godhandler

[godhandler]

question for martial arts coach sukuna!! if anyone else tried to train reader how would you react..

S: Merciful. She’s a whole headache.  

– a/n: c’mon, man. 

S: (grumbling) That thing’s better than most trainers. See here, now’s not the time to fuck her career up changing trainers. If she wants to change her coach, good for me. 

– a/n: be honest.

S: I said, Good. For. Me .…

Nah. They’d ruin her. Not worth it. They’d ruin something extraordinary. (shakes head) She’d make a good bit of cash for me once she’s properly debuted. We’ll have to stick it out with each other.

[godhandler]

“sukuna is a fraud” the biggest of them all!! “he doesn’t fight fair, he cheats” cause he knows how to. “gojo would have won if…” if he knew how to cheat better. NEXT.

[godhandler]

super respect on usamaru furuya for having created one of the best eroguro literature manga in all time while also being a full time dad. like imagine if the two things you do all day are changing diapers and drawing so many exploding intensines

[godhandler]

[Martial arts coach! Sukuna x down bad!reader, huge age gap, couple of god-complex maniacs pining for each other, kinda fucked relationship dynamics, Sukuna being a tough coach]

1 | 2 | 3

“You’ll kill her like this.” Sukuna’s twin brother deadpans, watching you train from the gallery of the gym. 

“Good, then.” Your yawning coach replies. You’ve been doing pull-ups without a break for half an hour now. Everytime you slack off even a little, Sukuna makes you restart the count from 0 again. Purple veins throb visibly down your triceps. A couple medics linger around you, waiting to be called anytime now. 

“I’m serious, Sukuna.” His twin was a coach in his own time too, before he retired to Sendai to raise Yuuji. He keeps his eyes locked on you. “I know you have plans for her.” 

The twins, grey-pink hair and marble-cut noses, stand in silence for a bit. There is an air of desperation in the gym. The tournament is only two weeks away. The rubber tatami mats are drenched with stinking sweat. Too much pre-workout and electrolyte drinks and plain chicken breasts. Your arms don’t feel yours anymore. 

“She’s quite something.” Sukuna admits, canines out in a grin. “Could be more, still.” 

Perhaps it was the years that they had spent growing up together. Perhaps it was the decades they spent apart. But his twin knew two things then: one, that Sukuna was being honest. Two, it would be disastrous to look into his intentions with you. 

He was a kind man, Sukuna’s twin. He took all of it in the womb, and left nothing for Sukuna. He knew that the seats reserved for your parents by the ringside always remained cold as the stale AC in the arena. He’d seen this story play out a million times before– big man, young girl. Something rotten in their sweet love. Maggot-filled fruit heart. 

He wondered whether to risk bringing it up as Sukuna shouts out across the gym to you: “Oy, you! Yes, you! You’re done with pull-ups. Go over Gojushiho now. Make a mistake and you know what happens.” 

His twin mumbles something about you being half his size for such harsh treatment. But you seem to take no offense. Instead, you shout back in the same volume, quite happy to relax your arms for a bit. “Sho or Dai?”

A couple of boys have stopped punching each other in the head to listen to the two of you shouting from different sides of the huge gym. As have quite a few others.

“What?” Sukuna’s deep voice reverberates in the room. 

“Should I do Gojushiho Sho or Gojushiho Dai?” Your pitch is higher than him, but projects regardless. 

He thinks for a moment before shouting back: “Dai.” 

It occurs to the saner of the twins that perhaps, just perhaps, whatever connection you and his brother shared wasn’t just fucked up on Sukuna’s end. You surely were pulling your own weight in passion. 

The centre of the gym was divided into 4 main areas, divided by thick curtains to cut the noise. A exercise zone without tatami matting with all the equipment, a soft-matted zone for general sparring practice, a hard-matted zone for kata. The fourth zone was by far the largest– private areas for the top students to practice by themselves. Surrounding all of it were rounds of seating, with the gallery box high enough to see the entire gym over the curtains. 

