#redstartattooau

Monday morning at Red Star Tattoos arrived with the clinical smell of fresh ink and the sharp, rhythmic drilling of a locksmith installing the new security system. Sukuna was a whirlwind of dark energy, pacing between the front area and the lobby, personally inspecting every angle of the high‑definition cameras on his phone with sharp, burgundy eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept, a hyper‑focused “King” guarding his palace — especially with the shop expecting a new artist to arrive the next day, someone Suguru had vouched for but Sukuna clearly hadn’t decided if he trusted yet.

As you walked in, you stopped dead in your tracks, noticing a new sign bolted below the "Closed" placard. It was in a bold, aggressive blackwork font that screamed Sukuna’s handiwork:

RED STAR TATTOO RULES:

1. NO CREEPS.

2. NO UNWANTED COMMENTS.

3. IF YOU TOUCH THE ARTISTS, I WILL PERSONALLY REARRANGE YOUR ANATOMY.

4. DON’T EVEN ASK. THE ANSWER IS NO.

You were still giggling at the “Sukuna‑ness” of the rules when the door chime — an obnoxious electronic fanfare Sukuna had chosen for maximum alertness — announced a visitor.

Choso, quietly prepping needles in the corner, looked up with a blunt expression.

“He’s been like this since six a.m. He even checked the bathroom for hidden exits.”

The bell chimed again — this time the normal one, not the cursed fanfare — followed by a hesitant pause at the doorway.

A woman hovered just inside the shop, mid‑twenties maybe, clutching her phone with both hands like it might bolt. She wore an oversized denim jacket, hair pulled into a nervous bun, eyes darting over flash sheets and framed photos.

Then she saw the sign.

She read it once.

Twice.

Her mouth fell open slightly at rule number three.

Slowly, very slowly, she looked up. Her gaze travelled from the sign… to Sukuna.

Sukuna, who was standing perfectly still now, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that dangerous way that suggested the sign was not, in fact, a joke.

“…Is,” she began carefully, “is that… legally binding?”

Suguru calmly set the coffees down. “We like to call it a strongly worded suggestion.”

You smiled from your station, keeping your tone warm. “Hi! Welcome to Red Star. Don’t worry — no one’s ever had their anatomy rearranged.”

Sukuna tilted his head. “Yet.”

The client swallowed.

Choso, without looking up from his needles, added flatly,

“The sign reduced incidents by eighty percent.”

“That’s…” she cleared her throat, “—statistically comforting.”

She stepped further inside, still glancing at the sign like it might leap off the wall.

“Um. I have an appointment. With… you?” She pointed at you, hopeful.

“Yes, that’s me.” You gestured to the chair. “You’re safe here. He only bites people who deserve it.”

Sukuna’s lips curved, just slightly.

“And only after warnings.”

The client laughed, tension finally cracking. “Okay. I actually really appreciate the sign. Last place I went to, the artist’s friend kept commenting on my thighs.”

Sukuna’s eyes darkened instantly. “Name.”

Suguru coughed. “We are not starting a vendetta before noon.”

You guided her to the chair, helping her set her bag down.

“What are we doing today?”

She pulled up a reference photo, relaxing now.

“A small moth. Here.” She tapped her wrist. “And—honestly? This is the first shop where I didn’t feel like I had to Armor up.”

For just a second, Sukuna’s posture eased. Barely. Like a guard dog sitting instead of standing.

“That’s the point,” he said, voice low. “This place is a boundary.”

The client glanced at the sign again, then nodded.

“Yeah. I figured.”

The shop settled into its rhythm — machine buzz, quiet laughter, ink and incense blending together. The sign stayed bolted to the wall, black letters sharp and unapologetic.

For the first time that morning, Sukuna stopped pacing… but only for a heartbeat. His gaze kept flicking toward the front door like it might explode at any second.

Suguru noticed. Of course he did.

He sipped his coffee slowly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He’s not arriving today,” Suguru murmured without looking up. “He starts tomorrow morning.”

Sukuna clicked his tongue, jaw tightening. “I know when he starts.”

“You’re acting like you don’t,” Suguru teased. “You’ve been glaring at that door since six a.m.”

“I’m not glaring,” Sukuna growled. “I’m preparing.”

“For what?” Suguru asked lightly. “He’s not a threat.”

“He’s loud,” Sukuna shot back. “And dramatic. And annoying. And flirty—” He stopped, scowling deeper. “And he’s your problem.”

Suguru chuckled. “You say that, but I saw you two almost hug that one time.”

“That never happened,” Sukuna snapped immediately, ears turning pink. “And if you ever say that again, I’m removing your piercings with pliers.”

Suguru raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just… be nice tomorrow.”

“I am nice,” Sukuna hissed.

“Sure,” Suguru said, amused. “Let’s see if you’re still nice when he walks in.”

Sukuna muttered something under his breath — something about bleached menaces and loud idiots — as he returned to reorganizing his perfectly clean station.

Tomorrow’s arrival was clearly already under his skin.

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The shop was already humming when the door blew open with a force that made every flash sheet flutter on the corkboard.

“GOOD MORNING, RED STAAAAR!” Satoru Gojo didn’t simply enter the shop — he descended, sunglasses gleaming, white hair catching the sun as if he’d personally brought daylight with him. You nearly dropped the bottle of green soap you’d been holding.

“Well hello to you too,” you said, your voice bright, matched with the kind of warm smile that made people behave.

Not Gojo though. If anything, he got worse. He gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest.

“You must be Bubbles. Suguru told me the shop owner was cute but wow! He undersold you by a criminal amount.”

Before you could answer, Sukuna’s tattoo machine stopped mid‑buzz. He didn’t turn; he didn’t even speak. He just froze, like a predator hearing something trespass into his territory.

From the piercing station, Choso lifted his eyes, slowly, like a cat disturbed from a nap. His gaze flicked to Bubbles, then to Gojo, then to Sukuna’s rigid silhouette.

“Oh,” he murmured under his breath. “This will be annoying.”

Suguru followed Gojo inside with two coffees in hand, looking unfairly composed. His eyes softened at the sight of Bubbles but he made no move to stop Satoru’s dramatic approach.

“Be nice,” he said lightly, not to Gojo, but to Sukuna, who still hadn’t moved from his booth.

Gojo leaned across your table like he was posing for a magazine cover. “So, boss lady,” he purred, “fire me if this is too forward, but do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk in again?”

You laughed, warm, bright, musical. The sound filled the shop, soothing the walls like sunlight soaking into old wood.

Choso paused mid‑sterilization and stared at her, deadpan. “She’s laughing at him,” he noted quietly. “Sukuna’s going to snap a tendon.”

Right on cue, Sukuna stood so violently his stool tipped over.

Suguru sipped his coffee with the contentment of a man watching an art film.

“You’re doing great, babe,” he told Gojo.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Gojo beamed, turning to blow him a kiss.

You blinked. “Wait — you two are—”

“Absolutely,” Suguru said, serene.

“Tragically,” Gojo confirmed, leaning closer to her again, because boundaries were a myth. “But Suguru lets me flirt. It enriches my spirit.”

Suguru nodded. “Chaos builds character.”

Choso added without looking up, “And raises my blood pressure.”

Bubbles laughed again, harder this time, and Sukuna moved so fast he practically materialized beside them. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, pointing at Gojo like he was accusing a demon.

Gojo smiled sweetly. “Hi, cupcake.”

“I am not—” Sukuna inhaled, cracked his neck, and tried again. “Why are you in her space?”

Gojo leaned closer to you. “Because she smells like sunshine and expensive jasmine lotion, and maybe I want to impress my new boss?”

Choso actually snorted. “Impress her by standing six feet back,” he said dryly. “You’re loud.”

“Back away from her,” Sukuna growled.

You rolled your eyes and nudged Sukuna’s elbow with the authoritative gentleness only you had.

“Sukuna, he’s fine.” He wasn’t. And everyone knew he wasn’t.

Gojo clapped his hands. “Let me work front-of-shop today! I’ll charm clients! I’ll upsell them! I’ll wear the apron if that does something for you!”

Suguru raised a hand. “Wear the apron.”

Gojo: “Yes, sir.”

He put it on backwards.

You, giggling, fixed it for him.

Gojo melted theatrically, head tilting. “Marry me.”

“Satoru,” Suguru warned.

Gojo straightened instantly. “Professionally marry me.”

Choso watched Gojo’s exaggerated posture and sighed. “I don’t know why I am even surprised, I’ve known him for years,” he muttered. “And now he works here.”

The rest of the morning was somehow worse.

Gojo’s first client loved him, showering him with compliments as he cracked jokes and moved with flawless precision. He wasn’t just good; he was annoyingly good. And every time you smiled at him approvingly, Sukuna’s jaw got tighter.

“You’re surprisingly talented,” you said to Gojo as he cleaned up his station.

He gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “You think I’m talented? Suguru, she thinks I’m talented!”

Suguru hummed. “She’s not wrong.”

Choso didn’t look up from his tray. “If he tries to pierce anything today, I’m quitting.”

“Can you two stop flirting in my shop?” Sukuna snapped.

“So, you’re his boyfriend?” Gojo shot back.

Sukuna went completely still.

Suguru arched one graceful eyebrow. “Oh?”

At the piercing bench, Choso muttered, “And now he’s short‑circuiting.”

Satoru sensed blood in the water.

“Anyway, Bubbles,” he said, leaning on your chair again, “since I’m the most delightful man in the building, would you like to get dumplings with me? My treat. I know a place where the food is so good people see God.”

You opened your mouth

But Sukuna beat her to it.

“No.”

Gojo froze, then grinned slowly. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Choso folded his arms. “We’re about to witness a meltdown.”

“And why not?” You said crossing your arms against your chest.

Sukuna looked at you, the words clearly fighting their way out of his chest.

“Because…” He sucked in a breath. “Because I’m taking you.”

A silence dropped over the room like a blanket.

Gojo’s gasp could’ve cracked tile. “Suguru, he’s ASKING HER OUT.”

Suguru nodded, sipping calmly. “Finally.”

Choso gave a single slow nod, like a judge delivering a verdict. “Acceptable. Took him long enough.”

Bubbles stared up at Sukuna. “Are you actually… asking me?”

His ears turned crimson. “Yes,” he muttered. “Before he steals you.”

“He can’t steal me,” she said softly.

Choso murmured, “Obviously. She has taste.”

Sukuna swallowed hard. “Dumplings. With me. Please.”

The please was the nail in the coffin.

You smiled, warm and sure and bright enough to make his shoulders unclench. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Gojo whooped like someone scored a goal. “The king has fallen!!!”

Suguru grabbed him by the hoodie. “Let’s give them space.”

“For love?” Gojo asked.

“For my sanity.”

Choso raised two fingers without looking up. “Bring her back before seven, and Bubbles he gets cranky when he’s hungry.”

“CHOSO.” Sukuna barked.

“What?” he deadpanned. “Am I wrong?”

Sukuna held the door open for you, still scowling, still pink‑eared, still very much a man whose day had been utterly ruined and then saved in five minutes.

And as they walked out together, Gojo shouted after them: “Bring me back dumplings or I’m telling the entire city you blushed!”

Sukuna flipped him off without looking back.

Choso added quietly, “He definitely blushed.”

And you laughed all the way down the sidewalk.

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The afternoon light was soft and golden as they stepped outside, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. you were still smiling, that warm, rolling sort of smile she couldn’t quite suppress, and Sukuna was still scowling, ears tinged red, jaw set like someone who’d been pushed off an emotional cliff and was now pretending he had intended to jump.

He opened the passenger door of his car without thinking.

you blinked. “You’re being gentlemanly?”

“No,” he grunted. “I’m being efficient.”

You slid in, smirking. “Sure, King.”

He shut the door a little too firmly.

The drive was quiet at first, not awkward, just charged. The kind of quiet where you could hear the air conditioning hum and the tension trying to figure out if it should melt or catch fire.

Sukuna gripped the wheel too tightly.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” you said softly, watching him.

“I’m not nervous.” He was absolutely nervous.

You propped her elbow on the door and watched the sunset streak past the window. “You asked me out. That’s not nothing.”

“I didn’t ask you out,” he snapped defensively.

“You literally said ‘dumplings with me’.”

“That was— strategy.”

“For what?”

“To stop that loud idiot from flirting with you.”

You laughed, warm, bright, alive, and Sukuna’s fingers flexed on the wheel.

“…and because I wanted to,” he added under his breath.

You smile softened. “I know.”

You two finally arrived at a tiny hole-in-the-wall dumpling shop tucked between two neon signs, one flickering and the other fully dead. The windows were fogged from constant steam. The scent hit them immediately: soy, ginger, garlic, sesame.

Sukuna hesitated at the door like he was about to walk into a battlefield.

“You, okay?” You asked gently.

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. Don’t… just go inside.”

Inside, the place was warm, dim, a little cramped, the kind of spot only locals knew, where every table had mismatched chairs and every wall had peeling paint. And you loved it instantly.

Sukuna guided you to a corner booth, the one where no one could sit next to her except him. Not that he realized he was doing it.

You slid in. He sat across from you. Then he stood back up and moved to sit beside you.

You bit your lip to hide the smile.

The waitress came over. “The usual, Sukuna?”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “You have a usual? This is your secret dumpling place?”

Sukuna grunted. “Don’t make it weird.”

The waitress smiled knowingly. “Two orders then?”

Sukuna hesitated, then glanced at you. “Yeah. Two.”

When the waitress left, you rested your chin on your hand. “You bring people here often?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “Never.”

Your smile softened. His shoulders relaxed.

While they waited for the food, he kept sneaking glances at her, not subtle ones. Sukuna didn’t do subtle. His eyes were hungry, confused, fascinated.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, gentle but amused.

“I’m checking if you regret coming.”

“I don’t.”

He swallowed. “You don’t… have to pretend to like this,” he muttered. “Or me.”

You scooted a little closer. “I’m not pretending.”

He stared at you. Your eyes were warm. Not demanding a confession, but just… being there.

It melted something he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“…You laugh too easily when he talks,” Sukuna said suddenly.

“Gojo?”

“Don’t say his name.”

You laughed again, exactly the thing he’d complained about.

“I laugh,” you said, nudging his shoulder lightly, “because he’s ridiculous, not because I want him.”

Sukuna’s jaw worked. “…Good.”

“Are you jealous?” she asked lightly.

“No,” he said immediately.

You raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

He glared. “Fine. Yes. A little.”

“A little?”

“A lot,” he grunted. “Happy?”

You rested your hand over his on the table.

He froze.

Then slowly, painfully slowly, he uncurled his fingers and let yours slip between them.

His breath hitched, just once.

“Just us, remember?” you whispered.

Before he could answer, the dumplings arrived.

Steam rolled between them, curling warm and fragrant into the space they’d carved out together.

You grabbed your chopsticks. “Okay, show me what’s so life changing.”

He snorted. “You’ll see.”

You took a bite, and your eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “That’s incredible.”

“Told you.” He said, looking devastatingly smug.

You nudged him with your shoulder. “Shut up.”

He didn’t, he just nudged you back, gently. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was soft. Unfamiliar. Dangerous.

“Oh no,” you teased, “he can smile.”

“Don’t push it,” he warned, but his voice was warm. Almost playful.

They ate slowly, talking about nothing and everything.

Your art.

His first tattoo.

Your favourite tea.

How he hates loud noises but still tolerates the shop.

How you make it feel like home without trying.

At one point you reached for a dumpling, and he moved the plate closer without thinking, and when you two finally left, the street was darker, quieter.

Sukuna shoved his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at you.

“So,” he muttered, “this wasn’t… terrible.”

You bumped his arm with her shoulder. “It was perfect.”

He stopped walking.“…Say that again, Bubbles ”

“It was perfect.” You repeated.

He swallowed, hard, trying not to stumble closer to you, even when gravity seemed to pull him towards you.

Then he opened the car door for you again.

“Get in,” he murmured. “Before I do something stupid.”

“Like what?” you tease.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers.

“Like kiss you.”

Your breath catches and you step closer towards him, close enough that your foreheads almost brush.

“Maybe I want stupid.” You confessed.

He exhales sharply, a sound halfway between surrender and explosion.

But instead of kissing you, he leans in, lips nearly touching your ear, and whispers: “…Next time.”

Your smile is soft enough to ruin him. “Next time then.”

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You arrive back at Red Star Tattoos just as the streetlights flicker on, painting the storefront in that warm amber glow that always makes the shop feel more like a sanctuary than a business.

You’re still warm from dumplings and Sukuna’s quiet, unexpected softness; he's still warm with… everything he refuses to name.

He holds the door for you, again, and you step inside with a tiny, undeniable skip in your step.

The shop is too quiet, which is never a good sign.

The bell chimes, and then? All hell breaks loose.

Choso looks up first from the piercing bench, head tilting just slightly. His eyes move from you… to Sukuna… to the very suspiciously close distance between you.

He says nothing.

Of course he doesn’t.

But the slow, knowing lift of his eyebrow is devastating.

“You came back,” he says flatly. “And neither of you look dead. That’s surprising.”

You snort.

Sukuna shoots him a look sharp enough to cut metal.

Before you can respond, Gojo launches himself over the couch like it’s an Olympic event.

“DID YOU KISS?!”

Sukuna nearly flinches out of instinct, and you slap a hand over your mouth to hide your laugh.

Suguru doesn’t look up from his sketchbook. “Satoru, if you break the couch, you’re sitting on the floor for a week.”

“But babe, we have a romantic emergency.”

“It’s really not,” Sukuna mutters.

Choso hums. “Your ears are red.” He pointed out

“They are NOT.” Sukuna said blushing.

Gojo gasps, clapping like he just witnessed a miracle.

“He blushed twice today. Twice.”

Sukuna turns toward him like he’s about to commit a felony.

You step between them before homicide becomes paperwork, you’d inevitably end up doing.

“Okay, okay, everyone chill. We just ate.”

“TOGETHER?” Gojo squeals dramatically.

“Obviously,” Suguru says, turning a page. “He dragged her out like the building was on fire.”

“He did,” Choso adds. “He was vibrating.”

You laugh so hard you have to catch yourself on the counter.

Sukuna mutters something that could be “shut up” or “I hate everything,” but then he glances at you, soft, warm, unmistakably fond, and all the irritation drains right out of him.

Suguru finally closes his sketchbook and looks at both of you fully.

“Well?” he asks, voice smooth, annoyingly amused. “Did it go well?”

You open your mouth—

—but Sukuna beats you to it.

“It was fine.”

“Fine?” Choso repeats, blank as ever.

“Fine,” Sukuna insists.

You bump his shoulder “It was nice.”

He goes completely still.

Gojo screams into a throw pillow like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

Suguru watches with absolute exhaustion. “Are you done?”

“NO,” Gojo squeaks.

Choso stands and approaches with the solemnity of a priest performing last rites. “So,” he says, arms crossed, “Did he ruin it?”

“Hey—” Sukuna snaps. “Why is that your first assumption—”

“Because it’s the most statistically likely outcome,” Choso replies.

You snort again—fail to hide it.

“I didn’t ruin anything,” Sukuna grumbles.

“Good,” Choso says. “Then there might be hope.”

Sukuna squints. “I don’t like your tone.”

“It’s my only tone.” He said bluntly but still teasing him.

Suguru stretches. “Did you bring dumplings back?”

“No.”

Gojo gasps like someone stabbed him “YOU DIDN’T BRING US DUMPLINGS?!”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I literally yelled it at you as you were leaving!”

“And I flipped you off.”

“YES, AND I THOUGHT THAT MEANT ‘I HEARD YOU, BRO, NO PROBLEM.’”

You shake your head, covering your smile.

They’re impossible.

Your shop is impossible.

And you love them for it.

Choso walks past you to put away tools, pausing only long enough to murmur: “If he gets unbearable, tell me. I’ll tranquilize him.”

“HEY!” Sukuna barked embarrassed.

Choso keeps walking.

Suguru steps over to you with a warm, conspiratorial look.

“Glad you’re back safe.”

“He would’ve destroyed the city if anything happened.”

“Would not,” Sukuna hisses.

You look between all of them, Gojo vibrating with curiosity, Suguru calm, Choso quietly smug, and Sukuna pretending he’s not checking on you every two seconds.

Your heart squeezes. “We should finish the day,” you say, grabbing your machine. “Break’s over.”

“Break?” Gojo gasps. “THAT was a DATE.”

Sukuna’s glare could peel paint.

Suguru rubs his temples. “For once, Satoru, try to live.”

Gojo only winks at you. “Boss, I expect every detail. For performance review purposes.”

“Go clean the bathroom.” You said giggling and signalling the bathroom door.

Gojo shrieks but does as you say.

Sukuna smirks.

You return to your station, and across the shop Sukuna settles into his, but his eyes keep drifting to you, softening every time.

It’s not official, not even labelled. But something has changed in the air of Red Star Tattoos, and every single one of them knows it.

Especially Sukuna.

Especially you.

And especially Choso, who mutters as he sorts needles “Finally.”

The “Open” sign had been flipped to its dark side, but Red Star Tattoos was far from quiet. Sandalwood incense curled through the air, battling with the sharp bite of green soap and the sugary punch of the massive “Happy 5th Anniversary” cake Gojo had proudly delivered. Streamers drooped dangerously from the ceiling fans, and somehow, the shop looked even more chaotic than usual—exactly as it was meant to be a warm, ink‑stained sanctuary.

Ever since Yuji had accidentally dropped the “Brother” bomb a couple of weeks ago, the tension between Sukuna and Choso had settled into something new. Not warm, never warm, but no longer serrated. Their rivalry had softened into a strange, mutual, grumbling respect. Less “I’ll fight you,” and more “I’ll fight everyone except you.”

