Work Text:
Sukuna didn’t even need to swallow his pride and ask Toji for help. He just made a comment mid-match about needing to haul something heavy and large across the city, and Toji, without missing a beat, replied, “Pickup’s free tomorrow,” with that same bored tone he uses for everything. Of course, before Sukuna could even say it was an armchair for you, Gojo invited himself, grins all over, calling it a "group bonding exercise." The loud, drawn-out groan Sukuna let out then was nothing compared to what came later.
So now, you’re at work. Your husband’s leaning against the brick wall of your apartment block, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching Satoru fiddle obsessively with his sunglasses like they are something new and not the core of his personality.
The black pickup rolls up and its window slides down. “Get in,” Toji says, and seeing Sukuna opens his mouth, no doubt to complain, he immediately cuts him off, “I’m not late, so don’t even start.”
Sukuna just puts his hands up and climbs into the passenger seat without a word, while Gojo vaults into the back seat with a dramatic sigh.
“Babe, we would never accuse you of being late. Truly. Our devotion is absolute,” Satoru says, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.
Toji doesn’t even spare him a glance, pulling smoothly into traffic. “Call me babe again and I'll dump you on the side of the road.”
After that, things stay quiet for about ninety seconds. Then, inevitably, Gojo leans forward between the front seats, a candy wrapping rustling with obnoxious loudness right next to Sukuna’s ear.
“So. Tell me everything,” he chirps, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Did you read the reviews? And check if the lumbar support’s decent enough for her to read spicy fanfics while you’re raging at us in ranked? More importantly, did you whisper ‘yes baby, you’re gonna cradle her so good’ while waiting for the delivery email? Because I totally would’ve.”
Sukuna lets out a slow breath, rolling his eyes. “Wanna see how the aerodynamics work out for you when you’re strapped to the roof? Could be fun.”
Satoru throws his head back and laughs, a loud, delighted sound that borders on hysterical. “I’m documenting this day, I swear,” he says, pulling out his phone and starting to record.
Toji snorts once, a short, sharp burst of air, sounding almost fond despite himself. “You’re both morons,” he mutters, adjusting the rearview mirror to give Satoru a brief glare.
Besides the persistent harassment from the back seat, the drive to the furniture store is pretty chill. Windows are cracked, radio is low, the three of them trade the usual shit—Toji griping about a customer trying to haggle over scaffolding; Gojo telling some wild blind date story involving a parrot and a stolen key; Sukuna adding something about the new lift he installed at the shop last week, but mostly just listening, occasionally snorting when Gojo goes overboard with the hand gestures and sound effects.
They make an obligatory stop at the petrol station because Satoru has to have snacks. He comes back with a bag full of sweets, energy drinks, and a giant bag of Haribo, grinning like he won the actual lottery instead of just buying sugar. He doesn't even bother aiming, just flinging a packet of sour gummies at Sukuna's head.
“For your wife,” he announces, sliding back into his seat. “Since you’re officially going full house-husband.”
Sukuna catches them one-handed and puts them on the dashboard. A low, half-annoyed, half-amused snort escapes him as he leans back.
“At least I’ve got a wife to buy gummies for, Satoru.” The corner of his mouth lifts into a grin. “You’re still buying them for yourself like a sad little gremlin. Pathetic.”
Gojo throws his head back and cackles again, loud enough to rattle the windows, absolutely loving it. “Touché, big guy. Touché.”
Back on the road, the cab is filled with the sound of crinkling wrappers, Toji’s occasional complaints about idiot drivers, and Gojo making up a fake podcast segment, complete with jingles, called Sukuna: The Domestic Years.
They reach the store a few minutes ahead of schedule, despite Toji having been technically 'late' to pick them up in the first place.
The moment Sukuna steps out of the truck, the employees notice him. Hard not to when he’s two metres of solid muscle with face tattoos and a permanent expression that looks like he’s already disappointed in everyone present. There’s a brief pause in the loading bay's activity, a flicker of sizing-up from the staff, but then everyone suddenly becomes hyper-efficient the second he confirms the pickup.
