pseudopeachy

[pseudopeachy]

Thinking about how unhinged it would be to date/marry Sukuna. He's not exactly a normal man. Curse? Man? Who knows.

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Sukuna threatening to eat you (as a joke), pregnancy, its sukuna so...be warned? Fluffy. MDNI.

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Sukuna uses the threat “I’m going to eat you” a little too often.

He thinks it’s funny. Thinks your wide-eyed horror is adorable. His sweet little dove, so gullible, so easy to spook. Every time he leans in close and whispers it low against your pulse, breath fanning the soft, sensitive skin. You flinch, unaware about how fond he is of you. Like you haven’t caught the way he watches you sleep, strokes your back when you’re sick, presses his palm over your belly now with something bordering on affection.

He doesn’t kiss your cheek like some sweet prince. No instead he bites. Sharp enough to leave little indents. Licks over the tender skin when you whine. Chuckles when you complain, pinching your hip or smoothing his hand over the curve of your stomach and muttering, “Just waiting until you’re nice and plump. Ripe.”

You thought it was a joke. Probably a joke. Actually, you aren't sure. You've heard the stories. The legends.

But then you got pregnant. And suddenly, every offhanded comment hit different.

Especially the time he said as his crimson eyes flicking lazily to your stomach, “If it’s a girl, I’ll eat it. So you better pray I get a son.”

You laughed. Nervously. Until you walked into the kitchen one day and found Uraume sharpening a long, glinting knife - expression blank as ever, as they asked, “Have you figured out the gender yet?”

You cried.

You cried all the way back to Sukuna, your pretty little body shaking as you sobbed into the warmth of his chest, pleading not to eat the baby. Or you. But mostly the baby. Please please please, you’ll be good, you’ll do anything.

Sukuna was a bit lost.

Sitting there, robes split open, a hand resting on your swollen belly, blinking down at you in baffled silence. His peachy brows furrowed as you hiccuped and clutched at him, and then, finally, he let out a low laugh and cupped your cheeks in his big, warm palms.

“You haven’t realized I’m joking, little dove?” he crooned, tilting your face up to meet his amused, if slightly exasperated, gaze. “You think I care if it’s a girl or boy? They’re going to be strong either way.”

You sniffled, lip wobbling. “You’re so mean.”

“I’m honest.”

“You said you’d eat them.”

“I also said I’d eat you,” he reminded you smugly, brushing his thumb under your eye. “And look at you. Still in one piece.”

You huffed, trembling against his chest, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. A rare gesture, one he only gave when he knew he’d pushed you just a little too far.

“…Besides,” he added, voice a low, teasing purr against your skin. “You’re out of your prime now. Too sweet. I don’t care for sweets.”

You slapped his arm, weakly.

He just laughed again, holding you tighter. Because you always fall for it. And deep down, a selfish part of him likes that you’re just scared enough to cling to him when you’re unsure. Because fear keeps things close. And close is exactly where he wants you.

[pseudopeachy]

[pseudopeachy]

Yes, yes, he's my wife. NOBODY argue with me

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hugs !!! kind of... (^_^ ; )

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cute omg !

— kiss the cook!

private chef!sukuna x tired ceo!reader headcanons;

cw: cursing bc sukuna duh, fem reader, just fluff and nice stuff.

sukuna only took the job because your assistant offered an obscene amount of money. he figured you’d be another rich, uptight type. instead, he finds someone sharp-eyed but visibly worn down, running on caffeine and grit, and something in him flickers.

he doesn’t ask what you want for dinner—he watches. notes what you pick at, what you finish, what makes your shoulders drop just a little after a bite. then he cooks accordingly.

he calls you “boss” or “lady,” sometimes “princess” if he wants to rile you up.

sukuna is a control freak in the kitchen. you once tried to grab a plate off the counter to help and he snatched it back with a glare like you just committed a federal crime. “sit down and look powerful or whatever it is you do. don’t touch my shit.”

he doesn’t call it “meal prep.” he says he’s “curing your corporate burnout one plate at a time.” he’ll even write it on a sticky note and slap it on your fridge like a threat.

your staff starts whispering about the hot guy they’ve seen coming and going through your penthouse’s private entrance. someone asks if he’s your boyfriend.

he keeps his tattoos covered at first. but over time, you see more skin—rolled sleeves, unbuttoned collar, apron slung low. he knows it affects you. he’s smug about it. “eyes up, boss.”

sukuna’s food isn’t just tasty—it’s intimate. he cooks with emotion, layers of depth, flavor profiles that mirror your moods. stressed? he makes something earthy, grounding. sad? something warm and nostalgic. his food speaks the language you’re too tired to articulate.

you once joked about eating dinner in bed to save time. the next evening, he brings a tray up to your room without a word, sits on the edge of the bed, and says, “open your mouth.” you nearly choke. he smirks. “for the soup. pervert.”

he never asks questions about your job, but he listens. always. you come home muttering about someone who backstabbed you, and later he serves you dinner with a knife stuck dramatically in a lemon tart. “felt symbolic.”

