“why’s your mother threatening to leave the house?” sukuna directs this question towards his son, yuji who just shrugs in response.
you were done, you were so done.
“do we have some more, mom?” yuji now 12 years old, entering his growth spurt points at his plate.
you huff, a stray piece of your hair flying into the air, letting out a frustrated breath.
“no, your father ate it all” you jab a finger at your husband.
sukuna raises both hands in surrender “my bad, ain’t gotta leave the house over this, wife”
“oh don’t you ‘wife’ me right now” you draw air quotations with your fingers.
you’d spent the afternoon cooking for your family, sweating in this undying heat out of love for the both of them, you’d even made extra because you knew your son was growing up and so was his appetite.
but for sukuna to eat the major chunk of the food frustrated you to no end!
“next time, i’m only cooking for yuji and myself” you declare.
“what about me?” your husband questions.
“starve!” you bite back, your tone harsh, sukuna looks at you baffled.
yuji watches you two bicker back and forth, the sight almost entertaining, then he shrugs again concentrating on his food.
“you know what? i’m done with you, i’m leaving” you swing your bag over your shoulder, ruffling yuji’s hair, murmuring that he should eat well, and to order something if he’s still hungry.
sukuna doesn’t blink, his eyes follow your every movement as you stride up to the door pulling your shoes on.
your hand is on the doorknob about to twist it open, when you’re lifted off of the ground legs useless, into strong tattooed arms.
you flail and kick your legs to no avail, sukuna rests his face in the crook of your neck watching your meek attempts at escape.
“let me go!” you exclaim, his grip a vice on your waist.
soon enough the fight dies in you and you breathe heavy from the exertion, your brows furrowed forming rivulets across your forehead.
sukuna brings you back down onto the ground yet still doesn’t let go, and you don’t try to get away.
“you can’t leave me like this” he whispers, his voice deep and slightly raspy, “wife” he enunciates, heavily stressing on the word.
“i’m a big man, i can’t help my appetite” he rubs the side of your arm, his touch so very gentle “yuji’s growing up too…” he trails off thinking for a second.
then he turns you around with a light tap on your waist, “does my wife want me to hire a chef?”
you sigh, nodding “i don’t mind cooking for you-“
he cuts you off “don’t gotta explain it to me, noticed it’s a lot of work, i’ve got the right person, you just have to say the word”
you were very particular about your kitchen and felt skeptical about having another person in your house.
“who is this…person?”
“don’t worry about it, we go way back”
“still”
“uraume”
ofcourse.
firefly; building on my hc that sukuna is a taurus from this fic ❀ུ͏
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She opens another tub of ice cream, the combination of excitement, the coldness and a sugar rush making her hands quiver. Clumsily, she spoons multiple scoops into her bowl, already streaked with previous portions, blobs of cream, chocolate and fudge sauce smeared on the edges. In a stroke of what she considers genius, she reaches above her, with some effort, into the cupboard, feeling around for the packet of chocolate digestives she left in there. Her pudgy hands making contact with it, she pulls it out, giggling to herself softly. Ripping the packaging open, she grabs a hefty handful of the biscuits, crushing them between her doughy palms, crumbling the remains over her ice cream, licking the crumbs and melted chocolate off of them once she's satisfied with the mountain she's built.
Waddling the few steps from her kitchen to her living room, she throws herself onto her sofa, ignoring the crack and creak of the long-suffering frame beneath her, and settles back in to her favourite position: horizontal, on her back, her belly rising and falling softly, her view of her lower half a distant memory. Resting her slowly melting bowl of creamy, crumbly slop on her chest, her breasts falling either side of her, she sighs, reaching awkwardly down her side to wrestle the television remote from beneath her bloated rolls, ready for another evening doing what she does best: stuffing her face.
On the coffee table, pulled close for convenience, piles of her favourite snacks. Chocolate wrappers torn and discarded carelessly. Cans of her current favourite soft drinks, all drained dry. Greasy takeaway boxes scraped clean of their contents. She's eaten particularly well today, and she can feel it. Her stomach feels dense, gurgling almost constantly, digestion trying to match the pace of her consumption. Her face sticky, remnants of past food sitting in the corners of her mouth, her tongue darting between her lips occasionally to try and lick it off.
“This will surely be my last snack tonight” she thinks to herself, knowing full well that she's lying to herself. She spoons mouthfuls of ice cream and biscuits into her mouth, dripping it down her chins as she reaches back into the bowl. She knows once she's finished this, she'll be struggling to get off the sofa once again, ready to rummage through her fridge, freezer, cupboards, for that “final snack” that will definitely fill her up. A routine well practiced, day after day, yet never mastered.
Another night, lost to gluttony, and she couldn't be happier.
