Finna Sit It On His Grill Like A Bbq .. Plug!sukuna Was Known For His Shiny Gold Grills That Matched

thinking abt soft!toji..

Toji Fushiguro is a scary, mean, mean man.

He’s all teeth, all bite, and he bares them at any innocent passerby without a second thought. His hands weren’t made to hold—they were taught to destroy. He was forged from gunmetal and a wolf’s hunger, his bite laced with stinging venom.

But even the roughest exteriors hide something secret, something tender. Every cage has a heart, and every lock has a key—and you, somehow, are Toji’s key.

He comes home with blood on his calloused knuckles, eyes still burning from the fight, but he washes it off carefully, like he’s trying to pretend he’s a clean man. Then he crawls into bed with you, tracing slow, lazy circles on your bare back after pressing kisses from your ankles to the tips of your ears, leaving a hungry fire erupting in your lower belly.

Before every mission, he stands at the door, letting you smear gloss all over his grumpy face with a dozen goodbye kisses. He grumbles, complains, rolls his eyes—but he loves it. Loves the sticky shimmer that never fully fades from his scarred cheek, a mark that reminds him his woman is waiting for him at home.

When you’re out walking, tugging at his arm like an overexcited child, chattering about all the places you want to see that day, your shoelace comes untied. You trip. Reflexively, he catches you—effortlessly. It’s automatic for him.

You’re a klutz, and he finds it so adorable. You get so absorbed and full of excitement about the things you love that you forget your surroundings. So keeping an eye out—and a hand ready—is second nature to Toji now. Just like bending down with a grumble of, “Watch where you’re going,” or, “Lazy ass, tie your own damn shoes.”

Which is funny, because you hadn’t even asked him to tie them. Well, you were about to—but he was faster. You try to insist, yet like always, he cuts you off, already finished. It’s like that with everything.

He runs your bath water before you think to ask. Brushes your hair. Zips up the back of your dress without a word. “It’s just easier doll,” he says, but you suspect otherwise.

Like when you’re craving something sweet—always. Toji hates junk food. Will soapbox for hours about how awful it is for your health. But he still answers your call, listens to your sugar-fueled ramblings, and walks those familiar candy aisles, filling a basket with your favorite sweets.

Or when your nail appointment gets canceled last minute—on date night, no less—which means you can’t wear your new strappy heels.

So he scoops you up bridal style, the straps of your heels clenched between his sharp teeth that are, somehow, so gentle against your skin. He sets you on the couch, rummages through your cosmetics bag, and finds your favorite wine-red nail polish.

He sits with your foot in his lap, kneading the arch with those quick hands as he paints your toes with furrowed brows and a string of muttered curses.

No matter how tired or bloody he is, no matter how brutal the day was, he always makes time. He pulls you into his lap and rubs your tense shoulders, works at the knot in your neck you get from hunching over your sketchbook or your laptop for too long.

Those same hands—designed to take life—become something that gives you life. Full of comfort, they press slow circles into your aching muscles, melting you down, easing the ache from flesh he was never meant to touch this softly.

masterlist link here.

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Something something your fave making you a mother for mother's day

don't go Nanamin don't go

sukuna gets yelled at by his wife pt 2 🫶🏻 (pt 1)

“honey? will you take the chicken out of the freezer?”

“mhm”

he doesn’t take it out of the freezer. in fact, he wasn’t even listening to you in the first place. as much as you love coming home to the kitchen being spotless, not a speck of dust in sight, there should be a fully thawed package of chicken thighs laying around somewhere.

“sukuna?”

“what is it now?” he grumbles, still not completely paying attention to you.

“where’s the chicken?”

“oh i uh—“ he makes some weird hand gesture at the fridge. “forgot i guess. who cares, let’s get takeout.”

“… but i asked you.. nicely.”

he lets out long sigh. “i know I forgot, its not a big deal. we can order from you fa—“

“i will STARVE YOU SUKUNA— DO YOU FUCKING WANT THAT???”

“the fuck? no?!” he takes a step back from the sudden outburst. “if it’s that big of deal ill just take it out right n—”

“for WHAT? so we can eat at 3 AM?!”

“I OFFERED TAKE OUT DIDN’T I??!”