The very same curtains slide past your cheeks as you walked from the exercise zone to your private mat. Footsteps that every student had memorised thud over the wood flooring– Sukuna stalks over, going through each zone to reach yours at the end. Even the lowest ranked in his gym was at least a 3rd Dan, so soon it was a crowd of black belts rushing over to bow to the coach; traditions ingrained through painful years of training. You were the only one who didn’t rush out to bow, since he was coming to you anyway. If he could get away with another murder charge, he’d like to stick his fingers down the cracks in your skull, pry open the walnut and figure out what, exactly, gave you the audacity. 

His twin could probably answer that. 

Some animal scent, pheromone bullshit, but Sukuna can't help but feel his skin burn at the sight of your face. You glow warm, hard heat and fatigue, tongue dry. The very same look after you tease an orgasm out of yourself, he'll bet. Sweat drips from your temple to the cut of your jaw, drops to your collarbone and disappears under the neckline of your gi. Crimson sports bra, he could tell when you leant forward to bow. Your heaving, tired breast. Red meat of your beefy arms, ones he’s cultivated out of you. 

He sits on the tatami right in front of you. “Begin.”

Gojushiho is not exactly a hard kata if you take every single move by itself. Unlike Kata Unsu (tricky jumps and timing) or Empi (delicate gesturing), the main point of Gojushiho is to perfect the basic stances that it is compiled of. And the fact that it is pretty fucking long. But this is the one that Sukuna has decided that you will perform at the kata part of the tournament, and you weren’t really in a position to refuse. 

Sukuna wasn’t a kind trainer. If he cared enough to train you, he’d beat the living crap out of you till you were the best you could be. All the greats he’d produced – Higuruma, Gojo, Uraume, Maki – they all swore by the efficacy of his teaching style, mostly because they had never visited a single therapist yet. That’s how it goes in this art. Coaches are harsh, tournaments harsher. The moment Sukuna sat down to watch you perform the kata, the medics serendipitously collected just outside your curtain, so did Yuuji and Megumi and Kamo, and even his twin kept his eyes peeled. 

They were waiting for a slip up. One foot out of place by an inch, one eye movement delayed by a beat. Gojushiho was still a newly learnt kata for you. 

“It’s going okay till now.” Yuuji whispered. He’d stuck a wet finger to clean his ear wax out just so he could hear through the curtain better. Any growl of rage, a pained yelp– they had to intervene before he broke your bones or worse. 

Megumi nodded. Sukuna was terrible to him, once actually breaking his bones, while he went far easier on Yuuji. Something he read in his sister's psychology textbook: theories on underdeveloped emotional range leading to an inability to express approval through anything but cruelty. Still, leftover chivalry, remnant bushido kept him trying to protect you however he could. Not that he could, not very much. You were far stronger than Megumi. 

“I think he really hates her.” Yuuji noted, listening to Sukuna on the other side of the curtain yelling at you for not breathing out hard enough at a strike point. Pretty rough words. 

Megumi shook his head. He’d have gotten beat for this mistake. Page 351: ... expression of love as a cover for narcissism, where inflicting cruelty on the other is seen as the same as cruelty onto the self. “It’s something worse.” 

………………….. 

Every time you walk out of the gym, one or two cameras flash. Nothing compared to the amount of flashes the star boys face, the favourites of the ringside gamblers. No one bets on women’s sports, not even if they’re trained by Sukuna himself. Still, you can relate to wanting pictures of your beloved martial artists. Back when you were a kid, you traded a golden Pikachu card for a signed poster of Sukuna, hanging it over your bedroom, having him keep watch over you through the years. 

But now that you get to see him everyday, it’s hard not to be derisive of those idiots who look at a picture of Ryomen Sukuna and call him handsome. What do they know? Pictures, especially those of Sukuna, lie. His beauty is in privacy: the quirk of a brow or a movement of the arm, the casual disregard towards you. Exhilarating. You remember that bedroom poster, a fresh click of his first international win 38 years ago. You’d think he was just some sweaty kid with a black eye and firecracker grin canines-out, winner’s belt slung over shoulder, name to be lost to the annals of WWE history. Because it’s just a lying picture, and Sukuna is too… too immense to be conveyed in one image. Every single person who witnessed that moment in the flesh, 38 years ago, hearts thumping in the audience seats, knew– they just did– that they had just seen the trigger of a supernova. 

