#sukuna angst hrs

[olasketches]

sukuna is actually messier that he let’s on. he acts like a deity, which everyone falls for… everyone except for yuuji that is. yuuji despises sukuna, sukuna despises yuuji and honestly if it weren’t for yuuji (and uraume, but on that later) all of us would probably only see sukuna as some evil god that only wants to corrupt and destroy which truthfully… is exactly what we see most of the time. however, sukuna never refers to himself as the honoured one or the strongest or even the king of curses it’s everyone else who does (even the narrator), but he still plays along. the only time we can see him act rather casually is when he’s around uraume cause even around them he doesn’t really act like an evil god everyone sees him as. another instance is yuuji. yuuji has got to be the only person that gets on sukuna’s nerves and doesn’t revel in his god like greatness. in fact he defines it and sukuna does not like that one bit. that’s why he retorts to petty insults that don’t even hold much weight and only says more about sukuna himself than yuuji, which also reveals sukuna's own inner conflict. sukuna is not a deity as much as he wants to act like one. he has has this messy and dare even I say human side to him that only two people managed to get access to.

sukuna is someone who actively rejects his humanity - turning and twisting it into something that fits his ideal worldview - but he can’t completely escape it no matter how much he tries to…

Q: Does he still posses the memories when he was a human?

A: Seems like he does. There’s only subtle recognition from Sukuna himself and everyone around him that Sukuna is “human”. 

[arvandus]

Thanks @thebellearchives for the tag!

Rules:

make a 24-hr poll with the names of your WIPs and then for whichever wins, write one sentence for each vote it gets

Okay folks, here we go!

Yes, these are all Inumaki fics. I'm taking a lil' break from 'Touch' to indulge in some other ideas, and right now, sweet Inumaki has caught my writer's eye.

All of these will have NSFW content (yes, he's aged up, don't get your knickers in a twist), but that's about as far as the similarities go as each fic will be very different from the others. Here's the descriptions & triggers: 1. Sukuna!Inumaki x F!Reader (oneshot) - ANGGGSSTTT heavy angst; noncon/dubcon (for both due to Sukuna); Sukuna possession used as a plot device (i.e., not tied heavily to canon); lots of healing, eventual happy ending. Basically my brain thought what if Inumaki got possessed by Sukuna, and then ran with it. 2. Arranged Marriage Inumaki x F!Reader (multichapter series) - Future JJK canon AU; arranged marriage for political reasons within the JJK world; slow burn, sort of enemies to lovers, pining, happy ending.

3. Quirk Swap (BNHA Quirk AU) Inumaki x F!Reader (oneshot) - Purely here for the fun smut. Established relationship, Reader gets Inumaki's cursed speech ability and gets to torment him with it in the bedroom. This also means Inumaki gets to say all the things he's ever wanted to say. Sub(ish) Inumaki, Dom(ish) Reader (EDIT: AT FIRST... then the tables will turn... again!). Fluff, probably some silliness.

[runabout-river]

@fourthousandbees I like the theory that Yuji has an artificial heavenly restriction like Maki's natural one. The facts of the matter are:

- Yuji's mother Kaori was a sorcerer

- Kaori was a vessel of Kenjaku and Yuji is one of his experiments

- Yuji managed to become Sukuna's vessel because of that BUT is him being able to control Sukuna a feature of Kenjaku's experiments or is it a bug?

Does Kenjaku have other experiments walking around who would've been able to host Sukuna as well?

In the first chapter Megumi wonders if Yuji's physical ability is like Maki's. So let's say it is and they both have heavenly restriction.

-Yuji and Maki had civilian levels of cursed energy at the start of the manga but Yuji was physically stronger than Maki

- Maki's hr suppressed only (close to) 50% of cursed energy because she shared her ce with Mai

- with Yuji being stronger than her we can assume that his hr suppresses (close to) 100% of his natural cursed energy and technique with which he should have been born with

In a round of questions Gege said that Kenjaku thought of using Toji as his next vessel but he ultimately didn't try it because he feared that Toji's heavenly restriction would suppress his own mind. Going with this we have Yuji who:

-> didn't lose his superhuman strength and ergo still has his heavenly restriction

-> said hr is enough to subjugate Sukuna's mind and

-> Sukuna's cursed energy is so powerful that it still flowed into Yuji

And that's the way Yuji's powers worked till chapter 212. What happens now is anyone's guess.