you don’t ask why he works as a private chef when he could run a five-star restaurant. but you catch glimpses—old scars, the way his jaw tightens when you mention high-end culinary circles, a rare bitterness in his voice. he doesn’t want the spotlight. he wants peace.

you pay him more than fairly, but he refuses to take a tip. “you think you can buy my time outside the kitchen?” then he shows up on his day off anyway, claiming he “had extra lamb and figured you’d screw it up on your own.”

he always leaves a plate for you in the fridge when you’re stuck at the office late. scrawled sticky notes: “eat. or i’m quitting.”

one night you come home half-frozen and frustrated. he doesn’t say a word—just peels off your coat, makes you sit, and puts hot miso soup in your hands. when you whisper, “thank you,” he acts like he didn’t hear.

he starts cooking enough for two even when you claim you’re not hungry. “don’t care if you’re starving or not. you’re eating with me.”

you once complimented his cooking in a sleepy voice. his ears turned red. he pretended he didn’t hear but made that dish three times that week.

he notices the designer heels you kick off, the way you rub your temples, the way your voice cracks when you finally relax. he’s too observant. sometimes it pisses you off—mostly because it feels like he sees parts of you no one else does.

sometimes he leans in to brush something from your face—too close. too casual. and then pulls back like it’s nothing. but he knows what he’s doing.

one night, you catch him looking at you while you sip wine in one of his oversized hoodies. he doesn’t look away. “you should stop looking like that if you don’t want me to do something about it.”

sukuna starts staying later, claiming he needs to “watch the broth” or “let the dough rise,” but he ends up sitting at the counter with you, sipping wine while you finish last-minute emails. neither of you says it, but it becomes a routine.

one evening, you fall asleep on the couch. he debates waking you—but instead, he carefully places a pillow under your head, takes off your heels, and leaves a fresh cup of water on the coffee table. he doesn’t leave until he’s sure you’re breathing steady.

once, you wear a silk robe to grab a late snack. sukuna is still in the kitchen cleaning up. he looks up, eyes dragging slow—then clears his throat and mutters, “you’re lucky i respect you, woman.” you go to bed with your heart pounding.

you start noticing the way he looks at you—always when you’re not paying attention. when you’re lost in thought. when your voice softens. like he’s memorizing you.

he asks you once, voice quiet and unreadable: “why don’t you have someone who takes care of you?” you shrug. “too busy.” he doesn’t answer, just brings you a hot towel and kneels in front of you to wipe your hands clean from ink and stress.

he doesn’t ask about your past. not directly. but one night, you find him sitting at the counter with a simple question: “was there ever someone who made you feel safe?” you don’t answer. but your silence says enough.

you find a little sketch tucked in a drawer—him trying to plan new meals. in the corner, there’s a messy doodle of you in a hoodie, wine glass in hand, smiling. you say nothing. but you keep the paper.

when you get sick from overworking, sukuna snaps. he curses, paces, slams pots around—then ends up sitting on your bed at 2 a.m., gently feeding you soup with his sleeves rolled up and his heart wide open.

you once came home looking shaky. something bad happened—you won’t talk about it. sukuna doesn’t ask. he just makes you sit, hands you hot tea, and keeps the kitchen warm and full of quiet noises. the food that night is simple, but it feels like armor.

if you ever pass out on the couch or fall asleep mid-meal, he’ll carry you to bed. always with care. always pretending he’s annoyed. “unbelievable. i make world-class risotto and she falls asleep in her chair.”

you don’t realize it, but he starts adjusting his cooking schedule around your life. not because you asked—because he’s already memorized your stress cycles, your meeting days, and the sound of your footsteps when you’re about to break.

your tie comes loose one morning. he’s in early to prep breakfast. without thinking, he steps in and adjusts it, fingers slow, gaze low. when he’s done, he doesn’t move. “there. now you can go ruin someone’s day in style.”

your fingers brush when you both reach for a wine bottle. you freeze. he doesn’t. he leans in closer, voice rough: “careful. you keep doing that, i’ll start thinking you want me to touch you.”

the first time he calls you by your first name, no title, no sarcasm—it’s quiet. reverent. you almost don’t notice. but you do. and it’s only natural that some time later, the lines between you two blur completely;

you set the apron on the kitchen counter with a dramatic flourish.

“i got you something,” you say, voice lilting with smug satisfaction.

sukuna doesn’t even glance at you. he’s dicing scallions with terrifying precision, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, muscles flexing with each movement. “if it’s another new knife,” he grunts, “you’re still banned from my station.”

“better,” you reply. “more fashionable.”

he finally looks. one glance at the apron—and the muscle in his jaw tics.

kiss the cook.

bold, white, obnoxiously large letters printed across black fabric.

“are you fucking kidding me—”

but before he can spiral into a rant, you’re already behind him, slipping the apron over his head, tying it around his waist while saying something casual like, “looks good on you.”

he’s frozen, jaw tight, hands mid-chop. “take it off before i throw you over the counter.”

“but it says i have to kiss the cook.”

