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girls night out with friends 🤭
IT WAS THE FIRST 10 PULLS. THE CIRCLE WORKED.
(I was busy shaking and screaming in disbelief that I forgot to take a screenshot of the pulls 😭) the video is on my twitter but it was so crazy I might post it here too LOL
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he messed up your order and doesn't know how to tell you
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extra nice — ft. ryomen sukuna
female reader ; modern/no curse au ; takes place post-sex with nudity ; banter ; established relationships ; very unserious stuff
You like Sukuna after sex—he’s nicer to you than usual.
(He’s never mean, of course. Not to you, at least—he’s always nice to you. But it’s typically in a weird, roundabout way, so you appreciate how some post-coital cuddling somehow makes him nicer. Nicer with his words, nicer with his touches, and nicer with that attitude he always seems to have attached to his exterior like some second skin that holds him hostage.
He’s nicer after sex. You think maybe getting laid just makes him a little less uptight.)
“I’m thirsty,” you pout.
He snorts, fingers tracing the small of your back as you lay curled on his sweaty chest. “Then drink water, idiot.”
“My legs feel like jello. Can you grab me some,” you blink innocently.
He rolls his eyes. Pre-sex Sukuna would let out a grumpy, I’m not your damn servant, woman! before he’d inevitably get up. Post-sex Sukuna plants a small kiss to your forehead before he rises and grabs his boxers from the floor.
“Iced or not iced, your majesty?” He raises a brow. You pretend to think over your options—he knows the answer before he even asks. He only asks because you like feeling as though you have options.
“Let’s go with iced,” you hum.
“Whatever the lady wishes,” he winks. There’s a smile on his lips and for once, it’s not something he subtly hides or tries to fight back so you don’t notice and point it out. He lets it happen. It stretches across his lips and lets that little dimple on his left cheek appear that makes you realize that Sukuna has moments where he’s less handsome and a little more cute. (You’d never tell him that, but you like to sit with the realization to yourself.)
You think that Sukuna is nicer after sex. Not because he gets his way, but because intimacy puts him in a good mood—being close to you makes him finally let his walls down. You think this version of him is a welcomed change of pace.
When he returns, he hands you a cold, tall glass of iced water with a bendy straw. You brighten at the sight of it.
“Did you know they have straws for anti-wrinkling?” you murmur.
“What are you on about?” he slumps back into bed, wrapping an arm around your waist as you sit up and take a sip of your water.
“It’s true,” you nod, “they have a straw that’s shaped weird so it doesn’t make you pucker your lips. It’s supposed to help with preventing wrinkles.”
“That’s stupid,” he mumbles.
“It is,” you nod, “they look silly. But maybe I’ll have to buy one so you don’t get tired of me quicker when I wrinkle.”
He makes a face. Almost offended but still a little amused. He scoffs as you set your glass down on your night stand and before you can even turn to him, he’s already tugged you down to lay back onto his chest as he wraps his arms tightly around you. (Post-sex Sukuna is also as as openly clingy as he is nice. You happen to also like this perk, as well.)
“You don’t need a stupid straw for wrinkles. That’s dumb as fuck.”
“But won’t my wrinkles make you bored of me?” you tease.
“No,” he says plainly. “Growing old with you can’t be so bad. I’ll probably age faster, anyway—you’ll give me gray hairs faster than you get wrinkles.”
“Not true,” you gasp, “you make me frown way more than I stress you out. I’ll age faster.”
“That’s rich,” he grins, “you wouldn’t last one day with yourself. It’s a miracle I haven’t gone insane.”
“You don’t need me for that,” you grumble.
He chuckles. It’s low and soft and a little less gruff and a little more boyish than he tends to let out, but post-sex Sukuna is a little easier to make laugh. He’s in a good mood when it’s you and him and crumpled sheets and a quiet room. He likes when you find his chest and he finds your waist and you both find each other. He likes when you kiss his jaw and he kisses your forehead and the little marks scattered on your skin from his love bites start to appear when time does its thing and the bruises make themselves known.
