Product Placement
Peter Solarz
cherry valley forever
#extradirty
@theartofmadeline
Cosimo Galluzzi
we're not kids anymore.
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
todays bird
pixel skylines
Janaina Medeiros
Claire Keane
Game of Thrones Daily
One Nice Bug Per Day
Cosmic Funnies
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
dirt enthusiast
No title available
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Mike Driver
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Spain
seen from Türkiye
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Bulgaria
seen from Brazil
seen from Bulgaria
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Peru
seen from United Kingdom
@yumeekoi
KOI ☆ ( bsd, jjk, kny, aot, csm ) . . . sfw. they/them. desi princess. cancer. 6teen. cabin 10. hufflepuff. engene. moa. stay. atiny. shoko's lovergirl & mikasa's muse.
────୨ৎ────
☆ masterlist ⤿ ao3 ⤿ wattpad ⤿ carrd (rules & about me)
© 2026 / do not copy, plagiarize, or put my work through ai / reblogs are always appreciated !
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ punk tactics! wc. 1.4k koi speaks! i'm back from my tiny hiatus!!
you met ryomen sukuna on your first day at tokyo metropolitan high school.
well. met was a strong word. more like: you were trying to find your homeroom, took a wrong turn down an abandoned hallway, and walked directly into the aftermath of a fight. a boy with pink hair was standing over another boy who was very much unconscious, with knuckles bloody and a bored expression plastered on his face.
he'd looked at you. you'd looked at him. you'd turned around and walked straight back the way you came.
that should have been the end of it.
it was not the end of it.
the first time you patched him up was an accident. semi-accident. you'd been in the nurse's office getting a bandage for a papercut (embarrassing, but the nurse had the good brand of bandages, waterproof ones), when the door slammed open and sukuna walked in. same pink hair. same bloody knuckles. this time with a split lip and a bruise blooming across his jaw.
the nurse was out. something about a staff meeting. it was just you and the most feared delinquent in school staring at you like he'd never seen a person before.
"you," he said.
"me," you agreed weakly, clutching the box of band-aids like it would protect you.
he looked at your hands. he looked at the band-aids. he grunted, dropped into the chair across from you, and tilted his chin up. "fix it."
you should have said no. should have walked out. instead, you sighed, opened found the nearest first-aid kit, and got to work.
he was uncharacteristically quite. you'd expected him to be rough, to flinch or curse or shove you away as the burn of the disinfectant seeped into his wounds. but he just sat there, watching you with those sharp red eyes, completely still.
"you're not scared of me," he said.
"should i be?"
he thought about it. "probably."
you finished the bandage, packed up your things, and left. you didn't expect to see him again.
you saw him the very next day.
somehow, somehow, patching up ryomen sukuna became your thing. he'd show up at your classroom door with a black eye, a bag of strawberry milk as payment, and that insufferable smirk. you'd sigh, pull out your ever-growing first aid kit, and get to work. he'd sit there, uncharacteristically still, watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
somewhere along the line, the dynamic shifted. the teasing got softer. his hand started finding yours under the desk. he brought you mochi on days you had a test, left it on your desk without a word. he walked you home every evening, even when his route was the complete opposite direction.
and then, one night under a flickering streetlight, he'd grabbed your chin, tilted your face up, and kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for months.
which, he later admitted, he had.
so now you're dating. officially. unfortunately, dating ryo sukuna does not come with a "no more fighting" clause. if anything, he's gotten worse, because now he has something to prove. or maybe he just likes the way you fuss over him.
probably both.
"ryo, this is the third time this week!"
your voice echoes off the walls of the empty classroom. it's after school. the janitor knows better than to come near this wing when sukuna's around. you, unfortunately, have long since given up on self-preservation where he's concerned.
he's sitting on top of a desk, legs sprawled out, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone currently bleeding into his uniform collar. a cut above his eyebrow is the worst of it, but his knuckles are raw and there's a dark bruise forming on his ribs that you can see through his partially unbuttoned shirt.
he waves a dismissive hand. "only two fights. wednesday was a rematch."
"that doesn't make it better!"
"feels better."
you want to throw the first aid kit at his head. instead, you yank a stool in front of him and start pulling out supplies, muttering under your breath about stupid boyfriends with stupid fists and stupid pretty faces that keep getting stupidly injured.
sukuna watches you with an expression you know too well. head tilted, eyes half-lidded, that particular softness lurking beneath the usual sharpness. the one he only ever shows you.
"you're cute when you're mad," he says.
"i'm not cute. i'm furious."
"same thing." he reaches out and pokes your forehead. "little wrinkle right here. very cute."
you swat his hand away. "i'm going to make that wrinkle permanent if you don't sit still."
he grins, all teeth, but he settles. you lean in close to clean the cut above his brow, and he goes quiet. his breath fans across your cheek. his eyes never leave your face.
you're so focused on not hurting him that you almost miss the way he leans in.
almost.
his lips brush your cheek—soft, warm, aiming for your mouth—but you turn your head at the last second, dodging out of the way.
"no," you say firmly, not looking up from the wound. "absolutely not. you don't get kisses when you show up looking like you went three rounds with a lawnmower. again. for the third time this week."
sukuna stares at you. actually stares, like the concept of being denied a kiss from his own girlfriend has never once crossed his mind. which, knowing him, it probably hasn't.
"you're serious," he says.
"deadly."
a beat of silence. his mouth twitches.
"you're so cute," he murmurs, and then his hands are on your waist and you're being lifted off the stool—squeaking—and deposited squarely in his lap before you can so much as yelp.
"ryo—"
"shh."
one arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against his chest. the other comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. he's careful this time. slower. his eyes search yours, not for permission—he already knows he has it—but for something softer. something that makes your breath catch.
"you're still in trouble," you whisper, but it comes out weak.
"i know."
"you can't just kiss your way out of this."
"watch me."
and then his lips are on yours.
it's not what you expect. sukuna is all sharp edges and loud violence—you'd brace yourself for something rough, something demanding. but this is... soft. a gentle press, barely there, like he's savoring it. his thumb strokes your cheekbone once, twice, and his mouth is warm and surprisingly sweet against yours.
it's a peck. just a peck. innocent in a way that ryomen sukuna has absolutely no right to be.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are dark, breath uneven, and there's a faint flush creeping up his neck that he'd never admit to.
"that," he murmurs against your lips, "was a bribe. how am i doing?"
you open your eyes. he's smiling, not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller. something real. something that makes your chest ache.
"...badly," you manage, even though your voice is embarrassingly breathless. "you're doing badly."
"then let me try again."
he does. and this time, your hands come up to fist in his shirt, and you kiss him back, soft and slow, and the first aid kit clatters to the floor because neither of you are paying attention anymore.
when you finally break apart, you're breathless and warm and still kind of mad, which is impressive.
"i'm still mad at you," you say, even as you tuck your face into his neck.
"i know."
"i mean it."
"i know you do." his arms tighten around you, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "you can be mad at me tomorrow. stay like this for now."
you should say no. you should pull away, finish cleaning up, go home and let him think about what he's done.
instead, you sigh and curl deeper into his chest. his heartbeat is steady under your ear. his hand traces lazy patterns on your back.
"ryo," you mumble.
"hm?"
"try not to get into another fight tomorrow."
he's quiet for a long moment. then, against your hair: "no promises."
you pinch his side. he doesn't even flinch. just laughs, low and warm, and holds you closer.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ punk tactics! wc. 1.4k koi speaks! i'm back from my tiny hiatus!!
you met ryomen sukuna on your first day at tokyo metropolitan high school.
well. met was a strong word. more like: you were trying to find your homeroom, took a wrong turn down an abandoned hallway, and walked directly into the aftermath of a fight. a boy with pink hair was standing over another boy who was very much unconscious, with knuckles bloody and a bored expression plastered on his face.
he'd looked at you. you'd looked at him. you'd turned around and walked straight back the way you came.
that should have been the end of it.
it was not the end of it.
the first time you patched him up was an accident. semi-accident. you'd been in the nurse's office getting a bandage for a papercut (embarrassing, but the nurse had the good brand of bandages, waterproof ones), when the door slammed open and sukuna walked in. same pink hair. same bloody knuckles. this time with a split lip and a bruise blooming across his jaw.
the nurse was out. something about a staff meeting. it was just you and the most feared delinquent in school staring at you like he'd never seen a person before.
"you," he said.
"me," you agreed weakly, clutching the box of band-aids like it would protect you.
he looked at your hands. he looked at the band-aids. he grunted, dropped into the chair across from you, and tilted his chin up. "fix it."
you should have said no. should have walked out. instead, you sighed, opened found the nearest first-aid kit, and got to work.
he was uncharacteristically quite. you'd expected him to be rough, to flinch or curse or shove you away as the burn of the disinfectant seeped into his wounds. but he just sat there, watching you with those sharp red eyes, completely still.
"you're not scared of me," he said.
"should i be?"
he thought about it. "probably."
you finished the bandage, packed up your things, and left. you didn't expect to see him again.
you saw him the very next day.
somehow, somehow, patching up ryomen sukuna became your thing. he'd show up at your classroom door with a black eye, a bag of strawberry milk as payment, and that insufferable smirk. you'd sigh, pull out your ever-growing first aid kit, and get to work. he'd sit there, uncharacteristically still, watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
somewhere along the line, the dynamic shifted. the teasing got softer. his hand started finding yours under the desk. he brought you mochi on days you had a test, left it on your desk without a word. he walked you home every evening, even when his route was the complete opposite direction.
and then, one night under a flickering streetlight, he'd grabbed your chin, tilted your face up, and kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for months.
which, he later admitted, he had.
so now you're dating. officially. unfortunately, dating ryo sukuna does not come with a "no more fighting" clause. if anything, he's gotten worse, because now he has something to prove. or maybe he just likes the way you fuss over him.
probably both.
"ryo, this is the third time this week!"
your voice echoes off the walls of the empty classroom. it's after school. the janitor knows better than to come near this wing when sukuna's around. you, unfortunately, have long since given up on self-preservation where he's concerned.
he's sitting on top of a desk, legs sprawled out, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone currently bleeding into his uniform collar. a cut above his eyebrow is the worst of it, but his knuckles are raw and there's a dark bruise forming on his ribs that you can see through his partially unbuttoned shirt.
he waves a dismissive hand. "only two fights. wednesday was a rematch."
"that doesn't make it better!"
"feels better."
you want to throw the first aid kit at his head. instead, you yank a stool in front of him and start pulling out supplies, muttering under your breath about stupid boyfriends with stupid fists and stupid pretty faces that keep getting stupidly injured.
sukuna watches you with an expression you know too well. head tilted, eyes half-lidded, that particular softness lurking beneath the usual sharpness. the one he only ever shows you.
"you're cute when you're mad," he says.
"i'm not cute. i'm furious."
"same thing." he reaches out and pokes your forehead. "little wrinkle right here. very cute."
you swat his hand away. "i'm going to make that wrinkle permanent if you don't sit still."
he grins, all teeth, but he settles. you lean in close to clean the cut above his brow, and he goes quiet. his breath fans across your cheek. his eyes never leave your face.
you're so focused on not hurting him that you almost miss the way he leans in.
almost.
his lips brush your cheek—soft, warm, aiming for your mouth—but you turn your head at the last second, dodging out of the way.
"no," you say firmly, not looking up from the wound. "absolutely not. you don't get kisses when you show up looking like you went three rounds with a lawnmower. again. for the third time this week."
sukuna stares at you. actually stares, like the concept of being denied a kiss from his own girlfriend has never once crossed his mind. which, knowing him, it probably hasn't.
"you're serious," he says.
"deadly."
a beat of silence. his mouth twitches.
"you're so cute," he murmurs, and then his hands are on your waist and you're being lifted off the stool—squeaking—and deposited squarely in his lap before you can so much as yelp.
"ryo—"
"shh."
one arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against his chest. the other comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. he's careful this time. slower. his eyes search yours, not for permission—he already knows he has it—but for something softer. something that makes your breath catch.
"you're still in trouble," you whisper, but it comes out weak.
"i know."
"you can't just kiss your way out of this."
"watch me."
and then his lips are on yours.
it's not what you expect. sukuna is all sharp edges and loud violence—you'd brace yourself for something rough, something demanding. but this is... soft. a gentle press, barely there, like he's savoring it. his thumb strokes your cheekbone once, twice, and his mouth is warm and surprisingly sweet against yours.
it's a peck. just a peck. innocent in a way that ryomen sukuna has absolutely no right to be.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are dark, breath uneven, and there's a faint flush creeping up his neck that he'd never admit to.
