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Sukuna sat.
That was the problem.
When a being with four arms, two faces, and a backside the size of a freight container sat on a tatami floor, the entire room reoriented itself around his truck-adjacent ass like it was the gravitational center of the universe.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him sulk.
He was mad.
About what, he wouldn’t say.
Probably about you calling him “truck-adjacent” last week.
Probably about breathing wrong near his cursed shrine of femurs.
Who knew.
Right now, his mountainous back muscles flexed like angry tectonic plates as he tried— unsuccessfully —to scratch between his shoulder blades.
All four arms reached.
Strained, flexed.
Nothing.
His muscle density was too stupidly thick. 😏
So, naturally , one of his extra mouths migrated up his spine, jaws opening with grotesque patience, and tried to lick the itch away.
The sight was biblical.
Like a Renaissance fresco painted by a sleep-deprived intern who got paid in Acid.
You slapped a hand over your mouth. “Oh my god. You look like you’re auditioning for The Exorcist: Muscle Edition.”
The mouth paused mid-lick, teeth glistening.
Sukuna’s head turned just enough to glare at you, his main jaw tightening.
“Silence, woman.”
“You’re trying to tongue your own back.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re literally giving yourself a hickey.”
His top right arm jerked in frustration, claws gouging shallow furrows into the wood. “I am strategizing.”
You lost it.
A wheeze slipped out. “Strategizing? For what? An orgy with yourself? Because you’re halfway there.”
The spine-mouth hissed. His shoulders bunched like he was about to punch the air into another dimension.
“Stop observing me.”
“Hard to stop observing when the universe’s biggest dump truck is taking up ninety percent of the room.”
His head whipped around, all four eyes narrowing at once.
“Do not speak of my posterior.”
“Posterior? Babe, that thing is a landmass. Cartographers should be drawing maps for it.”
He surged upright, the floor creaking under his weight, and you swore the second mouth tried to glare too.
“You court death.”
“No, I court you,” you smirked, smug. “Unfortunately, you’re both the same thing.”
His silence was volcanic.
The second mouth—still stranded mid-back—kept trying to lick the itch.
Long, obscene slurps echoed in the room.
You bent double, laughing so hard tears blurred your vision. “I—holy shit—why is your back kinkier than the rest of you?”
“ENOUGH!” His voice thundered like collapsing temples.
The mouth froze. His arms dropped.
For a moment, Sukuna looked almost… embarrassed???
Which was insane, since embarrassment was supposed to be beneath him.
“You mock me!”
“You make it too easy.” You straightened, wiping your eyes. “You’ve killed thousands, ruled empires, eaten hearts—but you can’t reach an itch. King of Curses, conquered by eczema.”
His jaw ticked. “You think yourself clever.”
“I think myself entertained.” You sauntered forward, slow, dangerous. “Move your wagon. I’ll scratch it for you before the spine-mouth starts French-kissing your vertebrae.”
His eyes tracked you like a predator who couldn’t decide whether to maul or marry you.
“…I will kill you if you dare touch me without permission.”
“Oh, sorry, Your Malevolence.” You mimed a bow. “May I honor your glorious gyatt with my filthy peasant hands?”
The vein in his forehead pulsed.
He actually growled.
You grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Before he could stop you, you climbed up his broad back like a mountain goat.
His skin radiated cursed heat, tattoos alive under your fingers.
He tensed but didn’t throw you off.
You dug your nails into the spot just below his shoulder blade.
Sukuna let out a sound.
A sound you had never heard.
Half groan, half sigh, dragged from the depths of his four-lunged chest.
“Holy shit,” you whispered, grinning. “The King of Malevolent Planetary Cheeks just moaned because of a back scratch.”
“Silence,” he rumbled.
You scratched harder. He shivered. Shivered.
“Oh my god. You’re like a dog. You want me to get your leg thumping?”
He snarled, whipping his head back. “Do NOT compare me to a mutt.”
“Then stop wagging your metaphysical tail, Sukuna.”
His claws gouged deeper into the floorboards. “…I will end you.”
“Uh-huh.” You dragged your nails in slow, evil circles.
His entire massive body melted under your touch like cursed butter.
The second mouth drooled, useless now.
You leaned close to his ear. “Admit it. You need me. You’d be itchy forever without me.”
For a moment, he was silent.
His aura seethed, tattoos pulsing.
Then, finally—low, grudging—
“…Perhaps.”
You froze. “Wait. Did you just admit I’m useful?”
He snarled instantly, like the word had burned his tongue. “Never.”
“Liar.” You flicked his ear. “You just said perhaps.”
He bared his teeth, grin knife-sharp. “I will carve your skin into prayer scrolls.”
“With what? Your spine tongue?”
The roar that followed shook the beams overhead. Dust rained down.
The second mouth snapped its teeth like it wanted to bite you clean in half.
And still—his massive back eased beneath your nails, the itch surrendering under your touch.
The mass of Malevolent Moons shifted its weight into the floorboards with a groan loud enough to shame earthquakes.
“Don’t stop,” he muttered. The words didn’t sound like pleading—they sounded like a death threat if you dared to.
You smirked, nails digging in crueler. “Oh, I won’t. Not until you acknowledge the glory of your own cheeks. The Malevolent Moons of Mass Destruction.”
His shoulders went rigid. “…Woman.”
You leaned in, voice bright and unholy. “Got that Pixar mom geometry, whole back porch on top—bet I could balance a full tea set with saucers back here. Donk certified. Rear of the decade. You know you could level Shinjuku just by sitting down—one extinction-level thud and poof, a village gone. Booty so cursed it’s technically a shikigami. The double-decker wagon. Himbo haunches. The Amazon Prime cheeks—two-day shipping guaranteed.”
His claws tore deep grooves into the floor, aura spilling thick as tar. “You tempt fate.”
“Say it.”
“I will never—”
“Say it.”
The second mouth hissed, his main grin widened, all four eyes blazing.
Then came a laugh—low, cruel, enough to chill your blood.
He leaned back just enough to trap you in his shadow.
“You want a confession?”
His voice was razors dipped in honey.
“Fine. You are the tyrant of my ruinous ass. The sovereign of my cataclysmic cheeks. The ruler of my dump truck.”
The house went dead silent.
You cackled so hard the neighbors probably considered evacuating.
Kashimo, two buildings over, pinched his nose and debated early retirement back to the afterlife.
Sukuna’s grin only sharpened. “Laugh while you can, woman. Because when I stand—” he flexed his shoulders, the mouth snapping its teeth with glee—“your fragile body will learn what extinction really sounds like.”