Sukuna is nicer after sex. He likes when your bodies do the talking and he doesn’t have to use his words. You know he loves you, and he seems to be in a better mood when he knows you’re reminded of the fact.
“You’d still love me if I was wrinkly, right?” you poke his chest with a teasing grin, “you wouldn’t leave me once I’m well past my prime?”
“If I leave you, you’d be an endangerment to society. I can’t let you run loose in the city.”
“Can’t you ever say something without throwing in an insult?” You huff.
He laughs. There’s a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and then your lips. Your pout curls into a small grin against your will.
“Yes,” he snorts as he rolls his eyes, “I’d still love you with some goddamn wrinkles. Happy?”
“Very. I’d love you with gray hair,” you pat his chest, “don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worrying.”
“You should,” you nod with faux-seriousness, “because gray hairs would not be an issue, but baldness might. You better hope you don’t bald with age because I’m not into bald men.”
“I’m starting to think you’re more shallow than you let on,” he pokes your ribs.
You giggle. That sound coaxes another peck to your lips from him because he can’t quite help himself when he hears it, and when he grins at you as he pulls away, eyes a little softer than usual, you take your chance to cup his cheek and pull him into a proper kiss.
“I’ll never invest in an anti wrinkle straw if you never invest in hair dye,” you offer.
“Deal,” he scoffs in amusement, “what a relief. I was worried for a moment, there.”
“Since I’m so nice and don’t hold you to unreasonable standards that make aging seem like a bad thing,” you drawl, tracing his chest with a delicate, mischievous finger, “you should treat me to something to eat, too. I’m hungry.”
“Yeah? Shocker,” he grunts, grabbing his phone as he starts to order you food. He asks what you want—he knows the answer before you even reply, but he asks anyway because you like to feel as though you have options.
“You’re so nice,” you beam when he pays, pecking his cheek swiftly. “Here’s a kiss for your troubles.”
He rolls his eyes. There’s a stupid grin on his face, and he taps his cheek as he murmurs, “Nope. Not gonna cut it. Taxes are higher than that around here.”
Sukuna is nice after sex. You happen to still like him before and after, though.
if u follow my blog and u know the context: im still mind blown about this anti wrinkle straw LOL
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PLEASE READ!
This is my friend Layla from Gaza. ( layla_gazan on instagram )
She’s a dental student whose university got bombed and who’s been pursuing her studies online for a while, all while facing the horrors of famine and genocide. On top of basic needs, she needs to pay tuition, or else her education and future is at risk.
Her last Kofi got suspended, so a new one has been created. Please share this and, if you can, donate to support her and her family!🙏 This is urgent and any help is appreciated!!
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P5X JP/Global countdown art by Rokuro Saito
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LEONA X READER
Where you start to ask him to use his UM for you
Where Leona, always insecure and determined about the patheticness of his UM, begins to change after meeting you, an artist who creates glass and crystal figures, and asks him to use his UM to transform glass remains into sand
loved this one <3
Leona hated his Unique Magic. Always had.
Sure, people said it was impressive. The ability to dry anything, to strip it down until it crumbled to dust in your palm? Sounded like the kind of magic suited for a king. Ruinous. Untouchable.
But in practice? It was destructive. Useless. Unoriginal. All it ever did was reduce things into sand. Turn lush greenery into withered husks. Sap water from soil, drain warmth from food, crack even the air with its dryness.
He’d never found a good reason to use it unless he wanted something to disappear.
And Leona Kingscholar didn’t like being reminded that he was good at getting rid of things.
So when you first approached him about it, out of the blue and way too bold for someone who barely knew him, he looked up from the grass in the greenhouse with a deep, annoyed grunt.
“You want me to what, herbivore?”
You stood over him in that stupid art-stained apron you always wore, holding a cracked chunk of smoky, burnt glass in your gloved hands.
