curse me, daddy

The brat’s mind is chaotic. He’s loud.

Every inane thought and foolhardy impulse blares across his synapses, drowning out anything like good sense or critical thinking. Every fleeting fancy springs up like unsightly weeds in their shared mind, unnecessary and moronic commentary droning like cicadas.

Even in sleep, with his consciousness like the surface of a still pond, currents beneath the surface churn.  

Memories overlap and converge, too vague in most places, tinged with sensory echoes. The bittersweet taste of grapefruit, the sharp scent of citrus. Warm, soft skin. Ringing laughter around the syllables of his name. Flashes of yellow always at the corners of his vision.

Wading through it all is of little interest to Sukuna, but he lacks more productive diversions for the time being. Taking control of the brat’s body still proves beyond his current ability, even when he’s not being actively suppressed. At least carding through these sickeningly quaint memories, he can gain his bearings of this modern era.

The world has changed quite a bit over a millennium.

And yet, humans remain so much the same.

Take that infuriating woman, for example. The boy’s precious Himawari .

Too frightened, too weak , to wield her power, and for what? A futile desire to be accepted by others. Only brave enough to reveal the truth when she was sure of approval. Hiding amongst livestock in fear of their censure. It’s a disgustingly human quality, to value the tolerance of weaklings over strength or power. 

And yet she had the audacity to put her hands on him. To chastise him, Sukuna!

He doesn’t need to rifle through the whelp’s mind to remember that look in her eyes; it’s burned into his own. Steady, unfaltering. Beckoning her beloved Yu-chan back like a lighthouse through thick fog, immune to the roiling sea thrashing at its foundation.

She’s not scared of Sukuna.

But she is scared of losing his vessel.

In that way too, humans are still the same. They’re selfish, but never in the way that benefits them most. Truly, the practical choice is to kill the boy now, but avarice will pave the road to Sukuna’s return.

The sorcerers clambering to destroy as much of Sukuna as they can at once.

Itadori Yuuji unable to break his promise to darling “Hima.”

And Sukuna doesn’t doubt, from the look in her eyes, that she values the life of his vessel over anything. Even the survival of the human race. She’d risk everything, even her own life, for the sake of a man with an expiration date already set in stone.

For now, Sukuna settles in to observe.

Dawn is already breaking, spears of sunlight piercing their little safe haven. The world comes to life outside, and Sukuna catalogs the new symphony of noises accompanying this era. Industry and electricity, swarms of humans like marching ants emerging in the daylight.

The brat wakes first. Despite taking the brunt of the previous night’s hardships, he’s recovered remarkably quickly when Sukuna’s done nothing to aid his recovery.

There’s a handful of blessed moments between opening his eyes and actually waking, where his mind is finally fucking quiet. The ambient static of his dreams are gone, and his consciousness hasn’t quite caught up to reality.

His first order of business, shining through basic instincts like sitting up, yawning, and stretching, is to check on the woman.

She’s on her side, facing him, eyes closed and peaceful. Her fingers are curled loosely in his shirt, like she fears him disappearing even in sleep. Beneath the covers, they register the plush of her leg wrapped around his, their ankles locked.

That unfamiliar secondhand affection washes over Sukuna again. Comfort, reassurance, love.

From what he’s gathered, the two of have known each other as long as the boy can remember. Anything before the day they met is watery at best, nothing but muted impressions.

Would you give it a rest already? Sukuna grouses. We get it - you’re whipped.

“Who’s ‘we’?” the brat mumbles, squinting. Then Sukuna’s words register. His little pea brain practically explodes with memories of the previous night, thoughts about the future, his petty little feelings about everything.

“I told you before - if you don’t like it, don’t watch,” he chokes out.

Believe me, if that was an option, I’d take it, Sukuna sneers.

The kid rolls his eyes, scratches an itch at the back of his head, where the hair is shorn and dark at the roots.

“Well, you’re just a ray of sunshine,” he complains through a yawn.

At his side, the girl’s breathing changes, disturbed by their bickering. All his attention immediately focuses on her lashes fluttering in the morning light. Like Sukuna isn’t even there anymore, rude little shit.

“Yuuji?” she mumbles, rolling onto her back.

“Sorry, Sukuna was being a pain. You can go back to sleep if you want.”

She hums, then shakes her head and sits up. Her hair is messier on one side from the pillow, sleep shirt askew on her shoulders. 

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks.

She rubs at her eyes. There’s a dark bruise on her forearm from where the curse tried to hit her and the Fushiguro brat. Sukuna is surprised by the surge of tangential fury that blooms dark and hot in his chest. The idiot probably doesn’t even realize it, but it tows the line of protective and possessive.

Interesting.

“Like the dead,” she replies, voice soft and husky. She shoots him a smile that soothes the anger instantly. “What about you? Did Sukuna keep you awake?”

“No, weirdly enough. I didn’t hear him until I woke up.”

Not for lack of trying. Perhaps he’ll have to get more creative.

“That’s good,” she yawns, “and how is the King of Curses this morning?”

Bloodthirsty. Wrathful. Or are those words too complex for you, brat?

“Loud,” he mutters, “and rude.”

She snorts, something curiously amused flitting across her face. Her eyes trace over the boy’s features, as if she might see Sukuna lurking beneath the surface. 

“Sounds about right,” she muses. “Tea?”

“I’ll get breakfast started.”

They move around each other with disturbing ease.

Sukuna had been more focused on his seething ire the previous evening to spare much attention to their interactions. Without other distractions now, their obnoxious codependency is nearly impossible to ignore.

Primarily, they touch far too often for Sukuna’s liking.

The brat touches her back to hold her still as he opens a cabinet above her head. She taps his arm to offer him a rice spoon. Their knees touch while they eat, watching local news report about the destruction of their school.

In his time, it was a privileged few permitted within a certain distance of Sukuna; and fewer still allowed to touch him, given explicit permission. Even then, retaining the offending limb was not a guarantee.

And yet here is this human, leaning across the body that is rightfully Sukuna’s, a confident hand balanced on his knee. As if she has any business - any right - to do so.

Would you give it a rest? The boy thinks. It’s like you’ve never been hugged or something.

Were Sukuna in control of their functions, he would choke. A hug. He’d sooner peel their skin off.

They finish their breakfast in tandem, wash their dishes in the sink. (Indoor plumbing, a modern human invention Sukuna can quite appreciate.)

“So… I guess we should pack for Tokyo now, huh?” the boy muses.

“Gojo said to pack essentials. I guess the school provides a lot of stuff,” she replies, shrugging.

“What about the rest?” He glances around the modest abode with nostalgia prickling in his chest. “I don’t want to just… leave everything behind.”

“Why don’t we ask when he gets here?” she offers, already halfway down the hall. “Maybe we can get everything stored somewhere for when we graduate.”

As if either of them will live that long.

Sukuna tunes out their idle chatter while they pack - only notes that a suspicious number of her clothes are mixed with the brat’s. Even undergarments.

Understanding the nature of their relationship is truly of no interest to Sukuna - beneath him entirely. Inconsequential. She is inconsequential. At best, a convenient tool he can manipulate to further his plans.

