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congrats on graduating, i hope you enjoy reading

sukuna is a coat hanger. 

yes, you heard that right. among his growing resume of boyfriend-slash-manager-slash-walking tripod-slash-ring light technician-slash-makeup guinea pig, he now holds the highly coveted position of personal wardrobe scaffolding. 

see, sukuna listens. which is dangerous and terrifying. because when you date a man who listens, remembers, and is also annoyingly perceptive, it means you’ve basically handed your entire closet into the hands of a fashion demon with opinions.

“you said the grey top rides up when you raise your arms,” he tells you flatly, not looking up from his phone. “don’t wear that if we’re filming.”

“you’ll get pit stains in the sage green one again,” he adds.

“the beige set makes your hips look good but the pants wrinkle like shit.”

you’re standing there, half-naked, sock half-on, blinking in slow horror. “how do you—?”

he finally looks up. slowly. knowingly. “i watch you get dressed every day. do you think i’m blind?”

and yeah, maybe you tease him and slap his ass when he holds up six different jeans for you like a tired little scarecrow, arms out, expression blank, eye twitching every time a hanger digs into his wrist. “left arm is for low rise,” he mumbles. “right is mid rise. pick one and hurry the fuck up, this shit is poking me.” you grin, walking a slow circle around him, inspecting like you’re at a boutique. 

“mmm. this one gives me a bubble butt. thoughts?”

his eyes flick downward. he’s silent for a beat. then—

“makes me want to bend you over the bathroom sink.”

“excuse me?!”

“you asked, babe.”

but his input doesn’t stop there. sometimes he lays out full outfits for you before you’ve even opened your eyes, muttering, “the brand wants clean lines today. you’re filming that serum demo, right? go with the mock neck and leather pants.”

sometimes he gently tugs a hoodie off your shoulder, deadpan: “you cannot do an unboxing video in a bleach-stained zip-up. we have a reputation.”

sometimes he just walks up behind you in the mirror, straightens a strap, tucks a loose thread, kisses the corner of your jaw and says, “perfect.”

and sure, he grumbles about it and pretends he’s burdened. but he’s the one who bought extra closet racks, the one who arranged your color-coded drawer system. the one who says, “if you’re doing soft glam today, wear the boots that make you look tall. your followers eat that shit up.”

he’s the one who catches your hand every time you reach for something last minute and murmurs, “nah, that’s not it. not today. go with the mauve one. that’s yours.”

because he sees you. every version. every era. every phase. and he just wants to make sure the world sees the best of it, too. and if that means becoming a human coat rack, so be it. 

just don’t tell him he’s sweet. he’ll bite. probably. unless you’re wearing that skirt.

thank you

i did write some lore about them here

you remember the morning too clearly, in that irritating, needle-under-the-skin kind of way, like your brain wants to replay it over and over just to remind you of how wrong everything went. sukuna had been annoyed — surprise, surprise — grumbling like a pissed-off old man because the atm by the station was busted and he had to go all the way to the bank. “i could go,” you’d offered, voice light, teasing, half expecting him to say yes just to get out of it. but he just shot you that look — brows twitching, mouth tugging down — and muttered something about how you’d probably get distracted petting cats and forget the card pin again.

you had rolled your eyes, called him an idiot. but you still stood by the door, brushing imaginary lint off his jacket like you were sending him to war and not just five blocks down. he let you, only half-complaining, letting you tug the zipper up all the way even though it made him look like a sulky middle schooler.

“be safe,” you said, pressing your palm to his chest. “don’t risk anything. i mean it.”

“yeah, yeah,” he’d muttered. “the outbreak isn’t even here.”

but it was.

you didn’t know until your neighbor down the hall started convulsing and gnashing her teeth at the building security guard. you were halfway through packing an emergency bag, wondering if you were overreacting, when the evacuation order hit. everything after that felt like a blur — a storm of boots pounding down stairs, screams, fire alarms, gunshots maybe, you’re not sure. someone grabbed your wrist and dragged you into the street. you don’t even remember locking the door.

and sukuna — where the fuck was he?

