CW: mentions of alcohol/guns/knives, slut shaming, non-consensual touching, slight toxic relationship, all not by Sukuna, fluff, protective Sukuna
You and your friend are approached by a stranger at the bar and the way your significant others react is quite telling
It’s Friday night, late enough that the all night crowd is starting to slip beyond the playful buzz while early enough that those who like to crawl into bed before midnight to salvage the next day still linger.
Bright neon signs dot the walls illuminating the dingy dive bar just enough that the low rafters and stray columns cast shadows across the space.
You and your best friend just finished ordering shots off your boyfriend’s tab, now standing off to the side at the bar so you can prepare for the perfect selfie to post on socials later.
You glance back in the direction where you left him. In the middle of a conversation with your friend’s boyfriend, he stands tall, hands tucked into the pockets of his black jeans and shoulders squared back. A man who commands the space rather than bending to its will.
A black fitted wifebeater strains across his muscular chest, tattoos slashing down over his traps and neck before diving down beneath the fabric in a pattern you know by heart even with them being obscured from view.
Shadows obscure his tattooed face, but what little light is there glints off his crimson eyes, making him look more intimidating in the already tight space.
Turning back to your friend, you move away from the crowd. You forgot about the sticky floor a while ago, but now that the night has aged, the bar has earned fresh layer of grime evidenced by the squeaking beneath your soles from shuffling your feet.
“Cheers!” your friend squeals, handing you a shot glass with a toothy smile.
“Cheers,” you answer loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the bar.
The sharp taste is quickly relieved by something sweet, having no idea what your friend ordered but it did go down smooth enough that you’d do it again.
“Y’all took that like a champ,” a masculine voice sounds from your periphery.
You drag your gaze up from the glass, the fringes of your vision blurring slightly as the night’s beverages start to catch up.
It’s a man you’ve never seen before, eyes dark and movements sloppy to match the age of the night.
“What, never seen a girl rip a shot before?” you respond, watching a smirk bloom across the man’s face.
Your friend, more tipsy than you, begins giggling at the exchange.
“Plenty. Usually a good sign you’re good with your mouth,” he slurs, making you want to laugh at how lame that was.
Your friend bursts into a fit of snickers once again, causing your eyes to roll. She’s hopeless.
Heat begins to creep up your neck, sending a chill down your spine that urges you to look around. In a specific direction to be exact.
Towards Sukuna.
Your eyes lock, his body is turned toward your friend’s boyfriend but his side eyed stare is readily apparent. His stance is still relaxed but the look in his eyes stake a silent claim as they bore straight through you like they’re piercing your very soul.
In the split second you glance back toward the newcomer, Sukuna directs his attention elsewhere, now down at your friend’s boyfriend who is glaring in your direction, brow furrowed and mouth moving in a tight line.
It’s impossible to know what he’s saying, but Sukuna’s lip curling up into a grin lets you know he’s amused by whatever it is.
Your friend’s man is clearly getting more and more worked up as time goes on, starting to point at the three of you as his mouth keeps moving. You assume Sukuna isn’t interested in the request because he shrugs his shoulders, simply tilting his head in your direction while listening.
You suddenly feel a hand graze your hip, jerking you back to find the stranger looking at you.
“Off in space sweetheart? I asked you a question,” he muses.
“Must be,” you answer, unbothered and disinterested in whatever is going on in front of you. Your boyfriend acts as an almost omnipotent presence in every room he enters, so in your eyes this man poses no threat to you in the slightest.
You’ve played this game enough times to know he isn’t the type to bark every time someone knocks on the door. He prefers to wait, let someone enter his space, give the illusion that they are safe before he strikes.
A man too secure to be bothered by men who are nothing more than gravel beneath his boot.
Unlike your friend’s man who is now causing a scene in front of you. He’s managed to wedge himself between her and the stranger, trying to push his chest out and yell in his face about how he better get the fuck away from his girl, going so far as to flash a switchblade as intimidation.
The drama is just annoying now, both men are making a racket, starting to draw attention from the other patrons.
“Keep your bitches on a leash then, they’re over here with their tits hangin’ out just trying to draw attention,” the stranger snarls, causing your friend’s boyfriend to shove him hard.
“You think this shit is funny?” he whips around to your friend who flinches back.
“Babe we were all just having fun,” she argues back, gesturing at you.
“I was watching him come closer and closer and you just let him,” he shouts back. “Both of you!” he now looks at you too, “disrespecting your men in front of everyone like that.”
“You don’t get to speak on my behalf.”
A low voice sounds.
Sukuna.
Your body starts to feel hot, craving his presence as soon as he’s within reach. Like a magnet, your body gravitates toward him and his own arm slides around your waist with practiced ease. Two bodies calibrated to be in sync with each other after years together.
He pulls you against his sturdy form, feeling the gun tucked into his pants hard against your thin shirt.
The stranger shrinks back, eyes darting between you and Sukuna, the realization that he touched you moments ago starting to take root.
“Gettin’ a little rowdy in here huh baby?” Sukuna doesn’t even look at the man, instead his crimson eyes soften as they look down at you, pulling you tighter against him before planting a quick kiss on your cheek.
“Mhmm, I’m tired too Kuna,” you yawn, body now relaxing into his embrace acting as a reprieve to the chaos. The scent of his cologne mingles with beer and faint cigarette smoke that’s clung to the fabric of his tank top.
Your eyes drift back to the stranger, now giving him a smirk of your own that only spurs him on.
“You that pathetic man? You always let your bitch disrespect you in public like that? Didn’t even bat an eye at me touching her…”
Sukuna’s body doesn’t stiffen at all against you, but the stranger does now have his attention for the first time tonight.
“Tch, pathetic?” he grunts, cracking his neck before finally looking at the man. His hand flares out large against your back, never losing contact.
“This whole show begins and ends with me. I know it and my girl does too,” Sukuna’s voice is smooth.
Then he glances at your friend and her boyfriend who is still openly seething, hand tight around her elbow.
“If you think this interaction even remotely matters, then you’re just an extra in a scene that no one will remember or care about.”
Your blood runs cold at his words while everyone else’s eyes cloud over as they take in his statement. Sukuna meanwhile turns his attention to you, the brief moment worthy of his time now forgotten.
“I paid our tab, let’s getchu home,” he murmurs, hand now moving to entwine his fingers in yours, grip tight but comfortable.
As he begins to lead you away, he pauses for a moment, leaning down to your friend’s boyfriend while giving your hand a gentle squeeze.
“A boy puffs out his chest and makes a scene, a man brings her home and reminds her why she’s with him.”
Fluff | Comfort | Modern AU | Sukuna was supposed to stay safely behind a screen. Then he started feeling like home.
There's something dangerous about a boy who hides behind a screen like it's a velvet curtain.
And Ryomen Sukuna always makes sure to stay backstage of his life.
It starts simple. A random queue.
A match that should've been forgettable. Except— You hear his voice.
Low. Smooth. Slightly distorted through a headset that probably cost more than your whole setup.
"Don't push mid," he says. "They're baiting you."
You push mid anyway. You die instantly.
"...Told you."
You laugh.
He doesn't. But there's a pause—
like he's holding back one.
That's how it hooks.
After that, it becomes routine.
Private Discord calls.
Late-night games.
You ramble about your day while he listens, keyboard clicking in the background like a second heartbeat.
"Send me the assignment," he says one night while you've been staring at the damn thing for the last ten minutes.
"What—why?"
"You're struggling with it."
You squint at your screen. "Are you spying on me now?"
"...Just send it."
You do. Five minutes later—
He's explaining it to you like he's breaking a code open with his bare hands.
Clean. Precise. Annoyingly smart.
"You're actually a nerd," you say.
Silence.
Then— "...Shut up."
You grin.
Because here's the thing—
He never turns his camera on.
Not once. Even after weeks of talking.
♡ ︎♡ ︎♡ ︎
Hours and hours of voice, his quiet breathing, the occasional muttered curse when a game goes wrong—
But no face.
Meanwhile? You're fully visible.
Curled up in your hoodie. Hair messy. Smiling like he can actually feel it through the screen.
"You know," you say one night, chin resting on your knee, staring directly into your camera, "you're really cute."
Silence.
"...You've never seen me."
"I don't need to."
A pause. Longer this time.
"...You're weird."
"And you like it."
Another pause.
"...Yeah."
You learn him in fragments.
The way he taps his desk when he's thinking.
How his voice drops when he's focused.
The way he goes quiet when someone in-game talks to you a little too casually.
"Who was that?" he asks once.
"Just a teammate?"
"...He was annoying."
You smirk. "You jealous?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
The next day?
The same teammate never logs in again.
You don't ask.
"Did you break his computer?"
"...Maybe it broke itself."
"Uh-huh."
There's a darkness to him.
Not loud. Not flashy or anything like hatred.
Like a shadow that chooses when to move. And somehow—
It never turns toward you.
Only around you. Guarding. Watching.
One night, it's quieter than usual.
No game.
Just you and him in the call.
You're doing homework.
He's... doing whatever mysterious hacker-wizard things he does.
"Turn your camera on," you say suddenly, taking a sip of your drink.
"No."
"Why not?"
Silence.
Then, quieter— "...Don't feel like it."
You soften. Just a little.
"You know I already think you're hot, right?"
"...You say that a lot."
You lean closer to your camera, resting your cheek in your hand.
Soft smile. No teasing this time.
"I like your voice. I like how you think. I like how you explain things. I like how you get all grumpy when people talk to me."
Silence. Then—
"...I'm not grumpy."