…

But have the conventions of interaction between human men and women really become so lax?

Sukuna himself gives no such weight to social customs except in instances when defying them inspires horror and fear in others. The arbitrary rituals of courting, marriage, and gender relations were things he was only vaguely aware of in his time - and he certainly never abided by them.

Sukuna enforced his own expectation of conduct. Man or woman, they would bow their heads low or lose them. And if he saw fit to slake his appetite (of any kind) with their bodies, they should be so blessed. Affection, desire, vulnerability - none of these were remotely involved in the transaction. 

Thus, his ire at her casual and careless comfort with his new body is not based in human principles of propriety between an unwed man and woman. It is that she has done nothing to earn the privilege of looking upon him, touching him, speaking to him.

Any one of these is a transgression worth an eternity of retribution and she does it all so thoughtlessly. Because she has some ambiguous attachment to this vessel that makes her think her behavior is acceptable.

The nature of that relationship eludes Sukuna.

In his own time and by his own understanding, their easy intimacy would only be appropriate between spouses. Yet—

“You had that sweater this whole time?!” she demands, pointing at the half-folded article of clothing in the brat’s hands.

Oh shit, Sukuna’s vessel thinks, loud and saturated with dread.

To her, he makes a show of appearing sheepish while trying to hide the sweater behind his back. 

“Oh, I guess so?” he says, voice pitched too high with guilt. “Must have ended up in my laundry… somehow…”

“I’ve been looking for it for months, you little thief!”

“Hey now, that’s a pretty serious accusation to— ah!”

Sukuna’s annoyance bubbles as she leaps across the messy room in a bid to retrieve her stolen sweatshirt. She only succeeds in toppling them both to the floor.

“Hey! You can have this back when I get my Human Earthworm t-shirt back!” the whelp declares, trying to fend her off with one hand while the other holds the sweatshirt out of reach.

He outstrips her by every measure - bigger, stronger, faster - and yet he humors her with straining and struggling. It maddeningly unnecessary, frivolous sentimentality. A waste of time and energy. As far as Sukuna can discern, the brat participates willingly. Enthusiastically even.

“I gave that back two weeks ago!” she shrieks, shoving a palm into his face.

“Yeah, and then you wore it to school the next morning! I haven’t seen it since!”

“Not my fault you can’t keep track of shit!”

They tumble and grapple on the floor, limbs flailing artlessly. Her elbow jabs him in the spleen. He jams his knee against her stomach. He flips over in an attempt to crawl away, only for her to latch onto his back and lock her arms around his neck, as if to choke him. He yelps; a finger hooks into the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t bite me!” she squeals.

“Don’ ‘ishhook ‘e!” he slurs back.

She pulls her hand back and wipes the saliva off on his collar. “Then quit flopping around like a fish!”

“You attacked me first!”

“Because you stole my hoodie!”

Shut the fuck up already!

“Stay out of it, Sukuna!” the brat snaps.

“Mind your business, Satan!” she adds. Finally gets her fingers around the hem of the sweatshirt. “Aha!” And promptly gets flattened as the boy flips on his back, squishing her beneath his weight. “Oof.”

Serves her right.

Except peals of laughter spill from beneath brat, and when he rolls over, she’s grinning and flushed, rumpled. Her amusement triggers his in turn, and the two of them are splayed on the floor amidst half-packed belongings, giggling stupidly.

Once again, the nature of their relationship is unfathomable.

Not that it is of any significance.

But they are surely beyond platonic. And yet, as the whelp gets to his feet and helps her up with him, his thoughts never tinge into the rosy, honeyed waters of romanticism. There is (ugh) love, yes, but the nature of that love is undefinable.

Their laughter is cut short by the high chirping of a device - a phone, Sukuna recalls.

The girl fishes beneath the pillows and glances at the screen, brows ticking up.

“Gojo’ll be here in fifteen,” she announces. “Stay here and finish. I’ve… gotta go next door.”

The vessel frowns, unease trickling through his simple mind. “I can go with you…”

She shakes her head and tosses the unfolded sweatshirt aside like they didn’t just quarrel over it. Her phone disappears into the pocket of her pants. She plucks up her half-full bag without making eye contact.

“I won’t take long. Mom probably left last night, anyway.”

The brat opens his mouth, that shadow of doubt darkening. Bits and pieces of memory flit across his mind. Shouting through the apartment walls, the stench of hard spirits, his precious Himawari with tired eyes and bent shoulders.

Pathetic, Sukuna scoffs. The squabbles of maggots are beneath his notice. Not even worth the effort of sneering. Sorcerers may be a nuisance but they are still, ultimately, insects like the rest. If the sunflower allows herself to be crushed behind closed doors, what does it matter to Sukuna?

The vessel’s protests and worries don’t cross the threshold of his tongue. Instead, he meekly says, “Okay… holler if you need me.”

“Will do,” she soothes, squeezing his forearm as she passes.

The whelp stares after even when the front door of the domicile closes. Nameless, shapeless worries swim across his thoughts, though he shies from acknowledging any concrete concern. It’s noisy static, useless and not even actionable, so Sukuna interrupts before it can irritate him further.

What, you can’t pack without her holding your hand?

The boy jolts from his vague, shallow musings and returns to his task without comment. His apprehension finds release in quick, jerky movements. Flitting about the messy room and lavatory gathering items he deems “essential,” stuffing them into a large bag.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters to the otherwise empty room. “Auntie isn’t… she wasn’t always like that.”

I don’t care.

But the idiot isn’t even listening (and he will regret that) he’s too busy reminiscing about the past. Remembering a warm older woman sharing features with the girl he grew up with. A drastic change in her demeanor after her late husband’s sudden, inexplicable passing—

“Hey… Sukuna?” He’s not given a response, but continues nevertheless. “Can curses—”

Thump

He jerks upright, eyes narrowed on the offending wall. It’s shared with the apartment next door. The apartment she left to.

His mind has barely processed the implications but his (their) body is already moving. Bolting through the front door, pivoting, and shouldering open the one adjacent.

The previous evening, Sukuna noted the unusually high concentration of curses when they passed. Even so, he’s almost impressed by the number of them, slinking along the walls and infesting corners. None are particularly strong, but what they lack in individual strength would be supplemented through sheer mass - at least as far as humans should be concerned.

The sight doesn’t faze his vessel, not yet at least. His thoughts are narrowed down to that suspicious noise, finding the source, and getting there as quickly as possible. He charges ahead with bullheaded determination, grinding a small spidery curse beneath his heel without notice.

Down a short, narrow hallway. A door left wide open, the room unlit beyond. Against the far wall - the wall shared with the next apartment - is a man. The brat doesn’t recognize him at a glance, but he does recognize the yellow sneakers backed against the floorboard.

“… what she looked like twenty years ago?” the man is leering, slurring. The stench of him practically wafts across the room. “Maybe I should trade in for a younger model… what d’you think?”

And past his hunched shoulder is her. Not the meek and tender creature that’s been simpering at his vessel’s side. No, this is the woman that dared look Ryomen Sukuna in the eye.