you called. a hundred times. messaged, left voicemails, tracked his last location until the signal dropped. you waited a day. then two. then a week. scavenged food, slept in shelter lines, still waiting. nothing. you had to accept it. the place you built together — your little apartment with its paint-chipped walls and mismatched mugs, the couch that dipped in the middle, the stupid printed adoption paper for a dog you wanted so badly (he had even signed it, after weeks of refusing, just to shut you up) — you left it all. you lost it all.

and the worst part? not knowing.

not knowing if sukuna had turned, or fled, or bled out somewhere alone with your name still in his mouth.

until exactly thirty-three days later, when you cracked open the door to a half-collapsed gas station for supplies and found him there.

standing still, half-wrecked, eyes locked on you. and still — somehow — his first instinct wasn’t to bite. it was to reach.

sukuna had never been the sentimental type. not really. sure, he let you hang on him like a weighted blanket and roll your eyes at his crass mouth, and maybe he didn’t hate it when you fussed over his jacket zipper like you were tucking him into battle. but he was never one to linger on things like goodbye kisses or notes or promises. so it shouldn’t have meant much, the way your hands had clung to his shirt that morning, the way you smoothed his collar down twice even though it wasn’t wrinkled.

intimacy wasn’t even a thought you let yourself entertain for more than a second — didn’t have the time, didn’t have the headspace, didn’t have the luxury of still feeling human enough for it. the world had gone to shit, and your priorities were skewed toward ration counts and boarded windows and whether that distant groan was just the wind or something more sinister creeping through the brush. and anyway, it’s not like you and sukuna were ever all over each other even before he turned. 

sex had never been a routine checkbox. it wasn’t a chore or a filler or a coping mechanism for either of you. it was something earned — slow, rare, real. something built on tension and trust and that weird way he used to look at you like you were the only uninfected part of the world even when everything was intact.

so now, with him in his current state — sitting shirtless and pale and partially torn open, gnawing on something you refused to look at — it felt impossible, obscene, even, to think of sex. not just because of how he looked, or what he’d become, but because you could barely manage a moment alone without thinking a shambler would burst in and rip your throat out.

still, some nights, it wasn’t fear that had you up.

some nights, you’d wake slick with sweat, heart hammering, but your hands weren’t grasping for weapons. they were clutching your thighs, your sheets, the hem of your shirt. dreams that weren’t quite nightmares but definitely weren’t innocent lingered behind your eyelids — him, the weight of his body, the way he used to growl against your throat, the rawness of his touch. your brain didn’t even try to make it romantic — it was just the desperate feel of him, heat and roughness and the way he used to make you forget everything else.

and you never acted on it. you couldn’t. it would feel wrong.

but sometimes you wondered if he still felt it too.

he still looked at you like that, sometimes. when the room was quiet, when the bloodlust had dulled down to a low ache, and he was just watching you clean a blade or patch a wall. eyes low, jaw tense. like he wanted, even if he wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

and sometimes his hand would twitch. like his body remembered the way it used to settle on your waist or sneak up under your shirt while you slept.

maybe that hunger was still in him too. maybe not the same kind. maybe worse. but it was still there.

and even in a world like this, you couldn’t help but think about it. ache for it. ache for him.

whatever version of him was left.

thank you, wrote about it here

you weren't even sure what compelled you to do it — maybe the stupid, reckless guilt of watching him suffer without making a sound, the way his muscles twitched under ruined flesh from the sheer force of restraint, or how his eyes had started to flicker with something darker than hunger — something desperate. either way, you’d grabbed your blade and slipped out, ignoring the growl he let out the second he saw you reaching for the door.

it hadn’t been easy. your hands were still trembling, covered in the slick, coagulated mess of it. it had taken three slashes to bring the infected down, and by the time you were dragging its heavy body back across the broken road and into your rickety safehouse, your knees felt like jelly and your stomach was doing flips.

sukuna had been pissed.

not at the corpse, not at the blood or the door creaking open again. at you.

he was already rising to his full, looming height, a thick snarl twisting out of his chest as he stomped toward you, but you’d snapped before he could get closer—

“you’re not the only one allowed to be stupid,” you had barked, hand still pressed to your knee, panting from the exertion, “now eat it.”

