Sukuna stares down at you. this awkward, almost bug-eyed stranger, who’s been staring at him from across the produce aisle for one too many seconds now. you don’t even look at the pomegranates below you before you’re making your way over to him, phone up and opened, your mouth opening and closing once, twice.

“spit it out,” he tells you, nose in the air. you note that he doesn’t have a cart or a basket, and is holding too many things in his hands that shouldn’t be possible. again; tiger claws. his voice reverberates through the quiet aisles of the store, and you blink back into focus, staring again. he can count the moles on your skin from your proximity.

“your tattoos are really nice,” you start out, replaying back in your head your rehearsed lines, trying to keep your voice steady. “the black is so solid, and the line work is incredible.”

you pause, waiting for his acknowledgment, his grunt of thanks. he doesn’t say anything and neither do you until he, briskly, lifts and drops a shoulder in what you assume is his version of thanks. you continue, and he can’t help but narrow his eyes a bit in amusement at your little quirks.

“can I ask the artist who did them? I’d like to get my sleeve done by someone who’s as precise as whoever did yours.” smile. blink. slightly hold up your phone in indication that you’re ready to start typing when he speaks. Sukuna watches you for a long moment, maroon eyes raking you in ever so slowly, feels the familiar tingle behind his teeth when he wants to taste flesh.

“his name is Mahito,” he tells you, but holds a large hand (paw) up when you begin to type. “but he’s a fucking creep, so don’t go to him.”

oh. your mouth opens and closes once more. you’re about to tell him thanks and turn on your heel when he stops you, giving you the first glint of the lilting at the corner of his lips. is it a smile?

“got this other guy I frequent sometimes,” the man tells you, leaning against the produce, uncaring of how his thick hip squishes a bunch of bananas. you want to comment on it, but hold your tongue, wide eyes enraptured with the big man in front of you, who—who smiles? it feels more like a baring of teeth, but you accept it anyway. “I work on his car, he does my tattoos for free. I’ll take you by there sometime.”

the man snatches your phone from your hands without preamble, shifting the rest of his groceries into that singular paw. you can only watch wide eyed as he single-handedly types something into your phone, his teeth sharp as he downright leers at you when he hands it back.