Watching you crack open Todo’s skull within 42 seconds, Sukuna finally understood what they felt. This was it. His second coming. The Alexander reincarnated. 

Even though all he showed was an asbestos-dry smile and a ‘decent’, he was ecstatic, close to a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long, long time: fear. 

He wanted to drive your face through the cement walls– How dare you? How dare whatever’s wrong with him be exactly what’s wrong with you too? How dare you be so insatiably hungry? How fucking dare you be this perfect?

He’s been running out of things to criticize about your kata. Sooner or later, he’ll have to move on to practicing your sparring, now. You’ve already stamped your fists through every single other trainee in the gym (and some outside too), you’ve won over them all– all his favourite boys, often enough to prove that it’s not coincidence. “You’re good. You’re really, really, good,” they tell you. And having climbed to the top of the food chain you stand stagnant, for the one man left to be conquered refuses to fight you, all because–

Because it’s tricky business, letting your pet lion eat human meat. One day you might see in their starving eyes that they know what you’re made of too.

You’ve been wearing your gi looser, hair freer. Leaving the gym shower unlocked on the days when it’s just you and Sukuna, others having finished practising hours ago. Forgetting bras to change into, sometimes forgetting the shirts instead. Sukuna was but a man, a deeply lionised one. There were still cameras outside the gym, waiting, watching. Did they know that this great legend kept a young girl practising deep into the night all alone? Did they know that she grew up counting all the cobwebs alone in her house? Did they know that Ryomen Sukuna paces in his bedroom, unsure whose meat it is that the other consumes? 

Sukuna knows what the leftmost sliver of your back looks like through your shower door just slightly ajar, shampoo and soap slipping over your skin. He can name all the muscles that pop up as you wash – trapezius, deltoids, latissimus dorsi, obliques, glutes, hamstrings, and calves. He sees them in his sleep. 

He imagines them on the back of the little partygirl currently grinding on his cock, too whisky-drunk to reason why he picked one with your hairstyle. She leaves the next morning with an iron-clad NDA and so many humiliating memories of the night and a good amount of hush money. 

Just as she stumbles out his front door, adjusting the torn straps of her bandage dress, you walk in before the door locks closed. For a second you think that you’ve successfully penetrated his villa, before realising that Sukuna’s looking down at you from the mezzanine. Massive, bare-chested, sticky. If you were closer, you’d smell the sex and blood on him. 

“Jumped the wall?” He asks, words slurring a little. Overdrank. 

“Yeah.” You reply. “Sorry.” 

“Clearly my fault, I should have predicted deranged athletic stalkers.” 

“No, coach.” You shake your head, suddenly realising that you kinda did walk into a private scene. “I promise I won’t tell the paps about this.”

“This?” 

“That lady who just walked out. I mean, what lady? I didn’t see anything–”  

His footsteps are just as loud as they always are as he walks down the stairs to you. Thud-thud-thud. Your heart echoes each beat. “Don’t waste my time.” He yawns, eyes hawk-sharp on you. “What do you want?”

On the other side of the city, Yuuji and his grandfather share brunch sandwiches. He’s not sure how to approach the topic, since Megumi explained just enough to concern him. “Grandpa, my friend, the one I introduced you to, I think I wanted to ask about this. Does… does Sukuna treat her as more than a student?” 

And his grandfather, the one person who told him to always look out for the good of others, told him to stay out of it completely. “When nutcases like them go out to dance, we stay in and close our eyes.”

a/n: hi folks daddy's back

ask the characters anything! (remember to name who you're asking tho!)

[godhandler]

[Martial arts coach! Sukuna x down bad!reader, huge age gap, couple of god-complex maniacs pining for each other, Sukuna being a tough coach]

“You won’t make it.” Sukuna spits carelessly, unwrapping his sweaty gloves post training. There are promising students he’s scouted in his gym, his favoured ones who’ll be the cash cows winning tournaments, buzzcut boys with tight abs who laugh mid-fight. Growing in his shoes. You’re not one of them. “You’re not good enough.” It’s a statement. 

