Sexy girl, come and lay with me - Ryomen Sukuna
"What do you mean he's not in?"
Suguru swallowed hard, his smile a little too stiff. "Choso's not here," he repeated, firmer now. "But—I’ve got someone else. She’s new, but sharp."
Sukuna didn’t answer. Instead, he yanked out his phone and dialed his nephew's number. It rang twice. Voicemail.
"Choso," he growled into the receiver, voice like gravel underfoot, "if you don’t pick up, I’m going to rip your spine out and wear it like a freaking lei."
He didn’t hang up—just stared at the black screen like he could will it to light up.
Meanwhile, Suguru slipped into the back. You were hunched over your sketchpad, Snickers in hand, music playing softly from your earbuds.
Honestly, you were hoping to ghost through the day undisturbed. No clients. No drama. Just ink and candy. But the moment Suguru burst in, you knew that peace was dead.
“Hey,” he said, too chipper. Too nervous. “I, uh, need a favor.”
You popped out an earbud. “No refunds, no walk-ins, no miracles,” you replied, biting into the Snickers. “Pick one.”
“It’s just one guy.” Suguru stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But he’s... not just any guy. He’s looking for Choso and, uh, he’s not taking ‘no’ well.”
You raised a brow. “Let me guess. Muscles, bad attitude, likes yelling into phones like that’ll solve anything?”
Suguru nodded.
You sighed and stood, dusting chocolate off your fingers. Silence hung in the air as you stared at Suguru.
“Still. No.”
But Suguru wouldn't take no for an answer either. His grip on your arm was firm as he pulled you from your chair and led you toward the front of the shop.
"Come on," he urged, "it's just one tattoo—you can handle it."
The moment you approached the counter, you saw the man. He was indeed hulking, with biceps that looked like they could crush rocks and a scowl that could make the sun hide behind a cloud. He looked carved out of fury and concrete. His phone was clenched so tight it might shatter.
Ancient tattoos coiled over his knuckles and disappeared up thick forearms. His expression said he wasn’t used to being kept waiting. Or denied anything.
He didn’t even look at you when you approached.
"I'm your artist today," you said, voice lazy, dry as dust.
He didn’t respond. Still redialing.
You walked past him and jerked your thumb toward the back. "Booth’s this way. Bring your tantrum with you."
Surprisingly, he followed, still furiously dialing Choso’s number.
You flopped into the chair beside the station and watched him huff and fume, leaving increasingly unhinged voicemails. It would’ve been funny if his aura didn’t feel like a forest fire with legs.
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, but you didn't let it get to you. You've seen all sorts in your line of work, and an angry client was hardly anything new. You leaned back in your chair, kicking your feet up onto the counter.
The stencil in your hand was intricate, a design that had been etched into your brain after countless hours of practice.
It was a pattern that looked like it could have been pulled straight from the pages of an ancient Japanese scroll. But there was something different about it today, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
You studied it closely, turning it over in your hands, and that's when you saw it: a perfect match for the angry man still huffing and puffing in your chair.
You wandered over and tapped the stencil against your palm. “You’re not going to magic Choso into existence by threatening his voicemail.”
His head snapped toward you, eyes flashing.
Before he could speak, you pressed a hand to his chest and shoved. Hard. He stumbled backward into the chair.
“Relax, Godzilla,” you muttered, unbuttoning his shirt like you were folding laundry. “I need the canvas.”
As you began to unbutton his shirt, straddling over him, he scrutinized you with skepticism, as if trying to figure out what game you were playing.
"You must be on something," he grunted, his voice thick with disbelief. "Only someone high out of their mind would do this to me."
You just smirked, continuing to expose his skin.
"I assure you, I'm as sober as a judge."
He watched you closely, eyes darting across your face, your hands. Something about your calm seemed to confuse him more than anger him.
"What’s your name, girl?"
You looked up from sterilizing his skin. “You can call me yours if that’ll help you sit still.”
Sukuna’s expression twitched. Whether from irritation or intrigue, you couldn’t tell. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, his eyebrow raising slightly. The room had tension, the air charged with the scent of ink and antiseptic.