"that," he murmurs against your lips, "was a bribe. how am i doing?"
you open your eyes. he's smiling, not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller. something real. something that makes your chest ache.
"...badly," you manage, even though your voice is embarrassingly breathless. "you're doing badly."
"then let me try again."
he does. and this time, your hands come up to fist in his shirt, and you kiss him back, soft and slow, and the first aid kit clatters to the floor because neither of you are paying attention anymore.
when you finally break apart, you're breathless and warm and still kind of mad, which is impressive.
"i'm still mad at you," you say, even as you tuck your face into his neck.
"i know."
"i mean it."
"i know you do." his arms tighten around you, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "you can be mad at me tomorrow. stay like this for now."
you should say no. you should pull away, finish cleaning up, go home and let him think about what he's done.
instead, you sigh and curl deeper into his chest. his heartbeat is steady under your ear. his hand traces lazy patterns on your back.
"ryo," you mumble.
"hm?"
"try not to get into another fight tomorrow."
he's quiet for a long moment. then, against your hair: "no promises."
you pinch his side. he doesn't even flinch. just laughs, low and warm, and holds you closer.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ punk tactics! wc. 1.4k koi speaks! i'm back from my tiny hiatus!!
you met ryomen sukuna on your first day at tokyo metropolitan high school.
well. met was a strong word. more like: you were trying to find your homeroom, took a wrong turn down an abandoned hallway, and walked directly into the aftermath of a fight. a boy with pink hair was standing over another boy who was very much unconscious, with knuckles bloody and a bored expression plastered on his face.
he'd looked at you. you'd looked at him. you'd turned around and walked straight back the way you came.
that should have been the end of it.
it was not the end of it.
the first time you patched him up was an accident. semi-accident. you'd been in the nurse's office getting a bandage for a papercut (embarrassing, but the nurse had the good brand of bandages, waterproof ones), when the door slammed open and sukuna walked in. same pink hair. same bloody knuckles. this time with a split lip and a bruise blooming across his jaw.
the nurse was out. something about a staff meeting. it was just you and the most feared delinquent in school staring at you like he'd never seen a person before.
"you," he said.
"me," you agreed weakly, clutching the box of band-aids like it would protect you.
he looked at your hands. he looked at the band-aids. he grunted, dropped into the chair across from you, and tilted his chin up. "fix it."
you should have said no. should have walked out. instead, you sighed, opened found the nearest first-aid kit, and got to work.
he was uncharacteristically quite. you'd expected him to be rough, to flinch or curse or shove you away as the burn of the disinfectant seeped into his wounds. but he just sat there, watching you with those sharp red eyes, completely still.
"you're not scared of me," he said.
"should i be?"
he thought about it. "probably."
you finished the bandage, packed up your things, and left. you didn't expect to see him again.
you saw him the very next day.
somehow, somehow, patching up ryomen sukuna became your thing. he'd show up at your classroom door with a black eye, a bag of strawberry milk as payment, and that insufferable smirk. you'd sigh, pull out your ever-growing first aid kit, and get to work. he'd sit there, uncharacteristically still, watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
somewhere along the line, the dynamic shifted. the teasing got softer. his hand started finding yours under the desk. he brought you mochi on days you had a test, left it on your desk without a word. he walked you home every evening, even when his route was the complete opposite direction.
and then, one night under a flickering streetlight, he'd grabbed your chin, tilted your face up, and kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for months.
which, he later admitted, he had.
so now you're dating. officially. unfortunately, dating ryo sukuna does not come with a "no more fighting" clause. if anything, he's gotten worse, because now he has something to prove. or maybe he just likes the way you fuss over him.
probably both.
"ryo, this is the third time this week!"
your voice echoes off the walls of the empty classroom. it's after school. the janitor knows better than to come near this wing when sukuna's around. you, unfortunately, have long since given up on self-preservation where he's concerned.
he's sitting on top of a desk, legs sprawled out, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone currently bleeding into his uniform collar. a cut above his eyebrow is the worst of it, but his knuckles are raw and there's a dark bruise forming on his ribs that you can see through his partially unbuttoned shirt.
he waves a dismissive hand. "only two fights. wednesday was a rematch."
"that doesn't make it better!"
"feels better."
you want to throw the first aid kit at his head. instead, you yank a stool in front of him and start pulling out supplies, muttering under your breath about stupid boyfriends with stupid fists and stupid pretty faces that keep getting stupidly injured.
sukuna watches you with an expression you know too well. head tilted, eyes half-lidded, that particular softness lurking beneath the usual sharpness. the one he only ever shows you.
"you're cute when you're mad," he says.
"i'm not cute. i'm furious."
"same thing." he reaches out and pokes your forehead. "little wrinkle right here. very cute."
you swat his hand away. "i'm going to make that wrinkle permanent if you don't sit still."
he grins, all teeth, but he settles. you lean in close to clean the cut above his brow, and he goes quiet. his breath fans across your cheek. his eyes never leave your face.
you're so focused on not hurting him that you almost miss the way he leans in.
almost.
his lips brush your cheek—soft, warm, aiming for your mouth—but you turn your head at the last second, dodging out of the way.
"no," you say firmly, not looking up from the wound. "absolutely not. you don't get kisses when you show up looking like you went three rounds with a lawnmower. again. for the third time this week."
sukuna stares at you. actually stares, like the concept of being denied a kiss from his own girlfriend has never once crossed his mind. which, knowing him, it probably hasn't.
"you're serious," he says.
"deadly."
a beat of silence. his mouth twitches.
"you're so cute," he murmurs, and then his hands are on your waist and you're being lifted off the stool—squeaking—and deposited squarely in his lap before you can so much as yelp.
"ryo—"
"shh."
one arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against his chest. the other comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. he's careful this time. slower. his eyes search yours, not for permission—he already knows he has it—but for something softer. something that makes your breath catch.
"you're still in trouble," you whisper, but it comes out weak.
"i know."
"you can't just kiss your way out of this."
"watch me."
and then his lips are on yours.
it's not what you expect. sukuna is all sharp edges and loud violence—you'd brace yourself for something rough, something demanding. but this is... soft. a gentle press, barely there, like he's savoring it. his thumb strokes your cheekbone once, twice, and his mouth is warm and surprisingly sweet against yours.
it's a peck. just a peck. innocent in a way that ryomen sukuna has absolutely no right to be.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are dark, breath uneven, and there's a faint flush creeping up his neck that he'd never admit to.
"that," he murmurs against your lips, "was a bribe. how am i doing?"
you open your eyes. he's smiling, not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller. something real. something that makes your chest ache.
"...badly," you manage, even though your voice is embarrassingly breathless. "you're doing badly."
"then let me try again."
he does. and this time, your hands come up to fist in his shirt, and you kiss him back, soft and slow, and the first aid kit clatters to the floor because neither of you are paying attention anymore.
when you finally break apart, you're breathless and warm and still kind of mad, which is impressive.
"i'm still mad at you," you say, even as you tuck your face into his neck.
"i know."
"i mean it."
"i know you do." his arms tighten around you, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "you can be mad at me tomorrow. stay like this for now."
you should say no. you should pull away, finish cleaning up, go home and let him think about what he's done.
instead, you sigh and curl deeper into his chest. his heartbeat is steady under your ear. his hand traces lazy patterns on your back.
"ryo," you mumble.
"hm?"
"try not to get into another fight tomorrow."
he's quiet for a long moment. then, against your hair: "no promises."
you pinch his side. he doesn't even flinch. just laughs, low and warm, and holds you closer.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ punk tactics! wc. 1.4k koi speaks! i'm back from my tiny hiatus!!
you met ryomen sukuna on your first day at tokyo metropolitan high school.
well. met was a strong word. more like: you were trying to find your homeroom, took a wrong turn down an abandoned hallway, and walked directly into the aftermath of a fight. a boy with pink hair was standing over another boy who was very much unconscious, with knuckles bloody and a bored expression plastered on his face.
he'd looked at you. you'd looked at him. you'd turned around and walked straight back the way you came.
that should have been the end of it.
it was not the end of it.
the first time you patched him up was an accident. semi-accident. you'd been in the nurse's office getting a bandage for a papercut (embarrassing, but the nurse had the good brand of bandages, waterproof ones), when the door slammed open and sukuna walked in. same pink hair. same bloody knuckles. this time with a split lip and a bruise blooming across his jaw.
the nurse was out. something about a staff meeting. it was just you and the most feared delinquent in school staring at you like he'd never seen a person before.
"you," he said.
"me," you agreed weakly, clutching the box of band-aids like it would protect you.
he looked at your hands. he looked at the band-aids. he grunted, dropped into the chair across from you, and tilted his chin up. "fix it."
you should have said no. should have walked out. instead, you sighed, opened found the nearest first-aid kit, and got to work.
he was uncharacteristically quite. you'd expected him to be rough, to flinch or curse or shove you away as the burn of the disinfectant seeped into his wounds. but he just sat there, watching you with those sharp red eyes, completely still.
"you're not scared of me," he said.
"should i be?"
he thought about it. "probably."
you finished the bandage, packed up your things, and left. you didn't expect to see him again.
you saw him the very next day.
somehow, somehow, patching up ryomen sukuna became your thing. he'd show up at your classroom door with a black eye, a bag of strawberry milk as payment, and that insufferable smirk. you'd sigh, pull out your ever-growing first aid kit, and get to work. he'd sit there, uncharacteristically still, watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
somewhere along the line, the dynamic shifted. the teasing got softer. his hand started finding yours under the desk. he brought you mochi on days you had a test, left it on your desk without a word. he walked you home every evening, even when his route was the complete opposite direction.
and then, one night under a flickering streetlight, he'd grabbed your chin, tilted your face up, and kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for months.
which, he later admitted, he had.
so now you're dating. officially. unfortunately, dating ryo sukuna does not come with a "no more fighting" clause. if anything, he's gotten worse, because now he has something to prove. or maybe he just likes the way you fuss over him.
probably both.
"ryo, this is the third time this week!"
your voice echoes off the walls of the empty classroom. it's after school. the janitor knows better than to come near this wing when sukuna's around. you, unfortunately, have long since given up on self-preservation where he's concerned.
he's sitting on top of a desk, legs sprawled out, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone currently bleeding into his uniform collar. a cut above his eyebrow is the worst of it, but his knuckles are raw and there's a dark bruise forming on his ribs that you can see through his partially unbuttoned shirt.
he waves a dismissive hand. "only two fights. wednesday was a rematch."
"that doesn't make it better!"
"feels better."
you want to throw the first aid kit at his head. instead, you yank a stool in front of him and start pulling out supplies, muttering under your breath about stupid boyfriends with stupid fists and stupid pretty faces that keep getting stupidly injured.
sukuna watches you with an expression you know too well. head tilted, eyes half-lidded, that particular softness lurking beneath the usual sharpness. the one he only ever shows you.
"you're cute when you're mad," he says.
"i'm not cute. i'm furious."
"same thing." he reaches out and pokes your forehead. "little wrinkle right here. very cute."
you swat his hand away. "i'm going to make that wrinkle permanent if you don't sit still."
he grins, all teeth, but he settles. you lean in close to clean the cut above his brow, and he goes quiet. his breath fans across your cheek. his eyes never leave your face.
you're so focused on not hurting him that you almost miss the way he leans in.
almost.
his lips brush your cheek—soft, warm, aiming for your mouth—but you turn your head at the last second, dodging out of the way.
"no," you say firmly, not looking up from the wound. "absolutely not. you don't get kisses when you show up looking like you went three rounds with a lawnmower. again. for the third time this week."
sukuna stares at you. actually stares, like the concept of being denied a kiss from his own girlfriend has never once crossed his mind. which, knowing him, it probably hasn't.
"you're serious," he says.
"deadly."
a beat of silence. his mouth twitches.
"you're so cute," he murmurs, and then his hands are on your waist and you're being lifted off the stool—squeaking—and deposited squarely in his lap before you can so much as yelp.
"ryo—"
"shh."
one arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against his chest. the other comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. he's careful this time. slower. his eyes search yours, not for permission—he already knows he has it—but for something softer. something that makes your breath catch.
"you're still in trouble," you whisper, but it comes out weak.
"i know."
"you can't just kiss your way out of this."
"watch me."
and then his lips are on yours.
it's not what you expect. sukuna is all sharp edges and loud violence—you'd brace yourself for something rough, something demanding. but this is... soft. a gentle press, barely there, like he's savoring it. his thumb strokes your cheekbone once, twice, and his mouth is warm and surprisingly sweet against yours.
it's a peck. just a peck. innocent in a way that ryomen sukuna has absolutely no right to be.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are dark, breath uneven, and there's a faint flush creeping up his neck that he'd never admit to.