Final thoughts: I can think of a few meta explanations as to why Sukuna looks like Yuji but in the story that fact has to have a significant meaning and yes, it probably is some kind of natural ability that has most likely nothing to do with Kenjaku (but maybe with Yuji's father or biological mother)

Now if Yuji were to lose his heavenly restriction then first: angst and drama because that would mean his superior strength would vanish and he'd become absolutely helpless and powerless... but then his actual cursed technique would come out. And because pulling a random power out of one's ass is bad story telling that new technique would be the Anti-gravity system of Yuji's mother.

[lalunanymph]

who's your (baby) daddy. [1]

╰┈➤ After being dumped by your boyfriend of 3 years, you decide to switch things up and go on your own version of a “hot girl summer”—subsequently finding yourself with a surprise that would arrive in 9 months time. The catch? You have absolutely no idea which of the men you slept with is your baby’s daddy.

𖨆♡𖨆 nanami x reader, gojou x reader, toji x reader, sukuna x reader

# explicit smut, puking, angst, heartbreak, pregnancy, breakups, alcohol, justin bieber, language, MDNI

‗ ❍ masterlist

“Oh, fuck me.”

Head bent forward, body slumped into a half curl was how the morning found you, sun rays innocently prickling your closed eyes as you heaved up half of yesterday’s dinner. Not caring that you were supposed to be at work half an hour ago, you ignored the calls that were coming into your phone, picking up the last one that went on for a second too long.

“Hello?”

“Y/N, where the hell are you?” Your head editor of Tokyo Today’s business desk (and massive asshole extraordinaire who always scheduled you for last-minute news) screeched from the other end of the call.

“You were supposed to be at Izuyama's public listing ceremony an hour ago.”

“Mm-mm,” you groaned, head thrown back. “Sorry, boss. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.”

“I don’t care what fucking side you woke up on, just get your ass there before the press conference starts,” Mia Ito hissed, and you could picture her usually genial dark eyes wild with panic, the mental image causing you to snort inwardly for her high-strung disposition could be a bit much.

“I’ll get one of my sources to give me the data of the listing and schedule something with the CEO’s secretary,” you stood up, wiping the back of your mouth off the flecks of puke. “Promise.”

You were not called one of the best reporters of your department for nothing. Years of underground work, potentially dangerous networking, and hours of sloughing through the corporate worlds brought you a ton of sources you could pick and choose to save your ass from this current predicament. Nobody could say L/N Y/N did not have a solid web of information after dedicating your life (and sanity) to curating them.

“Oh, fucking hell, Y/N,” you heard her growl and could sense her temper rising. “Would it kill you to be a bit more professional? We have a new HR manager today and word on the street is she’s some yuppie who is out for old blood.”

A quick press and the toilet bowl whirred in the background. “Out for old blood?”

“She wants to bust anyone who is older than 25.”

“What do you mean she wants to do that?” you scoffed, incredulous, a mental image of a slick-haired, severe-looking young woman with red lips coming to mind. “That’s fucking ageist, Mia. Can’t we complain to HR about that?”

“Sweetie,” the other woman deadpanned. “She is HR.”

You stopped short of pushing your leg through the dark brown slacks you chose to wear today. “Oh. Right.”

A loud sigh. “You’re getting loopier these days.”

“Am not,” you grumbled, and though people could say you held a much too casual relationship with your boss, little did they know that you had been Mia Ito’s right-hand woman since the business department was still in its budding days. You had been by her side weathering through prickly businessmen, threats of defunding, and even a near lawsuit on her end for misrepresentation of information; she owed you her life as much as you owed her yours.

“You better get yourself checked after you push this story out,” was her trade-off with you.

Barely affording another second to lose, you chirped, “Yes, ma’am!”

The day was far too bright to be wasting it on interviewing stuffy men in suits, and you let the radio play, some inane pop song that brightened the gloom and got you humming, tapping your manicured fingers on the steering wheel. Your phone vibrated and you put in the Bluetooth

On the way to TYO, you missed a call from your boyfriend of three years, Nanami Kento, and decided to ignore it. Well, ex-boyfriend now. You were both no longer together and had called it quits a few weeks ago. Trying not to be consumed by the thoughts of him, you kept it together, focusing on the road ahead.

Kento and you met during a press conference when you interviewed his boss, Yaga Masamichi, on his public listing for the Masamichi Group. At first, you had penned him for a taciturn man who barely spoke, though his choice of attire—a leopard print tie which you had teased as his wildest accessory yet—did not avail you of the thought of how spontaneous he could be.