his nostrils flared. he was shaking with fury, probably wanted to scream something about how he didn’t need your pity, didn’t want your scraps, didn’t want you bleeding out for him while he sat on his decaying ass doing nothing. but you stood your ground, eyes locked with his until he finally snarled again and grabbed the thing by the neck.

you didn’t look. you couldn’t. the sounds alone were enough—the squelch, the tear, the snap of bone that echoed a little too clearly in the tiny room.

but then… silence.

and when you peeked? sukuna had turned around, his massive, corpse-twisted back shielding the carnage entirely from your line of sight. he was crouched like a damn toddler in time-out, hunched over, facing the corner like he was sulking—but you knew him. you knew he wasn’t ashamed of the feeding.

he was shielding you.

the slurping started up again, quieter this time, like he was… trying to be subtle? you sat down with your back to the opposite wall, still clutching your blade, and closed your eyes. you could feel the nausea crawling up your throat, but the corners of your lips tugged upwards just the tiniest bit.

it was ridiculous. it was horrifying. it was him. and somehow, through all the rotting flesh and unsaid words, you knew: sukuna was still here.

just… facing the wall. like the world’s biggest, angriest zombie toddler.  

some people really have the audacity.

like, unironically, out-loud-in-the-comments audacity. typing with their whole chest: “doesn’t your boyfriend literally live off of your influencer money?” like they weren’t just watching your GRWM for the third time in a row, seething. and sure, maybe sukuna doesn’t clock into an office or wear a badge or fill out tax forms labeled “department of soul obliteration” anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t work. he works. oh god, he works.

you think your brand deals just materialize out of thin air? that your inbox isn’t an absolute hellhole filled with subject lines like “hi dear!!! collab proposal uwu” and “hello sexy want be brand ambassad?” sukuna filters through all that. he filters ruthlessly.

he’s basically your manager, except meaner and hotter and allergic to bullshit. he reads every email like he’s reading a death sentence — mouse in hand, furrow between his brows, muttering things like, “what the fuck is a micro-essence water serum?” and “why do they spell ‘natural’ with a zero?”

he doesn’t just care about the check. no, no. sukuna cares about the feel. you’re not about to promote some face mist that smells like melted crayons just because it pays well. but also? you’re not about to let some fake-smiling oatmilk start-up guilt you into a collaboration just because they think their font is soft enough to disguise their shady labor practices. sukuna reads everything. everything. he has spreadsheets. color-coded folders. PR schedules. blackout dates.

he once emailed a skincare CEO back with the words: “we are declining. your tone is weird. fix that.”

you didn’t even know about it until the brand retracted and apologized two days later. you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on just a little.

and look, it’s not like sukuna is heartless. he’s just selective. his whole system — this whole fortress of precision and firewalls and well-timed posts — has made you desirable. you’re not just a face, you’re a brand. brands want you. they beg for you. you have exclusivity now, and you have him to thank.

but sometimes, the walls soften. like that one time, after three straight rejections in a row (“too generic,” “branding is off,” “are they serious with this pastel goat mascot?”), sukuna opens a new message from a gmail address with no signature and a tiny subject line that just reads: hi, um...!

and the email. oh man. the email.

it’s all over the place — typos, weird fonts, some high-schooler somewhere explaining nervously that she makes loom band bracelets in her free time and thinks you’re really cool, and she just wants to send you a couple because “your energy reminds me of the purple & pink color combo :)”

you glance over his shoulder mid-read. “rejecting that one too?”

but sukuna’s quiet.

then he snorts. “...what kinda business plan is ‘vibes only’?”

you lean into him, grinning. “the best kind.”

he clicks archive. and then — quietly, way too casually — “tell her to send the address. we’ll post next week.”

a few days later, you’re lounging in bed with your feet up, phone in one hand, sukuna tangled around you like the world’s angriest oversized cat. you’re both wearing those bracelets, matching purple and pink, the ends frayed, one of them too tight around his wrist but he refuses to take it off. your caption is something like: “support small creators 💕 (even the really small ones)” and the post has half a million likes by morning.

you tell him the response was sweet. you say the girl messaged crying because she was so happy. you lean into his chest and mumble, “see? you are a softie.” he tugs the blanket over your head and grumbles, “shut up. i’m still rejecting that dumb oatmilk brand next week.”

softie or not, he’s still got standards.