He stands back, arms crossed once more, watching them carefully wheel the armchair out on a pallet jack. It’s still in thick, protective packaging but it’s massive, somehow bigger than he remembers from the online dimensions.
“Don’t tear the plastic,” he tells the nearest sweating staff member in a low, gravelly voice. “Not a scratch.”
It takes three employees straining against the awkward size to move it from the jack onto the truck bed. When the angle gets slightly wrong and the whole thing tilts, Sukuna steps in from the side without a word, steadying the edge with one massive hand and holding it still while they adjust. Once the armchair stands on its own on the pickup, Toji brings out the bag of straps and both of them secure it down with ease.
Gojo, naturally, is of absolutely no help whatsoever. He stands several steps away, safely out of the way of any actual work, filming the whole thing on his phone.
“And here we observe the wild Sukuna in… uncharted territory,” he narrates in a terrible David Attenborough voice, barely containing the glee in his tone. “The apex predator, far from his usual hunting grounds, now engaging in the dangerous ritual of domesticity. Watch how he circles his prey—I mean, the oversized armchair—marking it, assessing it, ensuring it will never escape. Truly, a rare and majestic display of husband behaviour.”
Toji lets out another low, throaty laugh as he cinches a strap tight. “You’re gonna get smacked one of these days, Satoru. Hard.”
Gojo just grins, unconcerned. “He won’t touch me. She likes me too much. I’m the favourite.”
“Delete that shit before I delete your face,” Sukuna growls, but there’s no real heat behind the threat, and the corner of his mouth actually twitches slightly.
Satoru just grins wider, ending the video with a dramatic, wobbly zoom on Sukuna’s back as he gives the final strap one last yank and flips Gojo off without turning around.
They pile back into the truck. Sukuna settles back in the passenger seat and rests his arm on the window, flicking his gaze to the mirror and watching the chair. He tries to picture the look on your face when you see it, but Satoru, unfortunately, does not shut the hell up long enough to let the moment last.
He’s sprawled across the rear seat again, tearing into another gummy package, long legs kicked up onto the seat. Still talking like his life depends on it, he eats some purple monstrosity of a sweet that leaves his fingers stained.
“Peak domestic Sukuna,” he announces around a mouthful of gummies. “I’m telling you, this is going into the group chat. We gotta give the fans what they want.”
"What fans, you moron?" Your husband just rolls his eyes. "We're ten idiots who've been stuck together for years.”
Gojo cackles, kicking the back of Sukuna’s seat just to be extra annoying.
“Come onnn, big guy. You’re trending in our little ecosystem. Domestic Sukuna is the content we deserve.”
Sukuna twists around, eyes narrowing just enough to remind everyone in the small space that he is still two metres of barely-contained violence and not someone to mess with, regardless of his current domestic mission. “Post it and I’ll make sure the only thing trending in the group chat is your obituary. I dare you.”
Gojo raises both sticky hands in a 'whatever' gesture, still chewing. “Relax, honey. My lips are sealed. For now.”
Toji snorts, puts the car in gear, and pulls out of the loading dock. “You two are exhausting.”
—
The ride down the ramp into the underground garage is smooth, Toji knows how to handle the truck, but the chair’s weight is awkward and the packaging doesn’t help. He eases the car to a stop right in front of the building access door and kills the engine. It’s quiet for a second before Gojo loudly breaks the silence.
“Showtime, boys,” he announces, stretching out.
They hop out, and Toji quickly unstraps the package. Meanwhile, Sukuna drops the heavy tailgate with a resounding clang, then grabs the thick cardboard frame and yanks it toward the edge.
“Front first, and don’t drag it,” Toji instructs, and doesn't need to say more; the idea of messing up the gift before you even see it is enough to make Sukuna grit his teeth.
The two men brace themselves, sliding the package out of the truck bed. It isn't that heavy, not for two of them at least, but its bulk and all the stupid padding make every centimetre of movement a struggle.
