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sukuna proposes to you infront of the laundry machine

“you put the red sock in with the whites again, didn’t you?”

you stand in the doorway of the laundry room, arms crossed, trying and failing to hold back your laughter.

sukuna, the king of curses, destroyer of worlds, menace to humanity, was staring at the washing machine like it had personally insulted him.

“it was one sock,” he mutters, glaring at the slowly turning load through the glass door. “how was i supposed to know one tiny thing could ruin everything?”

you walk over and leaned against his arm, peering into the machine. one of his white shirts is now a suspicious shade of pink.

“because i told you last week,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder.

his eyes narrow at you, but there was no bite to it. not when his hand immediately comes to rest at your waist, pulling you closer with habitual ease.

“you’re enjoying this far too much.”

“i am,” you admit with a grin. “it’s cute.”

“cute?” he repeats, sounding offended in the most dramatic way possible. “i am many things, woman. terrifying. powerful. devastatingly handsome.”

you look up at him. “and cute.”

he huffs, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

the room fills with the steady hum of the washer and the soft scent of detergent. it is domestic in the strangest, sweetest way—something you never thought you’d associate with sukuna.

he was always so composed in battle, so effortlessly confident in everything he did.

except dates.

dates turned him into the most absurdly nervous man alive.

the first time he took you out, he spent twenty minutes pretending not to care which restaurant you picked, only to nearly crush the steering wheel because he was worried you wouldn’t like the food.

the second date, he showed up with flowers and then acted like they had magically appeared in his hand.

now here he is, looking more tense over laundry than he ever had in a fight.

you reach for the detergent bottle on the shelf above, but before your fingers could touch it, sukuna catches your wrist.

“wait.”

his voice is strange, quieter.

you turn to him, brows lifting. “what is it?”

for once, he looks genuinely unsure.

sukuna glances at the washing machine, then at the basket of unfolded clothes, then back at you as if searching for the least ridiculous place in the room to focus.

“i had a plan,” he sighs, voice trembling.

you blink. “for the laundry?”

“for this,” he corrects you, and then, to your complete shock, he reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants.

and pulls out a small velvet box.

“sukuna—”

“before you say anything,” he interrupts quickly, almost suspiciously flustered, “i was going to do this at dinner.”

you look at him, stunned and already smiling.

he scowls at the floor. “but every time i take you out, i get nervous.”

that make you laugh softly. “you? nervous?”

his gaze snaps to yours, and there is something so vulnerable beneath the annoyance that your heart melts.

“with you, yes.”

your breath catches.

he opens the box, revealing a ring that sparkled under the dim laundry room light.

then dramatically drops down to one knee.

“so i figured,” he continues, voice rougher now, “if i asked you here, while we’re arguing over socks and detergent, maybe i wouldn’t lose my mind.”

a laugh escapes you, watery with tears.

“are you proposing to me in the laundry room?”

“i am proposing to you beside a cursed washing machine and a pink shirt,” he says dryly, shrugging. “try to appreciate the romance.”

you laugh harder, covering your mouth.

he stands up straight, then he steps closer, one hand cupping your cheek.

“marry me,” he says softly. “let me spend the rest of my life ruining laundry and making you laugh.”

your eyes burn with happy tears. “yes,” you whispers, then louder, smiling so hard it hurt, “yes, of course i’ll marry you.”

for the first time all evening, sukuna looked relieved.

then the washer beeps loudly, and you both glance at it.

“your shirt is still pink,” you laugh agaisnt him.

he slips the ring onto your finger and pulls you into his arms, lips brushing your forehead.

“then i suppose,” he murmurs, smiling against your skin, “pink is my color now.”

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