“Alright, enough with the cake, Satoru,” Sukuna growled, though his attention kept flicking toward the small velvet‑lined box on the counter. “We have business.”

“Ooh! Is it time for the Sheriff’s inauguration?” Yuji squeaked, nearly taking out a stool in his scramble to the front. Megumi followed more gracefully, though the sharp focus in his eyes betrayed his curiosity.

Choso stepped beside Sukuna, the resemblance uncanny now that everyone finally knew: the same quiet vigilance, the same carved‑stone intensity. He held the box but glanced at his brother.

“You do it,” Choso murmured. “You did the metalwork.”

“You did the leatherwork, you’re the piercer,” Sukuna shot back—though he was already reaching for the box.

Bubbles watched from behind the counter, heart swelling. Seeing those two collaborate instead of clash was the best anniversary gift she could’ve imagined.

Sukuna opened the box.

Inside lay a custom-designed necklace for Twinkles—a soft, braided black leather cord chosen by Choso for safety, holding a weighty surgical-steel star pendant.

The pendant itself was breathtaking.

On one side, Sukuna had etched the RS shop logo with maddening precision. On the other, in sharp, elegant script matching the flash on the walls, was engraved: Twinkles

“Twinkles! Come here, Your Majesty!” Gojo cried, waving premium tuna like a royal offering.

The white gremlin sauntered up with regal confidence, hopping onto the counter and sitting squarely before her two craftsmen. Sukuna’s tattooed fingers were surprisingly gentle as he fastened the clasp behind her neck.

“There,” he muttered. “Now everyone knows who really runs the shop.”

The pendant glimmered against her snowy fur. The little gremlin let out a triumphant meow and immediately began preening, the metal clinking like ceremonial Armor.

“She looks like a little warrior,” Megumi said, smiling before he realized he was doing it.

“She is a warrior!” Yuji crowed, high‑fiving the cat. “She’s the Red Star Sheriff!”

Gojo attempted a selfie with her, nearly knocking over the cake. The kids bickered loudly about who got the biggest slice. And in the centre of all of it, Sukuna and Choso stood together, shoulder to shoulder, king and knight of their chaotic little kingdom.

Suguru leaned against the counter and slid a warm cup of tea toward Bubbles. “Five years,” he said softly, voice rich with quiet pride. “I’d say we’ve done a decent job of turning this wreck into a home.”

“A home of idiots,” Sukuna grumbled automatically—but he didn’t pull away when Bubbles laced her fingers through his.

Choso glanced around—the kids, the friends, the mess, the cat proudly clicking her new pendant—and nodded. “It’s a good home,” he agreed, voice steady and grounding.

For the first time in five years, the air didn’t buzz with old tension or unspoken things. The brothers were brothers. The kids were family. The shop was whole.

And as the celebration carried late into the night, one truth settled warm and certain:

The next chapter, the one written in permanent ink, was finally ready to begin.

Once everyone left, the shop slipped into a peaceful hush. Streamers sagged, incense softened into silence, and only Twinkles remained awake in her new bed—blinking at you like a tiny, drowsy guardian keeping watch over the quiet.

Sukuna dropped onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

“Finally. Silence. I’m gonna—”

He stopped. Because you were still standing at your station, wrist slightly raised, staring at something on your phone with a look he’d learned to recognize—gentle, focused, full of meaning.

“…What now?” he muttered.

You turned the screen toward him.

A photo.

The small star the kids had designed—a little crooked when drawn, but now refined into a delicate, needle‑sharp piece of neo‑sigilism. Still slightly off‑kilter, but intentionally so, shaped to follow the flow of your other tattoos as if it had always been meant to sit among them.

Your voice was soft, but steady.

“I want this. Tattooed.”

Sukuna froze midway through a blink.

“…Why?”

“Because it matters,” you said. “Because they made it. For the shop. I want it forever.”

He stared at you, really stared, like trying to understand how everything you felt somehow hit him harder than anything else ever had.

He cleared his throat sharply. “Fine. Sit.”

You smiled, small, warm, devastating to him, and took your seat.

The tattooing was quiet. Intimate. He worked slowly, carefully, almost reverently. The star bloomed on your wrist in crisp red lines, delicate but unmistakably yours.

When he leaned back, you lifted your arm, breath catching.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered.

He shrugged, though the tips of his ears were pink. “Obviously.”

“Thanks” you mumbled. Looking at the tattoo.

“Your turn.”

For a moment, your soul visibly left your body. “…Absolutely not.”

He tilted his head. “Scared?”

Your spine snapped straight. “I am not, give me the damn chair.”

You sat, held out his hand, palm down,  and he looked straight at you.

He told you were to set the stencil, on the back of his hand, right where the star would peek out even when his fingers wrapped around yours.

He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe.

You inked him with the same careful gentleness he’d shown you. When the machine finally clicked off, the matching star shone freshly on his skin, small but bold, a tether.

You said quietly, “Now we match.”

Sukuna swallowed, hard. His eyes softened in a way you had never seen. “…Yeah,” he murmured. “We do.”

You were cleaning up your station when he suddenly said your name.

“Bubbles.”

You looked up.

He wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t even pretending not to care.

He looked… nervous.

“Come here,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like the words physically weighed something.

You stepped closer, heart gentle in your chest.

He took your wrist—the one with the new star—and held it like it was something breakable, something precious.

“I…” He stopped, exhaled sharply. “I’m bad at this. Really bad.”

Your smile was soft. “I know.”

His glare flickered, then faded.

“This tattoo… it isn’t just a tattoo. And neither is mine. I—I wanted—”

The rest stuck in his throat. His jaw clenched, fingers tightening just slightly around your wrist.

Finally, quietly, almost painfully:

“I want you to be my girlfriend.”

The air went still.

“But only if you want to,” he added quickly, panic edging in. “Don’t say yes if you don’t—just forget I said anything—”

“Sukuna.”

He froze.

You lifted your wrist beside his—two stars, side by side, perfectly aligned. “I want to.”

He blinked. “…You do?”

“I do.”

He looked away immediately, ears flaming red, pretending to scoff—but his shoulders relaxed in a way that looked like a lifetime’s weight sliding off him.

“…Good,” he murmured.

You leaned your forehead lightly against his arm.

“Good,” you echoed.

Then you both kissed.

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The next morning, the Open sign was still flipped to its dark side, which made the entire shop feel like it was holding its breath, quiet, cozy, wrapped in the scent of fresh coffee and the sandalwood you lit the night before. The sunrise hadn’t even made it past the buildings outside, but Sukuna had already texted:

“Yuji  get here before school. Bring the other brat too. Gotta surprise for you kiddos.”

You were perched on a stool beside him at the counter, your shoulder brushing his every now and then, your matching star hidden beneath your sleeve. He looked relaxed in that rare, careful way he only did around you — tall frame leaning back, arms crossed, jaw soft. You couldn’t help smiling at how proud he looked, even though he’d deny it until the sun exploded.

By 7:15,the door creaked open, and two half‑awake disasters shuffled inside.

Yuji yawned so hard his eyes watered, backpack hanging off one arm like it had already given up on life. Megumi looked suspicious, which meant his hair was somehow messier than usual.

“Is the shop on fire?” Megumi muttered. “Or did Gojo do something stupid again?”

You nearly snorted.

“Sit,” Sukuna grunted, chin jerking toward the stools.

Yuji hopped onto one immediately, instantly awake now that something interesting was clearly happening. “What is it? Did Twinkles get a promotion? Is there cake? Please say there’s cake.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing as Sukuna reached out and placed his hand flat on the glass counter. You slid your wrist next to his.

The kids froze.

Two matching stars, wobbling, uneven, imperfect in the most perfect way, sat inked on your skin, exactly like the doodle the boys had drawn on you a week ago.

Yuji made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeal, then lunged, grabbing both your wrist and Sukuna’s hand like you’d handed him the secrets of the universe.

“No. Way. No way no way—you did it. You actually did the star. For real. Forever!”

“It’s professional work,” Sukuna muttered, pretending he didn’t love the attention as Yuji inspected his hand like a gemstone. “It stays.”

Your heart swelled. You squeezed Sukuna’s fingers — he squeezed back, just once.

“And” you said, voice soft but glowing so warmly it filled the entire room, “there’s something else we wanted to tell you. Since you two practically run this place anyway.”

Sukuna’s ears went pink. Then he laced his fingers through yours, sliding your star directly against his.

“We’re together,” he said, voice deep, honest, a little shy in that way he tried very hard to hide. “She’s, my girlfriend. It’s official. So if either of you brats cause trouble, she can put you on floor‑scrubbing duty.”

Yuji shrieked. A full, feral, joyful shriek as he shot out of his seat. “I KNEW IT! MEGUMI, I KNEW IT! THEY’RE SOULMATES, I TOLD YOU!”

He spun in a half‑victory lap before realizing Megumi hadn’t moved.

Megumi’s eyes were locked on the tattoos. His face twisted, not annoyed, not confused, but something far more fragile. A tear fell, then another.

“Oh, baby—” you breathed, already sliding off the stool before he could hide his face.

Megumi wiped his cheek furiously. “I— I’m not crying. Shut up, Yuji.”

Yuji’s excitement deflated instantly into worry. “Hey… Gumi? What’s wrong? It’s good news, right?”

“It is,” Megumi whispered, voice cracking. “It’s just… everything usually changes. People leave. But the stars… and you two… it feels like something’s finally… staying.”

Your chest ached. Sukuna didn’t tease. Didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t mock a single tear.

Instead, he stood, walked around the counter, and placed a big, warm hand on Megumi’s head. A gentle ruffle, steady, grounding.

“Stop that,” he said softly. “You think I’d tattoo this on myself if I planned on going anywhere? You’re stuck with us. All of us. Whether you like it or not.”

You wrapped your arms around Megumi as soon as Sukuna let go. His small frame melted into yours immediately, arms tight around your waist for just a second.

“He’s right,” you murmured into his hair. “We’re a family. These stars… they’re a promise.”

He sniffed, pulled away, and wiped his eyes a little too aggressively. “I’m gonna be late for school.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sukuna grunted, already walking back toward the coffee machine. “Get out of here. And Yuji, stop vibrating before you break something.”

“I’M A STAR! WE’RE ALL STARS!” Yuji yelled, already dragging Megumi by the backpack strap toward the door.

Twinkles lifted her head in her bed, letting out a proud, approving meow. Her little silver pendant chimed like she was ringing a bell for the moment.

The boys tumbled out, loud and chaotic and full of new light.

And the shop fell quiet again, not empty. Just full in a gentler way.

You felt Sukuna lean back against the counter beside you, his hand brushing yours like he couldn’t help it, like he didn’t want to stop touching you now that it was finally allowed.

The future didn’t feel scary, or uncertain, it felt whole.

And then, just as you exhaled, the door chime jingled again, a heavy, familiar thud of boots outside.

You didn’t have to look.

Only one person walked like that.

You smiled.

Sukuna sighed. “…Don’t tell me that’s Gojo.”

You only laced your fingers with his again, stars pressed together, and whispered, “Not even close.”

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Choso stepped in with a cardboard tray of extra‑strong coffees balanced in one hand and a warm white paper bag in the other. Toasted sesame drifted through the air with him, wrapping the shop in that familiar comfort he always carried without trying. His hair was tied into two messy buns — the kind that meant he’d either had a peaceful morning or had been seconds away from violence.

He froze halfway across the shop.

Because Sukuna was still standing beside you at the counter,  close enough that you could feel the heat of him, and his hand, large and ringed and absolutely not subtle, was resting on your shoulder. Not casually. Not incidentally.

Claiming.

And you were looking at each other in that quiet, private little way you both still pretended wasn’t obvious to anyone else.

Soft. Warm. Blatantly glowing.

Choso blinked once. Slowly. Like he needed to reset whatever was happening in his brain. “…The brats almost took me out on the sidewalk,” he finally said, voice steady as he set the coffees down with a dull thud. “They move like caffeinated squirrels.”

But his eyes weren’t on the coffee.

They flicked to Sukuna’s hand — still on your shoulder — then to the new ink along the back of it. The wobbly little star. Then to the matching one on your wrist.

Something in him went still.

Then he walked forward with that slow, clinical precision piercers have — controlled, confident, just threatening enough to make Sukuna stiffen.

He grabbed Sukuna’s wrist. No warning. No hesitation. Just pure inspection.

He stared at the tattoo for a long beat. The uneven edges. The childlike shape. The fact it was permanent.

A breath left him. A quiet one. Not disappointed, but heavy. Full.

“You let them draw on you,” Choso murmured, thumb brushing the edge of the little star. “Permanently.”

“It’s a design choice,” Sukuna grumbled, trying to sound annoyed and failing. “Don’t make it weird.”

But he didn’t pull away. His fingers curled slightly, anchoring himself to both of you.

Choso finally lifted his gaze to you.

And that’s when you felt it — the soft weight in his eyes, the kind that had a shadow beneath it. The memory of a younger version of him, seven years ago, standing in a different doorway, under a different kind of light, making a choice he has never regretted… but still sometimes wonders about.

The look passed as quickly as it came.

But you felt it, because you’d lived it too.

A small smile ghosted over his lips — the kind only you ever got from him.

“It’s about time,” he said quietly, turning back to Sukuna. “I was beginning to think my brother was a coward.”

Sukuna bristled immediately. “Watch it, blood bag. I’m still the boss here.”

“You’re the boss of ink,” Choso replied, sliding one of the coffees toward you without looking away from Sukuna. “But she’s been the boss of you since the day she walked in. I’m just glad you finally admitted it.”

Sukuna opened his mouth to snap back,  then shut it again. His jaw ticked. His ears flushed faint pink.

Choso turned fully toward you this time, his voice dropping into a softness so rare it always made your chest tighten.

“He’s a nightmare to live with,” he warned. “He snores. He’s arrogant. He’s stubborn. And he’ll reorganize your station three times a week just to prove he’s right about everything.”

You laughed, leaning lightly against Sukuna’s arm. His hand immediately tightened around your shoulder — subtle, warm, protective.

“I’ve had five years of practice,” you said. “I can handle him.”

Choso huffed something like a laugh, but in his eyes, the softness deepened. Warmer. Sadder, maybe. Sweet in a way that hurt a little.

“She’s the only one who can,” he said simply.

And then he did something he rarely did.

He reached for your hand.

His thumb brushed over your matching star, slow and reverent, like he was welcoming you into something sacred — or maybe releasing something he’d held onto for far too long.

“I’m happy for you,” he murmured. “Truly. It’s good to have another official member of the family.”

There it was the weight under his voice. The shadow of seven years ago, not pain. Not regret. Just the soft ache of wondering what might have been, wrapped around the quiet pride of what you chose instead.

Before the moment could settle, the front door slammed open so hard the bell nearly launched into orbit.

“Do I hear wedding bells, or is that just the sound of my own genius?” Gojo practically exploded inside, sunglasses still on despite the painfully early hour. Suguru followed, looking 87% ready to file for emotional retirement.

“Satoru, it’s 8:45 in the morning,” Suguru sighed. “Lower your volume before the drywall peels.”

Gojo spotted the tattoos — both of them — and gasped like someone had shot him with happiness.

“Oh. My. GOD. So it’s OFFICIAL.”

Even Suguru smiled — a real one.

Gojo lunged toward the counter like a neon vulture. “LOOK at that! The King of the shop has a MATCHING friendship bracelet! IT’S SO CUTE—”

“It’s a tattoo,” Sukuna snapped.

“Same thing,” Gojo said. “Except this one is FOREVER. I’m framing the photo Yuji sent me. I’m putting it on the window. Caption: ‘Local Grump Finally Adopted.’”

“You touch that window and I’ll tattoo a target on your forehead while you sleep,” Sukuna hissed.

But you felt him.

He didn’t move his hand off you.

Gojo leaned closer. “Ohhhh, I see what happened,” he said with a grin too devious to be legal.

“Bubbles didn’t just win your heart — she won joint custody of your brain cell.”

Sukuna stiffened.

“And look at him now,” Gojo cooed. “Standing there like a man who finally realized he wants a permanent roommate.”

“…What,” Sukuna muttered, horrified.

Gojo patted his arm. “It’s okay, King. We all saw it coming. With how you look at her? I thought you’d already moved in mentally.”

Sukuna went completely still.

You leaned into him softly, and his hand slid from your shoulder down your arm, fingers threading with yours in a slow, careful motion that made Choso flinch and look away — not out of anger, but respect. And something older, deeper, unspoken.

Gojo clapped. “WELL. I declare the Red Star Love Saga officially canon!”

You laughed. Suguru sighed into his coffee. Choso shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting — but that quiet heaviness behind his eyes lingered, warm and bittersweet.

And Sukuna?

He didn’t hide. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t deny a single thing.

He just stood there, surrounded by the brother who raised him, the friend who tormented him, and the woman who had become the one thing he’d let himself want.

And for the first time, he looked like he was exactly, exactly, where he was meant to be.

Then, you’ve heard it, the familiar heavy thud… thud… thud of  that walk you all knew, approached. Those steps were unmistakable—slow, weighty, deliberate.

Sukuna stiffened beside you; hand still threaded with yours. Gojo perked up like a meerkat. Suguru let out the world’s most exhausted sigh.

And Choso… Choso straightened ever so slightly—just enough for you to see it.

A quiet, instinctive softening.

The door swung open.

Toji stepped inside, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence filling the doorway before he even said a word. His green eyes swept the room with practiced, unbothered interest—until they landed on Choso first, then on you and Sukuna’s joined hands, then on the matching star tattoos.

Toji’s expression cracked into something small and warm, tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Well,” he said, letting the door click shut behind him, “I leave for one morning and the whole place becomes a Hallmark special.”

Gojo practically launched himself across the floor. “TOJI! LOOK! LOOK AT THEIR HANDS! MATCHING! PERMANENT! MATCHING!”

Toji casually extended one hand and palmed Gojo’s face out of his personal space like someone swatting a fly. “Morning to you too, sunshine.”

His eyes slid back to you.

Then Sukuna.

Then the stars.

“About damn time,” Toji said, voice warming with a real smile. “Thought I’d have to bribe one of you into admitting it.”

Sukuna growled—not threateningly, just enough to pretend he still had an upper hand. Toji ignored him.

He stepped fully inside, walking toward the counter where Choso now stood waiting, posture relaxed in a way only Toji ever managed to coax out of him.

“You good?” Toji murmured, low and private, as he brushed a hand across the back of Choso’s neck.

Choso’s shoulders eased beneath the touch. “I’m fine,” he replied quietly.

But his gaze flicked briefly, just briefly, toward your hand in Sukuna’s. You felt it, that quiet, old heaviness from seven years ago, tucked under the ribs like a sealed envelope.

Toji saw it too.

And without making a production out of it, he slid his hand into Choso’s, grounding him with a soft squeeze.

“Good,” Toji murmured. “Because it looks like the family just got bigger.”

Choso’s lips twitched—the smallest smile—but it reached his eyes.

Sukuna bristled again. “We’re not adopting anyone.”

Toji snorted. “You already did. Two kids, one cat, one piercer, one chaos god, and now an actual girlfriend? Congratulations, you’re a suburban dad.”

Gojo shrieked. Suguru closed his eyes like he was begging the universe for silence. Choso let out a soft huff of laughter that made your heart ache in the good way.

Sukuna muttered something vicious under his breath, but he didn’t let go of your hand.

In fact, he tugged you a little closer.

Toji’s eyes softened at that, a warm, understanding glimmer that held no jealousy, no discomfort. Just quiet approval.

He stepped toward you, stopping at a polite distance.

“You happy?” he asked.

You nodded instantly. Toji’s smile deepened, warm and steady, sincerity settling over him like a second skin. “Good,” he said. “You deserve the good stuff.”

Sukuna made a sceptical, territorial noise in his chest.

Toji thumped a hand onto Sukuna’s shoulder, maybe a little too hard, smirking. “You take care of her,” he said. Not a threat. A promise. “Or you answer to me.” Choso added softly, “And me.”

You squeezed Sukuna’s hand before he could snap something ridiculous. “I’m fine,” you said brightly. “Stop acting like I’m being auctioned off.”

Toji chuckled. Choso looked away with the faintest flush in his cheeks. Sukuna muttered something possessive but softened his grip immediately after.

Gojo clapped his hands like a deranged camp counsellor. “GROUP HUG.”

Every single man in the room chorused in perfect, mortified unison:

“NO.”

You laughed—bright, warm, the kind that filled the whole shop like sunlight. “Come on… It’s a special day”  you added with that smile you used when you wanted to get something, or coarse someone into something.

Sukuna grumbled something that sounded like an ancient curse, Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose like he was bracing for impact. Choso blinked once, slowly, like calculating the odds of survival. Toji shoved his hands in his pockets, pretending he wasn’t amused. Gojo bounced on his toes like a golden retriever who’d heard the word park.

But you? You just leaned your head against Sukuna’s arm, smiling at all of them with that warm, bubbling, absolutely unfair gentleness that made even the worst tempers soften.

“A tiny one,” you repeated, lifting your pinkie. “Just this much.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that only happens right before chaos or surrender.

And surprisingly—it wasn’t chaos.

It was Sukuna.

The first to move.

A low, resigned growl rattled in his chest as he stepped forward, tugging you with him.

“Fine,” he said, glaring at Gojo and Toji and absolutely no one in particular. “But if anyone squeezes too hard, I’m breaking fingers.”

Gojo cheered like a child at a parade, Suguru let out a long, pained exhale—but stepped in.

Choso hesitated, just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the shadow, the memory, that flickered behind his eyes. Something, still living under his ribs. Toji saw it too, but he didn’t say a word, just touched Choso’s hand, a warm, grounding brush that said you’re safe, and nodded him forward. And Choso went, slowly, carefully, but willingly.