“fuck off, woman.” but his fingers are closing around yours, contradicting his own words.

“what, afraid someone might actually kiss you?”

his hand tightens around your wrist.

you step in front of him, chest brushing his. your gaze flicks to his mouth. “because i’m thinking i might.”

“don’t start something you can’t finish,” he mutters, voice low and cracked.

“who says i can’t?”

you kiss him.

you don’t wait for permission, don’t hesitate. just lean in, slow and deliberate, tasting the quiet between you like it’s something rich and dark. he’s stock-still for a beat. but then—

his hands find your hips. grab your hips.

he kisses you back like he’s furious about it. like he’s been waiting weeks for an excuse.

your back hits the counter. his mouth parts yours, teeth scraping your lower lip, tongue sweeping in like he owns the moment. like he’s starving and you just offered him everything he’s ever wanted.

he doesn’t stop until you’re breathless.

when he finally pulls away, he doesn’t move far. just presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“better get used to wearing that thing,” you whisper against his mouth.

“yeah?” he grins, biting your bottom lip. “then you better get used to making good on the promise.”

[pseudopeachy]

Boyfriend!Sukuna who acts like he doesn't give a shit about you but every time something bad happens he goes to his feet. Even something little like starting your period. Uruame goes up to him with a straight look informing him that you started your menstruation, he stands up almost instantly.

Boyfriend!Sukuna who has a ring hidden under the cushion on his throne. Just building confidence for the perfect moment to say "marry me woman". Which honestly means everything coming from him. He tells everyone that he's not asking because he's too busy. But really it's because he's worried you'll say no.

Boyfriend!Sukuna who pretends he doesn't like those warm kisses on his cheek you give him after being hunting all day. (His favourite thing in the world)

Boyfriend!Sukuna who pretends he doesn't give a flying fuck about you but after sex he's kissing every hickey, every bruise, every single blemish of skin he ruined. But he makes sure you're half asleep.

Boyfriend!Sukuna who got humbled by Uruame after you got on your period and was in pain. Mostly because he didn't care at first then when you started crying, he laughed and called you a weakling. So Uraume got mad and that was the first time they ever got mad at Sukuna so he stayed quiet.

Boyfriend!Sukuna who cried once during sex and put himself on sex ban for a week. Yeah and time you squeezed real tight? He whimpered and put himself on sex ban for a month. He got mad and said it was your fault because you tricked him. (But he's a real softie at heart for you)

Boyfriend!Sukuna lets you put makeup on him when he's real tired.

Boyfriend!Sukuna who freaked out when he woke up the next day looking like a clown.

Boyfriend!Sukuna who before you guys were dating said after having sex with him "I'm taking you out after this, your mine. Remember that I'm not using you." He's used so many woman but for some reason he didn't want to make you even feel like that.

Boyfriend!Sukuna who loves you more then you can ever know because he's scared of getting his heart broken so, you won't ever know.

Boyfriend!Sukuna who's dying inside to be your husband.

Master list

[pseudopeachy]

Scribble scribble (nerdkunaaaaaa)

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Looking forward to rewatching my comfort shows after finals 🫶🫶🫶 (it's Jujutsu Kaisen, followed by Hunter x Hunter)

[pseudopeachy]

A short comic I made some time ago but forgot to post

[pseudopeachy]

Satoru's mother hates how overly affectionate you are to her son.

Your mother-in-law, the lady of the Gojo Clan of the Great Three Sorcerer Clans, would throw endless "tsks" and "tuts" at you whenever she catches you red-handed spoiling her son. You'd argue that it wasn't really spoiling but more of being an attentive wife.

Satoru was a lovebug, after all. An honest to goodness, "Oh, this man is obsessed with his wife" kind of guy. He was always going, "Where is my WIFE?!" "Wifey!" "My wife!", and wasn't at all embarrassed to express just how much he loves you. You, in turn, never shy away from reciprocating his affection, whether it's by returning his crushing embraces or calling for him through the rooftops so he could hear where you were, regardless of who else could hear you. He didn't give two shits what his family thought of him, but his relatives and servants have lost count of how many times his piercing glares have sent a chill down their spines whenever they made even the slightest attempt to comment on your behavior.

They would catch you two in the strangest of situations. Strange in a sense that your affection for each other is so foreign to them. You, running your fingers through his silver hair, helping him out of his clothes... You being the first thing he seeks out whenever he arrives home. And him bringing you countless pretty and sweet things to fill your shared bedroom...

Your mother-in-law often tells you to stop coddling him, that he isn't a child to be babied— ("He's the strongest sorcerer of your generation, for crying out loud!" She'd always say...)

"He may be the strongest sorcerer of our generation, but he's still my dearest husband. And in our home, he is that and that alone."

Then again, Satoru has always been an odd bird himself, so together, you two made a lovely feather duster.

