Citrine

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞'𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐩:

Laz Alonso

tw: weed, manipulation

yuujis older brother sukuna who plays video games with you while you wait for yuuji to come back from a baseball party. he gives you a beer or two, shares a joint, and lets you win at smash for a long time-- something unusually nice.

"lets make a bet," Sukuna says, ever so casually, "You win the next round, I'll give you fifty bucks. "

This peaks your interest. you're a broke college kid-- fifty bucks is a lot. The weed has you stupid, gullible-

but you know there's a catch. "And if I lose?"

"I get to touch your pussy." he replies evenly, flipping between a couple characters. He decides on Bowser, a character he hasn't played yet.

"What?" you cough, choking on your suddenly very dry throat. He's been behaved all night, the only touches seemingly accidental, but he was just holding back, waiting for the right moment.

"I get. To touch. Your pussy." The corners of his mouth creep up and the skin around his tattoos crinkles, "You're going to win anyway, so what does it matter? Just take the bet and buy a couple pizzas or whatever."

"Fine. Whatever." you select your character and hit enter, the music raring to life, "You better actually have the money right now. None of this 'I'll pay you later' bullshit."

The round is over in less than a minute. Sukuna tosses the controller to the side, wicked smile even wider now that he's won. He didn't lose a single life, played way harder than he did earlier-

You suspect he hustled your ass, but you don't have time to think about that. Not when he's crawling towards you, hands tugging on the hem of your skirt and he presses you down onto your back.

"Right now?" you whisper, despite no one else being home.

"You wanted the money right now." Sukuna mocks. He flips the hem of your skirt into your stomach, exposing your panties. You're relieved for some reason that you wore a cute set this morning-- not that you care about his opinion. "I want the pussy right now. None of this 'I'll pay you later' bullshit."

Usually, you'd tell him to fuck off, but weed has you relaxed. Maybe even a little horny. You aren't drunk, aren't particularly stoned-- just in the right mindset to be touched by someone as pretty as him.

Less than reluctantly, you pull your panties to the side and revel in the face of excitement he makes.

"Shit, you're wet." he sucks air through his teeth, "Sure you didn't lose on purpose?"

You close your eyes, prepared for the warm touch of his fingers, only to be greeting by the distinct tinkle of his belt.

You sober up immediately. " I'm not fucking you."

"Geez, you think I'm a real asshole, huh? I'm just touching you- I'm just not using my hands." Sukuna shrugs as he frees his semi-hard cock from his jeans. It's unfortunately fat already, something that shouldn't turn you on, but does.

He slots himself against you, one leg over yours, the other under, and taps the sticky head of his cock against your clit. "See? Just touching."

You’re a goddamn survivor of your own imagination.

he was not supposed to care.

he made it very clear from the jump — the moment you stood there with trembling fingers and that little plus sign shaking in your hand — he said no. flat out.

“get rid of it.”

no inflection, no hesitation. like it was a business decision — clean cut, transactional.

you cried. of course you did, and that irritated him. not because he didn’t expect it — people always cried around him, usually for very different reasons — but because you meant it. you kept saying shit like “it’s a life, ryomen. it’s mine. i’m keeping it.”

and for some godforsaken reason, that intrigued him.

he could’ve disappeared. could’ve gone ghost like it was nothing. but no, instead he sends money every month. doesn’t ask for receipts, doesn’t ask how you’re doing — just sends it. like clockwork. a habit. a system.

and then the texts started. once a week, always the same tone.

sukuna [10:38 am]: how far along sukuna [1:00 pm]: any complications sukuna [6:45 pm]: what are you eating sukuna [8:09 pm]: stop eating that

cold, efficient. might as well be a fucking doctor.

and yet you answer him every time like you owe it to him. like his disapproval still somehow has weight. you even tell him the stuff he doesn’t ask, like when the baby first kicked. or when you had morning sickness so bad you fainted.

you expected silence, but the next morning there’d be a delivery at your door — electrolytes, iron supplements, snacks. you pretended not to care, and he pretended not to send them himself.

he doesn’t come to check-ups, doesn’t ask about names. doesn’t send any of those useless stuffed animal bullshit things new parents get excited over. but he thinks. silently. like, how someone like you — soft-spoken, annoyingly hopeful — could still look him in the eye and choose to have his kid.

and then you’re in labor, and for some reason it’s him you call. not your friend, not your mom, not a cab. it’s sukuna.

and he doesn’t even think. just grabs his keys, doesn’t change clothes — just a tank top, sweats, and fury in his grip as he clenches the steering wheel and breaks five traffic laws to get to the hospital.

you’re already screaming when he finds you, sweaty and biting curses into your palm, and the nurse asks who he is and he says “the fucking father.”

he stays the whole time — pacing, arms crossed, jaw locked. doesn't say much — just sharp nods when you cry out that you can’t do it, low grunts of “yes you can.” doesn’t hold your hand. but he stays.

and then there’s crying.

two of them.

twins.

he stares at them like they’re alien creatures, wrinkled and red and noisy, and he thinks fuck, he’s in it now.

a nurse hands one over, then the other. and he’s never held anything this small before. never held anything with such… complete fragility.

they’re warm and loud and his.

his chest tightens, not with panic. not even with regret. but something heavier. something… tethering. you’re half-asleep but watching him. he doesn’t meet your eyes. just looks down at the kids — the fucking kids — and mutters,

“…they’ve got your nose.”

and that’s how it starts. not with love, not with some grand revelation — just with curiosity turning into presence.

and sukuna?