When he puts up the sign.
The Red Star Tattoo Shop Universe
Word count: 3860 | previous chapter, next chapter
Sneak peek: Monday morning at the shop starts with a new security system and a very territorial King of Curses. But when a "bleached menace" crashes the party, the dynamic at Red Star changes forever.
RED STAR TATTOO RULES:
1. NO CREEPS.
2. NO UNWANTED COMMENTS.
3. IF YOU TOUCH THE ARTISTS, I WILL PERSONALLY REARRANGE YOUR ANATOMY.
4. DON’T EVEN ASK, THE ANSWER IS NO.
"Is that... legally binding?" the client asked carefully.
Suguru calmly set the coffees down. "We like to call it a strongly worded suggestion."
Vibe: Soft/Grumpy Sukuna, Protective found family, chaotic banter, and extreme blushing.
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Monday morning at Red Star Tattoos arrived with the clinical smell of fresh ink and the sharp, rhythmic drilling of a locksmith installing the new security system. Sukuna was a whirlwind of dark energy, pacing between the front area and the lobby, personally inspecting every angle of the high‑definition cameras on his phone with sharp, burgundy eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept, a hyper‑focused “King” guarding his palace — especially with the shop expecting a new artist to arrive the next day, someone Suguru had vouched for but Sukuna clearly hadn’t decided if he trusted yet.
As you walked in, you stopped dead in your tracks, noticing a new sign bolted below the "Closed" placard. It was in a bold, aggressive blackwork font that screamed Sukuna’s handiwork:
RED STAR TATTOO RULES:
1. NO CREEPS.
2. NO UNWANTED COMMENTS.
3. IF YOU TOUCH THE ARTISTS, I WILL PERSONALLY REARRANGE YOUR ANATOMY.
4. DON’T EVEN ASK. THE ANSWER IS NO.
You were still giggling at the “Sukuna‑ness” of the rules when the door chime — an obnoxious electronic fanfare Sukuna had chosen for maximum alertness — announced a visitor.
Choso, quietly prepping needles in the corner, looked up with a blunt expression.
“He’s been like this since six a.m. He even checked the bathroom for hidden exits.”
The bell chimed again — this time the normal one, not the cursed fanfare — followed by a hesitant pause at the doorway.
A woman hovered just inside the shop, mid‑twenties maybe, clutching her phone with both hands like it might bolt. She wore an oversized denim jacket, hair pulled into a nervous bun, eyes darting over flash sheets and framed photos.
Then she saw the sign.
She read it once.
Twice.
Her mouth fell open slightly at rule number three.
Slowly, very slowly, she looked up. Her gaze travelled from the sign… to Sukuna.
Sukuna, who was standing perfectly still now, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that dangerous way that suggested the sign was not, in fact, a joke.
“…Is,” she began carefully, “is that… legally binding?”
Suguru calmly set the coffees down. “We like to call it a strongly worded suggestion.”
You smiled from your station, keeping your tone warm. “Hi! Welcome to Red Star. Don’t worry — no one’s ever had their anatomy rearranged.”
Sukuna tilted his head. “Yet.”
The client swallowed.
Choso, without looking up from his needles, added flatly,
“The sign reduced incidents by eighty percent.”
“That’s…” she cleared her throat, “—statistically comforting.”
She stepped further inside, still glancing at the sign like it might leap off the wall.
“Um. I have an appointment. With… you?” She pointed at you, hopeful.
“Yes, that’s me.” You gestured to the chair. “You’re safe here. He only bites people who deserve it.”
Sukuna’s lips curved, just slightly.
“And only after warnings.”
The client laughed, tension finally cracking. “Okay. I actually really appreciate the sign. Last place I went to, the artist’s friend kept commenting on my thighs.”
Sukuna’s eyes darkened instantly. “Name.”
Suguru coughed. “We are not starting a vendetta before noon.”
You guided her to the chair, helping her set her bag down.
“What are we doing today?”
She pulled up a reference photo, relaxing now.
“A small moth. Here.” She tapped her wrist. “And—honestly? This is the first shop where I didn’t feel like I had to Armor up.”
For just a second, Sukuna’s posture eased. Barely. Like a guard dog sitting instead of standing.
“That’s the point,” he said, voice low. “This place is a boundary.”
The client glanced at the sign again, then nodded.
“Yeah. I figured.”
The shop settled into its rhythm — machine buzz, quiet laughter, ink and incense blending together. The sign stayed bolted to the wall, black letters sharp and unapologetic.