Gojo, predictably, offers nothing but a whistle and a running commentary. He leans against the side of the truck, pulling out his phone with a flourish, his bright, mocking blue eyes sparkling under the harsh garage light.
“Wow. Look at that teamwork,” he purrs, the phone already set to record. “This is peak masculinity. Hauling furniture for your wife. So hot.”
Sukuna shoots him a glare, not dignifying the comment with an answer. The silent blow off is apparently all Satoru needs to start recording again, resuming his ridiculous documentary.
“And now,” he starts, narrating in that insufferable half-whisper, “the mighty Sukuna and his reluctant pack animal, the legendary Toji Fushiguro, are extracting the sacred artefact from the steel beast. Observe the tension, the pure willpower needed to not maul the cameraman in cold blood. Truly, a heroic feat.”
Your husband and Toji are past the point of even acknowledging his existence, their focus solely on the heavy package in their hands. They shuffle it sideways, rotating it to clear the fender, then manage to lower the massive armchair onto the concrete floor with a dull thud that echoes everywhere. Straightening up, Sukuna rolls his broad shoulders and cracks his neck with a heavy sigh.
Toji jerks his chin toward the parking lot. “I’ll move the truck.” Then he climbs back into the cab, reversing the massive vehicle smoothly toward your now-empty parking spot.
Sukuna finally manages to force Gojo to put the phone away and contribute. Together, though reluctantly on Gojo’s part, they grip the box, navigating it through the short corridor from the main garage toward the elevators. They scrape past a concrete pillar and one scuffed wall, lining it up right in front of the elevator doors.
The metal doors slide open a moment later with a cheerful, totally misplaced for that moment ding.
It doesn’t fucking fit.
The silence that follows is thick with your husband’s sheer rage. Sukuna lets out a slow, hard breath through his nose and steps back, his hands immediately going to his hips. The thick, protective packaging sticks out just enough to hit both sides of the elevator door frame. Not by much, but enough.
Gojo is the first to break the silence with a high-pitched, genuine sound of pure hilarity. “Oh my god,” he wheezes, doubles over with laughter, clutching his stomach with one hand. “It’s too thicc for the elevator! Just like its owner!”
Sukuna's right eye twitches so hard it’s probably visible from the security camera in the ceiling, maybe even from space. His jaw tightens so much the lines on his chin pull taut as he silently weighs the ethics of full-blown murder.
Toji reappears from the parking bay just in time to see your husband consider this, literally, life-or-death question with a look of pure, homicidal intent. He takes in the whole mess, eyes flicking between the box, the elevator and the hysterically laughing Satoru, and then sighs deeply like this is merely the latest in an endless line of absurd annoyances. He glances at the pink haired man. “You didn’t measure the door opening.” It isn't a question.
“You think I fucking measure things?” Sukuna growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
Toji rubs his temples like he’s developing an instant, searing migraine. “Should’ve made an exception this time, genius.”
The muscle in Sukuna’s jaw jumps once, twice, but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. The silence that falls between them is loud enough anyway. He simply stands there, staring at the chair, then at a too narrow elevator, then back at the chair, mentally calculating angles, dimensions, and the possibility of simply ripping the door frame out.
The silence stretches, until Gojo, completely unfazed, claps his hands. “Okay! Solution: unwrap it. Legs off, packaging off, boom, slim and sexy.”
Sukuna finally looks at him, and his expression is a clear, chilling challenge that screams try me. “No.” His voice is flat. “Packaging stays on. Can’t have any scuffs or tears on it before she sees it.”
Toji sighs again, long and suffering, as the acceptance of the inevitable sinks in. He gestures toward the stairwell access door down the hall. “Fine. Stairs then. Let’s go.”
Gojo chokes on his own laughter, straightening up in disbelief. “That’s three flights. With that? You gotta be shitting me.”
Black haired man just shrugs, his massive shoulders barely moving. “Chair’s not gonna levitate itself.”
