ActuallyYoshiki

A cluster of girls stood not far off, clearly pretending to be in the middle of a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with him, except it obviously did. 

“Is he waiting for someone?”  “God, look at him—”  “He’s— wow.”  “I wouldn’t complain—” 

One of them laughed a little too loud. Another tucked her hair behind her ear, stealing another glance. Toji caught it. Of course he did. 

His mouth tilted— just barely. Not a full smile. Not even close. Just that subtle, knowing smirk that said yeah, I see you looking. 

He didn’t move toward them. Didn’t say anything. But he didn’t shut it down either. 

He just… let it happen. 

Let them look. Let them whisper. Let them wonder.  Like it was something he was used to. Like it was something he enjoyed.  

Something in your chest tightened. 

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t doing anything wrong—he was just standing there. But still. They were your age. 

Easy, bright, pretty in that effortless, put-together way. The kind of girls who didn’t look like they’d just sat through two hours of notes and stress and fluorescent lighting. 

And him? 

He looked like he belonged somewhere else entirely. Older. Sharper. Like he’d already lived through things you hadn’t even touched yet.  

For a second, you hesitated. It was small. Barely noticeable. But it was there. 

Then his eyes found you. Instantly. Like everything else blurred out the second you stepped into his line of sight. 

The smirk shifted— softened, just a fraction, and he pushed off the car, uncrossing his arms. 

“Finally,” he said as you got closer, voice low, casual. “Thought you ditched me.” 

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way you could still feel those girls watching now that you were the one walking up to him. “Class ran late.” 

“Yeah?” he muttered, already reaching for your bag. “Or you just like makin’ me wait?” 

“Please,” you scoffed, but you let him take it anyway.  

His fingers brushed yours for half a second. Warm, solid, before he slung the bag into the backseat like it weighed nothing. He opened the door for you without thinking about it. Routine. Familiar. 

Like this— you— fit into his life without question. 

You slid into the passenger seat, trying not to glance back at the group of girls. 

You failed. They were definitely looking now. At you. At him. At the two of you together. Your stomach twisted. 

The door shut, cutting off the outside noise, but not the feeling. 

The car started, engine humming low as Toji pulled away from the curb. For a while, neither of you said anything. 

You watched the campus pass by through the window, your reflection faint in the glass—eyes a little too distant, mouth set in a way that didn’t feel natural. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. You hated that you cared. 

But it lingered anyway. The way they’d looked at him, the way he hadn’t exactly discouraged it. The way it felt like maybe… maybe they fit into his world more easily than you did. 

Toji’s gaze flicked toward you. 

Once. 

Twice. 

A third time, longer. 

He noticed everything. You knew that. 

“Alright,” he said finally, voice cutting through the quiet. “What’s with that face?” 

You didn’t turn. “What face?” 

“That one,” he replied immediately. “The one you get when you’re thinkin’ too much and not sayin’ any of it out loud.” 

You huffed softly. “You’re imagining things.” 

“Mm.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Try again.” 

“It’s nothing,” you insisted, a little sharper this time. 

He clicked his tongue under his breath, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he’s trying to remain patient. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s up with you. 

“I don’t like ‘nothing.’” 

You stayed quiet. The car slowed. Not all the way, just enough to make you notice. 

“Look at me,” he said. 

You didn’t. 

A beat passed. 

Then, quieter— but heavier: 

“Hey.” 

You sighed, turning your head just enough to meet his eyes and seeing the genuine concern in them, even if he tried not to let it show too much. 

“Talk.” 

Something in your chest gave way a little. “It’s just…” You hesitated, then looked away again. “Back there.” 

“The campus?” 

You nodded. Another pause. 

“…Those girls.” 

Toji let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh. 

“They were staring at you,” you added, looking down at your hands in your lap. The words coming out smaller than you meant. “Like… a lot.” 

“Yeah,” he said easily. 

You blinked, thrown off by how casual he sounded. “Of course they were.” A shrug, one hand loose on the wheel. “I’m good-looking.” 

You turned to him fully this time, irritation flaring. “You’re unbelievable.” 

That got a reaction. A real one. 

His mouth curved, slow and amused, but his eyes sharpened when he saw your expression— really saw it. The quiet. The tension. The way your shoulders had pulled in just slightly. 

“You jealous?” he asked. 

The question landed heavier than it should’ve. 

You hesitated. That was all he needed. 

“Aww,” he drawled, smirk widening just a fraction. “Look at you. All pouty over me.” 