You grin. "Sure."
A breath. You hear it.
"...You really don't think tattoos are... too much?"
There it is. The real thing. The uncertainty. The doubt.
Your voice drops, softer.
"Not even a little. I've always wanted some and even my parents have them."
Another pause.
"...They scare people."
"Good," you say simply. "Means they'll leave you alone."
"...They don't leave you alone."
You blink. And here it shows again. That quiet, protective edge.
Sharp as a blade wrapped in velvet.
"I don't want them," you say. "I've got you, don't I?"
Silence.
A soft, almost inaudible exhale. "...Yeah."
The camera never turns on that night.
Or the next.
But something shifts. Because now, when you laugh, he lingers a little longer.
When you mention a new game, it appears on your desktop a couple days later. Even the ones he silently judges.
And when someone in-game crosses a line?
They disappear fast.
One night— just once—
The camera flickers. Not fully. Just a glitch of a movement.
A hint of pink hair. Edges of glasses.
The faintest glimpse of eyes that look like they've seen too much and still chose to stay .
Then—
it's gone.
"...Connection issue." he mutters.
You smile. Soft. Knowing.
"Yeah," you whisper. "Sure it was."
And on the other side of the screen—
He doesn't deny it.
The shift continues on your end too.
♡ ︎♡ ︎♡ ︎
Your pencil is tapping softly on your lips, looking at the page in front of you like it's causing permanent brain damage.
"Suki, I don't get it. Help."
Silence on the other end of the call.
"...What did you just call me?"
You grin into your camera, completely unbothered. "Suki."
"...No."
You tilt your head. "No?"
"No." Then— "...Say it again."
You beam. "Sukinani."
Dead silence.
Then. A sharp exhale through his nose.
Not annoyed. Not really.
"...You're not funny."
You can hear the smirk he refuses to admit to.
"Too late," you say. "It's sticking. I'm a marketing genius!"
"...Don't push it."
"You love it."
A pause.
"...Yeah."
It gets worse for him after that.
Because you don't filter yourself. Not with him.
One night, mid-call, legs tucked under you, you just ask:
"So how tall are you?"
"...Why?"
You shrug, casual as anything.
"I don't wanna date someone shorter than me."
Silence. Then—
"...Six-three."
And that— that is when you forget your camera is on.
You bite down on your fist like you're physically trying to hold back the reaction—
Eyes shut. Shoulders curling in.
That dangerous little bite to your knuckle like—
oh no. oh that's sooooo hooooot.
You freeze.
Realization hits.
"...Wait—"
Too late. Because on the other side—
He saw everything.
You still can't see him but you can definitely hear him.
Voice lower now. Slow. Satisfied in a way that should honestly be illegal.
"...You good?"
You drop your hand completely, trying to recover.
"Yeah. Fine. Totally fine."
"Looked like you had a sudden heart attack."
You glare at your screen. "Shut up."
A pause.
"...You like that?"
You bury your face in your sleeve.
"Moving on."
And he lets you.
But you can feel it. That shift. That closeness even with in the distance.
From that moment on, he mentions his height casually.
Drops comments like—
"Had to duck through a doorway earlier."
You hate him. You adore him.
♡ ︎♡ ︎♡ ︎
Outside of calls—
The texts start.
At first, it's random.
Little fragments of each others worlds, but anything coming from him felt precious.
You smile so much whenever he sent a picture, even if it's not of his face, that your cheeks hurt.
♡ ︎♡ ︎♡ ︎
And then one night—
It slips. Reality slipping into your virtual bubble.
You're quieter than usual. Voice softer in the call.
Laughs are a little delayed. Like you're not present.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing."
Silence.
"...Don't do that."
You sigh. Curling tighter into yourself.
"My grandma's sick..."
The line goes still.
"...How bad?"
You swallow, your eyes distracted by something in your room.
"...Bad." You tell him briefly about your family member's condition. Enough to understand. Stopping before your voice slightly breaks. Before your eyes start to blink and sting.
He doesn't speak for a second.
Because he's choosing his words like they matter.
"...I'm sorry."
It's simple. Honest.
It lands heavier than you expected it to be.
You nod, "I just..." you start, then stop.
"...What?"
You hesitate. You laugh softly, like you're trying to hide the fact that your heart is hammering in your chest.
Because even with everything going on in your life, whenever you talk to him... Everything feels— light. Safe. Grounded.
"I wish we could meet."
Silence.
You keep going anyway.
"I feel like you give the best hugs."
And that— that hits him.
Harder than the height thing.
Harder than anything before this point in this odd relationship.
Because for once— he doesn't have any comeback. No smartass response, no rude comment. Just—
"...Yeah?"
Your voice is smaller now. Probably from how tense your chest feels.
"Yeah."
Another pause.
"...You don't even know that."
"I do."
Silence again. You hear movement on the other side of the call.
Fabric shifting. A breath. His.
"...I'd probably hold you too long."
Your lips press together. Holding back a mix of anticipation, fear, warmth and sadness.
"...I don't think I'd mind."
And for once, Sukuna isn't smug, isn't teasing or hiding behind silence and sharp edges.
He's just there. "...Good."
Soft. Certain. Grounding. Like you're within reach.
♡ ︎♡ ︎♡ ︎
From that moment on, he flickers into view.
Slowly. Piece by piece.
A shoulder in frame. The edge of his jaw. Glasses catching screen light like a secret he forgot to hide.
You don't say anything. You don't comment on it.
Just... look. And he feels it like a sixth sense.
"...Stop staring." Sukuna mutters one night, voice a little lighter than usual.
"I'm not staring."
"You're not listening."
You blink, caught.
"...I am listening."
Silence.
"What did I just say?"
"You said... something smart."
A beat. A quiet scoff.
He doesn't sound annoyed, not really. More like you caught him off-guard. Like you actually make him laugh.
"You're distracted."
You lean closer to your camera, chin in your hand, smiling like you've already been caught and decide to run with it.
"Can you blame me?"
Silence.
For once, he doesn't turn off the camera.
He stays.
Pink hair pushed back just enough by his headset.
Glasses framing his amber eyes.
Those tattoos framing the edges of his face, unfair features softened by the glow of his screen.
He glances at you.
Then away.
Then back again.
"...Focus." he mutters.
You don't. You can't.
Weeks pass like that. More glimpses. Longer moments. Less hiding.
Until one day, he doesn't flicker.
He stays on. The whole call.
And you almost forget how to breathe.
♡ ︎♡ ︎♡ ︎
The meeting happens in a way you never expected. In all the foolish daydream you made in your mind. That— wasn't one of them.
But Sukuna— being true to himself— plans in silence.
He wakes up early. Too early.
Drives for hours with nothing but your voice in his head and your last message sitting pinned at the top of his screen.
"I'm going to see my grandma this weekend."
So he goes. Without any warning.
He just... arrives.
You're stepping out of your place, keys in hand, bag over your shoulder, your mind preoccupied somewhere else.
Then— you stop.
Because there's a man standing near the curb. Leaning against a car you don't recognize.
Tall. Too tall.
Broad shoulders. Dark clothes.
Hands in his pockets like he's holding himself back on purpose.
Your brain is slow to do the math...
But your body is quicker.
When he finally looks up. Those eyes—
you'd recognize them anywhere.
"...Suki?"
His jaw tightens. Just a muscle twitch. "...Yeah."
Everything in you stutters.
He's there. Standing a few feet in front of you.
He's real. And he's—
Unfair. Taller than you imagined.
Sharper. More imposing.
The kind of presence that doesn't ask for attention but takes it anyway.
And suddenly—
You're aware of everything.
Your clothes. Your hair. The way you're standing. The way you look.
Because standing in front of him... you feel small. Smaller than you ever felt.
Your hand instinctively smooths your shirt. You shift your weight.
Eyes flicking away.
"...You didn't tell me you were coming."
"I know."
Of course he didn't. A beat passes.
"...You gonna keep looking at the ground," he adds quietly, "or are you gonna look at me like you do on call?"
Your head snaps up.
He's watching you. Not judging. Just— focused.
Like you're the only thing that matters in his line of sight.
"I just—" you start. Your tongue fumbling on what you want to say.
You laugh nervously.
"You look..." You don't finish.
He steps closer. One step is enough to make your breath hitch.
"What?" he asks.
You swallow.
"...Really good."
A pause.
Then— that familiar, dangerous little shift in his expression.
"...Yeah?"
You nod, a little helpless now.
"Yeah."
Silence settles between you. Not awkward. Full. Taking everything in.
Because now— there's no screen. No distance. No technical difficulties.
Just him. Standing in front of you.
"...You're shorter in person," he mutters.
Your eyes widen. "Uh- I think not!"
He huffs a quiet laugh.
Real, unfiltered.
"...Still perfect height."
You freeze and narrow your eyes at him. "...For what?"
He steps closer again.
Now you really feel it.
"...For this."
He moves slowly, carefully.
Like approaching something he doesn't want to scare away.
His arms come around you.
And you don't even think.
You step into him.
The hug hits instantly. Warm. Solid.
Safe in a way that knocks the air out of your lungs.
You were right, he does give the best hugs.
One hand presses firmly against your back.
The other settles at the back of your head.
Holding you there.
And he doesn't let go right away.
"...Told you, I'd hold you too long." he murmurs against your hair.
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt in response.
"...Told you I don't mind. You give the best hug." Holding onto him.
And for the first time since that random queue.
There's no screen between you. Just two people, finally standing exactly where they want to be.