“I’m not asking you to blow anything up, geez,” you said lightly. “I just… need some sand.”
He squinted at you, ears twitching slightly. “What, the beach too far for you?”
You smiled. “Yeah, and your sand is better.”
He blinked. “Come again?”
“The sand you make. From your UM.”
You lifted the shard to show him its jagged edge.
“See, this one’s ruined. The shape’s off, and it’s scorched. But if I grind it down, melt it again, I could maybe salvage it. But if you could just—turn it back into sand, I could get a cleaner rebatch.”
Leona sat up slowly.
“You want me to use my Unique Magic… on your garbage?”
You didn’t flinch at the edge in his tone.
“I want to try turning it into something new.”
Leona almost told you to piss off. Almost.
But you looked at that broken glass with such purpose in your eyes, like you believed something beautiful was still hiding in it.
And for some reason—maybe the sun was too hot, or he was too tired—he flicked his hand lazily and muttered under his breath.
King’s Roar.
The shard crumbled instantly, dissolving into a fine, pale gold powder. Clean. Almost sparkling in the sunlight.
You crouched to scoop it into a container with a small, satisfied hum.
“That’s perfect,” you said, like you’d just watched a flower bloom.
He raised a brow. “It’s just sand.”
“No, it’s potential.”
Something shifted in his chest at that. Uncomfortable. Hot.
You came back the next day. And the day after that.
Always with cracked glass or ruined sculptures.
Always asking, softly but with certainty, “Can I borrow your magic again?” And Leona always acted annoyed, always rolled his eyes like he was being inconvenienced, but he never said no.
And eventually, you started bringing things back to show him.
Bowls blown in spirals of color, where specks of sand were like desert stars.
Sculptures that caught sunlight just right, making tiny rainbows on the greenhouse walls.
Or delicate little trinkets—a lion’s paw, a flower blooming in a dish—that you swore were just “practice,” but he caught you smiling when he lingered on them too long.
“Couldn’t’ve done this without you,” you said once, holding a jar filled with a swirling, amber-hued hourglass.
“Your sand’s smoother than anything I could get from crushing it myself. It melts cleaner. Glows brighter.”
Leona grunted. “You’re the one doing all the work. I’m just breaking things.”
“You’re not breaking anything,” you said. “You’re giving me a chance to start over.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
Because no one had ever said that before. Not to him.
Weeks passed like that. And slowly, Leona started to wait for you. Subtly. Not that he’d admit it.
He’d lie on the grass and tilt one ear toward the greenhouse entrance, pretending to nap while secretly hoping for your footsteps.
He found himself pocketing little broken pebbles on walks, wondering if you could use them. Once, he even caught himself thinking about what kind of glass he would be, if you ever sculpted him.
(Probably dark. Sharp. A piece that refused to be molded.)
One afternoon, you showed up carrying a bundle in cloth.
“This one’s for you,” you said, unwrapping it.
“I made it from the first batch of sand you gave me.”
It was a glass lion—small enough to fit in his palm, all sweeping mane and proud curve. Not flashy, but warm, like the sun on stone.
Leona stared. His mouth went dry.
“…Why?”
You tilted your head.
“Because I wanted to. Because I thought you deserved something that stayed, instead of just slipping through your fingers.”
That—hit something. Deep and buried. Something fragile.
He closed his hand around the glass lion slowly.
“…You’re weird, you know that?”
You smiled. “You’ve mentioned it.”
But when you turned to leave, he spoke again, quietly.
“Hey… next time you’ve got something to ruin, come find me.”
You paused, a little smile blooming on your face. “Yeah?”
He shrugged, looking away. “Might as well make some use outta this busted magic, huh?”
Your voice was soft. “It’s not busted, Leona. It just needed the right hands to show what it could become.”
His tail flicked.
For the first time in years, Leona Kingscholar didn’t think of his magic as something to be ashamed of.
He thought of sand in your hands. And glass glowing gold.
And he felt—maybe—for once—
Useful.
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