“Shut up,” you muttered, but there was no bite behind it. If anything, it made it worse. Because now he knew. And for some reason— He looked like he liked it. 

Not in a cruel way. Not like he was mocking you. But like it did something to him. Something warm. Something satisfied. 

The car slowed again. Then turned. Then stopped. 

You glanced around, realizing you weren’t home yet, just parked off to the side of a quieter street, the world suddenly feeling smaller, more contained. 

“Toji—” 

“C’mere.” 

His hand came up, fingers hooking gently under your chin before you could pull away, tilting your face back toward him. 

This time, the teasing had thinned. That cocky expression wiped from his face. 

There was still a hint of it— but underneath, something steadier. More grounded. “Those girls don’t matter,” he said. 

You swallowed. 

“They’re not you.” His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw, grounding, deliberate. “And I don’t want them.” 

Your breath hitched. 

“If I wanted someone else” he continued, leaning in just enough that his voice dropped, warm and low near you, “I’d be with someone else.” 

Your heart stuttered. 

“But I’m not.” His grip softened, but didn’t leave. 

“I’m here,” he murmured. “Pickin’ you up. Every day.” 

Closer now. 

“Yeah?” He murmured, his voice getting huskier as the distance between your lips slowly got smaller. His eyes moving down to your lips before looking back at your eyes, waiting for an answer. 

You nodded, barely. That seemed to settle something in him. “Good.”  

And then he kissed you. Slow. Intentional. 

Not rushed, not careless, like he was proving a point without needing to say anything else. 

His hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you closer before resting there, thumb moving in a slow, steady rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. Reassuring without being overwhelming. 

You leaned into him without thinking. One of your hands moving to his chest. 

When he pulled back, his forehead hovered close to yours, his expression quieter now, but still sharp around the edges. 

“Don’t hide that shit from me,” he said softly. “If something’s eating at you, I wanna know.” 

Your fingers curled lightly into his shirt. 

“…Okay.” 

He watched you for a second longer, like he was making sure you meant it. Then he hummed, satisfied. 

His hand moved from the back of your neck to your thigh as he leaned back into the driver’s seat again, thumb now brushing against your thigh.  

“Good,” he repeated. And under his breath, almost too low to catch, “Means you care.” 

-

A/N: Do we want a part 2 where Toji fucks the thoughts out of your pretty little head? Currently working on some more trueform!Sukuna fics for you guys... Can't believe my man finally got animated. ON MY KNEES FOR HIM.

You quickly swiped your face, hoping the dim light masked the mess, your red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“Nothing. I’m— I’m fine.”

Toji stood in the doorway of your small study corner, broad shoulders filling up the frame. He hadn’t even bothered taking off his jacket yet. Raindrops speckled the dark fabric, his hair slightly damp and sticking in a few places. The hallway light behind him cast a faint rim of gold around his silhouette.

His eyes narrowed the moment he saw your trembling hands.

“Don’t bullshit me.” His voice wasn’t harsh— just sure.

You kept your head down. “It’s just school. It’s stupid. I’ll be okay.”

Toji snorted under his breath. “Yeah? Looks real okay.”

He stepped closer, boots thudding softly against the floorboards. There was nowhere to hide in this tiny space, nowhere to pretend you were totally fine. You stared at the open pages in front of you until the words melted into nothing again.

And then your throat closed up. Tight, painful, another sob threatening to break.

Toji stopped beside your chair, arms crossed, looking down at you like he was assessing a puzzle he wasn’t sure how to solve.

He hated when you cried.

Not because it annoyed him. Because it made something deep in him twist, something protective, unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

“…Hey.” His voice dropped lower, just a bit.

You shook your head, wiping at your eyes again, even as your breath hitched. “I said I’m okay, Toji. You don’t have to worry—”

Your voice cracked.

And that was it.

Toji exhaled sharply and crouched down beside your chair, bringing himself level with you. His knees bent with a faint creak, hands braced loosely on his thighs as he studied your face.

“Look at me.”

You didn’t want to. Embarrassment burned in your stomach. But his hand came up, rough fingers brushing your jaw, guiding you gently but firmly.

Your gaze met his.

He didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t joke. Didn’t bark an order.

He just stared for a long moment, expression unreadable, dark eyes softer than usual without losing their sharpness.

“…You’ve been cryin’ a while,” he muttered.

You tried to laugh, but it came out small and shaky. “I didn’t mean to. I'm just tired and everything feels— I don’t know— like too much today.”