As Sukuna moves to lift his end of the box again, resigned but still fuming, Gojo, who clearly has a death wish, decides to contribute by becoming a human obstacle. He gleefully perches on top of the packaging, crossing his long legs like he’s royalty. “Fine. Then carry me, peasants,” he commands, grinning.
Toji doesn’t even hesitate; one of his massive hands shoots out and delivers an open-handed whack across the back of Satoru’s head. “Get the fuck off.”
Gojo yelps, sliding down with exaggerated drama, rubbing the spot with a pout. “Ow! Domestic abuse! I’m telling your wife!”
“You’re telling her shit,” Fushiguro retorts with a scoff, reaching down to grab his side of the box.
Finally, Sukuna lifts his end without another word, channeling his rage into pure, brute strength, and the two of them haul the package toward the stairs. The steel door leading into the common stairwell slams against the concrete wall with a metallic clang that echoes like a gunshot after Sukuna kicks it open with his boot.
He shoulders through them first, walking backwards. The top end of the wrapped package digs painfully into his chest, his tattoos flexing as his biceps strain under the bulk. Toji holds the bottom, feet planted wide for maximum leverage, breathing steady but already hard. He looks like he’s plotting the fastest way to murder his friends once this is over.
Satoru saunters slightly behind and to the side, insisting on ‘helping’ by placing one hand delicately on the middle of the package, making the whole thing wobble just enough to piss both men off, while his other hand is scrolling on his phone.
“Three flights,” he reminds them cheerfully, utterly unhelpful, eyes on the device in his palm. “This is basically cardio. We’re all getting shredded today, boys.”
Sukuna doesn't respond, just grunts as he tackles the first step. The package refuses to cooperate, the top corner immediately gets snagged on the railing, and the entire thing tilts, lurching violently.
“Fuck—” Sukuna snaps, low and guttural, and the word bounces off the walls. “Fucking move it, Toji.”
Toji adjusts without a word, the professional way he handles the weight speaking volumes. He shifts his grip and twists his body, changing the angle by a hair. They clear the snag by maybe five centimeters. The cardboard packaging scrapes the wall with a nasty shhhhhrrkkkk, leaving a long, ugly white streak on the paint.
Gojo makes a big show of wincing, head tilted. “Oof. That'll buff out. Probably.”
Sukuna’s eye twitches again, and if looks could kill, Satoru would instantly drop dead. “If it doesn’t, your face is the next thing getting buffed.”
They reach the first landing, which is just a ninety degree turn of pure hell. Sukuna pivots, shoulders burning, his pink hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. The package slams against the corner post with a dull thud, then scrapes again as they force it around the tight corner.
Everyone pauses. A long, heavy silence falls as the three of them stare first at the fresh, ugly scuff on the wall, then at the box, and finally, with various levels of hostility, at each other.
Sukuna’s narrowed eyes scan the packaging, looking for any new scratches, any small tears, but note nothing more than one distinctly crumpled corner, and he concludes with a dark satisfaction that the actual armchair inside is still perfect.
“It’s fine,” He mumbles, voice still rough from the effort. “Packaging took it.”
“You mean the structural integrity of the wall?” Gojo asks, his voice sickly sweet, which only makes Sukuna's blood pressure skyrocket.
“Toji,” Sukuna says flatly, not even looking at the man, “drop him. Or just let him fall down the stairs. I don't care which.”
Toji stays quiet, but his stance shifts ever so slightly, clearly showing he is genuinely considering the request. He absolutely thinks about it.
By the time they reach the second landing, Sukuna's back is soaked through, his cotton shirt sticking to his skin. The chair gets completely stuck halfway through the next turn, jammed between the handrail, the corner post, and the wall. The whole operation grinds to a halt. The three men size up the impossible angle, the trapped furniture, and the total mess they're in.
“This fucking thing—” You husband hisses through clenched teeth, his control slipping.
“Back it up and tilt,” Toji mutters.