It’s nearly that same expression on her face now, staring down this man and his unwelcome advances. Her chin tilts up, proud. Defiant. She’s left her throat exposed and in the recesses of his vessel’s mind, Sukuna licks his fangs.

“I think you have three seconds.”

She says it clear, sharp. The same expectation of obedience when she reprimanded Sukuna. There’s an undercurrent of threat now, a sweet promise of violence that mildly piques his interest. (For lack of better entertainment, at least.) 

“Oh?” the man hiccups a derisive chuckle. “Three seconds or what? Hmm? What will a little flower like you—”

The wet crunch of cartilage interrupts his jeering. Blood spurts from the man’s face, visible even with his back to the boy. He screams.

She sidesteps his crumpling form and turns to her impromptu audience.

“Yu-chan?” she asks. “I wasn’t gone that long, was I?”

“I heard some noise…” he explains, gesturing to the wall behind her. “Are you alright?”

She smiles at him, tension melting away. “Of course!”

She’s halfway to her bag, abandoned by the bedside, when the drunken fool recovers. He stumbles around with a wordless yell, lunging for her and heedless of the other party in the room.

This time, the boy doesn’t just stand and gawk. He intercepts before the man is even within breathing distance of his target, wrist bent at an awkward and painful angle.

“H-Hey let go!” he warbles, voice thick with snot, blood, and tears. “Sh-she started it, the little— ah!”

Now break it, Sukuna hisses, venomous. That woman’s suffering is his to mete; her pain, her fear, her misery are to be his trophies alone, for the insult she’s made against him. (Repeatedly.)

“Maybe you should go to the hospital,” the kid suggests pointedly instead, “that looks broken.”

“R-really, you think so?!” the idiot yelps, prodding at his purpling nose with his free hand.

The brat nods. “She’s done it before. It’s best to get it set as soon as possible.”

She glances over her shoulder, an eyebrow arched. “I dunno, I think it’s kind of an improvement.”

The man tries to twist around again, but the pressure increases on his wrist - just short of doing any real damage. A warning he doesn’t deserve. Sukuna rolls his eyes.

When the man turns back, whimpering, the boy sighs.

“Get out of here, man. Before we call the cops.”

“F-fine. But you’ll regret this,” he spits, staggering for the door, “I-I’ll tell your mother!”

She actually laughs at that. Short, sharp, derisive. A meaner sound than Sukuna would have expected from her.

“Knock yourself out.”

He scuttles out the door and down the hall, hands pressed to his dribbling nose. Near the front of the house, they hear a new voice chirping, “Whoa, crowded in here!”

Sukuna recognizes the voice even before he senses the cursed energy - and long before that infuriating head of white hair pops past the door frame.

“Busy morning?” Satoru Gojo asks.

The brats exchange glances. She shrugs as the boy says, “Nope!”

Is this what it would have been like, if Rika Orimoto had lived?

Satoru’s newest students are curled up on their side of the Shinkansen, sharing the armrest separating their first-class seats. Their heads are ducked together, one headphone in each ear, watching a video on one of their phones. They keep giggling at intervals, covering their mouths to stifle themselves to a polite volume.

It’s hard not to wonder, looking at them. The same old story, isn’t it? Boy meets girl. Childhood friends. Promises made over teeter-totters. Love rooted soul-deep, growing with the body it’s anchored in. Perhaps even a sweet hint of codependency.

Satoru sees shades of Yuuta there - not in Yuuji, but in Hima. A quiet reserve that tries, and fails, to hide a hovering anxiety. Gripping so tightly, almost selfishly, to the one she loves. A coiled up ball of latent power one tragedy away from exploding.

And Satoru never met Rika - the real Rika, that is - except when her spirit manifested to relieve Yuuta of his burdens, but even from that glimpse, he can draw a parallel to Yuuji. Too kind and too good for what’s become of them, loyal at their own expense. A powerhouse that can be pointed at an enemy and set loose to decimate.

Tragedy is the obvious outcome. One of them may not have died in childhood, but their trajectory is a narrow and bleak spiral with a bloody crash waiting at the end. It happened to Yuuta and Rika. It even happened to Suguru and Satoru himself.

Yuuji Itadori is the vessel for Ryomen Sukuna. Even if he successfully outlives the old farts demanding his head, he’s a sorcerer now. She’s a sorcerer now. All that awaits sorcerers at the end of their very short path is blood.

“D-don’t ever make that face again,” Hima wheezes, nearly doubled in her seat and crying with laughter.

“What? What’s wrong with my face?!” Yuuji replies, expression contorted into something truly and profoundly disturbing. “Don’t you want to be seen with me, Hima-chan?”

“I don’t even want to see you.”

Hima’s cursed energy shimmers around her, a golden halo that ebbs and flows with her emotions. Creeping across the space to half-envelope Yuuji as well, despite her joking.

Undisciplined, yet still instinctively adept with her technique - guess they’re not called “innate” for nothing. Not the simplest, certainly, but there’s potential simmering beneath her skin as surely as the curse lurking beneath Yuuji’s. Strength on the cusp of Grade 2 already, and that’s without Satoru’s brilliant tutelage.

“Don’t be so mean, I just want a hug!” Yuuji coos.

“You stay over there or I’ll have Gojo-sensei exorcise you.”

Satoru turns and blinks. Hima is half-falling out of her seat, a leg and arm stiffly trying to fend off Yuuji’s fishy-lips, making obnoxious kissy noises. She sends him a sideways pleading look, her reservations from last night apparently eased enough to include him in… whatever delightful thing is happening right now.

(Satoru doesn’t think it’s nearly that easy. That, like him, she tends to keep her true thoughts carefully tucked away from others. Even her best friend.)

“Sorry, Hima-chan, but I don’t see any curses around here,” Satoru says, shrugging.

She gapes while Yuuji tries desperately not to laugh himself out of the ugly face he’s terrorizing her with. Somehow, it makes the contortions even worse.

“You’re telling me that’s not cursed?” she demands.

Satoru pauses and puts a hand on his chin, makes a show of considering Yuuji and the frankly unhinged smooch noises he’s still making.

“Well, love is the most powerful curse of all,” he says, “but I don’t think even I can exorcise that.”

They both go still. Glance at each other so quickly and laden with meaning they practically develop a new two-person technique right there, and then blink at Satoru.

“That… doesn’t sound right,” Yuuji says, frowning.

“Doesn’t it?” Satoru chuckles.

Yuuji tugs Hima up (with an arm he’s had safely around her waist this whole time) back into her seat. The two of them peer at Satoru across the train aisle like he’s something morbidly fascinating.

“People die for love. They slaughter for love.” They bind the souls of their childhood loves into lethal supernatural guard dogs out of love. “Doesn’t your grandfather’s death feel like a curse? And would it still feel that way if you didn’t love him?”

Yuuji’s brow furrows, trying to work out the answers in his head. Satoru doesn’t expect him to get it, really, or to come to the same conclusion. They haven’t known each other long, but Satoru can tell already that Yuuji’s too optimistic, too good (or maybe too stubbornly hopeful) to agree.