"that," he murmurs against your lips, "was a bribe. how am i doing?"
you open your eyes. he's smiling, not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller. something real. something that makes your chest ache.
"...badly," you manage, even though your voice is embarrassingly breathless. "you're doing badly."
"then let me try again."
he does. and this time, your hands come up to fist in his shirt, and you kiss him back, soft and slow, and the first aid kit clatters to the floor because neither of you are paying attention anymore.
when you finally break apart, you're breathless and warm and still kind of mad, which is impressive.
"i'm still mad at you," you say, even as you tuck your face into his neck.
"i know."
"i mean it."
"i know you do." his arms tighten around you, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "you can be mad at me tomorrow. stay like this for now."
you should say no. you should pull away, finish cleaning up, go home and let him think about what he's done.
instead, you sigh and curl deeper into his chest. his heartbeat is steady under your ear. his hand traces lazy patterns on your back.
"ryo," you mumble.
"hm?"
"try not to get into another fight tomorrow."
he's quiet for a long moment. then, against your hair: "no promises."
you pinch his side. he doesn't even flinch. just laughs, low and warm, and holds you closer.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ punk tactics! wc. 1.4k koi speaks! i'm back from my tiny hiatus!!
you met ryomen sukuna on your first day at tokyo metropolitan high school.
well. met was a strong word. more like: you were trying to find your homeroom, took a wrong turn down an abandoned hallway, and walked directly into the aftermath of a fight. a boy with pink hair was standing over another boy who was very much unconscious, with knuckles bloody and a bored expression plastered on his face.
he'd looked at you. you'd looked at him. you'd turned around and walked straight back the way you came.
that should have been the end of it.
it was not the end of it.
the first time you patched him up was an accident. semi-accident. you'd been in the nurse's office getting a bandage for a papercut (embarrassing, but the nurse had the good brand of bandages, waterproof ones), when the door slammed open and sukuna walked in. same pink hair. same bloody knuckles. this time with a split lip and a bruise blooming across his jaw.
the nurse was out. something about a staff meeting. it was just you and the most feared delinquent in school staring at you like he'd never seen a person before.
"you," he said.
"me," you agreed weakly, clutching the box of band-aids like it would protect you.
he looked at your hands. he looked at the band-aids. he grunted, dropped into the chair across from you, and tilted his chin up. "fix it."
you should have said no. should have walked out. instead, you sighed, opened found the nearest first-aid kit, and got to work.
he was uncharacteristically quite. you'd expected him to be rough, to flinch or curse or shove you away as the burn of the disinfectant seeped into his wounds. but he just sat there, watching you with those sharp red eyes, completely still.
"you're not scared of me," he said.
"should i be?"
he thought about it. "probably."
you finished the bandage, packed up your things, and left. you didn't expect to see him again.
you saw him the very next day.
somehow, somehow, patching up ryomen sukuna became your thing. he'd show up at your classroom door with a black eye, a bag of strawberry milk as payment, and that insufferable smirk. you'd sigh, pull out your ever-growing first aid kit, and get to work. he'd sit there, uncharacteristically still, watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
somewhere along the line, the dynamic shifted. the teasing got softer. his hand started finding yours under the desk. he brought you mochi on days you had a test, left it on your desk without a word. he walked you home every evening, even when his route was the complete opposite direction.
and then, one night under a flickering streetlight, he'd grabbed your chin, tilted your face up, and kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for months.
which, he later admitted, he had.
so now you're dating. officially. unfortunately, dating ryo sukuna does not come with a "no more fighting" clause. if anything, he's gotten worse, because now he has something to prove. or maybe he just likes the way you fuss over him.
probably both.
"ryo, this is the third time this week!"
your voice echoes off the walls of the empty classroom. it's after school. the janitor knows better than to come near this wing when sukuna's around. you, unfortunately, have long since given up on self-preservation where he's concerned.
he's sitting on top of a desk, legs sprawled out, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone currently bleeding into his uniform collar. a cut above his eyebrow is the worst of it, but his knuckles are raw and there's a dark bruise forming on his ribs that you can see through his partially unbuttoned shirt.
he waves a dismissive hand. "only two fights. wednesday was a rematch."
"that doesn't make it better!"
"feels better."
you want to throw the first aid kit at his head. instead, you yank a stool in front of him and start pulling out supplies, muttering under your breath about stupid boyfriends with stupid fists and stupid pretty faces that keep getting stupidly injured.
sukuna watches you with an expression you know too well. head tilted, eyes half-lidded, that particular softness lurking beneath the usual sharpness. the one he only ever shows you.
"you're cute when you're mad," he says.
"i'm not cute. i'm furious."
"same thing." he reaches out and pokes your forehead. "little wrinkle right here. very cute."
you swat his hand away. "i'm going to make that wrinkle permanent if you don't sit still."
he grins, all teeth, but he settles. you lean in close to clean the cut above his brow, and he goes quiet. his breath fans across your cheek. his eyes never leave your face.
you're so focused on not hurting him that you almost miss the way he leans in.
almost.
his lips brush your cheek—soft, warm, aiming for your mouth—but you turn your head at the last second, dodging out of the way.
"no," you say firmly, not looking up from the wound. "absolutely not. you don't get kisses when you show up looking like you went three rounds with a lawnmower. again. for the third time this week."
sukuna stares at you. actually stares, like the concept of being denied a kiss from his own girlfriend has never once crossed his mind. which, knowing him, it probably hasn't.
"you're serious," he says.
"deadly."
a beat of silence. his mouth twitches.
"you're so cute," he murmurs, and then his hands are on your waist and you're being lifted off the stool—squeaking—and deposited squarely in his lap before you can so much as yelp.
"ryo—"
"shh."
one arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against his chest. the other comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. he's careful this time. slower. his eyes search yours, not for permission—he already knows he has it—but for something softer. something that makes your breath catch.
"you're still in trouble," you whisper, but it comes out weak.
"i know."
"you can't just kiss your way out of this."
"watch me."
and then his lips are on yours.
it's not what you expect. sukuna is all sharp edges and loud violence—you'd brace yourself for something rough, something demanding. but this is... soft. a gentle press, barely there, like he's savoring it. his thumb strokes your cheekbone once, twice, and his mouth is warm and surprisingly sweet against yours.
it's a peck. just a peck. innocent in a way that ryomen sukuna has absolutely no right to be.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are dark, breath uneven, and there's a faint flush creeping up his neck that he'd never admit to.
"that," he murmurs against your lips, "was a bribe. how am i doing?"
you open your eyes. he's smiling, not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller. something real. something that makes your chest ache.
"...badly," you manage, even though your voice is embarrassingly breathless. "you're doing badly."
"then let me try again."
he does. and this time, your hands come up to fist in his shirt, and you kiss him back, soft and slow, and the first aid kit clatters to the floor because neither of you are paying attention anymore.
when you finally break apart, you're breathless and warm and still kind of mad, which is impressive.
"i'm still mad at you," you say, even as you tuck your face into his neck.
"i know."
"i mean it."
"i know you do." his arms tighten around you, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "you can be mad at me tomorrow. stay like this for now."
you should say no. you should pull away, finish cleaning up, go home and let him think about what he's done.
instead, you sigh and curl deeper into his chest. his heartbeat is steady under your ear. his hand traces lazy patterns on your back.
"ryo," you mumble.
"hm?"
"try not to get into another fight tomorrow."
he's quiet for a long moment. then, against your hair: "no promises."
you pinch his side. he doesn't even flinch. just laughs, low and warm, and holds you closer.
When tumblr refreshes itself and the fic I was reading fucking disappears forever 💔
I’ve been searching for a smau I was reading for three days 😔
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor true form! sukuna x concubine! reader headcanons!! wc. 2k ; cw. a bit suggestive koi speaks! hehehe sukuna 😋
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who barely even glanced at you the day you were brought to his palace in chains. another trembling offering from some pathetic village hoping to buy his favor? boring. you were shoved to your knees before his throne, wrists raw from the ropes, and you didn't even dare to look up at him, just stared at the cold stone floor with tears clinging to your lashes. it was almost pathetic, how terrified you were of him.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who didn't touch you for months. not because he was being kind—sukuna doesn't do kind—but because watching you slowly relax around him was more entertaining than any forced submission. at first you'd shake whenever he entered a room, pressing yourself against the nearest wall like you could melt through it. but slowly, so slowly, those big innocent doe eyes finally started to meet his vibrant red ones. he caught you peeking at him during court once, and when your gazes met, you ducked behind a pillar so fast he actually laughed aloud. the entire court froze. sukuna never laughed.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has a habit of touching the small of your back. just a hand, warm and heavy, settling there when he passes you in the halls or stands beside you at court. it's not possessive—well, it is possessive (not that he'd ever admit it), but that's not the point. the first time he did it, you practically jumped out of your skin. now? now you lean into it slightly, just a fraction, and he pretends not to notice the way your shoulders relax under his palm.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come here, little one." that's all he says, voice low and rough, and you're already moving toward him before your brain catches up. you hate how your body obeys him so easily. you hate the way your heart stutters when he calls you that. but most of all, you hate that he knows, you can see it in the way his lips curl up just slightly under the palace lights, when you settle next to him, one of his four arms snaking around your waist and resting on your hip.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who likes spoils you with lavish gifts. it first starts with small boxes filled with hairpins. they were delicate and intricate, jade and pearl and something that looks suspiciously like diamonds scattered across their length. others were shaped with flowers on the head of the pin, dusted with gold and glitter. another box holds earrings that make your ears feel unworthy. a necklace with a rose quartz the size of your thumbnail rests in the last one, glimmering against your skin. soon they gifts became more extravagant to the point that a chest arrives at your chambers, carried by two servants who struggle under its weight. inside: silk. mountains of it. rolls of fabric so fine they slip through your fingers like water, in colors you didn't even know existed: sunset oranges, deep crimsons, gold that catches the light and holds it hostage.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't give gifts for gratitude, he gives them to see. he wants to watch the silk drape across your shoulders, wants to see the way light dances off the gems at your throat and ears, wants to watch the hairpins adorn your beautiful locks. one evening, he summons you to his chambers and you come dressed in the softest pink silk he sent, the rose quartz necklace resting against your collarbone. he doesn't speak for a long moment, just looks at you with those ancient, unreadable eyes. then he's crossing the room in two strides, one hand softly weaving into your hair, tilting your head back. "this," he says placing one of his hands on your waist, fingers digging into the soft silk, "looks better here than it did in the box." his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. "but i'm starting to think it'd look even better on the floor." you don't wear those pink silks for a week after. not because you didn't like them, but because every time you try, your face burns too hot to leave your chambers.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who's other concubines despise you. you're quiet, you're shy, you don't scheme or claw your way to his attention, and somehow that makes you his favorite anyway. they have been forgotten and replaced by the timid peasant village girl.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't ask for things. he takes. so when he starts keeping you in his chambers at night, just sleeping, just your small form curled beside his massive one, it's not a request. but, he notices the way you burrow closer when the palace grows cold, the way your fingers curl in his sleeping robes like you're afraid he'll disappear. and one night, when you whimper softly in your sleep (a nightmare, probably about the chains, about the village that gave you up, he would have to make sure that the village was adequately punished for their deeds), he pulls you against his chest and rumbles something unintelligible against your hair. you don't wake. but you stop trembling.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has you sit on his lap during meetings. it happens mid-meeting. you're standing in your usual spot behind his throne, trying to be invisible, when his lower right hand reaches back and curls around your wrist. before you can process what's happening, you're being tugged forward and down, deposited unceremoniously onto his thigh like you weigh nothing. his upper arms continue holding his brush, signing documents like this is perfectly normal. his lower hands settle on your waist—one splayed across your hip, the other resting just below your ribs, thumbs pressing gently into the silk covering your stomach.
the entire court stares at him in shock. you stare at the floor, certain you're about to combust.