♡ always stay safe on the internet, people ♡
♡ these men are safe, no need to hold back ➺ Masterlist
finance!sukuna x analyst!reader | finance au | office au | fluff-ish | oneshot | high finance, high tension — and the one thing that isn’t negotiable? sukuna’s claim on you | 3k words
♡ link to my main [archived] masterlist
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"Got that report ready yet?" Sukuna asks, voice gruff from the lack of sleep the night before. He has bags under his eyes but those crimson irises still look as sharp and alert as always. It's too early in the morning still, so his suit is still ironed out perfectly; white sleeves haven't been rolled up yet, top button of his shirt is still fastened, and his pink hair hasn't withstood his hand running through the gelled strands a million times yet.
God, he looks so good.
"Um— I'll have it done in the next ten minutes." You stammer, hands hovering over the keyboard. He sees your gaze flicker to the blooming purple mark stretch out from just under his collar and you clear your throat, discretely tapping the side of your neck.
"Shit."
He tightens his tie hastily, and pulls the collar up a little more with his nimble fingers. When you start faffing around with some paper on your desk, his red eyes flicker to the half-typed email on your monitor, and then the stack of binders yet to be combed through on the desk.
Feeling particularly exhausted today, he doesn't even try to hide the fact that his gaze is lingering on your exposed legs for a little too long. It offers him a moment of reprieve — a vivid gentle reminder of what he gets to kiss and lick and slide his hands over when he's in a bad mood. Whenever he wants you.
"I needed it yesterday." Sukuna bites. "I have that meeting with Zen'in Enterprises at half nine."
You almost scoff. Almost. But you don't — in fact, you bite your tongue and after looking around to see your colleagues are also burying their heads in their cubicles, you lower your voice.
"And what were we doing yesterday, Ryo? Maybe if you wanted work done, you shouldn't have been bending me over your desk."
"Don't start, Y/N." He exhales. "Just give me the goddamn report in ten."
"Ten?!"
"Ten." Sukuna confirms. "And I don't give a shit if Hiromi wants his numbers first."
And then he turns, storming back into his office, leaving the glass door still rattling in the frame behind him. You watch for a few seconds longer as he sits in his chair, elbows leaning on the desk. Candlesticks ripple across his screen in red and green waves; his dark irises watch them momentarily before they flicker to his other monitor, the light cutting across the sharp angles of his face. His brows dip in focus.
His large hand comes up to cradle his angular jaw, thumb dragging once beneath his bottom lip as he thinks. The movement is slow — distracted.
Every movement in office is calculated — incredibly precise. There's no room for error at all. Because to make an error here, or to even show any signs of weakness and fear, is to tell the entire office that your position is up for grabs. Sometimes you think about how both you and Ryo used to be on the same team. What everyone doesn't know is that behind closed doors, Ryomen Sukuna is feral; he yearns for the opportunity to relinquish all control, all stoicism.
What no one else sees, is the way his restraint frays at the edges when he is pushed too far. Or rather, when you push him too far by making another snarky remark, or when you have snapped at him in retaliation. Nobody else bears witness to the marking along the supple inner skin of your thighs or the curve of skin where your breast meets your ribs, or even along the gentle slope of your spine. At midnight, when you and other junior members of his team have to stay behind to do overtime and he summons you to his office, they do not see him beg and plead for salvation, for your fingers to stay in his mouth as he moves your free hand down to the hardness in his trousers.
Goosebumps rise on your skin.
Your eyes trace the line of his shoulders beneath his tailored shirt, the way the fabric pulls when he shifts his weight. The white cotton stretches as his muscles ripple beneath. He murmurs something under his breath, an inaudible "fuck's sake", before he picks up the phone on his desk and holds it to his pierced ear.
The clock on your desk slides past eight, another minute already lost. Somewhere in the office, a printer whirrs and good mornings are exchanged. You straighten up in the chair that will be glued to your form for the next ten hours and cast one last, slightly lingering look, at Sukuna before forcing your focus onto the numbers bearing his name.
By the time midday comes around, Sukuna is still in the conference with Zen’in Enterprises. His office lies empty, as does Yuji Itadori’s desk next to you. This morning’s coffee from the local deli is long abandoned parallel to a bunch of his files, the cheap plastic lid discarded carelessly on the hardwood. You pretend to clack around on the keyboard, fingers bouncing around hastily to get Higuruma’s analysis done before he can send you an assy email chasing it up again. Half of your focus is on that, but then the other – mushier – half of your brain is still swirling with replays of Sukuna’s strong and veined hands sliding up your throat from the valley between your tits.
You exhale, feeling the warm air between your teeth. There is never a quiet moment in the office; phones ring in overlapping bursts, voices cut across one another in sharp fragments, percentages, buy orders, swears. Rows of desks stretch beneath harsh white lighting, monitors stacked like battlements, ready for whatever the day brings. The smell of coffee can be nauseating, and often you go home and can still get a faint whiff of that and Sukuna’s cologne on your crisp white shirt.
The conference room door at the end of the corridor opens with a muted click. You can barely hear it over the loud chatter on the trading floor but conversation spills out anyhow, followed by low, expensive laughter. The kind of laughter that only comes from men like Naobito and Ogi Zen’in. Sukuna steps out with Yuji a few steps behind him, tablet tucked under his arm, still talking, animated, bright, and clearly riding the high of a meeting that went incredibly well. So the report was fine. Your shoulders relax a little in relief.
Naobito gestures lazily over the multitude of workers hovering over desks, phones clamped between their ear and suited shoulders, with a hand wrapped around a glass of something amber; Ogi’s smile is thin but appraising. He says something which earns a chuckle from Sukuna. Yuji looks like he might bounce off the wall from how well the meeting went.
“—was aggressive,” Naobito praises. “Unexpected, from you and Yuji.”
Sukuna adjusts his Prada cuff links without breaking stride.
“You hired me for returns,” he says evenly. “Not safe plays.”
The group moves a little further down the corridor toward the trading floor, heels hitting cold marble in a steady rhythm.
And then Sukuna’s gaze shifts, and lands on you. Across the open floor, through the forest of monitors and heaving bodies, his sharp eyes find yours like he was already looking to see if you’re still sitting at your desk. Your stomach tightens when he holds your gaze a second longer than he really should, especially in front of clients.
You look away before he does because a large shadow falls over your desk and unwillingly, you look up expecting Higuruma to chastise you for not having his work done.
But it’s goddamn Naoya.
Suguru Geto’s protégé – his shining star, who sits far away on the other side of the office and just loves coming over every now and then to gloat. His ego is bigger than his paycheck, and you think he’s always trying to overcompensate for something. He must have just finished his rounds, harassing Mei Mei who works directly under Nanami, before sauntering over to you like he doesn’t have trends to analyse.
He leans casually on his palm against the edge of your desk, blond hair perfectly styled, smile already edged with something self-satisfied. The cuffs on his ear glint under the fluorescent lighting.
You keep your expression neutral.
“Quite the turnout,” he says lightly, glancing toward the Zen’ins. “Big boys’ table today.”
You keep your eyes on him, but your words come out flat. “Looks that way.”
He chuckles softly, leaning in just enough to invade your space without technically touching you. The air thins.
“I’ve got a report to finish,” you reply, tone polite but clipped. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Naoya doesn’t move.
“You know, Y/N, if you ever need more than what you’re getting,” Naoya continues coolly, “Suguru’s team looks after its own. Especially pretty ones like you.”
His gaze drifts over you in a way that makes your jaw clench and your spine straighten. He’s fucking annoying.
He pretends to look at his nails, the corner of his lips curling a little. “Wouldn’t want you feeling overwhelmed.”
“Naoya, I think I’m fine here.”
Naoya brushes off what you say, mouth still moving. Every syllable seems to drip with feigned concern. “You know, people underestimate how competitive this place is. It’s not always–”
“Naoya.”
Naoya freezes mid-sentence, his hand dropping to his side as he turns to see Sukuna, hands resting in the pockets of his black suit trousers. Sukuna’s voice carries across the floor without being raised and slices cleanly through the noise. Everyone stops chattering, phones are left ringing for a moment. You see how Naoya’s face tinges pink and you have to stop the laugh from coming out of your mouth.
The pink haired man is composed to the point of stillness, yet something in his expression is intimidating enough to make Naoya straighten up immediately, stepping back from your desk like he has just remembered he is trespassing in territory that is not his.
He mutters something about having a call and retreats, his tie already being adjusted as he disappears, weaving through the desks back to Suguru’s territory.
Once he leaves, Sukuna’s eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Naoya’s retreating figure. He gives you a subtle nod, which you don’t return.
When Naobito and Ogi take their leave, Sukuna and Yuji, still chatting idly, words fading into the ambient noise of monitors and ringing phones, begin drifting back to where you are sitting. Sukuna passes just behind you, and you catch a faint scent of his expensive cologne, catching an earful of him grumbling about Naoya but then it’s swiftly muted by his glass door shutting.
Yuji clears his throat as he places his tablet and papers down next to you, eyeing you. You glance at him in return, raising a single brow, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
“Naoya again, huh?” He laughs. “Bit forward, don’t you think?”
“He’s just confident.”
“Overly.” Yuji quips, hand smoothing down his unruly hair. “He’s sleazy.”
Feeling slightly embarrassed about Sukuna calling Naoya out, you stop typing on your laptop. Your hands rest on the table.
“Well, Sukuna didn’t need to do all of that.” You say.
Yuji shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, though his eyes flick nervously toward the closed office door behind you.