But he’s not the one that needs to get that message.

“No,” Yuuji says, surprisingly level. “I don’t know about that other stuff, but Jiji… I do miss him because I loved him. But it’s because I loved him that I can keep going, ya know? And I don’t think that’s a curse.”

Satoru hums. Yuuji mentioned that during the cremation - Wasuke’s final words to him, the goal he was charged with. Living a good life by helping others and giving them a proper death. It’s a heavy burden to place on anyone’s shoulders, even if Yuuji’s are stronger than most.

Right now, Yuuji views it as a purpose. A way to keep his grandfather’s spirit alive and close in some way. Not a life sentence that it may end up becoming with the cruel and bloody road ahead of him.

“I hope you always feel that way, Yuuji,” Satoru says honestly.

He turns his gaze towards Hima, knowing she’ll feel it even with his blindfold. She gazes back, eyes stormy. The easy flow of her cursed energy has become rigid, sharp, like shards of broken mirror. A deadly glint at the edges rather than a sparkling prism.

“What do you think, Hima-chan?” he asks, tilting his head. Unlike Yuuji, she seems to have gotten his meaning right from the start. Struck the bullseye in one shot with her. “Do you think love is a curse?”

She blinks, visibly forces her expression to smooth, and leans her shoulder into Yuuji.

“I think it’s stupid to put your hand in a fire and blame it for burning you.”

Satoru’s brows shoot up despite himself. Well, now. That’s an interesting (and somewhat concerning) perspective.

Between the two of them, Satoru is under no delusions that Hima is the more dangerous and immediate threat if things go south with the elders. Sure, the King of Curses is a walking, talking calamity blah blah blah - but Hima has a versatile cursed technique with morals that come second to one thing and one thing only: Yuuji Itadori.

Right now, she’s untrained. Her technique is unrefined, her control erratic and inconsistent. But Satoru plans to correct that in short, fast, and thorough order. He doesn’t train any of his students to lose. To anyone.

If the elders don’t watch their collective step, Sukuna’s not the only curse they’ll have to worry about.

“Wait, I don’t get it,” Yuuji says, “we were talking about curses and now we’re talking about fire? Wha— that doesn’t make any sense either, Sukuna!”

Hima blinks and twists towards him, all the tension disappearing in an instant. “He definitely doesn’t get to weigh in on this. He can have an opinion when we talk about dismemberment methods or something.”

“Why’d you have to say that?” Yuuji groans, wrinkling his nose. “Now he’s talking about quartering, gross!”

Well, Satoru thinks, love may be a curse - but they are exorcists.

He asks her to trust him.

This stranger named Satoru Gojo, claiming to be the strongest (and she believes it, she just… knows it’s true) asks her to put her faith in him.

It’s just the two of them right now. Sasaki-san and Iguchi-kun are off to the hospital. Fushiguro has been sent away in an unmarked ambulance, after quietly thanking her for helping him. Yuuji is tied to a chair in the next room, lit by dozens of paper lamps and walls papered with strange symbols. He’s still unconscious, and Gojo said he will be for a while yet, which gives them time to talk.

And he asks her to trust him.

“I don’t really have another option,” she tells him quietly, looking into her tea. It’s too hot, she’s burning her hands a bit, but it’s grounding. Everything feels surreal, like a dream or maybe a bizarre nightmare.

“Depends on what you consider an option,” he replies, waving his kikufuku lazily.

She could choose not to trust him, go along with it all in tortured, paranoid silence. Or she could try to fight back. That sounds like it would go about as well as fighting that curse had - probably worse.

“I just want Yuuji safe,” she murmurs, “and I want to stay by his side.”

“I can’t guarantee either of those things,” he admits, “but I am your best shot.”

She sighs, finally takes a scalding sip of her drink. It doesn’t touch the icy dread in her chest. But she believes him. Has to.

“Okay.”

“Great!” Gojo cheers, like she’s given him a glowing endorsement. “Now that that’s settled - let’s talk about your cursed technique.”

She blinks, forces her brain to switch gears. “Right, you mentioned that earlier.”

“Did you know you’ve been repelling curses this whole time?” he asks. He says it like Yuuji would say “Fun fact!” with movie trivia. Even puts his hands up, fingers fanned out. It thaws her a bit.

“Uh, no, I didn’t. But I guess… curses have never been able to touch me. Even when they try.”

“That’s because you’ve been subconsciously using your technique!” he explains. “You have a barrier of cursed energy up that acts like a mirror, reflecting foreign cursed energy back at attackers.”

She thinks of the curse in the locker room when she was in middle school, and the one that almost hit her and Fushiguro at the school. It makes sense, except…

“But you weren’t knocked out earlier.”

“That’s because my own technique countered it, creating a neutralizing effect.” He waves a hand, brushing that part aside. “What’s more interesting is that I don’t think your cursed energy is actually a mirror.”

She blinks at him, confused. This day has been far too long and far too difficult for this amount of thinking. “It’s not?”

“Right now, you instinctively use it to reflect energy as it comes. But I think that with some training, you could use it like a prism to magnify, reduce, or even absorb energy. You might even be able to do more with it, kind of like white light refracting into different colors. Who knows!”

She turns that over for a moment, trying to theorize with something she doesn’t even have the basics of. It seems… difficult. And complicated. And like she needs a better grasp of light physics. 

“So I’m… like a cursed rainbow?” she wonders after a moment.

He chuckles. “It’s probably not that literal, but it has a lot of potential for adaptability. It’ll make for great defense in battle. You’re essentially curse-proof, kid.”

She remembers putting herself between Fushiguro and the curse. The force of it had knocked her down, but otherwise, she’d been fine. More importantly, Fushiguro hadn’t been injured further. She was able to protect him; she could protect Yuuji.

“That means Sukuna can’t…”

“Well, he can’t use his cursed techniques on you, no.” Gojo laces his fingers together on the table. “I don’t suppose you’ve miraculously never been injured otherwise?”

Years of scraped knees, twisted ankles, jammed wrists, and paper cuts flit through her head. Bruises from playing too rough with Yuuji, ear-ringing bumps to the head on cabinets and the bottom of desks.

“No.”

He tsks. “That’s a shame. He won’t be able to use any cursed energy on you, but since he has a physical body and isn’t just a manifestation of cursed energy…”

“He could physically hurt me.”

“Right.”

There’s a pause. Like he’s waiting for her to come to some earth-shattering conclusion. It takes another long moment to realize the pieces he’s expecting her to put together.

“Yuuji wouldn’t let him hurt me,” she says, sitting back. The tea goes down easier this time.

“You really think he can keep Sukuna on a leash?” Gojo asks.

She hums. “If anyone can, it’s Yuuji. He’s stubborn as hell and strong in ways people don’t give him credit for. You all really lucked out with him as a vessel.”

Gojo’s brows are nearly to his hairline. “You think a lot of him. Sukuna’s powerful, and evil.”

“I think the world of him,” she admits plainly. “Yuuji is exactly as good as Sukuna is evil. Maybe even more.”

