Lowkeyartist!sukuna Who Makes Videos In His Room To Post On His Instagram. Most Of It Is Just Him Making

૮₍ 𖦹 ˕ ×` ₎ა ¥1,200 %!? 🦴🍜

nanami

how studio bones draws katsuki:

how 𝒽ℴ𝓇𝒾𝓀ℴ𝓈𝒽𝒾 (<3) draws katsuki:

♩ ⁺ 🪷 🌷꒰ ♡ ◞ ◟꒱

♩ ⁺ 🪷 🌷꒰ ♡ ◞ ◟꒱

♩ ⁺ 🪷 🌷꒰ ♡ ◞ ◟꒱

ʜᴜsʙᴀɴᴅ!ɴᴀɴᴀᴍɪ ʜᴄs ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

Nanami editors on TikTok are cooking a little too hard and now they got me all soppy about him ☹️

🎀 Husband!Nanami who’s manages to quell every single one of your outbursts without letting the situation scale into an argument. His way of approaching any relationship issues is just so inexplicably healthy, unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Whether you’re panicking, lashing out, or even crying he is present. Anything you have to say tumbles out of your mouth and when you’re done, his arms do all the talking as he tugs you close, rocking you back and forth in a soothing motion. All your emotions fizz away and you’re left a mushy mess in his arms, sniffling and nodding your head as he finally starts to talk you into calming down.

🌼 Husband!Nanami who is a big believer in spoiling you. Your hair is always glossy, your skin seems to glow from within, and your nails and clothes are nothing short but impeccable. But he also believes in spoiling you rotten with love. He has to hold you when it’s just you two alone, sitting you in his lap as his hands keep a reassuring grasp on your hips. And as you cling your arms around his neck and press your nose against his pulse, the world is quiet and peaceful and you feel like you’re falling in love all over again.

🎀 Husband!Nanami who is a sucker for feeling you scratch his back. It sounds a little strange but after a stressful day of work, all he wants is to strip down and flop onto the bed, knowing that you’ll always appear and give him what he wants. You insist on doing this anyways, settling your body on his lower back and raking your freshly manicured nails down his back to elicit rewarding little sounds from him. Low groans, gentle sighs, and cooes of “love you, baby” leave his lips and make their way to your ears, making you feel all fuzzy inside.

🌼 Husband!Nanami who lets you do makeup on him during his days off. Perched in his lap with him back against the headboard, you carefully curl his lashes before applying an even coat of mascara to his stubborn lashes. It’s not much makeup but it honestly suits him well; a cushion foundation, some concealer for his under eyes, and cheek and lip tint, and mascara. The fact your husband was so comfortable within his own skin and masculinity that you could doll him up so cutely made you giggle like a fool. And once you finish the everyday look, he’s so quick to ask about all the products and techniques you used with genuine care for what you have to say.

🎀 Husband!Nanami who slowly but surely becomes a biter. It all started when you tried to bite his cheeks while cuddling, only to pout when you nearly hit into his cheekbones. Of course he had to return to favor and nibbled on the squish of your cheeks, making you burst into laughter and squeals. From then on he’s expanded, leaving purplish love bites upon your chest and when you’re both feeling a little cheeky, on your collarbone and neck as well. It makes him flush with a little shame when he thinks about it, but the silent display of possessive affection never fails to leave him grinning like a child when he’s alone.

🌼 Husband!Nanami who has a photo of you everywhere and makes it known to anyone asking that yes, that lovely lady is his wife. His lock screen is a snapshot of your hands after a spa nail, pretty pink nails and a golden band that is your wedding ring. There's a small pic of you in his wallet from the times you were just starting to date, caught in a frenzied laughter after being told a joke. Ooh, and if anyone asks who you are after seeing such photos of you, he’ll say with all his chest “that’s my wife in these photos. I love her very much,” all while having a rare smile in public on his face.

