Your personal Tumblr journey starts here
summary : sukuna destroys everything you love except one thing
recommended songs : emperor's clothing by ptad
gender : gender neutral
This was something anyone could have predicted, and anyone could have seen it coming. Why didn’t you? Why couldn’t you see how terrifying he truly was? It was because you imagined a story where Sukuna wasn’t so bad, where he helped Yuji along with you and the other sorcerers.
But that wasn’t who Sukuna was. He was a ruthless king who slaughtered and murdered millions of people and children. Someone who killed off thousands of people in less than two minutes as he smiled. He enjoyed it all.
“The only thing you can love,” Sukuna circled you as you were trapped inside his domain. Standing in the water that went up to your ankles and standing in the red glow of his realm.
You felt small in such an expansive and empty place. Sukuna smirked, enjoying seeing how weak you looked and how powerless you felt. He had complete and total control over you now, and he knew that you understood this.
You sank to the floor, dropping on your knees as your hands started to feel painfully numb. Your eyes were glassy. Your heart felt as if it had been slowly and intimately torn from your chest and crushed in front of your eyes.
Your body wasn’t able to move, your mind couldn’t process any new information, and your eyes weren’t focused on anything. Sukuna stopped circling in front of you and grazed one of his fingers across your cheek. Staring deep into your eyes as a tear rolled down your cheek as you made no noise. Your face wasn’t screwed up with pain. Your body wasn’t shaking.
You weren’t letting out cries of agony and sorrow. You were just feeling the hurt creep into your heart. It infected your core like a disease and spread through every inch of your body until you appeared to be drowning in despair. Nothing had ever felt this wrong before. Nothing had ever hurt this much before.
Sukuna’s smirk deepened as he leaned in close to your face. He whispered into your ear. His voice smooth, it was bewitching, and his breath was steamy against the side of your face as he spoke. You could hear the superiority he felt through his words.
“is me.”
He put a finger under your chin and hovered his lips above yours. The twisted, slight grin still present on his lips as you could do nothing. Nothing but stay still as you remained in your helpless state. “Now, beg for my love in return.”
They send you in after the damage is already done.
You’re not a hero. You’re what comes after.
The body bag. The Suture. The ghost that cleans up after gods.
You were trained to fix what can’t be fixed.
To close wounds that were never meant to be opened.
To make dying quieter.
And that’s when he noticed you.
Not because you were brave.
Not because you were powerful.
But because you never flinched.
Even when he stood over you, soaked in someone else’s blood, smiling like he was born to ruin.
You didn’t look away.
That’s what got under his skin.
That’s what kept him coming back.
-----
You didn’t speak to him with reverence. You spoke to him like someone who'd seen too much to be impressed anymore.
“Move,” you said once, knee-deep in what used to be someone’s liver. “Unless you’re going to help.”
He tilted his head like a dog hearing thunder.
“You’re awfully calm for someone standing in a massacre.”
“It’s Tuesday,” you said.
-----
You were the kind of person the world forgets until it needs you.
Invisible until someone starts bleeding.
And maybe that’s what made him stay.
You never looked at him like he was legend or apocalypse. You looked at him like he was inconvenient.
That kind of irreverence should have made him crush you.
Instead, he lingered.
-----
The first time he watched you lose someone, you didn’t cry.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t pray.
You just pressed your hand to the boy’s cooling chest and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Not to the gods.
To him.
He saw the way your shoulders locked, the way you didn’t breathe for a full minute. Like maybe if you didn’t move, you wouldn’t feel it.
You didn’t notice him watching.
He didn’t speak.
But later, you found the curse responsible strung from a tree, head twisted the wrong way.
It had taken you three hours to get there. Sukuna must’ve gotten there in two.
-----
You weren’t kind to him. That’s not what this is.
You were honest.
He once asked, casually, why you didn’t run like the others.
“Because I’ve spent my whole life cleaning up after men who think violence is the only language worth speaking.”
“You think I’m just another man?” he said, voice sharp.
“No,” you replied. “I think you used to be.”
-----
And that haunted him.
Because he’d burned down whole cities just to forget that—
-----
The first time he touched you, you were bandaging his side. A jagged gash from something that didn’t know better.
You didn’t ask why he didn’t heal it himself.
He didn’t ask why your hands shook a little.
But when your knuckles brushed his ribs, he stilled.
Not because it hurt.
Because it didn’t.
And that scared him more.
You didn’t make him human.
You reminded him he still was.
That was worse.
-----
He started showing up more. Missions you weren’t supposed to survive. Places no one should be. You’d find him in the aftermath, leaning against rubble, watching you with that same expressionless violence in his gaze.
Sometimes he asked questions.
“Do you believe in saving people?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why still try?”
“Because someone has to.”
“You always do things that don’t work?”
“I stayed talking to you, didn’t I?”