After all, the first time you had ever gone out on a date with him resulted in you waking up in between his sheets with the shy inquiry of a second date brought up by said stoic man. You could not refuse him, not when his animalistic lust-filled disposition that night was now replaced by shy insecurity that endeared you. As a great romance book once said, the rest was history.

… Until what happened last week during your 3-year anniversary dinner where he dropped the bomb on wanting to move to Malaysia for a new job opportunity.

At first, you had agreed to it, saying that it was a good change of pace and environment. But, the more you thought about it, the more it became clear to you that you did not want to move to another country so far away from the people you loved and a budding career you could not give up.

Like two streams shifting into a fork that separated them, you had both decided to part ways. Don’t cry, Y/N, fuck, don’t cry. You sniffled and put all thoughts of him out of your mind to focus on today’s agenda.

Heels clicking on the marble flooring, you nearly skidded past the door, pulling the handle back to enter a packed press conference room. Slinking towards the front, you prepared your media pass and your notebook, smiling sheepishly at the other business reporters from different publications as you sat towards the front where the chairman was giving his speech.

It was the same old speech you had heard many people of power give and you jotted it down, half-listening, the other half wondering what to order for tonight’s dinner.

“Mr. Sento will now be taking questions from the floor,” a young man in a crisp suit you recognized as the company’s head PR manager uttered. You were content to let the rookies ask the usual questions of the company’s goals, the results of the merger, and how their suppliers would profit from this listing. But, they did not have the ace up your sleeve—a tip-off from a reliable source in TYO regarding the stock valuation that had the potential to break the pricing and drag it down.

After all, it was your moral obligation to inform your readers of what they were investing their money in and you pictured the aghast looks of the PR manager once the spotlight trailed to you.

You raised your hand.

“Ms. L/N from Tokyo Today,” you said in a clear voice.

A murmur roused through his PR team and one of them even winced. Your reputation has preceded you once more.

The stage was yours. “Mr. Sento, as you know there is currently a water crisis in Bangladesh now and it is public knowledge that your company supplies water tank parts manufactured from the same region, correct?

Mr. Sento nodded. This was all in the public domain and no potential for untoward news. At least, that was what he thought.

“But, we’ve had information that there were traces of mercury found in one of the factories near your suppliers. Now, I am not pointing fingers but can you be assured of the quality you are providing your suppliers and those who utilize your tanks?”

Silence greeted you, and you swore you saw a sheen of sweat film the chairman’s forehead.

“That—”

“We cannot answer that question,” the PR manager butted in, but the damage had been done. A flurry of questions came barraging and you sat back down, scribbling the answer for an exclusive insider piece that would hit the printers tomorrow.

“Ms. L/N, questions like these are of little consequence to the press conference,” the young man said sternly, shoulders set.

You stood up once more. “Of course, I am aware of that. But with the current valuation 2x more than the stock estimation, we have to wonder… why the inflation of the pricing, and is the value merited if the quality of the products are compromised?”

The nail was hit on the head. Above the room, the stock counter devalued, the investors quickly growing queasy. The price was plummeting to its market value in real-time.

Your job was done. “I believe you owe it to your investors to be transparent, Mr. Sento,” you quipped and stood up, but not before the feeling of nausea encroached your awareness. Going green around the edges, you rushed out of the room, ignoring the vexation your suddenness stirred amongst the reporters, photographers, and even the board of directors seated on the elevated stage.

As if in slow motion, your body tilted forward and you heaved, retching onto the pristine marble floors. Ripples of surprise and shock echoed around the room and you couldn’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed, not when you had successfully brought down the pricing so that potential investors would have a fair chance to weigh if they wanted to buy into this company or not.

Straightening up, you shot the pale chairman a look of apology. “I’ll notify the cleaners on this. I am truly sorry—not for what I said but for…” you glanced at the puddle of sick, “... this.”

At least you knew where the other half of your dinner went.

Mia could not stop laughing, bent over her desk, head in her palms, shaking violently from fits after fits of giggle. Ignoring your reddened cheeks, she chortled once more and had to collect her breath. “Y-you… fucking hell, Y/N…”

Another round of seagull-like laughter at what you had… projected during the meeting… and you rolled your eyes, disgruntled at how Mia had the audacity to laugh at your misfortune. “Yeah, yeah. Cackle all you want, you old hag. Just be grateful the story is done.” You passed her the file and hitched your purse over your shoulder, stalking towards the exit of the newsroom.