“I am tilting,” Sukuna grinds out, fighting the urge to just smash the box through the concrete.
“Not you,” Toji corrects, sounding annoyed, “the damn box.”
Gojo, whose help amounts to standing uselessly in the middle, chooses that moment to make a soft, irritating beep beep noise as they start inching backward again.
Sukuna slowly turns his head, his glare deadly. “One more noise, Satoru,” he warns, dropping his voice dangerously low, “and you become part of the packaging. A crushed, flattened part.”
Gojo, still ‘holding’ the middle, presses his lips together in a fake show of obedience, then lets his grip slip just enough that the package dips and he chirps, “Oops! My hands are slippery from all this simp energy!”
Sukuna freezes for one brief, murderous beat, and every muscle in his body locks up. “I swear to fucking god, I will drop this entire thing on your head.”
“You won’t,” Gojo beams, unrepentant, his blue eyes sparkling with mean amusement. He shifts his grip again, instantly causing the whole package to tilt dangerously to the left. “You love me.”
“I’ll fucking love your funeral,” Sukuna growls, pushing back against the weight.
Toji’s voice cuts in, flat and lethal, cutting through the bickering. “I’ll drop both of you.”
The final flight is the real, grueling test. Sukuna adjusts his grip, pulling the weight closer to his body, and braces himself. His legs are burning and shoulders ache from the awkward, prolonged angle. They haul; they swear; they invent entirely new categories of curses.
Somewhere near the top, the chair nearly topples backward; Sukuna freezes, and for one heartbeat, he sees the whole thing tumbling back down the stairs, Gojo yelps with genuine fear, and Toji saves the entire miserable operation with a low, pissed-off grunt, slamming his knee against the metal railing to catch the full weight of it.
“This is bullshit,” Sukuna growls, his voice a hoarse rasp. “Absolute fucking bullshit.”
Toji grunts in agreement, the sound vibrating through the staircase. “Keep lifting, Ryomen. Complaining won’t make it smaller.”
Gojo, miraculously still ‘helping,’ suddenly breaks into a horrible, singsong voice. “Almost there! Babe, honey, only one more flight!”
Both Toji and Sukuna stop dead in their tracks and glare in perfect, synchronized fury at Satoru. It is the only thing they can do, since dropping the chair to throttle him isn’t an option.
Toji then decides to ignore the pet names Gojo clearly enjoys using to torment them both and turns his furious gaze toward your husband instead. “Remind me,” he pants, chest heaving, “why you didn’t just wait till I was in shape for this?”
“You are in shape,” Sukuna snaps back.
“Not to carry your stupid sex throne,” Toji growls, forcing the box up another stair.
Gojo wheezes, covering his mouth as another high-pitched, manic laugh escapes him. “Oh my god. Is that what this is? A fucking—”
“Don’t,” Sukuna snarls, his eyes promising a slow and painful death.
Toji exhales through his nose like a bull preparing to charge. “Next time you buy furniture for your wife, rent a fucking crane.”
The moment the chair finally hits the third floor landing, Sukuna carefully drops his end and straightens up, letting a guttural exhale rip from his chest. Toji rotates his neck, the joints cracking loudly. Satoru, proving his commitment to being the most annoying man alive, immediately collapses next to the box, sprawled out on the floor like he is the one who did the heavy lifting.
“No wonder your wife loves you,” he mutters weakly at the ceiling. “You’re literally nuts.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna breathes, eyes still narrowed, genuinely debating if he has enough energy left to punt the useless blue-eyed idiot down all three flights.
Toji groans as he pushes the package toward the apartment door with the toe of his boot. “One more hurdle,” he mutters. “Let’s see if this even fits inside.”
“Imagine that,” Gojo cracks up again, still laying flat on the floor, the thought clearly giving him a boost. “He’d fucking lose it, Toji.”
Even the black haired man snorts, a small puff of air escaping his nose. The idea is so absurd and so perfectly awful after everything they’ve just gone through that a small, dark part of him actually wants to see the chaos.