You opened your arms, and the rest of them followed like planets dragged into orbit.

Suddenly, the strangest miracle occurred: The Red Star Tattoos Group Hug actually happened.

It was a mess.

Sukuna pulled you tightly under his arm like he was anchoring himself, Gojo draped himself over everyone like a glittering scarf, Suguru stood strategically at the edge, dignified but undeniably part of it. Choso tucked himself into the space beside you, one arm carefully around your back, the other brushing Toji’s sleeve. And Toji? He wrapped an arm around Choso first, always first, then reached just far enough to rest a warm hand between your shoulders.

Twinkles jumped onto someone’s boot. No one knew whose.

Everyone was squished, someone’s elbow was in someone’s lung, Gojo sniffled loudly, Sukuna hissed. Suguru whispered a prayer, Toji smirked into Choso’s hair. Choso’s breath shook—but in a good way.

And you… You felt the entire shop exhale around you.

Family, messy, loud, chaotic, ridiculous, but above everything real.

Held together by arms that normally only knew how to fight, push, guard, now holding each other. Holding you.

Gojo broke first, voice wobbly with dramatic emotion. “THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL MOMENT OF MY LIFE.”

Sukuna snarled. “If you cry on me, I swear—”

“I’m crying on everyone,” Gojo wailed.

“Toji,” Suguru said flatly. “Restrain him.”

“Nope,” Toji replied. “This is fun.”

Choso’s soft laugh rose between all of you, quiet, warm, and healing in a way no medicine ever could.

Sukuna pressed his forehead briefly to the top of your head, trying to hide the softness in the gesture, but you felt it anyway.

Felt all of it.

All of them.

And for the first time, the hug tightened, not from chaos, but from comfort, from choosing each other.

From choosing you.

“Okay,” you finally giggled, breathless, “I think that counts as a small one.”

No one let go.

Not immediately.

Not even Sukuna.

And when they finally did break apart, Toji quietly rested his hand on Choso’s back again. Choso leaned into it, not noticeably, not dramatically, but enough. Just enough,  Sukuna tugged you back to his side, fingers sliding down to lace with yours like he couldn’t help himself. Gojo wiped a dramatic tear from behind his sunglasses, and Suguru shook his head, but even he was smiling. Choso looked lighter. Toji looked proud.

And you?

You looked at the family clustered around you and felt your heart overflow.

Red Star Tattoos wasn’t just a shop.

It was home.

It was Saturday, and as each Saturday (to that point in time) only you and Sukuna stayed the whole day at the shop, today you had arrived earlier than him, he saw your car parked at your designated spot, the one that was closer to the shop. When he entered, he stood still, he didn’t see you at first, but he heard you.

And when Sukuna saw you crying, he didn't know what to do.

First of all, he was an asshole, or at least every single person that he had met had told him so at least once,  so it wasn't natural to him  show affection, and of course he didn’t know what to do in these types of circumstances.

and secondly, he had never seen you cry, not a day in his life. For him  you were this cheerful bubbly almost annoying person.  So when he was entering the shop and noticed that  you were crying pretty bad, his first instinct was to leave the shop and do literally anything else, but then he saw your face.

Your eyes, puffy and full of tears, the colour of your irises contrasting with the red that surrounded them, your face red and contorted in a weird form, something that was improper of you, that seemed bizarre, borrowed even.

He gasped.

And for the first time in his life, he chose not to run away from pain and sadness, instead he sighed, and turned the sign at the door showing that it was "closed”. In a couple of determined strides, he got right in front of you, he didn't say a word but he wrapped you in a hug, a really awkward but sincere one. You got still, it was the first time he touched you, even in the four years that you had worked together he only waved in your direction. But you really needed a hug, so you wrapped your arms around him and, even though, you  really tried to stop it, you started sobbing again.

“I-I'm so-rry” you tried to apologize.

“Shh, it’s okay”, he said hushing you softly, as he patted your hair “I don’t know what’s wrong bubbles, but if you need to cry, I got you.” He didn’t know why he had said that, but he felt it, and truth to be told he was actually concerned, not curious, but concerned.

Sukuna kept his arms around you, a little stiff, like he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. He wasn’t. But he didn’t let go. You managed to steady your breath a little, your face still pressed against his chest, wetting his shirt with your tears. You felt him inhale sharply, like your closeness startled him, but he didn’t move away.

After a quiet moment, he asked—reluctantly, as if the words scraped coming out:

“…Did someone hurt you?”

His voice didn’t carry its usual bite. It was low, controlled, and earnest in a way that made you look up at him. His brows were drawn together, not in annoyance but… worry? The expression looked foreign on him, like he didn’t quite know how to wear it.

You shook your head softly. “No. It’s just, everything’s been… a lot today, someone came in, a man, he was definitely on something, he flashed me and he left as he made weird ass comments about me, and also my cat she’s sick and in the vet....” You started sobbing again.

Sukuna froze for a beat when you said the man had come into the shop. Your shop. His shop. Your shared space, the place you two had built together for years, where everything from the smell of ink to the hum of the machines felt like home.

For a moment he didn’t breathe, like he was trying to process every piece of information you’d dropped on him at once. The trembling in your shoulders, the panic in your voice, the way your hands clutched at his shirt—it all hit him harder than he expected.

His jaw tightened, his expression went cold. Not angry. Cold.

He loosened his hold only enough to tilt your chin up with one knuckle, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“That’s not happening again,” he said, every word permanent like ink on skin.

You swallowed. “…Sukuna, you don’t have to—” you said, unable to look at him.

“I do.” He cut you off immediately, stepping back just enough to look around the shop, as if reassessing it. The machines, the sketch wall, the tiny fridge full of energy drinks, the flash sheets pinned up crooked because you put them that way. The place you’d built together.

You were still weeping, still in shock, still repeating the scene in your head over and over again, your shoulders shivering with each sob, and he could feel them, each one making him feel your fear, your shock, it sickened him, not because it was weakness but because it made him feel, care, worry. 

“…Hey,” he murmured, quieter than before. “Hey, look at me.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. Tears blurred everything, turning the world into shapes and colours, but not enough to block out the memory of the man’s voice, or the way your cat had looked in her carrier, small and weak.

Sukuna’s hand moved to your shoulder—gentle, steady. “Bubbles. Look at me.”

This time, you managed. Barely.

His eyes were sharp, but not angry. Focused. Controlled. Like he was deciding something.

“That guy,” he said slowly, “ he isn’t coming back here. Ever.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean what I said.” His voice dropped lower, firm in a way that made the air feel heavier. “No one walks in here and scares you. No one talks to you like that. Not while I’m around.”

You frowned a little, confused. “Why do you care so much?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Exhaled through his nose.

“…Because I do,” he said finally, sounding like he hated how true it was. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

Before you could answer, he tugged you even closer—not crushing, just grounding—and rested his chin very lightly on top of your head. It startled you. Sukuna had never touched anyone without flinching away a second later. But now he held you like he wasn’t planning to move until you told him to.

“You’re shaken,” he muttered. “Anyone would be. And your cat…” His voice softened almost imperceptibly. “That’s a lot for one day.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “…I hate crying.”

“Yeah. I can tell.” Sukuna huffed lightly, not mocking—more like he was trying to make you breathe easier. “You’re terrible at it.”

A surprised laugh escaped you, short and watery.

“There it is,” he said, and though his expression didn’t change much, his shoulders relaxed. “That’s more like you.”

You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt. “Thank you. For… this.”

He shrugged, but his ears turned pink.

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m still figuring out what the hell I’m doing.”

You almost smiled. “You’re doing fine.”

Sukuna went quiet, his gaze flicking to your face again—as if checking, double‑checking, that you were really okay. “…Sit,” he muttered, guiding you gently and awkwardly towards the padded client chair. “I’ll make you tea. Or… something warm. Whatever people do in situations like this.”

“You don’t drink tea.”

“I’m not making it for me,” he said, sounding offended you’d even bring it up.

The silence surrounding you wasn’t heavy or suffocating, and it broke when he added “I should’ve been here.”

“You were on your lunch break!” you protested weakly.

“Don’t care,” he snapped, but not at you. At himself. At the situation. Then softer: “You shouldn’t deal with that alone.”

Sukuna grabbed the stool he used for long tattoo sessions and rolled it in front of you. He planted himself on it, elbows on his knees, watching you closely like you were a stencil he needed to get perfect on the first try.

“…Your cat,” he said after a moment. “What happened?”

You took a breath, a shaky one. “She wasn’t eating. The vet said they’re running tests, so she had to stay there.”

He didn’t hesitate. “We’ll go together when they call.”

You blinked. “Sukuna, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t.” His eyes flicked up again, and for a split second, something painfully genuine flickered there. “But you’re my partner. In this shop. In—” He cut himself off, like the sentence had started sprinting ahead of him.

He tried again. “You matter here. More than you think.”

The words settled between you, warm and strange.

He cleared his throat roughly and stood up, suddenly restless. “I’m putting a camera by the front door,” he muttered, already walking toward the counter. “And a bell sensor. And a sign that says, ‘don’t be a creep.’ Or maybe just ‘don’t.’”

Despite everything, he tears, the fear, the overwhelming day,  you laughed again. A real one this time.

Sukuna paused mid‑stride and looked back at you. The corners of his mouth twitched.

“…There. Better,” he said quietly.

And for the first time since the morning, the tattoo shop — your shared shop — felt safe again.

That day the shop did not open, he sent a text to the guys that shared the space, and texted the clients that you both had, of course he got some curses from Suguru and Choso, who did not know the reason on why he cancelled everything for the day, but he didn’t care.

 He was worried about you. 

He did your tea in silence while you checked your phone, probably hoping for a message from the vet. He chose your favourite flavour from the selection that you carefully curated each month, then he reached for the mug he and the guys had gifted you for your birthday— the one in your favourite colours with a big red star in the middle.

 He dropped the teabag in and poured the hot water only halfway already filling it with some cold water from the sink before stirring the exact amount of sugar you always used. It was instinctive at this point—  you drank at least three cups a day, and after years of working together, it made sense to him that he’d pick those small details from your routine.

But he deep down  he knew that he knew them because it was you.

He had known Choso the longest and still had no idea  what brand of cigarettes he smoked, let alone his favourite drink or how he took it. But with you? Everything stuck, even the way in which you would wrap your tattoo gun or even the way in which you would start designing, he didn’t even try to pick those habits, he just did. 

And he was mad, not at you, but at himself for not being there when you needed him… And he was also mad at the fact that he had hugged you. It bothered him because now that he had you close, he knew he’d feel starved without it.

“Here” he said. His voice came out blunter than he meant it to, but softer than the usual, so you didn’t mind. You stood up automatically, thinking that you would need to add sugar and a splash cold water like always, but the way he frowned made you pause.

So you sat back down, and took the mug from his hands, your hands brushing .

 You smile appeared the moment you saw that the mug he had used was your favourite, and your smile grew bigger when you took the first sip.  It tasted exactly like the way you made it. Maybe even better.

You looked up to tell him so and caught him staring. His burgundy eyes fixed on your face.

And he froze like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing, his shoulders stiffened, and he immediately looked away, his eyes fixed on the wall you had plastered with the stencils of the designs that you all have tattooed on someone along the years. But the faint colour on the tips of his ears gave him away, they were as pink as his hair.  He cleared his throat, too harshly to be natural. “What?” he said, as if your smile was somehow suspicious.

But he glanced at you again,  quick, almost involuntary,  and this time his expression softened just a fraction. Barely there. But real.

He liked seeing you smile. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“Just… drink it before it gets cold,” he muttered, turning his back in a poor attempt to hide how relieved he looked.

“Sukuna” you said  gently, noticing that he was shutting himself away, closing up like he always did when emotions got too close. He was nervous, you could feel it. 

He turned  back at the sound of your voice.

“It’s perfect, thanks” you murmured, your cheeks still flushed, a tear drying on your cheek, your hands still trembling around the warm mug.

Sukuna’s expression twitched, something complicated passing over it — relief, annoyance, something softer hidden underneath.

“…Do you wanna go sit in the back?” he asked quietly. “You’re still shaking. We’ve got the couch. Maybe you’ll be more comfortable.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the warm mug. The idea of moving felt heavy, like your body wasn’t fully yours yet. But the idea of being alone in the front of the shop felt heavier.

“…Yeah,” you whispered. “Okay.”

Sukuna nodded once, curt and awkward, as if relieved you agreed but determined not to show it. He hovered for a second like he wasn’t sure if he should offer help or just walk. Then he did neither, instead, he stepped closer and placed a steady hand on your shoulder. It felt warm, solid, grounding, it brought you back to this instant, to this moment.

“Come on,” he murmured.

You let him guide you through the narrow hallway toward the back. The lights were dimmer here, softer, reflecting off the framed flash designs the two of you had collected over the years. You passed by his station,  always meticulously organized, and yours which was always cluttered but alive with sketches, and pictures of your cat, of the shop, of you eating dinner with Choso and Suguru

He didn’t comment on the way you leaned slightly into him as you walked. But he adjusted his pace to match yours.

The couch sat in its usual dented corner, sunken from years of exhausted artists flopping onto it between clients. The blanket draped over the back was one you brought in last winter when the shop heater broke for three days straight.

Sukuna gestured to it. “…Sit.”

You lowered yourself into the cushions, sinking into their worn softness. The familiarity of it calmed you in a way you didn’t expect. Sukuna stood nearby for a moment, hands hovering uselessly at his thighs like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

You looked up at him. “You know you can sit too, right?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I— yeah. I know.” Then added quickly, “I just… making sure you’re good.”

You shifted slightly, making room. “I’m good. Just… don’t want to sit alone.”

Sukuna’s expression softened in a blink, so fast that he hoped you didn’t see it. He sat beside you, stiff at first, as if the couch might bite. The cushions dipped, brushing his knee against yours. He pretended not to notice.

A quiet moment passed. You sipped your tea. He watched your hands to make sure they’d stopped trembling.

After a few breaths, you felt his gaze shift toward you.

“You’re still shaking,” he said softly.

“I know,” you whispered.

He hesitated, staring at his own hands. Then, very carefully, he rested his forearm along the back of the couch,  not touching you, but creating a sort of sheltering presence behind you. A hesitant offer.

“If you… need to lean,” he murmured, looking anywhere but at your face, “you can.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “Sukuna…”

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, too fast, too defensive. “Just— you look like you’re about to fall over.” But the tips of his ears were pink again.

Slowly, cautiously, you leaned sideways, letting your shoulder press lightly into him. His body tensed for half a second, then he exhaled, the tension easing out of him like he’d finally accepted something he’d been fighting all day.

He didn’t move away, nor adjust, nor complained, he simply stayed.

The shop hummed softly around you, machines cooling, distant pipes ticking, the low buzz of a place that felt lived‑in and safe.

A place the two of you had built, his palace, your safe place, the one he was protecting now, for you.

After a while, his voice broke the quiet.

“…You don’t have to talk yet,” he said. “Just breathe.”

You did. For the first time all day, you breathed without feeling like you might break.

Sukuna stayed right there beside you, steady and warm, shoulder against yours, and he didn’t move an inch.

You were finally beginning to breathe again.

The couch was warm, the tea steadied your hands, and Sukuna—though stiff and pretending he wasn’t paying attention—sat beside you like he was personally holding the world together so it wouldn’t crush you again.

Then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Three sharp knocks slammed against the front door, loud enough to make you jump and nearly spill your tea. Sukuna’s head snapped up, every muscle in his body going rigid.

Before either of you could speak, a voice boomed from the front of the shop:

“DOLL? HEY, DOLL, I’M BACK!”

Your blood ran cold.

Sukuna stood so fast the couch jolted beneath you.

“What,” he said, voice low and deadly calm, “did he just say?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer.

The man outside pounded on the glass again, rattling the door in its frame. “C’mon, doll! I know you’re in there! You didn’t have to act so freaked out earlier—”

Sukuna was already moving, controlled, measured and terrifyingly calm. The kind of calm that meant he was seconds away from snapping.

You scrambled to your feet. “Sukuna—wait—!”

He didn’t even look back, but his voice reached you, sharp and absolute:

“Stay here.”

Your breath caught. “Sukuna—”

“Bubbles.” And with that he left, you stood there, frozen, and the back-room door swung shut behind him before you could argue.

You hovered at the edge of the couch, heart pounding, hearing the muffled voice of the man outside rambling, laughing, knocking again and again.

Then you heard the lock on the front door turn.

And Sukuna’s voice quiet, low, carved from pure ice:

“…Say ‘doll’ again.”

The silence that followed Sukuna’s voice was deafening. It was the kind of silence that happens right before a storm breaks, heavy, suffocating.

Through the thin walls of the back room, you heard the man’s laughter falter. "Who the—? Look, man, I'm just here for the girl. We had a thing going earlier, and I—"

"A thing?" Sukuna’s voice wasn't loud. It was a jagged whisper that carried more weight than a shout. "You walked into this shop. You looked at her. You laid your hands on your own filth in front of her."

You crept toward the door of the back room, your heart hammering against your ribs. You could hear the front door creaking, as if Sukuna was slowly stepping out onto the threshold, forcing the man to back away by sheer presence alone.

"Hey, take it easy! I didn't know she had a boyfriend," the man stammered, his bravado springing leaks.

"I'm not her boyfriend," Sukuna said, and for a split second, the words hurt him, but he continued. "I’m the person who’s going to make sure you never have a 'thing' with anyone ever again. I built this place. Every drop of ink, every machine—and her. She is the only reason this place isn't just a cage of bones and metal. You didn't just disrespect my girl. You walked into my sanctuary and tried to break the only thing in it that matters." The possessive slipped of his mouth, like you had always belonged to him, but he didn’t notice.

A thud. The sound of someone being shoved hard against the brick exterior of the shop.

"Wait—stop! I'm leaving! I'm leaving!" the man shrieked.

"You're not leaving yet," Sukuna growled grabbing him by the collar. "Look at the sign. What does it say?"

"C-closed. It says closed."

"Good. You can read. Now, look at me. If I see your shadow on this glass again—if I even hear a rumour that you've spoken her name in a bar three towns over—I won't call the police. I won't file a report. I will find you, and I will show you exactly why they call me what they do in this city. Do you understand?"

There was a frantic, desperate scrambling sound, the shoes of a man who realized he had accidentally knocked on the door of a monster.

Sukuna didn't chase him. He didn't need to. He stood in the doorway, the cool evening air rushing into the shop, watching until the sound of the man’s panicked footsteps faded into nothing.

The front door slammed shut. The bolt slid home with a definitive, metallic clack.

For a long minute, there was no sound. Then, the heavy tread of Sukuna’s boots returned. He pushed open the back-room door.

He looked... different. His hair was slightly mussed from the wind, his chest was heaving, and his eyes were still dark with a lingering, primal rage. But the moment his gaze landed on you—still standing by the couch, clutching your empty mug like a shield, the fire in him died down into an ember.

He couldn’t help it but he hugged you, he didn’t know who needed it most. "He's gone," he muttered. "He won't be back. I'll make sure of it." You hugged him tighter, shaking again just like those old tattoo machines.

"We're not staying here," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.

You swallowed hard, the fear of the man replaced by a strange, fluttering tension at Sukuna's declaration. "Sukuna... I don't want to be alone. Not tonight." You said as you pushed back a little, just to stare at his eyes, he looked tense, his jaw clenching, the tattoos of his face looking even more intimidating like they normally did.

He didn't scoff this time. He didn't make a joke. He just nodded, once, a sharp and serious movement.

"I know," he said softly. "Grab your bag. I’m going with you” he said as he stood. He was still looking at you, this time more uncertain, like he was restraining himself.

He finally broke and reached out again, his hand hovering near your face before he finally gained the courage to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was incredibly gentle for someone who had just threatened to dismantle a man.

"Come on, bubbles," he murmured. "Let's get out of here."

The drive to your apartment was tense. Sukuna’s hands were glued to the wheel of his Challenger,  his eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure no one was following. He didn't have the radio on; he just sat in a heavy, brooding silence that felt like a physical weight.

When he pulled up to your building, he didn't just unlock the doors and wait for you to get out. He killed the engine and stepped out before you could even reach for your bag.

"Sukuna, you don't have to—"

"I said I’m going with you," he muttered firmly, walking around to your side and opening the door. He didn't grab your hand, but he stood so close that your shoulder brushed his chest. He was scanning the street, the shadows under the trees, the parked cars. He looked like he was looking for a reason to lose his temper again.

He followed you into the lobby, his boots echoing off the tile. In the elevator, he stood in front of the buttons, shielding you from the door. He looked out of place in the mundane apartment hallway, too tall, too tattooed, too much raw energy for the floral wallpaper and quiet carpet.

At your door, you fumbled with your keys. Your hands were still a bit numb from the day’s adrenaline crash.

"C’mon bubbles, give me those," he sighed, reaching out. He didn't wait for you to hand them over; he gently plucked them from your fingers. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside first.

He didn't try to be "guest-like." He did a lap of your apartment, checking the bathroom, the kitchen, even peering into the closet, while you stood awkwardly by the door.

"It's empty, Sukuna," you said softly.

He came back into the living room, his eyes landing on the empty cat tree in the corner. His expression softened for a split second before he masked it with a scowl. "Yeah. It's empty. That's the problem."

He didn't leave. Instead, he sat down on your couch, leaning his head back against the cushions and closing his eyes.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"I’m staying," he said, not opening his eyes. "At least until you fall asleep. I’m not leaving you here to jump at every creak in the floorboards because some pathetic loser decided to be a creep today."

"But you're going to be so uncomfortable."

Sukuna opened one eye, that sharp, burgundy irises fixing on you. "I've slept on concrete floors in warehouses, bubbles. Your IKEA couch isn't going to kill me."