He laughed. It sounded like breaking glass.
-----
It was never romantic.
But God, it was intimate.
The kind of intimacy that doesn’t look like love.
It looks like two people who can’t lie to each other anymore.
-----
You started dreaming about him.
Not in soft ways.
In recognition ways.
His voice in the dark. His blood on your hands.
Your name in his mouth like a secret he hates knowing.
It wasn’t love.
It was something older.
Like grief. Like guilt. Like home.
-----
One night, you asked him something you’d never dared to ask anyone.
“Do you think people like us get better?”
He didn’t answer for a long time.
“No,” he said eventually. “But sometimes we get understood.”
You nodded.
You didn’t speak again for hours.
He didn’t leave.
-----
You told yourself it wasn’t connection. Just mutual ruin. Two broken things orbiting the same grave.
But then you got hurt. Badly.
And he lost his mind.
Not loudly. Not with roars.
Just with silence.
The kind that feels like a closing door—
When you woke up in a makeshift shelter, your wounds stitched with unnatural precision, he was already gone.
But outside the door, you saw what he left:
A trail of bodies. Eyes gouged. Faces melted. Blood spelling out a name.
Yours.
-----
You didn’t thank him.
You never did.
But the next time he appeared beside you, you didn’t ask why.
You just said, “You’re late.”
And he replied, “You’re alive.”
-----
You don’t belong together. You know this. You knew it from the start.
He is the myth that devours the world.
And you? You’re the woman who keeps trying to tape it back together.
But sometimes he sits close enough for your knees to touch, and doesn’t flinch.
Sometimes you reach for the same gauze at the same time, and your fingers linger.
Sometimes, you both exist in the same silence.
And it feels like the closest either of you has ever come to peace.
-----
He once told you that your eyes made him feel guilty.
You said, “Good.”
-----
You never tell him you love him.
But once, while half-conscious, he whispered:
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever seen that wasn’t ugly.”
You never bring it up again.
But you remember.
-----
You won’t survive this.
He might.
But not you.
And he knows it.
And that’s the tragedy.
Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to win.
He wants to keep.
And the world doesn’t let men like him keep people like you.
---
But for now—
You sit in the rubble.
He watches you patch another dying sorcerer together with trembling hands and exhausted breath.
And he thinks:
Your violence reminded me of home.
But your silence reminded me of being known.
And he hates you for it.
And he keeps coming back anyway.
-----
If Ryomen Sukuna were ever to love someone—
truly, terribly, without the mask of power or cruelty—it would be a slow undoing. A ruin of a ruin. A tragedy wrapped in something like warmth, but not quite. Love, for him, could never be soft. It would come with claws. It would come limping, feral, and afraid.
And he wouldn’t call it love.
Because naming it would make it real, and real things can be lost.
He has always known how to keep power. To hold it in his palm like a pulse he can squeeze. But love—love would be the one thing he couldn’t crush without feeling it bleed through his fingers. And that would drive him mad.
It would start in silence. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of awareness. Of you existing in his world like a candle in a slaughterhouse. Not asking to be saved. Just… being. Alive. Stubborn. Unafraid.
You would look at him like he wasn’t a god, wasn’t a monster, wasn’t anything to worship or destroy.
And that would be the first sin.
-----
Sukuna doesn’t understand kindness.
He recognizes it—like one recognizes a dead language. He sees it in the way people reach for each other, beg for mercy, cradle each other’s names in the dark. It confuses him. Makes him restless.
He would hate you for being kind to him. For seeing past the fangs and calling what’s beneath it human.
“You think I’m something to fix?” he would sneer, the way you might snarl at a mirror that showed you too clearly. “Don’t mistake survival for softness.”
But it wouldn’t matter. You wouldn’t try to fix him. You wouldn’t offer him redemption like a leash. You’d simply see him—and refuse to look away.
And Sukuna—undone, ugly, blood-soaked Sukuna—would find that unbearable.
-----
He wouldn’t know how to be gentle.
Not with hands that have only ever broken, gripped, ripped things from bone.
Not with a mouth that speaks in the language of threat and irony.
So he’d love you the only way he knows how: with fear, with possession, with distance. He’d guard you like a secret. Watch you from shadows. Kill for you without you ever knowing your life was threatened. Tear down whole cities just to make sure the wind didn’t reach your throat wrong.
And then deny it. Always deny it.
“You think you matter to me?” he’d say, voice low and too careful. “You’re just amusing. That’s all.”
But his eyes would betray him. They always do.
They’d hold something ancient.
Something awful.
Something that wants to kneel before you and call it hate because “love” would burn too hot.
-----
He’d love you like a curse.
Like a habit he couldn’t kill. He’d resent you for being the one thing in this godless world that made him hesitate. That made him think. And in his hesitation, he’d find something that felt like fear.