"continue," sukuna says flatly, and the meeting resumes as if the emperor doesn't currently have a trembling concubine in his lap. you sit frozen, barely breathing, hyperaware of the heat of him beneath you and the weight of his hands on your waist. occasionally, his thumbs move small, idle circles against the silk and you have to bite your lip to stay silent.
after that first time, it becomes routine. any meeting, any audience, any time he wants you nearby, you end up in his lap. his lower hands find your waist automatically now, like they belong there. sometimes he'll pull you closer during a particularly boring report, tucking you against his chest while his upper arms handle business. sometimes his thumbs trace patterns on your hips that have nothing to do with patience, circles that get slower, deeper, until you're squirming just slightly and he has to tighten his grip to keep you still. "behave," he'll murmur against your hair, but there's a smirk in his voice that makes your stomach flip.
and sometimes, when someone says something particularly stupid, you feel his grip tighten on your waist, crinkling into the newly bought silks he bought for you, before he destroys them with words alone.
you've stopped trying to hide your burning face. it's useless anyway.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one time, during a particularly long council meeting, his lower hands started wandering. just slightly, one sliding up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the silk. you made a sound. a tiny, embarrassing sound that you immediately tried to cover with a cough. sukuna's upper hands didn't even pause in their writing, but his lower ones squeezed, a warning, a promise, a later, and you spent the rest of the meeting trying to remember how to breathe normally.
that night, you understood exactly what "later" exactly meant.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who another time, he had you sit facing him. on his lap. in front of the entire court. your legs on either side of his thighs, your face buried in his neck because you couldn't look anyone in the eye. and also because if you looked down, you'd see exactly how much he was enjoying having you this close. his lower hands rested on your hips, fingers occasionally dipping just beneath the hem of your robes to trace circles on bare skin. his upper hands continued running the kingdom like nothing was happening.
you didn't hear a single word of that meeting. you were too busy trying not to make any sounds that would give you away. afterward, in his chambers, he told you exactly how proud he was of you for being so quiet. then he made sure you weren't quiet at all.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one night, after a particularly long day of meetings, you're still in his lap in his private study. the documents are finished, the servants have retreated, and it's just you and him in the flickering candlelight. you're half-asleep, cheek pressed to his chest, and his lower hands have gone slack on your waist. but then one hand moves, sliding up, tangling in your hair, tilting your face toward his.
"you wear my gifts," he says, voice rough. "you sit in my lap. you sleep in my bed. i have gotten rid of all the other concubines." his thumb traces your lower lip. "do you know what that means, little one?"
you nod, because you do. because you've known for a while now.
"good." and then he's kissing you. it's deep and slow, like he has all the time in the world. when he pulls back, you're breathless and dizzy and your hairpins are definitely crooked. "mine," he murmurs against your lips, and you've never heard a word sound so much like a claim.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who makes you empress and watches the court riot. a sacrificed village girl? a trembling little thing who can barely look anyone in the eye? sukuna listens to their protests with an expression of utter boredom, one lower hand resting on the small of your back, while the other stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to his side. you're trying very hard to become one with the floor, but he won't let you shrink away—his grip keeps you anchored against him. when the objections finally die down, he simply says: "she stays. or i start executing people. your choice."
you're pretty sure half the court wets themselves. you're also pretty sure sukuna finds this hilarious.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who, now that you're empress, still has you sit in his lap during meetings. it's not even questioned anymore. his lower hands find your waist automatically, and sometimes—when the discussion gets particularly heated—you feel his thumbs slip just slightly beneath the hem of your robes, tracing circles on bare skin. you've learned to keep your face neutral. mostly. and sometimes, when his hands start wandering and you shift just slightly—rock your hips back against him, just a tiny movement, just enough that only he can feel it—his grip tightens immediately, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. then his voice gets that particular edge when he dismisses the court early. "everyone out. now." you never make it back to the chambers. the throne room has a door. it locks.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who sometimes, in the middle of the night, you wake up and find him just… watching you. not in a creepy way, but in a way that makes your chest ache. like he's never had anything worth watching before. "what?" you whisper, voice sleepy. "nothing." his thumb traces your cheek. "just looking." you bury your face in his chest, hiding your blush. his arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head. "sleep, little one." you do. because for the first time in your life, you feel safe enough to.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come, my empress." and you go. you always go. and when you settle in his lap, face hidden against his chest, his four arms close around you like you're something precious—something worth keeping. "mine," he murmurs against your hair, and his hands are already finding their favorite places—your waist, your hip, the small of your back, your neck tilting your face toward his. and when he kisses you, slow and deep and claiming, you forget that you were ever a sacrifice at all. you're his. and that's the only thing that matters.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ tuna mayo!! wc. 1.6k ; cw. some blood koi speaks! yall lemme tell you how i absolutely adore this lil ball of sunshine i hope i did him justice 🙏
you were six years old when the words first appeared on your collarbone. you knew what the words meant, and little six year old you was ecstatic. who wouldn't be? those were the words of your soulmate. their first words spoken to you by the person the fates had destined you to. you were practically bouncing off the walls!
but, as excited as you were, you were also...confused.
tuna mayo. the words permanently inked on your collarbones, your soulmates first words to you was...a rice ball ingredient. not exactly the stuff of romance novels. no sweeping declarations of undying love, no poetic promises. just…tuna...and mayo.
you’ve spent the last ten years of your life thinking about it. googled it, obviously (but all that came up unsurprisingly were pictures of tuna mayo). asked your older sister, who squinted at your collarbone through her glasses and said, “maybe they’re really into rice balls?” before breaking down into uncontrollable laughter. which wasn’t helpful.
you even asked your friends! unfortunately, they only offered increasingly unhinged theories: maybe your soulmate’s a chef, maybe they’re a mermaid, maybe they’re just really passionate about rice balls.
after a while, you’d kind of given up, honestly. the mark had become just another part of you, like the mole behind your ear or the increasing weird curses you came across on your day to day life. a weird, unexplainable detail you stopped trying to rationalize for the sake of your own sanity.
and then you transferred to tokyo metropolitan curse technical college—jujutsu tech for short cuz god was that a mouthful to say.
it was an adjustment to say the least. you go from “normal person with normal problems who could see curses” to “shaman who now had to fight said curses” in the span of about three weeks.
it’s a lot. thankfully the other students are more than helpful. there was panda who was...a literal panda (you tried not to think too hard about it), yuuta who was nice, but you kept some distance due to not wanting to get smacked into the next dimension by rika, even though he insisted she won't.
maki was the only other girl in your year, and also your best friend. it had taken the green haired girl a while to warm up to you, but you managed to crack down her sky high walls and weaseled your way into her heart after multiple shared missions and a near death experience where you saved her life from a curse that had tried to ambush her.
on rare occasions that the two of you would have a day off, you would spend the day watching movies well into the night, sparring, and talking shit about the zen'in clan.
and then there was toge inumaki. you’d heard about him before you even saw him. "the inumaki clan," gojo-sensei had explained with a lazy wave of his hand, "they use cursed speech. everything they say is a command. so, our dear inumaki-chan has to be very, very careful with his words."
which is why he only speaks in rice ball ingredients.
you’d thought it was a joke at first. but no. the guy walks around with the collar of his uniform covering the lower half of his face, communicating exclusively in variations of salmon, kelp, and okaka.
it’s confusing. it’s endearing. it’s, frankly, just a tiny bit ridiculous.
despite spending a few months at jujutsu tech, you haven't actually interacted with the white-haired boy until now that is. maki and yuuta had been partnered up for some mission in yokohama, and panda was still away on his, the only people left were you and inumaki to partner up.
it was supposed to be easy. just a few grade 3 curses at a decrepit, run-down mall. the urban legends and ghost stories surrounding the abandoned building had been festering curses like a moth to a flame.
so yes, it was supposed to be easy, so you really couldn't explain why you were standing face to face with a grade 1 curse, all alone you might add since inumaki was finishing up with the final sweep of the mall.
you let out a strangled yelp dodging to the side as the curse's sharp claws narrowly missed your abdomen. you weren't weak, not by any means having already climbed up the ranks to grade 2. but this curse was fast.
again and again, it lunges at you with murderous vigor. you dodge, weave, scramble backward—but it doesn't let up, doesn't give you an inch of space to actually fight back. your feet stumble over debris, and when you look up, you realize your mistake.
you're cornered.
the curse looms over you, something like a grin stretching across its twisted face. your back hits the wall. there's nowhere left to run.
oh god, you think, your heart hammering against your ribs. i'm going to die. i'm actually going to die right now, in this gross, abandoned mall, and my soulmate is never going to find me and tell me about the tuna mayo—
"stop"
the word crackle dangerously through the abandoned mall like a. it's not loud, but it holds weight. power. the curse freezes mid-lunge, claws frozen inches from your face. any closer and you would be saying bye-bye to your arm.
your eyes snap open, frantically searching for where the voice came from, finally landing on a tall figure.
inumaki stands at the entrance of the food court, collar pulled down, his violet eyes blazing. he looks furious. he looks terrified. the curse screeches, struggling against the command, and inumaki's voice drops lower, as he forces out another word.
"shatter."
the curse convulses once, twice—and then crumples in on itself, dissolving into black smoke with a pained shriek.
the silence that follows is deafening.
you're still pressed against the wall, heart pounding, trying to process the fact that you're not dead. inumaki takes a step toward you. then another. he's pale, paler than usual, and when he coughs, blood spatters against his palm.
shit.
you're moving before you can think, your legs carrying you across the food court as his knees buckle. you catch him just before he hits the ground, your arms wrapping around him as you ease him down carefully, your back against the wall, him cradled against your chest.
"oh gods, are you okay?" the words tumble out in a panic. one hand grips his arm, the other reaches for his face, tilting his chin gently to look at the blood smeared across his lips. "you're bleeding—we have to get you to the infirmary fast—"
he's looking at you. even through the pain, through the blood, through the obvious strain of overusing his cursed technique, he's looking at you with this strange, intense focus.
his hand lifts. trembling slightly, his fingers brush against your collarbone.
your breath catches.
your collarbone. the one hidden beneath your uniform. the one with tuna mayo permanently inked into your skin.
his thumb traces the spot where you know the words are, right over your racing pulse. his eyes haven't left yours. and then, so softly you almost miss it, he whispers:
"tuna mayo."
the world around you seems to freeze in place.
you stare at him. he stares at you. his hand is still resting against your collarbone, warm and impossibly gentle despite everything. the words hang in the air between you, soft and clear and exactly the ones you've spent ten years wondering about.
tuna mayo.
not a rice ball ingredient. not just a random phrase. his words. his first words to you.
you'd imagined this moment a thousand times when you were younger. fantasized about it. wondered who would speak those words and where you'd be and what you'd say back. you never—never—imagined it would be like this. in a cursed mall, covered in dust, adrenaline pumping through your veins, holding your soulmate in your arms while he coughs up blood.
your voice comes out strangled. "what did you just say?"
his eyes crinkle at the corners, that same shy smile you've seen directed at everyone else, except now it's just for you. his thumb presses ever so slightly against your collarbone, right over the mark.
"tuna mayo," he repeats, quieter this time, like it's a secret meant only for you.
you're crying. when did you start crying? hot tears spill down your cheeks, cutting tracks through the grime. a sound escapes you, something akin to a half laugh, half sob, and you tighten your grip on him, pulling him closer.
"it's you," you whisper. "all this time, it was you."
he nods weakly, but his eyes are bright, brighter than you've ever seen them. one hand comes up to clumsily wipe at your tears, and the gesture is so tender, so achingly gentle, that it makes you cry harder.