For the first time that morning, Sukuna stopped pacing… but only for a heartbeat. His gaze kept flicking toward the front door like it might explode at any second.
Suguru noticed. Of course he did.
He sipped his coffee slowly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He’s not arriving today,” Suguru murmured without looking up. “He starts tomorrow morning.”
Sukuna clicked his tongue, jaw tightening. “I know when he starts.”
“You’re acting like you don’t,” Suguru teased. “You’ve been glaring at that door since six a.m.”
“I’m not glaring,” Sukuna growled. “I’m preparing.”
“For what?” Suguru asked lightly. “He’s not a threat.”
“He’s loud,” Sukuna shot back. “And dramatic. And annoying. And flirty—” He stopped, scowling deeper. “And he’s your problem.”
Suguru chuckled. “You say that, but I saw you two almost hug that one time.”
“That never happened,” Sukuna snapped immediately, ears turning pink. “And if you ever say that again, I’m removing your piercings with pliers.”
Suguru raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just… be nice tomorrow.”
“I am nice,” Sukuna hissed.
“Sure,” Suguru said, amused. “Let’s see if you’re still nice when he walks in.”
Sukuna muttered something under his breath — something about bleached menaces and loud idiots — as he returned to reorganizing his perfectly clean station.
Tomorrow’s arrival was clearly already under his skin.
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The shop was already humming when the door blew open with a force that made every flash sheet flutter on the corkboard.
“GOOD MORNING, RED STAAAAR!” Satoru Gojo didn’t simply enter the shop — he descended, sunglasses gleaming, white hair catching the sun as if he’d personally brought daylight with him. You nearly dropped the bottle of green soap you’d been holding.
“Well hello to you too,” you said, your voice bright, matched with the kind of warm smile that made people behave.
Not Gojo though. If anything, he got worse. He gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest.
“You must be Bubbles. Suguru told me the shop owner was cute but wow! He undersold you by a criminal amount.”
Before you could answer, Sukuna’s tattoo machine stopped mid‑buzz. He didn’t turn; he didn’t even speak. He just froze, like a predator hearing something trespass into his territory.
From the piercing station, Choso lifted his eyes, slowly, like a cat disturbed from a nap. His gaze flicked to Bubbles, then to Gojo, then to Sukuna’s rigid silhouette.
“Oh,” he murmured under his breath. “This will be annoying.”
Suguru followed Gojo inside with two coffees in hand, looking unfairly composed. His eyes softened at the sight of Bubbles but he made no move to stop Satoru’s dramatic approach.
“Be nice,” he said lightly, not to Gojo, but to Sukuna, who still hadn’t moved from his booth.
Gojo leaned across your table like he was posing for a magazine cover. “So, boss lady,” he purred, “fire me if this is too forward, but do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk in again?”
You laughed, warm, bright, musical. The sound filled the shop, soothing the walls like sunlight soaking into old wood.
Choso paused mid‑sterilization and stared at her, deadpan. “She’s laughing at him,” he noted quietly. “Sukuna’s going to snap a tendon.”
Right on cue, Sukuna stood so violently his stool tipped over.
Suguru sipped his coffee with the contentment of a man watching an art film.
“You’re doing great, babe,” he told Gojo.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Gojo beamed, turning to blow him a kiss.
You blinked. “Wait — you two are—”
“Absolutely,” Suguru said, serene.
“Tragically,” Gojo confirmed, leaning closer to her again, because boundaries were a myth. “But Suguru lets me flirt. It enriches my spirit.”
Suguru nodded. “Chaos builds character.”
Choso added without looking up, “And raises my blood pressure.”
Bubbles laughed again, harder this time, and Sukuna moved so fast he practically materialized beside them. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, pointing at Gojo like he was accusing a demon.
Gojo smiled sweetly. “Hi, cupcake.”
“I am not—” Sukuna inhaled, cracked his neck, and tried again. “Why are you in her space?”
Gojo leaned closer to you. “Because she smells like sunshine and expensive jasmine lotion, and maybe I want to impress my new boss?”
Choso actually snorted. “Impress her by standing six feet back,” he said dryly. “You’re loud.”
“Back away from her,” Sukuna growled.
You rolled your eyes and nudged Sukuna’s elbow with the authoritative gentleness only you had.
“Sukuna, he’s fine.” He wasn’t. And everyone knew he wasn’t.
Gojo clapped his hands. “Let me work front-of-shop today! I’ll charm clients! I’ll upsell them! I’ll wear the apron if that does something for you!”
Suguru raised a hand. “Wear the apron.”