[pseudopeachy]

LMFAO A SOCK 😭

a beeping sound. soft at first. foggy yet steady. faint.

beep. beep. beep.

the world feels like cotton—thick, warm, slow. everything is floating. you're somewhere between dreaming and not, hovering in a haze of surgical-grade confusion and the kind of drowsy bliss that only modern medicine can induce.

your mouth is dry. your eyelids are heavy. you're aware of your own existence only in the most abstract way.

and then—you see him.

standing beside the hospital bed. tall. serious. hands tucked into the pockets of his beige slacks. blonde hair swept back like a movie star in a noir film. clean-cut. broad-shouldered. absolutely devastating.

your eyes widen slowly.

beepbeepbeepbeep—

the monitor beside you—innocent, quiet just moments ago—has begun to panic. the beep becomes a warning, and a nurse looks up from the corner, startled.

"hnng," you mutter, trying to focus on the achingly handsome man next to you.

"heart rate's climbing," the nurse says, glancing over at him.

kento blinks. "oh."

"oh?" you whisper, blinking up at him. your voice is slurred, heavy with sedation. "who—who are you?"

kento blinks again, more slowly. "it's me. kento. nanami."

you squint. "that's not a name. that's a sound. like a—like a wind chime."

the nurse is trying hard not to laugh. she fails.

kento clears his throat. "you don't recognize me?"

you stare at him, utterly in awe. "are you a doctor?"

he hesitates. "no."

"a nurse?"

"no."

"are you—" your voice drops to a stage whisper "—an angel?"

this time, the nurse wheezes.

kento, ever composed, runs a hand down his face. "i'm your boyfriend."

you stare at him again.

then slowly—very slowly—you begin to weep.

"you're my boyfriend?" your voice is full of wonder and devastation, as if this is some beautiful tragedy you've just uncovered. "me? how did i get you?"

"darling, please—"

"you're so pretty," you sniffle. "like. too pretty. that jawline could cut glass. i look like a sock. a very soft sock, but still."

"you do not look like a sock."

"you're just saying that because you're so handsome and nice," you whisper dramatically.

kento exhales through his nose. his ears have turned ever so slightly pink.

"your voice sounds like warm bread," you mumble, eyes fluttering. "do you read poetry to me? i bet you do. do i cry everytime?"

"sometimes, yes."

"oh my god."

you clutch the edge of the blanket like it's the only thing tethering you the earth. kento shifts closer to the bed, expression softening even as the chaos of anesthesia unfolds. he takes your hand, and your eyes widen further.

"your hands are big."

he sighs again. "yes. that hasn't changed."

you gape at your interlaced hands like it's the most significant thing in the universe. maybe it is. maybe this is fate. maybe you're in a dream. maybe the drugs are doing their job a little too well. either way—

"oh my god," you whisper. "you have boyfriend hands."

kento raises an eyebrow. "boyfriend hands."

"yeah," you murmur reverently, brushing your fingertips over his knuckles. "big. strong. veiny. but gentle. like you could lift a boulder and cradle a baby bunny. i knew it. i knew the universe wouldn't give those hands to just anyone."

"i'll—i'll take that as a compliment."

"it is a compliment. it's the highest compliment."

kento tries to suppress a smile, but you see it anyway—the way his lips twitch, the way his eyes crinkle just a little at the corners.

"god," you sigh, still staring at your joined hands. "i bet you hold my bags for me. like, just casually. and you probably open jars without making it a thing. i bet you make me tea without being asked, too."

"i do," he admits, and that's when you gasp like you've just been shot.

"you do?!"

kento leans in slightly. "would it help if i reminded you that i also rub your back when you can't sleep and warm up your side of the bed in winter?"

you are now weeping in earnest.

"oh my god, i hit the jackpot. i knew i didn't do enough to deserve this life. i must've saved a bus full of orphan puppies in a past existence—"

the nurse in the corner is now doubled over behind her computer, shoulders shaking with laughter. she makes no attempt to intervene. she knows, just like kento does, that this has become a one-person stage production and the show must go on at the expense of your rapidly beating heart.

"do we live together?" you ask, eyes round and full of wonder.

kento nods, gently brushing a bit of hair off your forehead. "we do."

you suck in a breath. "do i cook?"

he hesitates. "sometimes."

"oh no."

"but i cook more often," he adds quickly.

you sag in relief. "do i clean?"

"you try," he says diplomatically, which sends the nurse wheezing again.

"i knew it. i'm the messy one." you look up at him, voice trembling with mock devastation. "you're the responsible one. i'm the whirlwind, and you're the tether. the calm in the storm. the spreadsheet to my glitter explosion."

kento's lips twitch again. "that's one way to describe it."

you exhale, dragging the blanket up to your chin like you're ready to ascend to another plane of existence. "and we love each other?"

"very much," he says, and his voice goes soft, quiet, undeniably warm.

that tone—oh, that tone—you believe it. even in your drugged-up haze, even with your brain a soft pile of mashed potatoes, it sinks deep. it nestles into your chest like a little glowing ember. his words. his eyes. the steadiness in his hand, wrapped around yours.

you blink at him, tears springing again. "do i ever tell you how lucky i am?"

"every day," he says, and his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles. "but i'm the lucky one."