"we have to get you to the infirmary," you manage, even as you're laughing through the tears. "you're an idiot, you know that? using that much cursed energy—you could've—"
"salmon," he murmurs, and you don't know what it means, but it doesn't matter because you found him.
you help him stand, keeping one arm wrapped securely around his waist. he leans into you heavily, but he's standing. he's alive. he's here.
as you half-carry, half-drag him toward the exit, he mumbles something against your shoulder.
you glance down. "what?"
he pulls his collar up, then seems to think better of it, leaving it down just for you. "call me toge," he rasps, his voice cracking on every syllable from the strain on his damaged vocal cords.
your throat tightens. you squeeze him closer, careful not to hurt him. "okay," you breathe, your own voice coming out thicker than expected. "okay, toge."
i have an ap compsci mock test tomorrow and i fear i may be semi-cooked praying to god i don't die and then actual ap exams in a little more than a week im acc shaking in my boots rn guys i fear i might not make it
in honor of the chainsaw man manga ending i started watching chainsaw man and i am currently on season 1 episode 7 and i have a bad feeling about this i can feel it in my bones, feels like jjk all over again i just can't prove it
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ tuna mayo!! wc. 1.6k ; cw. some blood koi speaks! yall lemme tell you how i absolutely adore this lil ball of sunshine i hope i did him justice 🙏
you were six years old when the words first appeared on your collarbone. you knew what the words meant, and little six year old you was ecstatic. who wouldn't be? those were the words of your soulmate. their first words spoken to you by the person the fates had destined you to. you were practically bouncing off the walls!
but, as excited as you were, you were also...confused.
tuna mayo. the words permanently inked on your collarbones, your soulmates first words to you was...a rice ball ingredient. not exactly the stuff of romance novels. no sweeping declarations of undying love, no poetic promises. just…tuna...and mayo.
you’ve spent the last ten years of your life thinking about it. googled it, obviously (but all that came up unsurprisingly were pictures of tuna mayo). asked your older sister, who squinted at your collarbone through her glasses and said, “maybe they’re really into rice balls?” before breaking down into uncontrollable laughter. which wasn’t helpful.
you even asked your friends! unfortunately, they only offered increasingly unhinged theories: maybe your soulmate’s a chef, maybe they’re a mermaid, maybe they’re just really passionate about rice balls.
after a while, you’d kind of given up, honestly. the mark had become just another part of you, like the mole behind your ear or the increasing weird curses you came across on your day to day life. a weird, unexplainable detail you stopped trying to rationalize for the sake of your own sanity.
and then you transferred to tokyo metropolitan curse technical college—jujutsu tech for short cuz god was that a mouthful to say.
it was an adjustment to say the least. you go from “normal person with normal problems who could see curses” to “shaman who now had to fight said curses” in the span of about three weeks.
it’s a lot. thankfully the other students are more than helpful. there was panda who was...a literal panda (you tried not to think too hard about it), yuuta who was nice, but you kept some distance due to not wanting to get smacked into the next dimension by rika, even though he insisted she won't.
maki was the only other girl in your year, and also your best friend. it had taken the green haired girl a while to warm up to you, but you managed to crack down her sky high walls and weaseled your way into her heart after multiple shared missions and a near death experience where you saved her life from a curse that had tried to ambush her.
on rare occasions that the two of you would have a day off, you would spend the day watching movies well into the night, sparring, and talking shit about the zen'in clan.
and then there was toge inumaki. you’d heard about him before you even saw him. "the inumaki clan," gojo-sensei had explained with a lazy wave of his hand, "they use cursed speech. everything they say is a command. so, our dear inumaki-chan has to be very, very careful with his words."
which is why he only speaks in rice ball ingredients.
you’d thought it was a joke at first. but no. the guy walks around with the collar of his uniform covering the lower half of his face, communicating exclusively in variations of salmon, kelp, and okaka.
it’s confusing. it’s endearing. it’s, frankly, just a tiny bit ridiculous.
despite spending a few months at jujutsu tech, you haven't actually interacted with the white-haired boy until now that is. maki and yuuta had been partnered up for some mission in yokohama, and panda was still away on his, the only people left were you and inumaki to partner up.
it was supposed to be easy. just a few grade 3 curses at a decrepit, run-down mall. the urban legends and ghost stories surrounding the abandoned building had been festering curses like a moth to a flame.
so yes, it was supposed to be easy, so you really couldn't explain why you were standing face to face with a grade 1 curse, all alone you might add since inumaki was finishing up with the final sweep of the mall.
you let out a strangled yelp dodging to the side as the curse's sharp claws narrowly missed your abdomen. you weren't weak, not by any means having already climbed up the ranks to grade 2. but this curse was fast.
again and again, it lunges at you with murderous vigor. you dodge, weave, scramble backward—but it doesn't let up, doesn't give you an inch of space to actually fight back. your feet stumble over debris, and when you look up, you realize your mistake.
you're cornered.
the curse looms over you, something like a grin stretching across its twisted face. your back hits the wall. there's nowhere left to run.
oh god, you think, your heart hammering against your ribs. i'm going to die. i'm actually going to die right now, in this gross, abandoned mall, and my soulmate is never going to find me and tell me about the tuna mayo—
"stop"
the word crackle dangerously through the abandoned mall like a. it's not loud, but it holds weight. power. the curse freezes mid-lunge, claws frozen inches from your face. any closer and you would be saying bye-bye to your arm.
your eyes snap open, frantically searching for where the voice came from, finally landing on a tall figure.
inumaki stands at the entrance of the food court, collar pulled down, his violet eyes blazing. he looks furious. he looks terrified. the curse screeches, struggling against the command, and inumaki's voice drops lower, as he forces out another word.
"shatter."
the curse convulses once, twice—and then crumples in on itself, dissolving into black smoke with a pained shriek.
the silence that follows is deafening.
you're still pressed against the wall, heart pounding, trying to process the fact that you're not dead. inumaki takes a step toward you. then another. he's pale, paler than usual, and when he coughs, blood spatters against his palm.
shit.
you're moving before you can think, your legs carrying you across the food court as his knees buckle. you catch him just before he hits the ground, your arms wrapping around him as you ease him down carefully, your back against the wall, him cradled against your chest.
"oh gods, are you okay?" the words tumble out in a panic. one hand grips his arm, the other reaches for his face, tilting his chin gently to look at the blood smeared across his lips. "you're bleeding—we have to get you to the infirmary fast—"
he's looking at you. even through the pain, through the blood, through the obvious strain of overusing his cursed technique, he's looking at you with this strange, intense focus.
his hand lifts. trembling slightly, his fingers brush against your collarbone.
your breath catches.
your collarbone. the one hidden beneath your uniform. the one with tuna mayo permanently inked into your skin.
his thumb traces the spot where you know the words are, right over your racing pulse. his eyes haven't left yours. and then, so softly you almost miss it, he whispers:
"tuna mayo."
the world around you seems to freeze in place.
you stare at him. he stares at you. his hand is still resting against your collarbone, warm and impossibly gentle despite everything. the words hang in the air between you, soft and clear and exactly the ones you've spent ten years wondering about.
tuna mayo.
not a rice ball ingredient. not just a random phrase. his words. his first words to you.
you'd imagined this moment a thousand times when you were younger. fantasized about it. wondered who would speak those words and where you'd be and what you'd say back. you never—never—imagined it would be like this. in a cursed mall, covered in dust, adrenaline pumping through your veins, holding your soulmate in your arms while he coughs up blood.
your voice comes out strangled. "what did you just say?"
his eyes crinkle at the corners, that same shy smile you've seen directed at everyone else, except now it's just for you. his thumb presses ever so slightly against your collarbone, right over the mark.
"tuna mayo," he repeats, quieter this time, like it's a secret meant only for you.
you're crying. when did you start crying? hot tears spill down your cheeks, cutting tracks through the grime. a sound escapes you, something akin to a half laugh, half sob, and you tighten your grip on him, pulling him closer.
"it's you," you whisper. "all this time, it was you."
he nods weakly, but his eyes are bright, brighter than you've ever seen them. one hand comes up to clumsily wipe at your tears, and the gesture is so tender, so achingly gentle, that it makes you cry harder.
"we have to get you to the infirmary," you manage, even as you're laughing through the tears. "you're an idiot, you know that? using that much cursed energy—you could've—"
"salmon," he murmurs, and you don't know what it means, but it doesn't matter because you found him.
you help him stand, keeping one arm wrapped securely around his waist. he leans into you heavily, but he's standing. he's alive. he's here.
as you half-carry, half-drag him toward the exit, he mumbles something against your shoulder.
you glance down. "what?"
he pulls his collar up, then seems to think better of it, leaving it down just for you. "call me toge," he rasps, his voice cracking on every syllable from the strain on his damaged vocal cords.
your throat tightens. you squeeze him closer, careful not to hurt him. "okay," you breathe, your own voice coming out thicker than expected. "okay, toge."
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor true form! sukuna x concubine! reader headcanons!! wc. 2k ; cw. a bit suggestive koi speaks! hehehe sukuna 😋
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who barely even glanced at you the day you were brought to his palace in chains. another trembling offering from some pathetic village hoping to buy his favor? boring. you were shoved to your knees before his throne, wrists raw from the ropes, and you didn't even dare to look up at him, just stared at the cold stone floor with tears clinging to your lashes. it was almost pathetic, how terrified you were of him.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who didn't touch you for months. not because he was being kind—sukuna doesn't do kind—but because watching you slowly relax around him was more entertaining than any forced submission. at first you'd shake whenever he entered a room, pressing yourself against the nearest wall like you could melt through it. but slowly, so slowly, those big innocent doe eyes finally started to meet his vibrant red ones. he caught you peeking at him during court once, and when your gazes met, you ducked behind a pillar so fast he actually laughed aloud. the entire court froze. sukuna never laughed.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has a habit of touching the small of your back. just a hand, warm and heavy, settling there when he passes you in the halls or stands beside you at court. it's not possessive—well, it is possessive (not that he'd ever admit it), but that's not the point. the first time he did it, you practically jumped out of your skin. now? now you lean into it slightly, just a fraction, and he pretends not to notice the way your shoulders relax under his palm.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come here, little one." that's all he says, voice low and rough, and you're already moving toward him before your brain catches up. you hate how your body obeys him so easily. you hate the way your heart stutters when he calls you that. but most of all, you hate that he knows, you can see it in the way his lips curl up just slightly under the palace lights, when you settle next to him, one of his four arms snaking around your waist and resting on your hip.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who likes spoils you with lavish gifts. it first starts with small boxes filled with hairpins. they were delicate and intricate, jade and pearl and something that looks suspiciously like diamonds scattered across their length. others were shaped with flowers on the head of the pin, dusted with gold and glitter. another box holds earrings that make your ears feel unworthy. a necklace with a rose quartz the size of your thumbnail rests in the last one, glimmering against your skin. soon they gifts became more extravagant to the point that a chest arrives at your chambers, carried by two servants who struggle under its weight. inside: silk. mountains of it. rolls of fabric so fine they slip through your fingers like water, in colors you didn't even know existed: sunset oranges, deep crimsons, gold that catches the light and holds it hostage.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't give gifts for gratitude, he gives them to see. he wants to watch the silk drape across your shoulders, wants to see the way light dances off the gems at your throat and ears, wants to watch the hairpins adorn your beautiful locks. one evening, he summons you to his chambers and you come dressed in the softest pink silk he sent, the rose quartz necklace resting against your collarbone. he doesn't speak for a long moment, just looks at you with those ancient, unreadable eyes. then he's crossing the room in two strides, one hand softly weaving into your hair, tilting your head back. "this," he says placing one of his hands on your waist, fingers digging into the soft silk, "looks better here than it did in the box." his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. "but i'm starting to think it'd look even better on the floor." you don't wear those pink silks for a week after. not because you didn't like them, but because every time you try, your face burns too hot to leave your chambers.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who's other concubines despise you. you're quiet, you're shy, you don't scheme or claw your way to his attention, and somehow that makes you his favorite anyway. they have been forgotten and replaced by the timid peasant village girl.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't ask for things. he takes. so when he starts keeping you in his chambers at night, just sleeping, just your small form curled beside his massive one, it's not a request. but, he notices the way you burrow closer when the palace grows cold, the way your fingers curl in his sleeping robes like you're afraid he'll disappear. and one night, when you whimper softly in your sleep (a nightmare, probably about the chains, about the village that gave you up, he would have to make sure that the village was adequately punished for their deeds), he pulls you against his chest and rumbles something unintelligible against your hair. you don't wake. but you stop trembling.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has you sit on his lap during meetings. it happens mid-meeting. you're standing in your usual spot behind his throne, trying to be invisible, when his lower right hand reaches back and curls around your wrist. before you can process what's happening, you're being tugged forward and down, deposited unceremoniously onto his thigh like you weigh nothing. his upper arms continue holding his brush, signing documents like this is perfectly normal. his lower hands settle on your waist—one splayed across your hip, the other resting just below your ribs, thumbs pressing gently into the silk covering your stomach.
the entire court stares at him in shock. you stare at the floor, certain you're about to combust.