“Why are we even friends?” Sukuna asks, but without any real venom left in his voice. At that moment, he just doesn’t care anymore. He just wants a shower, a drink, and to never look at a staircase again.
Sukuna unlocks the front door, the hinges groaning in protest as they angle the massive package. And they, of course, mean only Sukuna and Toji.
It scrapes the frame a little, tearing a thin strip in the cardboard along the edge. Sukuna’s jaw clamps down so hard his molars ache. “Screw this thing,” he snarls, voice low and strained. “One more scratch and I’m torching this place.”
Toji merely grunts, adjusting his grip on the bottom corner. “Keep moving. It’s going in.”
Gojo, naturally, has abandoned any pretence of helping. He’s a few steps back in the hall, phone held high, resuming his terrible Attenborough narration with the enthusiasm of a man whose lifetime heaviest lift is probably his own gigantic ego.
“Observe the apex predators attempting to breach the final barrier, entering the sacred den where the artefact will finally find its place. Note the tension, the raw determination—the primal sweat.” He pauses, zooming in dramatically on the vein throbbing in your husband’s neck.
Sukuna doesn’t spare him a glance, muttering to Toji, “See? Told you the piece of shit was never gonna help.”
Toji lets out a short, almost fond snort. “Knew it the second he invited himself. Idiot’s our idiot, even if he’s an annoying fuck.”
Your husband just grunts in agreement. After all, Satoru is still theirs—annoying, completely useless in a crisis that requires anything other than talking, and somehow totally irreplaceable.
With that, they finally wrestle the box fully into the apartment hallway, both breathing heavily, arms shaking from carrying it up all the way from the garage. The corridor is wide, thankfully, but they still have to angle it carefully to avoid the walls. Scuffs outside are one thing; ruining your shared apartment interior is another.
You’d definitely notice if they destroy something here. So, the wall paint can't be scuffed, the dark wood floorboards can't be scratched, and the plaster corners sure as hell can't take damage.
“Easy,” Sukuna insists, hugging the huge chair closer to his chest as they shuffle sideways. “Can’t hit anything. She’ll kill me.”
Toji adjusts as well, moving in sync with your husband. “Got it.”
They hit the gaming room door, and that’s yet another surprise. It’s narrower than the front door by a cruel handful of centimetres. The package immediately jams halfway through, the thick plastic and cardboard refusing to budge.
“Fucking hell,” Sukuna just groans, ready to throw the armchair out the window.
Behind them, Gojo starts doing his wheezing laugh, driving your husband nuts.
“Okay,” Sukuna growls, absolutely done with being gentle. His shoulder slams into the side of the chair with more force than is necessary. “Twist it more.”
Toji grunts back, visibly struggling to hold the agonizing position. “You twist it more.”
“Seriously, Toji?” Sukuna snaps, about to lose it.
Fushiguro exhales sharply, trying to figure out the angle. “Tilt it. Same shit as the stairs, just sideways.”
“I am for fuck's sake!” Sukuna’s voice is scraping raw now. “This thing’s fighting me.”
They maneuver the package diagonally, attempting the 'top left corner first, bottom right last' strategy Toji suggested. It catches again, making Sukuna snarl at the furniture, “Fucking move, you piece of shit.”
They twist, rotate, curse the doorframe, the packaging, and especially Satoru, who’s still filming and now laughing so hard his phone is shaking.
“Observe the primal struggle!” Gojo manages to choke out, zooming in on the twitching muscle near Sukuna’s eye. “The king and his warrior companion battle the final guardian—the dreaded doorway of domesticity. Will they prevail? Or will the sacred artefact be forever trapped in the corridor of defeat? And will the narrator survive the next five minutes?”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Satoru,” Sukuna deadpans, then says to Toji, “We should’ve left him in the garage.”
“We should’ve left him at the store,” Toji hisses back.
“Oi,” Gojo chirps from behind. “I can hear you guys.”