“wow this is just great— not only are you USELESS BUT NOW YOU’RE YELLING AT ME im gonna cry” your voice breaks into a whine and sukuna looks even more mortified.

“no don’t— don’t cry,” he slightly panics. “there’s no need to cry, i can just—“

“you can just what, sukuna?” you sniffle. “thaw out the chicken?? it’s fucking FROZEN”

“i know that,” he watches his tone. “lemme just.. ill go to the store right now and grab a new pack so we won’t have to wait.”

“you’d do that?” you look up at him with glossy eyes, his pants slightly tighten.

“of course,” he swears. “of course i would.”

“c-could you get ice cream too?” you drag out the tears. maybe if you continue acting depressed for the rest of the night he’ll buy you a new bag or something.

he nods rather frantically, “mhm, chocolate right?”

the house was quiet today.

it wasn't rare, but this kind of quiet was different. still. heavy. soft in a way that made your chest ache.

sukuna sat on the couch, one arm curled protectively around your newborn daughter, her tiny body pressed against his chest. she wore the tiny knitted hat you picked out—white with kitten ears—and strands of her soft pink hair peeked out from beneath it, sticking up since they refused to behave.

his other hand held a crumpled piece of paper, gifted with pride by the small artist on a sugar-high right now, bouncing around the living room. your son, still learning how to pronounce his "r"s, had grinned wide with his toothless mouth and yelled, "i drew us!" before dashing off to play again.

sukuna stared at the drawing, red eyes darting around the paper like he was analyzing every detail. or trying to make sense of whatever a four-year-old could manage to draw.

three stick figures, one labeled "me," with messy hair, a big open mouth, and two teeth missing from the middle. another labeled as "mommy," in a giant, triangular pink dress with stars and hearts all over, holding a little pink scribble labeled as "sister," and "daddy"— huge, lopsided, four arms, fangs, and "ROAR" scrawled next to his head in red crayon.

you sat down beside him, resting your chin on his shoulder. "he's so proud of it."

"...i look like a demon," he muttered, eyes still locked on the page.

"you are one, sometimes." you teased gently, "but he still thinks you're the coolest."

he went quiet again, then exhaled. something unsteady in his breath. "i didn't want this," he admitted quietly, his voice low like he confessed to something awful. "didn't think i had it in me. didn't think i'd be any good."

you glanced down at the way he was holding your daughter. soft. careful. his thumb brushing over the rim of her hat, her pink hair catching the light.

"you're better than good, su. they adore you." you said, your own expression softening as you ran your fingers through his hair.

you kissed his arm, right above where your daughter's tiny hand was curled in his skin.

"you're doing good, daddy," you whispered. "even if you do look like a monster in crayon."

he chuckled, and the sound was raw. honest. he pressed the drawing to his daughter's back like a shield and held her just a little tighter.

"she's never gonna draw me like that," he muttered. "right?"

you smiled. "nope. she'll make you a princess."

"...i'd frame it."

I found this on Pinterest (sadly it didn't said who the artist was) but hello??? I'm foaming at the mouth, I NEED to ride him lmao

his favorite show is on

another redraw rhe colors are a bit off but i gave up🚬

"Doll," Toji calls, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your bodies remain bare after your love making session, your lower bodies still tangled up in the sheets.

"Toji," you respond, a lazy smile curling on your lips as he presses a couple more rapid, chaste kisses on the same spot. "What, baby?" You ask, your voice entirely soft on his ears.

"Love you," he murmurs. "I'm gonna crush you. Just let me... let me do this, first," he hums, pulling your body into his overly tight embrace. He's almost suffocating you, but you expected it, knowing how he gets after spending hours tangled up with you. "Aren't you gonna say it back?" He mumbles, his voice somewhat muffled by your hair.

A soft laugh is expelled as a breath through your nose. "Love you so much, my sweet, kind bear. And before you say anything, yes, you're still tough and scary to everyone else."

He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar to your ears. You know him so well.

"What about you? Am I tough and scary to you?" He asks, planting another kiss on the top of your head, his lips curling when a twinkle of your laughter reaches his ears.

"You're very tough, as for the other thing... I can pretend to be scared if you want."