Not the fear of loss.
But the fear of what he might become if he didn’t lose you.
Because if you stayed—if you truly stayed—he might have to believe he was more than a monster.
And he’s not sure he wants to be.
-----
When he touched you, it would not be tender.
Not at first.
It would be rough. Unsure. Like someone holding fire and expecting to be burned. His hands would shake—not visibly, no, never—but something beneath the skin would tremble. As if the act of touching something without destroying it is the hardest thing he’s ever done.
And it would be.
Because Sukuna has never known love that didn’t come with screams.
To want to protect instead of possess—that is foreign to him. A new tongue. One he’s too old and too ruined to speak fluently. But he would try. Quietly. Without asking you to notice.
You’d find food you didn’t cook. You’d wake with the blood of your enemies dried at your doorstep. You’d feel eyes in the dark—watching, waiting—not as a threat, but as a promise.
He would never say “I love you.”
But he would let you live.
And in his world, that is the highest act of grace.
-----
There would be irony in it.
That the King of Curses—the butcher of centuries, the calamity of heaven—would fall not in battle, not in rage, but in devotion.
Slow. Terrifying. Sacred.
He would never beg for you. But he would remember your silence like scripture. He would trace your voice in the air after you left a room. He would hate everyone who made you smile—because he doesn't know how to be the reason.
He doesn’t know how to be good.
But he’d want to be better. Not for the world. Never for the world.
Only for you.
Because you never asked him to be.
And that’s the part that would kill him.
-----
If you ever walked away—he wouldn’t stop you.
He’d let you go.
And then he’d rip apart the world in your absence.
Not because you were his.
But because without you, he fears he’d forget how to be almost*human.
-----
So no. Sukuna wouldn’t write you poems.
He wouldn’t tell you you’re beautiful.
He wouldn’t beg for your touch, or whisper your name in sleep.
He’d carry you like a wound he refuses to heal.
He’d make the world burn quieter so you could breathe.
He’d say “you’re alive, aren’t you?” when asked if he loves you.
And maybe—maybe—that would be enough.
Maybe that’s love, in his language.
Maybe, in a world where everything bleeds,
letting you live is the greatest confession he will ever make.
-----
Gate, Gate—
(gone, gone beyond)
They brought him to the temple like people leave things at riverbanks.
A last attempt. A gentle abandonment dressed in incense.
“He has something wrong in him,” the mother whispered.
Or maybe it was the aunt.
Or maybe no one said anything at all. Maybe they just looked.
The monks accepted him like they accepted stray dogs and dying birds.
With open hands and quiet eyes.
He was six. Or seven. Thin. Quiet.
Too quiet.
He didn’t cry when they shaved his head.
Didn’t flinch when they poured the cold water down his spine.
He just stared at the stone floor like it had spoken to him in a language no one else could hear.
-----
The temple was kind. In theory.
They rose at dawn, washed in silence, chanted in circles.
Everything smelled of sandalwood and routine.
Things were clean here. Predictable.
But Sukuna?
He was not a creature of clean things.
He learned fast. Too fast.
By the second week, he was sitting longer in meditation than boys twice his age.
By the third, he had the Heart Sutra memorized.
By the fourth, he could mimic the chants with a tone so exact it felt mocking.
Not cruel—just empty.
One of the older monks said, “He’s gifted.”
Another muttered, “He’s hollow.”
(Both were right.)
-----
They named him Reien. (Distant Flame.)
He never used it.
When called, he looked up slowly, like surfacing from somewhere deeper.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t play.
Didn’t cry when the others whispered things like witch-child or thing with teeth.
He once told another boy during chores,
“I think people hope temples make monsters polite.”
The boy blinked.
Sukuna shrugged, soft and almost gentle.
“But I was never rude. Just honest.”
-----
The monks thought perhaps routine would save him.
Structure. Compassion. Years of stillness pressed into his ribs until something softened.
But it never did.
He lit the incense with perfect fingers, poured tea without spilling a drop.
He knelt so still he looked like a statue left behind by an older god.
And when he whispered the sutras?
They sounded like elegies.
Like grief recited backward.
-----
There was one monk.
Old.
Kind.
Tired in the way that made you trust him.
He brought Sukuna extra rice on cold mornings.
Helped him adjust his robes when no one else would get too close.
Once, he said,
“You remind me of a bell before it rings.”
Sukuna looked up.
“You’re waiting for something,” the monk said. “I don’t know what. But I hope it’s peace.”
Sukuna didn’t answer. But later that night, he buried the monk’s prayer beads under the snow.
Not out of malice.
He just didn’t want anyone to believe too much in rescue.
-----
Years passed.
Sukuna grew. Not into someone better. Just someone more.
More silent. More watchful.
His eyes started to scare people.
He never raised his voice.
Never raised a hand.