“It’s not IKEA” you mumbled almost offended.

He chuckled, and he gestured vaguely toward your bedroom. "Go. Wash your face. Get in bed. I’ll be right here. If the vet calls, I'll wake you up."

You hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you. Really."

He just grunted, already reaching into his pocket for his phone, probably to send an aggressive text to Choso or Suguru about why he wasn't answering their calls.

As you shut your bedroom door, you heard the soft thud of his boots hitting the floor as he kicked them off. For the first time since that man walked into the shop, the tightness in your chest finally loosened.

Sukuna was an asshole, a grump, and a man who communicated primarily through glares, but he was on your couch. And as long as he was there, the world felt like it couldn't touch you.

An hour later, you couldn't sleep. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only a hollow ache and the worry for your cat. You cracked your bedroom door open just an inch.

Sukuna was still sitting exactly where he’d landed. He hadn't even turned on the TV. He was just sitting in the dark, his head leaned back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. He looked smaller like this—less like the "King" of the shop and more like a man who was genuinely out of his depth.

"Sukuna?" you whispered.

His head snapped toward the door instantly. "What? Did you hear something? Is someone—"

"No," you said quickly, stepping out into the hallway. "No one's here. I just... I can't sleep."

He settled back down, but his shoulders stayed tight. "Big surprise. It’s been a hell of a day."

"I was thinking... about the shop," you said, sitting on the floor a few feet away from the couch. "What if he comes back when I'm alone tomorrow?"

Sukuna shifted, leaning forward until he was looking directly at you. The shadows of the room hit the sharp lines of his face, making him look like a statue.

"You aren't going to be alone tomorrow," he said, his voice a low, vibrating promise. "Or the day after. Or ever, if I have a say in it. I’m changing the schedule. You work when I work. No exceptions."

He reached out, his hand pausing in mid-air before he let it drop onto your shoulder. It was heavy and warm, a grounding weight that finally stopped the last of your trembling.

"Go back to bed, bubbles," he murmured, his thumb brushing against your collarbone for just a second—a tiny, involuntary gesture of affection. "I’ve got the watch."

The bedroom was too big, too dark, and too quiet. Every time you closed your eyes, you didn't see your room; you saw the man’s face, the bed felt empty without your cat stretched all over it like if it was her bed instead of yours. Your skin felt cold, and the silence seemed to hum with the leftover adrenaline of the day.

You grabbed the blanket off your bed and padded quietly back into the living room.

Sukuna hadn't moved. He was sitting upright on the couch, arms crossed, looking like a soldier on guard duty. When he heard your footsteps, his head snapped toward you, his eyes alert.

"What's wrong? You, okay?" his voice was a low rumble in the dark.

"I can't... the room is too quiet," you whispered, standing by the edge of the couch. "I can't get warm."

Sukuna looked at you, then at the empty spot on the couch beside him. He opened his mouth to give you a lecture about how "people need sleep to function," but the words died in his throat when he saw the way you were wrapped in that blanket, looking small and exhausted.

He let out a long, heavy sigh and shifted over, creating a space. "Fine. Sit."

You didn't just sit. You sank into the cushions and, before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned your head against his shoulder. He went completely still, literally stopped breathing for a second, as your warmth pressed against his side.

"Bubbles, what are you doing?" he muttered, though he didn't pull away.

"Just stay still," you breathed, closing your eyes.

Slowly, the tension began to bleed out of him. He stayed upright for a while, but as the minutes ticked by and your breathing evened out, his posture slumped. He reached out, hesitating for a heartbeat before he wrapped a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You let out a small, contented sigh and tucked your cold feet under his thigh. He hissed at the temperature but didn't move them. Instead, he pulled the blanket up higher around your shoulders.

“You're a menace,” he murmured into the top of your hair, his voice devoid of any real bite.

The heat radiating off him was incredible. Between the steady thump of his heart and the scent of his familiar cologne, the shadows of the day finally started to fade. You felt him lean his head back against the top of the couch, his chin resting lightly on your crown.

“Sukuna?” you whispered, half-asleep.

“Yeah?”

“Stay.”

His grip tightened just a fraction, his hand resting on your arm in a way that felt permanent.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he whispered back.

In the quiet of your living room, with the city lights flickering outside the window, the “King” of the shop finally let his guard down. He didn't just stay awake to watch the door; eventually, his own eyes grew heavy.

When the sun finally began to peek through the blinds the next morning, it found the two of you tangled together—your body tucked safely into his, his head tilted toward yours, and Sukuna’s hand still curled around the edge of your blanket like he’d been guarding you even in sleep.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The shop, the man, the panic from yesterday—everything felt strangely distant, softened by the quiet morning light and the steady warmth between you.

Eventually Sukuna stirred, inhaling sharply when he realized how close you were, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he blinked down at you once, almost reluctant, before gently shaking your shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep. “Wake up.”

He hadn’t meant to wake you so softly—he’d tell himself that later—but you looked peaceful, and something in him hated being the one to break it. The only reason he did was because the notification on your phone had chimed, and the moment he checked the screen, his entire body snapped into focus.

The vet had messaged.

The warmth of the couch disappeared in an instant. As soon as you grabbed your jacket and slipped your shoes on, Sukuna was already at the door, keys in hand, holding it open like the hallway was enemy territory he needed to secure for you. He didn’t say much; he didn’t have to. His presence filled every inch of the space—solid, steady, purposeful—like getting you to that clinic was his only mission in the world.

The morning air was crisp when you both stepped outside. Sukuna placed a hand on your lower back, guiding you toward his car in a way that was both protective and strangely careful — like he was still afraid you might shatter if he wasn’t gentle enough.

He opened the passenger door for you.

“You’re not riding alone today,” he muttered.

You managed a small smile. “I know, my car is on the shop.”

“I see you’re doing better” he smiled, genuinely, even when you were teasing him.

The engine roared to life, but the rest of the car was quiet,  not awkward, just… concentrated. Sukuna kept one hand on the wheel and the other poised near the gearshift, knuckles pale from gripping too tightly.

You watched him from the corner of your eye. His brows were knit, eyes flicking constantly between the road, the mirrors, and you. Every few seconds he checked on you, subtle but unmistakable.

“You, okay?” he muttered when he caught you staring.

You nodded. “Just thinking.”

“About her?” His voice softened — that rare version of him reserved only for moments like this.

“Yeah.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, jaw tightening. “She’s tough. She’ll be fine.”

You blinked. “You don’t even know her.”

“I do”

“You do?”

“Yeah once, back from when she was a dot and you brought her to the shop”

“a dot?”

“Yeah, thing was even smaller than your hand, and it was loud” he added, cheeks-tinged pink.

“Why was she so loud? Yowling all over the place, climbing up my pant leg—”

“She liked you,” you said.

His grip on the wheel slipped for half a second. “What?”

You laughed lightly. “She always liked you. She only climbed people she liked.”

Sukuna stared ahead, ears burning.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice dropping. “I didn’t touch her.”

“ Now I remember,” you said. “You kept your hands behind your back the whole time.”

“It was small,” he snapped defensively. “And fragile.” Then, quieter: “…Could’ve hurt it.”

Your chest softened unbelievably at the confession.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, warmth filling your voice, “you were scared of breaking my kitten?”

He scowled dramatically. “Don’t— Just… drop it.”

You smiled, unable to help it. He noticed but didn’t complain.

“I didn’t dislike it,” he mumbled after a beat, so quietly you almost missed it. “I just didn’t wanna… y’know. Squish it.”

You covered your mouth to hide your grin. “But you liked her.”

He gripped the wheel even tighter, shoulders rising defensively.“…Yeah. Whatever.”

Your heart felt full in a way you couldn’t explain.

When you pulled into the parking lot, Sukuna put the car in park but didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, swallowed, then said:

“She’s stronger than she looks.” He paused. “She takes after you.”

You didn’t have time to respond before he opened his door and opened yours.

Inside the clinic, everything moved quickly,  the receptionist, the vet, the familiar carrier being brought out. Your breath caught the moment you heard that soft, unmistakable meow.

“She’s okay,” the vet said warmly. “Hydrated, stabilized. You can take her home.”

Your legs nearly buckled with relief.

Sukuna stepped closer immediately, steadying you with a hand at your back, a gentle press, careful but firm enough to remind you he was there.

You reached for the carrier, but Sukuna took it first, crouching down.

Inside, your little cat blinked up at him sleepily.

“…Hey, gremlin,” he murmured, voice impossibly soft. “Told you to stop scaring her.”

Your eyes stung again, but for a much better reason.

The vet smiled, unaware of everything this moment meant. “Twinkles’ lucky to have you both.”

Sukuna chuckled , but said nothing, he stood, holding the carrier like it was the world itself.

“Let’s get her home,” he said quietly.

And on the way back to the car, he glanced at you,  and for just a moment, the fear in him eased, replaced with something deep, warm, and steady.

“She’s gonna be okay,” he said. “I told you.”

And for the first time in days, you believed him completely.

And as he drove you home, with your cat safe in the back seat and the morning sun washing over both of you, something in the air felt lighter — like the world had finally stopped crashing in.

Sukuna didn’t say much, but he kept checking the mirror every few seconds, not for danger this time. For her, and for you, because now that he had you both safe, he wasn’t letting either of you go.

“Twinkles, really?” he asked after the silence was too much, you were way to quiet for his liking.

“Oh, shut up, I panicked when the vet asked, I used to call her cat”

“Sure” he said with half a smile.

When you both arrived at your apartment he immediately took the cradle, like it was routine, then he helped you out of the car. You walked in front of him, feeling safe, feeling happy.

When you finally reached your apartment door again, Sukuna was still carrying the carrier as if it contained something fragile and sacred. He wasn’t even pretending anymore — he held it tucked against his chest protectively, glare sharp at anyone who walked too close in the hallway.

Inside, he set the carrier down gently, lowering to a crouch.

The moment you unlatched the door, the gremlin poked her head out, blinking sleepily, and then launched herself straight at Sukuna.

Not you. Sukuna.

She clambered up his hoodie, tiny paws grabbing at the fabric as she squeaked and chirped. Sukuna froze like someone had hit the pause button.

“…The hell—” he started, but the rest died in his throat when she nuzzled under his chin.

You clasped a hand over your mouth to stop the laugh threatening to escape.

“She missed you,” you said softly.

“I— she doesn’t even— I barely— Bubbles.” He pointed at the cat clinging to his chest. “It’s on me.”

“She is,” you agreed warmly.

“Get it off.”

“You get her off.”

“I can’t.”

You raised a brow. “Why?”

He scowled. “I’ll hurt it.”

“You won’t hurt her. She loves you.”

Sukuna’s ears flushed pink.

“She calls you gremlin, and she still comes back,” you added.

“I call it gremlin,” he corrected.

“She responds to it,” you countered.

“She shouldn’t.”

But the hand that had been hovering awkwardly finally — finally — settled on her back in the lightest, most careful pet in the history of mankind.

And she purred. LOUDLY.

Sukuna’s entire expression shifted like someone had kicked his soul out his body. “…It’s vibrating.”

“That means she’s happy.”

“…OH.” He blinked slowly, as if processing a concept too big to grasp.

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt, and the cat head‑butted his collarbone.

He froze again.

Then she curled up right in his lap when he sat on the couch, refusing to move.

Sukuna stared at her. “It’s asleep on me.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t move.”

“No you can’t.”

“This is entrapment.”

“She likes you.”

He didn’t argue this time.

Instead he just sat on the sofa, and he finally let himself pet her. The cat unbothered just purring as she sleeps.

“She’s so soft” he mumbled looking at you, when you put an avocado toast in front of him with a cup of his favourite green tea, because, yes, you did notice things about him too.  Sukuna was still sitting stiffly, the cat a tiny curled-up ball on his hoodie.

“Eat,” you said, nudging the plate toward him.

“No.”

“Sukuna, please” you said looking at him with your big puppy eyes that you used each time that you wanted to change something in the shop, you knew it was playing dirty but this time it was for the best.

“I can go longer.”

“I believe you, champ, just eat anyway.”

He glared and you didn’t blink.

“…Fine,” he muttered, taking the plate with one hand so the other could stay protectively near the sleeping cat.

He took a bite. “You’re staring,” he grumbled.

“I’ve never seen you eat like a person before,” you teased.

“I always eat.” He said back

“When forced.” You retorted

He muttered something that sounded like a curse but kept chewing.

“Besides you look good, all relaxed and dunno makes you look human.” You added with a smirk, your voice full of honesty, something that made Sukuna blush, not only the tips of his ears but his actual face, he tried to hide it but he couldn’t, and your smile grew.

“Don’t say that bubbles” he said with his voice so vulnerable that made you want to hug him, you could tell that he wasn’t used to receive compliments.

“But it’s true”

Sukuna looked away immediately, like your words were something too bright to stare at directly. His ears were still pink, the colour climbing all the way to the tips of his hair. “…You talk too much,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it. If anything, he sounded… flustered. Which only made your smile widen.

Twinkles suddenly stretched, let out a tiny squeak, and kneaded her paws against Sukuna’s hoodie like she was making biscuits on him.

Sukuna froze.

“What’s it doing?” he whispered harshly, horrified.

“She’s making biscuits,” you said deadpan.

“It hurts—”

“It means she loves you.”

He stared down at the little creature purring and clawing happily against his chest, and you watched him surrender to it, in the smallest, most reluctant way possible.

“…It’s fine,” he grumbled, settling back into the couch a little more. Which, in Sukuna-language, translated to: He liked it.

You took your own seat beside him, pulling your legs up under you and tucking the blanket over both your laps. You ate your toast and finally everything was quiet, and stole a bit of his tea, he didn’t mind, you both feeling peaceful in a way neither of you had felt probably ever before.

Then your phone buzzed. Not once but three times

Sukuna’s eyebrow twitched. “…Answer it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “It’s Suguru and Choso again.”

“Exactly why you should answer it,” he said, expression flattening. “Before Suguru breaks into the shop and burns it down looking for us.”

You sighed dramatically, grabbed your phone, and hit “Call Back.”

Suguru answered on the first ring.

“FINALLY—oh good, you’re alive. And I assume Sukuna hasn’t murdered anyone yet?”

You looked at Sukuna and he raised an eyebrow, not today, ” you replied,

Suguru exhaled so loudly Choso could be heard in the background going, “I KNEW IT.”

“What happened?” Suguru demanded. “Where are you? Why did Sukuna cancel all his clients? Why did he ignore all my calls? Why did he ignore your calls? Why did you ignore my calls?”

“I was busy,” Sukuna growled from beside you.

Suguru gasped dramatically. “Is that Sukuna? Why does he sound so CLOSE—hold on—why does he sound DOMESTIC?”

“Shut up,” Sukuna barked at the phone.

Your cat perked up at the noise and meowed loudly into the receiver. There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Choso’s voice whispered reverently, “She meowed.”

Suguru shrieked, “IS THAT CAT?! SHE’S, OKAY?! THANK THE HEAVENS—”

You laughed. “She’s okay. We’re all okay.”

Suguru paused. “…Wait. ‘We’?” He sounded dangerously close to connecting dots.

Sukuna’s eye twitched. He leaned closer until his face was inches from the phone.

“We’re fine,” he said, voice low. “But if you come over—”

“Oh I know, I know,” Suguru sighed. “You’ll throw me out a window, blah blah, scary tattoo man threats, heard it all before. Just—text us later, alright? Don’t disappear again.”

“We won’t,” you promised.

Sukuna shot you a sideways look at the word we, but he didn’t correct you.

You hung up, setting the phone aside.

Sukuna shifted the blanket slightly over his legs. “They’re annoying.”

“They’re worried,” you corrected gently.

“Same shit.” He said as you chuckled.

Your cat shifted again, crawling higher onto his chest and finally settling right under his chin, purring loud enough to vibrate his sternum.

He sighed. “…I really can’t move.”

“You don’t need to,” you said softly.

Sukuna turned his head slightly to look at you. His expression was unreadable, but there was a warmth in his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday.“…Fine,” he muttered. “But only tonight.”

“Of course,” you said, even though you didn’t believe him for a second.

He rested his head against the couch, letting out a long breath. The kind he only ever released when he felt safe. You leaned a little closer, blanket wrapped around both of you. Sukuna didn’t move away, your cat purred louder and you both fell asleep. His heart pounding fast against his chest, you could hear it as your head was pressed on him, and yours, yours did beat at the same abnormal rhythm.

After the adrenaline of the morning—first the panic, then the relief of hearing Twinkles was finally okay—the crash hit both of you at once. Breakfast sat warm in your stomachs, the apartment was quiet, and the emotional weight of the last 24 hours finally loosened its grip. Sukuna tugged the blanket higher around your shoulders and settled deeper into the sofa beside you, his arm still resting where it had landed hours ago. Twinkles, now dozing peacefully against his chest like she’d claimed him, purred in steady little bursts that filled the silence with something soft. Before either of you realized it, the exhaustion pulled you under together, the three of you sinking into the kind of deep, shared sleep that only comes after fear has passed and safety has found you again.

When you both woke up it was because of the sound of someone banging on your apartment’s door. Sukuna was the first one up, already waking you up, so you could go hide in your room.

“OPEN UPPP!!!!” Suguru screamed outside of the door, and Sukuna groaned annoyed, his hand on the doorknob  as he looked at you waiting for your approval. You nodded subtly, and Suguru almost fell, scaring Twinkles and making Sukuna regret his decision of opening the door.

“He was listening through the door,” Choso’s voice accused teasingly.

“If you both scare Twinkles once more, I’m gonna kill you both” he mumbled as he stretched his back, to be honest your coach wasn’t uncomfortable but sleeping a whole night and a nap in there was maybe too much.

“What happened?” Suguru demanded instantly, eyes scanning you head to toe. “Why didn’t you answer your phone last night? Why did you vanish? Why did Sukuna vanish? Why is the shop locked? Why—” He stopped mid-sentence, because he finally saw Sukuna. And then you, who are sitting on your couch.

Your hair a mess, the blanket  you’ve shared still half draped over your shoulder, your cat doing biscuits right where he was the plate of toasts the table and your favourite mug beside him.

Suguru’s eyes widened so far, they nearly left his skull. Oh. My. GOD.”

Choso blinked slowly. “…He looks domesticated.”

Sukuna’s eye twitched. “Get out.”

“No,” Suguru said immediately. “Absolutely not. I’m having a religious experience.”

Choso nodded solemnly. “Same.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes as he sat again on the sofa, still close to you, and the cat went to his lap, sitting again on top of him.

Suguru pointed at the scene like a prosecutor. “Is that Twinkles sleeping on him? On purpose? Voluntarily?”

“She’s called Cat,” you corrected.

“Gremlin,” Sukuna added.

Suguru held up a hand. “She’s called: I Don’t Care, Look at This.” He turned his phone toward Choso. “Take a picture.”

Sukuna growled. “Try it.”

Choso slowly lowered his phone. “Okay.” But he still took a pic when Sukuna’s gaze lied on you. He sent it to you, discreetly.

Suguru recovered first, hands going to his hips. “So—did you eat? Did you sleep? Did he sleep? Why does he look like that?”

You sighed. “Yes. Yes. Yes. And what do you mean look like that?”

Suguru gestured wildly. “Like a man who just cuddled someone for twelve hours straight and then ate breakfast.”

Sukuna’s entire body tensed. “What— I did not— We didn’t— It’s not— Shut up.”

Twinkles squeaked in her sleep and kneaded her paws deeper into his hoodie.

Suguru and Choso gasped in unison.

“Oh my god,” Suguru whispered. “He’s a cat bed.”

Choso whispered back, “He’s chosen.”

“Both of you get out,” Sukuna said, voice low with deadly embarrassment.

“You can’t kick us out of her apartment,” Suguru shot back.

Sukuna looked at you with betrayal. “Tell them to leave.”

You crossed your arms. “No.”

He glared. “Bubbles.”

“King of the Shop,” you replied sweetly.

Kuna did nothing but lowered his gaze as he started to play with the gremlin.

“Choso, write this down—, she tamed the beast”

“I don’t have a notebook.”

“Use your soul!”

Twinkles stretched, rolled onto her back on Sukuna’s lap, exposing her little belly. Sukuna’s entire brain short-circuited.

Suguru clasped a hand over his heart. “I have never seen a creature trust him like that.”

“She’s broken,” Sukuna muttered.

“She loves you,” you corrected.

He didn’t deny it this time, instead he gently — so gently — placed a hand on Twinkles’ side to keep her from sliding off his lap. Suguru and Choso watched this like it was the eighth wonder of the world.

Choso whispered, “We should leave.”

Suguru elbowed him. “No, we absolutely should not—”

You stepped between them and the couch. “Guys. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. We’re safe.”

Suguru looked at you, really looked at you, you were now standing, you looked tired but calmer, less shaken with the situation, even brighter. He softened immediately. “…Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. Just—next time, tell us. We worry.”

Choso nodded.

Sukuna muttered, “We’re  definitely not doing group therapy.”

 “We’ll see.” Suguru smirked.

You laughed. And in that moment, the shop drama, the fear, the exhaustion, it all felt far away.

Twinkles purred loudly, Sukuna looked down at her, expression softening even as he tried to hide it.

Suguru whispered to Choso, “We’re living in historic times.”

“So you both are really good?” Choso asked, worried.

“Yes, definitely” you said

“Even though,  we’re changing the locks and putting cameras, also now she works the same shifts as me, and if I’m not there, which won’t happen, some of you two will be” Sukuna answered solemnly, he had already contacted a locksmith and a business that put camera’s on buildings.

“That’s great” Suguru said as he tried to pet Twinkles, who literally gave him her back just to stare at Sukuna, trying to decide whether to let Suguru touch her or not.

“We’re sorry for not being there” added Choso softly.