"oh god," you whisper, overwhelmed again. "that voice. you could narrate a documentary. about whales. or like. the history of bread. i'd listen to it on a loop. do i have a playlist with you just reading grocery lists to me?"

"i could make one."

you whimper. "that's love."

kento chuckles quietly, low in his throat, and you beam at him like you've just discovered the sun for the first time.

"will i remember this?" you ask, a little sleepier now.

he looks at you for a long moment—fond, exasperated, helplessly in love.

"i hope you don't. but i will."

"why?"

"because this is adorable to me," he says, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers, "and deeply humiliating for you."

you hum, drifting already, eyes fluttering closed. "if you love me, you'll forget this ever happened."

"no chance."

a pause.

"you're gonna tease me, aren't you."

"absolutely."

"heartless," you mumble, voice trailing off into a sleepy sigh.

he stays beside you, holding your hand until your breathing evens out again, the monitor beside you returning to its quiet rhythm.

beep. beep. beep.

kento watches you sleep, eyes soft, and presses a quiet kiss to your forehead.

"a sock, hm?" he whispers, lips ghosting against your skin. "you do not look like a sock."

and he stays there for hours, loyal as ever. because even when you're half-conscious, absurdly dramatic, and talking about angelic boyfriend hands, he loves you—with a kind of devotion that doesn't fade, even in hospital rooms and pain and panic.

especially then.

[pseudopeachy]

Sukuna told you he would be getting a new tattoo. Nothing out of the ordinary, I mean, the man was already drenched in ink. Tribal lines and other stuff that made him look all the more masculine.

And then, when you arrive home after a not-so-great day at work. You see it, and your eyes widen, and you gasp in horror.

"You—! You did not!" Your hands come to cover your mouth, in pure shock. And he cocks a brow, still applying some soothing ointment over his skin.

"Did not what?" He asks, spreading his legs further on the couch, as if inviting you to come sit over his lap.

"That's— That's my fucking name, Sukuna!" You come closer, before you touch it you quickly run to the bathroom and wash your hands, then come back. How amusing, you remind him of a little mouse at times. All cute and skittish. Finally, you run your hands over the expanse of skin, where your name and his last name is written in bold italics. All over his left clavicle. "Why did you do this?" You ask in a whimper, lower lip trembling. And he only looks around in utter confussion.

"So everyone knows I'm yours?" He says, it sounds like a question but you know it's a statement, a fact.

"You're not a dog!"

"But I can be. For you."

"That's besides the point!" You say, already flustered. Finally, sitting over his lap, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, shaking.

"I don't get why you're so upset," He sighs, rubbing a hand all over your back. "It's not like I got... I don't know— Another name tattooed." He grumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"Because it's... I don't know," You sigh. "Now I feel obligated to get yours."

"Oho?" He smirks, cupping your face between his two enormous hands. "Trust me. It would be my pleasure to have you branded as mine."

TAG LIST

SUKUNA M.LIST

TAGGING: @sunnymmoon @lilithlunas @imvivian @purplechan9 @eroscastle @goldenglow149 @lurexin @stranger00001 @delicatelycraftedbambi @rania200527 @mizzhellsingsstuff @lakxcpsta @coolnekochan9961 @notreallyablogger @lilyalone @oliviathatgirl @eeelieschariot @hannas16 @surelynotaspider @mimihaitani @raxshall @ayn-yurbestie @jellystar-star @janeisnotonline @sukunaspillow @architectofsuffering @mrstraffy @mikeysonlywaifu @w1tchyaurea @poopooindamouf @samstrav @yutterfly @staarflowerr @nanamiswife

[pseudopeachy]

wow this hurts a lot 🥹🥹🥹

Yuuta would call Gojo to tell him about his day, hoping he would make his Sensei laugh. Megumi would call him every time he's in danger.

It's a reflex, like breathing, and they would continue to do so, even after his death. Only to be greeted by his mailbox telling them to leave a message, he's busy at the moment.

And it would happen again and again and again. Until it isn't an accident anymore. And they tell him about their day, talking about nothing and everything. What they ate, about school.

Inumaki and Panda annoyed Maki today.

Itadori and Kugisaki are definitely up to something, probably a surprise party for my birthday

Thank you for everything.

I started eating more sweets. That's your fault

It rained the whole day.

I'm sorry.

In had my first drink today.

I miss you.

I'm going to confess today

I love you.

Please come back.

Imagine the phone company giving the number to someone else. One day they call and someone picks up. and they think it's gojo, despite knowing better, but hope is cruel. Only to be hit by something greater than grief. They never call again, their last connection to Gojo...gone.

(yuuta won't allow this to happen bit still. Imagine!)

I think I made myself cry

[pseudopeachy]

i love me some clingy sukuna <33

The look of love, the rush of blood

Sukuna x reader. est relationship. down bad Sukuna

BoyfriendSukuna wasn't clingy or needy. He's not the type to cry over a day without seeing you, nor is he the type to pester you with constant messages or calls about your where abouts and annoying you to come see him. A simple text about your plans for the day or even a post it note on the fridge -for the days you slept over which was almost everyday - was enough for him. He was possessive, but he can survive a day or two without you.