“I mean, he’s just territorial and wants people to know whose floor they’re on.”
You let a quiet hum escape but nothing more is said, because you know it is a little more than that. More than what Yuji knows or thinks. Because you and Sukuna aren’t exactly a thing – it would be completely against company policy and a HR nightmare. What you have is in the quiet stillness of the night, sometimes dangerously in the office, in the safety of Sukuna’s office with all the blinds drawn and lights off. Sometimes it’s in your apartment. Sometimes in his – but you never question it. Never really ask for more than what you get because you accept that you’ll always get what you get from him.
When Higuruma’s report is finished at last, and the email is sent, you lean back in your chair and a loud huff escapes you. The clock reads just past four in the afternoon when the sky outside is a dusty blue, melding gently with the warm orange of a winter sunset.
Halfway through a gulp of water, the glass door opens behind you and Sukuna’s voice cuts through the low din of monitors and distant phone calls.
“Y/N, in here please.”
Across the bank of desks, Mai eyes you warily but says nothing. You shoot her an unsure smile and get up, drifting past your boss who holds the door open for you.
The white blinds in his office have since been put down, obscuring the view of his space from the trading floor. Outside, the sun is low, casting a molten tawny glow across the city skyline, streaking the horizon in shades of amber and blue. Golden light washes over his sleek desk, glinting off his black cuff links, the edge of a glass of water that has been stagnant since lunch.
Traffic is flowing down the streets outside. A car beeps and then more follow in succession.
The door clicks shut behind you, cutting off the faint hum of the people still working in office. Sukuna has since shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, leaving little to imagine as the very edge of a black tattoo stretching over the right side of his chest and neck, peeks out ever so slightly. The metal chain around his neck, falling in a squiggle over his collarbone glints a little. He leans against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, one hand idly tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
“Do you want me to raise it with Geto?” He asks, voice gruff. “Not the first time he’s pulled this shit.”
You exhale a soft laugh. “No, it’s fine– Naoya’s harmless.”
“He’s a fucking nuisance, that’s what he is.” He retorts with a scoff. “– thinking he can waltz across the floor and act like he owns space that isn’t his.”
“I was handling it.” You say quietly.
His dark eyes linger on your form. Yesterday’s damage is hidden well beneath the white shirt you wear, and the form-fitting pencil skirt that adorns your lower half obscures all marks he has left on you. Sukuna’s gaze narrows slightly, and then, with a subtle shift of his shoulders, he relaxes. It is not just the audacity of Naoya trying to charm you. It is the assumption that you are available for his idle comments, that your space could be invaded, that he can try to impress you with that smug, overconfident posture on his turf of all places.
“I could get him fired.” Sukuna mutters. “Never have to deal with him again.”
You chuckle lightly. “And declare war with Suguru? I don’t think so.”
“Fuck Suguru.”
You are his. Though the thought sits there, bitter and sharp against the harsh reality that you aren’t exactly his. But the tired look on your face as if to say not again, and the way your posture stiffened slightly under Naoya’s gaze, was enough to get a rise out of Sukuna.
Call it protective instinct.
Call it possessiveness.
Sukuna isn’t sure exactly what it is – he just hated seeing Naoya in his space, casting a shadow over you like that when all you were doing was minding your own goddamn business.
“Come here,” he says, quietly but commanding. You can hear something else in it that is warmer; whatever it is, it sounds tender and makes you pause for just a second before obeying.
You step forward and his hands find themselves on the curve of your waist, thumb brushing the bump where your shirt has been tucked into the waistband of your skirt. Now standing in between his legs, you are both eye-to-eye, and he tilts his head and raises his hand gently, fingers parting the unbuttoned collar of your shirt. The material wanes under his fingers as he brushes the material wider, exposing more of the curve of your chest.
Your face feels warm; the bit of skin that his fingers brushed over feels white hot. He presses his lips gently to the exposed skin, soft and warm, and you feel a shiver run through you. Your knees threaten to buckle under his light touch,, your breath catching midway in your throat.
Inside, Sukuna feels something unfamiliar and disorienting. He is used to control over markets, over teams, over every corner of his office but somehow with you, that control wavers in the best way. Your hands are sliding over his broad chest now, making their way to the nape where your fingers gently intertwine with the softness of his pink hair.
A low grumble rattles from the depths of his throat and he pulls away from your chest. Then his hand slides to trace the curve of your waist, firm but careful, anchoring you to the earth as his other reaches up to the back of your neck, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. You swallow the lump in your throat as he tilts his head, leaning in closer. You can feel the faint warmth of his breath before his lips press against yours. Your chest rises and falls against him. His lips move over yours, slow and steady.
After a few moments, Sukuna slowly pulls back, just enough to leave your lips barely parted, still glistening from the kiss. His hands remain where they are, rubbing absent minded circles over the skin and clothing. Unexpectedly, he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours.
“Next time I see him over here, I’m making it my problem.” Sukuna mutters into the thick air. “It’s personal – you understand?”
You nod. Satisfied, he lands a soft peck on your powdered cheek.
For a moment, nothing else exists: not the trading floor beyond the blinds, even the sunset spilling across the city, nor the world outside his office. And for a moment you feel like he’s giving you hope that maybe one day this will be a bit more than what you can currently get – but it all washes away when he retreats to his chair, before you can even bask in it a second more.
܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ intoxicated by your love (ch. 2) ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁
340 days sober and one dating app disaster later, you didn't expect your new addiction to be a bartender at one of NYC’s most popular speakeasies, who makes some mean cocktails and becomes your new drug.
ch. 1 <- ch. 2 -> ch.3
chapter cw (updated) mdni, 18+ only: bartender!sukuna x f!reader, slow burn, mutual pining, au sukuna, alcoholism, anxiety, reader has anxiety, themes of sobriety and addiction, attempted assault, assault, symbols, hallucinations, self-hatred, vomit, reader has nightmares, self-pleasure, fluff, soft sukuna, smut in later chapters, happy ending (will keep updating list for future chapters)
word count (ch 2.): ~2.5k
Your go-to breakfast hyperfixation for the past three months had been the holy trinity: avocado toast, an extra cheesy omelet, and a sugar-free monster energy drink that had enough caffeine to keep you awake even after only 10 hours of sleep over the past 3 days, combined. It was comforting. It was the one certainty you could count on before facing another day of corporate chaos at work.
But after the incident at The Back Room, even the smell of half-open mozzarella-cheddar mix in your fridge made your stomach turn.
Did that fucker ruin cheese for me?
Every time you tried to eat dairy, you were dragged back to that night of Arthur’s death grip on your shoulder. The fact that he'd slipped something into your drink while you weren't looking made you nauseous. What would he have done to me if I drank it?
You'd blocked his number. And his Hinge profile. Reported him for good measure too. But your anxiety had latched onto the incident like a goddamn parasite, keeping you awake at night, replaying every moment on an endless loop. You had had your fair share of experiences with creepy men, and you knew that if someone was this meticulous in their planning behind a potential crime, they’d probably continue to do so.
Did his fiancée know? Should I try to find her and tell her he’s cheating on her? Is it even cheating? What was it about me that made me seem so gullible? So easy to target?
You hadn't told Lex yet. You knew she'd be empathetic like she always was. She’d hug you tight while insisting that it wasn’t your fault and offer to get his car towed. But Lex also had a bad habit of sharing everything with her boyfriend, Kento. You'd brought it up before, gently, and she'd dismissed it so easily. “That’s just what all couples do, babe! I promise you he isn’t telling anyone anything.” she'd said.
The problem was that Kento had graduated from the same business school as Arthur, which you'd gotten to know on the date. Same program, same year, same social circles, although they weren’t as close with each other, apparently. And while Kento was in tech now, you were aware how popular he was with his ex-classmates. A good chunk of his groomsmen would probably be his business school friends.
You could already imagine the grapevine. Lex tells Kento, Kento slips up in front of his ex frat brothers, and suddenly Arthur's entire social circle knows you're the "crazy chick who overreacted” because he put an arm around your shoulder, skewing reality to stick to a made-up truth. High school clique behavior, and you definitely, did NOT want to relive that moment.
You decided you'd tell Lex a summarized version: "We just didn't have compatible life goals."
Which was… technically true. His goal was to cheat (?) on his fiancée. Your goal was to not be complicit in someone else's emotional immaturity and predative behavior.
Commuting to work was a special kind of hell.
Gas prices were criminal as it is and parking was worse. The "office" was a glorified coworking space that charged you by the hour for the privilege of leaving your car in their lot. The startup's funding was tight (non-existent), so they'd cut every corner possible, including basic employee amenities.
You'd switched to the subway months ago. It was cheaper, more sustainable (that’s what you’d tell your friends), and gave you time to zone out listening to AITA podcast episodes before the workday inevitably crushed your soul.
Today, though, you were running just on that energy drink. You'd skipped breakfast entirely because the cheese aversion was real, and you couldn't stomach the thought of anything solid.
The train ride was brutal. You were practically falling asleep on the poor elderly woman beside you, your head bobbing with the rhythm of the tracks. Somewhere between the 42nd Street stop and the 55th, you slipped into a dream…
A nightmare.
You were running. Someone was chasing you, but you couldn't see their face, just their silhouette, the weight of their pursuit pressing down on your lungs with every step you took. The corridor stretched endlessly, and you could feel their breath on your neck…
"DOORS WILL OPEN ON YOUR LEFT."
You jolted awake, heart pounding, vision still hazy as the station announcement was blaring over the speakers. The old woman gave you a concerned look to which you could only respond with a smile, that probably looked more like a grimace.