Toji’s jaw twitched, a subtle movement most people wouldn’t notice. But you knew him, and you knew that was him trying to swallow a surge of irritation at… something. At your stress? At himself for not being here earlier? At the world for being cruel to you?

His hand slid from your jaw to your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that left your eyes.

“Stop apologizing,” he murmured. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with feelin’ overwhelmed.”

Your eyes widened slightly, not at what he said, but how he said it. Quiet, steady, almost gentle.

You sucked in a shaky breath, and that was all it took.

Your face crumpled again, shoulders shuddering as another wave of exhaustion hit you. You covered your face with your hands, not wanting him to see.

Toji let out a low sigh.

“C’mere.”

He stood, hands sliding under your arms, and lifted you like you weighed nothing. You gasped as your feet left the floor, but then he lowered himself onto the couch, letting you settle onto his lap, your knees on both sides of his hips.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was instinct, a physical, quiet way of saying I’ve got you.

Your forehead pressed into his chest, against the firmness of his shirt, which smelled faintly like rain and steel and something warm underneath. His hand came up to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. Slow, careful.

You felt his breath near your ear as he spoke.

“You’re not weak,” he said. “You’re just worn out.”

Your fingers curled into his jacket.

“It’s just… there’s so much to do… and I’m scared I’m not good enough and—”

“Shh.” He pulled you closer, arms enveloping you fully. “Breathe first. Talk later.”

You let yourself sag into him, body relaxing as the storm outside thudded against the window. His warmth seeped into you slowly, his presence grounding in a way nothing else ever was.

Toji wasn’t used to comforting people. You knew that. And yet—

His fingers brushed gently through your locks. His breathing stayed slow so you could match it. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythms, solid beneath your cheek.

After several minutes, when your sobs faded to sniffles, he tilted his head enough to murmur into your hair:

“Shit. You’re really cryin’ over this?”

But he didn’t let you go. Instead, his arms around you tightened.

“You should’ve called me before you got this bad.”

Your heart squeezed.

“…But I didn’t want you to think I’m childish.”

“Tch.” He clicked his tongue in annoyance, then tipped your chin up with two fingers.

“You think I give a damn about that?” His voice was deep, rough. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Your eyes watered again, softer this time. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He brushed a tear from your cheek. “Then quit hidin’ shit from me.”

You nodded, breath trembling.

Toji leaned back, pulling you against him again. His hand moving to your back, rubbing small circles, a surprisingly soothing motion coming from such a lethal man.

After a while, his voice cut quietly through the silence.

“…You done cryin’?”

You hesitated. “Maybe.”

He grunted. “Then take a break from all that school crap.” A pause. “You’re gonna burn out.”

“But—”

“No.” He shifted, tightening his hold on your waist. “You can start fresh tomorrow. Tonight, you’re restin’. That’s final.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he lowered his forehead to your temple, voice a low rumble:

“I don’t like seein’ you like this.”

It was so soft you almost thought you imagined it.

The storm outside eased into a gentle drizzle. The lamp cast warm light over the room, softening the stress-scattered papers and giving everything a slightly golden glow.

You melted further into his hold.

“Stay for a while?” you whispered.

Toji’s hand tightened possessively against your hip.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

-

The night begins quiet.

The palace roofs— curved like the spines of sleeping dragons, glisten under the moonlight, each tile silvered with dew. Wind chimes carved from bone rattle in the autumn breeze, sending soft, eerie notes through the walkways. Lantern light spills through wooden slats, painting the stone corridors in gold and shadow.

Your room sits deeper within the palace, past silk-draped halls where sandalwood incense burns without ever going out. Servants whisper that this area is favored, and therefore feared.

You wake because something feels wrong.

Your throat is dry. Your limbs feel submerged in hot mud. The embroidered canopy above your futon blurs, its cranes and clouds melting into smears of color. Your skin burns so fiercely you expect the sheets to melt beneath you.

When you try to sit up, your vision sways violently. The lacquered tray of tea on the floor tilts in your sight. Shadows pulse at the corners of the room like they’re breathing.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the wooden post beside your futon.

“H—hello…?” Your voice is barely a rasp.

Within moments, two attendants slide open your door.

Their steps falter immediately.

“What… is that smell?” one whispers.

It's faint but unmistakable: rot beneath flowers, like someone buried a corpse in a field of chrysanthemum petals.

Your breathing comes in harsh gasps. The air feels thick, as if the oxygen was slowly sleeping out of the room. Something squeezes your ribs from the inside.