No, you grit your teeth, lick the stinging cut on your fist. It's a challenge. 

Sukuna the Ryomen: beastly calamity in the ring. Raw talent picked off the street, 80 international tournament wins over 28 years, bachelor villa bought with notoriety money. Even now, when he’s more of a coach than a player, there’s still cameras waiting outside his gym, as they often are. A snap of which of his trainees he’s favoring could very well decide the next victors of the upcoming tournament of the season. Rolex-wearing men are placing bets outside– Megumi, Yuuji, Todo. Everyone wants a piece of the undisputed King of the Curses. Everyone wants Sukuna. 

Regardless of how he is to you, you get it. Of course you do. You’d have to be concussed to not remember how he reigned over the ring. Two-faced, he’d play by the rules as much as he wanted to– as if he was beyond all that. The whole world beheld how he ran his tongue over the cheek of an opponent while choking his lips blue in a headlock, jammed his knees into countless shattered ribs, snapped spines into halves. He once bit a chunk out an opponent’s neck, goopy blood running down his chin and pecs as he laughed at the horrified screams of the audience, medics running, judges whistling, TV ratings shooting up like firecrackers.

He keeps that piece of chewed flesh, big as your fist, preserved in formaldehyde, on display in his office behind the locker room. It’s oddly captivating– you want to pull his lips up, matching his teeth to the canine marks on the chunk. 

Nutcase. Martial arts fiend. Often disqualified, but never for long: handsome money-maker was he. No one would turn up at a competition if not to watch the fiery, feral Sukuna. His posters filled your childhood bedroom walls, unsupervised access to his gruesome fights on the internet, early 2000’s gossip columns of his many affairs with thin-thighed supermodels, little you copying his moves in front of the mirror. 

So yes, he could be as harsh to you as he wished, who gave a shit now when you’re lucky enough to bask in his glow now? You trained for years to deserve your place in his gym. You work just as hard as those boys, deserve his attention just as much, regardless of how cruel that attention comes. If you want to make it, Yuuji tells you, a bit too kindly for someone just a friend, you callus your heart more than your achy knuckles. 

Sometimes at 3.45 am you wonder that if you had gotten more parental love and attention, you wouldn’t have attached yourself so deeply to this retired monster. Too late now, you suppose. 

A few days ago,  Megumi, one of Sukuna’s prize boys, said over a bowl of tteokbokki after practice, “Kamo Noritoshi likes you. So you can go after him and leave the elderly alone, okay?”

“I beat Kamo to a pulp, remember?” You pointed with poked tteok. “There’s only one of you losers I can’t beat and that’s who I’m fucking. Don’t go ruining my ambitions, Megumi-chan.”

The boy just sighed, ordering another bowl to go. Megumi, content being the sacrifice bunt, will never understand and it's not something you can explain. 

It’s that ache in the tips of your canines. It’s that hunger that keeps you awake at night. You don’t want a trophy, you want the trophy– Ryomen Sukuna himself, the greatest one to be won. To be fucked, chewed, swallowed, surpassed. You want to have him, to be him. He’s you and you’re him and it’s written fate and they’ll know it when they see it because Sukuna is your whole world and ever since you were a child you knew that you were born with the heart of a conqueror. 

……. 

“Sup, coach!” 

You’re a cockroach. You arrive half an hour before session starts, practising kata moves by yourself, grappling dummy puppets double your weight to the ground, turning extravagant somersaults. Standing in front of the line. Every new move Sukuna demonstrates, you ask a billion questions, getting it right exactly as he does it. Running the extra lap, the extra sparring bout with your friends, the extra push-up. 

Sukuna peers inside Megumi's mouth, poking his finger into his gums, checking for any bleeding. Despite his actions, he’s not blind to you, the itchy teeth in your maw. 

It’s not just a sport for people like you and Sukuna. People a little fucked in the head. People whose names, announced through the loudspeakers, get the audience jumping and cheering, the main attraction of the night. Hurricanes out to flatten the competition. 

See, it’s not about the points. Just the gold doesn’t satisfy: you want blood and broken teeth on the floor after you’re done. You want your opponents to refuse to fight you. You want them crawling, begging for time-outs, their coaches throwing the towel in to save their lives, their teary mothers cursing your very sight. Just like Sukuna.