He fully took off his shirt, revealing a landscape of intricate tattoos that sprawled across his chest and arms. They were a map of his life, each ink stroke telling a story of battles won and enemies vanquished.
You took a moment to appreciate the artistry before focusing on the patch of bare skin just below his sternum, free from ink.
You laid out the stencil with a gentle hand, aligning it with the existing tapestry of his body art. But as you leaned in to press it against his warm, firm flesh, he grabbed your wrist, halting your movement. His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way that suggested both annoyance and curiosity.
"This isn't what I want," he growled, his grip firm but not painful. "I wanted Choso's work, not some random girl playing artist."
You leaned back, sitting on his torso, the weight of your body pressing him into the chair.
"Well, tough luck," you said, your voice as smooth as silk. "Choso's not here, and you're getting a taste of what the rest of the world has to deal with when they don't get their way."
Sukuna's eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He didn't like this, not one bit. But there was something about your confidence, the way you held the tattoo gun like it was a part of you, that kept his complaints at bay.
With a sigh that could've deflated a hot air balloon, he gave in. "Fine," he grunted. "But if you mess this up, you're going to regret ever laying eyes on me."
You just smiled, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, I'm shaking in my boots," you said, the sarcasm thick enough to cut with a knife.
You knew exactly what you were doing, and you had no intention of letting this man-mountain intimidate you.
The tattoo gun buzzed to life. You started the outline without ceremony, dragging the needle along his skin with confident precision.
Sukuna grunted, jaw tight. “You’re not gentle.”
You shrugged. “I’m not here to hold your hand.”
His gaze wandered, watching your hands more than the art. His fingers began to brush against your thighs. Testing boundaries.
“You nervous or just handsy?” you asked without looking up.
He smirked, low and rough. “Just admiring the view.”
“Focus on the ceiling,” you said, tone bored. “This isn’t that kind of shop.”
Still, his touches grew bolder. Up your hips. Until your waist. His voice dropped into your ear. “You’re good at this.”
You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. “I know.”
His hand slid up to the small of your back, the gesture more possessive than complimentary. The tension in the room thickened, the air charged with something you couldn't quite name. You knew you had to put a stop to it before it went too far.
And then—swift as a snap—you climbed off his lap, the chair screeching beneath you. You set the gun down with a final click.
“That’s enough,” you said coolly. “I’m not here to play house.”
He looked up, startled. “No. Don’t stop. This—this isn’t what it looks like.”
You crossed your arms. “It looks like a man trying to cross a line.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but you were already wiping down the ink. “Session’s over.”
“What the hell do you mean it’s over?” His voice cracked the air like thunder.
You met his fury with all the emotion of a bored cat. "Just what I said," you replied coolly. "Your session's over. If you want more, you'll have to come back."
For a long moment, silence stretched. Then—laughter. Low, thunderous, involuntary. It spilled from him like water from a cracked dam. He grabbed the towel from your hand and wiped himself down, chuckling.
“You’ve got fire,” he said, eyes glittering.
You arched a brow. “That a compliment or a warning?”
He looked at the mirror, inspected the work. “It’s perfect.”
You shrugged. “I know.”
Suguru peeked in then, wide-eyed. “Oh. You’re... done?”
Suguru bustled in then, his usual cheerful self. "How'd it go?" he chirped, not noticing the tension hanging in the air like a heavy fog. You tossed Suguru the aftercare instructions without looking up from cleaning your work station.
"He’s all yours," you said, your voice as cool and professional as ever.
Sukuna stood, rolled his shoulders, and glanced at you one last time. “Guess I’ll be seeing more of you.”
You nodded curtly and turned to leave, back into the comfort of the office you were dragged out of. You took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying to shake off the encounter. You had done your job, and done it well. That's all that mattered.
But as you left, you felt the weight of Sukuna's gaze on your back. You knew he was watching, no doubt grilling Suguru about you. A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—it wasn't every day you managed to throw someone like him off balance.
“No, Sukuna. I, in fact, cannot tell you where she lives.”
Listen to Sukuna's Playlist? / Listen to everyone's playlist?