Ugh. Get it together. It was just a dream. Just a stupid dream.
The workday was painfully uneventful. So boring, that you actually managed to sneak a nap in your cabin while your coworkers went out for lunch. You were curled up in your chair, drooling at your mouth, probably snoring a little too, when your phone buzzed insistently in your trouser pocket.
Unknown number.
You never picked up unknown calls. Scammers made your anxious brain convince you that simply picking it up would lead to your number being ‘spoofed’. You let it ring. Then ring again. Then it went to voicemail.
You checked the transcript out of morbid curiosity:
"Hi, this is The Back Room. We apologize for calling, but we found something that belongs to you. Were you wearing a silver chain bracelet with a butterfly on it? One of our staff members mentioned seeing you wear it. Please call us back or feel free to walk in and pick them up anytime this evening. We're open till 3 AM, as usual. As a security measure, please bring some proof of ownership so that we can confirm it's really yours. Thanks, and have a good day!"
Your eyes flew to your wrist. The bracelet was gone.
How the hell did I not notice?
It wasn't that expensive. You'd found it in some vintage store that promised it was ‘sterling silver’ (it wasn’t), and nearly cried when you spotted it. The butterfly was a recurring symbol in your life, one that appeared whenever you were about to enter a transformative period in your life. New job. New city. New chapter. New connections. Every time you saw a butterfly, something was about to change.
The clasp on the bracelet had been deteriorating for months, and you had known. You knew you should have stopped wearing it until you found a proper replacement or fixed it. But the butterfly bracelet also happened to somehow go with every piece of clothing you owned.
Now it was sitting in a fucking bar you weren't sure you ever wanted to step foot in again.
Well, fuck.
It was nearly 9 PM by the time you made it back to The Back Room.
The day had dragged on endlessly. Right at 4 PM, your manager had pinged you with an emergency: a critical bug had locked thousands of users out of their accounts on the app. You'd spent four hours trying to fix it, tears of frustration pricking at your eyes, before finally admitting defeat and passing the half-fixed code to your manager.
You walked out of the Uber and rushed inside, desperate to grab your bracelet and get the hell home. Tomorrow was Saturday. All you wanted was to collapse in front of shitty reality TV, order Thai food, and decompress in the company of your trusty vibrator.
Am I ovulating? You could feel it in your bones, the desperate craving for comfort, and strong, muscular arms around you. But your rule was the same: intimacy was reserved for people you loved and trusted. Not random hookups. Not men who couldn't find your clit even with the damn dentist office lights switched on.
As you stepped inside, you were relieved to find the restaurant and bar mostly empty. A few regulars scattered across the stools, sipping their drinks in comfortable silence. The last thing you wanted to hear was the bustle of a drunk crowd. The dim lighting felt less ominous than before, more cozy than threatening.
"Hi," you said, approaching the hostess booth. "I'm the one who lost the butterfly bracelet a couple days back? I hope I'm not too late to pick it up. Does a picture work?"
You flipped your phone around, showing her a picture of you with a peace sign where the bracelet was clearly visible.
"Of course! Sorry we didn't notice sooner." She smiled apologetically. "One of our bartenders actually found it. He was going to put it in lost and found, but it slipped his mind."
A familiar figure caught your attention from behind the bar. Messy pink hair. Broad shoulders. Tattoos crawling up his neck like ivy.
Ryo.
Of course it was him.
He was waving at you with one hand, the other polishing the glass top, and your heart did something stupid.
"Thank you so much," you said, rushing up to the bar. "I really appreciate you not just throwing it out."
Ryo shrugged. "Why would I throw it?" He met your eyes, and there was unexpected warmth there you hadn't noticed before. "Besides, it's bad for business. Don't want to get into anymore customer brawls." A dry chuckle escaped him. "Might get a reputation."
He looked different tonight. His hair was gelled back, tamed into something sleek and deliberate, making him look somehow even more handsome. The stubble that had shadowed his jaw before was gone, leaving his face clean and angular. He was wearing a black polo t-shirt that was ridiculously tight across his pecs, and you could really see now: how the tattoos on his fingers and neck were all connected. You wondered if it hurt. You wondered if he was a masochist. You wondered if he had more of them across his body. And before your mind could conjure a visual of where else those lines could be, he interrupted with a sharp cough, breaking your thought process.
He handed you the bracelet carefully, almost reverently, as if it were one of the delicate wine glasses behind him. You reached for it and wanted to instantly put it on until you noticed the clasp was completely missing.
Shit.
"Thanks," you said, plastering on a smile. "I'll just fix it when I get home–"
"I can temporarily fix it," he interrupted.
You blinked. "The bracelet?"
"Yeah, give me a sec."
He disappeared into the back room of the bar, leaving you standing there awkwardly, leaning against an empty bar chair. When he returned, he was holding a tiny stainless steel jump ring.
"Hold out your hand," he said.
You obeyed. He hooked the ring onto the ends of the loop, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch was brief, but it sent a jolt through you. Not unpleasant. Just... weird. Weird good.
"Do you just carry these around?" you joked, trying to break the tension building.
"Yeah, actually." He held up the ring. "These have been in my wallet for ages. From when I got my ears pierced. My skin's super sensitive, so stainless steel was the only thing that worked. My piercer insisted I only wear these till my lobes healed."
You glanced at his ears. His left ear was decked with piercings. Tiny silver studs lining the cartilage, and a single hoop in the lobe. They'd been hidden before, under his messy ungelled hair.
Classic. Tattoos and piercings. He was a walking stereotype, and you were weak for it.
"Well... thanks again. I guess I'll keep wearing it till I can fix the clasp properly." You sighed. "Ugh, I hardly have time as it is. Anyway, thanks, Ryo. I feel like I owe you so much. You've helped me more than once already."
His red eyes shot up, meeting yours. "It's nothing," he said quietly.
You smiled, and for a moment, neither of you moved, holding the sudden eye contact you both established which felt like eternity.
Then he spoke again.
"Hardly got any customers tonight." His voice was carefully casual. "Care to join me for a drink? Till I clock out. I'll make you a mean mocktail, I promise."
Your cheeks flushed. Was he...? No... No way.
Was he hitting on you?
This guy?
You weren't insecure or anything (okay, maybe a little), but you hadn't expected the finest bartender-slash-part-owner in the neighborhood to ask you to stay. Was this a date? Was he just bored?
He's polite, sure. But he's clearly someone who wouldn't want anything serious. I mean, he looks like a fucking model.
Be serious. Don't embarrass yourself.
"I wish I could," you said, the lie slipping out before you could stop it. "But I have to head home. To feed my...uh, cat."
Ryo's left eyebrow arched as he tilted his head slightly. "You have to feed your cat at 11 PM?"
"No, I–"
"It's alright." He chuckled, cutting you off. "That's very unprofessional of me. Trying to hit on one of my patrons." A pause. "Kidding. Not a date, silly. Just wanted to make sure you were doing okay after that weirdo you came in with last time."
Fuck. Now he thinks I’ve an ego and I'm full of myself. What's wrong with me? Why did I assume he asked me for a date?
"No, I actually do need to feed my pet," you said, rather too quickly. "But I'll see you around? Well, when I visit the bar, of course. Seems like Fridays are surprisingly empty. Might be good to unwind with a book and a drink. Although I’m sober." you rambled.
"Sure." His voice was flat again. Neutral. "Good night."
The conversation was over. You could feel the finality in his tone, the way he'd already turned back to his station.
What the hell just happened?
You hurriedly booked an Uber, too frazzled to care about the cost now. The bar was surrounded by trees, and as you waited, you felt the wind pick up, chilling your already prickly skin. God, you wished you had a jacket, or a strong, muscular arm around your body. Then you smelled smoke.
Behind one of the trees, you could see a small cluster of staff members, Ryo being among them, taking a cigarette break. His 6-foot-something figure sharply stood out against the glow of the streetlamp, and even in the dark, you could make out the slight tension in his traps.
Your eyes drifted upward. Something was flying near the lamp…a moth, maybe (?) No.
A butterfly. A rogue owl butterfly, its wings pale, drawn to the light like it had no idea it was supposed to not be out until dawn.
Your heart skipped.
The symbol. The transformation. The butterfly had appeared again, at the most unexpected moment. And your eyes were glued to it.
You kept staring like a fool when your Uber pulled up. As you climbed into the white sedan, and rolled down the window for some breeze, in a moment of complete insanity, you glanced back at the staff huddle.
Ryo was looking at you.
And he was smirking. The same dimple that made you feel things the first time you saw it.
Today, it made your stomach flip upside down.
You yanked your gaze away, plugging in your wired headphones, trying to forget the entire interaction.
Just reach home and go to sleep. You need to sleep. The sleepless nights and overworking have made you so delusional. That's all this is. Just work fatigue and stress. That smile meant nothing. You're imagining things now.
Right?
Right...
I couldn't wait to publish the second (much shorter) chapter because chapter 3 is going to be sooooo much heavier, and longer. I want to work well around reader's anxiety issues for the upcoming one, and the series in general, tbh. Brace yourselves for much darker themes where reader spirals a bit lot. Will also introduce Sukuna's POV for chapter 3!!
I chose the butterfly as a recurring symbol in this series, inspired by one of my favourite games - "Life is Strange". It was one of my very first 'video' (episodic) games I played as a teen and holds a special place in my heart.
Once again, I'm very new to publishing my fanfics so I ask for patience in case there's any typos!!