Gojo: “Yes, sir.”
He put it on backwards.
You, giggling, fixed it for him.
Gojo melted theatrically, head tilting. “Marry me.”
“Satoru,” Suguru warned.
Gojo straightened instantly. “Professionally marry me.”
Choso watched Gojo’s exaggerated posture and sighed. “I don’t know why I am even surprised, I’ve known him for years,” he muttered. “And now he works here.”
The rest of the morning was somehow worse.
Gojo’s first client loved him, showering him with compliments as he cracked jokes and moved with flawless precision. He wasn’t just good; he was annoyingly good. And every time you smiled at him approvingly, Sukuna’s jaw got tighter.
“You’re surprisingly talented,” you said to Gojo as he cleaned up his station.
He gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “You think I’m talented? Suguru, she thinks I’m talented!”
Suguru hummed. “She’s not wrong.”
Choso didn’t look up from his tray. “If he tries to pierce anything today, I’m quitting.”
“Can you two stop flirting in my shop?” Sukuna snapped.
“So, you’re his boyfriend?” Gojo shot back.
Sukuna went completely still.
Suguru arched one graceful eyebrow. “Oh?”
At the piercing bench, Choso muttered, “And now he’s short‑circuiting.”
Satoru sensed blood in the water.
“Anyway, Bubbles,” he said, leaning on your chair again, “since I’m the most delightful man in the building, would you like to get dumplings with me? My treat. I know a place where the food is so good people see God.”
You opened your mouth
But Sukuna beat her to it.
“No.”
Gojo froze, then grinned slowly. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Choso folded his arms. “We’re about to witness a meltdown.”
“And why not?” You said crossing your arms against your chest.
Sukuna looked at you, the words clearly fighting their way out of his chest.
“Because…” He sucked in a breath. “Because I’m taking you.”
A silence dropped over the room like a blanket.
Gojo’s gasp could’ve cracked tile. “Suguru, he’s ASKING HER OUT.”
Suguru nodded, sipping calmly. “Finally.”
Choso gave a single slow nod, like a judge delivering a verdict. “Acceptable. Took him long enough.”
Bubbles stared up at Sukuna. “Are you actually… asking me?”
His ears turned crimson. “Yes,” he muttered. “Before he steals you.”
“He can’t steal me,” she said softly.
Choso murmured, “Obviously. She has taste.”
Sukuna swallowed hard. “Dumplings. With me. Please.”
The please was the nail in the coffin.
You smiled, warm and sure and bright enough to make his shoulders unclench. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Gojo whooped like someone scored a goal. “The king has fallen!!!”
Suguru grabbed him by the hoodie. “Let’s give them space.”
“For love?” Gojo asked.
“For my sanity.”
Choso raised two fingers without looking up. “Bring her back before seven, and Bubbles he gets cranky when he’s hungry.”
“CHOSO.” Sukuna barked.
“What?” he deadpanned. “Am I wrong?”
Sukuna held the door open for you, still scowling, still pink‑eared, still very much a man whose day had been utterly ruined and then saved in five minutes.
And as they walked out together, Gojo shouted after them: “Bring me back dumplings or I’m telling the entire city you blushed!”
Sukuna flipped him off without looking back.
Choso added quietly, “He definitely blushed.”
And you laughed all the way down the sidewalk.
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The afternoon light was soft and golden as they stepped outside, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. you were still smiling, that warm, rolling sort of smile she couldn’t quite suppress, and Sukuna was still scowling, ears tinged red, jaw set like someone who’d been pushed off an emotional cliff and was now pretending he had intended to jump.
He opened the passenger door of his car without thinking.
you blinked. “You’re being gentlemanly?”
“No,” he grunted. “I’m being efficient.”
You slid in, smirking. “Sure, King.”
He shut the door a little too firmly.
The drive was quiet at first, not awkward, just charged. The kind of quiet where you could hear the air conditioning hum and the tension trying to figure out if it should melt or catch fire.
Sukuna gripped the wheel too tightly.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” you said softly, watching him.
“I’m not nervous.” He was absolutely nervous.
You propped her elbow on the door and watched the sunset streak past the window. “You asked me out. That’s not nothing.”
“I didn’t ask you out,” he snapped defensively.
“You literally said ‘dumplings with me’.”
“That was— strategy.”
“For what?”
“To stop that loud idiot from flirting with you.”
You laughed, warm, bright, alive, and Sukuna’s fingers flexed on the wheel.
“…and because I wanted to,” he added under his breath.
You smile softened. “I know.”