She shrugs. It’s just that simple.

Gojo coos, propping his elbows on the table with his cheeks in his hands. Practically blushing.

“Aw, young love,” he gushes. “It just makes my heart sing.”

A laugh startles out of her. It’s been a long time since anyone new commented on her and Yuuji’s friendship. Their guardians, neighbors, everyone at school - even Ms. Sakamoto - had known them as an inseparable pair for years. The luster of their bond was long gone, if it was ever there to begin with.

“Well, what kind of sensei would I be to ruin such a pure relationship with execution?” he sighs dreamily.

She shakes her head, amused despite herself. He’s a little too similar to Yuuji for her to be annoyed or put off by his antics - no matter how inappropriate to the situation they are. On the contrary, his flippant attitude is almost reassuring. Like things aren’t as dire as they appear.

“Well, try to get some rest. Yuuji should be up in about an hour and I’ve got a lot to go over with him. It’ll be a bit before we go anywhere, and you look exhausted.”

She is exhausted. This has been the longest day of her life - she’s shocked it’s still going, honestly. Gramps’ passing feels like a week ago, even though her heart still hurts with the fresh wound.

“Okay.”

She trudges to the tiny, faded couch tucked in a dark corner. She curls up on the cushions facing the door Yuuji’s behind. It’s not the most comfortable, but she’s already having trouble keeping her eyes open, sleep dragging her down quicker than she expected.

“Um, Gojo… sensei?” she calls.

“Hm?” he asks, easy smile still in place.

“Thank you… for helping Yuuji.”

“What’s the point of being the strongest if I can’t protect one person,” he chuckles, shrugging. “But Hima-san, I’m going to help you too.”

She doesn’t know what to do with that, has always been the type to duck attention in case someone noticed that she was off. Always more comfortable with Yuuji shining bright enough for both of them.

So she hums noncommittally and closes her eyes, letting her thoughts slip away.

Hima is his first thought when he wakes.

Not the ropes around his wrists, the spooky room, the white-haired man from before. Those are all secondary to the realization that he doesn’t know where Hima is, if she’s okay. The last time he saw her, she was leaning over Fushiguro and there was blood on her cheek - a cut from the window they broke through at the beginning of the fight.

In truth, he’s only half-listening until Gojo assures him that she’s okay - sleeping just outside the room. Alive, mostly healthy, and whole.

But even then, it itches under his skin, at the back of his mind. He wants to confirm for himself. Just see her, hug her, make sure she’s alright because even if she’s physically fine, he knows she was scared. 

His best friend has always had a way of hiding her feelings beneath the surface. She smiles and jokes and comes off serene, but only Yuuji has ever been able to see through it.

He agrees to the terms of his extended sentence without much thought. It buys them time to plan out an alternative, gives him the freedom to stay by Hima’s side. It’s a no-brainer.

As soon as he darts out of the room, past Gojo and the enchantments, Sukuna’s comes howling back to consciousness. Spewing profanity and threats, vicious and loud, but Yuuji tunes him out because he spots Hima immediately.

She’s curled up on a tiny couch, already rousing from the noise - or maybe just sensing that Yuuji’s free.

He rushes to her side, knees hitting the floor hard enough to rattle his bones.

Don’t you dare, Sukuna starts - but Hima’s eyes open and land instantly on Yuuji and she’s flying off the cushions.

She crashes into him, but he’s strong enough to hold them both up, arms tight around her waist. He presses his face into her shoulder as she hides against his neck, tears wetting his skin. Her heart is fluttering hummingbird-fast against his chest, breaths hitching.

“Yuuji,” she hiccups, “are you okay?”

His voice gets caught in his throat, emotion strangling everything but a choked hum of confirmation. In its absence, he gently pries her away to scan her for injuries. The cut on her cheek has been cleaned and taped together and there’s a bruise darkening on her forearm.

She gives him a watery smile and squeezes his wrist. “M’okay, Yu-chan.”

This is a sickening display, Sukuna sneers in his head.

The interruption is unwelcome, sapping all the relief and comfort of being reunited.

“Then don’t watch,” Yuuji snips aloud.

She blinks in confusion.

“Sorry,” he winces, pointing at his temple, “Sukuna’s awake.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head, as if she could see him hiding within Yuuji from a different angle. “Uh… well, hello to you too, Sukuna.”

He pouts. “I don’t think you should talk to him.”

As if I would entertain conversation so beneath me.

“Why not?” she asks, focusing on Yuuji again. “It’s not like he’ll get out, right?”

He scrunches his nose. “I guess not. I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to antagonize him.”

She shakes her head. “I’m already on his shit list for squishing your li’l face,” she declares, and does it again as demonstration. Yuuji just snorts. “I’m not sure what hurt his pride more - that, or losing to Gojo-san.”

They will both suffer endlessly.

“Definitely on his shit list,” he agrees.

She grins. “Scary,” she coos in a voice reserved for cute animals and Yuuji when he’s too tired to be anything but helpless.

I will ensure she forgets any emotion but fear.

Yuuji resists answering aloud again, just has the vague thought “yeah right” that seems to translate well enough.

“I hate to break up a tearful reunion, but there’s no way I’m staying here tonight - and I’m sure you two don’t want to either,” Gojo interjects. “It’s been a long night, we should go.”

Hima turns to him, an odd expression on her face. Yuuji isn’t used to being out of the loop like this - but when he nudges her, she gives him a look that promises answers when they have a moment alone.

“Can we go home?” she asks.

He shrugs, “I don’t see why not. You two need to pack for Tokyo anyway.”

It’s well past midnight, the trains have stopped running. But there’s a sleek black car waiting in the street by the safehouse and Yuuji is kind of glad they’ll have some privacy anyway.

Even though he’s in a clean white t-shirt, his pants are still dirty, scuffed, and stained from the fight. Plus, he’s pretty sure there’s still dried blood crusted to his jaw. And Hima’s not exactly in pristine condition either - he can only imagine the stares they’d get, two guys with a girl who’s clearly been through something.

Gojo takes the front passenger seat, while he and Hima crawl into the back. She doesn’t go to the far side, instead tucking in against Yuuji’s side, linking their arms. He rests his head on top of hers. Feels like he can breathe for the first time in hours.

They don’t speak during the drive, too tired and maybe too afraid to talk about any of the things they need to.

Everything is different now. Yuuji’s body isn’t just his own anymore. There’s this whole other layer to the world that they were entirely unaware of…

Or at least he was.

He remembers the look on Hima’s face when she saw the curse at school, when she realized Yuuji could see them too.

In the dark of the car, he rifles through over a decade of memories. And yeah, now that he’s looking for it, he sees it. Times when her eyes strayed or she twitched like she heard something no one else could.

She’s always had a habit staring off in seemingly random directions. He grew up with it, so never questioned it unless someone else did. Like everyone else, he always thought she was daydreaming, or uncomfortable socializing. 

But if all this time she was seeing curses…

Your precious bond doesn’t seem to be as strong as you thought, brat.