But once, when a boy shoved him during chores, Sukuna whispered something into the boy’s ear.
No one knows what was said.
But the boy never spoke again.
-----
Sometimes he would sit under the Bodhi tree at night, alone.
Whispering pieces of chants.
Not the full sutras. Just fragments. Broken syllables that didn’t fit together.
“Form is emptiness…” he’d murmur.
“…emptiness is form.”
Then laugh to himself, soft and cruel and tired.
It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t madness.
It was a boy telling a joke no one else understood.
-----
Once, a traveling girl came with her father, a rice merchant.
She sat beside him at lunch and offered him a peach.
He stared at her.
“You don’t talk much,” she said.
He blinked.
“Are you sad?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Just took the peach and held it like a thing he’d never earned.
She grinned. “I think you’re pretending to be a monk.”
That night, he didn’t sleep.
He just stared at the peach pit in his hand for hours, wondering why it made him feel anything at all.
She never came back.
And that was the first time he realized—
Even kindness leaves.
-----
The breaking didn’t happen all at once.
Not like a sword through the ribs.
More like water over stone.
Small cracks.
Soft erosion.
A boy watching compassion become something quiet and useless.
-----
One winter, he found a bird dying in the courtyard.
It was shaking. Mouth open. Tiny heart fighting too hard.
He sat with it for an hour. Just watching.
Didn’t touch it.
Didn’t help.
Didn’t look away.
When it stopped breathing, he buried it with his bare hands.
And whispered the full Heart Sutra over its grave.
The first and only time he ever said it with feeling.
-----
Later, when the elder monk was dying from fever, Sukuna sat beside him.
The monk wheezed, clinging to prayer beads with pale hands.
He said, “Do you believe in rebirth?”
Sukuna stared.
“Maybe you’ll come back as something… softer.”
Sukuna leaned in, voice gentle and cruel:
“This is my second life. I think I was something softer before.”
(The monk wept.)
-----
He left soon after.
No one remembers how.
Some say he disappeared into the snow.
Some say the temple doors opened and never closed again.
Some say he burned it all.
But here’s what’s true:
He carried the chants with him.
Not because he believed.
But because belief was the first lie anyone ever told him.
-----
And now?
Now he walks like a God who doesn’t want worship.
Kills like someone remembering something ancient.
Speaks in riddles and old truths.
Sometimes, before a battle, when the wind is just right,
he mumbles a chant to himself :
“Gate, gate, pāragate…”
Gone. Gone. Gone beyond.
He always pauses after that.
Not out of reverence.
Out of memory.
Out of the sound of snow falling on temple roofs.
Out of the soft weight of a peach in his hand.
Out of the silence after a dying bird stops shaking.
He doesn’t say the last line.
Not anymore.
Because it was never for him.
And he knows, with a kind of terrible peace:
Not everything is meant to be saved.
-----
Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸
I don’t think I meant to make this version of Sukuna. It just… happened. I kept circling this quiet idea of a boy left at a temple like an afterthought—like maybe someone thought peace could be taught into him, like sutras could smooth out what was already unraveling inside.
This isn’t about battles or glory or blood. It’s about stillness. About a boy who memorized all the sacred words but none of them saved him. About silence, routine, ritual. About being watched, studied, never understood.
I didn’t want him to be tragic in a loud, dramatic way. I wanted the ache to be quiet. Familiar. Like bruises you don’t notice until someone touches them.
There’s something that haunts me about characters who know how to sit still but not how to be comforted. Who learn everything except how to ask for help. Who are full of language but empty of meaning. I think some part of me understands them too well.
So yeah… this version of Sukuna? He’s not softer. He’s just more human in a way that hurts.
---
Anyway. If you made it this far, thank you. Feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love to hear your opinions. You guys always see things I missed.
✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨
Sukuna has spent a thousand years learning how not to be human.
That is what the world expects of him. That is what the world made him.
A man who became a myth. A myth that became a monster. A name that people still whisper like a curse, like a prayer, like something they are too afraid to summon.
And what is a violence if not the absence of everything soft?
Sukuna is rage and ruin, destruction woven into the fabric of his being. There is no place for tenderness in his body, no home for kindness beneath the weight of his legend. Whatever he was before, whatever warmth might have once lingered in the hollow space between his ribs, has long since turned to rot.
And yet.
When the world is quiet—truly quiet—his body betrays him.
It happens without his permission, like an instinct long buried, like muscle memory from a life he no longer claims.
A sound. A hum, low and deep, vibrating in his chest.
Not quite a growl.
Not quite a sigh.
Something in between. Something dangerous.
Because it is something alive.
Something human.
And if anyone hears it, if anyone dares to notice—he will rip their throat out before the thought can fully form.
It is better this way.
It has always been better this way.
Until you.
***
It is late when you first notice it.