“Feel better, Y/N!” Mia called after you and you waved at her, ignoring her smirk as you closed the door behind you with a soft thud.

The nausea was still lingering around the edges and you sat back in your car seat, taking a moment to just breathe. The whole day came crashing around you and you picked your phone up, Kento’s name still in your contacts. Weirdly, he had not messaged you, instead leaving calls that got you wondering what was going on. You reined in your curiosity, remembering with bitter clarity what he had said to you the last night then both of you were last together.

“I don’t think this would work out between us.”

Kento was not a man to give up easily and for him to release his hold on this relationship—when you had both put in everything to make it work physically, emotionally, and mentally—broke you. You recalled how you could not even move a muscle out of bed, K-dramas, chocolate ice cream, and takeout being your constant friend during those few days.

But, just as you were recovering from that ordeal, another one crept up, reminding you of the humongous mistake—or, more likely, mistakes—that you committed in your efforts to get over the man you once thought as the love of your life.

None of it became startlingly clear when you were sitting in Dr. Shoko Ieiri’s chair with an ultrasound picture laying between the both of you like an unwelcome guest at an already terse dinner party. As your friend of two years and resident OBGYN, Ieiri was having a hard time divulging this truth to you; your stuffy face and snot-filled nose could attest to how life-changing this bit of news was.

“You’re three weeks pregnant, Y/N.”

Your gaze flickered to the ultrasound. “Ieiri-chan, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” she said, pen tapping on the starched paper.

“Technically—let’s just say—that well… maybe… Can you pinpoint the exact conception date?”

Ieiri studied your vitals with a pucker in her rose-tinted lips. “I would put this happy occurrence to have happened between July 2 and July 16, either the day of the breakup—”

“Or the birthday party, the mechanic workshop, and the tattoo parlor,” you whispered. Ieiri was not expecting you to burst out laughing, or for you to cling onto the edge of the table when those bubbles of giggles dissolved into sobs.

“F-fuck me,” you moaned and Ieiri clicked her tongue.

“You sure you want to add me into the mix, as well? The bowl’s pretty full, Y/N.”

Fixing your wet eyes on her, you managed to muster a miserable glare. “Don’t slut-shame me.”

“Am not,” she said and disregarded her professional veneer to take your hand and squeeze it gently. One look into her pretty, but careworn face made the words lodged in the back of your throat spill forward.

“What do I do?” Misery could not even begin to cover how you felt, for how could you be anything but disconsolate when you had absolutely no idea whose baby was in your womb. “I took all the precautions, here, look—”

You rummaged into your bag and produced a packet of condoms, ones that had Ieiri’s eyes bulging. “Fucking hell, Y/N, I remember when you bought those years ago. Those are not condoms; those are just films of rubber that are as reliable as underpaid security guards at a drug-and-fuck filled festival. They will let anyone through.”

“Condoms don’t have a best-by date,” you argued, trying to salvage your hope by debating on the merits of its contraceptive safety with an OBGYN of all people. “... right?”

“Jesus,” Ieiri moaned and released your hand, her expression seeming to say see, I told you so. Sensing that it would be to your detriment rather than your benefit for her to utter those words, she sighed, running her fingers through her medium-length brown hair. “Okay, okay. Do you at least have any idea who the baby daddy could be?”

Fuck.

“Um,” you screwed your face, doing the mental calculations.

Ieiri was growing more and more worried every passing second that you could not produce an answer.

“Wait, wait—um…”

“You have no fucking idea, don’t you?”

Her sharp words deflated the determination that ballooned in your chest and you slumped forward with a groan. “No. I have no idea. I made them all use these condoms.”

Your best friend summed up the predicament you were in succinctly in one sentence. “Yup, we’re fucked.”

The idea of Kento being the father crossed your mind as one of the four possibilities to this debacle.

You recalled with clarity how on the night before he had left you, he had driven you home in a disquiet, the radio playing in the background and the gritting of your teeth to stop the sobs from slipping past the only source of sound in the tense interior.

“It’s for the best,” he had muttered as the both of you idled in the parking lot, neither of you wanting to make the first move. Because you both sensed that if you did, this would be the last time you would speak or see the other again. Drumming your fingers on the car seat, you inhaled deeply.