Sukuna who relishes in your eyes on him. The way your breathing quickens childlike when he wrestles your face to the dirty mat, arms twisted behind you, his heavy foot pinning you down. The way you linger a bit longer when he shrugs his gi off, thick biceps flexing against the overhead lights. What a nut, he thinks: bitten fingernails, daddy issues, all the wrong things that excite you. This one’s gonna kill.  

Your hunger he rears by starvation. The harder you fight for a scrap of his attention to prove yourself, the sweeter you get. He can almost see his own tattoos on your eager face. 

So narcissistic, the way his pants tighten when he watches you fight: it's his devilry that flashes in your young eyes. Too young for him, some noble nonsense of not fucking your student, like he gives a rat’s ass. A rising Alexander, he’ll pick you for himself the second you’re good enough.

He knows to wait for it. Latchkey kids like you, raised to fight for love, you’d never want something you could have. The unreachable glory of Sukuna was what made having him worth it. 

He also knew that once you had him, you’d dig your teeth into him so hard that you’d tear right through him. Maybe preserve him in formaldehyde too. He can smell it on you, the threat you’ll grow to be. Not that he’ll spoon-feed you chances for that. Not that he has to, when you do it for yourself.

“Coach, could you spar with me?”

He’s terribly pleased, but the frown he wears for you remains on his face. “Aiming too high, brat.”

“Sorry,” an apology that you don’t mean in the slightest. “But I think I can qualify for the tournament, coach. I can start cutting weight tomorrow. Put me in this time, please, coach!” 

“You’re not good enough.”  

 “Let me convince you, coach.”

“Convince me?” He sounds so bored, as if you’re the greatest waste of his time.

I’ll change your mind, you promise.

I’d like to see you try– he’s amused.

“Oi, Todo! C’mere, beat this one for me. You–” he bends down to hold your chin, privately delighted at your blushing face. “– you score six points in sixty seconds against him, maybe I’ll think of putting you on the tournament roster.”

Right. Aoi Todo, brawler build, has the height and weight advantage on you, which means he’ll go for grappling techniques and try to pin you down to the ground. He’s not the type to go easy on anyone, and he likes to show off, so he’ll keep it short distance and try out some fancy kicks– he’ll waste time on performance and then you’ll get time to return attacks. Here’s the M.O. then: you keep light on your feet, dodge every single attack of his, and go for the head. Amen.

Todo squares up, entering the ring, dabbing you up in a show of good faith before assuming his fighting stance. Just as you predicted, his arms are open to take you down. 

You hold your ground. Todo, my friend, you grin at Sukuna, who for once has all his attention on you, I’m going to kill you. 

Sukuna blows the whistle, and immediately Todo lunges for you. A feint, for he changes tactics immediately and is punching you from the left. You have to jump over his shoulder to avoid it (Yuuji whoops), land behind his back, and before he can turn around, kick his spine so hard that he stumbles forward a bit. 

“2 points!” Sukuna checks the time: it’s been 6 seconds. 

Todo’s impressed too, you can tell. You’re distracted: Sukuna nodded at you! Both of you come back to your original positions, ready for the next point match. The whistle blows. 

He’s cautious this time– you kick his shins but he doesn’t yield an inch, so you attempt an upper-cut, but are caught unawares by his hook straight to your mouth. 

“Todo–1 point!” Your jaw feels dislocated, there’s tears threatening to brim in your eyes. Did you forget your meds again? Why can’t you stop giggling? 35 seconds gone.

Restart. You’re playing dirty now, tripping his ankle as he comes forward to attack. You pass through between his legs (using his height to your own advantage) to get behind him again. As if he was expecting it, you dodge his back kick, taking the moment where he’s off balance to land a 360 kick– right on his face. He groans in surprise, but you’re not done.

This isn’t about winning fair or showing sportsmanship spirit, you remind yourself as you pull Todo’s face into your knee, repeatedly, the sick sounds of his nose cartilage crunching. This is about you, Sukuna. 