Uncle Sukuna, aka Mr Billy Badass of the Itadori family, hates when people mess with his family.
He'd never admit it out loud, though. He'd rather choke on a nail than tell anyone.
He teased and proded at Jin's patience since day 1. In high school, never hesitating to leave puffs full of glitter in his locker, or draw on his face in his sleep.
If anyone else were to do those things, or dare say a word about him, he wouldn't hesitate to do even worse. He'd throw their textbooks over the roof of the school and fill their lockers with slugs.
He felt insatiable pleasure in watching their faces contort in agony or fear while they lived through what's the most embarrassing moment of their high school careers.
He just didn't expect his protectiveness to grow in tenfold when he got a nephew.
Yuuji was a child too good for the world, truly. He was nice to everyone, albeit as naive as a 5 year old is of course. Even as a baby, he was as jolly as one could be.
When he started kindergarten, Yuuji unfortunately learned that not other kids were so nice. It was a lesson for Sukuna too.
As he was picking Yuuji up from school one day in place of Jin, he noticed Yuuji had unusual scuff marks on his face.
"What happened, brat?" Sukuna asked after he buckled Yuuji into the bumper seat.
Yuuji was silent, but before he could speak, he began to sob. "Y-yoshino hit me because I asked him t-to play catch!"
Sukuna prided himself on his control. He was an adult, of course.
He had just never experienced the amount of rage as he's feeling now.
He tells Jin what happens when he gets home before dinner, and Jin talks to Yuuji about it. They decide to talk to the principal the next morning. Sukuna insists on going no matter how much Jin tells him it's unnecessary.
Unfortunately, the principal is a tad less than helpful. Sukuna would've preferred more flare, but instead he just calls this Yoshino kids parents for a meeting.
In an instant, Sukuna sees where the brat gets it from. The kids dad and mom both showed up, and yet only the dad is speaking.
"I doubt he meant it. I mean, why should he play with someone who's not as skilled as him?"
Really? All that confidence in a 5 year old over one fucking game of catch?
Sukuna let his body speak for his brain. He remembers it in flashes:
1. He's standing up.
2. There's screaming.
3. The guy is on the floor with a busted nose. (Probably broken)
4. Sukuna's being dragged out by Jin.
He comes to when they're in the car. It appears that Jin decided to pick Yuuji up early from school while they were there.
Yuuji's babbling happily over something he and his friends Megumi and Nobara crafted during art time.
Jin, on the other hand, is glaring out the windshield.
"You can't just do that, Ryomen." Jin mumbles quietly enough so only Sukuna can hear.
Summary: You wear "revealing" clothing to a supermarket with Sukuna. Unfortunate to say, two strangers were not at all pleased. "Like hell, I'd let you touch her." He grits his teeth, watching the man in front of me kneel and wither in pain.
tw. you can change what you wear to what you please. In this fic though, it's described to give more context. Sukuna in his own body modern AU. Getting shamed; use of words: whore. Sukuna is violent as usual.
note. got emotionally personal here. I hope you find comfort in this fic as I did when I wrote it. <33
.ᐟ 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙝-𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛
Today was shopping day. You've finally run out of enough comfort foods to force you out of the house. You groan loudly in your room. You were wearing only your undergarments and were already getting tired of the idea of having to find clothes to wear.
a familiar face walks by your room. Sukuna stops and leans on your door, his eyes observing your lazy state. "C'mon brat. Dress pretty. I'll take you out after shopping."
Your head snaps excitedly to Sukuna. It was rare of him to invite you out, especially since you were both so busy all the time. You simply just cherish the swift time at home cuddling and whatnot. Sukuna smirked at your reaction. Satisfied, he left to give you time to choose and change clothes.
After much consideration and throwing closet clothes on the floor, you decided to wear something showy, a cropped tee with its ends tied, a plaid skirt that falls above your knees, paired with a small bag and boots. You choose your accessories, put on a touch of makeup, and then you are good to go. "Kuna~!" You sing.
As you walk out the door, you find Sukuna looking at his phone and then quickly looking at you. You twirl, showcasing your outfit as he smiles. He walks towards you and grabs you by the waist. "How awful. My princess dolled up so pretty." He grins, his grip on your waist secure, leaning in for a kiss.
You stop him with your hand. "No. Kuna' we all know what a kiss will lead to," You pout, and Sukuna laughs silently on your skin. "Now, come on, I expect you to take me on to a charming night!"
The supermarket was the same as ever. Customers minding their business, the sound of cashier ringing in the distance, and stocks of your comfort foods.
"Ahh, there you are. I've missed you." You gleam at the snacks in front of you. Snack's destined to be finished within the week. You were left alone for a bit since Sukuna usually parts with you to grab things he needs as well.
By "needs," he grabs excessive amounts of food that would leave you bankrupt if you didn't pick through them every time you passed by him.
"Hey there." Suddenly, someone taps your shoulder. You turn your head to see two guys standing in front of you.
"Hello, do you need help with anything?" you smile politely.
"Ugh, seriously?" The first guy sneers. You tilt your head at him, hoping that comment wasn't directed at you.
"Dude, she's totally leading us on. Did you see that snarky smile?" The other guy says. Your eyebrows bridged together. Just your luck to be left in an aisle with these two idiots, huh?
"Sorry, you're getting the wrong idea-" You get cut off by a hand that warmly placed itself on your shoulder.
"You know em'?" Sukuna's voice was husky and low, gesturing his head towards the two men.
"Not really—“ Before you could finish explaining, The second guy from behind steps in, "Dude, you should really cover your girl up." He comments.
"Yeah, like, the way she looked at us earlier? damn, I almost mistook her for a whore." The other one added. Your heart sank at the disgusting comments made by them. You placed both your hands on your skirt, your basket resting on your arm. You actually felt confident to wear something like this because you knew Sukuna would be with you, you knew Sukuna would approve of it, and you knew YOU would feel good as well.
"Ha." your thoughts get cut off by Sukuna's voice. If looks could kill, indeed. You knew this situation would escalate, and really, all you want is a smooth, relaxing evening with your lover.
You raise your hand high enough for them to notice, "I'm sorry, you really got the wrong idea—“ Suddenly, the first guy tries to grab you by extending his hand swiftly, but before his fingers could reach you, Sukuna stops him by the wrist.
The next thing you hear is the painful cry and a loud snap. Sukuna broke his wrist all while his other hand was still secured onto your shoulder.
"Like hell, I'd let you touch her." He grits his teeth, watching the man in front of me kneel and wither in pain. The second guy wasted no time and launched at Sukuna, only for him to be dodged and punched right in the nose.
People started clamoring around, and you could already hear security calling backup.
"Sukuna, let's go." You urge him but not waiting for a response. You grab his hand, and you drop your basket. You run.
You were both parked at a nearby park, immediately driving away after leaving the supermarket. "You really didn't have to do all that ryo'." You softly say, inspecting the hand that he used to punch the guy.
"Besides, it's my fault. I should've dressed more modestly." You muttered under your breath. But He heard it.
"Don't ever fucking say that again." He grits his teeth. You look up at him, surprised by the sudden anger in his tone. His expression was tense, worried? maybe even a gloss of tears, if you will.
He moves his hand to push strands of hair behind your ear. It was soft, so painfully gentle. "People like that don't deserve to live. They don't deserve to have eyes nor mouths." He rambles, cupping your cheeks and kissing everywhere.
"If they were decent people, they wouldn't even think of looking at you like that, darling. They are delirious, annoying, little shits, who have nothing to do but try and push people down." He holds your hand firmly, his gaze unflinching.
"you will not be knocked down, my love. They do not deserve the space in your mind to bring you down." He lowers his head and kisses the back of your hand.
You exhale. You exhale and smile.
"I love you," he says. He looks so unbelievably beautiful.
You squeeze his hand gently before replying, "Thank you, kuna’. I love you too."
He smirks, a playful grin places itself on his lips. "That's my girl."
"I supposed we'll be banned there, won't we?" You ask, remembering the reason why you were in the supermarket anyway.
He scoffs, "Whatever, i'll ask someone else to do it for us." Sukuna grumbles, kissing the tip of your nose.
He leans back and starts up the car again, "Right now, you deserve a date."
bf sukuna x disabled reader sickfic: (unspecified gender/appearance) reader has a bad POTS day (they also have ptsd but no specified trauma)
relationship: established, living together, aro/ace
au: real world, no curses, no jjk lore, no spoilers
word count: 3.4k (one shot, completed)
song rec:
panic attack fits too but this is even better <3
edit: parts 1-5 are uploaded to ao3 (part 3 is also on tumblr)
is a heavy heart too much to hold?
Sukuna followed through your shared apartment, lilac pj pants slung across his hips. they looked too good on him. his thick, pink hair messily touseled, even soft to your eyes. it wasn't fair. even now, out of sight you could see it, Sukuna too close behind you, the fabric of your clothing brushing against his legs as you walk through the clear kitchen space.
he stops, allowing space between you. his voice asking for clarity, what's wrong. you can't focus on the words, vision a washed-out blur, suddenly too bright to see.
is it really a panic attack, that invisible proximity enough to set you off? after all this time of thinking they no longer happened? and with him? the safest person in the world, who'd bare his fangs to protect you on instinct.
maybe some things never finish healing, do they?
you take in the color of the floor, a light wood smeared with sunlight cast diagonally from the far windows. it feels cold against your cheek. he must have caught you before colliding with it, consciousness fading out.