Or so he thought.

BoyfriendSukuna was dropping you off your best friends house for an impromptu sleepover. Your best friend just got dumped and now you need to be her shoulder to cry on or whatever. That was fine or at least it was until you mentioned that you didn't know when you'll be sleeping over his place cause apparently these things "take time" and are "unpredictable."

Surprising even himself, he didn't like that. He didn't like that at all. He realized if you weren't sleeping over his apartment, he'd usually crawl into your bed late at night. Still he thought it wasn't a necessity, that falling asleep next to you was a want not a need. Yet now that he doesn't have that option..

Vein throbbing, Sukuna can give your best friend tonight, but tomorrow you will be back on his bed where you belong.

You were saying your final goodbyes in front of his car window. Eyes bright and laced with a warmth he believes you only reserve for him, "Bye, Kuna! Ill give you updates everyday!"

He grits his teeth. Why did it sound like you were going on a month long cruise?

"Oi." He calls out before you could turn around.

Tilting your head, "Kuna?"

For a moment he kept quiet. Carmine eyes taking their time drinking you in, having his fill of you as if he won't see you for weeks. They snap to back to your pretty face, tracing every slope and curve. "Come closer, brat."

And you do which makes his lips curl a bit. Always so obedient for him.

With his left hand, his touch firm yet gentle on the back of your head as he pushes your face towards his.

Soft lips against his rough ones, kissing you long and fervently, devouring you whole in one kiss. He feels you melting into it, whimpering such pretty sounds into his mouth. The tension finally eases out of him and it takes everything in him to pull away.

"Ill pick you up tomorrow," He murmurs against your lips, breath mingling with yours.

You blink. Once. Twice, "But Kuna-"

He cuts you off with another kiss, but softer this time. Gentle even. "No buts, brat. Ill pick you up tomorrow evening at the latest. She gets no more than that. You can visit here everyday for all I care, but you're sleeping with me."

A knowing smile teases your lips, "Are you gonna miss me that much, Kuna?"

"Shut up." He grunts, rolling your eyes at how pleased you look.

You burst out laughing and he hates at how pathetically melts at the sound. How it makes his insides warm like some love sick fool.

After brushing a imaginary tear from your eye, you lean back to his face and press a soft kiss on his cheek. "Don't worry. Ill have one of our other friends sleepover tomorrow night."

"Whatever."

Your smile widens into a grin, "I'll just tell them my big bad boyfriend can't sleep without me."

"Don't you dare-"

You run towards the door before he could do anything, laughter ringing out the driveway. And the way you smile makes his chest tighten in the most pathetic way.

The moment you disappear from view. He groans, dragging a hand down his face.

Fuck.

He didn't realized he was so down bad that going home without you felt like a life sentence.

So pathetic. So damn pathetic for you.

[pseudopeachy]

dynamic duo

[pseudopeachy]

"Ok...."

Sukuna was never the clingy type. Every girlfriend he’d had before chased him. He wasn’t the kind to call or text ten times a day—hell, sometimes not even once. Detached. Aloof. The classic nonchalant boyfriend. And he liked it that way.

Until he met you—his equal. Or, if we’re being honest, his superior in emotional detachment.

You weren’t just low-maintenance. You were barely-there maintenance. A ghost with a phone plan. How someone could be in a relationship and not text for an entire week? Sukuna didn’t know whether to be impressed or mildly concerned.

You’d told him more than once, “I just don’t have the energy to talk all the time.” And it wasn’t a passive-aggressive dig, it was just… a fact. Facetiming 24/7? Constant texting? Contact every five minutes to say absolutely nothing? No thanks. You had a life. And more importantly, you had a limited social battery that you weren’t about to waste on a conversation about what you had for lunch—unless it was really good.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You just didn’t see the point in forcing communication for the sake of it. When something actually happened, you'd tell him. You’d call. You’d text. If the world was ending, you’d let him know. Probably.

To you, that was how relationships worked. You didn’t love him any less just because you weren’t glued to your phone. If anything, you were doing him a favor by not flooding his notifications. You’d seen what some people did in relationships—24/7 access, reporting live from their kitchen. You’d rather not become that.

And besides, you knew yourself. You knew what happened when you got tired and overstimulated. You got snappy, said things like “Why are you breathing so loud?” and suddenly there’s a fight over a tone that didn’t exist. So no, you were doing the mature thing by keeping your distance. For everyone’s safety.

What you needed was someone who respected your space, but knew when to push—gently. Someone who didn’t take your quiet as coldness. Sukuna, for all his big talk and bigger ego, was starting to realize he might not be that someone… or worse, that he cared more than he thought.

-------------,------------------,-----------------,------------------,----------

You and Sukuna first crossed paths at a loud, crowded bar during a group night out. He was there with his friends. You were with yours.

You didn’t say much—just smiled politely, laughed at a few jokes, sipped your drink, and left early without a trace. Quiet. Low-key. Unbothered.

And for some reason, that stuck with him.

