag over the hook there before continuing into the room, water bottle clasped in his hand.
Sukuna glared in reply, and if Toji were anyone else he might have actually felt intimidated by the sight. But with the way the other man was panting, pink tufts of hair stuck every which way and slicked with sweat, he didn’t paint a particularly scary image. In fact the only sensation the sight triggered within Toji was a mild amusement, alongside a tiny spark of heat low and betraying in his belly.
i’ve been inactive for so long but hello. u should totally follow my insta @ iyawiyaz lol haha yea
morning YAWWWNNNN
HusbandKuna x Reader who lost her memory
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.
Circles (part 2)
Summary: Sukuna is tired of seeing his favourite bartender upset over her bum ass boyfriend
Part 1
The next few nights were busy. Not packed, but busy enough that you could lose yourself in the rhythm.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t busy enough to stop thinking about Sukuna. Every time the door swung open you were eager to look up; and even more disappointed when it wasn’t him.
“Think about it sweetheart.” You hated that those words had followed you. If you tried hard enough, you could still feel the warmth of his hand on yours.
The bell above the door chimed.
And there was your boyfriend, tipsy already, and it was barely 10pm.
A knot formed in your stomach.
“Hey babe,” he called loudly, stumbling slightly as he approached the bar.
Several customers glanced over. You forced a smile. “You’re drunk,” you whispered when he got closer.
He laughed. “Missed me?”
No. The thought came before you could stop it.
“I told you I was working.”
“Yeah, yeah.” His arm landed heavily on the counter.
You tried to keep him quiet for a while, and not disturb the rest of the customers.
———
Then his eyes shifted and he froze.
Sukuna happened to walk in twenty minutes after him. He took a seat three stools away, waving at you as he sat down.
Your boyfriend straightened. “Who’s this?”
You closed your eyes briefly.
Please don’t.
Sukuna calmly took a sip of the whiskey you just served him.
Nobody spoke. Nobody needed to.
“Oh.” Your boyfriend laughed humorlessly. “Oh, I get it.”
Sukuna didn’t react.
Your boyfriend pointed at him. “You’re the guy.”
“The guy?” Sukuna asked mildly.
“The guy trying to get with my girlfriend.”
Every muscle in your body tensed. “Stop. Please.”
Your boyfriend ignored you. “What, you think I haven’t noticed?”
Sukuna set his glass down slowly. “You’re making a scene.”
“You talking to my girl isn’t making a scene?”
“She’s working, I come here just for the booze buddy.”
You stepped forward. “Enough.”
But your boyfriend was already spiraling. The alcohol had taken control. “You think you’re better than me?”
Sukuna leaned back. “No.”
That somehow made him angrier. The bar had gone quiet, and customers were pretending not to stare.
Your face burned. Humiliation clawing at your skin.
“Come on then.” Your boyfriend stepped closer. “Let’s go outside.”
Sukuna sighed, like he was tired; like he didn’t feel threatened at all. “You’re drunk.”
“Says the guy sitting in a bar.”
“I’ve had one drink, unlike you.”
“You’re scared huh?”
“No.” The answer was immediate. “And I’m not fighting you.”
Your boyfriend shoved the edge of the bar, his glass rattling. You were frozen in fear and embarrassment.
“Hey.” Your coworker immediately appeared beside you. “That’s enough.”
Your boyfriend barely acknowledged him.
Big mistake.
Your coworker was six-foot-four and built like a fridge.
Sukuna stood. “Let’s go.”
Your boyfriend scoffed. “Or what?”
“Or you’ll embarrass her more than you already have,” he says nodding his head in your direction.
Silence.
Your boyfriend’s face twisted with disgust, and your stomach churned because you thought he was going to swing at Sukuna. It wouldn’t be the first time he got into a bar fight.
Instead Sukuna simply stepped beside him, and your coworker on the other. Together they guided him toward the door.
“Get off me!”
Nobody reacted.
“She’s my girlfriend! Babe say something—“
The words echoed through the bar; and you wished the floor would swallow you whole.
The bell chimed. And he was gone.
Customers quickly returned to their conversations and card games. The music seemed to play a little louder.
Life moved on.
But you couldn’t. You stared at the counter. At the glasses. At anything except the people around you.
Your eyes burned.
No. Not here.
The first tear slipped free. You immediately turned away. Mortified, because how could your life get any worse.
“Hey.” Sukuna’s voice was quieter now.
You shook your head. “I’m fine.”
Another tear followed. Then another.
God, you hated crying in front of people.
Your coworker squeezed your shoulder, “I’ve got the floor, take a break.”
You didn’t argue.
——-
A few minutes later you found yourself sitting on a crate outside the back of the bar, trying and failing to pull yourself together.
Footsteps approached you, but you didn’t look up, because you knew who it was.