"Boo," he tests, his voice as calm and gentle as its been this whole time. There was no actual attempt to make your heart drop with fear, but seeing the way you kept your word of acting scared lured a soft chuckle out of him. You let out a dramatic gasp and you jolted, but really there isn't an ounce of fear in your body. If anything, you feel even more calm, knowing that you're in the arms of your safe space. You trust, wholeheartedly, that he will always be that for you.

"Did I scare you?" He asks, a lazy grin gracing his lips. His fingertips trace the invisible line of your spine, up and down, before his hand settles on your shoulder blade.

"Maybe a little bit," you mumble, leaning forward to leave a kiss on his collarbone. Your lips trail upward towards his neck, soft kisses on his warm skin and rosy blots blossoming in their wake.

"Keep kissing me like that, see what happens," he almost purrs, and you do keep kissing him like that, because you do want to see what happens. You press little butterfly kisses on his face—on his chin, his cheek, the tip of his nose. Everywhere but his lips.

"Last chance, pretty," he warns. You don't stop, though. Your lips continue to caress patches of his skin, leaving evidence behind, carelessly. You hum as you trace his face and the side of his neck all over again, and though time is ticking for Toji to give you the consequence for your actions, he doesn't want it to stop just yet, and every second that passes serves as more of a delay.

"My baby," you murmur softly, a barrage of kisses landing on the corner of his lips, after. "Love you sooo much."

And he snaps. The second his lips are on yours, he begins the process of taking all the kisses you "refused" to give him on the lips. You giggle when he flips both of you and settles between your legs. His hands glide over your sides, collecting your arms and bringing them up above your head.

"Ba--" you're interrupted by his continued, seemingly endless wave of kisses. "B--" you laugh at your inability to get the term of endearment out. One more time. "Bab--" Nope.

"I warned you, ba-by," he over-enunciates, mocking you. "But you wanted to find out, didn't you?" He murmurs against your lips. "You wanted to know what would happen, huh?"

He loves that your amusement never dies, even when you've been in this same room together for hours, now. Giggles and squeals flow freely, your hearty reactions to him returning your affection—doubling it.

"You didn't like my kisses?" You ask, unable to hold back a laugh when his lips graze along your jaw.

"Liked them a little too much... Can't get enough of you," he murmurs between wet little kisses on your cheek. "And I warned you, sweetness. Now, you're gonna get tired of me."

"Will not," you deny, as he nears your lips. His grip tightens around your wrists, luring a soft smile from you.

"Say it again," he murmurs, lips ghosting over yours.

"I'll never get tired of you," you say—a promise forged right before him. "'Cause I can't get enough of you either, baby," you respond, before welcoming the all consuming kisses he gives you. His grip does not loosen one bit throughout his mission to steal your breath. It's as if he's trying to keep you steady, unmoving, so he can take as much from your sweet lips as he wants. He takes kiss after kiss, like it's an endless fountain of affection, and you only prove it to be true when you push your lungs to their limits.

"I need you," he murmurs, something desperate and utterly debilitating in the low timbre of his voice. The hold he has on your wrists is finally released, returning the freedom of your hands' mobility.

"I'm right here," you assure, instantly making use of your hands by tenderly cupping his cheeks. "I'm yours," you vow.

"Yours," he returns, before picking up where you and him left off a little while ago.

Gentleness and intimacy conquered the bed and wrinkled sheets you both laid on, and the outside world was shut out, only able to reach you through moonlight.

Okay. Breathe, Satoru. You can do this. It's just a sleepover. Just your girlfriend. Just the person you're absolutely, irrevocably obsessed with. Who you're trying really, really hard not to scare off.

Standing in your apartment, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from touching everything. You’re flitting around, casual, relaxed, while he’s trying to memorize the shape of your furniture, the smell of your space, the way you hum when you walk into the kitchen.

Satoru's baby-blues locking onto the bathroom door. “I’ll, uh... shower first, if that’s okay?” like it’s the most neutral, chill request ever. It’s not. He’s sweating. His ears are pink. You nod like it’s no big deal - of course it’s no big deal - but to him? It’s a very big deal.