It wasn’t even anything dramatic. You didn’t flirt, didn’t throw glances his way. Honestly, it felt like you barely noticed he was there. Like the noise of the bar, the people, even him—none of it seemed to register.

Your eyes were distant. Detached. Not cold, exactly, but...unreadable. Like you were tuned into a different frequency the rest of the room couldn’t access. And Sukuna—who was used to being the center of attention—had no idea why he noticed you so much, and why you didn’t seem to care that he existed.

He never asked for your number. Didn’t even speak to you that night. But after that? He started showing up at those same friend gatherings more often than he’d like to admit. Not for the drinks. Not for the people.

Just to see if you would be there.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. Halfway through one of those meetups, he casually brought your name up. Real smooth. “So... your friend. Y/N, right? She doesn’t come out often?”

One of your friends snorted, already a little tipsy. “Ahhh, Y/N? Yeah, she’s quiet. That time we were at the club together? Didn’t see her for like four months before.”

Another chimed in, laughing. “She’s hilarious though. I heard a bunch of guys tried to get her number, but she just... works from home and sleeps all day. Like, aggressively avoids being perceived.”

The first friend nodded. “Back in high school, there was this super popular guy who liked her. She ghosted him in real life. Just full-on ignored him and didn’t even realize he was crying until someone pointed it out.”

The whole group burst into laughter. Sukuna blinked. You've made a popular guy cry... by accident?

Sukuna leaned back on the worn-out couch, beer bottle in hand, watching your friends lose it over the story like it was some iconic tale of legend. Which, apparently, it was.

He didn’t even realize he’d zoned out until someone waved a hand in front of his face.

“You good?” one of the guys asked. “Yeah,” Sukuna muttered. “Just thinking.”

Which was a lie. He didn’t think. Not like this. Definitely not about some girl he’d only seen once. But here he was, piecing together your entire personality based off half-drunk friend chatter like he was a detective on a case no one assigned him.

She sleeps. She works. She ignores people into tears.

Sukuna tilted the bottle to his lips and stared blankly at the wall. Why the hell was that so attractive?

He’d been with needy girls. Loud girls. Girls who texted “???” if he didn’t reply in thirty minutes. Girls who demanded constant validation, presence, connection. He was used to being the one pulling away.

And now… He was the one showing up to events, hoping to catch a glimpse of you like some kind of side character.

It was humiliating.

He didn’t even know what your voice sounded like beyond a polite laugh. He didn’t know what your job was. Or your hobbies. Did you even have hobbies? Or were you one of those people who simply... existed?

And yet, he was in a group chat called “Friday Night Drinks 🍻” and actually replying to it. Voluntarily.

This was rock bottom.

“Y/N’s cool though,” one of your friends added, completely unaware of the identity crisis unfolding in his head. “She’s just hard to read. Not mean or anything, just... in her own world, you know?”

In her own world. Yeah. That sounded about right.

Sukuna smirked to himself. “Sounds like she needs someone to drag her out of it,” he muttered.

The group just laughed and kept drinking, not realizing that was the moment Sukuna decided he was going to make you notice him. And not in a subtle way.

He wasn’t desperate. He was just... curious. Painfully, violently curious. Which, in his case, might as well be the same thing.

--------

A week later, you showed up again.

Same group. Same vibe. Some random bar with dim lighting and overpriced drinks.

You walked in late, like someone who didn't owe the world punctuality. Your hair was half-up, half-down—pitch black and the outfit in question was just a long, tight, black dress. Nothing flashy. Just clean lines and fabric that fit too well. He had never seen something so normal be so sexy.

It didn’t make sense. Sukuna turned back to his drink and muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

Across from him, one of your friends noticed. “Oh hey, Y/N’s here.”

You walked in, nodded at a few friends, and sat down like you hadn’t just months. You ordered a drink, checked your phone once, then stared off like the wall was playing a movie only you could see.

So, he did what any self-respecting man with dignity and a very fragile ego would do: he waited five full minutes before casually sliding into the seat next to you.

“Didn’t think you were real for a second,” he said.

You blinked. Slowly. Turned your head just slightly.

“Oh,” you said. Then a pause. “You’re... friends with Satoru and them?”

Not even fake recognition. Just stating facts like a very underpaid receptionist.

Sukuna smiled, the kind of smile that said, I’m confused but I want more of this suffering.

“Yeah.” “Cool.”

You turned back to your drink like he hadn’t just walked over here, full of unearned confidence and possibly cologne.

He’d once had a girl cry because he forgot to like her Instagram story, and now he was sitting next to a woman who couldn’t be bothered to pretend to know who he was.

“You’re hard to get a hold of,” he tried again.

You glanced sideways. “Not really. I just don’t answer if I don’t feel like it.” No shame. Just the emotional equivalent of a blank screen.

“That’s brutal.” “It’s honest.” “You ghost all your friends too?” “If I’m tired, yeah.” “That’s it?” “...Should there be more?”

You were so damn dry, it felt like talking to someone whose phone was stuck on Do Not Disturb—except it was you in real life.