The older attendant steps closer— then recoils.

“That is… a curse,” she breathes.

Your fever spikes mercilessly. Your spine arches off the futon as if invisible hooks are tugging you upward.

The attendants panic, voices rising into anxious mutters. “Fetch a healer, now!” “Should we alert the guards?” “What of— what of him?”

They pale at the thought.

No one wants to disturb Ryomen Sukuna with news like this.

You try to speak again. Your lips barely move. The world tilts sideways.

“Please…”

Your vision dissolves into white static as your consciousness slips away.

Minutes later, you awaken again to the sound of footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Unhurried enough to be terrifying.

The air pressure in the corridor changes, like the palace itself is bowing. Attendants hit their knees so fast that some slide a few inches across the tatami.

The door slams open without anyone touching it.

He enters.

Sukuna does not stride, he occupies. Four eyes glowing faintly, pupils narrowing as they scan the room. The faint metallic smell of blood clings to him like a natural scent. Tattoos coil along his arms as if reacting to the cursed presence.

He stops in front of your futon. Not a single attendant dares to breathe.

His upper eyes narrow. “…A curse.”

Not a question. A verdict.

Your vision wavers again, but you try. Because you always try, to rise and kneel. Your body, trained since you were brought to this palace, fights to obey ritual.

You get halfway before collapsing, forehead nearly striking the floor.

His hand catches you first.

Large, clawed, deceptively warm. It encloses your jaw, lifting your face.

Your skin is burning. Sweat clings to your forehead.

Sukuna studies your trembling form with an expression caught between annoyance and… something colder. Something more dangerous.

“You dare collapse in front of me?” he asks softly. But his thumb brushes your cheekbone in a gesture far too controlled to be dismissive.

You force out a hoarse apology. “My… my lord, forgive me—”

His fingers tighten around your jaw sharply. Not enough to hurt, but enough to halt your words.

“Do not apologize,” Sukuna says. “There is only one who should be begging for forgiveness tonight, and it is not you.”

Sukuna gathers you into his arms as easily as lifting silk.

Your fever reacts violently— his cursed energy slams into yours like opposing tides. Pain erupts through your ribs. Your breath comes out in choked, broken whimpers you try to swallow.

Your hands clutch weakly at his robes, seeking purchase.

His lips curl in faint irritation. “Stop that trembling. You aren’t dying yet.”

He carries you from your chambers, past bowing servants who bury their faces in the floor. Every lantern he passes flickers, shadows ripple like ink stirred in water. Doors slide open before he touches them, the palace itself bending to his will.

He enters a secluded inner room, his personal warded chamber where no servant is allowed without explicit command. The air inside is cooler, darker, thick with incense.

He lays you on a black futon embroidered with crimson threads. The cloth beneath you soft but cold, like it retains no warmth until he touches it.

Sukuna kneels beside you.

Then he places his hand on your abdomen. Cursed energy surges into you.

It feels like molten metal poured into your veins. Your back arches violently; you bite down on a scream.

“Breathe,” he snaps. “Or you’ll tear your lungs.”

You try— gods, you try— but each inhale feels like swallowing fire.

He presses harder, forcing his energy deeper. Your nails drag helplessly against the futon, leaving faint scratches. Tears stream down your temples into your hair.

His eyes narrow further. “This curse is delicate. Intricate. Someone planned this.”

His thumb grazes your hipbone, steadying you. Not soothing. Grounding.

Sukuna examines the curse threading beneath your skin with cold precision. His expression darkens by fractional degrees.

“It is not meant to kill you quickly,” he mutters. “It wants you to linger. To weaken slowly.”

His gaze flicks up to your face, noting your half-conscious state.

“And to get me close.”

There is a long, terrifying silence. Then he speaks again— quiet, lethal: “They sought to poison me through you.”

Your lips tremble. You can barely shape words through the pain. “…I didn’t… know…”

“I am aware,” he replies dryly.

His fingers trail from your abdomen to your sternum. The touch is light, barely there. But your body jolts with heat. He studies you carefully.

“You are nothing to the one who sent this curse,” he says softly. His lower eyes narrow.

“But you are something to me.”

Your breath catches— but you don’t have the strength to respond.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, delirious with fever. The world smears around the edges. His presence the only fixed point.

Your hand rises weakly— shaking— and rests on his wrist.

Sukuna freezes. You’ve never touched him unbidden.

Your fingers curl faintly around his skin, your lips parting in a delirious whisper.

