୭୧Making Dot cakes with your Grumpy Husband (˶˃𐃷˂˶)
The morning sun spilled through the kitchen windows as you scrolled through TikTok, one eye on your coffee, the other glued to the screen. A video played—some girl giggling as she pressed a bowl into a sheet cake, cutting out a perfect circle, splitting it in half, layering it with icing, then flipping it upside down into a plate of sprinkles. "Dot cakes," the caption read. The result was a tiny, adorable, sprinkle-covered cake that looked like it came from a bakery.
You needed it. You needed it now.
You looked up from your phone, your gaze landing on your husband sprawled across the living room couch, one arm draped over his face, the other resting on his stomach. Ryomen Sukuna—King of Curses, terror of the ancient world, and currently, a man who had absolutely nothing better to do on a lazy Saturday morning.
"Ryo," you called softly.
A low grunt. "What, Woman."
"Come here. I need to show you something."
Another grunt, longer and more put-upon, but he shifted, pushed himself upright, and padded into the kitchen bare footed, wearing nothing but a pair of loose black sweatpants and a rumpled white t-shirt. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and there was a faint crease from the couch cushion on his cheek. He looked like a grumpy, beautiful disaster.
"What now?" he asked, voice still rough with sleep.
You held up your phone, the dot cake video on repeat. "We're making this."
He squinted at the screen, watched for about five seconds, then looked at you like you'd just asked him to solve a math problem for fun. "That's cake with sprinkles."
"It's dot cakes, Sukuna. It's a trend. It's cute. And we're making it together."
"You want me to bake a cake with you because some random girl on the internet told you to."
He stared at you. You stared back, batting your eyelashes, your phone still playing the video on loop. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft jingle of the video's background music.
"Fine," he said at last, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But you're doing the dishes."
"And I'm not wearing that stupid apron you bought with the little hearts on it."
"It has little hearts on it. It's cute."
"I'm not cute. I'm terrifying."
"You're terrifying and cute. Now get the mixing bowl."
He shot you a look that could have curdled milk, but he turned and pulled the mixing bowl from the cabinet, setting it on the counter with a little more force than necessary. You grinned, already pulling out a box of funfetti cake mix, eggs, oil, and a measuring cup.
"Okay," you said, reading the back of the box. "We need three eggs, half a cup of oil, and a cup of water."
"I know how to read a cake mix box, woman."
"Then go ahead. Show me your baking skills."
He took the box from your hands, ripped it open with his teeth—because of course he did—and poured the mix into the bowl. Then he grabbed the eggs, cracked them one-handed, and dropped them in without a single shell fragment. You raised an eyebrow.
"I've been alive for over a thousand years. I've cracked a few eggs."
"Right. Forgot about the whole ancient curse thing."
He ignored you, adding oil and water, then picking up a whisk and stirring with a lazy, practiced motion. The batter came together quickly, smooth and yellow, speckled with rainbow sprinkles that hadn't quite mixed in yet.
"Now we pour it into the pan," you said, sliding a greased 9x13 cake pan toward him.
He poured, scraped the bowl clean with a spatula, and handed you the whisk. "Your turn to do something. I'm not the only one working here."
You licked the whisk clean, earning a disgusted look from him. "What? It's batter. It's basically raw cookie dough."
"It's raw eggs, woman. You're going to get salmonella."
He shook his head, but you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips before he turned away to preheat the oven. You slid the pan in, set a timer, and leaned against the counter, watching him as he stood with his arms crossed, staring at the oven door like he could speed up the baking process through sheer willpower.
"So," you said, "what do you think of the trend?"
"You're helping me make it."
"I'm enabling your stupidity. There's a difference."
"Uh-huh. And you're going to eat one, right?"
He didn't answer, which was answer enough.
Twenty-five minutes later, the cake was golden and fragrant, cooling on a wire rack. You grabbed a bowl from the cabinet—a round one, slightly smaller than the cake pan—and handed it to Sukuna.
"Now we cut. Press the bowl down into the cake to make a circle."
He took the bowl, studied it, then positioned it carefully over the cake and pressed down with a firm, even pressure. When he lifted it, a perfect circle of cake sat inside the bowl, the edges clean and neat.
"Not bad?" He set the bowl down, revealing the perfectly round cake disc. "I'm a goddamn artist."
"Don't let it go to your head. You still have to slice it in half."
He grabbed a serrated knife, and you watched as he cut the cake disc horizontally into two even layers, revealing the fluffy, sprinkle-studded interior. The sprinkles had bled slightly into the batter during baking, creating little pastel streaks of pink and blue and yellow.
"It's beautiful cake. Now the icing."
You'd made a simple buttercream earlier—butter, powdered sugar, vanilla, a splash of milk—and it was smooth and glossy in the bowl. You handed Sukuna a spatula, and he spread a generous layer on the bottom half of the cake disc, his movements surprisingly precise. Then he carefully placed the top half over it.
"Now the fun part," you said, grabbing a plate and pouring a mountain of rainbow sprinkles onto it.
Sukuna eyed the sprinkles like they might attack. "We roll the cake in those?"
"We press it. Upside down. So the sprinkles stick to the icing."
You demonstrated, picking up the assembled cake, flipping it over, and pressing the domed top into the sprinkles. You twisted it gently, then lifted it to reveal a top covered in a riot of colors. "Voilà."
Sukuna stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the cake. "That's it? That's the whole trend?"
"That's the whole trend."
He let out a breath, shaking his head slowly. "All that buildup for a sprinkle-covered cake."
"It's cute, though. Admit it."
"That's the most praise I'm going to get from you, isn't it."
You set the finished dot cake on a plate, and Sukuna reached out, his finger darting forward to steal a bit of icing from the edge. You slapped his hand away, but he was faster, already popping the finger into his mouth with a smug look.
"Tastes like sprinkles and victory," he said.
"Tastes like you're going to make another one, because we have a whole pan of cake left and I want a full dozen."
"A dozen? Woman, I have things to do."
"The things can wait. We're on a TikTok roll."
He sighed, but there was a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fine. One more. But I'm naming them. This first one is 'Sukuna's Special Dot Cake of Reluctant Approval.'"
"That's a terrible name."
"It's an honest name. Now get the sprinkles. I'm doing the next cut myself."
Two hours later, the kitchen looked like a rainbow had exploded. Sprinkles coated the counter, the floor, and somehow even the ceiling. You and Sukuna sat at the table, a platter of a dozen perfectly imperfect dot cakes between you, each one a little lopsided, a little messy, and absolutely covered in sprinkles.
Sukuna held one up, examining it like a jeweler appraising a gem. "Not bad for a first attempt," he admitted. "Next time we use less icing. And maybe we don't let you sneeze into the sprinkles."
"You sneezed. That was you."
"I blame the flour dust."
"You inhaled a sprinkle."
You laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek, leaving a tiny smear of icing on his skin. He didn't wipe it off. Instead, he picked up a dot cake, bit into it, and chewed thoughtfully.
"Okay," he said, mouth half-full. "Maybe it's a little good."
"A lot. But don't let it go to your head."
You smiled, picking up a cake of your own. The morning sun streamed through the window, the kitchen was a mess, and your grumpy husband sat beside you, covered in sprinkles and icing, looking at you like you were the only sweetness he'd ever need.
And honestly? That was better than any TikTok trend.
Later that afternoon, when you posted a photo of the dot cakes on your page with the caption "Grumpy husband approved," Sukuna walked past, glanced at your phone, and muttered, "You better have credited me as the head baker."
"I credited you as 'grumpy assistant.'"
He grabbed another dot cake from the platter, bit into it, and said, "I'll allow it."
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