“I guess you are right,” you said. His handsome face was impassive, as it was his usual mien and you gripped the hem of your dress, worrying it with your thumb and forefinger. The fact that you had waxed your pussy lips raw, wore your best lingerie set, and even splurged on some perfume that was touted to be an aphrodisiac just to impress a man who would eventually dump you by the end of the night was ironic, to say the least.

As if reading your mind, Kento reached forward and gripped your hand.

“These three years have been the best of my life,” he said softly. “I treasure every memory we have made together, Y/N, and I hope you will live a good and prosperous life.”

But I don’t want to live unless it is with you every pore of your body seems to scream. The air was fraught with tension and you gripped his hand, his thumb running circles over your knuckles, that simple motion bringing back memories of when he used to do the same thing at movies, or when you were having a bad day or even when he took your hand in the middle of a long line at Starbucks.

The tears started stinging, threatening to ruin the smokey makeup you had worn for him.

“I got to go,” you mumbled, voice thick with unshed tears. But, before you could fumble for the seatbelt, you felt his hand on your thigh, stopping you in place.

“I just…” you were stunned to hear how ragged he sounded. “I just want to kiss you. One last time. Is that okay?”

How could you say no to that?

Kento helped you unbuckle your seatbelt and leaned forward, the smell of his tobacco-vanilla cologne saturating your senses, heady on your tongue as you pressed your lips to his. But, one last kiss turned into another one, and another one, and you were on his lap, his lips on your neck and teeth on your pulse point, charting the sensitive skin with love bites.

Thighs trembling, you could barely make it in time to hitch up the hem of your dress, his light brown eyes that had turned dark with hunger taking in your lacy black thong. He traced the swell of your pussy through the fabric and you choked on a moan when he slid the seat of your thong aside to sink two fingers into your sopping heat.

He replaced his fingers with his cock once you were all but keening. Kento set a pace that had you gasping, hips bucking in a vain effort for more friction, your mouth pressed to his neck to whimper all your pleads and moans. Strands of blonde hair tickled your cheeks and the radio was playing a sad love song; one that weaved around to create an atmosphere of delicate heartbreak and intense emotions that had no outlet beyond rushed presses of skin on skin, sweat staining your bare bodies, and the feverish heat of his sculpted chest against your naked tits.

Luckily, the windows of his Audi were darkly tinted and you both could divulge in this last memory together.

The outline of his cock seemed to be imprinted in your velvet walls and you threw your head back, your orgasm flooding forward in a rush. Kento groaned and spilled into you, hot spurts trickling down your thighs. You weakly reminded yourself that you had to take your pills after this.

Kento kissed your temple and cleaned you up with his handkerchief, adjusting the hem of your dress. He did all that without being able to look into your eyes.

“... and I was like baby, baby, baby, ohhh…”

You winced when you recognized the song that played through the speakers. Unbelievable. Did they still play that Justin Bieber track on the radio? In this decade?

“Um, I guess that this is my cue to leave,” you whispered and Kento nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose and rushing to shut the radio off the moment you left out of sheer embarrassment of what had transpired.

You came back to the present, staring at the 12-inch pizza from a nearby deli you bought out of sheer frustration for the news you had received today. Munching on the cardboard-like crust, you snorted.

You didn’t know what was worse; that you may be pregnant with your ex-boyfriend’s baby or that you may have conceived one to a Justin Bieber song.

Well, at least it wasn’t Ariana Grande, you reasoned. Tossing the crust back into its box, you rubbed your temples with the ungreased hand. Whether from the hormones or desperation, you picked up your phone and messaged the last person you had slept with—a certain tall, tattooed man with rosy hair and a charming smile.

The light from your phone illuminated your consternated expression and you tapped in your message.

Hey, ‘Kuna. It’s Y/N. We need to speak. Let me know when you’re free.

Taking in a deep breath, you shot the message, waiting for a reply. Immediately, the double tick turned blue and your heart hitched, anticipating his response. You waited, and waited, and waited.

But there was no reply.

Bastard, you groaned and dunked your head under the suds of this lavender bath you had drawn.

The water needs to be less than 36ºC for the safety of the baby. At least, that was what those articles advised, and you were about to lose your mind in a lukewarm bathtub. Great, not only had you essentially ruined your life by getting pregnant out of wedlock but you were now barred from the things that once gave you immeasurable joy like sushi, hot baths, and beating your own ass in soul cycling.

This was worse than you could have imagined and as you stared at your empty phone, you wondered just who exactly did this little nugget in your belly belonged to. You were like Donna Sheridan from Mamma Mia, except without the luxurious Greek island. Perhaps, you were like Bridget Jones but without the reassurance of having slept with just two men.