“…please… don’t go…”

One heartbeat. Two.

Something shifts in his expression. Not softness, but something sharper. Possessiveness. Unspoken.

His free hand lifts to your face, brushing a tear from your cheek with a clawed finger.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.

It’s almost tender. Almost.

When you slip into unconsciousness once more, The king of curses stands.

With a flick of his wrist, cursed energy condenses into four hovering, hand-shaped constructs, each glowing like molten lines carved into the air. They position themselves over your chest, abdomen, and pulse points, maintaining a steady flow of stabilizing energy.

Their cursed energy pulses in steady rhythm, forcing your failing organs to keep functioning.

Then he walks out.

The moment he crosses the threshold, screams erupt somewhere in the palace.

Walls tremble. Distant corridors echo with frantic footsteps, then with silence. The night fills with the wet sound of tearing. The metallic scent of blood drifts in like a spreading storm.

You dream of petals falling— but when you blink awake briefly, the smell is not flowers.

It is massacre.

And he is still gone.

Hours pass.

You drift between consciousness and fever-dreams. The cursed energy flowing keeps you alive, their presence oddly warm despite their energy. Your hallucinations twisting the shadows into crawling shapes.

Then finally, the door slides open.

Sukuna steps inside, his stride slow, deliberate. His upper torso and all four arms are splattered with dark blood. It streaks across his jaw, drips down his fingers, stains the floor with each step he takes.

His expression is calmer than before.

He killed whoever he wanted to. It shows.

He approaches the futon and dismisses the hand-shaped constructs with a wave. They dissipate into smoke.

Then he sits.

Not on a cushion, he doesn’t bother. And not beside you. He sits at your head, pulling your limp body into his lap.

Your cheek rests against the curve of his thigh. His hand settles on your temple. His fingers stroke, slow, steady.

He does not speak for a long time. He simply watches you breathe.

Hours pass like this. Dawn hints in the cracks between sliding doors.

When you murmur a word in your sleep— his name, but softer, intimate, his hand stills. For a fleeting moment, his breath catches.

Then, quietly, so quietly it might be for him alone: “Do not make a habit of frightening me.”

.

The fever breaks shortly before sunrise.

You wake to the scent of metal and incense. The room is dim, lit only by early light filtering through bamboo screens. You shift slightly. Unthinking, and your cheek brushes warm skin.

When you realize you are lying in Sukuna’s lap, your eyes fly open. His lower pair of eyes already watching you.

You try to rise again, stubborn even in weakness. Your body sways. The room tilts.

Sukuna catches you before gravity can claim you. His hand closes around your waist with a quiet, terrifying certainty, as if he’d always known where you’d fall, and how to stop it.

“Enough."

Just that. A single word, low and final.

You freeze as his fingers brush your side, steadying you with unexpected care. He lowers you back to the futon without force, without urgency— simply with the inevitability of a man who has already decided what happens to you.

As you breathe shakily, he studies your face. Not your wounds. You.

His thumb swipes a fever-warm tear from your cheek. He doesn’t comment on it.

“Don’t do that again,” he says quietly.

No edge, no growl. Just a softness sharpened by a threat.

Your lips part to apologize, but he shakes his head once, slow. A silent command: Don’t.

He lifts your chin, his touch cold from the night air, careful on your raw skin. His eyes, all four, linger on your mouth. Your throat. Your heartbeat fluttering beneath fragile bone.

“You almost went somewhere I can’t follow.” A simple truth. Softly spoken.

His hand moves to your chest, palm over your heart. His fingers settle there, as if memorizing the rhythm. As if anchoring you back into the world.

You whisper, “I didn’t mean to leave—”

“I know.”

Two words. Barely breathed.

He draws you against him, letting your forehead rest against the plane of his chest. Just for a moment, only long enough to feel you there, warm, alive, and breakable.

His hand slides to the nape of your neck. A possessive curl. An unspoken claim.

“I tore the night apart for you,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me do it again.”

He tilts your face up, studying you like something he shouldn’t want, but does anyway. Enough to kill for it, enough to bleed for it.

Enough to fear losing it.

He leans in, lips brushing your cheekbone— not a kiss. A promise.

And with a voice darkened by something dangerously close to emotion, he speaks once more.

“If you die, I’ll drag you back myself… so you remember who you belong to.”

-

after a beat of silence he suddenly added “You talk in your sleep,” Matter-of-fact.

You blinked blearily. “…I do not.”