You two finally arrived at a tiny hole-in-the-wall dumpling shop tucked between two neon signs, one flickering and the other fully dead. The windows were fogged from constant steam. The scent hit them immediately: soy, ginger, garlic, sesame.
Sukuna hesitated at the door like he was about to walk into a battlefield.
“You, okay?” You asked gently.
“No.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. Don’t… just go inside.”
Inside, the place was warm, dim, a little cramped, the kind of spot only locals knew, where every table had mismatched chairs and every wall had peeling paint. And you loved it instantly.
Sukuna guided you to a corner booth, the one where no one could sit next to her except him. Not that he realized he was doing it.
You slid in. He sat across from you. Then he stood back up and moved to sit beside you.
You bit your lip to hide the smile.
The waitress came over. “The usual, Sukuna?”
You turned to him, eyes wide. “You have a usual? This is your secret dumpling place?”
Sukuna grunted. “Don’t make it weird.”
The waitress smiled knowingly. “Two orders then?”
Sukuna hesitated, then glanced at you. “Yeah. Two.”
When the waitress left, you rested your chin on your hand. “You bring people here often?”
“No,” he said without hesitation. “Never.”
Your smile softened. His shoulders relaxed.
While they waited for the food, he kept sneaking glances at her, not subtle ones. Sukuna didn’t do subtle. His eyes were hungry, confused, fascinated.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, gentle but amused.
“I’m checking if you regret coming.”
“I don’t.”
He swallowed. “You don’t… have to pretend to like this,” he muttered. “Or me.”
You scooted a little closer. “I’m not pretending.”
He stared at you. Your eyes were warm. Not demanding a confession, but just… being there.
It melted something he hadn’t realized was frozen.
“…You laugh too easily when he talks,” Sukuna said suddenly.
“Gojo?”
“Don’t say his name.”
You laughed again, exactly the thing he’d complained about.
“I laugh,” you said, nudging his shoulder lightly, “because he’s ridiculous, not because I want him.”
Sukuna’s jaw worked. “…Good.”
“Are you jealous?” she asked lightly.
“No,” he said immediately.
You raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
He glared. “Fine. Yes. A little.”
“A little?”
“A lot,” he grunted. “Happy?”
You rested your hand over his on the table.
He froze.
Then slowly, painfully slowly, he uncurled his fingers and let yours slip between them.
His breath hitched, just once.
“Just us, remember?” you whispered.
Before he could answer, the dumplings arrived.
Steam rolled between them, curling warm and fragrant into the space they’d carved out together.
You grabbed your chopsticks. “Okay, show me what’s so life changing.”
He snorted. “You’ll see.”
You took a bite, and your eyes widened in surprise.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “That’s incredible.”
“Told you.” He said, looking devastatingly smug.
You nudged him with your shoulder. “Shut up.”
He didn’t, he just nudged you back, gently. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was soft. Unfamiliar. Dangerous.
“Oh no,” you teased, “he can smile.”
“Don’t push it,” he warned, but his voice was warm. Almost playful.
They ate slowly, talking about nothing and everything.
Your art.
His first tattoo.
Your favourite tea.
How he hates loud noises but still tolerates the shop.
How you make it feel like home without trying.
At one point you reached for a dumpling, and he moved the plate closer without thinking, and when you two finally left, the street was darker, quieter.
Sukuna shoved his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at you.
“So,” he muttered, “this wasn’t… terrible.”
You bumped his arm with her shoulder. “It was perfect.”
He stopped walking.“…Say that again, Bubbles ”
“It was perfect.” You repeated.
He swallowed, hard, trying not to stumble closer to you, even when gravity seemed to pull him towards you.
Then he opened the car door for you again.
“Get in,” he murmured. “Before I do something stupid.”
“Like what?” you tease.
He doesn’t look at you when he answers.
“Like kiss you.”
Your breath catches and you step closer towards him, close enough that your foreheads almost brush.
“Maybe I want stupid.” You confessed.
He exhales sharply, a sound halfway between surrender and explosion.
But instead of kissing you, he leans in, lips nearly touching your ear, and whispers: “…Next time.”
Your smile is soft enough to ruin him. “Next time then.”
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You arrive back at Red Star Tattoos just as the streetlights flicker on, painting the storefront in that warm amber glow that always makes the shop feel more like a sanctuary than a business.
You’re still warm from dumplings and Sukuna’s quiet, unexpected softness; he's still warm with… everything he refuses to name.
He holds the door for you, again, and you step inside with a tiny, undeniable skip in your step.
