#fatkuna

Earlier that evening he’d simply told you to get ready. He had hinted to wear the red set he likes with something lacy on top. 

When you stepped outside, there he was—already on his ruby red scooter. One thick leg swung over each side, thighs spreading wide to balance the machine, broad back and shoulders blocking most of the streetlight behind him. 

“Get on,” he said.

You slid behind him, arms wrapping around his waist. Your hands barely met around his middle. The scooter dipped slightly under the combined weight, then steadied as he kicked off.

When he finally parked outside the restaurant, he helped you off with a big hand around your waist.

“Happy Valentines, baby,” he said, wheeling his scooter up the accessibility ramp behind you.

Dinner started perfectly after that. You knew exactly what you wanted—a dish your friend had recommended when she got off of the waiting list last month. You’d been dreaming of the menu for months after all.

Sukuna on the other hand, seemed to be quite indecisive.

He leaned back in his scooter, his thick fingers wrapped around the handle to hold up his upper body. His eyes scanned the menu slowly. 

When the waiter came by, you politely ordered your appetizer, main course, and dessert, along with an espresso martini.

Sukuna needed more time. Every few seconds, he’d grunt low in his throat, flip a page, then grunt again. The waiter hovered politely, notepad in hand, but Sukuna just kept staring.

You raised an eyebrow. “Kuna, is everything okay?”

His eyes slowly peel up from the menu, his tattooed face meeting yours. But he doesn’t say anything. Not to you at least. 

He pulls himself back up from his strange scooter position? and closes the menu with a soft snap.

“Bring everything,” he says.

The waiter blinks. “Sir?”

“Everything on the menu,” he slides the menu back to the waiter with his fat knuckles, your eyes wide in horror. “Get her whatever she wants, and me everything on the menu.”

You stare at him, heat creeping up your neck. “Kuna, baby, I—”

He cuts you off with a lazy shrug. “Woman, I’m hungry and I want the WHOLE menu.”

The waiter recovers from his shock and eases the situation. “Yes, sir. We’ll start with appetizers and keep the dishes coming as they’re ready.”

“Don’t keep me waiting,” he barks out as the waiter rushes off.

"The whole menu?” you start, concerned. “That's... insane. There's like twenty dishes."

Sukuna's smirk deepened. “I didn’t get this big for nothing.”

He leans back in his scooter as his chubby hands come down to smack his belly. The rolls on his body recoil in response, vibrating and mimicking what was like several waves in the ocean.

The first plates arrived moments later. A double of your starting dish.

“Eat,” Sukuna said simply, scarfing down the appetizer in two bites.

Course after course appeared. As you nibbled on the food in front of you, you watched Sukuna disgustingly swallow down every dish.

You flinch, watching his throat bob with every swallow, his fat fingers coming up to wipe the mess from his mouth, his eyes widening with every coming dish just as you’ve been getting full off of your one meal.

“Are you finishing that?” he asks, motioning towards your half eaten main course.

He had managed to eat most of the dishes they brought him already.

“Sukuna,” you say, your manicured fingers coming up to massage your temple. “You cannot be serious. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Shut up,” he says, grubby hands reaching out to grab your plate.

He grabs the fork, shoving the food down his throat before swallowing.

Then, he groans in pain. 

“Sukuna!” you exclaim in worry. 

You glance around at the staff, you know they’re staring. 

What is a girl like you doing with fatkuna on his ruby red scooter? If only they knew what he looked like in his prime.

Before you can say anything else, Sukuna rips his dress shirt off clean, revealing his tattooed torso, saggy man boobs, and endless stomach rolls.

“Sukuna, stop,” you hiss.

“Schuth up!” he commands with his mouth full, eating what is left on the plate.

“Sukuna, you always do this!”

The whole restaurant staff gasps.

“Stop complaining,” he says. “We… we… we havent’ had dessert yet.”

“Tonight was suppossed to be perfect, Kuna..”

You’re clearly disappointed. Your voice cracks just enough to make it obvious.

The waiter arrives on cue, balancing a tray of desserts. Fatkuna’s eyes light up despite the groan he lets out when he shifts.

He reaches for a molten chocolate cake first, and brings it to his mouth.

The moment he swallows, there is a distant, ominous crack.

The next thing you know, Sukuna is on the floor, lying on his side, chocolate cake smeared across his neck and chest.

The scooter gave way from under him.

His legs are flailing and the front wheel spins once, then stops.

The entire restaurant goes silent.

You stare at the wreckage, then at him—his roles spilling forward as he tries to sit up.

“Sukuna,” you say, sternly. “GET YOUR FAT ASS UP.”

He tries. He really does.

His big palms plant on the table, one plump leg trying to bend under him to hurl himself up, but his centre of gravity is all wrong. After a few futile rocks back and forth, he just… stills.

The staff are openly gaping now, their phones angled toward him discreetly.

“I can’t,” he says, defeated. “You’re going to have to roll me out of here.”

Whatthefuck.

You stand, chair shoved back. “Fine.”

You circle around, grab him under one arm—your manicured nails digging in just enough to make a point—and start pulling. He doesn’t budge at first, but you’re past patience. You plant your heels, lean your whole body weight, and heave.

Inch by inch, he slides out of the remains of his ruby red scooter. The tablecloth drags with him for a dramatic second before fluttering free.

Now he’s free on his other side, able to see the wreckage.

“NOOOOOOOO,” he yells out, his swollen arm reaching out as his hands do a grabbing motion. “MY RUBY RED SCOOTER.”

You kick his side. Even if it was hard, he wouldn’t have felt it through all his blubber. “Shut the fuck up.”

Before he can react, you hook your arms under his shoulders (as much as they’ll reach), plant your feet, and start dragging/rolling him toward the exit. The carpet bunches under him like a red carpet gone wrong. Every few feet he lets out a low “oof” or “easy, baby,” but you’re not listening.

The accessibility ramp outside is mercifully wide. You maneuver him onto it—gravity helps now—and give one final shove. He starts rolling slowly at first.

But, his body angles diagonally, getting him stuck between the two railing. 

You’ve had enough. You kick him again—harder—but to no avail.

You place the bottom of your heel onto his back, and with all your strength, kick him.

He picks up speed down the slope like a boulder.

He hits the bottom with a thud, momentum carrying him straight into the street.

A sedan rounds the corner at that exact moment—headlights flaring.

Crunch.

Not the sickening thud you brace for. Instead, there’s a metallic thunk, a crunch of fiberglass, and the car lurches to a stop. The hood crumples inward in a perfect Sukuna-shaped dent. The driver’s door flies open; a stunned man stumbles out, staring at the immovable mass in the road.

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. He lies there, breathing heavily, one chubby arm flung out.

The car? Totaled front end. Sukuna? Not a scratch.

You storm down the ramp, furious, cheeks burning from secondhand embarrassment.

“Sukuna, you piece of shit.”

He cracks one eye open, smirks up at you from the pavement. “So, can I get head when we get home?”

Your rage boils over. 

You grab his wrist again—both hands this time—and start the long, undignified process of rolling him the rest of the way home.

Worst valentines day EVER.

thank you besties @motel6killer @whimsic @coralbae for helping fuel my fatkuna dreams