🎀 Husband!Nanami who loves you like there’s no tomorrow. Who holds your hand everywhere outside and watches over you with critical eyes, glaring at anyone who even remotely gives you a strange look. He’s a man that drags out every kiss, a hand on your neck as he gently groans into your mouth. Who hugs you so tightly you feel like you’re about to burst at the seams, thick and burly forearms encircling your waist as you snuggle against his chest. This is where you belong, the both of you: nestled in each other in a heart-to-heart embrace.

[papamin au 🐅] five more minutes 💤

crawling back to you

pairing: sukuna x reader

genre: angst

inspired by the song do i wanna know? live at bbc by hozier

it’s been three months.

three months since the door slammed shut behind you, leaving nothing but silence in your wake. three months since you walked away, and sukuna didn’t chase after you—not that night, not the morning after, not the weeks that followed. he told himself it was for the best. that this was what you wanted.

but now, as he sits alone in his dimly lit apartment, the weight of your absence pressing down on him like a vice, he wonders if he made the biggest mistake of his life.

the buzzing of his tattoo machine is the only thing that keeps him sane most days. his clients come and go, faces he barely registers as he inks intricate designs onto their skin. it’s the only time his mind goes quiet—when his hands are busy, the hum of the machine drowning out the thoughts he doesn’t want to face.

but the second the machine powers down, reality creeps back in. and reality is cruel.

because no matter how hard he tries, you’re everywhere.

he sees you in the smallest things—things that shouldn’t remind him of you, but somehow always do. In the flicker of a neon sign outside the shop that hums the same soft glow as the fairy lights you used to hang in your room. in the faint scent of vanilla and jasmine that lingers when someone walks past him on the street, never quite matching the way it clung to your skin. in the half-empty coffee cup sitting on the counter, lipstick smudged at the rim, and he’s reminded of lazy mornings when you’d steal sips from his mug, laughing when he grumbled but never really minded.

you’re in the song that plays softly from the radio while he works—one he never paid attention to before but now knows every word to because it was always on your playlists. in the chipped black nail polish on his coworker’s hands, a fleeting reminder of the countless nights you sat cross-legged on his couch, painting your nails and teasing him for being too still as he let you paint his, too.

but worst of all, he sees you in his reflection—tired eyes that have lost their edge, the weight of regret carving its place in the lines of his face. in the faint traces of your touch that still linger like phantom sensations along the tattoos you used to trace absentmindedly with your fingers, as if memorizing every inch of him.

and when his coworkers scroll through their phones, laughter echoing through the shop, there you are again—captured in a fleeting Instagram story from some party last weekend. grainy, imperfect, but unmistakably you. smiling, carefree, eyes crinkling in that way that always made something in his chest tighten. and god, how he hates the way it guts him, wishing—aching—that he was still the reason for that smile.

you unfollowed him. he noticed immediately.

one day, your name was gone from his notifications, your profile nowhere to be found. he tried not to care. tried to convince himself that it was just social media. but it gnawed at him. you were cutting him out piece by piece, and all he could do was watch it happen.

he lurks in the shadows, hoping one of your friends posts something—anything—that gives him a glimpse of you. It’s pathetic, he knows, but it’s the only thing he has left.

there’s a bitter irony in it all. he was the one who pushed you away first. always keeping you at arm’s length, never letting you in too close. you wanted more—deserved more—but he couldn’t give it to you. not when vulnerability felt like a weakness he couldn’t afford.

and now? now, he craves your presence like a man starved.

the shop is quieter than usual tonight. it’s late, and everyone else has left. sukuna leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of traffic outside barely audible through the thick walls. the glow from his phone screen flickers beside him, but he doesn’t touch it.

not yet.

he’s been doing this every night. sitting here, contemplating. the urge to reach out is unbearable, but something always stops him. pride, maybe. or fear.

fear that you’ve moved on. that you don’t want to hear from him. that he’s too late.