That’s not it; he knows that. Sure, he feels a tiny pang of hurt that she didn’t tell him; who wouldn’t? But he still knows her better than anyone, and he knows that whatever the reason she kept it a secret all these years, it’s not a reflection of their relationship.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

They pull up to the apartment complex in silence. Hop out together, but pause when Gojo only rolls down the window.

“I’ll be staying at a hotel nearby, so make sure you call if anything happens. Otherwise, I’ll see you two tomorrow morning!”

He leans halfway out of the car waving as it pulls away.

“What an interesting guy,” Yuuji muses.

“He’s exactly the type of weird I’d expect of people that can see creepy entities,” she adds.

“You know those weirdos include us now, right?” he asks, turning back to the apartments.

There are small curses hanging around, he notices, scrabbling around near the trash and perched on the roof.

“It always included me, to be fair,” she says.

“Yeah…”

She notices the conflict on his face and takes his hand, tugging him along to the stairs.

“It’s not because I thought you wouldn’t believe me,” she starts. “I just… I was afraid they’d take me away, if I didn’t pretend. I got too good at it, I guess. I wanted to be normal.”

“I feel bad that you had to live with it on your own for so long,” he admits, ducking his head in shame.

But she just smiles over her shoulder, squeezes his hand. “I never felt alone with you around.”

The guilty knot in his chest loosens. If she says it’s okay, then it is. Besides, she’ll kick his ass if he dwells on it.

“D’you wanna shower first?” he asks.

They skip her apartment and go straight for his. The shadows lurking around her doorway are oddly darker, but he doesn’t mention it. He thinks he knows why she’s always slept badly there.

“You stink, you should got first,” she replies.

“Like you smell any better,” he argues, taking the bait.

“I do. I don’t have another entity living in me.” She fits her spare into the lock and steps inside, twisting around to give him a smug look. “His attitude alone stinks enough for the both of you.”

Bitch.

“Whatever - it’ll take you a million years to get all that stuff out of your hair anyway.”

She groans. “Don’t remind me.”

They kick their shoes off in an approximate line by the wall, then pad further inside.

“D’you mind if I use the mirror?” she asks.

“Nah, of course not,” he replies, scratching absently at the itchy blood flaking off his jaw.

Harlot, Sukuna crows when she follows him into the bathroom.

Yuuji snorts. Hima isn’t even looking at him, grimacing at her own messy reflection as she picks delicately at the once-yellow ribbon that’s more tangled in than tied now.

“Who would have thought the King of Curses would be a prude,” he muses aloud.

Hima flicks him a curious glance, carefully plucking bits of rubble from her hair. “Hm?”

“I think he’s bothered that you’re in here.”

It’s disrespectful, she hasn’t earned the privilege of—

It’s my body, Yuuji thinks vehemently.

“That’s big talk considering the weird shit he was saying before,” she scoffs.

He had some idea of Sukuna’s thoughts then too and yeah, more than a little hypocritical. Not that he’s shocked that hypocrisy is in a curse’s wheelhouse, more that he would even think to comment on it.

“Well, he is from a different time period,” Yuuji muses, twisting the shower tap.

She snorts. “Yeah, because I’m sure he was a paragon of virtue back then.”

Yuuji laughs as he tests the water temperature, finds it warm enough, and steps in.

It is not about propriety.

If Sukuna had teeth, Yuuji’s sure he’d be speaking through them. It’s kind of funny actually, how bothered he is by Hima’s presence. Guess he didn’t have a childhood friend who saw him in way more embarrassing situations than just naked.

Beyond the shower curtain, he hears her hissing and cursing to herself, trying to work through tangles.

“Maybe I should just shave it all off,” she mutters stormily.

“Aw, but you spent so long growing it out from first year,” he says.

Not that he disliked when it was short, either.

“Yeah,” she sighs, “but if this is going to keep happening…”

“It’s only happened once.”

“So far.”

He hums, noncommittal. “D’you need help?”

“No… I’ve almost got the ribbon out, at least.”

He soaps down with a quiet groan, the heat easing the bruises blooming across his body. They’ll be gone before this time tomorrow, but they still hurt right now. The split in his lip stings as he runs his hands down his face.

“What did you think of Gojo?” he asks.

“He doesn’t seem so bad,” she replies. “I think he genuinely wants to help.”

Yuuji breathes a sigh of relief. He knows he tends to see the best in people, a bit of a perpetual optimist. Hima’s always been more skeptical, slower to pass judgment good or bad. It’s a relief that he wasn’t off about Gojo. 

“Do you think he’s as strong as he says he is?” he muses.

“Well, he seemed to handle Sukuna just fine,” she replies.

He survived only a twentieth of my true power, Sukuna scoffs. Yuuji frowns. One down, nineteen to go - and Sukuna is only going to get more dangerous as time goes on. And who knows, Yuuji can contain him now, but it might not always be that way.

“Hima-chan… you don’t have to do this, you know?”

Give me a break.

There’s a pause. “Do what?”

“Jujutsu Tech… all this stuff with curses and Sukuna. If you’ve been trying to pretend this whole time, and I’m just dragging you in deeper…”

“Itadori Yuuji.”

His mouth snaps shut. He can’t see her face, but he doesn’t need to. It’s a look he’s seen exactly twice before now and it chills him to the core. She doesn’t even need to say anything else, he can hear her in his head as clearly as he does Sukuna.

“We look out for each other.”

“I’ll always be your sunflower.”

“I’ll always be by your side, Yuuji. Always.”

He’s lucky she’s not dumping ice water on him for even suggesting she walk away.

“Right, sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m just worried about Sukuna, I guess.”

“He can’t hurt me.”

In his new, unwelcome place within Yuuji, Sukuna alerts like a guard dog. Already bristling at the suggestion that someone is stronger than him.

“He can’t?”

“It’s my curse technique, apparently,” she explains. “Gojo can explain it better, but I guess it acts kind of like a mirror. So any attack Sukuna makes against me will just reflect back.”

The tightness in his chest eases. Even if his control somehow slipped, Sukuna couldn’t hurt her. She’s as safe from him as it’s possible to be.

“Well, that’s good to know,” he breathes.

“Yup! Now hurry up, I’m getting dust everywhere.”

They eat leftovers straight from the container, sharing a pair of disposable chopsticks between them. Yuuji’s having trouble getting the food to his mouth and Hima is blinking long and slow between bites. The half-assed meal passes in a haze for both of them, pure exhaustion blurring the edges of their vision and weighing down their limbs.

Yuuji chugs about a gallon of water, more parched than he ever remembers. Hima downs two cups of honey-lemon tea like they’re hard liquor, mumbling something about vitamins.

They pad together to Yuuji’s room, to his unmade bed, tucked into the corner where it’s always been. Hima climbs in first, tucking herself against the cool wall - what will be a welcome relief when he inevitably overheats her with his furnace-like body temperature.

Yuuji shuts off the lights and flops onto the mattress beside her with a groan. He’s already half asleep while she tugs the blankets over them both. The weight of her beside him is familiar, comforting. Gentle warmth, the scents of soap and home.