“It wasn’t  on your shift guys” you added softly brushing Choso’s shoulder, his ears burned as he tried to look like your touch didn’t affect him, but Sukuna noticed, and stood near you, almost possessively.

“Okay, now, what about lunch?” said Suguru suddenly. Making the four of you including Twinkles looking at him with surprise “What?” he asked blushing as he realised that his comment might have been out of nowhere, “I’m hungry”

“Let’s go and buy some sushi, then we’ll come back ” Choso retorted as he followed Suguru’s cue, if not,  he might have ended being thrown out of your balcony, and he loved his life, at least most of the time.

They stood there, in silence, looking at the door as Choso and Suguru’s voices went lower and lower, finally getting muffled by the elevator going down.

Your cat finally moved away from Sukuna and went to your room.

“Bubbles, look at me” he said, “I need to say something.”

Your breath caught.

He was looking at you “I’m not good at this,” he muttered.

“At what?” you whispered, stepping closer.

“…Feelings.” The word came out like a confession. Or a curse. He rubbed the back of his neck; muscles tense all the way to his shoulders.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he said, voice low. “Seeing you like that… has made me  feel things I don’t understand. And I’m trying not to screw it up, I like you bubbles and I don’t want to hurt you”

You softened instantly. “Sukuna—”

He shook his head.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, his tone like borrowed.

You froze because you’d heard him angry, irritated, gruff, confused, protective and even gentle, but scared? Never.

He finally looked up at you — and you saw it. He was scared of you, or rather… of losing you. Of failing you. Of ruining whatever fragile, warm, quiet thing was growing between you two.

“I don’t want labels,” he said quietly. “Not because I don’t want you, because I think I have never wanted someone this hard like ever in my whole life. But because I don’t want to ruin it by calling it something before we even know what it is.”

You nodded. He exhaled like he’d been waiting for that.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He confessed “I’ve never—”His jaw clenched. “I’ve never had something like this.”

Your chest ached.

“Sukuna… you don’t have to have the right words. Or the right name for it. Or the perfect steps.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

“We just have to… try,” you whispered.

The room was silent, but with warm and soft undertones to it. None of you needed to add something.

Sukuna took a step toward you. Then another.

He lifted his hand — slow, hesitant — and brushed a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb grazed your cheekbone, barely there, like he was afraid you might break if he touched you too firmly.

“I want to try,” he breathed. “With you.”

Your heart thudded once,  deep, warm, and real.

You reached up, taking his hand in both of yours.

“And we will,” you murmured. “No labels. No pressure. Just… us.”

His shoulders dropped, tension melting from him in a way you’d never seen.

He let out a breath — shaky, honest — and stepped forward until your forehead brushed against his chest. You felt his fingers curl lightly at your waist, steadying himself as much as he was steadying you.

Twinkles chirped from below, demanding inclusion, and bumped her head into Sukuna’s shin.

He huffed a laugh — small, reluctant, real.

“…Even the little gremlin approves,” he murmured into your hair.

You tilted your head up. “That means we’re really doing something right.”

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“We’re doing something,” he said softly. “And I’m staying to see where it goes.”

Your hand squeezed his.

He squeezed back.

And in that quiet, warm kitchen, with Twinkles weaving figure‑eights around your ankles as you both took the first step into a new something.

A few minutes had passed since Sukuna’s heavy, honest confession in the kitchen. The air in the apartment still felt thick with the weight of it, but in a way that finally let you catch your breath. You had retreated to the bathroom to take a quick, steaming shower, trying to wash away the lingering grime and cold of the previous day.

From the dining room, the muffled, melancholic strains of Radiohead’s Exit Music (For a Film) drifted through the door. You’d left your playlist running on your speaker, the haunting lyrics filling the quiet spaces of the apartment as you pulled on a clean hoodie and leggings.

When you finally stepped out, towel-drying your hair, you found the table set—not perfectly, but purposefully. Sukuna was standing there, nudging a plate of sushi into place with a focused frown. He looked up as you appeared, his burgundy eyes scanning you from head to toe, checking your face for any lingering traces of tears.

“You look like a person again,” he muttered, though his gaze lingered a second too long to be casual. He gestured vaguely toward the speaker. “But do you always listen to this depressing shit? It sounds like a funeral in here.”

You managed a small, genuine smile. “It’s good music for thinking.”

Sukuna let out a dismissive huff, but as he turned back to the counter to grab the tea, you caught the low, gravelly vibration of his voice. He was humming—just a faint, barely-there melody that matched the song’s bridge. He caught you watching him and immediately went stiff, his ears flushing pink.

“What?” he snapped, though there was no heat in it.

“Nothing,” you teased softly. “I just didn’t know the “King of the Shop” was a Radiohead fan.”

“I’m not,” he grumbled, though his fingers tapped the exact rhythm against the table. “It’s just… catchy. In a miserable way.”

The peace was broken by the sound of the elevator and the familiar, chaotic energy of Suguru and Choso entering the apartment. They arrived with more food and a small duffel bag.

“We’re back,” Suguru announced, his voice grounded but his eyes sparkling with mischief as he took in the domestic scene. Choso followed silently, tossing the bag toward Sukuna.

“Clothes from your locker,” Choso said bluntly. “Since we figured you weren't planning on leaving.”

Sukuna caught the bag, his jaw clenching as he realized exactly how much he’d been clocked. He looked at you, then back at them. “I’m going to change. Don’t let the brat eat all the salmon.”

As Sukuna disappeared into the bedroom to change, the vibe shifted instantly. Suguru leaned against the counter, his calm, big-brother energy filling the room.

“He stayed the whole night, then?” Suguru asked softly, his sarcasm replaced by genuine concern.

“He did,” you whispered, glancing at the closed door. “He wouldn’t leave the couch.”

“He’s terrified,” Choso added, his voice low as he reached out to pet Twinkles, who had appeared from the shadows to investigate the sushi. “Not of the guy from the shop. Of himself. He doesn’t know how to handle someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone he actually gives a damn about,” Suguru clarified with a small smile.

The moment was interrupted by Suguru’s phone vibrating violently on the table. He groaned, closing his eyes in pain. Choso leaned over, peering at the screen.

“It’s him,” Choso murmured. “He sent a picture of himself in a blindfold. He says he’s ‘preparing his mysterious aura’ for when he finally meets your business partner’s ‘secret treasure.’”

You blinked, confused. “Secret treasure?”

“That would be you,” Suguru sighed, finally flipping the phone around.

You leaned in to look at the photo. Satoru Gojo was—to put it mildly—striking. The snow-white hair, the sharp jawline, and the sheer, arrogant confidence radiating from the screen were unlike anyone you’d ever seen.

“Wow,” you admitted, your cheeks flushing slightly. “I’ve heard the stories, but… he’s actually kinda hot.”

Choso let out a rare, dry chuckle, but before he could respond, the bedroom door swung open. Sukuna stepped out, now dressed in his own black jeans and a fresh hoodie, looking every bit the formidable co-owner of Red Star Tattoos. He froze, his eyes narrowing as he saw the three of you huddled over the phone.

“What are you looking at?” he demanded, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble.

“Just Suguru’s boyfriend,” you said, trying to sound casual. “I was just saying he’s quite handsome.”

“She said he was kinda hot” said Choso exposing you.

You looked at him in complete betrayal as you frowned and you stuck your tongue out at him mocking him

Sukuna let out a sharp, derisive scoff, his expression turning cold and territorial in an instant. He stalked over, his shadow looming over you as he sat down on the couch, his arm immediately finding its way back around your shoulders.

“Bubbles,” he warned, his voice a jealous, jagged whisper against your ear. “He looks like a bleached mop mixed with a giant Q-Tip. Don’t say things you’ll regret.”

Suguru and Choso exchanged a look of pure, enlightened glee. “Oh, we are definitely telling Satoru about this,” Suguru whispered, already typing.

Sukuna growled, but he didn’t move his arm. If anything, he pulled you just a fraction closer, his thumb brushing against your shoulder in a silent, stubborn claim.

The door to the Red Star clicked shut, the heavy deadbolt sliding into place as Sukuna locked up for the night. The shop was quiet, the hum of the tattoo machines replaced by the low, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

He was exhausted. It had been a back-to-back day of intricate linework, and his back ached in that specific way that made him crave the silence of his own apartment. You were standing by the front desk, slinging your bag over your shoulder and checking your phone one last time before heading out to your car.

"Ready?" you asked, looking up at him with that tired but soft smile that always seemed to catch him off guard.

Sukuna didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, framed by the neon "Open" sign he’d just flicked off. In the dim, filtered light of the streetlamps hitting the shop windows, the usual sharp, jagged edges of his personality seemed to settle. The adrenaline of the day was gone, leaving only a heavy, grounded sense of reality.

He reached out, his hand finding yours instinctively, his thumb grazing over your knuckles. He wasn't thinking about the sketches on the wall or the fact that they still had to walk to the parking lot. He was just thinking about the way you’d kept him caffeinated all afternoon and the way you always knew exactly which playlist to put on when he was frustrated with a design.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rumble. He pulled you a fraction closer, pressing a brief, firm kiss to the top of your head. "I love you, Bubbles."

The words came out steady and effortless, slipping into the silence of the shop like they belonged there.

He started to turn toward the door, already reaching for his keys to make sure the alarm was set, before the weight of what he’d just said actually hit him. He froze, his hand hovering over the security keypad.

He hadn't meant to say it yet. Not here, surrounded by the smell of green soap and stencil fluid. He’d had a whole plan involving a quiet dinner at his place, or maybe yours—somewhere private, away from the ink and the needles.

He didn't pull his hand away from yours, though. He just cleared his throat, his ears turning a subtle shade of red that he hoped the shadows would hide.

"Anyway," he added, his voice regaining its usual rough edge as he opened the door to let you out into the cool night air. "Let's go. I'm starving."

You stepped out into the cool night air, the door clicking shut behind you. For a moment, the world was just the two of you on the quiet sidewalk — the streetlamps humming softly, the faint neon buzz of nearby storefronts, and the steady warmth of Sukuna’s hand still wrapped around yours.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just stared at him — really stared — because even though he’d turned away, even though he was pretending to punch in the stupid alarm code wrong on purpose, even though he was acting like the words hadn’t just slipped out of his mouth…

They had.

And you’d heard them.

“Sukuna,” you said softly.

He froze again. You watched the tension ripple across his back — the way his shoulders rose just slightly, the way his fingers stalled over the keypad as if the buttons suddenly stopped making sense.

“…What,” he muttered, clearly preparing for impact.

You stepped closer, tugging gently at his hand until he turned around. His face was shadowed by the light behind him, but you could still see the faint pink at the tips of his ears. “You said something back there.”

He scowled — the defensive kind, the kind he used when he was caught being human.

“I say a lot of things.”

“Not like that.” You whispered.

His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to the ground, then back to you, unsure, guarded, braced.

You took a slow breath — calming, grounding — and slid your free hand along his forearm. The muscles under your palm twitched, but he didn’t pull away. He never did with you.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, “look at me.”

He did. Hesitantly. Like he was afraid of what he’d see reflected in your eyes.

You smiled,  warm, tired, real. “I love you too.”

He didn’t react at first. Not visibly. It was subtle,  a tiny shift in the air, the way his breath caught for half a second. The way the hardness in his expression cracked down the middle.

“…You don’t have to say that just ‘cause I—”

“I’m not saying it because you did,” you interrupted, stepping closer until you were nearly chest‑to‑chest. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

His throat worked. Once. Twice.

Then he exhaled, long and slow, as if your words had knocked the tension straight out of him.

“Okay,” he murmured — soft, but almost disbelieving. “Okay.”

He lifted a hand, cupping the back of your neck with that familiar rough gentleness he reserved only for you. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, and the exhaustion in his eyes finally softened into something warm. Something unguarded.

“Good,” he whispered.

He leaned in — not rushed, not desperate, but steady, deliberate,  and pressed his forehead to yours. A quiet, grounding touch.

Then, almost under his breath:

“…Say it again.”

You laughed, a soft huff against his skin. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes like the words hit somewhere deep.

When he opened them again, they were warm in a way that made your chest ache.

“C’mon,” he muttered, tugging you gently toward the parking lot, his fingers lacing with yours like it was instinct. “If you make me emotional out here, I’m gonna lose my appetite.”

“You? Emotional?” you teased.

He shot you a glare, but it was ruined by the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t push it, Bubbles.”

But he didn’t let go of your hand.

Not once.

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The air inside Red Star Tattoos swirled with the unmistakable scent of sandalwood incense, green soap, and impending emotional catastrophe. It was the kind of atmosphere that suggested someone in the building was bracing for impact, the sort of tension normally reserved for natural disasters, surprise audits, and Gojo’s shopping decisions. Two days remained before Satoru and Suguru’s anniversary — a date which, historically, always hovered somewhere between “romantic milestone” and “strategic operations disaster.”

Today, however, the catastrophe was not hypothetical. It was already here. And it was wearing sunglasses indoors.

Gojo barrelled toward you as if propelled by cosmic desperation, his sunglasses sliding down his nose to reveal wide, shimmering eyes filled with a dramatic blend of panic, chaos, and the unmistakable sparkle of impending poor decision-making. With all the grace of a man collapsing onto a fainting couch, he slumped across your station like a Victorian lady in crisis.

“Bubbles. Emergency. My mysterious aura is literally evaporating before your eyes,” he announced, gesturing wildly as though the very molecules around him were failing to uphold their duty. “I cannot, I physically cannot, locate the perfect tribute for my better half.”

Across the room, Sukuna’s expression contorted into something between agony and long‑suffering resignation, the muscles in his jaw twitching as though resisting the urge to fling Gojo into the nearest dumpster.

Perhaps it was the desperation in Gojo’s voice. Perhaps it was the way he clutched dramatically at his chest like a man in a telenovela. Or perhaps, more realistically, he had simply decided that if anyone in the shop could salvage this spiralling fiasco, it was you.

Because before Sukuna could protest, and he certainly tried, Gojo performed an act so shocking it may as well have come with dramatic thunder and a choir: He tossed you the keys to his beloved Audi R8.

“You drive,” he declared, slipping into the passenger seat with all the flourish of royalty entering a chariot. “Today, I relinquish the throne. I am — officially — in my Passenger Princess era.”

The engine roared to life beneath your hands with a silky growl that vibrated all the way up your spine, the kind of mechanical purr that made even the most stoic gearheads weep in reverence. As you eased the car away from the curb, Sukuna stormed out of the shop doorway, witnessing his last remaining brain cell sprinting into the distance inside a supercar he did not trust you with.

The interior of the Audi smelled faintly of leather, cedar, and Gojo’s designer cologne,  a scent so luxurious you felt like you were violating some sort of tax bracket boundary. Surprisingly, the turbulent king of chaos settled once the city stretched out before you, the hum of the engine apparently soothing enough to coax sincerity from him.

“He’s going to buy me a fountain pen,” he muttered, staring dreamily out the window, as though haunted by the ghost of elegant stationery. “I know it. He’s been comparing ink swatches all week.”

“And you,” you reminded him, guiding the car through a tight turn that would have made Sukuna swear, “were about to buy him a limited‑edition headset. Again.”

“It’s a classic, Bubbles,” he argued, affronted by your lack of reverence.

“It is also exactly the thing he bought for you, Satoru,” you said, summoning your most unimpressed tone — your infamous Red Star Daycare voice. “If both of you unwrap the same box on your anniversary, the universe will collapse under the sheer weight of unoriginality.”

Thus began the sacred pilgrimage of retail decision‑making, two chaotic hearts guiding each other through aisles of indecision, overly expensive collectibles, and existential crises about gift symbolism.

By the time the two of you had circled the marketplace twice and emotionally dissected Gojo’s entire romantic history, a solution emerged: a rare, vintage woodblock print Suguru had admired months ago but dismissed as too indulgent.

It was perfect. Even Gojo, king of glittering distractions, recognized it.

“You’re a genius, Bubbles,” he proclaimed as you pulled into the shop’s parking lot, beaming like a child on his birthday. “I’m almost tempted to let you keep the car. Almost.”

You handed him the keys with a flourish worthy of cinema, stepping out of the sleek machine with the smug satisfaction of someone who had tamed a mechanical beast. Gojo looked at the car, then at you, with an expression so dangerously sentimental that Sukuna, emerging from the doorway, let out a growl audible over the still‑rumbling engine.

“Nonononono, babes, you are WAY too tempted,”you teased, leaning against the glossy door. “I saw the look you gave me on that bridge. I’m a natural, right? I know you want to gift this beauty to me.”

Gojo clutched the keys to his chest with a gasp so dramatic birds probably scattered somewhere in the distance. “Bubbles. My heart. My soul. My leather interior. I adore you, but this car is a pillar of my personal brand. If I arrive anywhere without divine flair, how will people know I’ve entered?”

Before you could retort, Sukuna stormed across the pavement, his ears tinted a blazing, unmistakable pink, eyes narrowed with territorial irritation.

“Get away from the car, Bubbles,” he grumbled, placing a hand at the small of your back with faux‑casual possessiveness. “And you, bleach‑mop,  stop offering her your toys unless you want me to rearrange your whole facial anatomy.”

Gojo fluttered his eyelashes innocently. You winked at him. Sukuna glared at both of you like a cat forced to share its sunbeam.

And just like that, Red Star Tattoos survived what could have been a catastrophic anniversary disaster, all thanks to one ill‑advised joyride, a supercar with excellent suspension, and a friendship that had somehow grown into something solid, strange, heartfelt, and absolute chaos.

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The date had unfolded in that soft, indescribable way that only happens when two people have already crossed the line between wanting and loving. There was no fluttery panic, no awkward fumbling, no desperate reaching for conversation; it was simply you and Sukuna tucked shoulder‑to‑shoulder in a booth, knees brushing beneath the table, exchanging quiet smiles that said more than any flirtation ever could. You shared food without thinking about it, swapped glances that lingered a heartbeat too long to be casual and let silence settle between you in that comfortable hush that only exists when affection has already carved a permanent space between two people. On the walk home, he pressed a kiss to your temple like he had done it a thousand times before, like your skin had always been the place his lips belonged.

Your apartment door clicked open with the familiar metallic groan, and you stepped inside first… only to stop mid‑stride. At first, your brain tried to deny it, as if staring long enough would magically change the scene in front of you. But no — the ceiling was very much crying. Not politely. Not discreetly. Sob‑bing. Water poured from above in a steady, merciless sheet that hammered the hallway wall and spread across the hardwood like a fast‑moving flood with personal vengeance.

You blinked at the water. The water blinked back, metaphorically. “…Oh.”

Sukuna stepped in behind you and froze with the same disbelief, then with the sharp, focused suspicion of a man who had already begun assessing structural damage. The smell of damp plaster hit him. The ominous hiss of pipes giving up echoed above. His eyes narrowed like the apartment had personally offended him.

“…Bubbles,” he said slowly, “why is your ceiling crying?”

There wasn’t time to answer. Another loud crack split through the air, and the plaster sagged like a weary old man who’d had enough. You barely let out a squeaked warning before Sukuna’s hand clamped around your waist, pulling you back with the reflexes of someone who took “potential cabin collapse” extremely personally.

“Hey, back. Now.”

A wet chunk of ceiling surrendered to gravity and crashed onto the floor, exploding into soggy debris. The splash ricocheted across your rug, your wall, and all your remaining will to live.

“…Okay,” you managed with the weak calm of someone actively dissociating. “So. That’s new.”

Sukuna unleashed a string of profanity so creative you were certain a poet somewhere felt their chest tighten in spiritual recognition. His gaze swept the destruction like a general surveying a battlefield. Every sign pointed toward your apartment officially giving up the ghost.

“How long has it been making noise?” he demanded.

You winced. “…Since winter.”

His head snapped toward you. “Which winter.”

You gave him a tiny, guilty shrug. “…Last.”

He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, the exact breath of a man discovering his beloved girlfriend had been living in the domestic equivalent of a condemned raccoon den. “You live like a raccoon,” he muttered. “A brave raccoon. But still.”

“I was going to call maintenance,” you protested feebly.

“And they were going to ignore you,” he said flatly. “Because they always do.”

As if wanting to prove him right, the water surged even harder, inching toward your shoes. Sukuna, without a shred of hesitation, pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Looking for apartments.”

You blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“This place is done,” he said, scrolling with the certainty of a man searching for a hit list. “Pipes are shot. Ceiling’s unstable. I’m not letting my girlfriend sleep under something that might cave in at 3 a.m.”

The word girlfriend did a little cartwheel in your stomach, but this was not the moment to emotionally explode, so you nodded. “I can stay with you tonight.”

He didn’t look up. “You are staying with me tonight.”

“And tomorrow?”

He paused, finally meeting your eyes. There was nothing flustered in his expression — just steady, warm conviction.

“Tomorrow, we find our place.”

Your heart performed an Olympic‑level somersault. “Sukuna—”

“I love you,” he cut in, casual and certain, as if explaining a very obvious math problem. “Which means I don’t do ‘temporary’ when it comes to your safety.”

Another aggressive drip landed in the hallway like applause.

You laughed. “You’re apartment hunting during a flood.”

“Best motivation there is.”

He shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders, tugging you against him to keep you dry. The gesture was so gentle you almost forgot the ceiling was melting.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, kissing the top of your head. “Grab your essentials. I’ll deal with this disaster later.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m furious,” he clarified. “At the building. Not you.”

That was enough to make your arms slide around his waist, instinctive and soft. He squeezed you back, solid and unshakable.

“I hate this place,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured against your hair. “You’ve just been loyal to it longer than it deserved.”