He gently closes the bathroom door behind him. Worries if he makes too much of a sound, he will be banned from your fine establishment. Your things are everywhere. Shampoo bottles, conditioner, your razor, a little candle half-burned on the sink, your loofah hanging from the shower knob, the loofah. He stares at it for too long.

Are we at the loofah-sharing stage? Satoru wonders, frozen in place. It’s pink. Fluffy. It looks soft, and it’s yours, and he’s fighting every stupid urge in his body. “Don’t be weird,” muttering aloud, as if he can command himself into normalcy. Still, his fingers twitch. He holds it. Briefly. Gently. Just for a second. Just to say he did.

Then comes the body wash. He squirts out the tiniest amount and rubs it between his hands like it’s precious perfume. The scent hits him and he nearly slides down the wall. You smell like this. You smell like this all the time. How is he supposed to survive? Because now he smells like you.

Pressing his face into the steam and pretends it’s your neck. He’s sick. Maybe a little pathetic. He knows it. But he’s also just so in love. What can a guy do?

When he steps out, face flushed and hair damp, he feels like a teenage boy at his crush’s house for the first time - which, in his mind, he kinda is. You’re waiting for him in pajamas, makeup wiped off, looking soft and sleepy and so perfectly you. He thinks he might pass out.

And then… brushing teeth together. Should be simple. Should be normal. But nothing is normal around you. He’s beside you at the sink, trying to play it cool while your shoulder brushes his. You hum to yourself while brushing, glancing at him through the mirror, and he nearly foams at the mouth. Or maybe that’s the toothpaste. He’s not sure.

Then he sees it.

A little blob of foam at the corner of your lips.

Something happens to him. Something dark and unspeakable. He wants to kiss it away. He wants to lick it off your mouth like a psychopath. He stares. Blinks. Shakes his head like a wet dog. Absolutely not. No. Stop it.

What’s wrong with you, scolding himself. She’s just brushing her teeth. Like a person. A very pretty, perfect person.

He spits. Rinses. Avoids eye contact. Looks at the drain. Looks at your spit down the drain. Another weird thought. One that must be suppressed.

And then it’s time. Bedtime. Final boss.

Your bed is small. Cozy. Absolutely infested with plushies. He pretends to be annoyed but he secretly loves them. Even if they are plotting to kick him off the edge of the mattress. He climbs in carefully, unsure which plush is your favorite. Unsure what you'd do if he accidentally knocked one little guy off the floor. The blanket smells like your laundry. Like home. Like the future he wants with you.

You’re already under the covers, blinking at him sleepily, smile soft and content. Wearing his shirt and not much else. The fabric rides up your thighs and he has to look away before his brain fully melts. He deserves a prize for not making a move. Deciding to lay on his back, stiff, hands folded like he’s in a coffin. He doesn’t touch you. Not even a pinky. Be good, chanting to himself. Be good. You like her. You love her. You’re not a perv, you’re not a perv.

You shift closer.

A leg brushes his. A sigh escapes your lips. Your hand settles gently on his stomach like it belongs there.

He almost cries, something between a half whimper and a wheeze leaves his throat.

Slowly, carefully, he slides his arm around your waist. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. You lean into him.

He swears he hears wedding bells.

You fall asleep just like that, face nestled against his shoulder, breath even and slow. And he lies there, heart racing, brain fried, blinking up at the ceiling, Satoru would be getting no sleep tonight.

His thoughts are a mess: She’s so pretty. Is she really mine? What if I kissed her forehead? No, too soon. Maybe not. God, her skin is soft. I should move in. Tomorrow. Today. Right now. No, bad. Calm down. Be cool. Be a good boyfriend. Don’t get a boner. You’re cuddling. It’s fine. Just breathe. You’re okay. This is okay. Everything is okay.

He wants to. Touch you, that is. Just your waist. Just a hand on your back. Just to pull you closer and feel your heartbeat against his chest. But he doesn’t. He stays perfectly still. He doesn’t want to push anything. You haven’t done that yet, and he’d rather die than make you uncomfortable.

Except nothing’s okay. Because he’s so in love it physically hurts. Because you’re sleeping peacefully and trusting him with this little moment, and all he wants is to stay like this forever.

How are you sleeping so peacefully while he’s over here thinking about nothing but how perfect yoh are?