"continue," sukuna says flatly, and the meeting resumes as if the emperor doesn't currently have a trembling concubine in his lap. you sit frozen, barely breathing, hyperaware of the heat of him beneath you and the weight of his hands on your waist. occasionally, his thumbs move small, idle circles against the silk and you have to bite your lip to stay silent.
after that first time, it becomes routine. any meeting, any audience, any time he wants you nearby, you end up in his lap. his lower hands find your waist automatically now, like they belong there. sometimes he'll pull you closer during a particularly boring report, tucking you against his chest while his upper arms handle business. sometimes his thumbs trace patterns on your hips that have nothing to do with patience, circles that get slower, deeper, until you're squirming just slightly and he has to tighten his grip to keep you still. "behave," he'll murmur against your hair, but there's a smirk in his voice that makes your stomach flip.
and sometimes, when someone says something particularly stupid, you feel his grip tighten on your waist, crinkling into the newly bought silks he bought for you, before he destroys them with words alone.
you've stopped trying to hide your burning face. it's useless anyway.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one time, during a particularly long council meeting, his lower hands started wandering. just slightly, one sliding up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the silk. you made a sound. a tiny, embarrassing sound that you immediately tried to cover with a cough. sukuna's upper hands didn't even pause in their writing, but his lower ones squeezed, a warning, a promise, a later, and you spent the rest of the meeting trying to remember how to breathe normally.
that night, you understood exactly what "later" exactly meant.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who another time, he had you sit facing him. on his lap. in front of the entire court. your legs on either side of his thighs, your face buried in his neck because you couldn't look anyone in the eye. and also because if you looked down, you'd see exactly how much he was enjoying having you this close. his lower hands rested on your hips, fingers occasionally dipping just beneath the hem of your robes to trace circles on bare skin. his upper hands continued running the kingdom like nothing was happening.
you didn't hear a single word of that meeting. you were too busy trying not to make any sounds that would give you away. afterward, in his chambers, he told you exactly how proud he was of you for being so quiet. then he made sure you weren't quiet at all.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one night, after a particularly long day of meetings, you're still in his lap in his private study. the documents are finished, the servants have retreated, and it's just you and him in the flickering candlelight. you're half-asleep, cheek pressed to his chest, and his lower hands have gone slack on your waist. but then one hand moves, sliding up, tangling in your hair, tilting your face toward his.
"you wear my gifts," he says, voice rough. "you sit in my lap. you sleep in my bed. i have gotten rid of all the other concubines." his thumb traces your lower lip. "do you know what that means, little one?"
you nod, because you do. because you've known for a while now.
"good." and then he's kissing you. it's deep and slow, like he has all the time in the world. when he pulls back, you're breathless and dizzy and your hairpins are definitely crooked. "mine," he murmurs against your lips, and you've never heard a word sound so much like a claim.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who makes you empress and watches the court riot. a sacrificed village girl? a trembling little thing who can barely look anyone in the eye? sukuna listens to their protests with an expression of utter boredom, one lower hand resting on the small of your back, while the other stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to his side. you're trying very hard to become one with the floor, but he won't let you shrink away—his grip keeps you anchored against him. when the objections finally die down, he simply says: "she stays. or i start executing people. your choice."
you're pretty sure half the court wets themselves. you're also pretty sure sukuna finds this hilarious.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who, now that you're empress, still has you sit in his lap during meetings. it's not even questioned anymore. his lower hands find your waist automatically, and sometimes—when the discussion gets particularly heated—you feel his thumbs slip just slightly beneath the hem of your robes, tracing circles on bare skin. you've learned to keep your face neutral. mostly. and sometimes, when his hands start wandering and you shift just slightly—rock your hips back against him, just a tiny movement, just enough that only he can feel it—his grip tightens immediately, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. then his voice gets that particular edge when he dismisses the court early. "everyone out. now." you never make it back to the chambers. the throne room has a door. it locks.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who sometimes, in the middle of the night, you wake up and find him just… watching you. not in a creepy way, but in a way that makes your chest ache. like he's never had anything worth watching before. "what?" you whisper, voice sleepy. "nothing." his thumb traces your cheek. "just looking." you bury your face in his chest, hiding your blush. his arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head. "sleep, little one." you do. because for the first time in your life, you feel safe enough to.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come, my empress." and you go. you always go. and when you settle in his lap, face hidden against his chest, his four arms close around you like you're something precious—something worth keeping. "mine," he murmurs against your hair, and his hands are already finding their favorite places—your waist, your hip, the small of your back, your neck tilting your face toward his. and when he kisses you, slow and deep and claiming, you forget that you were ever a sacrifice at all. you're his. and that's the only thing that matters.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor true form! sukuna x concubine! reader headcanons!! wc. 2k ; cw. a bit suggestive koi speaks! hehehe sukuna 😋
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who barely even glanced at you the day you were brought to his palace in chains. another trembling offering from some pathetic village hoping to buy his favor? boring. you were shoved to your knees before his throne, wrists raw from the ropes, and you didn't even dare to look up at him, just stared at the cold stone floor with tears clinging to your lashes. it was almost pathetic, how terrified you were of him.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who didn't touch you for months. not because he was being kind—sukuna doesn't do kind—but because watching you slowly relax around him was more entertaining than any forced submission. at first you'd shake whenever he entered a room, pressing yourself against the nearest wall like you could melt through it. but slowly, so slowly, those big innocent doe eyes finally started to meet his vibrant red ones. he caught you peeking at him during court once, and when your gazes met, you ducked behind a pillar so fast he actually laughed aloud. the entire court froze. sukuna never laughed.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has a habit of touching the small of your back. just a hand, warm and heavy, settling there when he passes you in the halls or stands beside you at court. it's not possessive—well, it is possessive (not that he'd ever admit it), but that's not the point. the first time he did it, you practically jumped out of your skin. now? now you lean into it slightly, just a fraction, and he pretends not to notice the way your shoulders relax under his palm.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come here, little one." that's all he says, voice low and rough, and you're already moving toward him before your brain catches up. you hate how your body obeys him so easily. you hate the way your heart stutters when he calls you that. but most of all, you hate that he knows, you can see it in the way his lips curl up just slightly under the palace lights, when you settle next to him, one of his four arms snaking around your waist and resting on your hip.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who likes spoils you with lavish gifts. it first starts with small boxes filled with hairpins. they were delicate and intricate, jade and pearl and something that looks suspiciously like diamonds scattered across their length. others were shaped with flowers on the head of the pin, dusted with gold and glitter. another box holds earrings that make your ears feel unworthy. a necklace with a rose quartz the size of your thumbnail rests in the last one, glimmering against your skin. soon they gifts became more extravagant to the point that a chest arrives at your chambers, carried by two servants who struggle under its weight. inside: silk. mountains of it. rolls of fabric so fine they slip through your fingers like water, in colors you didn't even know existed: sunset oranges, deep crimsons, gold that catches the light and holds it hostage.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't give gifts for gratitude, he gives them to see. he wants to watch the silk drape across your shoulders, wants to see the way light dances off the gems at your throat and ears, wants to watch the hairpins adorn your beautiful locks. one evening, he summons you to his chambers and you come dressed in the softest pink silk he sent, the rose quartz necklace resting against your collarbone. he doesn't speak for a long moment, just looks at you with those ancient, unreadable eyes. then he's crossing the room in two strides, one hand softly weaving into your hair, tilting your head back. "this," he says placing one of his hands on your waist, fingers digging into the soft silk, "looks better here than it did in the box." his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. "but i'm starting to think it'd look even better on the floor." you don't wear those pink silks for a week after. not because you didn't like them, but because every time you try, your face burns too hot to leave your chambers.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who's other concubines despise you. you're quiet, you're shy, you don't scheme or claw your way to his attention, and somehow that makes you his favorite anyway. they have been forgotten and replaced by the timid peasant village girl.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't ask for things. he takes. so when he starts keeping you in his chambers at night, just sleeping, just your small form curled beside his massive one, it's not a request. but, he notices the way you burrow closer when the palace grows cold, the way your fingers curl in his sleeping robes like you're afraid he'll disappear. and one night, when you whimper softly in your sleep (a nightmare, probably about the chains, about the village that gave you up, he would have to make sure that the village was adequately punished for their deeds), he pulls you against his chest and rumbles something unintelligible against your hair. you don't wake. but you stop trembling.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has you sit on his lap during meetings. it happens mid-meeting. you're standing in your usual spot behind his throne, trying to be invisible, when his lower right hand reaches back and curls around your wrist. before you can process what's happening, you're being tugged forward and down, deposited unceremoniously onto his thigh like you weigh nothing. his upper arms continue holding his brush, signing documents like this is perfectly normal. his lower hands settle on your waist—one splayed across your hip, the other resting just below your ribs, thumbs pressing gently into the silk covering your stomach.
the entire court stares at him in shock. you stare at the floor, certain you're about to combust.
"continue," sukuna says flatly, and the meeting resumes as if the emperor doesn't currently have a trembling concubine in his lap. you sit frozen, barely breathing, hyperaware of the heat of him beneath you and the weight of his hands on your waist. occasionally, his thumbs move small, idle circles against the silk and you have to bite your lip to stay silent.
after that first time, it becomes routine. any meeting, any audience, any time he wants you nearby, you end up in his lap. his lower hands find your waist automatically now, like they belong there. sometimes he'll pull you closer during a particularly boring report, tucking you against his chest while his upper arms handle business. sometimes his thumbs trace patterns on your hips that have nothing to do with patience, circles that get slower, deeper, until you're squirming just slightly and he has to tighten his grip to keep you still. "behave," he'll murmur against your hair, but there's a smirk in his voice that makes your stomach flip.
and sometimes, when someone says something particularly stupid, you feel his grip tighten on your waist, crinkling into the newly bought silks he bought for you, before he destroys them with words alone.
you've stopped trying to hide your burning face. it's useless anyway.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one time, during a particularly long council meeting, his lower hands started wandering. just slightly, one sliding up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the silk. you made a sound. a tiny, embarrassing sound that you immediately tried to cover with a cough. sukuna's upper hands didn't even pause in their writing, but his lower ones squeezed, a warning, a promise, a later, and you spent the rest of the meeting trying to remember how to breathe normally.
that night, you understood exactly what "later" exactly meant.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who another time, he had you sit facing him. on his lap. in front of the entire court. your legs on either side of his thighs, your face buried in his neck because you couldn't look anyone in the eye. and also because if you looked down, you'd see exactly how much he was enjoying having you this close. his lower hands rested on your hips, fingers occasionally dipping just beneath the hem of your robes to trace circles on bare skin. his upper hands continued running the kingdom like nothing was happening.
you didn't hear a single word of that meeting. you were too busy trying not to make any sounds that would give you away. afterward, in his chambers, he told you exactly how proud he was of you for being so quiet. then he made sure you weren't quiet at all.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one night, after a particularly long day of meetings, you're still in his lap in his private study. the documents are finished, the servants have retreated, and it's just you and him in the flickering candlelight. you're half-asleep, cheek pressed to his chest, and his lower hands have gone slack on your waist. but then one hand moves, sliding up, tangling in your hair, tilting your face toward his.
"you wear my gifts," he says, voice rough. "you sit in my lap. you sleep in my bed. i have gotten rid of all the other concubines." his thumb traces your lower lip. "do you know what that means, little one?"
you nod, because you do. because you've known for a while now.
"good." and then he's kissing you. it's deep and slow, like he has all the time in the world. when he pulls back, you're breathless and dizzy and your hairpins are definitely crooked. "mine," he murmurs against your lips, and you've never heard a word sound so much like a claim.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who makes you empress and watches the court riot. a sacrificed village girl? a trembling little thing who can barely look anyone in the eye? sukuna listens to their protests with an expression of utter boredom, one lower hand resting on the small of your back, while the other stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to his side. you're trying very hard to become one with the floor, but he won't let you shrink away—his grip keeps you anchored against him. when the objections finally die down, he simply says: "she stays. or i start executing people. your choice."
you're pretty sure half the court wets themselves. you're also pretty sure sukuna finds this hilarious.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who, now that you're empress, still has you sit in his lap during meetings. it's not even questioned anymore. his lower hands find your waist automatically, and sometimes—when the discussion gets particularly heated—you feel his thumbs slip just slightly beneath the hem of your robes, tracing circles on bare skin. you've learned to keep your face neutral. mostly. and sometimes, when his hands start wandering and you shift just slightly—rock your hips back against him, just a tiny movement, just enough that only he can feel it—his grip tightens immediately, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. then his voice gets that particular edge when he dismisses the court early. "everyone out. now." you never make it back to the chambers. the throne room has a door. it locks.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who sometimes, in the middle of the night, you wake up and find him just… watching you. not in a creepy way, but in a way that makes your chest ache. like he's never had anything worth watching before. "what?" you whisper, voice sleepy. "nothing." his thumb traces your cheek. "just looking." you bury your face in his chest, hiding your blush. his arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head. "sleep, little one." you do. because for the first time in your life, you feel safe enough to.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come, my empress." and you go. you always go. and when you settle in his lap, face hidden against his chest, his four arms close around you like you're something precious—something worth keeping. "mine," he murmurs against your hair, and his hands are already finding their favorite places—your waist, your hip, the small of your back, your neck tilting your face toward his. and when he kisses you, slow and deep and claiming, you forget that you were ever a sacrifice at all. you're his. and that's the only thing that matters.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ tuna mayo!! wc. 1.6k ; cw. some blood koi speaks! yall lemme tell you how i absolutely adore this lil ball of sunshine i hope i did him justice 🙏
you were six years old when the words first appeared on your collarbone. you knew what the words meant, and little six year old you was ecstatic. who wouldn't be? those were the words of your soulmate. their first words spoken to you by the person the fates had destined you to. you were practically bouncing off the walls!