A week later, the only water pouring anywhere was from the rainfall view outside your new windows — tall, elegant windows in a 1920s French‑style apartment tucked into the quiet, pretty part of the city, close enough to Suguru and Gojo that they could drop by unannounced but not close enough for Gojo to physically climb through the balcony. Sukuna hadn’t just found the place; he bought it, calmly and intentionally, like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

Moving day became a full Red Star event.

Toji arrived first, carrying the heaviest boxes like they weighed nothing, while Sukuna marched behind him inspecting everything with the intensity of a home inspector fuelled by caffeine and rage. Gojo floated around the living room buzzing with aesthetic opinions, holding your sketches up to the light and nearly fainting every time he found a “perfect beam of inspiration.” Suguru claimed the kitchen with the quiet authority of a man who alphabetized spices by scent alone. Choso vanished into the library, which now belonged to both you and Sukuna — and alphabetized your books with the precision of someone who deeply respected Sylvia Plath and titanium jewellery.

Twinkles immediately claimed her new kingdom, a fully curated “Gremlin’s Corner” with climbing towers, soft blankets, and a panoramic view of the city. She sat upon her perch like a benevolent dictator inspecting her subjects.

And when the last box was opened, when the new home finally felt lived in, the family gathered for the unofficial housewarming,  and Sukuna, to the shock of literally everyone, took over the kitchen.

He didn’t just cook; he executed. He moved with the same meticulous, razor‑sharp focus he used during a long tattoo session. Ingredients were chopped with surgeon accuracy, pans moved with the ease of a man who already knew where every utensil was, and he seasoned dishes like some kind of tattoo‑chef hybrid.

“He actually has taste,” Choso murmured, watching him like he was witnessing a rare species in the wild.

Sukuna’s ears went pink as he set a plate in front of you. “Don’t make it weird,” he grumbled. “It’s just chemistry with better seasoning.”

Gojo and Suguru were arguing over fish tank placement. Toji stood beside Choso, both of them watching the room with that quiet, shared understanding only people who grew up around chaos possessed. Yuji and Megumi had already sprawled on the couch, laughing about something entirely unrelated to reality.

And you, standing there with Sukuna at your side, felt a warmth bloom deep inside your chest. He leaned back against the counter next to you, his hand finding your shoulder with the ease of habit, the matching stars on your wrists catching the soft golden light of your new home.

“Better than the old place?” he asked, voice low and almost tender.

“Infinitely,” you whispered, leaning into him.

In that moment, with the laughter of your found family echoing through the apartment, the scent of Sukuna’s cooking drifting through the air, and his steady presence beside you, you realized the truth.

For the first time in your life, home didn’t feel like something you tolerated. It felt like something you built. Something you chose and chose you back.

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The bell above the door jingled with the bright, innocent optimism of a Tuesday morning, a sound that should have warned no one, yet somehow sent a chill through the entire shop the moment it echoed off the tattoo machines. Before anyone could determine why, Yuji exploded through the doorway like a confetti cannon with no safety pin, pink hair already a halo of panic and excitement. Behind him, Megumi entered with the measured grace of someone who had resigned himself to a fate in which he would surely regret being friends with Yuji but was now too emotionally invested to escape.

Yuji skidded across the floor, nearly bowling over Toji’s prosthetic mannequin, and thrust a glossy karting pamphlet upward with the fervour of a prophet revealing a divine vision. Megumi, breathless but trying valiantly not to show it, lifted his half of the pamphlet with both hands, as if presenting an ancient relic before the council.

“We want to do this,” he declared, sounding like someone in a fantasy film pleading with the elders for passage across a dangerous mountain range.

Every head in the shop lifted. Every conversation stopped. Even Twinkles’ tail paused mid‑swish, hovering in the air like a frozen metronome.

Gojo, who had been leaning over the counter offering unsolicited life advice to a confused walk‑in client, straightened so fast his sunglasses nearly launched off his face. Suguru, who had been sipping tea and marking down appointment changes, looked up with the deeply parental dread of a man who had raised chaos incarnate for too long. Choso blinked once, slow and cat‑like, as though bracing himself for inevitable destruction. Toji’s grin widened a millimetre — enough to signal that whatever the children wanted, it would almost certainly end in violence, adrenaline, or entertainment. Sukuna looked up too, brow furrowing, as if trying to determine which part of this scenario would eventually give him heartburn.

Then, before logic or caution or even one single adult survival instinct could interrupt…

“YES.” It came from every adult in the room, a perfect, unplanned chorus.

Loud. Immediate. Shockingly unified.

Yuji froze; Megumi’s mouth fell open. The pamphlet trembled in their hands, caught between them like a fragile artifact.

“Did… did they just…?” Megumi whispered.

Yuji nodded, eyes wide. “All at once. No arguing. No yelling. No threats. Just… yes.” He clutched the pamphlet closer. “Oh my god. I think we unlocked a secret level.”

Megumi swallowed. “Or we’re about to die.”

The adults did not wait for further discussion. They moved with lethal enthusiasm, grabbing keys, sunglasses, jackets, and drinks like a synchronized heist crew. Within seconds, the shop was locked, the lights flipped off, and the entire Red Star family poured into the parking lot.

Yuji whispered to Megumi, voice trembling with awe, “We’ve never had this much power before.”

Megumi muttered, “We should be terrified.”

They were right.

The karting track shimmered under the afternoon sun like a battlefield waiting for a prophecy to unfold. Engines snarled, helmets gleamed, and the staff, bless their unsuspecting hearts,  smiled politely, unaware of the sheer calamity that had just walked into their establishment.

You adjusted your helmet beneath the floodlights, feeling the low hum of adrenaline beginning to coil through your chest. The moment you settled into your kart, a breeze swept across the track, dramatic enough to mimic the opening shot of an action movie. The air crackled with tension, not the fearful kind, but the delicious kind that comes right before stupidity becomes legend.

To your left, Sukuna gripped his steering wheel like it had personally offended him. His burgundy eyes drilled through your visor, a mixture of pride, possessiveness, and the faint horror of a man tasked with protecting something at forty miles per hour despite the high probability she will ram him into a wall.

To your right, Toji lounged in his kart with the casual arrogance of a man who had already accepted the gold medal, expenditure of effort optional. He smirked, slow and wicked, tapping his fingers along the wheel like a predator waiting for its prey to make the first move.

Gojo had climbed into his kart backward at least twice before figuring it out, then proceeded to stand in it, announcing to the entire facility that he, Shop Royalty, would break sound barriers today. The staff had already made eye contact with management for backup.

Suguru adjusted his gloves with calm precision, though the faint clench of his jaw suggested he was quietly calculating potential injuries, emotional damage, and how many apology coffees he would owe the staff afterward.

Choso sat motionless, quiet enough that he seemed carved from marble, emanating the energy of a monk preparing for spiritual enlightenment or homicide, impossible to tell which.

Yuji and Megumi revved their karts with the manic enthusiasm of pilots about to launch an untested rocket.

You tightened your grip on the wheel. They had no idea what you were capable of. And you smiled.

The men should have known they were doomed.

The lights blinked from red to yellow to green — and you took off like a glittering bullet launched from the bow of destiny.

You shot forward, leaving behind a wake of stunned adult men who had severely underestimated the competitive bloodlust hiding behind your soft smile.

Sukuna attempted to follow but immediately fell into high-speed bodyguard mode, hovering behind you like a snarling guardian spirit terrified you’d crash into a hay bale. Every time you took a sharp turn, he emitted a noise halfway between pride and cardiac arrest.

Choso moved like liquid shadow, smooth and effortless, gliding through the pack with the precision of a surgeon cutting away unnecessary noise. His eyes never left the track, his body synced to the rhythm of speed itself.

Toji tried intimidation, drifting dangerously close to your kart with the audacious confidence of someone who had never actually lost a fight. But when you met his manoeuvre with a fearless, razor‑sharp counter, his smugness cracked into something rough and approving, a predator acknowledging another.

Yuji screamed for you to wait, tears of laughter—maybe?—streaming out of his helmet. Megumi stared at the track like it was teaching him life lessons he didn’t want.

You drifted through the final corner and crossed the finish line first, basking in victory while the men descended into emotional ruin.

Sukuna looked like he was experiencing the five stages of grief in under fifteen seconds. Gojo threw himself to his knees in theatrical despair. Choso bowed his head in respectful defeat. Toji wheezed, delighted. Suguru sighed with exhausted acceptance. Twinkles (who had been wheeled in inside her carrier by Megumi) chirped with judgment.

You stood beside your kart, flushed with triumph, every inch of you glowing.

The second race gathered tension like storm clouds before a monsoon. Even the air hesitated.

This time, Sukuna vibrated so intensely he might have created his own gravitational pull. His sole mission was clear: win, protect you, and win without accidentally injuring you while protecting you, an impossible paradox that had him spiralling before the signal even sounded.

When the race began, he drove like a man torn between romance and rage, checking over his shoulder for your safety so often that Choso passed him with the elegance of someone casually sidestepping a toddler.

And then, in the final lap, Yuji, sweet, lovable, chaotic Yuji,  transformed into a tiny pink meteor and shot past Sukuna in the last chicane, screaming like a firework.

Sukuna finished fourth.

Fourth.

He sat in his kart afterward, unmoving, staring into the void like he had been insulted by the wheel.

You approached him, heart soft, trying to hide a smile. He refused to look at you. His ears glowed crimson.

“…I didn’t want to mess you up,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “Didn’t wanna risk you.”

You cupped his cheek through his helmet. He melted like a lava cake.

It was the final race, Yuji’s asking. The starting grid buzzed beneath the afternoon sun like a coiled creature ready to spring, the entire karting facility vibrating with the uneasy anticipation of employees who had very clearly realized the mistake of letting your entire crew race three times in one day. The pit staff huddled by the timing screens like war generals, whispering at the glowing numbers with pale, nervous faces as if the monitors had begun broadcasting prophecies.

You rolled your kart into place at the very back of the lineup — the position Sukuna had insisted on with the furious determination of a man trying to regain bureaucratic control of a situation long since surrendered to chaos. He sat two rows ahead, broad shoulders stiff beneath his helmet, posture carrying the unmistakable weight of someone who was trying not to think about how badly you had humiliated everyone today while also worrying you might die at any second.

To your right, Toji lounged in his kart like a professional saboteur waiting to be paid. Megumi adjusted his gloves with silent dread, Yuji buzzed with caffeinated enthusiasm despite not having had a single drop of caffeine, and Choso’s stillness radiated the calm of a man who had mentally left his body to observe the race from above. Gojo, meanwhile, shimmered — literally — visor catching the light like a disco ball possessed, bouncing in his seat and hyping himself up with unearned confidence and delusional joy.

The lights overhead blinked. Red. Yellow.

The tension stretched like elastic, ready to snap.

Green.

You launched forward as if catapulted by divine favour, the kart vibrating beneath you in pure exhilaration. The wind swallowed everything — voices, engines, shouts — turning the world into a single, rushing current. Your hands moved with instinctive certainty, cutting a path through chaos with the elegance of a dancer and the precision of a trained assassin.

In the first corner, you slipped past Yuji, who shrieked your name with a mixture of admiration and fear. The second corner carried you past Megumi, whose eyes widened in a look that could only be described as a crisis of faith. The straightaway let you glide alongside Suguru, who shot you a calm, fatherly shake of the head before you executed the cleanest overtake of the day.

Then Toji tried to block you — subtle, mischievous, predatory — but you ghosted around him with such understated disrespect that he laughed in sheer delight, the sound echoing across the asphalt. Even Choso tilted his head when you passed him, acknowledging your speed with the reverent silence of a priest watching a miracle unfold.

Only Sukuna remained.

His shoulders tensed the moment he glimpsed you in his peripheral vision, his hands tightening on the wheel like he wanted to grab the road itself and yank it out of your path. You could practically feel the roar in his chest as you drifted beside him, your kart brushing his slipstream like a whispered dare. His growl vibrated through the air, through you, through the track beneath your wheels, a protective, frustrated, adoring thunderclap,  but you did not yield. You angled your kart, leaned into the acceleration, and left him behind in a streak of motion that ripped a disbelieving snarl out of him.

You finished Lap 1 in second place. Lap 2 was yours. Every inch of it.

You carved through the track like the circuit had been built specifically for you — a ribbon of asphalt unravelling beneath your wheels, bending to your will, singing beneath your tires. The karts ahead blurred, then vanished behind you, until the only figure remaining was the one leading the race.

Gojo.

He was driving like a man possessed, screaming joyfully inside his helmet, arms flapping slightly every time he took a turn wrong but somehow managing not to die. He kept glancing behind him like he could sense you gaining ground, like he wanted you to see him in his glory, like he needed this one thing — this one ridiculous, glitter-dipped victory.

And in that moment, something in you softened.

You knew he wanted this. You knew he had never won a single athletic thing in his life, let alone in front of his entire family. You knew he wanted to celebrate — loudly, obnoxiously, dramatically — and you knew he wanted to do it with you watching.

So you made a choice.

You approached the final straight with enough speed to take the win effortlessly. The finish line gleamed in the sunlight, beckoning. Sukuna screamed something murderous from behind you. The pit crew held their breath.

And then, with a gentle, decisive exhale, you tapped the brake.

Your kart decelerated with smooth, practiced grace. Gojo shot past you with a shriek of triumph so piercing the crows in the nearby trees took flight in terror. You crossed second.

The world went silent.

Then it detonated.

Gojo threw himself out of his kart and skidded onto his knees like a soccer star scoring the championship goal, arms flung wide as he howled to the heavens, “I AM SPEED! I AM GLORY! I AM AN UNSTOPPABLE FORCE OF PURE TALENT!”

The pit staff dropped their clipboards. One of them staggered forward with a timing tablet pressed to his chest like a holy relic. Another had tears in his eyes.

“Miss,” he croaked, “I… we… we need to tell you something.”

You lifted your visor, still catching your breath.

“You didn’t just set the lap record today…” He gulped. “You broke it.” He turned the screen for you to see. “Three times.”

Around him, staff members nodded in horrified awe.

“Three separate times,” another added, voice trembling. “In three separate races. Do you understand? That record stood for eight years.”

“And you annihilated it,” a third whispered. “Repeatedly.”

Sukuna ripped off his helmet, stormed toward you looking like every vein in his body was trying to revolt, and snarled through clenched teeth:

“You let him win. You beat the record three times today, and you LET. HIM. WIN.”

You smiled. Slow. Sly. Sweet.

Sukuna’s soul left his body. Toji nearly died laughing. Choso actually applauded, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Suguru lowered his head and whispered a prayer into his palms. Yuji sobbed into Megumi’s shoulder. Megumi patted him gently, whispering, “It’s okay, he needed this.”

Gojo fainted from joy. Twinkles chirped like an alarm clock set to “judgmental.”

And you?

You walked toward Sukuna, placed your hands on his chest, rose onto your toes, and kissed him,  slow enough to steal his breath; soft enough to soothe his bruised ego; mischievous enough to remind him exactly who you were.

“Next time,” you whispered against his lips, “catch me.”

Sukuna growled something unholy.

And somewhere in the background, the staff wrote in their report:

“The woman in Kart 4 is banned for violating the laws of physics, safety, and humility.”

The morning after the dumplings date, the shop felt different. The scent of cedarwood clung heavily to the air, mixing with the sharp, metallic clack‑clack of the locksmith finishing his work on the back door. Sukuna stalked the lobby like a restless animal, pacing the perimeter with quick, controlled strides. Every few steps, he paused to glower at the live feed on his phone, burgundy eyes narrowing at anyone who dared walk too close to the storefront.

He wasn’t just guarding the shop. He was guarding the strange, unfamiliar sense of safety he’d felt the night before—your couch, your warmth, and one tiny white gremlin curled on his chest as if she belonged there.

Every time the door chimed—shrill, obnoxious, and chosen “for maximum alertness”—his body went rigid, hand twitching toward the new RULES sign as though someone might test him.

By ten o’clock, even his professional focus was slipping. His needle tray had been reorganized three separate times; his entire station gleamed with a surgical shine that bordered on hostile. But no amount of meticulous cleaning distracted him from the empty bit of floor next to your station—the exact spot where Twinkles had slept the one time she’d ever been in the shop.

Gojo breezed in at his usual volume, practically vibrating with sunshine. Sukuna didn’t even give him the satisfaction of a proper growl. He stood there stiffly, glaring at nothing in particular before glancing at you with an expression he’d never admit to wearing.

He cleared his throat, rough and unconvincing. “Where is she?” he muttered.

You blinked. “Who?”

“The gremlin,” he snapped, though the pink rising up his ears softened the bite. “You should’ve brought her. I need to see if she’s… behaving. After the vet.”

“Sukuna,” you said, amusement warming your voice, “you saw her on Sunday. She slept on your lap for hours. She’s fine.”

He grumbled something under his breath, though the tension in his shoulders loosened.

Gojo’s head whipped around. “Hold on…cat? What cat? Why did no one tell me? Is she fluffy? Will she like me? Can I be her godfather?”

“She’d hate you,” Suguru sighed. “You’d try to teach her how to pick locks.”

Choso, calmly prepping needles, added without looking up, “She chose Sukuna. Even after meeting him once. She’s clearly discerning.”

“She’d love me, you emo cryptid,” Gojo shot back, offended.

Sukuna preened—barely, for a fraction of a second—before Gojo bent down and started making “pspsps” noises at a tattoo machine.

“Get out,” Sukuna said flatly, jabbing a finger toward the door. “All of you. I’m working.”

Except he wasn’t.

You sketched quietly at your station as Sukuna retreated into his booth, where he hunched over his phone with the intensity of someone decoding an ancient curse. He wasn’t looking at tattoo references. His screen reflected images of industrial‑grade cat beds, ergonomic bowls, orthopaedic mats, and climbing towers in muted colours that wouldn’t ruin the shop’s aesthetic. He even had a tab open comparing ingredients in high‑calorie recovery treats.

At one point, you passed by and noticed him drawing something on a scrap of stencil paper. He slapped medical tape over it so fast it crinkled.

It wasn’t a Hannya mask. It was a draft for a sign: GREMLIN’S CORNER — NO STUPIDITY.

He missed her, after one visit, just one.

By closing time, Sukuna was suspiciously quiet. Too still. Too controlled. A storm brewing behind a locked jaw.

You were finishing paperwork in the back when sudden laughter—sharp, stunned, delighted—burst from the front. Not Gojo’s cackle. Far worse.

Suguru and Choso.

“No way,” Suguru wheezed. “Sukuna, show me that again.”

“Back off before I break your hands,” Sukuna snarled, but something in his tone—high, strangled, almost flustered—made your curiosity win.

You stepped into the lobby to find them crowding him, one on each side, wearing matching predatory grins. Sukuna stood with his back against the counter, gripping his phone like an incriminating document.

“What’s happening?” you asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Choso said mildly. “Just admiring our boss’s new aesthetic choices. He’s fully in his soft era.”

“It’s a high‑resolution screen,” Sukuna barked, flushing violently. “I was checking the image quality. That’s all.”

Suguru nearly collapsed laughing. “Image quality? Sukuna, it’s a picture of a cat. A tiny white fluff‑ball sleeping on a black hoodie. And—is that your hoodie?”

Your heart jumped. You hadn’t seen him take any photos at your apartment.

“Show her,” Choso urged, leaning in. “Go on.”

“I swear to god—”

But then he looked at you, and froze, not angry, not irritated, just nervous.

With the slow misery of a man walking to his own execution, he turned the phone so you could see.

Twinkles, she was curled into a perfect, tiny ball, asleep on black fabric unmistakably his. The lighting was soft and warm—intentional. The composition perfect. Her little pink nose in crisp focus.

And it wasn’t just a photo.

It was his lock screen.

“It’s… for security,” he blurted, snatching the phone back the instant your breath caught. “In case she gets out. It’s a reference photo.”

“A reference photo for your heart,” Suguru crooned, dodging a lazy swipe from Sukuna.

“She likes the hoodie,” Sukuna muttered, looking at the floor as his voice dropped into that low, rare rumble you’d heard when he held you. “It smells like the shop. Keeps her calm.”

You stepped into his space. Up close, the embarrassment was written all over him—the pink in his ears, the tightness in his jaw, the way he refused to look at you too long.

“You took that while I was asleep, didn’t you?”

His eyes flicked to yours; he looked like he'd rather eat glass.

“She was climbing on things,” he muttered, ears blazing. “I had to settle her.”

“By letting her nap on your lap?” He deflated, just a low huff, a defeated exhale, and a shove of the phone back into his pocket.

“She’s a menace,” he grumbled. “Just like you.”

Suguru and Choso exchanged a look that absolutely screamed: They’re doomed. He’s doomed. We’re doomed.

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “I like the wallpaper.”

This time, he didn’t look away. His hand found your waist—warm, heavy, grounding.

“It’s a good photo,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

But as he turned to lock the front door, thinking no one noticed, he pulled out his phone again.

Not to check the time, to look at her The King of the shop had been conquered by one tiny gremlin after a single visit, and he wasn’t fighting it at all.

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By Thursday’s afternoon Sukuna had already arranged a space in the shop for Twinkles, saying that she must get lonely in the apartment and maybe that was the reason why she fell sick in the first place.

A small, folded blanket on the corner table. Then a tiny cat bed mysteriously appearing under your station. Then a water bowl. Then two. Then a scratching post that he insisted was “for client stress relief,” even though it had little paw‑shaped stickers on it.

By the time you walked in, Red Star Tattoos had a designated feline area—complete with a handmade sign that read:

GREMLIN’S CORNER – NO TOUCHING, NO SNACKS, NO STUPIDITY.

“Yes,” Sukuna muttered when he caught your expression. “That’s for Choso and Satoru.”

“Sukuna?” you asked him to glare at him, with an expression that he couldn’t figure it out.