Sukuna checks your body, facedown to spare you from choking on your own potential vomit. breath unobstructed, pulse hammering. it wasn't an issue of histamine, but some psychological trigger.
you were fine, more or less. not feverish to the touch, and though your own feelings on that may differ, they were worthless. you felt feverish, on average, probably every day. maybe 3 separate episodes, maybe 3 days without one. it didn't seem to mean anything. that bothered sukuna – there were no thorough coincidences in this world. everything the product of cause and effect. together you'd been able to narrow down the bulk of it, but even the foods that usually triggered this didn't always. poor homeostasis to blame, maybe, but not if he could help it.
rolling you back onto his arms, your boyfriend stands from where he knelt beside you, carrying your horizontal form back to bed. that one bulky plushie under your ankles to hold them up before drawing the covers over you.
Sukuna checks your pulse periodically, out of habit more than anything. you had often been checking it with that obnoxious monitor, bulky and heavy and easily slipping. its own thin strap had broken the plastic, so it didn't even have a lanyard to hang from (it would have been fixed, if it were worthy of that). not registering your finger half the time and the other half, its numbers on display so bright it was like squinting at the sun just to read 4 predictable digits.
you had been skeptical at first, but even with his fingers just on your wrist, monitor definitely hidden from his line of sight, the numbers matched. when you had a reading to compare his to, anyway. sometimes it was dug out just for oxygen level curiosity, but sukuna swore he could read it too. you struggled not to believe him at that point.
Sukuna sits beside the bed, hand laying on yours and fingertips easily in reach of your wrist. a couple of books stacked on the desk, one open in his hand, reading glasses resting on his nose. he was always removing the dust jackets, never to be seen again. turning the page on a mysteriously blank, dark green hard-cover now, glancing over your face each time.
there was nothing remarkable until you interrupted his mid-sentence, quiet sounds of struggling to breathe. Sukuna's phone already unlocked with the flashlight on, checking your airway, still nothing in it. what would there be, some bug he failed to detect before it crawled far into your nose? you roll to your side, cheek against the pillow and mouth still wide open. after using it for a few breaths, they seemed to clear up. choking on nothing in your sleep just to worry him.
Sukuna wouldn't bring this up, probably, only if it mattered. if you wanted to know. he had a strong feeling that you didn't. or at best, didn't care at all. so long as there wasn't some creeping condition, undiagnosed sleep disorder or something like that, it didn't have to concern you. Just an emotional prod, a bundle of straws on the camel's back. the camel had enough to carry. everyone sounds weird in their sleep sometimes.
you blink awake slowly, eyes seeming to roll and only half-open. something wet and cold on the pillow. fingertips brushing against your own drool? maybe that does happen in real life, but you? thankfully it's just a small patch of damp fabric. gross all the same. your other hand leaves Sukuna's, rubbing against your face while your just-closed mouth tries to patch itself with saliva.
“Here.” Sukuna squeezes your hand before helping you sit up, handing over your water bottle, cap already flipped up. when you have it, he's already tying the compress around your head, an attempt to ward off what's become known as the Consciousness Headache. halfway through the day you'd be tearing the fabric off, but until then you'd be shoving frozen pads into it periodically. Soft circles of thick fabric dampened in the sink before returning to the freezer door.
you drink enough to let your dry throat recover before trying to hold a conversation. you'd be nauseous either way, there was nothing to lose and you needed to drink more than average anyway. it was such a pain clawing for hydration.
“want to tell me what happened?” his voice is softer than usual, asking for answers and offering you an out.
you're already laying back down on your side, holding his hand to trace the pointed black nails. they were always perfectly smooth, the motion calming you down as they slide across the pad of your thumb.
“breathe.” like a dragon's command rough and deep, but you can hear the care in it just the same.
you try to measure out even breaths, though even lying down you were always dizzy. the dense plushie nudging at your feet until you put them back onto it, hold your hands upright over your chest like a zombie with second thoughts on climbing out of the grave, as if that could fix you. maybe some of the blood would find its way back to your heart and brain. maybe it was lost or vaporizing, consumed by some thirsty undetected curse.
your illness just didn't sound real. even the name was funny. pots. like a rabbit from a children's story, or something else just as trivial.
and what went wrong earlier didn't sound real, either, too stupid to even bother being said. that the safest person in the world to you, in some lighthearted attempt to show that he was there with you, keeping you safe from the goddamn floor or hard edges of the counters or your idiot self–
“I know you're prone to fainting. it was more than that.”
yeah. you keep watching his long nails, as if looking down would hide glassy eyes from someone as observant as him.
and now the nausea was hitting, something like spit pooling in your stomach, such an unsettling feeling that you still weren't used to though it happened for hours every day and all you could do was distract your mind with something else.
Sukuna sighs, leading you to subconsciously match your breath with his.
you were trying. to piece together the reasons yourself, to fit a specific trigger into coherent words.
“Do you need space?” he deadpans, voice even quieter now.
you shake your head, more like rolling it against the flat pillow. “...maybe.” just a whisper. you don't want space, but somehow that was it, wasn't it?
Sukuna frowns at the mixed signals, the way your hand tightened around his so clumsily that you're just holding a single finger like a lifeline. how the inside of your weak hand feels ticklish, maybe even itchy, soft and wrong almost like static but still impossible to explain. it was unpleasant but with you since you were a child waking up in the morning. it had to be a universal experience.
your eyes dart back and forth, staring beyond the room. “from behind. when I'm upright.”
that made sense. the hypervigilance thrashing when someone, anyone, is out of view, is touching you, when you're at your most vulnerable. laying back on him wouldn't have this effect, it would be on your own terms anyway.
Sukuna nods, understanding hypervigilance all too well, most likely more than you ever would. hypervigilance to blame or thank for the uncanny way he observed everything, barely an effort taken to analyze so thoroughly with a bored or even blank face. even when it looked like not a thought in his head, it was like he already knew everything.
you pull yourself up to drink more water. it was all stupid, wasn't it? your brain and your body (which made your brain stupid by withholding its goddamn blood, brain fog blurring out any benefit you might have earned through trauma response) and the way it was threatening to lose all the water you gave it through your eye sockets.
he opens a bottle on the desk, placing two small pills into your hand. salt capsules, like a peace offering to beg your body into retaining some water. you were sick of the taste, sick of shaking salt into every drink, sick of the repetitive motion and how so much of consistently doing anything or avoiding anything could never make this go away. the best days seemed to be based on luck and nothing else. maybe the weather in part.
your head is fully throbbing now, heart seeming to replace your skull and not have enough space to beat there unless forcing nerves out of place.
you lean your head forward, already subconsciously expecting it to be caught, forehead pressing into sukuna's palm though you can't feel the folds on his skin through the layer of fabric holding yours together.
“think you can actually get something to eat this time?”
and yeah, that's what you had been to the kitchen for anyway.
Sukuna still in those soft lilac pants, making you feel normal by not wearing Outside style clothing at home. not wearing anything else except for now, that boring black blanket draped over his bare shoulders.
glasses folded together on top of the book he was reading. probably a medical journal or history of botany or ancient Mesopotamian poetry, if you had to guess.
you slide out of bed, slowly standing up. shivering for some reason, though you don't feel… are you hot? there is some cold too, but it's on top of the hot… it's nothing new but it's still frustrating that you just can't make sense of even an observation, not to mention its fuckass explanation.
Sukuna wraps the blanket around your shoulders now, warm from the heat of his back, one consistent thing in your lives.
there's a minute, maybe several if you're lucky, before the doubling (or at times, tripling) heart rate starts to make your legs give out. you know better than to fight that, to let them be the first thing to give, bent knees your savior (or harm reductionist). that reflex hadn't caught on earlier, a flash of your body nearly parallel to the floor and falling, uncannily straight, and that had to be a false memory or out-of-body experience if you could see it.
Sukuna's arm wraps around your back, rubbing up and down the blanket, walking side by side with you held close. the rollator he'd been sitting on might have made things easier, to lean on it yourself or use it as a chair and let him push you. but inside the house, you were clawing to feel normal, to pretend that you didn't need to depend on help for every little step.
it was pathetic, or so he'd called it before. Who cares? if it's better, just use it. that gives you more autonomy, anyway.
and he was right. using it inside the house since you didn't seem to, and he sincerely seemed to like it.
he made it look good, natural, like everything was meant to be this way.
you would grow up someday, knowing fully consciously and subconsciously that his ideas were right and none of your bullshit internalized shame held any weight.
maybe the tremors were growing because you hadn't eaten enough today. that had to be a part of it.
you collapse into a kitchen chair, knees going weak just in time, but too fast to look natural. somehow Sukuna's judgement would never hurt you. maybe because he didn't judge, just observing and pointing things out. they were based in truth, and that made all the difference.
the table is your saving grace, this chair not having armrests on the sides to prevent falling. the wall in your mind was becoming flexible. it would be more comfortable to use your mobility device. the seat was softer. it could carry things for you.
it just felt vulnerable, to yourself if no one else. to admit weakness was to be in danger. even if the thing compensated for what you were missing, it showed on obvious display. and that scared you.
with Sukuna, it was fine. the way he pushed you in public felt like a guardian angel, or maybe your head was too hazy that day and it all felt like a dream. maybe you shouldn't have gone outside like that at all, only ending up there because he took you out, an accessible and quiet “hiking” trail overlooking the lake, the foggy mountains just across leaning down over the forest canopy. he'd stop to pick up flowers, calling them by scientific name, twisting them into matching crowns.
then catching fish, handing you a rod (even if it conveniently fit in the cane holder), and cooking them right there.
yeah, the rollator had benefits, even without him with you.
but he could fight. he could glare. he had this untouchable aura, striking fear or admiration or something in between wherever he went. and you were just… a person, on a good day.
you're still lost in your thoughts, face on the table when Sukuna's hand strokes the back of yours. he's easily in your field of vision, pulling the fabric away from your forehead just enough to slip in one of those soft icy pads you kept in the freezer. maybe he could see a patch of skin already red from the table.