No, what I am is a slut, you groaned inwardly. Not only had you slept with four men but out of all of them...

Your phone rang and you picked it up to hear Shoko at the end.

“Turn on your fucking TV now,” her tone was filled with urgency and your heart skipped a beat. “Now, Y/N, now! Channel 5!”

“Okay! Okay—Jesus!”

You clambered out of the bathtub, not even bothering to wipe yourself down when you picked up the remote and changed it to channel 5 as per Ieiri’s urging.

“It’s him—you said white hair and blue eyes. Fuck, how did I not put it together?! We met him at Getou’s fucking birthday party!” Shoko exclaimed giddily through the line and you suddenly could not breathe.

Charismatic in a bespoke Alexander Amosu Vanquish suit—with his shock of white hair and even more startling blue eyes hidden behind a pair of shades that was sure to have cost your whole year’s salary—was none other than Gojou Satoru, the heir apparent of Gojou Holdings.

Penned by many lifestyle publications as an enigmatic casanova, Satoru was one of the up-and-coming richest businessmen in the conglomerate stratosphere with a net worth reaching the billions, if your sources were correct.

That was not the only thing about him that sent you into the orbit of shock.

For on the screen, bearing the same impish smile that spoke of mischief and a scandalous night in Getou Suguru’s pristine Scottish garden, was the second man you had slept with during that two-week period after your breakup with Nanami Kento.

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

[olasketches]

there is just something deeply sad about sukuna to me and where normally I would make fun of him cause ‘lol you're the reason why you're so miserable’ I understand where his whole 'live only for yourself' mindset might have come from. ‘I was an unwanted child’ some japanese fan even explained

Sukuna wasn’t just a “Creepy Kid”. In JP, he calls himself “忌み子”. This means “A child born unwanted” or “A child whose existence itself is anathema”. He was that much hated by everyone even when he was a child😭

and sure maybe he was a menace as a kid too who knows but hey... STILL. being not only rejected by others but also feeling constant hostility from everyone?? this would have messed up anyone. no wonder sukuna thinks that the best and only way to live/survive and to have some enjoyment in life is to pursue this hedonistic lifestyle… but then again these are just speculations and I’m probably reaching, but one thing that I find immensely sad about him is that...

sukuna doesn't care about dying. he doesn't. he legit sounds like he’s only here waiting for death to come and entertain himself in the meantime ‘to pass time until I die’ but then... why did he come back? that's one question kashimo asked him and sukuna never answered

then are satisfied? if so, why divide your soul and cross the ages as cursed objects?"

sukuna ripped his soul into twenty pieces just to live the same way he did back in heian era? he claims to be satisfied with the way he lives but then he traveled across the ages and reincarnated just to wait for death to come.. again?? sukuna doesn't answer kashimo’s question cause honestly... I don't think he knows himself the answer to it. I get a feeling that there might be a sense of... longing here. maybe some part of sukuna is longing and looking for something, anything that can fill that ever growing void inside him, he just doesn't know what that is that is missing.

[olasketches]

Ryomen Sukuna

[olasketches]

hold awnn..

I KNEW IT (I mean I suspected he might have some scars on this side of his face but to have it actually confirmed now?? IM LIVING)

[olasketches]

me and like two other sukuna stans making posts about how miserable he is

[olasketches]

Ironic, isn’t it? Given everything, but unable to do anything. Dying slowly. (x)

You should spend your lives stifling your own misery. (x)

funny how they’re both saying these things to the guys they deemed ‘weak’ and therefore unworthy of their respect but they’re actually talking about themselves here.

[olasketches]

JOIN US, JOIN US let’s psychoanalyse sukuna together.

and yes exactly!! there’s nothing that thrills him besides fighting. even in yorozu’s flashbacks, when the villagers were paying him respect, he looked downright miserable. he may have been worshipped and respected but he never felt satisfied by it, so he seeks that satisfaction in jujutsu but it’s never enough. it’s all short lived.

I think there’s a gaping hole in sukuna that he’s been trying to fill with epic battles and jujutsu but that wasn’t enough. he’s still ripped his soul into twenty pieces and traversed across time as a cursed object… but just for what reason exactly?? only to wait for death to claim him again?

maybe some part of sukuna is longing and looking for something, anything that can fill that ever growing void inside him, he just doesn't know what that is that is missing.

me and like two other sukuna stans making posts about how miserable he is