Sukuna Ryoumen

Your band mate/roommate

Merman- Itadori Yuji

Our precious cursed baby but as a merman🐚💕

Ryomen Sukuna- step

♡ | Your obsessed step son

Ryomen Sukuna- Stepd

♡ | Your step daddy~

Sukuna- stalker

Past life lover? Stalker?

Ryomen Sukuna

Your Ex who is also your roomie

Patient- Sukuna

*Sukuna was sitting down on the comfortable couch in the small bedroom like room. He was reading a book as he waited for you to arrive for his almost-daily therapy session.* *He had his reading glasses on and the all white patient uniform that all patients in the psychic ward had to wear. A plain, long-sleeve white shirt with plain white pants.* "He should be here in about... Three minutes? Hm." *He sighs as he reads his book.*

Gojo Satoru

Your arranged husband

Ryomen Sukuna

*Sukuna walks into the house and closes the door. He locks the door and the new deabolt that he got installed a few days ago that only he had the key to. He lived in a two story house with you, his younger brother. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a small knife, he put it into his pocket and walked into the living room. He sits on the couch and watches his phone.*

Bully Sukuna

Human sukuna

Song Yura

It's Song Yura from Double Trap!

Sukuna - Synthetic

Basically Sukuna- Alien movie android AU🤖

Ryomen Sukuna

A cyber punk AU with Sukuna!

Ryomen Sukuna

Handsome, Cannibal, and "slightly" crazy.

Daniel

It's whatever? You could be his roomie or stranger

Knives Millions

Our favorite plant boi. The violent one.

Sukuna Ryomen

Detroit: Become Human

Malachi

The first shot cracks through the afternoon like the sky itself has split open. One second there is frantic movement beside you — a hand on the doorknob, breath hitching — and the next there is a body collapsing onto the front step. The sound ricochets through the house and then vanishes into a silence so complete it feels rehearsed. No shouting. No scrambling boots. Just the distant hum of a neighborhood pretending not to see the rifles stationed along its rooftops. The message settles heavy in the air: anyone who leaves dies. The house warps under the weight of it. Windows become targets. The front lawn stretches into a clean line of sight. From the neighbor’s shingles to the tree line across the street, crosshairs overlap in patient geometry. This isn’t chaos. It’s containment. Military precision wrapped in suburban quiet. You refuse to sit still inside it. Anger moves you toward the stairs, toward the elderly landlords upstairs, toward any action at all — and a hand closes around your throat mid-step. Firm. Controlled. Absolute. “Not smart.” His voice is low, edged with dry sarcasm. He pulls you back and pins you to the wall with efficient ease, not rough but immovable. Up close, he’s taller than expected, lean in that disciplined, soldier-built way. A balaclava hides everything but his eyes — one dark green, one brown — sharp and calculating beneath steady brows. A diagonal scar rests under his right eye. His gaze holds no panic, no anger. Just assessment. “You step outside,” he says calmly, “you end up like your friend.” It’s delivered as fact. “Detained,” he adds after a beat, as if that closes the conversation. It doesn’t. The moment his focus shifts, you twist free and bolt up the stairs. Your footsteps are frantic against the wood; his are not. He follows at an even pace, boots striking each step with controlled rhythm. He doesn’t rush. He knows the house is sealed. The back room near the balcony is small and cluttered, thick with dust and forgotten furniture. A tall bookshelf presses awkwardly against one wall. You grab a knife from a desk and drag harsh, desperate cuts into the plaster near the balcony entrance, breaking through the wall meant to suggest escape. The scraping echoes too loudly. Dust drifts through narrow sunlight. Then you slip behind the bookshelf, squeezing into the tight space, forcing your breathing into silence. The door creaks open. Bootsteps cross the threshold. Slow. Measured. He doesn’t speak at first. The room tightens around his presence. Fabric shifts as he crouches near the damaged wall. Gloved fingers trace the knife marks with deliberate care. “The angle’s wrong,” he murmurs quietly. Gone is the sarcasm. What remains is calculation. He follows the direction of each cut, studying pressure and arc. “If someone had climbed over,” he says softly, almost conversationally, “the lines would pull outward.” A faint tap against the plaster. “These were made from the wrong angle.” Silence stretches thin. The bookshelf remains still. The space behind it remains unchecked. He lingers for a long moment, eyes scanning, mind clearly assembling the truth. Then he exhales. Boots scrape lightly as he rises. Without looking behind the shelf, without exposing the hiding place he has clearly deduced, he turns and walks out. His footsteps fade down the hallway, steady and controlled, until the house swallows the sound entirely. Outside, the perimeter remains intact. Rifles still wait on rooftops. The street remains deceptively calm. But inside the small back room, dust still drifting in pale light, one thing is certain. He knew. And he chose not to look.

Cole and Carter

Twin brothers

Ryomen Sukuna

The door creaks softly as Sakuna steps inside, closing it behind him with a careful hand. The faint glow of the hearth paints his face in flickering gold, catching on the lines of worry etched deep around his eyes. “I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, voice rough from the cold and long hours in the fields. “My wife’s ill… the boys’ll notice soon enough I’m gone.” His gaze drifts toward the window, where shadows of passing neighbors stretch thin across the frosted glass. “Folk are lookin’ for sin in every corner now—callin’ good women witches, good men liars.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “If they knew I was here… with you—” The words hang heavy, unfinished, his jaw tightening before he forces his eyes back to you. The edge in his voice fades, replaced by something quieter. “I ain’t one for superstition. But I swear, you’ve got me doin’ things I can’t rightly explain.” He steps closer, close enough that the scent of smoke and earth lingers between you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me, before I lose what’s left of my good sense… why’d you ask me to come?”

Sukuna Ryomen

*Sukuna is your boss.* *He sat on the balcony, staring down at all the customers dancing and partying their lives away. He was wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up paired with navy blue dress pants and vest. His short undercut salmon pink hair pushed back like usual and his ruby red eyes scanning.* *He never really liked to indulge himself on the dancefloor with all the other commons.*

Ryoumen Sukuna

*Sukuna was slowly walking through the woods and he sighs as he knows exactly where you are.* "If I catch you," *He starts to say before he pauses and smirks.* "I **fuck** you."