“why–” you start before the whisper dies.
Sukuna hums in question, food laid out.
“why do you stay?”
“because I like to,” he answers directly, but squints down as if you aren't making sense.
“I don't do anything for you,” you mutter, stabbing into something to eat before he can scold you instead of making sense of what he said.
“you do.” he sits down to eat 3x as much as you. it must be nice to feel full, satisfied. something more than a bit less bad, probably. though he also needed so much more to feed the muscle mass you could never build.
“no, you,” you breathe, realizing that the taste and the warmth is soulful. even if you can't manage so much of it.
“what, is this a competition to you?” Sukuna looks at you over his plate. by the words alone, you would have frowned, not wanting to hear how it ends. but the corners of your mouth fall upward at the face anyone else would call a death glare. to you it was endearing.
because you get it. you understood him, something no one else seemed to get (which frustrated the hell out of you. he was so direct yet chronically misinterpreted, they were all lucky you didn't have the strength or stamina to fight). it was mutual, then.
you really did see each other, it wasn't all one-sided. Sukuna noticed what was wrong and what you needed so easily. you always felt honored to listen to him, even muttering aloud the epic of gilgamesh while annotating in the margins. you both went nonverbal at times or maybe it was often, but hardly even noticed when all it took to communicate was a glance. to read or to say whatever.
and really that was what mattered, that couldn't be easily replaced or cast aside. truly, you enjoyed discerning each other. not for manipulation. you didn't even try to decode him, it was like the light streaming through your eyes and showing the room around you, or like breathing in the scent of spring flowers. it was just there and you knew it was because…
being with him was easy. you’d just assumed that for him, it was hard.
But he loved the challenge, anyway. physically, mentally, artistically, he was always reaching for some personal record or building another technique.
well, not always. mostly he liked to lounge around, content with a comfortable silence.
that was one thing you were good at. speaking was tiring, and low-stimuli was the typical ideal. but that was also mutual…
there had been this fear, an idea in the back of your mind that you were some pet project. something for him to fix before tossing aside and moving on from like a junkyard bike.
But you were human to him, you were a whole person and one that he craved the company of just as much.
“I'm not holding you back?” you ask, baring your eyes to read his.
“back from what?” sukuna laughs, stealing the abandoned remains on your plate.
it's annoying to feel your brow furrow. isn't there something he wants to do, but can't without you?
“don't think too hard, I was serious,” he clarifies, taking your dishes to the sink.
there had to be more challenging hikes he'd prefer, views that couldn't be reached by someone like you. though if he wanted to, he could probably make up for that, finding a way to complete it together, breaking a light sweat and drying it on a sleeveless shirt. he might carry you through it all, if you wanted to be there.
and his studio was maybe not technically attached to the house, separated by a patch of woods, but it still let him work from home. to avoid the public as much as possible, no commutes or traffic or crowds of small-minded people. he was very selective with who was let into the space, and even then there were boundaries, private property and no trespassing signs posted down the winding road, an ominous threat in the air.
your home secure and really a sacred place, safe for just the two of you and your closest of friends. which was only Uraume at this point… yours falling out of contact when you finally gave up on keeping the friendship alive by yourself. it wasn't like you were contagious, just a stain on the “work (to a miserable life and early death) or die” zeitgeist. or maybe boring because you didn't want to drink or be in high-stress environments. in the end, you didn't miss them either. you had some semblance of peace at last.
even if some days, like today, tears would threaten to brim over every hour at just how independent you weren't, at how endless the pain, at how it really is chronic, isn't it?
and you've known and accepted this long ago, but sometimes it hits like a wall all over again. some sick cycle that you always think was on its last episode before.
Sukuna lowers himself below your eye level, asking if you want to do anything in the remaining hours before he goes to work. by which time you were always worn out, needing some horizontal brainless phone-in-bed time.
“can I use it?” you whisper, all too aware that even crawling to the bedroom could take the better part of an hour.
Sukuna's eyes are blank, searching for the answer in yours.
“or you?” you joke, laying your arms around your shoulders.
it sinks in for him then, what you were asking for. and you can feel it seep into you how much he enjoys to carry you around, fully conscious and asking for it. the sudden height difference is staggering, but not so disorienting because you're less upright here, the warmth of his neck and texture of his cotton candy sunset hair…
hi! if I could please request an Mouse and Dad!Sukuna fic where they prank sukuna by making him think mouse is missing or that he ate her(idk if that’s too dark for you) and he goes crazy/murderous (sorry if this is such an short summary)
Hi Anon! Thank you for the request! I am not taking this particular series in a dark direction but your request gave me an adorable idea! This probably is not what you were looking for, but I hope you will still enjoy it!
Let's Play A Game
If you prefer to read it on AO3 click here !
For the full Daddy Duty series click here!
WC: 907
Summary: Sukuna's enemies make a move on him while he is travelling home. Upon returning home he cannot locate Mouse.
CW: none really? reader is called Mama but not described, canon typical Sukuna threats of violence, not canon, Family fluff, a little angst
AN: For anyone new to this series, Mouse is Sukuna's 2 year old daughter!
“Mouse!” Sukuna bellowed her name as he tore through the estate trying to find his daughter.
His heart was in his throat. Fear and rage were racing through his veins. His enemies had made bold moves on him today while he was returning home and he would not be surprised if they had tried to harm his family. He had gone from room to room calling her name calmly before turning to this fearsome roar.
You raced into the room, holding your hand to your chest. “Suk, what’s going on?”
“I cannot find our daughter anywhere,” he told you, his lips in a tight line.
“Suk… you didn’t say a word when you burst in through the door to the kitchen, and now you’re standing in our bedroom with our bed up in the air, in one hand, yelling for our daughter. Talk to me, please,” you said, eyes wide with concern.
“Our enemies are getting bolder and it appears getting more organized. I saw you in the kitchen, but I have been unsuccessful in locating our child,” he answered, 4 eyes staring straight into yours.
“I saw her not long before you came home. Let's not panic yet,” you reached out and touched his arm. His concern was coming off of him in waves, even if he did not say the words out loud.
“If someone has taken her or harmed her I will rip them limb from limb. I may even keep them alive to watch while I have Uraume prepare and serve me a feast made from their-”
“Papa! You took too long to find me, Urau-rau did!” Mouse called as Uraume carried her into the room with a look of utter exasperation on their face.
They set her down and Mouse wasted no time crossing the distance, running towards Sukuna with her arms raised and a giant smile on her face. Like she hadn’t just given her father a heart attack.
Instead of the angry scolding you expected, Sukuna scooped her up in his arms and cradled her close. Turning to face away and walk a few steps in relief. He could finally breathe again. The little menace was in his arms and safe. Her little arms were spread, trying to give him the tight hug back and he could feel her little laughs in his arms.
He huffed and looked down at her. Little shit. “What the hell is so funny? And what the hell were you doing?”
“We were playing hide and seek. I laughing cuz Urau-rau found me, not you!” She smiled up at him.
“Mouse… how the hell was I supposed to know we were playing hide and seek?” He asked, trying to process her response.
“You promised when you left!” She pouted up at him.
He was about to deny it but then he remembered their conversation from this morning when he had been trying to leave to attend to business today. Mouse had been begging him to stay and play this very game with her. He clearly remembered now that he had told her he would when he got home.
“I am aware I said I would play when I got home, but you are being a tad too literal. I did not mean the very second I got home,” he told her shaking his head.
“You didn't?” she pouted at him.
“Mouse, next time you want to play a game with someone, make sure they are ready to play, okay?” You said, reaching out a hand to ruffle her hair when Sukuna set her down. You still had a smile on your face after having watched the scene before you with the two of them.
“Okay then…” Mouse clapped her hands two times and loudly asked, “Everybody ready?”
“No,” were the unanimous adult responses in the room.
“Everybody ready, please and thank you?” She tried again.
“It’s still a no, Mouse.”
You stifled a laugh as Sukuna stared at his daughter in disbelief. “Mouse, Papa just got home. Let him relax for a moment, okay?”
“Boring,” Mouse said in an exasperated tone, it was an exact mimic of her father’s common response.
“Boring, huh?”Sukuna chuckled and scooped her up in his arms. He tickled her sides, making her squirm and laugh. “I’ll show you boring!”
“Papa!” She laughed, trying to push his hands away.
He paused his tickle assault and asked. “Are you still bored?”
She laughed and enthusiastically said, “Yes!”
“Guess I’m not done teaching you a lesson, brat!” He said before tickling her again.
He looked over at you and smirked as he let Mouse catch her breath. He said her name as he set her down on the ground and turned her towards you. “Mama looks… bored, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, huh?! Here I come Mama! Tickle tickle, please and thank you!” Mouse laughed as she ran towards you with her hands doing the tickling motion in mid air.
Sukuna laughed at the murderous look you shot him before you gave in to your daughter, before quickly turning the tickles around on her. He knew you hated to be tickled. He just couldn’t resist the temptation.
Threats to his family would always loom on the horizon, but he wouldn’t let anything stop him and his family from living their lives to the fullest. He would slaughter and dine on anyone who tried. And that was not only a threat, it was a promise.