but, as excited as you were, you were also...confused.
tuna mayo. the words permanently inked on your collarbones, your soulmates first words to you was...a rice ball ingredient. not exactly the stuff of romance novels. no sweeping declarations of undying love, no poetic promises. just…tuna...and mayo.
you’ve spent the last ten years of your life thinking about it. googled it, obviously (but all that came up unsurprisingly were pictures of tuna mayo). asked your older sister, who squinted at your collarbone through her glasses and said, “maybe they’re really into rice balls?” before breaking down into uncontrollable laughter. which wasn’t helpful.
you even asked your friends! unfortunately, they only offered increasingly unhinged theories: maybe your soulmate’s a chef, maybe they’re a mermaid, maybe they’re just really passionate about rice balls.
after a while, you’d kind of given up, honestly. the mark had become just another part of you, like the mole behind your ear or the increasing weird curses you came across on your day to day life. a weird, unexplainable detail you stopped trying to rationalize for the sake of your own sanity.
and then you transferred to tokyo metropolitan curse technical college—jujutsu tech for short cuz god was that a mouthful to say.
it was an adjustment to say the least. you go from “normal person with normal problems who could see curses” to “shaman who now had to fight said curses” in the span of about three weeks.
it’s a lot. thankfully the other students are more than helpful. there was panda who was...a literal panda (you tried not to think too hard about it), yuuta who was nice, but you kept some distance due to not wanting to get smacked into the next dimension by rika, even though he insisted she won't.
maki was the only other girl in your year, and also your best friend. it had taken the green haired girl a while to warm up to you, but you managed to crack down her sky high walls and weaseled your way into her heart after multiple shared missions and a near death experience where you saved her life from a curse that had tried to ambush her.
on rare occasions that the two of you would have a day off, you would spend the day watching movies well into the night, sparring, and talking shit about the zen'in clan.
and then there was toge inumaki. you’d heard about him before you even saw him. "the inumaki clan," gojo-sensei had explained with a lazy wave of his hand, "they use cursed speech. everything they say is a command. so, our dear inumaki-chan has to be very, very careful with his words."
which is why he only speaks in rice ball ingredients.
you’d thought it was a joke at first. but no. the guy walks around with the collar of his uniform covering the lower half of his face, communicating exclusively in variations of salmon, kelp, and okaka.
it’s confusing. it’s endearing. it’s, frankly, just a tiny bit ridiculous.
despite spending a few months at jujutsu tech, you haven't actually interacted with the white-haired boy until now that is. maki and yuuta had been partnered up for some mission in yokohama, and panda was still away on his, the only people left were you and inumaki to partner up.
it was supposed to be easy. just a few grade 3 curses at a decrepit, run-down mall. the urban legends and ghost stories surrounding the abandoned building had been festering curses like a moth to a flame.
so yes, it was supposed to be easy, so you really couldn't explain why you were standing face to face with a grade 1 curse, all alone you might add since inumaki was finishing up with the final sweep of the mall.
you let out a strangled yelp dodging to the side as the curse's sharp claws narrowly missed your abdomen. you weren't weak, not by any means having already climbed up the ranks to grade 2. but this curse was fast.
again and again, it lunges at you with murderous vigor. you dodge, weave, scramble backward—but it doesn't let up, doesn't give you an inch of space to actually fight back. your feet stumble over debris, and when you look up, you realize your mistake.
you're cornered.
the curse looms over you, something like a grin stretching across its twisted face. your back hits the wall. there's nowhere left to run.
oh god, you think, your heart hammering against your ribs. i'm going to die. i'm actually going to die right now, in this gross, abandoned mall, and my soulmate is never going to find me and tell me about the tuna mayo—
"stop"
the word crackle dangerously through the abandoned mall like a. it's not loud, but it holds weight. power. the curse freezes mid-lunge, claws frozen inches from your face. any closer and you would be saying bye-bye to your arm.
your eyes snap open, frantically searching for where the voice came from, finally landing on a tall figure.
inumaki stands at the entrance of the food court, collar pulled down, his violet eyes blazing. he looks furious. he looks terrified. the curse screeches, struggling against the command, and inumaki's voice drops lower, as he forces out another word.
"shatter."
the curse convulses once, twice—and then crumples in on itself, dissolving into black smoke with a pained shriek.
the silence that follows is deafening.
you're still pressed against the wall, heart pounding, trying to process the fact that you're not dead. inumaki takes a step toward you. then another. he's pale, paler than usual, and when he coughs, blood spatters against his palm.
shit.
you're moving before you can think, your legs carrying you across the food court as his knees buckle. you catch him just before he hits the ground, your arms wrapping around him as you ease him down carefully, your back against the wall, him cradled against your chest.
"oh gods, are you okay?" the words tumble out in a panic. one hand grips his arm, the other reaches for his face, tilting his chin gently to look at the blood smeared across his lips. "you're bleeding—we have to get you to the infirmary fast—"
he's looking at you. even through the pain, through the blood, through the obvious strain of overusing his cursed technique, he's looking at you with this strange, intense focus.
his hand lifts. trembling slightly, his fingers brush against your collarbone.
your breath catches.
your collarbone. the one hidden beneath your uniform. the one with tuna mayo permanently inked into your skin.
his thumb traces the spot where you know the words are, right over your racing pulse. his eyes haven't left yours. and then, so softly you almost miss it, he whispers:
"tuna mayo."
the world around you seems to freeze in place.
you stare at him. he stares at you. his hand is still resting against your collarbone, warm and impossibly gentle despite everything. the words hang in the air between you, soft and clear and exactly the ones you've spent ten years wondering about.
tuna mayo.
not a rice ball ingredient. not just a random phrase. his words. his first words to you.
you'd imagined this moment a thousand times when you were younger. fantasized about it. wondered who would speak those words and where you'd be and what you'd say back. you never—never—imagined it would be like this. in a cursed mall, covered in dust, adrenaline pumping through your veins, holding your soulmate in your arms while he coughs up blood.
your voice comes out strangled. "what did you just say?"
his eyes crinkle at the corners, that same shy smile you've seen directed at everyone else, except now it's just for you. his thumb presses ever so slightly against your collarbone, right over the mark.
"tuna mayo," he repeats, quieter this time, like it's a secret meant only for you.
you're crying. when did you start crying? hot tears spill down your cheeks, cutting tracks through the grime. a sound escapes you, something akin to a half laugh, half sob, and you tighten your grip on him, pulling him closer.
"it's you," you whisper. "all this time, it was you."
he nods weakly, but his eyes are bright, brighter than you've ever seen them. one hand comes up to clumsily wipe at your tears, and the gesture is so tender, so achingly gentle, that it makes you cry harder.
"we have to get you to the infirmary," you manage, even as you're laughing through the tears. "you're an idiot, you know that? using that much cursed energy—you could've—"
"salmon," he murmurs, and you don't know what it means, but it doesn't matter because you found him.
you help him stand, keeping one arm wrapped securely around his waist. he leans into you heavily, but he's standing. he's alive. he's here.
as you half-carry, half-drag him toward the exit, he mumbles something against your shoulder.
you glance down. "what?"
he pulls his collar up, then seems to think better of it, leaving it down just for you. "call me toge," he rasps, his voice cracking on every syllable from the strain on his damaged vocal cords.
your throat tightens. you squeeze him closer, careful not to hurt him. "okay," you breathe, your own voice coming out thicker than expected. "okay, toge."
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor true form! sukuna x concubine! reader headcanons!! wc. 2k ; cw. a bit suggestive koi speaks! hehehe sukuna 😋
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who barely even glanced at you the day you were brought to his palace in chains. another trembling offering from some pathetic village hoping to buy his favor? boring. you were shoved to your knees before his throne, wrists raw from the ropes, and you didn't even dare to look up at him, just stared at the cold stone floor with tears clinging to your lashes. it was almost pathetic, how terrified you were of him.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who didn't touch you for months. not because he was being kind—sukuna doesn't do kind—but because watching you slowly relax around him was more entertaining than any forced submission. at first you'd shake whenever he entered a room, pressing yourself against the nearest wall like you could melt through it. but slowly, so slowly, those big innocent doe eyes finally started to meet his vibrant red ones. he caught you peeking at him during court once, and when your gazes met, you ducked behind a pillar so fast he actually laughed aloud. the entire court froze. sukuna never laughed.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has a habit of touching the small of your back. just a hand, warm and heavy, settling there when he passes you in the halls or stands beside you at court. it's not possessive—well, it is possessive (not that he'd ever admit it), but that's not the point. the first time he did it, you practically jumped out of your skin. now? now you lean into it slightly, just a fraction, and he pretends not to notice the way your shoulders relax under his palm.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come here, little one." that's all he says, voice low and rough, and you're already moving toward him before your brain catches up. you hate how your body obeys him so easily. you hate the way your heart stutters when he calls you that. but most of all, you hate that he knows, you can see it in the way his lips curl up just slightly under the palace lights, when you settle next to him, one of his four arms snaking around your waist and resting on your hip.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who likes spoils you with lavish gifts. it first starts with small boxes filled with hairpins. they were delicate and intricate, jade and pearl and something that looks suspiciously like diamonds scattered across their length. others were shaped with flowers on the head of the pin, dusted with gold and glitter. another box holds earrings that make your ears feel unworthy. a necklace with a rose quartz the size of your thumbnail rests in the last one, glimmering against your skin. soon they gifts became more extravagant to the point that a chest arrives at your chambers, carried by two servants who struggle under its weight. inside: silk. mountains of it. rolls of fabric so fine they slip through your fingers like water, in colors you didn't even know existed: sunset oranges, deep crimsons, gold that catches the light and holds it hostage.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't give gifts for gratitude, he gives them to see. he wants to watch the silk drape across your shoulders, wants to see the way light dances off the gems at your throat and ears, wants to watch the hairpins adorn your beautiful locks. one evening, he summons you to his chambers and you come dressed in the softest pink silk he sent, the rose quartz necklace resting against your collarbone. he doesn't speak for a long moment, just looks at you with those ancient, unreadable eyes. then he's crossing the room in two strides, one hand softly weaving into your hair, tilting your head back. "this," he says placing one of his hands on your waist, fingers digging into the soft silk, "looks better here than it did in the box." his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. "but i'm starting to think it'd look even better on the floor." you don't wear those pink silks for a week after. not because you didn't like them, but because every time you try, your face burns too hot to leave your chambers.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who's other concubines despise you. you're quiet, you're shy, you don't scheme or claw your way to his attention, and somehow that makes you his favorite anyway. they have been forgotten and replaced by the timid peasant village girl.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't ask for things. he takes. so when he starts keeping you in his chambers at night, just sleeping, just your small form curled beside his massive one, it's not a request. but, he notices the way you burrow closer when the palace grows cold, the way your fingers curl in his sleeping robes like you're afraid he'll disappear. and one night, when you whimper softly in your sleep (a nightmare, probably about the chains, about the village that gave you up, he would have to make sure that the village was adequately punished for their deeds), he pulls you against his chest and rumbles something unintelligible against your hair. you don't wake. but you stop trembling.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has you sit on his lap during meetings. it happens mid-meeting. you're standing in your usual spot behind his throne, trying to be invisible, when his lower right hand reaches back and curls around your wrist. before you can process what's happening, you're being tugged forward and down, deposited unceremoniously onto his thigh like you weigh nothing. his upper arms continue holding his brush, signing documents like this is perfectly normal. his lower hands settle on your waist—one splayed across your hip, the other resting just below your ribs, thumbs pressing gently into the silk covering your stomach.
the entire court stares at him in shock. you stare at the floor, certain you're about to combust.