The fire in the room has burned down to embers, casting the walls in flickering shadows. You are pressed close to him, not because you are foolish enough to think he needs warmth, but because your body, unlike his, still listens to instinct.
The silence between you is easy. Not because he is kind, not because you are unafraid, but because something unspoken has settled between you.
For once, he does not have to perform.
For once, he does not have to be the villain in someone else’s story.
For once, he is simply here.
And in that moment, in the stillness of it, his body reacts before his mind can catch up.
The hum slips out—deep, steady, unwavering.
You feel it before you hear it. The vibration against your skin, the way it rumbles through his chest like something meant to be there, like something that belongs.
You blink. Your lips part slightly, and before common sense can stop you, the words are already leaving your mouth—
“…Are you purring?”
Sukuna stills.
For a fraction of a second, there is nothing. No breath, no movement, no shift in his body.
And then, like a storm breaking, the warmth vanishes.
The air changes.
He turns his head, slow and deliberate, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. His expression is unreadable, a mask of cold amusement stretched over something darker.
"Say that again," he murmurs, voice quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that warns of something sharp waiting beneath the surface.
Your heartbeat stutters.
A normal person would backpedal. A smart person would apologize, pretend they never heard it, let it slip into the silence between you and never bring it up again.
But you are not normal.
And you have never been particularly smart when it comes to him.
So instead of looking away, instead of swallowing your words, you do something infinitely more dangerous.
You smile.
“You were purring.”
It is immediate.
One moment, you are lying beside him. The next, you are beneath him, wrists pinned above your head, his weight pressing you into the futon.
The air crackles between you, thick enough to drown in.
His claws rest against your throat, his grin all teeth, all venom, all warning.
“Say another word,” he purrs—actually purrs, just to mock you, just to remind you who you are playing with—“and I’ll carve out that sharp little tongue of yours.”
You should be afraid.
But you aren’t.
Because in this moment, despite the sharp edges, despite the threat in his voice, you see something you shouldn’t be able to see.
Not just a monster.
Not just a legend.
But something in between.
And the realization is like a blade slipping between his ribs.
Because you know.
You know that sound was not a mistake.
You know that it was instinct.
You know that, buried beneath centuries of cruelty and ruin, there is a body that still remembers what it means to be at peace.
And worst of all—worst of all—you have the audacity to ask, voice quiet but certain,
“…Why does it bother you?”
Something flickers in his expression.
A crack in the armor.
A hairline fracture in the mask he has spent centuries perfecting.
Sukuna hates you in that moment.
Hates you for seeing him.
Hates you for not fearing him.
Hates you for existing in a space he swore he would never allow anyone to occupy.
His fingers tighten around your throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that he could. Just enough to make sure you understand.
“You think I am embarrassed?” he scoffs, voice low, dangerous. “Foolish little thing.”
And yet—
He does not kill you.
He does not silence you.
Instead, he exhales, slow and deliberate, and leans in close—so close that his breath brushes over your lips.
"You will not always be so lucky," he murmurs.
And then, as if to prove that none of this meant anything, as if to prove that *you* mean nothing, he lets you go.
The warmth, the weight of him—it all vanishes.
As if it had never been there at all.
As if the sound you heard—the sound that should *not* exist in a monster like him—had been nothing more than a trick of your imagination.
But you know better.
And so does he.
-----
That night, after you have drifted into sleep, Sukuna stays awake.
He does not need rest.
But for the first time in a long, long time, he does not know what to do with the silence.
For centuries, the quiet has been easy. He has worn his solitude like armor, a kingdom built from blood and terror.
But now, as he sits in the stillness, he is aware of something else.
Something beneath the violence.
Something beneath the legend.
Something unsettling.
He does not sigh. He does not hum.
But if, in the quietest part of the night, something deep within his chest rumbles—low, steady, impossible—no one is awake to hear it.
And that is enough.
For now.
-----
Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸
Honestly, if I ever had to stand in front of that curse king in real life, I’d probably be too busy shaking to even breathe properly. But hey, this is my story, so I get to look him dead in the eye and say, "Dude. You’re purring.”
Anyway, let me know what you think! Feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love to hear them. And if you have any ideas, send them my way! Who knows? Maybe the next thing I write will be inspired by you.
✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨
Sukuna does not remember the faces of the men he has killed.
They blur together, indistinct, insignificant. A thousand screams, a thousand lives, all reduced to echoes lost in time.
He does not remember the first time he tasted blood.
Only that it was warm. Only that it tasted like power.
He does not remember the last time he spoke without cruelty.
Perhaps he never did.
Perhaps he was born sharp-edged, made only to take, to destroy, to rule.
And yet—
Sometimes, something shifts.
Something rises unbidden, uncalled for, unwanted.
A scent, a sound, a fleeting phrase spoken without thought.
And suddenly, he is somewhere else.