“You do.” His tone was dry, but there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes that betrayed his amusement. He reached out to brush his thumb over your temple, sweeping away the stray hair that had fallen there. “Kept mumbling my name. Over and over.”

Your face heated instantly. “I did not—”

“You did.”

There was no arguing when he was like this, and he knew it. He leaned down to press the lightest kiss to your forehead before pulling back, as though nothing had happened.

The silence that followed was comfortable. His hand found yours under the futon and stayed there, his thumb absently drawing little arcs over your knuckles.

After a while, he said, “The veranda needs repainting. I’ll have the carpenters come by next week.” Then, so casually it nearly passed you by: “It’ll be yours to deal with, eventually. This house.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t look at you when he said it, only shifted to stretch his arm over his head and added, “So don’t ruin it.”

You stared at him, heart beating too hard for how offhand his tone was. “You’re… giving me the house?”

He gave you a faintly exasperated look, like you were missing something obvious. “What else would I do with it?”

You couldn’t find an answer to that. So instead you decided to just change the subject.

“Tea?” you offer, quietly.

“Make it the good kind,” he says, his voice is gentle, unguarded, like it only is when the day is still young and no one else is watching.

-

The engawa boards are cool beneath your feet when you slide the shōji open, letting the scent of dew-soaked pine drift in from the garden. The sun is still low enough that the shadows of the maple branches dance across the veranda like lace.

You bring the tray out slowly, careful not to spill a drop of the fine green tea he likes best. The steam curls between you in thin ribbons.

Naoya leans against the wooden pillar with an idle grace, yukata slipping open at his collarbone. He accepts the porcelain cup from your hands without looking, gaze fixed on the garden pond below as koi cut lazy arcs through the water.

“They keep asking,” he says finally, voice quiet and flat, though not without weight.

“Who does?” you ask, settling beside him.

“The elders. About when we’ll set the wedding date.”

You watch the koi flick their tails in the sunlight. “And what do you tell them?”

“That I don’t like being rushed.” A pause. “And that it’s none of their business.”

That draws a soft laugh from you. “They probably loved that.”

“They hated it,” he corrects, finally glancing at you. His eyes catch the light like liquid gold. “But I don’t care.”

You have been promised to each other since you were children— two seven-year-olds standing stiffly while the adults around you smiled with tight mouths, telling you this was for the good of the clan. Back then Naoya had scowled, declaring he’d rather marry his sword. You had hit him on the shoulder and called him stupid.

And yet he still brought you persimmons from the market the next day, cheeks pink, claiming they were “extra” and he didn’t want them to go to waste.

Years later, the air between you feels like this: warm and steady, with his knee brushing yours and neither of you pulling away.

“Would you rather marry someone else?” you ask softly, half teasing, half not.

“No one else could survive me,” he says, and you smile into your cup, because you know that means no.

-

By noon the sunlight is sharp and white, the roof tiles hot enough to shimmer.

The market was alive in that soft, midsummer way, cicadas buzzing, children darting between legs, the smell of grilled mochi wafting between the colorful stalls.

Naoya walked half a step ahead of you, as he always did, though his hand lingered at your back, fingertips brushing just enough to keep you close. He never seemed to notice he did it.

Vendors called out prices and greetings, and Naoya ignored almost all of them, except to occasionally stop and buy something for you without asking. A sweet dumpling here, a tiny comb carved from cherrywood there.

You lingered by a stall hung with yukata in every shade imaginable. Soft indigo, pale plum, warm ivory patterned with tiny gold chrysanthemums.

Naoya followed your gaze, then stepped in front of the display, scanning it like he was inspecting battle plans.

“That one would wash you out,” he said, pointing to a pale green.

You blinked. “I didn’t say I wanted one.”

“You were looking at them.”

“I was looking,” you said, “not buying.”

Naoya made a soft noise, dismissive, and plucked a deep plum yukata from the rack. “This one.” He held it up against you, squinting slightly. Then he frowned and put it back.

You watched him move through the colors with an intensity that was almost comical, his brow faintly furrowed.

Finally he held up a warm ivory one patterned with faint gold chrysanthemums, the very one you’d been secretly admiring— and said, “This. It suits you. Like early autumn.”

“…Early autumn?” you echoed, amused.

“Calm. Subtle. Pretty.” He said it offhandedly, as though it weren’t praise, and turned to tell the stall owner to wrap it.

Your heart fluttered traitorously.

As the vendor folded the fabric carefully into paper, Naoya said, “We’ll have to plant more chrysanthemums next spring. The garden’s too empty without color.” He glanced at you briefly, then back to the flowers painted on the yukata. “Which colors do you want?”