his chest tightens at the thought.

he tried to fill the void, but nothing ever worked.

not the long hours at the tattoo shop, where he threw himself into his work until his fingers ached and his mind blurred. not the mindless scrolling through social media, hoping—not that he’d ever admit it—that he might catch a glimpse of you. not the empty nights spent lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to drag him under.

nothing could distract him from the ache of missing you.

his friends tell him it’s time to move on. they say three months is long enough to let someone go. that there are plenty of people out there. but what do they know? they didn’t spend endless nights memorizing the shape of your smile, or the way your eyes softened when you looked at him, like he was the only person in the world. they didn’t hear the quiet affection in your voice when you whispered his name in the dead of night, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his chest like you were trying to commit every line to memory.

his friends didn’t feel the weight of your absence like he did—the way it settled deep in his bones, heavy and inescapable. they didn’t know how every morning, he still reached for you instinctively, only to be met with the cold, empty space beside him. how even now, he still slept on his side of the bed, as if leaving room for you just in case.

how could he fall for someone new when he was still so busy being yours?

they didn’t see how badly he broke you when he shut you out.

the memory of your last fight is still fresh, even after all this time. you stood in the doorway, tears brimming in your eyes, asking him—begging him—to just let you in. to tell you what he wanted. and all he gave you was silence.

he thought you’d stay. you always had before. but that night, you walked away. and now, the silence is all he has left.

his fingers twitch toward his phone, but he stops himself. what’s the point? you deserve better than a half-assed apology three months too late.

but then he thinks about the what-ifs. what if you’re waiting for him to reach out? what if you’re lying in bed right now, staring at your phone, wondering why he never called?

he can’t take it anymore.

the weight of missing you presses down on his chest, suffocating and relentless, until it pushes him off his chair and out the door before he can even think twice. it’s reckless, stupid—but so is love, isn’t it?

the streets are quiet at this hour, the hum of the city softened under the cloak of night. his hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, but none of it matters. all he can focus on is you. the thought of you, maybe asleep, maybe curled up in bed with your phone just out of reach. maybe dreaming of something—someone—that isn’t him.

the thought twists like a knife in his gut.

he walks with purpose, even though every step is a silent war between hope and dread. what if you don’t open the door? what if you tell him to leave? what if someone else is there?

he shakes the thought away.

it’s been three months, but it feels like no time has passed at all. and yet, it feels like forever.

before he knows it, he’s standing outside your apartment building, staring up at your window. the soft glow of light seeps through the curtains, and he wonders if you’re still awake or if you’ve just fallen asleep with the lamp on, the way you used to when reading late into the night.

his heart pounds so loudly he’s sure it’ll wake the whole block, but still, he climbs the stairs. each step echoes in the silence, a quiet reminder that there’s still time to turn back. but he doesn’t. he can’t.

and suddenly, he’s there. in front of your door. it’s familiar and foreign all at once.

he doesn’t have a plan. he doesn’t even know what he’s going to say. all he knows is that the thought of another night without you is unbearable.

he raises his hand to knock but hesitates. his breath is shallow, his pulse erratic.

but then, before he can stop himself, his knuckles rap gently against the door.

seconds pass. each one heavier than the last.

then, the faint sound of footsteps. the quiet click of the lock.

the door opens, and there you are.

soft, bleary-eyed, wrapped in a blanket, and so heartbreakingly familiar that it steals the breath from his lungs.