The shop is too quiet, which is never a good sign.
The bell chimes, and then? All hell breaks loose.
Choso looks up first from the piercing bench, head tilting just slightly. His eyes move from you… to Sukuna… to the very suspiciously close distance between you.
He says nothing.
Of course he doesn’t.
But the slow, knowing lift of his eyebrow is devastating.
“You came back,” he says flatly. “And neither of you look dead. That’s surprising.”
You snort.
Sukuna shoots him a look sharp enough to cut metal.
Before you can respond, Gojo launches himself over the couch like it’s an Olympic event.
“DID YOU KISS?!”
Sukuna nearly flinches out of instinct, and you slap a hand over your mouth to hide your laugh.
Suguru doesn’t look up from his sketchbook. “Satoru, if you break the couch, you’re sitting on the floor for a week.”
“But babe, we have a romantic emergency.”
“It’s really not,” Sukuna mutters.
Choso hums. “Your ears are red.” He pointed out
“They are NOT.” Sukuna said blushing.
Gojo gasps, clapping like he just witnessed a miracle.
“He blushed twice today. Twice.”
Sukuna turns toward him like he’s about to commit a felony.
You step between them before homicide becomes paperwork, you’d inevitably end up doing.
“Okay, okay, everyone chill. We just ate.”
“TOGETHER?” Gojo squeals dramatically.
“Obviously,” Suguru says, turning a page. “He dragged her out like the building was on fire.”
“He did,” Choso adds. “He was vibrating.”
You laugh so hard you have to catch yourself on the counter.
Sukuna mutters something that could be “shut up” or “I hate everything,” but then he glances at you, soft, warm, unmistakably fond, and all the irritation drains right out of him.
Suguru finally closes his sketchbook and looks at both of you fully.
“Well?” he asks, voice smooth, annoyingly amused. “Did it go well?”
You open your mouth—
—but Sukuna beats you to it.
“It was fine.”
“Fine?” Choso repeats, blank as ever.
“Fine,” Sukuna insists.
You bump his shoulder “It was nice.”
He goes completely still.
Gojo screams into a throw pillow like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
Suguru watches with absolute exhaustion. “Are you done?”
“NO,” Gojo squeaks.
Choso stands and approaches with the solemnity of a priest performing last rites. “So,” he says, arms crossed, “Did he ruin it?”
“Hey—” Sukuna snaps. “Why is that your first assumption—”
“Because it’s the most statistically likely outcome,” Choso replies.
You snort again—fail to hide it.
“I didn’t ruin anything,” Sukuna grumbles.
“Good,” Choso says. “Then there might be hope.”
Sukuna squints. “I don’t like your tone.”
“It’s my only tone.” He said bluntly but still teasing him.
Suguru stretches. “Did you bring dumplings back?”
“No.”
Gojo gasps like someone stabbed him “YOU DIDN’T BRING US DUMPLINGS?!”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I literally yelled it at you as you were leaving!”
“And I flipped you off.”
“YES, AND I THOUGHT THAT MEANT ‘I HEARD YOU, BRO, NO PROBLEM.’”
You shake your head, covering your smile.
They’re impossible.
Your shop is impossible.
And you love them for it.
Choso walks past you to put away tools, pausing only long enough to murmur: “If he gets unbearable, tell me. I’ll tranquilize him.”
“HEY!” Sukuna barked embarrassed.
Choso keeps walking.
Suguru steps over to you with a warm, conspiratorial look.
“Glad you’re back safe.”
“He would’ve destroyed the city if anything happened.”
“Would not,” Sukuna hisses.
You look between all of them, Gojo vibrating with curiosity, Suguru calm, Choso quietly smug, and Sukuna pretending he’s not checking on you every two seconds.
Your heart squeezes. “We should finish the day,” you say, grabbing your machine. “Break’s over.”
“Break?” Gojo gasps. “THAT was a DATE.”
Sukuna’s glare could peel paint.
Suguru rubs his temples. “For once, Satoru, try to live.”
Gojo only winks at you. “Boss, I expect every detail. For performance review purposes.”
“Go clean the bathroom.” You said giggling and signalling the bathroom door.
Gojo shrieks but does as you say.
Sukuna smirks.
You return to your station, and across the shop Sukuna settles into his, but his eyes keep drifting to you, softening every time.
It’s not official, not even labelled. But something has changed in the air of Red Star Tattoos, and every single one of them knows it.
Especially Sukuna.
Especially you.
And especially Choso, who mutters as he sorts needles “Finally.”
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