Suddenly, he is something else.
Something before.
-----
It happens on an evening like any other.
The fire is low. The air is thick with the scent of whatever you’re cooking, something simple, something forgettable. He is not paying attention. He does not need to.
Until you hum.
A tune, quiet, absentminded. A fragment of something old, something small.
And the world lurches.
Because he knows it.
Not the song itself, but the shape of it, the feeling of it. The way it pulls at something he does not remember storing away.
The air changes.
Sukuna does not move. He does not react. But his fingers twitch, curling just slightly where they rest.
It is nothing.
It is nothing.
Except—
His mind betrays him.
A flicker. A glimpse. A place he does not recognize, a life that is not his.
Or perhaps it was.
Once.
Long ago.
Before he became a god. Before he became a curse. Before his name was spoken in fear and reverence and hatred alike.
He does not remember.
And yet his body does.
The way his shoulders tense, the way his breath slows. The way he knows that if he reached out now—if he closed his eyes, if he listened just a little longer—
Something would come back.
And he is not sure he wants that.
-----
"Why did you stop?"
Your voice snaps him back.
He blinks, sharp and immediate, as if tearing himself free from something he does not want to acknowledge.
"You were humming," he says, and his voice is too even. Too careful.
You tilt your head. "Did it bother you?"
He scoffs, the sound rough. "Hardly."
A lie.
Because he does not forget things.
Not like this.
Not in ways that matter.
And yet, when he closes his eyes that night, long after the fire has burned down and silence has settled over the room,
The tune lingers.
It settles into the quiet spaces of his mind, the places he does not look too closely at.
And for the first time in centuries,
Sukuna remembers something he never meant to.
-----
Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸
Sukuna having an internal crisis? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just delulu. Who’s to say?
But honestly, music is one of the most human things there is. It lingers. It carries. A song from centuries ago can still be sung today, and I feel like that’s the kind of thing that would get to him. Maybe not in a way he’d ever admit, but in that quiet, unwanted way where he finds himself listening when he doesn’t mean to.
And that line—what is immortality if not a curse? To be left behind when the other part of you is gone?—I swear I’ve read it somewhere before. It sounds like something that should be carved into a tombstone or whispered by some tragic figure who’s lived too long. (If you remember where it’s from, tell me because my brain is blanking.)
But yeah, completely agree with that sentiment. Who the hell wants to live forever? Tom Riddle was as stupid as he was good-looking.
---
Anyway, let me know what you think! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this one. Feel free to comment or send ideas—you know I love them.
✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨
The Taste of Memory :
Sukuna does not eat because he needs to.
Not in the way humans do.
His existence is beyond such trivial things. He is a curse. A god, a monster, a thing carved out of legend and blood. His existence is not bound by mortal needs. He does not hunger the way humans hunger.
He has long surpassed the fragile demands of a mortal body.
And yet—
He still eats.
Not out of necessity, not even out of hunger, but out of something older. Something deeper.
Because the body remembers what the mind does not.
And though he may have forgotten what it is to be human, his tongue has not.
---
The first time you notice it, it almost seems insignificant.
A meal placed in front of him, a casual thing, something to pass the time. He looks at it, considers it, and then—
With an expression of pure disdain—
Pushes the plate toward you.
“Trash,” he says. “Eat it if you want.”
You blink. “You haven’t even tried it.”
“I don’t need to.” His mouth twists in something between disgust and condescension. “The smell alone tells me enough.”
You should have expected it. Should have known. Sukuna does not tolerate mediocrity, does not entertain anything that does not meet his impossible standards.
He holds himself above the world, and the world has never been worthy.
Still, you roll your eyes and take the plate.
It is not the first time.
It will not be the last.
---
He does this often.
Rejects food without hesitation, discarding anything that does not meet his unspoken, unreasonably high expectations.
Too bland. Too dry. Too greasy.
Too human.
It is not that he cannot eat. It is that he refuses to eat something unworthy of him.
He takes no pleasure in mediocrity.
He does not need to, does not have to, does not want to.
But then—
Sometimes, very rarely, something changes.
-----
It happens without fanfare.
A dish placed before him. The same routine, the same look of practiced indifference. He lifts his chopsticks, takes a bite, chews.
And then—
Nothing.
No complaint. No insult. No dramatic dismissal.
Just silence.
You glance at him, waiting, expecting the usual disapproval. But he keeps eating, slow, measured. And when he finishes, he sets his utensils down with the same detached carelessness as always.
“...Not bad,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.
And then, in a voice quieter, that is more grudging—
“Make it again.”
---
The second time, it is deliberate.
He does not shove the plate away. Does not scoff or sneer. He eats, and when he finishes, he leans back, watching you with something unreadable in his expression.
“Do you remember how you made this?” he asks.
There is something strange in his tone. Not interest, not curiosity—something else.