“sukuna?” your voice is quiet, confused, and laced with something that might be disbelief.

he swallows hard, the weight of the past three months pressing down on him all at once. “i know it’s late,” he says, voice rough and barely above a whisper. “i know i shouldn’t be here. but… i couldn’t stay away.”

you blink at him, and for a moment, there’s only silence. then, softly, “why now?”

his throat tightens, and he runs a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. “because i’m tired,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s held back. “tired of trying to forget you. tired of pretending i’m okay. i’ve tried. god, i’ve tried. but i can’t. i miss you.”

his voice cracks at the end, and he hates how raw he sounds. how vulnerable. but it’s the truth. And right now, that’s all he has left to offer.

he sees the flicker of emotion in your eyes—the conflict, the hurt, the love you’ve tried to bury—and it guts him.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, voice thick with regret. “i’m sorry for not being enough. for not being what you deserved. i know I fucked up. i know i wasn’t always what you needed me to be.”

his hands tremble as he clenches them into fists at his sides. “but i swear… i’ll do better. i will. i promise you.”

his voice is raw now, barely more than a whisper. “just… tell me it’s not too late.”

you stare at him, eyes glossy, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. and then, finally, you step back just enough to let him in.

and for the first time in three months, sukuna breathes.

backshots this breeding that,, what happened to REAL literature like 10k one chapter slowburns...

cw: fluff, reader is sick, and hates being taken care of, but toji will not allow it, domesticity, established relationship, divorced dad!toji is the perfect caretaker :3. masterlist. wc: 1.4k.

divorced dad!toji is indisputably good at taking care of you when you’re sick.

it only makes sense—you learn a thing or two about caring for others once kids come into the picture, and he’s been doing it alone for most of their lives, so by the time the second flu season came around (when he knew he’d have whiney, mopey children to look after), he was an official expert concerning caring for others when they’re ill. and sure, you’re not his kid, but why are you so different?

“it’s just a cold,” you croak, tossing off the blankets bundled around your body as you wobble to your feet, “not the plague.”

he seizes you in his grip when you stumble forward, your glazed eyes slow to blink. the room is spinning. it’s tilting, too—back and forth, over and over until your head is dizzy and the only thing you can think about is collapsing back on the couch. where you belong, toji had scolded, wrapping you in a soft throw and easing you back onto the cushion.

the last thing you had expected of him was to be a fussy mother hen, quirking his brows at you each time you insisted you were fine. that look shut you up, your lips sealing and knees weak with the urge to appease the difficult man that your partner had morphed into at the first sign of a sore throat.

it had started as something bearable and easy enough to repay: he ran all your baths and lulled you to sleep every night with blunt nails on your scalp and cooked you hot meals and kept you cozy.

each morning, he’ll discretely crack open the window and its blinds, ensuring some sun on your skin and air in your lungs. it was still more than you’d asked for, but you couldn’t refuse him. besides, a little pampering didn’t hurt.

but that was before you’d stared too long in the depth of his eyes and seen what was buried under the mossy gravel in them.

love—enough of it for the both of you. enough whispered adoration to survive the drought from your end, where you seem more inclined to wither away in your illness than smile at the consideration he’s been offering you.

he’s been given little more than grumbles these past few days when he stops to coo at you. does that matter to him? it doesn’t seem like it—if his cooing and grinning are any indication when you huff at him—and that frightens you.

what does it mean to be held without limits—to be unraveled and split open, then cherished unconditionally? devoured by it to the bone?

it means being caught by gentle palms and a pot of soup bubbling on the stove.

unstable in the warm embrace of his biceps, you almost bite your tongue and throw him a pout and lay back down—almost sink into his arms and let him cradle you like the baby he insists you are, his cold hands soothing on your feverish face. as oppressive as he is, he’s hard to resist (smile, lips, eyes and the wrinkles by them) and you almost don’t.

almost.

he isn’t your father (as much as he’ll act like it for the time being) and you aren’t his baby (as much as he’ll debate that), and the last thing you want to be is helpless.

he has a life—kids, work, hobbies—and the free time he does have shouldn’t be wasted on pacing around at your every beck and call, his green eyes alight with concern at your mere sniffles.

the profound tenderness in toji’s gaze is a heavy burden on your throat and ribs, prickly like a cough and gaping like a wound. it’s been days of this—of his kisses on your sweaty forehead and his hands cupping hot mugs of tea and his love engraved in every movement, touch, breath.

being taken care of feels funny; foreign, like another language. it feels strange.

it feels perfect.