"continue," sukuna says flatly, and the meeting resumes as if the emperor doesn't currently have a trembling concubine in his lap. you sit frozen, barely breathing, hyperaware of the heat of him beneath you and the weight of his hands on your waist. occasionally, his thumbs move small, idle circles against the silk and you have to bite your lip to stay silent.
after that first time, it becomes routine. any meeting, any audience, any time he wants you nearby, you end up in his lap. his lower hands find your waist automatically now, like they belong there. sometimes he'll pull you closer during a particularly boring report, tucking you against his chest while his upper arms handle business. sometimes his thumbs trace patterns on your hips that have nothing to do with patience, circles that get slower, deeper, until you're squirming just slightly and he has to tighten his grip to keep you still. "behave," he'll murmur against your hair, but there's a smirk in his voice that makes your stomach flip.
and sometimes, when someone says something particularly stupid, you feel his grip tighten on your waist, crinkling into the newly bought silks he bought for you, before he destroys them with words alone.
you've stopped trying to hide your burning face. it's useless anyway.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one time, during a particularly long council meeting, his lower hands started wandering. just slightly, one sliding up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the silk. you made a sound. a tiny, embarrassing sound that you immediately tried to cover with a cough. sukuna's upper hands didn't even pause in their writing, but his lower ones squeezed, a warning, a promise, a later, and you spent the rest of the meeting trying to remember how to breathe normally.
that night, you understood exactly what "later" exactly meant.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who another time, he had you sit facing him. on his lap. in front of the entire court. your legs on either side of his thighs, your face buried in his neck because you couldn't look anyone in the eye. and also because if you looked down, you'd see exactly how much he was enjoying having you this close. his lower hands rested on your hips, fingers occasionally dipping just beneath the hem of your robes to trace circles on bare skin. his upper hands continued running the kingdom like nothing was happening.
you didn't hear a single word of that meeting. you were too busy trying not to make any sounds that would give you away. afterward, in his chambers, he told you exactly how proud he was of you for being so quiet. then he made sure you weren't quiet at all.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one night, after a particularly long day of meetings, you're still in his lap in his private study. the documents are finished, the servants have retreated, and it's just you and him in the flickering candlelight. you're half-asleep, cheek pressed to his chest, and his lower hands have gone slack on your waist. but then one hand moves, sliding up, tangling in your hair, tilting your face toward his.
"you wear my gifts," he says, voice rough. "you sit in my lap. you sleep in my bed. i have gotten rid of all the other concubines." his thumb traces your lower lip. "do you know what that means, little one?"
you nod, because you do. because you've known for a while now.
"good." and then he's kissing you. it's deep and slow, like he has all the time in the world. when he pulls back, you're breathless and dizzy and your hairpins are definitely crooked. "mine," he murmurs against your lips, and you've never heard a word sound so much like a claim.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who makes you empress and watches the court riot. a sacrificed village girl? a trembling little thing who can barely look anyone in the eye? sukuna listens to their protests with an expression of utter boredom, one lower hand resting on the small of your back, while the other stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to his side. you're trying very hard to become one with the floor, but he won't let you shrink away—his grip keeps you anchored against him. when the objections finally die down, he simply says: "she stays. or i start executing people. your choice."
you're pretty sure half the court wets themselves. you're also pretty sure sukuna finds this hilarious.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who, now that you're empress, still has you sit in his lap during meetings. it's not even questioned anymore. his lower hands find your waist automatically, and sometimes—when the discussion gets particularly heated—you feel his thumbs slip just slightly beneath the hem of your robes, tracing circles on bare skin. you've learned to keep your face neutral. mostly. and sometimes, when his hands start wandering and you shift just slightly—rock your hips back against him, just a tiny movement, just enough that only he can feel it—his grip tightens immediately, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. then his voice gets that particular edge when he dismisses the court early. "everyone out. now." you never make it back to the chambers. the throne room has a door. it locks.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who sometimes, in the middle of the night, you wake up and find him just… watching you. not in a creepy way, but in a way that makes your chest ache. like he's never had anything worth watching before. "what?" you whisper, voice sleepy. "nothing." his thumb traces your cheek. "just looking." you bury your face in his chest, hiding your blush. his arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head. "sleep, little one." you do. because for the first time in your life, you feel safe enough to.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come, my empress." and you go. you always go. and when you settle in his lap, face hidden against his chest, his four arms close around you like you're something precious—something worth keeping. "mine," he murmurs against your hair, and his hands are already finding their favorite places—your waist, your hip, the small of your back, your neck tilting your face toward his. and when he kisses you, slow and deep and claiming, you forget that you were ever a sacrifice at all. you're his. and that's the only thing that matters.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor true form! sukuna x concubine! reader headcanons!! wc. 2k ; cw. a bit suggestive koi speaks! hehehe sukuna 😋
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who barely even glanced at you the day you were brought to his palace in chains. another trembling offering from some pathetic village hoping to buy his favor? boring. you were shoved to your knees before his throne, wrists raw from the ropes, and you didn't even dare to look up at him, just stared at the cold stone floor with tears clinging to your lashes. it was almost pathetic, how terrified you were of him.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who didn't touch you for months. not because he was being kind—sukuna doesn't do kind—but because watching you slowly relax around him was more entertaining than any forced submission. at first you'd shake whenever he entered a room, pressing yourself against the nearest wall like you could melt through it. but slowly, so slowly, those big innocent doe eyes finally started to meet his vibrant red ones. he caught you peeking at him during court once, and when your gazes met, you ducked behind a pillar so fast he actually laughed aloud. the entire court froze. sukuna never laughed.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has a habit of touching the small of your back. just a hand, warm and heavy, settling there when he passes you in the halls or stands beside you at court. it's not possessive—well, it is possessive (not that he'd ever admit it), but that's not the point. the first time he did it, you practically jumped out of your skin. now? now you lean into it slightly, just a fraction, and he pretends not to notice the way your shoulders relax under his palm.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come here, little one." that's all he says, voice low and rough, and you're already moving toward him before your brain catches up. you hate how your body obeys him so easily. you hate the way your heart stutters when he calls you that. but most of all, you hate that he knows, you can see it in the way his lips curl up just slightly under the palace lights, when you settle next to him, one of his four arms snaking around your waist and resting on your hip.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who likes spoils you with lavish gifts. it first starts with small boxes filled with hairpins. they were delicate and intricate, jade and pearl and something that looks suspiciously like diamonds scattered across their length. others were shaped with flowers on the head of the pin, dusted with gold and glitter. another box holds earrings that make your ears feel unworthy. a necklace with a rose quartz the size of your thumbnail rests in the last one, glimmering against your skin. soon they gifts became more extravagant to the point that a chest arrives at your chambers, carried by two servants who struggle under its weight. inside: silk. mountains of it. rolls of fabric so fine they slip through your fingers like water, in colors you didn't even know existed: sunset oranges, deep crimsons, gold that catches the light and holds it hostage.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't give gifts for gratitude, he gives them to see. he wants to watch the silk drape across your shoulders, wants to see the way light dances off the gems at your throat and ears, wants to watch the hairpins adorn your beautiful locks. one evening, he summons you to his chambers and you come dressed in the softest pink silk he sent, the rose quartz necklace resting against your collarbone. he doesn't speak for a long moment, just looks at you with those ancient, unreadable eyes. then he's crossing the room in two strides, one hand softly weaving into your hair, tilting your head back. "this," he says placing one of his hands on your waist, fingers digging into the soft silk, "looks better here than it did in the box." his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. "but i'm starting to think it'd look even better on the floor." you don't wear those pink silks for a week after. not because you didn't like them, but because every time you try, your face burns too hot to leave your chambers.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who's other concubines despise you. you're quiet, you're shy, you don't scheme or claw your way to his attention, and somehow that makes you his favorite anyway. they have been forgotten and replaced by the timid peasant village girl.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who doesn't ask for things. he takes. so when he starts keeping you in his chambers at night, just sleeping, just your small form curled beside his massive one, it's not a request. but, he notices the way you burrow closer when the palace grows cold, the way your fingers curl in his sleeping robes like you're afraid he'll disappear. and one night, when you whimper softly in your sleep (a nightmare, probably about the chains, about the village that gave you up, he would have to make sure that the village was adequately punished for their deeds), he pulls you against his chest and rumbles something unintelligible against your hair. you don't wake. but you stop trembling.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who has you sit on his lap during meetings. it happens mid-meeting. you're standing in your usual spot behind his throne, trying to be invisible, when his lower right hand reaches back and curls around your wrist. before you can process what's happening, you're being tugged forward and down, deposited unceremoniously onto his thigh like you weigh nothing. his upper arms continue holding his brush, signing documents like this is perfectly normal. his lower hands settle on your waist—one splayed across your hip, the other resting just below your ribs, thumbs pressing gently into the silk covering your stomach.
the entire court stares at him in shock. you stare at the floor, certain you're about to combust.
"continue," sukuna says flatly, and the meeting resumes as if the emperor doesn't currently have a trembling concubine in his lap. you sit frozen, barely breathing, hyperaware of the heat of him beneath you and the weight of his hands on your waist. occasionally, his thumbs move small, idle circles against the silk and you have to bite your lip to stay silent.
after that first time, it becomes routine. any meeting, any audience, any time he wants you nearby, you end up in his lap. his lower hands find your waist automatically now, like they belong there. sometimes he'll pull you closer during a particularly boring report, tucking you against his chest while his upper arms handle business. sometimes his thumbs trace patterns on your hips that have nothing to do with patience, circles that get slower, deeper, until you're squirming just slightly and he has to tighten his grip to keep you still. "behave," he'll murmur against your hair, but there's a smirk in his voice that makes your stomach flip.
and sometimes, when someone says something particularly stupid, you feel his grip tighten on your waist, crinkling into the newly bought silks he bought for you, before he destroys them with words alone.
you've stopped trying to hide your burning face. it's useless anyway.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one time, during a particularly long council meeting, his lower hands started wandering. just slightly, one sliding up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the silk. you made a sound. a tiny, embarrassing sound that you immediately tried to cover with a cough. sukuna's upper hands didn't even pause in their writing, but his lower ones squeezed, a warning, a promise, a later, and you spent the rest of the meeting trying to remember how to breathe normally.
that night, you understood exactly what "later" exactly meant.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who another time, he had you sit facing him. on his lap. in front of the entire court. your legs on either side of his thighs, your face buried in his neck because you couldn't look anyone in the eye. and also because if you looked down, you'd see exactly how much he was enjoying having you this close. his lower hands rested on your hips, fingers occasionally dipping just beneath the hem of your robes to trace circles on bare skin. his upper hands continued running the kingdom like nothing was happening.
you didn't hear a single word of that meeting. you were too busy trying not to make any sounds that would give you away. afterward, in his chambers, he told you exactly how proud he was of you for being so quiet. then he made sure you weren't quiet at all.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who one night, after a particularly long day of meetings, you're still in his lap in his private study. the documents are finished, the servants have retreated, and it's just you and him in the flickering candlelight. you're half-asleep, cheek pressed to his chest, and his lower hands have gone slack on your waist. but then one hand moves, sliding up, tangling in your hair, tilting your face toward his.
"you wear my gifts," he says, voice rough. "you sit in my lap. you sleep in my bed. i have gotten rid of all the other concubines." his thumb traces your lower lip. "do you know what that means, little one?"
you nod, because you do. because you've known for a while now.
"good." and then he's kissing you. it's deep and slow, like he has all the time in the world. when he pulls back, you're breathless and dizzy and your hairpins are definitely crooked. "mine," he murmurs against your lips, and you've never heard a word sound so much like a claim.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who makes you empress and watches the court riot. a sacrificed village girl? a trembling little thing who can barely look anyone in the eye? sukuna listens to their protests with an expression of utter boredom, one lower hand resting on the small of your back, while the other stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to his side. you're trying very hard to become one with the floor, but he won't let you shrink away—his grip keeps you anchored against him. when the objections finally die down, he simply says: "she stays. or i start executing people. your choice."
you're pretty sure half the court wets themselves. you're also pretty sure sukuna finds this hilarious.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who, now that you're empress, still has you sit in his lap during meetings. it's not even questioned anymore. his lower hands find your waist automatically, and sometimes—when the discussion gets particularly heated—you feel his thumbs slip just slightly beneath the hem of your robes, tracing circles on bare skin. you've learned to keep your face neutral. mostly. and sometimes, when his hands start wandering and you shift just slightly—rock your hips back against him, just a tiny movement, just enough that only he can feel it—his grip tightens immediately, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. then his voice gets that particular edge when he dismisses the court early. "everyone out. now." you never make it back to the chambers. the throne room has a door. it locks.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who sometimes, in the middle of the night, you wake up and find him just… watching you. not in a creepy way, but in a way that makes your chest ache. like he's never had anything worth watching before. "what?" you whisper, voice sleepy. "nothing." his thumb traces your cheek. "just looking." you bury your face in his chest, hiding your blush. his arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head. "sleep, little one." you do. because for the first time in your life, you feel safe enough to.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ emperor!sukuna who says "come, my empress." and you go. you always go. and when you settle in his lap, face hidden against his chest, his four arms close around you like you're something precious—something worth keeping. "mine," he murmurs against your hair, and his hands are already finding their favorite places—your waist, your hip, the small of your back, your neck tilting your face toward his. and when he kisses you, slow and deep and claiming, you forget that you were ever a sacrifice at all. you're his. and that's the only thing that matters.