“We fucking know,” Fushiguro grunts.
Finally, with one last, brutal, coordinated push, they force it through. There’s another tearing sound as some cardboard gives way, but both the chair and the frame survive. Barely. The packaging slides onto the center of the gaming room.
Sukuna drops to one knee, ripping the packaging away carefully. Cardboard panels, thick plastic sheeting, and massive amounts of bubble wrap all land in a messy pile on the side. He stands and circles the chair, eyes narrowed, running his hands over every edge and seam meticulously for scratches or dents from the nightmare of a haul. There’s nothing. It’s perfect.
Toji helps him move the armchair into its designated spot. It is easy now, sleek and light without the bulky protection. They set it down right next to Sukuna’s setup, angled toward the monitors, close enough that your husband can easily reach back mid-game and rest his hand on your knee.
Gojo finally stops recording, letting out a long, low whistle from the doorway, grinning like the menace he is. “Holy shit. It actually fits. The demon pulled it off. Domesticity: 1, physics: 0.” He steps fully into the room and claps Sukuna hard on the shoulder. “She’s gonna lose her mind, man. Good job.”
Sukuna straightens up, rolling his shoulders one more time to relieve the knots of three flights of hell, and stares at the chair for a long, silent moment. It’s done. He exhales through his nose slowly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “She will.”
“Now,” Gojo chirps, tapping his chin playfully. “When do we tell her?”
This is the exact moment Sukuna starts seeing red. Not on the stairs when the package scraped the wall. Not when Gojo tried to sabotage everything for fun and laughed about “simp energy.” Not even when he narrated the whole thing like a stupid nature documentary.
No, pure, blinding rage kicks in when Satoru even considers opening his mouth and spoiling the surprise Sukuna spent weeks planning and obsessing over.
His head turns slowly as he’s deciding whether to answer or simply end the conversation with violence. Every muscle in his back tenses, and his crimson eyes lock on Satoru with such intensity the white-haired menace actually steps back.
“You breathe one word of this to her,” Sukuna starts, his voice dangerously even and cold. “How it got here, how heavy it was, how many times I threatened to kill you both—and I will make sure your queue is silver hell for the rest of your miserable lives. Or worse,” he leans in, his eyes blazing. “I will make sure you never queue ranked again. I will hack your accounts. Got that?”
Sukuna absolutely does not know how to hack their accounts, but it doesn’t matter. The sheer confidence in his voice and the murderous look in his eyes are enough for them to believe he could burn the servers down by will alone.
Satoru recoils as if he’s been smacked. “So this is how you’re gonna play it, Sukuna!” His usually cheerful eyes narrow, his voice dropping to a serious, offended growl. “Threatening my life is one thing, but my fucking account?! Fucking asshole.”
Toji, though clearly miserable and sore, grudgingly agrees with a slow nod. “Deal. But you owe me two cases now.” Then, just because he can, he slaps the back of Gojo’s head again, hard.
“What?!” Satoru snarls, rubbing the spot and whirling on Fushiguro, who just scoffs in return. “Fine. Pinky promise. Cross my heart. Hope to die.” He rolls his eyes with pure annoyance. “The group chat gets the video though. Next year. I’m gonna give you a year of peace.”
“Fine,” Sukuna snarls back, grudgingly accepting.
The three of them stand there, bristling and glaring at each other over the new chair until finally, the tension breaks, and they all dissolve into simultaneous, exhausted chuckles.
“Alright, lovebirds. I’m out before she gets home and sees the crime scene we left in the hallway,” Gojo chirps, suddenly bright again, as if he hadn't just almost had a breakdown over his precious CS account. “It’s been fun. Love you both!” He waves dramatically and bolts for the front door.
Toji follows him out, muttering something low and clear about “never helping again,” but he also adds that he’s inviting himself over for dinner with his wife sometime next week. Your husband agrees instantly.
After all, the chair is undamaged and sits safely in his gaming room, the apartment is (mostly) intact, and the secret is safe.