“fever,” he mumbles with a hand on your cheek, the other rubbing circles on the small of your back. “real bad one, too. dammit.”

he rummages through your blank stare for a moment and finds what he’s looking for there, his lips cold and sure on your own, thumb stroking your cheek.

he keeps doing this—kissing you and keeping you near, always a tug away despite how groggy and gross you are. it isn’t that he doesn’t know you can get him sick—it’s that he doesn’t have it in him to care. isn’t that perfect?

the sun is in half-bloom; honeyed, delicate, and encircling the crown of his head and showing him for what he really is. it dances at his fingertips as they brush your jaw, on a mission to crumble your resolve and the thickness of your skull as if to peer inside, like a shivering animal seeking refuge in a frozen carcass.

“i can”—you push out of his grasp, wobbly like a fawn—”take care of myself.”

his smile is fond. he knows you.

“i know.” his hands find their way back to you (they always do), wandering, loving and covered in the intimacy of sunlight through blinds and everything he doesn’t say—and everything he does. “but i want to take care of you. you still hungry?”

the soup is at a rapid boil on the stovetop, wafting steam and smelling of bay leaves and parsley. it makes your stomach curdle. are you going to feed it to me, too? you nearly bite, but it wouldn’t be worth it.

if there’s one thing you’ve learned since you came down with a cold, it’s that he seemingly can’t be hurt by your words, especially in your sorry state. like a hissing kitten showing its fangs.

when your stomach grumbles, he decides for you, ruffling your hair and moving to mix the soup, and you scoff, following close behind with a sway to your step.

he hums absentmindedly while he stirs, clicking off the stove and pulling a bowl from the cupboard. the soup is runny with broth and thick with vegetables and noodles, hearty and homemade and your favorite.

there’s something content about him as he wades through domesticity, an ever present softness to his features while he’s in your company. he beams at you like you’re something to care for—a garden worth tending to, full of weeds and potential.

is there a moment in a relationship when menial, tedious tasks become something you do with love? you slump into the counter, eyeing him while he whistles and pours out your soup, taking a taste for himself and sighing.

a lurch rattles your heart in your ribcage. what wouldn’t you do for him? he grabs the bowl and pulls you back to the couch, letting you sit before handing you the soup. he drags the blankets you’d tossed away from the floor and fluffs them around you, placing his cool hand on your neck. drowning—that’s what this is.

“i can take care of myself,” you repeat, this time, a sharp snap, a white-knuckled grip on the bowl, and you brace for the impact of toji’s response, for the dip to ease on the couch as he walks away from your hunched, cagey form. you wait for him to run and—

“i know,” he reminds, tilting your face toward his own. the sun is doing that thing again—where it hugs him and strips him down until the soft, delicate underbelly of his intentions is revealed. it’s hard to agree—it’s impossible to refuse. “i told you i want to—”

“but i’ll get you sick—”

“and if i get sick, you can take care of me like i took care of you.” he steals your palm and kisses the heart of it, watching you as he does it. “but for now, let me do this.”

let me do this—it’s the only thing he’ll ask of you. your nails smooth over the stubble on his cheek when he nuzzles into it. you’re sick, and he’ll take care of you or die trying. somehow, you’d managed to weasle your way into that group of people whom he regards with nothing but infatuation—that group he’ll make soup for and listen to them groan and whine while he does it.

the evening is golden and beating with a heart of its own as it regresses into the night. amber sunshine reflects off of worn, endlessly padded on wooden floors and the messy coffee table and black television screen.

it glints off a cup of day-old tea and the spoon in your soup.

is it ever worth it to let your flesh gape under the fingers of a strange hand? to let them make you bleed should they want you to?

he wraps you in that blanket again, and you sink into the couch.

yes, you think, yes.