She turns on her side and tucks her cold feet beneath his calf. He grumbles half-heartedly but doesn’t move, except to brush her half-dry hair out of his face. It’s dark, but there’s a narrow strip of streetlight that’s wiggled through the blinds, highlighting her temple to her collarbone.

Silence settles in with them as the apartment falls still, like the whole world is taking a much needed rest too. Even with the pervasive newness of Sukuna in his consciousness, Yuuji is soothed by the familiarity and safety of home. Of Hima. Of just a few quiet hours.

“Yuuji?” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

Her hand finds his tucked beneath the pillow.

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t ask for what. He suspects he already knows. He also suspects this is the only time someone will ever thank him for swallowing that finger.

He squeezes her hand.

“I’d do it all over again.”

She’s four years old and she sees things.

Scary things. Ugly things. Things with lots of eyes and sharp teeth. Things covered in wiry hair with too many arms and legs.

Things that everyone tells her are just her imagination.

She scares other kids when she talks about them. She scares her mama. She might even scare her papa.

They’ve just moved, after she scared away most kids (and parents) in their neighborhood. Papa got a new job in Sendai and they moved. A “fresh start,” her mama said with a wobbly smile.

And now there’s a boy with big gold eyes and pink hair.

He’s grinning at her from the side of a man she’s pretty sure is too old to be his papa. He tells her that yellow is his favorite color, eyes on the ribbons mama had braided into her hair.

His name is Yuuji and he teaches her how to play “airplanes.”

She doesn’t tell him about the scary things she sees; but the scary things don’t seem to be around when he is, either.

He calls her sunflower. Himawari. And if that’s true, then he’s the sun she’s always turning towards.

She’s six and Yuuji calls her Hima-chan. Everyone does now, even her parents.

School is full of scary things, though they still keep their distance when Yuuji’s around. Her eyes wander after shadows and she hates walking by the janitors closet.

She never tells him why, but he never asks. Just takes her hand and leads her the long away around.

He’s teaching her to be brave. Teaching her that even when other kids don’t play with them, it’s okay because they have each other. Sometimes other kids are mean; they whisper about her daydreaming and how easily she’s startled - but Yuuji never lets anyone get away with it.

Besides, she’s starting to realize she doesn’t mind if other people are mean.

Yuuji is nice to her. Yuuji is her best friend. She doesn’t scare Yuuji; he doesn’t think she’s silly or weird.

And Yuuji is really all she needs.

She’s ten and her parents sit her down.

She’s too old for them to pretend she’s just got strange imaginary friends.

They tell her that she needs to admit they’re not real at all. That she doesn’t see them anymore. That the things she absently sketches in her notebooks are just inspired by her horror movie binges with Yuuji. That she’s staring off into “space” lost in thought - absentminded and flighty, not actually seeing something.

Because if she is, if she really is, they have to take her to a doctor. They have to get her tests.

Normal people don’t see things other people can’t. They need her to be normal. Or they’ll take her from Yuuji.

So she is.

She stopped talking about the scary things a long time ago, but she’s extra careful now. She doesn’t draw the slithering things coiled around the kitchen table, or the ugly greenish thing that follows mama home sometimes. She keeps her eyes on people when they talk - or close enough that they can’t tell she’s really watching the corners and ceiling. She walks by the janitor’s closet even though it makes her heart race.

Yuuji always gives her a worried look, like he can hear it beating in her chest.

If she told Yuuji, she knows he’d believe her.

But she doesn’t want to tell him; she wants to be normal.

He still holds her hand and doesn’t let her drag her feet trying to pretend she isn’t scared. He always protects her and doesn’t even realize how or why sometimes. He just does. 

In return, she’s just as fiercely protective of him. Her best friend in the whole world, the brightest star in her sky. People aren’t so scary anymore. Not compared to the things she sees. So she doesn’t let people take advantage of him, his kindness or his optimism.

And if other people like her less for it, so be it.

She’ll always have Yuuji; and Yuuji will always have her.

She’s twelve and a curse tries to hurt her for the first time.

She’s in the girl’s locker room, a place they tend to swarm. They like sad places, scary places, uncomfortable places. The locker room is all that in turns, puberty is crueler to some than others and preteens can get nasty.

She’s just lacing up her shoes. Something slimy and dense clambers over her shoulder, reaches for her wrist with sharp talons.

“You should just—” It doesn’t get to finish the awful thought. Instead of splitting her skin, it rips through its own arm. She’s too shocked to do anything but freeze as it lets out an ear-splitting shriek, then slithers away, nursing its wound.

She doesn’t understand what happened. She knows they can touch people, has seen them do it before. Make people burst into tears or start arguments over nothing.

Not her, though. It tried to hurt her and it failed. She’s fine; she’s safe. She never had a reason to fear in the first place.

She runs out to meet Yuuji in the gym, feeling lighter than ever before.

She’s thirteen and one infects papa.

The doctors try. They run tests and give him supplements. Scans and blood draws and observations. They’re fighting a losing battle, waging a war with an unseen enemy.

They’ll never cure him and she knows it long before he’s hospitalized.

Whatever has crawled inside his body isn’t coming out.

She should tell someone. Shouldn’t she?

Whenever she opens her mouth to tell mama, papa, the doctors, anyone, she remembers them sitting her down. Explaining what will happen to her, because normal people don’t see the creatures that she does. That they’ll take her away from home, from school, from Yuuji.

Guilt racks her. Not just that she knows, but that she’s immune to it all. She wishes she could protect her papa, would give him her immunity in a heartbeat if she could. But she keeps her mouth shut. Even if she told them, even if they believed her by some miracle, there’s nothing anyone could do. She doesn’t even know what these things are, never mind how to stop them, if it’s even possible. 

She leans hard into Yuuji, into the comfort of his warmth. The apartment she shares with mama is cold now, the air thick with pain and sadness, overwhelmed by monsters. They can’t hurt her, but they can taunt her. And they can still hurt mama. Best that mama spends as much time with papa as possible, and she can do that as long as Hima is looked after by the Itadoris.

It’s hard. She misses her parents. She feels unspeakably lonely sometimes, but Yuuji is always there. Always fills in those hollow spaces with just his presence.

She sobs into his shoulder and promises herself that if those things ever go after him, she won’t just stand back and watch. 

She’s fifteen and her mother hasn’t been home in three days.

Yuuji knows. He’s careful not to let his eyes linger on the shoes by the door or the single set of dishes in the sink. Doesn’t mention the half dozen empty liquor bottles piled in the recycling bin.

If he and Wasuke hear her mother’s shrill slur on the occasion she stumbles through the apartment, they don’t mention it. They’ve always been so kind.

Sometimes, her mother condemns her for all the ways she’s too much like her father. Sometimes she’s trailed by dirty, equally drunk men whose eyes linger where they shouldn’t. And sometimes, the worst times, she’s sobbing uncontrollably - wailing for her husband and heaving into the waste basket strategically left by her bedside.

The spirits take up permanent residence in their apartment, running rampant, crawling everywhere.

One day, she knows, they’ll take her mother too. In some ways, they already have.

She takes her comfort in Yuuji and Wasuke, and knows she’ll never love anyone like she loves them. 