“Right. So what do you do when you’re not ghosting humanity?” “Work. Sleep. Eat.” “Sounds thrilling.” “I’m living the dream.”

You said it so flatly that it nearly knocked the sarcasm out of him.

He leaned back, watching you sip your drink like he was studying a wild animal he wasn’t allowed to pet. He studied your face. Still unreadable.

Sukuna rubbed the back of his neck, and for the first time in a long time, didn’t know what to say next.

You turned back to your drink.

“...You’re not going to ask for my number, are you?” you asked casually.

He blinked. “Was thinking about it.”

You hummed. “Don’t bother if you’re expecting good morning texts.” “Oh, so you do give your number out.” “Occasionally. To people who can handle the silence.”

He exhaled through a laugh, suddenly unsure if he was flirting or being screened for a psychological experiment.

You looked over again, one brow raised. “Still want it?”

Sukuna grinned, absolutely down bad already.

“Yeah,” he said. “I really, really do.”

-----

Day 1 Sukuna waited two hours before texting you. Not because he was playing it cool—he actually just stared at your contact name for that long, wondering if “Y/N 😐” was appropriate or too accurate.

[ Sukuna | 8:42 PM ]

hey, it’s me from the bar. the tall one. tattoos.

He stared at the screen. Three dots appeared.

Then vanished.

He went through five stages of grief before your reply finally came.

[ Y/N | 8:47 PM ]

ok

That was it. Just ok.

You can kill him, and he’d say thank you.

Day 3 Sukuna, being bold (read: delusional), texted again.

[ Sukuna | 2:13 PM ]

you ever wanna get coffee or is texting already too much interaction for you

[ Y/N | 2:56 PM ]

depends do i have to sit and talk to you for a full hour or can i just get coffee and leave

He read it five times. Was she joking? Was this her flirting? Was this a cry for help??

[ Sukuna | 2:57 PM ]

that was cold i think i liked it

[ Y/N | 3:10 PM ]

ok then get coffee i don’t mind sitting i just don’t like people who chew loud

[ Sukuna | 3:11 PM ]

…do i look like a loud chewer to you??

[ Y/N | 3:13 PM ]

we’ll see

This was, by far, the most energy you’d given him, and he celebrated like he just won the lottery.

Date Day

You showed up exactly on time. Not early. Not fashionably late. Just… on time. Dressed in all black again, minimal effort but somehow looking like you were cast in an expensive indie film.

He opened the café door for you.

You nodded. “Thanks.” That was it.

You ordered a black coffee. No sugar, no milk. Just like your personality. He got some sweet sugary thing and decided not to comment out of fear you’d actually judge him out loud.

Ten minutes in, you said nothing.

Fifteen minutes in, still nothing.

Sukuna, finally: “Do you always just… sit in silence?” You sipped your coffee. “Only when there’s nothing important to say.” He blinked. “You don’t believe in small talk?” You made a face. “It’s like diet conversation. Empty calories.”

He nearly dropped his drink. “Jesus Christ.” You shrugged. “What?”

He leaned back and stared at you. “You’re either going to ruin my life or accidentally fix it.”

You stirred your coffee, unfazed. “50/50 chance. Either way, not my problem.”

Day 5

He sent a voice note.

Which was already wildly out of character, but he couldn’t help it—texting wasn’t working and the silence from you was making him feral.

He tried to sound casual. Cool. Unbothered.

But he played it back twelve times before hitting send.

[Voice Note – 0:07] “Hey. I saw this ugly painting today that reminded me of you. Thought that was romantic. Hope your coffee sucked without me.”

No response.

Then—

[ Y/N | 6:03 PM ] i didn’t get coffee today but if i did, it would’ve tasted fine you’re not the milk or the sugar

He laid down on the floor. Just. Flat. Face to the hardwood.

Day 6

He invited you to a small art exhibit.

You agreed.

Sort of.

[ Y/N | 1:32 PM ] only if you don’t talk through the whole thing

He kept his mouth shut the entire time.

Except once, when you stopped in front of a painting and tilted your head.

“Looks like something you’d like,” he said.

You glanced at him. “Because it’s moody and boring?”

“No. Because it’s sharp. Kind of brutal. But it still makes you stop and stare.”

You didn’t say anything.

But he saw your lip twitch like you were trying very hard not to smile.

Day 10

He didn’t text.

You didn’t either.

He paced.

Did pushups.

Almost posted a thirst trap but deleted it last second because what if you thought it was about you?

It was about you.

Everything is.

Day 18

He texts you at 2AM.

He’s been staring at the ceiling for hours, trying to figure out what your favorite color is like it’s a government secret.

[ Sukuna | 2:01 AM ] be honest. what color do you think you are?

You reply instantly.

[ Y/N | 2:02 AM ] dark green. like the kind that looks black until you shine a light on it.

He stares at that.

Then stares at the ceiling again.

Then texts back:

[ Sukuna | 2:04 AM ] yeah i think i’m completely fucked

You don’t reply.

Because you know.

-----

i can do part 2 if I have the energy bestie