Sukuna sat beside you, and neither of you spoke for a while.
You wiped angrily at your face. “This is so embarrassing,” you say first.
“No, you did good.”
“Everyone saw.”
“Nobody cares.”
“I care,” you blurted out, mascara stained your face now.
His expression softened, which made you look away. You felt guilty for seeking solace in a man who wasn’t your boyfriend.
“God this is hard.” The confession slipped out before you could stop it. “He’s changed so much.”
Sukuna stayed quiet.
“He was such a great guy,” your voice cracked. “I know that’s hard to believe.”
The air felt as though it had thickened.
“And now I spend more time making excuses for him than talking about him.”
Sukuna looked at the floor, then at you. “I know.”
Fresh tears welled up. “He made me look stupid. So freakin stupid.” The words came out small and broken.
Sukuna’s jaw tightened. “You don’t look stupid.”
“I stayed and I continue to stay.”
“You love him.”
You laughed bitterly. “Who knows anymore.”
Sukuna watched you for a long moment. Then gently handed you a napkin. “You remember what I said the other day?”
Your chest tightened. Of course you remembered. “Hmm. I remember.”
He nodded once. “I meant it.” His gaze never left yours. “But I already told you what I had to say.”
The breeze was warm, drying your tear-streaked cheeks. This felt too intimate.
“You have to make a decision now.” Not a demand, no pressure. Just the truth.
Your eyes dropped to your hands. “What if I make the wrong one?”
A painful smile appeared on Sukuna’s face. “You already know what the wrong decision looks like.”
The tears started again; you were just so exhausted. And before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him slightly.
Sukuna froze, then slowly rested an arm around your shoulders.
No flirting, no teasing, no smug grin. Just a shoulder to cry on.
———————————————————————————————
The last box was heavier than it looked.
“What’s even in this thing?” Sukuna asked, carrying it down the apartment stairs like it weighed nothing.
You huffed a laugh behind him. “Mostly books.”
“You’re telling me paper weighs this much?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” you smiled.
“I can read.”
“That’s not what I—”
Sukuna shot you a look over his shoulder, and for the first time in weeks, you laughed without feeling guilty afterward. The sound surprised you both.
————
The apartment was almost empty now.
Almost no framed photos on the walls. No more clothes hanging in the closet. No more reminders of all the years you’d spent trying to make something work.
The moving truck sat outside, half loaded.
Sukuna set the last box inside and dusted off his hands. “There.”
You looked back toward the building. It felt strange, you had imagined this moment so many times before. But now that you were finally doing it, it didn’t feel dramatic.
“You okay?” Sukuna asked. His voice was softer these days, but still blunt like always.
You nod, “Yeah, i think so.”
Sukuna leaned against the truck. Neither of you spoke for a moment. The spring breeze tugged at your hair.
For the first time in months, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for the next disaster to happen.
No angry texts, no drunken calls.
No wondering what mood your ex-boyfriend would be in when he got home.
The realization hit you so suddenly your eyes started watering. Again.
You laughed through it.
“Are you crying?”
“I’m not,” you said turning away from him.
“Come here,” he said gesturing to you to come closer.
You wiped at your eyes, “I’m emotional.”
“I know, I’m not judging. No need for explanations.”
Sukuna smirked. Then his expression softened. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to be strong all the time.”
You looked away.
That was the problem. You’d spent years being strong, fixing problems, and making excuses. Carrying someone else’s weight because you thought that was what love was.
Love is patient.
Love is sacrifice.
Love is sticking it out.
Right?
But somewhere along the way you’d forgotten that love wasn’t supposed to hurt all the time.
Sukuna reached over and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle it made your chest ache.
“You saved yourself,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“The restraining order. The breakup, the move. I’m so proud of you.”
“That was all you.” You smiled. “You did most of the heavy lifting, kinda like right now,” you gestured to the moving truck.
His red eyes met yours. Sukuna stepped closer. Just enough that you could feel his warmth. “But I couldn’t make the choice for you.”
You swallowed. He was right, he offered you a hand, a way out; but he never pushed.
The final decision had been yours.
Sukuna reached for your hand. Your fingers intertwined naturally now.
Although it was still fresh, you had decided on no promises or labels. One day at a time; and of course he was okay with that.
“What now?” You asked, while squeezing his hand.
Sukuna glanced toward the truck. “Now?”
A grin spread across his face. “We unpack six hundred pounds of books.”
You groaned.
sukuna chuckles, “Hey I already carried them.”
“You’re still helping me bring them in.”
Sukuna sighed dramatically. “See? This is how it starts.”
You laughed.
And as you climbed into the truck together, leaving the apartment behind for good, you realized for once, you were looking forward to what came next.
Dividers by: @thecutestgrotto