You stared at him. “You’re… asking me, about the garden?”

“It’ll be yours,” he said simply. “Eventually. Might as well start planning it how you like.”

Something in your chest went soft and unsteady.

By the time you return to the Zenin estate, the cicadas are screaming in the pines and your sleeves are damp from the heat. Naoya carries the shopping basket himself despite your offer.

“You spoil me,” you tease.

“You’re supposed to be spoiled,” he replies, not missing a beat.

-

The house is heavy with quiet when you return. Sunlight filters pale and warm through the bamboo screens, drawing gold bars across the tatami.

You change into cooler robes and curl up in the library alcove with the windows open to the breeze. Naoya joins you without a word, sitting close enough that your shoulders brush. His hair is damp from rinsing off the heat, the faint smell of pine soap clings to him.

You’re trying to read, but he makes it impossible, his chin resting on your shoulder, breath slow and even. Arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

“You’re fidgeting,” you murmur, flipping a page.

“You’re ignoring me,” he counters lazily, pressing a single warm kiss to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, smirking when you stiffen.

“Because I’m trying to read.”

“Read later.” He gently plucks the scroll from your hands, sets it aside, and tips your chin up with his fingers. His gaze softens, just a fraction. “Be here now.”

So you stay there with him instead, listening to the slow sweep of the wind through the trees, the soft click of bamboo wind chimes on the porch, his breathing steady and close.

At some point you doze off curled against him. When you wake, your head is leaning against his shoulder, and he’s threading his fingers gently through your hair with an absent look on his face, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

-

By night the air has cooled. The engawa is still warm from the day as you sit side by side, legs dangling over the gravel garden path. Lantern light pools golden on the wooden boards, flickering on the still pond below. Fireflies blink among the azaleas like wandering stars.

Naoya sits with his elbows on his knees, gaze far away. After a long silence he speaks without looking at you.

“When we were kids,” he says, voice quieter than the night insects, “I hated the idea.”

“Of marrying me?” you ask, half-smiling.

“Of having someone chosen for me, being told who I belong to.” He pauses. “But… I don’t hate it anymore.”

Your breath stirs.

“I can’t imagine not belonging to you,” he adds softly, like he’s saying it to the air, not to you.

The sound of your heart drowns out the crickets. You don’t reply, just quietly slip your hand into his beneath the hem of his sleeve, hidden from the world. He squeezes once, gently, and neither of you let go.

-

The house settles around you as the hours drift past. Lanterns dim. Tatami cools. The distant frogs start their low, sleepy chorus.

You fold the futons side by side while Naoya washes up. He emerges in loose nightclothes, hair damp and uncombed, eyes soft from exhaustion. You’re brushing your teeth when he appears behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder and wrapping his arms around your waist, swaying you gently from side to side until you laugh with a mouth full of foam.

Later you lie facing each other in the dim light. The lantern’s glow pools amber across his cheekbones. His hair spills in soft waves over the pillow.

You reach to tuck a stray lock away, and he catches your wrist, turning your palm up to press a slow kiss to the center of it. Your chest aches at the tenderness.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, pulling you in.

“Only if you stay here,” you whisper, eyes slipping closed.

“As if I’d leave.” His voice is quiet, but firm. “You’re mine.”

And you drift off like that— his arm snug around your waist, his breath warm against your hair, the faint chirp of crickets outside your window.

It has always been this way, and perhaps it always will be. Two hearts that grew together like intertwined roots, promised long ago, but kept together by choice. Two lives wound together so tightly that they don’t know where one ends and the other begins.

.

You sat perched sideways on Ryomen Sukuna’s lap, silk robes pooling in elegant folds around your thighs, legs curled across his like a favored pet— spoiled, soft, untouched by the filth of the outside world.

Your head rested near the hinge of his shoulder, close enough to hear the slow, effortless beat of his heart through the thick fabric of his robes. Every rise and fall of his chest reminded you he wasn’t human. Too steady. Too calm.

He held a scroll in his lower right hand, some crumbling ancient text written in blood or something like it, while his upper arms draped lazily along the throne’s armrests, his free arm loosely curled around your waist, anchoring you in place without pressure.

You fed him.

Not because he asked. But because you could.