He blows the whistle. 42 seconds, the match is over, Todo has burst his sinuses open, bleeding too badly to avoid medical intervention. A K.O. you’re calling it. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you’ is Megumi’s opinion. 

“Decent.” Sukuna’s smiling. Buzzed giddy on adrenaline and sweat, you want to kill the both of you. “Fine. Start the diet tomorrow.” He’s already leaving, other students to tend to. You’re a tad disappointed: you thought it’d be him checking your bleeding jaw, not the medic. Still, you’re happy taking what you can. It doesn’t come by often. “Come by my office after practice.”

a/n: i wrote this while looping bread by anya nami, really elevated the experience

[godhandler]

jjk headcanons based on nothing

kenjaku managed the beatles for a while and introduced yoko ono to john lennon

sukuna gets tummy aches a lot he had a minor tummy ache the entirety of gojo vs sukuna 

megumi cleans the bottoms of his shoes with a used toothbrush. yuuji has never even heard of cleaning shoe bottoms

choso stans jungkook, has a cutesy photocard of him doing the pouty lips and bambi eyes

gojo cant handle spicy food he prefers his spices to be sugar salt pepper and miso like the man he is

uraume would be the worst driver on the planet but stubbornly refuses to learn from anyone except sukuna but he also kinda sucks

kenjaku is delighted with boba he’d try out every single boba on the menu. has mixed opinions on vaping he likes the blueberry baja blast flavours but hates that they look so lame compared to cigarettes

sukuna’s second mouth is scared of pop rocks 

gakuganji was named in the panama papers scandal 

gojo is a girl group fan he was heartbroken when GFriend disbanded 

cult leader geto suguru invested heavily in foreign exchange markets, offshore mining and heavy industries while most of gojo’s are in real estate, telecom and tax-deductible charities

sukuna was about 52 (with strong af rct skincare) in the heian era when he died/turned into the cursed fingers. uraume was 10ish and sukuna 28ish when he took them in

kenjaku had severe beef with che guevara. it got personal. it got nasty. kenny worked overtime to get him shot

[godhandler]

since mrs, ms, and mr are all descended from the latin word magister, i propose the gender neutral version should be mg, short for "mage"

[godhandler]

they opened my brains and its pinker than yours so ....

[godhandler]

meiko kawakami has good english translations anywhere online too

the infuriating thing is that there is genuinely so much good queer literature out there, contemporary and not, but there is also a sizeable chunk of readers who think that a book only "counts" as good queer literature if it's a) unproblematic, b) contains romance as its central focus, and c) has the characters state their orientation and/or gender identity directly to the audience using socially acceptable 21st-century terms (as opposed to resorting to cowardly tactics such as Subtext and Themes)

[godhandler]

Nanami Kento doesn’t know your real name, only your touch. 

He knows you come to his penthouse whenever you don’t have a college essay due on the weekends, taking the metro instead of a cab to save money, bringing packets of instant ramen to share.

He knows you like to choose from amongst his liquor collection, always picking some sort of mixed vodka drink while teasing him for his old-man whisky favourites. 

He knows you like the lavender scent of his sheets (he thinks of you every time he buys the same detergent). He knows you like to push your face into it when he takes you from behind. 

He knows that you like it when he’s gentle, taking care of you after a particularly gruelling week, letting you grind your stress out on his tongue, soothing you with deep gentle strokes as he whispers sweet words into your lips. 

He knows you like it when he’s not, when he tosses you into the mattress like a ragdoll, leaving stinging hand prints on your plump ass, purple marks from his teeth all over your breasts and thighs, rocking your whole body harshly into the headboards, bullying his fat cock to cum inside you again and again, making you cry out till his neighbours hear. 

He knows that you like to “accidentally” push your tits into his face when you lean over for the TV remote, to “accidentally” lick his neck when you hug him as he fries eggs to put into your instant ramen, to “accidentally” give him a show groping yourself when you have to change into his pyjamas because you forgot to bring yours. 

He knows that you love spicy food (he puts extra pepper on yours), that you don’t like writing essays (he introduced you to Notedly), that you like hearing stories from his work (he exaggerates to make it funnier), that you like it when he accidentally slips up and says, “I love you”. He knows that you feel the same for him. 