You nod.
He exhales through his nose, thoughtful, almost irritated at himself. “Good. Do it again.”
Not an order.
Not a demand.
A request.
Something he cannot take, only accept.
And that knowledge unsettles him more than anything else.
-----
Sukuna does not remember his last meal as a human.
That life is a blur, a ghost too distant to reach.
But his body remembers.
Remembers the feeling of warmth in his chest after something good. Remembers the weight of a meal that satisfies more than just hunger. Remembers the distant echo of something familiar, something lost.
It does not come often. But when it does—when a dish reminds him, however faintly, of something he cannot name—
He does not know what to do with it.
Does not know how to exist in a moment that is not about power, or blood, or war.
Does not know how to want something that is not destruction.
So he says nothing.
But the next day, he asks again.
“You’re making that thing.”
And you do.
-----
Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸
Another Sukuna piece for you all—this one feels like tasting something from your childhood. You know, that one dish you used to eat all the time, only to have it again years later and realize it doesn’t just taste like food—it tastes like a memory. Like a time, a place, a feeling you can’t quite name.
Except here, it’s Sukuna, and nothing is ever that simple. It’s not just nostalgia—it’s something buried, something almost forgotten, something he probably doesn’t want to remember but does anyway. And of course, because he’s him, it’s a whole lot more complicated (and God-King-like) than just reminiscing.
---
Anyway, let me know what you think! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this one. Feel free to comment or send me ideas—you know I love them.
✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨
Sukuna’s hands were never meant to be touched.
They were carved by power, molded for violence. Fingers meant for destruction, palms that know only the heat of blood, the crack of bone, the sharpness of steel.
And yet, they are scarred.
Not from battle—no one has ever been strong enough to leave a lasting wound on him—but from himself. From the weight of his own strength, from the countless times he has torn himself apart and stitched himself back together with sheer will alone.
His body is a temple built and rebuilt from ruin.
And his hands are the proof of it.
-----
The scars are strange things. Some thin as hairline cracks, others jagged, deep—memories of a power so vast it could not be contained, even within his own skin. He has felt his bones fracture under the pressure of it, muscles split, skin burned away, only to heal again, over and over, as if his body has long accepted that it will never truly be whole.
He doesn’t think about it. There’s no point.
It is what it is.
And yet—sometimes, when the world is quiet, when his hands are still, he can feel it. The ghosts of old wounds, the echoes of destruction.
The knowledge that his body is both indestructible and deeply, deeply broken.
-----
He doesn’t know when you first noticed.
Perhaps it was the way his fingers curled absentmindedly when he wasn’t using them. Perhaps it was the way he flexed them, as if reminding himself they were still there. Or maybe it was the way they traced over things—absent, almost thoughtful—when he thought no one was watching.
Whatever it was, you had noticed. And that was a problem.
Because people who noticed things about him usually didn’t live long.
And yet, there you were.
Watching. Thinking. Understanding something he did not want to be understood.
One night, as his fingers drummed idly against his knee, your gaze flickered down to his hands. The movement was so slight he almost didn’t catch it.
"Does it hurt?" you asked.
He had half a mind to ignore you. To dismiss it with a sneer, to tell you that pain was beneath him. But something about the way you said it—calm, certain, like you already knew the answer—made him pause.
And for just a moment, his hands stilled.
Then he laughed. Low, sharp, edged with something unreadable.
"You think a god suffers from something so trivial?"
But you didn’t back down.
"Gods suffer more than anyone, don’t they?"
And he should have struck you down for that. Should have reminded you of what he was, of what you were, and of how your words were nothing but fleeting air against the weight of his existence.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his fingers twitched.
And in that moment—so small, so insignificant he almost didn’t notice it himself—his hands curled, just slightly, as if remembering something they were not supposed to.
-----
Sukuna does not think about his hands.
Not in the way you do, with your quiet observations, your thoughtful little remarks.
But sometimes, when your gaze lingers on them—when your fingers brush against his in passing, when your touch lingers for just a second too long—he thinks about what they would have been in another life.
If they would have held instead of taken.
If they would have been human.
And then he laughs, because the thought is absurd. Because that life never existed, and never will.
But sometimes, when the world is quiet, when he lets his hands rest against you without thinking—when they do not tighten, do not wound, do not take—they do not feel like weapons.
If they would have built instead of destroyed.
They feel like hands.
And that is the cruelest trick of all.
-----
Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸
Here I am—stupid little me—trying to make this walking catastrophe feel a little human again. Like that’s ever going to work.
If Sukuna knew I was sitting here, dissecting his hands like some tragic metaphor, he’d kill me before I even got to my second sentence. No hesitation. Just a flick of his fingers, a scoff, maybe an "Tch. Foolish human," and then—nothing. I’d be gone. Reduced to a smear on the ground, utterly irrelevant to a god-king who has never needed to justify a single thing he’s done.