Beside the throne, a golden bowl rested on a carved pedestal, filled with slices of chilled fruit, glistening with honey and powdered snow-ice. You plucked a piece, a slice of blood-orange, edges rimmed in gold from the chill, and held it up to his lips.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t pause in his reading. He just opened his mouth and accepted it, tongue brushing against the tips of your fingers as he did.

You watched the way his jaw moved— slow, disinterested. Like even this act of indulgence bored him.

You huffed a little under your breath. “A thank you would be nice.”

Still, he didn’t look. Another page turned.

A single deep-throated hum was your only reply, somewhere between amusement and disregard.

You popped a sliver of pear into your own mouth out of pure defiance, licking honey from your thumb as you glanced at him sidelong.

His lower eyes flickered to the motion, then returned to the scroll without a word.

You smirked.

“Do you know,” he said suddenly, voice low and lazily regal, “how many would kill to sit where you sit?”

That voice. Always like velvet soaked in wine— silken, cold, and dangerous.

He didn't look at you when he said it. But the weight of his words fell heavily over your bare shoulders.

You considered him. The angular, terrible beauty of his face, all sharp lines and inhuman markings, eyes layered in red and black like concentric storm clouds, mouth curved in the kind of smile that made grown men kneel or run.

He was not beautiful in a mortal sense.

He was something older.

And you had the audacity to touch him like he was yours.

“I know,” you replied, soft and smug, running your thumb gently over the edge of the next fruit slice. “They’d kill for far less.”

That made him glance up, just briefly.

Four eyes cut toward you, gleaming like coals in the low light. A flicker of something sharper passed through them— approval? amusement? possession?

You didn’t flinch. You never did.

You smiled sweetly and slipped another bite of fruit toward his lips.

This time, he didn’t open his mouth right away. Just stared at you, eyes unreadable.

Then, deliberately— he leaned forward and took it from your fingers, lips brushing against your fingertips once again on the way.

A slow, deliberate mockery of reverence.

His upper left arm moved lazily, trailing fingers across your thigh through the layers of silk, drawing idle circles that made your pulse flutter despite yourself.

Then he spoke again, a quiet purr of menace wrapped in velvet:

“Then be grateful, little thing.” A pause. A smile sharp as razors. “I’m not a generous man.”

And here’s where you should have submitted. Should have bowed your head and whispered thanks. Should have played the part of the silken plaything, trembling with gratitude for his indulgence.

But you had long since outgrown that.

Instead, you tilted your head, lips curling into something bold, almost bratty.

“You keep saying that,” you murmured, twirling a slice of chilled mango between your fingers, “but I don’t see you tossing me aside.”

His smile deepened.

“I could.”

“But you won’t.”

You popped the mango into your mouth yourself this time, licking the juice from your thumb while holding his gaze.

“I talk too much,” you said lightly, “I steal your sake, I wear your robes when you’re gone, and I took a nap on your throne once.”

He raised a brow.

“…Twice.”

That made his top left eye twitch. “You slept on my throne?”

“Briefly.”

“Like a cat?”

“More like a queen.”

A beat passed.

Then he laughed.

Low. Real. Unforced.

It rumbled through your spine like distant thunder, and you felt the shift in his body beneath yours, the relaxing of his shoulders, the way his lower arms released the scroll, letting it curl shut against his thigh.

He was focused on you now. Fully. Which was dangerous.

You should’ve behaved.

You didn’t.

You reached for another slice of fruit, but this time, as your fingers curled around it, they trembled.

Not visibly. Not much.

But enough.

The kind of tremble that came not from fear. But from feeling.

The intimacy. The weight of being seen. The realization that this man— this god, might really never hurt you.

And that might be the most terrifying thing of all.

One of his hands caught yours. The calloused hands of one who had killed hundreds, no, thousands of people. Of the one who had people kneeling before him in fear.

Before the fruit could fall. Before you could speak.

He held your wrist with impossible gentleness, like you were spun sugar and silk threads. The chill of the fruit still clung to your skin.

He raised your hand to his mouth— eyes never leaving yours, and pressed a kiss to your palm.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just... quiet.

His mouth was warm, the faintest scratch of his fangs grazing the tender skin between your fingers. You felt your pulse stutter against his lips.

And then, still holding your hand:

“Don’t tremble.”

You smiled faintly, just on the edge of breathless. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“I know.”

His voice had shifted. Not sharp. Not amused. Something else. Something close to... possessive affection.

You rested your forehead against his, your wrist still in his grip. And for a moment, the world outside the throne room ceased to exist.

No war. No worship. No blood.

Just this.

The silence of a king and his spoiled, brattish favorite.

-