Nanami Kento knows everything about you, except for your real name. 

masterlist

a/n: based on the hot 36 year old lawyer I matched with on Bumble. Palzer wherever u are I hope ur doing good my man. 

[godhandler]

Cottagecore life with Sukuna, who’s already packing his bags out the suburbs as you paint a picture of blue-green countryside idyll amid the mountain grass carpet, warm hearthstone, and sweetfish fresh from the stream. 

“Pick your favourite.” He scoffs at your delighted face. He won’t show you how much time he spent planning the whole thing: a surprise trip to a sheep ranch. Your laugh warms a blush all through his tan skin. “We’ll take it with us.”

A quick peck of gratitude later, you spend your time examining through the bleating herd. Cloud-balls brush past your knees. You decide on a youngling: fat little candyfloss on stubbly legs, a few weeks old at best. You’re already planning on the barn you’ll make for him– watch him grow up into a spoilt old ram. 

Sukuna, hanging back against the fence, rustles your hair as you return with your baby in your arms.“Good choice, looks soft too.”

“He is!” You pet his little head as he nuzzles into your neck, already taking to you. “His name’s Yuuji, I’ve decided, it’s perfect for him!”

“I’m not gonna call the pest that.”

You two walk back to your car, strapping your new pet into the backseat the best you can. The journey back to your homestead is pretty short anyway. “You’ll start loving him in no time, I tell you. C’mon, just call him by his name once!”

………..

“You don’t like it, brat?” Sukuna is confused seeing the tears in your eyes. Is it the smoke from the sizzling dish? Or were you not feeling meat-ish today? The lamb has been roasted to perfection, he made sure of that, topped it with your favourite lemon-cilantro too! “I’m even calling it ‘Yuuji asado’ instead of ‘cordero asado’.” 

“My baby…” You reach out to touch his now-crispy skin. 

Sukuna’s a bit hurt– you didn’t even try it once before reacting like that. Sukuna might not be a very experienced cook, but he actually followed the recipe to a T, putting his heart and soul into the dish to make you happy. On top of that, you did pick the lamb out yourself, so there’s no reason for you to be so ungrateful. 

Still, he carves out a leg, pouring extra garlic oil onto your plate, and forks off a bit for you to taste. You don’t want to hurt his feelings. You take the bite he’s offering. 

Yuuji. You’re sobbing now. You’re heartbreakingly delicious.

“Do you … like it?” His first culinary attempt: He just wants you to appreciate his efforts. 

“It’s the best lamb ever, baby.”  It’s true. Well-marinated meat, so tender you could tear it with your lips. Juicy on the inside, the flavours seeping through and through. You can’t even pretend that you don’t want another bite. “Tears of happiness, don’t worry about it.”

“Damn right.” His smile is back to cocky again, having conquered the art of the kitchen. “Play nice and I’ll make it again for you next week.”

a/n: this happened to me. I was 7. dad's side of the family yk.

[godhandler]

canon jjk unfortunately

Any idiot can like something thats good. It takes a real genius to like things that suck ass

[godhandler]

it actually completely unironically pisses me off that there was times when i wasn't alive and there will be times when i'm not alive. i should have been there for everything

[godhandler]

your series rent a bf is so good i almost choked myself when the next button on the last chapter didn’t work 😕😔

thank you!!!! im on it im on it i promise!!

[godhandler]

Is rent a boyfriend over?

hi, no its not, there are 5 acts in total, and iv published 2 here. i hate releasing things that im not fully happy with so please bear with this never-ending perfectionism of mine sowwy

[godhandler]

loid forger

I constantly manipulate everyone around me by calculating what would be the nicest thing to do in any given situation, l making a point of doing it when it matters the most. This is supported by subtly, casually tailoring what I talk about to the person I'm speaking to, and saying what I think they may find funny or interesting. the really sick thing is I look just like a normal person and there's no way you can tell me apart from anyone. If I weren't such a monster I would be afraid knowing people like this are out there, but I know I'm on top and have nothing to fear.

[godhandler]

my son whose fic i do not finish writing mommy loves u <3

June 5th