“What?” he retorted,  sounding quite ashamed, worrying that you didn’t like the surprise.

“Did you have your lunch break?” you wondered, already scheming a plan on your head.

Sukuna stared at you like you’d just spoken in a foreign language. “Why would you—” he began, then stopped, suspicion flickering across his face. “Bubbles. Why are you smiling like that?”

You didn’t answer. You just grabbed your keys from your station and brushed past him, tapping his chest lightly with the back of your hand.

“Come on,” you said. “Lunch break. Now.”

He didn’t move.

He didn’t argue, either — which was a miracle. His brows knit, jaw tight, but something in your tone made him follow you out the door without another word, muttering under his breath about schedules and routines and “unnecessary detours.”

The moment the sunlight hit him outside, he shot you a sideways glare. “You’re dragging me across the city for a cat.”

“For the cat that you missed so bad that you built her own station,” you corrected, locking the shop door.

“I don’t—” he began, but you were already halfway to your car.

The drive was quiet in the way that wasn’t heavy — just charged. Sukuna tapped his thumb against his knee, pretending to look bored while his leg bounced with barely contained impatience. At one red light, he glanced at the empty carrier in the backseat and immediately looked away like he’d been caught staring.

When you parked in front of your building, he practically launched himself out of the car, muttering “move” as he brushed past you and reached the lobby before you could even get your keys out.

You unlocked the apartment door, and Sukuna hovered behind you like a shadow. “You better not be tricking me,” he grumbled.

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

The moment the door opened, a tiny white blur darted out from behind the couch.

Twinkles chirped once, bright, delighted, unmistakably excited,  and made a straight, unhesitating line for Sukuna’s boots.

He froze. Completely. “She remembers me?” he whispered, horrified.

“She literally saw you this Sunday, Sukuna.”

You scooped her up, kissing the top of her head before setting her gently into the carrier. Twinkles didn’t protest. She curled inside like it was her personal limo.

Sukuna opened the car door for you on the way back — “for efficiency,” he insisted — and drove ten miles over the speed limit the whole way to the shop.

By the time you stepped back inside Red Star Tattoos, Sukuna was practically vibrating behind you, trying very hard not to look like a man who’d just sprinted through three emotional states.

You set the carrier on the floor and unlatched it.

Twinkles bounded out immediately, then paused, ears perked, tail curling high.

She looked around the shop slowly. The blanket, the bowls, the ridiculous scratching post, the bed tucked beneath your station, the handmade sign. And then, like she’d been born knowing it, she trotted straight toward her corner and climbed into the tiny cat bed.

She curled into a perfect white comma, blinked up at both of you, and chirped.

“She likes it,” you whispered.

Sukuna didn’t meet your eye. “Yeah, well. She better.”

You knelt and stroked the kitten’s fur as she purred and pressed her head into your palm. When you looked up, Sukuna was watching you.

His arms crossed tightly, but his gaze soft, warm in a way he probably didn’t know was visible.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said simply. “I wanted to.”

You blinked, taken aback. Sukuna cleared his throat immediately, as if the words had escaped him by accident.

“It makes sense,” he added, tone gruff again. “She’ll be supervised. And she likes the shop. And—” He faltered, jaw clenching. “And you’ll worry less.”

Your heart squeezed. Before you could reply, the door chimed—new chime: loud, rude, obnoxious.

Suguru poked his head inside, eyes widening as he took in the feline paradise now occupying ten percent of the tattoo studio.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “You domesticated the beast further.”

Choso nodded solemnly. “A cat corner. He’s gone.”

Sukuna flipped them both off without moving from his spot.

Twinkles chose that moment to hop out of her bed and trot, straight to Sukuna. She tapped his shoe with her paw, chirping up at him as if greeting a returning warrior.

Sukuna froze. “Why does it do that?” he muttered.

“Because she loves you,” you said again, smiling softly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “I know.”

But the small smile he tried to hide?

Suguru elbowed Choso. Choso whispered, “He’s gone.” Suguru whispered back, “Utterly.”

You just stood there, warm all over, because Sukuna didn’t look scared holding her anymore. He looked like he belonged with her, with you, here.

And as he scratched behind Twinkles’ ear with ridiculous gentleness, he glanced at you over her tiny head: “…She’s family,” he said quietly. “So she stays.”

Your chest tightened. Not just because he said she’s family. Because in his eyes— you were included in that sentence too.

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It was Friday, and Gojo arrived before anyone else noticed he was even in the building.

One moment the shop was quiet, the morning light filtering through the blinds, and then the door blew open like someone had kicked it with divine flair.

“HELLOOO, RED STAR TATTOOS, wait, WHAT. IS. THAT?”

Suguru didn’t even look up from the espresso machine. “Oh no. He’s seen it.”

Choso muttered, “We had five minutes of peace.”

Gojo was already halfway across the shop, crouched in front of Gremlin’s Corner like he had discovered the eighth wonder of the world.

His hands were dramatically pressed to his cheeks.

“This—this is ART. This is CULTURE. This is—Sukuna created this? SUKUNA???”

Sukuna, who had been prepping needles at his station, froze mid‑movement. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t breathe.

Gojo gasped again, louder this time. “OH MY GOD IT HAS A SIGN. DID HE… DID HE MAKE THIS WITH HIS OWN ANGRY LITTLE HANDS?”

Sukuna’s eye twitched. Gojo leaned so close to the sign his sunglasses almost brushed it.

He reeled back dramatically. “He… he wrote rules. RULES. Suguru, baby, hold me, I’m fainting.”

Suguru did not hold him. “Please don’t pass out in front of the clients arriving in 20.”

Gojo spun around, pointing an accusatory finger straight at Sukuna.

“You. King of Rage. Lord of Murder. Walking Middle Finger. YOU did this?”

Sukuna growled without looking up. “It’s a cat bed, Gojo. Calm down.”

“A CAT BED?” Gojo screeched. “This is a CAT PALACE. I’ve seen less effort put into five-star hotel rooms. Are those, are those TWO water bowls? Does she need hydration options now? Sukuna, blink twice if the cat is your new boss.”

“She drinks a lot,” Sukuna muttered, cheeks beginning, JUST beginning to tint pink.

Gojo gasped so hard you thought he might inhale the entire oxygen supply of the room.

“Oh my GOD. He’s BLUSHING. HE CARES. SUGURU, HE CARES.”

Suguru sipped his coffee. “We’ve known for days, Satoru.”

“BUT I’M SEEING IT WITH MY OWN EYES.”

Choso, deadpan: “That’s impressive, considering you wear those sunglasses everywhere.”

Gojo waved that off. “Details.”

Then Twinkles herself emerged from her bed, stretching, blinking, and walked straight to Sukuna.

Gojo clutched his chest. “She approaches him?? OF HER OWN FREE WILL???”

Twinkles tapped Sukuna’s boot, chirped, and looked up like he hung the moon, Sukuna sighed, as he picked her up gently, and tucked her against his chest.

Gojo made a sound so dramatic it echoed. “HE’S HOLDING HER LIKE A BABY. SUGURU, RECORD THIS. No—paint it. No—CALL A PRIEST—A MIRACLE HAS OCCURRED.”

Sukuna glared. “Say one more thing and I’m banning you for life.”

Gojo threw his arms out like a messiah. “BAN ME. I DON’T CARE. LOVE HAS CONQUERED YOUR BLACK HEART.”

Then he added, in a whisper that somehow carried across the shop: “I can’t believe the cat got him before the girl did.”

You choked on your drink.

Sukuna turned bright red.

Suguru put his face in his hands.

Choso wandered toward the piercing station mumbling, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Gojo beamed, victorious, chaotic, and delighted. “Twinkles’ Corner is the best thing to happen to this shop since I walked in for the first time.”

Sukuna snapped, “Get away from it.”

Gojo gasped. “You’re protective of the corner too?? Oh, this is beautiful.”

And Sukuna, actual demon king, master of intimidation, co-owner of the shop, held Twinkles closer and muttered: “She doesn’t like loud noises, Gojo. Back up.”

Gojo froze. Then, with a gasp: “He’s adjusting his volume for her. Sukuna, you’re officially a father.”

Sukuna nearly threw a tattoo machine at him.

Twinkles had been watching Gojo’s entire meltdown from the safety of her new  human bed, her tiny head peeking over the edge of Sukuna’s arm like a suspicious marshmallow.

Gojo, still dramatically flailing near Gremlin’s Corner, pointed at the cat between Sukuna’s arms like she was a heavenly sign.

“And SHE—she is the chosen heir! Look at her! Look at—”

Twinkles miaowed. Slowly, Once, twice. Then she jumped off Sukuna and moved right next to Gojo, then, she hissed. Not a vicious hiss. A very tiny, very offended, VERY pointed one.

Gojo staggered back like he’d been shot. “She HATES me?” he gasped, hand flying to his chest. “Why does everyone adorable hate me?!”

Choso, deadpan, didn’t even look up from re‑organizing needles. “I told you she would, You’re loud.”

Suguru nodded. “And sparkly.”

“And annoying,” Sukuna added without looking up.

Gojo spun toward you for support, but you said nothing, you were enjoying this too much, and Twinkles hissed again, louder this time, as if to say yeah, him.

Gojo stumbled backwards, deeply wounded. “Suguru,” he whispered, horrified, “she thinks I’m the villain.”

Suguru sipped his coffee. “Well…” But before he could finish, something unexpected happened.

Twinkles stopped hissing, she tilted her head, and the moment Suguru spoke, she perked up—ears forward, pupils wide.

Then, with the deliberate purpose of someone fulfilling a prophecy, Twinkles hopped out of her bed. Everyone froze. Sukuna straightened. Choso held his breath. Gojo silently mouthed no. The kitten scanned the room…

And trotted right past Gojo, right past Sukuna, right past you, and past Choso who was close to Suguru, Straight to Suguru.

Suguru blinked, stunned. “Me?”

Twinkles tapped his boot with her paw. Chirp.

“Oh my god,” Gojo whispered. “She’s flirting with my boyfriend.”

Before Suguru could process, Twinkles reared up on her hind legs and scratched lightly at his pant leg, asking to be picked up.

Suguru looked terrified. “I—uh—Sukuna? Do I… do I touch her?”

“She’s not a bomb,” Sukuna muttered.

Gojo gasped. “She picked the dark-academia dad. She picked him.”

Suguru crouched slowly, gently scooping her up. Twinkles immediately head‑butted his chest, purring like a miniature engine. And then, she burrowed straight into the front pocket of his hoodie.

Suguru froze stiff as a board. “Oh… oh no. She’s very small.”

Gojo’s voice cracked, emotionally destroyed. “She chose him over me. OVER ME.”

Choso nodded approvingly. “She has impeccable judgment.”

Sukuna, arms crossed, gasped under his breath. “Traitor,” he grumbled at the cat

Twinkles poked her head out of Suguru’s hoodie pocket, blinking slowly at Sukuna, like she was saying: You’re still my dad. But this one is comfy.

Suguru, awkward as ever, scratched gently under her chin. She melted.

“Is this allowed?” he asked weakly.

“She loves you,” you said, smiling.

Gojo threw himself dramatically onto the nearest couch. “I can’t believe this. My boyfriend has been seduced by a six‑inch gremlin. I’ve lost.”

“She doesn’t like loud noises,” Sukuna added smugly, petting Twinkles as she extended one tiny paw toward him from Suguru’s pocket.

Gojo sat up, pointing at all three of you in disbelief. “I FEEL BETRAYED. BY EVERYONE.”

Suguru shrugged, Twinkles still purring against his chest. “What can I say?” he said with a soft, smug smile. “She has taste.”

Twinkles was still nestled comfortably in Suguru’s hoodie pocket, purring loud enough to be heard across the shop. Suguru, of course, looked like he was holding a newborn galaxy.

“She’s… really soft,” he murmured, stroking her tiny head.

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Twinkles melted even deeper into him, a blissful rumble vibrating through the fabric.

You felt something twist in your chest. Oh, oh no.

Were you—You? Jealous? Of Suguru? Over Twinkles? Apparently yes, because your expression must’ve shifted for half a second, just a twitch, just a blink, but Sukuna saw it immediately.

Of course he did. His eyes flicked to you, narrowed, and a slow, wicked smirk curled onto his face.

“Oh,” Sukuna drawled quietly, stepping closer to you, arms crossed. “Oh, this is rich.”

You blinked fast. “What?”

He tilted his head at you, grin spreading. “You’re jealous.”

Before you could open your mouth to deny it, Suguru looked up, eyes sparkling with sudden mischief.

“Oh my god,” he whispered dramatically. “You ARE.”

Choso, who had never once reacted to Gojo’s chaos, actually cracked a grin. “It’s the eyebrows,” he said. “They went all sharp.”

You groaned. “I’m not jealous! I just… he stole my cat!” you snorted out, evidently jealous.

“She walked to me,” Suguru said, shrugging, the picture of innocence… except for the tiny little smirk that said he was absolutely going to milk this.

Gojo gasped like he’d just solved a murder. “OH. MY. GOD. She’s jealous of Suguru. Not the cat. SUGURU.”

“That’s not true!” you protested, heat rushing to your face.

“It definitely is true,” Sukuna grinned, leaning into your space just enough to make your stomach flip. “Bubbles over here can’t handle competition.”

Twinkles chose that moment to peek her head out of Suguru’s pocket and chirp at him adoringly.

Your jaw tightened as Suguru’s smile widened.

Gojo practically levitated with excitement. “This is the best day of my life. Move over, Twinkles, I’m climbing into Suguru’s hoodie next.”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped automatically.

Sukuna burst out laughing, actually laughing. A deep, warm, real laugh that made your stomach drop in a completely different way.

“Oh, this is fantastic,” he said, wiping under his eye like he’d been blessed. “Suguru steals the cat and suddenly she’s ready to brawl.”

“I’m not!” You said way too defensively. “Yes you are.” He snapped back. “You made her a whole corner!” You retorted as if that justifies everything. “So?” Sukuna asked you like it meant nothing. “So she’s supposed to love us, not—him!” You said defeated by the whole situation.

Suguru clutched his chest theatrically. “Wow,” he said. “Possessive over the cat and over me. I feel honoured.”

Gojo cackled. “Oh, don’t encourage her. Her ego will explode.”

“My ego?” you snapped. “What about yours?”

“I’m not the one fighting a grown man over a six‑inch furball.” He retorted.

Twinkles chirped loudly, as if agreeing with Gojo. You glared at her.

“You little gremlin” you muffled feeling the betrayal in each one of your bones. She blinked innocently.

Sukuna put a hand on your shoulder—gentle but mocking in that way only he could manage. “Relax, Bubbles,” he murmured, leaning down until his breath brushed your ear. “She still likes you the most.”

Your heart just about melted when he suddenly added. “…But this is still hilarious.”

“You’re doomed; you’re on cash out services till I say so.” You said all serious to Sukuna.

“Wait-” “The cat chose Suguru, not me” “Why do I have to do that?! You know I hate it”

“That’s exactly why, you big grump. ”

Gojo doubled over laughing again. Choso nodded solemnly, as if he had seen it coming. Suguru petted the cat in his hoodie pocket like a Bond villain.

And you? Yeah, well, you were absolutely jealous, and completely outnumbered, but at least you didn’t have to cash out for a long time.

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The air in the Red Star Tattoos break room is thick with the scent of Sukuna’s favourite green tea and the distant, rhythmic hum of Choso’s piercing needle in the next room. It’s a Wednesday, two weeks after your first “strategy” dumpling date, and the tension between you and Sukuna vibrates at a frequency even the Gremlin seems to notice.

Sukuna is hunched over his drafting table, burgundy eyes narrowed at a sketch of an intricate Hannya mask. He looks particularly brooding today—jaw tight, shoulders tense—the kind of focus that usually means he’s overthinking something.

You hop off your stool, your warm energy cutting through his mood like sunlight slicing through incense smoke. You lean over his shoulder, your floral perfume overtaking the sharp scent of stencil fluid.

“The shading on the horns is a bit aggressive, don’t you think, Sukuna?” you tease, giggling when his ears instantly go pink.

He stiffens, hand pausing mid‑stroke. He doesn’t turn around, but his voice drops into that low, gravelly rumble he only ever uses with you.

“It’s supposed to be aggressive. It’s a demon. Not a… spherical furball.”

You watch him set his stylus down with a little too much force before he finally looks at you. He actually looks nervous—well, as close as the “King of the Shop” ever gets.

“I have a book,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Classical woodblock prints. From the Edo period. The linework is… superior to anything we have in the archives.”

You tilt your head, curiosity sparking. “And? Are you going to bring it in?”

He exhales sharply, eyes dropping to the floorboards. “It’s heavy. And fragile. I don’t want Gojo spilling a triple‑shot latte on it because he’s ‘vibrating with sunshine’ again.”

There’s a small pause; his jaw flexes once.

“You can come see it. Tonight. At my place.”

You freeze. The silence is so thick you can hear the clack‑clack of the locksmith finishing the back door. Sukuna doesn’t invite people to his apartment. He guards his private life like a secret treasure.

“Are you asking me over, Sukuna?” you whisper, a small smile pulling at your lips.

“I’m asking if you want to see the prints,” he snaps, too quickly, but he doesn’t move away when you step into his space. “Don’t make it a thing. It’s just an apartment. It’s quiet. It’s… boring.”

“I’d love to see it,” you murmur, your hand slipping to the back of his, brushing over the star tattoo that catches the light.

An hour after the “Closed” sign flips, Sukuna holds the door to his flat open, his hand firm and territorial on the small of your back.

Inside, the air smells nothing like green soap or sterilizers. It smells like cedarwood and expensive charcoal. The space mirrors him perfectly, minimalist, dark, and almost aggressively organized.

“Don’t just stand there like you’re waiting for an invitation,” he grumbles, though he watches your every move with a vulnerability he never shows anyone else.

You wander toward his drafting table, trailing your fingers across the surface. You expect harsh lines and aggression—but instead, your eyes catch a jagged scrap of paper tucked under his lamp.

You gasp. “Sukuna! You drew her!”

You hold up a gestural sketch of a very round, very grumpy white cat with the purest judgmental expression.

Sukuna appears in the kitchen doorway holding two mugs of Earl Grey, the exact kind you like. His ears are flaming red.

“It’s a study in spherical forms! Extreme proportions! Stop staring!”

“You missed her,” you tease, stepping close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch. “You missed the noise. You missed the disaster.”

He doesn’t argue instead he sets the mugs down and wraps his heavy arms around your waist, pulling you snug against him.

“It was too quiet,” he admits into your hair, voice low and honest.

“But if you leave a single earring on my coffee table, I’m charging you rent.”

“Liar,” you whisper, leaning into his sheltering presence. “You’d probably frame it.”

And he chuckled, knowing that it was true.

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Monday’s afternoon sun slants through the front windows of Red Star Tattoos, catching drifting incense smoke and the rhythmic, low buzz of Sukuna’s tattoo machine. The “Open” sign has just been flipped to Closed, but the shop is still humming with that warm, familiar chaos that only happens when the clients are gone and it’s just… family.

You’re humming at the counter, flipping through tomorrow’s schedule, your legs swinging, your messy bun wobbling like it has its own gravitational pull. Somehow you manage to look even more like the little sun the whole shop orbits around.

Across the room, Sukuna wipes down his station with military precision, jaw tight, shoulders set — brooding in a way that’s almost a lifestyle at this point.

Without even looking up, you call out: “Hey, Suki! Can you check if we’re low on black ink?”

Everything. Stops.

The machines fall silent. The music pauses mid‑beat. Even the dust motes freeze like they know something catastrophic just happened.

Sukuna halts mid‑motion, back rigid, cloth dangling from his hand. A slow, creeping red climbs his neck, all the way to the tips of his ears. He turns with the stiffness of a man who desperately wishes he could undo the last five seconds.

“What,” he growls, voice low enough to shake the floor, “did you just call me?”

You blink innocently, chin resting on your hand.

“Suki. Or Kuna‑Bear. Still deciding which fits your grumpy aesthetic better today.”

He stares at you as if you’ve just spoken an ancient curse.

“I am a grown man. I am the co‑owner of this establishment. I will not be addressed like—”

“Aww, look at him!” Gojo’s voice explodes through the shop like a glitter bomb.

He appears from the back room in a burst of sunshine and chaos, blindfold pushed up just enough to expose one sparkling menace of an eye. He leans across the counter next to you, grinning like a feral cat.

“Did I just hear the ‘Disgrace of the Industry’ being called Kuna‑Bear?”

He gasps dramatically. “Oh, that’s rich. Tell me… Does he get a treat when he’s a good boy? Should we try scratching him behind the ears?”

You can’t help it, you giggle. Oh, he mostly just broods.”

Sukuna makes a noise like a dying engine.

“I will put both of you through the front window.”

“Don’t be like that, Suki‑Poo!” Gojo chirps, dodging Sukuna’s swipe like it’s a dance he’s practiced. Then he whispers loudly enough to wake the dead: “We should get him a matching collar for the cat. With bells. So we hear our majestic bear‑king approaching.”

From the piercing station, Suguru calls out, voice warm with amusement: “Satoru—stop harassing the staff. “But the tiny smirk on his face says he knows Satoru absolutely will not.

Sukuna exhales the longest, most exhausted sigh you’ve ever heard. He shoves his hands deep into his hoodie pockets and shoots you one last look, not angry, not really… more like wounded in a way he would rather die than admit.

“I’m going to the back. And if I hear that name in a client meeting, Gojo, I’m tattooing a tutu on your forehead.”

Gojo cackles so loudly you feel it in your ribs. “He’s totally going to answer to it by next week. Great work, Secret Treasure!”

But before Sukuna can escape, a low, unimpressed voice drifts from Choso’s station: “It’s accurate.”

All eyes whip to him.