But I don’t know. I keep coming back to it. His hands—scarred, precise, brutal—feel like they tell a story he has no interest in acknowledging. They’ve taken everything, ruined everything, but they’ve also rebuilt him over and over again. He’s been unmade by his own power more times than anyone else ever could, and yet, here he is. Still standing. Still undefeated. And if there’s one thing Sukuna hates, it’s the idea of anything having power over him.
So what does that mean for the hands that have both created him and destroyed him?
---
Anyway, those are just my thoughts. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe I should shut up before Sukuna manifests just to personally smite me. But hey, feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love to hear what you think. And if you’ve got headcanons, send them my way. I might try writing them too.
Until then, I’ll just be here, waiting for the inevitable divine wrath.
✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨
Sukuna does not linger in front of mirrors.
It is not because he fears what he sees. Fear is for lesser things—mortals who cower before their own shadows, kings who wake in cold sweat at the thought of losing their crowns. He is not them. He is not afraid.
But he does not look for long.
Because there was a time when his face was different. A time before he had four eyes and a mouth that split his body like a curse.
A time before he became something whispered about in the dark.
And though he does not regret it, there are moments—quiet, fleeting—where he wonders.
What would he have been if he had chosen differently? Would he still be feared?
Or would he simply be forgotten?
---
Once, long ago, he had a face that belonged to a man.
He remembers it only in fragments. A glimpse in the still water of a river. The shadow of it in dreams that do not belong to him. A sensation—muscles stretching over bone in a way that no longer feels familiar.
It is a strange thing, to forget your own features. To remember only the weight of them, the absence of them, rather than the thing itself.
But that is what he is now. A body made and unmade by his own hands. A temple built from ruin.
And temples are not meant to be beautiful. They are meant to be worshiped.
---
There are no mirrors in the places Sukuna calls his own.
Not because he cannot bear to see himself—no, that would be too human, too weak—but because he has no need for them. He does not need a reflection to know what he is. He can see it in the way people look at him. In the way they refuse to meet his gaze, as if to do so would invite death.
He is written across history in the blood of the fallen. That is proof enough of his existence.
And yet.
And yet, sometimes, he catches himself in the polished steel of a blade, in the dark glass of a window, in the eyes of those who do not yet understand what they are looking at.
And for just a moment, he sees not what he is, but what he was.
Not the King of Curses. Not the monster.
Just a man.
---
"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," you say one day, and he nearly laughs.
Because he has.
Because in every reflection, in every ripple of water, there is something half-familiar staring back.
The remnants of a boy who was born in blood and grew into something worse.
The bones of a man who once might have been kind, if kindness had ever been an option.
The shadow of someone he no longer recognizes.
And isn’t that the funny part?
He has spent centuries carving his name into the world, forcing people to remember him, fear him, and yet—
He is the only one who cannot remember himself.
---
Sukuna tilts his head, studying his reflection with a faint, unreadable expression. He watches the way his second mouth curls into a sneer of its own accord. The way his extra eyes blink a fraction too slow, out of sync with the rest of him.
It is a face made for terror. A thing meant to be seen and feared, not understood.
And still—there is something missing.
Not regret. Never regret.
But a question.
Would he have been happy?
If he had chosen differently, if he had not become this, would there have been joy? Would there have been laughter, something real and full instead of the sharp, cruel thing he lets slip past his lips now?
Or would he have faded into obscurity, just another nameless fool in a world that does not care?
Would he rather be a forgotten man or a remembered monster?
The answer should be easy.
It should be.
But in moments like this, when he stands before a mirror and sees something that does not belong to him, he is not so sure.
-----
Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸
Look, I know I write Sukuna with a lot of philosophy, but I don’t think I’ve fully understood him yet. Every time I try, he ends up a little too lost, a little too weighed down, and I know that’s not quite right. Sukuna isn’t the type to sit in a corner and sulk about the meaning of his existence—if he ever caught me writing him like this, I’d be dead before I could even start explaining myself.
Like, picture it: I’m standing there, notebook in hand, ready to argue about his inner demons, and he just looks at me—amused, vaguely disgusted—before shaking his head and flicking his wrist. Ah, foolish little woman. And then I’m gone. Just a thought, just dust.
But hey, he’s not here to do any of that, so here I am, rambling away.
---
And that’s where you come in. Tell me—am I getting him right? Or am I making him too introspective, too… human? Is there something in Sukuna that justifies this angle, or am I just trying to squeeze meaning out of something that doesn’t need it? Let me know. Let’s figure out this god-king together.
✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨
okay so ngl I’m probably not gonna write these as good as I do for Gojo, Geto, or my sweet bbg Kento (character analysis just hits different with them), but I’ll try my best to ruin your emotions anyway. So, which one do I attempt next hmm ?