Choso doesn’t even pause adjusting a captive bead ring.

Sukuna stiffens. “What was that, blood‑bag?”

Choso finally looks up, his stare flat, honest, lethal: “The nickname. You spent the whole morning pacing the perimeter like a territorial animal because she smiled at a delivery driver. You’re not a ‘King’ today. You’re a bear with a sore paw.”

Gojo releases a shriek so high‑pitched it cracks a flash frame.

“Even the Emo Dad agrees! Choso, you’re my new favourite person!”

Choso calmly returns to his tools. “I’m not doing it for you, Satoru. I’m stating a biological fact. He’s soft‑boiled.”

That does it — you burst into laughter.

Suguru wipes tears from his eyes. Gojo clutches his chest like he’s witnessing a masterpiece. “Soft‑boiled! He said soft‑boiled! This is ART!”

Sukuna is seconds, literal seconds, from spontaneous combustion. His ears and cheeks are practically glowing.

And because fate loves chaos, this is the moment you choose to smile softly at him, eyes crinkling, dimples showing,  all warm and sweet and utterly disarming.

It knocks the air out of him.

He jerks his gaze away before he melts in front of everyone.

“I’m going to the back,” he snaps again, voice cracking, dignity shattered, stomping away like a man going to war with himself.

From behind you, Gojo cups his hands around his mouth:

“DON’T FORGET YOUR HONEY, KUNA‑BEAR!”

The door slams hard enough that the bell jingles disrespectfully.

Then, muffled through the walls:

A pause. A thud. A very clear, very tragic: “…shit.”

He forgot the honey.

You nearly collapse laughing.

Choso murmurs quietly: “Soft‑boiled.”

A reverent eulogy.

And the shop, warm, lively, ridiculous,  carries on, fully aware that the King of Red Star Tattoos has officially, undeniably, beautifully lost control.

Your car didn’t break down. It betrayed you.

One sputter, two coughs, and then it just died in the middle of the parking lot like it was auditioning for a dramatic death scene. You stared at the hood, sighed deeply, and said:

“Oh, you’re a coward.”

You didn’t even have time to think before your phone buzzed.

Toji: Sukuna said your car died. I’m five minutes away. Don’t wander off.

You hadn’t asked him. Toji simply materialized whenever the universe sensed chaos around you.

Five minutes later, the unmistakable growl of his truck filled the lot. He pulled up beside you, one arm slung over the wheel, sunglasses on like the sky wasn’t completely overcast.

“Get in,” he said. “Before the engine takes you down with it.”

You rolled your eyes, but you got in.

The truck smelled like pine, old leather, and something warm and familiar. Toji drove with one hand, casual confidence dripping from every movement.

“So,” he said, glancing at your dead car in the rearview mirror, “Choso says the belt’s been going out for weeks.”

You groaned. “Yes. He warned me. Twice. Maybe three times.”

Toji snorted. “You never listen.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly. “Oh, shut up.”

He chuckled — low, amused, warm in a way you rarely saw anyone else coax out of him.

Traffic flowed around you for a while, quiet settling comfortably between you. Then Toji cleared his throat.

“So… college.”

You blinked. “Oh god. What did Choso tell you?”

“That you two used to be… tight,” Toji said, choosing the word carefully. “That you helped him through some stuff. That he… cared about you.”

You felt your chest tighten. “Yeah. We were. But it wasn’t— you know. Not like that.”

“I know,” Toji said simply. “He wasn’t implying anything.”

You relaxed.

“He said you kept him alive,” Toji added.

Your breath caught. You stared at your hands, voice softening. “I didn’t do anything special. We were just two lonely people who didn’t fit anywhere else. He needed someone quiet. I needed someone gentle.”

Toji hummed. “That’s something special.”

You didn’t answer.

He kept talking.

“You know what he told me?” Toji continued. “He said you were the first person who didn’t look at him like he was strange.”

Your chest ached.

“Toji—”

“I’m not judging,” he said. “Just… curious. About whom you were back then.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

He wasn’t interrogating. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t prying.

He was just… there. Interested in where you came from. Who you were. How you became the person sitting in his truck.

So you told him.

About  how after that night, you and Choso became friends, long nights study sessions, ramen runs during finals week, and about how he’d sit in total silence beside you, and somehow that made you feel less alone. About how you both carried shadows, and how college was the first place where shadows didn’t feel heavy.

Toji listened.

Really listened, he didn’t interrupt, he didn’t make jokes and he didn’t even said hurtful shit that he probably would have said to anyone else.

He rested one big hand on the steering wheel and let your voice fill the truck like a story he’d waited years to hear.

When you finished, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “that tracks.”

“Tracks how?”

“You like damaged people,” Toji said dryly.

You stared at him. “What?”

He shrugged.

“You liked Choso’s quiet. You liked Sukuna’s fire. You like Gojo’s chaos in a weird, masochistic way. You let me in. Every single one of us came with a past. And instead of backing away…” He glanced at you, eyes soft. “You pulled us in.”

Your throat tightened.

“Toji—”

“You got this weird thing,” he said. “A little glow. Makes people want to be better.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You just looked ahead, eyes warm.

He let the silence sit a moment.

“I’m glad you were in Choso’s life,” Toji said finally. “I’m glad you’re in mine.”

You swallowed. “Me too.”

He grinned suddenly, ruining the softness.

“But tell Choso I said you two were weird as hell in college.”

You shoved him. “OH MY GOD— Toji!”

He laughed — actual laughter — and the truck filled with the rare, warm sound.

When he pulled up to Red Star, Sukuna was waiting at the door with the tension of a man who imagined you kidnapped twice on the ride over.

Toji leaned toward you, voice low.

“One more thing.”

You raised a brow.

“You tell Sukuna I drove you here,” Toji said, smirking, “and that we talked about college?”

“Yes?”

Toji grinned wider.

“You tell him nothing else. Let him sweat.”

You groaned. “You’re evil.”

“Yep.”

He tapped your head affectionately before you got out.

And inside, Sukuna immediately stalked toward you—

“What did he say? Why were you gone so long? Did he crash something? Did he flirt with you? Did he—”

And Toji, leaning out the window, waved with a smirk that absolutely meant trouble.

You whispered:

“Friends. We’re just friends.”

Sukuna narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t trust him.”

You smiled.

“You don’t trust anyone.”

He huffed. “Fair.”

And just like that, the shop swallowed you back into its warm, chaotic orbit — found family, old shadows, new light — and you knew…

Your past didn’t haunt you.

It connected you.

To Choso. To Sukuna. To the boys. To Toji.

To Red Star.

The moment Toji’s truck disappeared down the street, Sukuna wrapped his arm around your waist like he was checking you for injuries or perfume contamination.

“What did he say,” Sukuna demanded, eyes narrowing.

“Hi, welcome back to the shop,” you replied sweetly.

He didn’t budge. “What did he say.”

Before you could answer, your phone buzzed.

You glanced down.

A single text from Toji:

Toji: Don’t snitch.

You choked on your own breath, turning your phone face‑down like evidence.

Sukuna immediately noticed. “Who’s that.”

“No one.”

“Bubbles.” His voice dropped. The warning tone. “The hell do you mean ‘no one’.”

You tried to walk past him. He followed you. Like a large, tattooed shadow with trust issues.

Your phone buzzed again.

Toji: I’m serious. Don’t tell him what I said. Let him sweat.

Sukuna leaned closer, looming. “Why is your face red.”

“Because I’m annoyed.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Tell me who texted.”

Yuji poked his head from behind his station. “ WHO IS IT ??”

You and Sukuna both snapped, “NO ONE.”

Megumi peeked around the corner like a suspicious cat. “You looked guilty.”

“I DO NOT LOOK GUILTY.”

Megumi raised a brow. “Uh‑huh.”

Your phone buzzed a third time.

You checked it quickly:

Toji: If he asks, tell him we talked about taxes or car maintenance. Anything boring.

You nearly burst out laughing.

“Who is that,” Sukuna repeated, slower this time.

You couldn’t help it, the smile broke. Just a tiny one.

Sukuna growled. “Oh my god. It IS that bastard.”

“It’s FINE,” you said, pushing his chest playfully. “We just talked.”

“What about what.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, “you’re worse than Gojo.”

“I’M NOT JEALOUS,” Sukuna snapped.

You smirked. “You’re jealous.”

Yuji gasped. “SU-KU-NA IS JEALOUS—”

Megumi groaned. “This shop is exhausting.”

Choso, passing by with a tray of sterilized needles, quietly added: “He is jealous.”

Sukuna pointed at him. “SHUT UP.”

Your phone buzzed again.

You checked it discreetly:

Toji: If he explodes, tell him I drove carefully. I didn’t but tell him anyway.

You snorted — exactly loud enough for Sukuna to hear.

“I SWEAR TO GOD—” Sukuna lunged for your phone.

You bolted, laughing, weaving between chairs and machines.

He chased you like a large, angry cat with tattoos.

“You’re hiding something!”

“Because it’s FUNNY!”

“LET ME SEE THE PHONE!”

“NEVER!”

Yuji was screaming. Megumi was sighing. Choso stepped neatly out of the way. Gojo popped out of a cabinet he should NOT have fit in.

“What’s happening,” Gojo asked.

“TOJI TEXTED HER,” Yuji cried.

“AND SHE WON’T SHOW ME,” Sukuna thundered.

Gojo squealed. “OOOH. THIS IS SPICY.”

Suguru walked out from the back exactly long enough to say, “I’m leaving,” and then turned right back around.

You darted to the counter, dramatic and breathless, holding your phone to your chest like contraband.

Sukuna cornered you, bracing a hand beside your head, breathing hard, tattoos tense.

“Tell me.”

“Why,” you teased, “are you scared he said something you won’t like?”

“I’m scared he said something YOU liked.”

Your heart flipped.

He froze like he’d surprised himself.

You softened, brushing a hand across his chest. “It was nothing. I promise. Just… conversations.”

Sukuna narrowed his eyes.

“Swear?”

You nodded, smiling softly.

“He was just being Toji,” you murmured. “Annoying. Honest. Weirdly thoughtful. And your friend.”

Sukuna grumbled, but his shoulders dropped.

“…Fine.”

He kissed your cheek — quick, territorial — and stepped back.

Yuji yelled, “CAN WE KNOW WHAT THE TEXT SAID?”

You and Sukuna answered together:

“NO.”

Then your phone buzzed.

You looked at the screen:

Toji: If he kills me, you’re on funeral duty.

You burst out laughing.

Sukuna glared.

“WHAT DID HE SAY NOW—”

“Nothing! Nothing at all!”

Toji drove past the shop at that exact moment, window rolled down, giving Sukuna a smug little two‑finger salute as he passed.

Sukuna growled so loudly Twinkles puffed up.

You nearly collapsed laughing.

Family.

Pure chaos. But family.

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The afternoon inside Red Star Tattoos had settled into that rare, impossible softness — the kind that only happened after the last client left and the shop exhaled in relief. Sandalwood curled lazily from the incense burner on the front counter. The tattoo machines, freshly cleaned and cooling, hummed faintly like content, sleeping beasts. Warm golden sunlight filtered through the streaked windows and draped itself across the floor in uneven rectangles, as if the whole place were dozing in late‑day warmth.

You were wiping down your station, muscles relaxing, breath steadying — for once, everything was calm.

Which, of course, is when the universe decided to strike.

A blur of white hair shot past the back hallway like a particularly unstable comet.

“EVERYONE FRONT AND CENTER!” Gojo shouted, voice pitched several decibels above what the human nervous system is designed to withstand.

Suguru followed him out at a far more civilized pace, wearing the deeply resigned look of someone who had already tried and failed to talk him out of something catastrophic.

Sukuna didn’t look up from his station — he merely growled under his breath like a territorial panther pretending not to be afraid of Gojo’s presence. Choso paused mid‑sterilization with the quiet suspicion of a biologist observing an apex predator doing backflips.

You… you felt the shift immediately. A strange spark. A strange anticipation. A strange Gojo‑shaped omen of chaos.

He slapped both palms onto the front counter and leaned forward with a grin too wide, too bright, too dangerous.

“It’s time,” Gojo declared. “For history.”

Suguru sighed. “Just… humour him,” he murmured, though his gaze softened when it landed on you, like he was silently saying you’re safe, we promise… mostly.

You stepped forward last — because you’d learned, painfully, beautifully, that Gojo’s bursts of enthusiasm were best approached like a suspicious crate labelled “CAUTION: MAY EXPLODE.”

And then, with all the dramatic timing of a magician revealing the final act, Gojo tossed something onto the counter.

A set of keys. They landed with a metal clink so crisp it cut straight through your spine.

You frowned.

Until Gojo pointed both hands — like an airport marshal directing a private jet — toward the front windows.

“Your chariot awaits,” he whispered, faintly unhinged.

And then you saw it.

You froze.

Parked directly outside the shop, gleaming beneath the golden hour light, was a black Porsche 911 Carrera GTS, all sleek curves and predatory shine, the chrome rims catching sunlight so sharply you almost shielded your eyes. It looked like sin carved in metal. Like wealth condensed into a shape. Like something that absolutely did not belong on your cracked sidewalk but now owned the pavement anyway.

You stood there, absolutely still, your heart stopped beating for a second only to  restart too fast, then it decided to implode.

You walked outside in a trance, air thinning around you, hand trembling as you pressed the key fob.

The lights blinked. The engine purred. Your soul left your body.

By the time you opened the driver’s door and sank into the leather seat, your breath had broken. Emotion surged up, too raw, too enormous, too overwhelming. You tried to swallow it down, but it spilled anyway, warm and blurring your vision.

You weren’t crying. You were breaking beautifully apart.

Inside the shop, hell broke loose, exactly on cue.

Suguru leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching you with a warmth so gentle it carved something open in your chest. He looked proud. He looked relieved. He looked like someone who had waited years to witness you receive something good, finally.

Choso tilted his head. “It suits her,” he observed. “Correct ratio of chaos to velocity.”

Yuji screamed something unintelligible from behind the counter.

Megumi muttered “oh my god” into his sleeve.

Gojo spun in a victory circle, yelling, “THIS IS WHAT PEAK EMOTIONAL SUPPORT LOOKS LIKE!”

And Sukuna—

Oh. Sukuna.

He stood stiff as granite near the window, arms crossed over his black crop top — the one proudly declaring “Twinkle’s Dad” in bold red lettering, because of course this had to be the day he wore that.

He stared at the car. Then at you. Then at the car again.

And you watched his expression flicker through at least twelve emotions, most of which were illegal to display in public. The jealousy hit first — sharp, involuntary, instinctive. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers curled into his biceps. His eye twitched like he was one comment away from committing a light arson.

But then you let out a sound — part laugh, part sob — as your hand stroked the steering wheel like it was made of spun gold.

And everything in Sukuna… changed.

Melted.

Softened.

He exhaled, long and quiet, shoulders dropping, jealousy dissolving into something unbearably gentle.

Because as much as he wanted to be the one to give you everything — seeing you happy was worth far more than pride.

Even Twinkles hopped onto the hood, circled once, and flopped down like royalty blessing her new chariot.

You wiped your tears, laughed through them, and stepped out shakily.

And that’s when it happened.

The moment that would haunt you forever.

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Suguru approached, calm and warm. “You deserve this,” he said softly.

Gojo sidestepped into frame like a deranged ballerina. “We outdid ourselves, huh? She looks like she’s about to ascend to the astral plane.”

You opened your mouth, raw with emotion, ready to say something heartfelt—

Instead you blurted:

“THANK YOU, DADS OF SPEED!”

Silence.

Dead. Echoing. Unforgiving silence.

Suguru froze. Gojo blinked. Choso stopped chewing gum mid‑bite. Megumi went red from suppressed horror. Yuji let out a noise like a dying microwave.

And then—

“DADS OF SPEEEEEED!” Yuji shrieked, collapsing to his knees, pounding the cement.

Megumi actually stumbled, wheezing into his sleeve. “She—she SAID it—oh my god—”

Gojo clutched Suguru like a Victorian widow. “Sweetheart—our child—she finally said her first words—”

Suguru groaned into his palm. “This is deeply unfortunate.”

Choso nodded solemnly. “Her brain experienced catastrophic failure under emotional strain.”

Twinkles meowed like she agreed.

And Sukuna—

Sukuna dragged both hands down his face and muttered, through clenched teeth:

“…unbelievable.”

You hid your face in your palms. “I DIDN’T MEAN IT, IT JUST—HAPPENED—”

Yuji screamed, Megumi laughed until he coughed, and Gojo threw his hands to the sky.

“LONG LIVE THE DADS OF SPEED!”

Chaos detonated like fireworks.

Satoru was already halfway to the stencil cabinet. Suguru was swearing under his breath. Choso was preparing merchandise. Megumi pre‑ordered a hoodie. Yuji was designing a sticker pack. Gojo was sketching chrome wings and flames. Suguru was, horrifically, considering a matching tattoo.

And Sukuna — your giant, tattooed, terrifying, soft‑hearted partner — slid down the wall, choking on laughter he couldn’t fight.

He looked at you with eyes warm enough to burn, breathless from laughing at your catastrophe, and whispered:

“Best idiot ever.”

And you were still mortified, still glowing  and couldn’t even deny it, because in that moment, surrounded by your family, shaking with joy and humiliation and love, it felt like home.

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By the time three days passed after the Great Dads of Speed Incident, you had convinced yourself the shop had finally moved on. No one had said the cursed phrase again. No one had yelled it across the street. No one had stencilled it on your station when you weren’t looking. No stickers had appeared. No shirts. No hats.

Yuji hadn’t whispered it. Megumi hadn’t flinched at random. Choso hadn’t printed more merch in the dead of night. And, Gojo had been oddly quiet.

Which absolutely should’ve been your first warning.

But you let your guard down like a fool. A hopeful, naïve, dangerously trusting fool.

It was a normal morning at Red Star Tattoos. The sun came in soft, like it hadn’t yet learned what kind of men occupied the premises. Sukuna was at his station, wrapping cables with military precision, sipping his green tea like the grumpiest Buddhist monk alive. Choso was sterilizing tools. Suguru was organizing inks by colour saturation (his version of self‑care). Even Twinkles was quiet, perched in her corner like a smug little deity surveying her domain.

And then you heard it.

The footsteps.

Those footsteps.

The too light, too bouncy, too sparkly for physics footsteps.

“No,” Sukuna muttered under his breath, shoulders tensing. “Not today.”

But it was too late.

The front door SLAMMED open with the cinematic force of an entrance written by someone who has never seen a door hinge before.

And there he stood in the doorway.

Satoru Gojo. God of Chaos. Terror of Men. Gleeful destroyer of your dignity.

And he was holding something behind his back.

You felt the chill run down your spine.

“HELLOOOOOOOOOO RED STAR!” he announced, voice shaking the entire building. “GUESS WHAT DAY IT IS!”

“Absolutely not,” Sukuna muttered, already rubbing his temples. “Whatever day you think it is, it’s not that.”

Gojo ignored him with the honed skill of a man who’d been ignoring Sukuna for half a decade.

He marched toward you with purpose. Swagger. Destiny.

And finally—

“Satoru,” you warned, palms up. “If you pull something out of that bag, I swear—”

He SCREECHED a laugh and whipped the item into the air like Simba at Pride Rock.

The shop collectively inhaled.

Because in Gojo’s hands was—

A hoodie. A black oversized hoodie. And across the chest, in chrome lettering so reflective it could guide ships at sea, were the words:

SPEED BABY

(in massive, unforgivable font)

You felt your soul leave through your toes.

Sukuna choked. Like actually choked. Like he physically had to turn away and slap the table before he keeled over.

Suguru dropped a stack of ink caps. Choso whispered “oh dear god.” Twinkles sneezed dramatically, which felt like commentary.

And Gojo?

Gojo was already sprinting toward you, waving the hoodie like a victory flag.

“IT’S FOR YOUUUUUU,” he sang. “In honour of your new supercar!” “And your tragic verbal meltdown!” “And because,” he said, eyes sparkling behind his shades, “you are our beloved SPEED BABY!”

You covered your face. “Satoru, NO—”

He grabbed your wrists. He grabbed your soul. He grabbed your last shred of dignity.

And he put the hoodie on you himself.

Over your head. Arms through sleeves. Like you were a toddler.

You stood there, drowning in the softest fleece known to man, chrome letters shining across your chest like the world’s most humiliating badge of honour.

Yuji SCREAMED into the drywall. Megumi sat down on the floor. Choso covered his face with his apron. Suguru was silently shaking. Sukuna had walked into a corner, forehead pressed to the wall, shoulders trembling.

You whispered, “This is my villain origin story.”

Gojo beamed. “We got it in FOUR SIZES for you! Big comfy, medium comfy, crop‑top comfy, and emergency nap comfy!”

The shop imploded.

Yuji tried to steal one. Megumi whispered “I want one too” like a sinner seeking forgiveness. Choso started printing a version that said Speed Sheriff. Suguru asked if Twinkles could have a matching one.

And Sukuna, oh Sukuna, he finally turned around.

Eyes dark, ears pink, and his jaw clenched in the way that meant love and pain had collided somewhere inside him.

Then, with pure, exhausted sincerity, he said: “…I hate this shop.”

But later, when no one was looking, he tugged lightly on the hoodie’s drawstring, looked at you wearing his brand‑new embarrassing nickname and muttered so quietly only you heard: “It looks good on you, though.”

You melted.

Gojo screamed again. Megumi walked into a wall. Yuji tried to livestream you. Choso placed a pre‑order for six. Suguru asked for family photos in matching hoodies. Twinkles sat on your lap in approval.

And the universe cemented the truth:

You would never live down being the Speed Baby. Not in this shop. Not in this lifetime. Not even in the next.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted to.