She’s eighteen and her best friend just swallowed a cursed object whole.

There’s a boy bleeding at her feet and classmates unconscious in the rubble of their school.

But she’s not as noble as Yuuji - she can’t bring herself to think about them when Fushiguro’s shouted warning still rings in her ears.

Yuuji could die. Right here, right now. The only sunlight in her life could be snuffed out just like that—

And then a voice that isn’t his erupts from his chest. A smile too wide and too cruel curls his mouth. A second pair of eyes burst open, irises blood red. His skin changes, darkens with unfamiliar markings, ink black.

The man she’s facing is no longer Yuuji Itadori.

Having a body again… it’s a euphoria he hasn’t experienced in a millennium.

For far too long, he only had a vague sense of the world moving and changing around him, interspersed by the occasional stupidity of other curses looking for power. Flickers of wakefulness in a long hibernation - nothing compared to this glorious rebirth.

Sukuna basks in the moonlight on his skin, drowns himself in reawakened senses. Flesh is so much better than a cursed manifestation. Finally, a vessel capable of his power.

The buzz of this modern world electrifies him. He can feel blood pumping hard and fast in these new veins, the thrill of it all bubbling up and out in a mad ramble.

“Where are the people? The women?” he wonders aloud.

Everything looks so different now. Tall buildings and bright lights, a dense population of human souls just below his current perch, calling like a beacon. And even more beyond!

He twists towards the closest source of entertainment and steps up onto a metal railing, spreading his arms wide.

“What a wonderful era to be in,” he laughs. “Women and children are crawling everywhere like maggots.”

His mouth is already salivating.

“Marvelous!” he cries, hands curling in anticipation. “It’ll be a massacre!”

Something - someone - moves behind him.

And then there’s a hard tug at the back of his trousers, yanking him down from his perch.

“Gross!” a woman snips.

A small, cool hand grabs his cheeks so hard that his mouth puckers, and cranks his head sideways. He blinks, bewildered, at the decidedly unimpressed expression of a young woman. She meets his eyes without hesitation, without fear, without any of the sublime horror and awe he is owed.

“What are you, some basement-dwelling creep?” she scoffs. “Yu-chan, don’t be nasty.”

Sukuna opens his mouth, cursed energy already gathering - and promptly gets usurped by another consciousness. 

“Sorry, Hima-chan!” the human brat who shouldn’t even exist anymore says. To Sukuna, he snaps, “What do you think you’re doing?! Give my body back!”

The girl releases him - them - and tilts her head. But Sukuna’s no longer focused on her, he has more concerning matters. Like this body that should be unequivocally his.

“How are you able to move?” he demands.

What is this? How is this possible?

“I mean, it’s my body,” the boy replies, like it’s obvious. And to Sukuna’s shock, he starts wrestling control back. Successfully.

“You should see yourself in a mirror,” the girl - this “Hima-chan” - interrupts. She has the audacity to reach out, poking gently at one of the tattoos on his (their?) chest. “I didn’t even know your voice could do that.”

He - they - glance down at their bare torso, at the thick dark markings decorating their skin. A curl of secondhand fondness unfurls in his chest, unwelcome. The whelp is finding comfort in this irreverent bitch.

“To be fair,” the boy says, twisting an arm this way and that for her inspection, “I don’t think that’s so much my voice as… his.”

“Seeing you speak with two different voices is trippy,” she observes.

Like this is all some curious spectacle. Like Sukuna isn’t the King of Curses, reborn.

“Don’t move!”

They turn to the dark haired boy struggling to stand. He’s bleeding heavily, looks half dead already - no wonder Sukuna didn’t notice him sooner.

“You’re no longer human,” he continues, trembling with fear or fatigue. Even so, shadows begin to swirl around him. “Under Jujutsu regulations, Itadori Yuuji, I will exorcise you as a curse.”

Sukuna’s vessel blinks at him dumbly, but the girl twists around, placing herself between them. Her back is to them entirely, unprotected. There’s concrete dust and other debris in her hair, the brat notes absently. She’s going to be so annoyed.

“Maybe you should sit down again,” she says, soft and sickeningly concerned. “You’re in bad shape.”

She says that, and yet Sukuna notices how she’s positioned herself protectively, spine tense. It’s almost humorous, that this little thing thinks she can protect them if it came down to it.

“Probably more than a concussion,” the boy agrees, putting his hands up as if in surrender. Sukuna snarls in his mental bindings, incensed by such weak behavior. “Look, I’m just fine.”

He feels the last bit of his control slip. The markings fade from the boy’s skin and Sukuna’s forced to be a mere spectator for what follows.

“We’re both pretty beat up, we should go to a hospital.”

“And tell them what?” the girl asks, turning her head to arch an eyebrow.

“I dunno! You’ll think of something on the way, right?”

She blinks at him. “Your faith in me is astounding sometimes.”

“You’ve never let me down before!”

Her expression softens. Sukuna could gag.

A new voice joins them. “What’s the situation?”

Sorcerer.

Things are happening too fast.

Her best friend has something inside him now, something terrifying. She’s not afraid for herself, she could never be afraid of Yuuji - but she’s scared for him. Fushiguro isn’t in any shape to hurt him, but this new man, the one with white hair…

She can’t place her finger on it, but she feels it like an itch between her shoulder blades. A sharp, uneasy grip on her heart. He’s dangerous, powerful. And she’s so far out of her depth, can barely wrap her head around the realization that the things she’s seen her whole life are real, they have a name. 

But she doesn’t know how to protect Yuuji now. Couldn’t save him from the curse before, and doubts she could save him from this man if he agrees with Fushiguro’s judgment.

Somehow, she doesn’t think “exorcising” in this instance works the same as it does in movies.

“You okay?” Yuuji whispers.

She only flicks Yuuji a quick glance, too nervous to take her eyes off the stranger for long - no matter how nonchalantly he acts snapping pictures of Fushiguro.

“Yeah,” she lies.

“You sure?” he asks, a worried frown in his voice. “You fell down pretty hard earlier. And your arm is bleeding!”

“Oh, that’s from the window. Really, I’m alright.” She glances at him again, remembering the blood that had been dripping down his face. There’s no sign of it now, but still… “What about you?”

“I feel just fine, even after eating that thing.”

“You what?” the man interrupts, face frozen in shock. “Really?”

“He did,” she and Fushiguro confirm together.

He tilts his head curiously, unusual pale hair flopping as he tucks his phone away. When he takes a step towards them, she shifts nervously, grabbing at Yuuji’s arm. It doesn’t stop him from closing the distance. Even with a thick blindfold over his eyes, she gets the distinct sense that he sees more than she’s comfortable with - glancing first at her, and then focusing on Yuuji.

“Uh…” Yuuji blinks, twitching back a bit as the man leans closer.

“Damn,” he says after a moment, apparently amused, “it really did combine with you. That’s hilarious!”

Is it?

Yuuji glances at her with the same thought in his eyes and shrugs.

The man takes a step back, giving them some space. Her death grip on Yuuji’s arm loosens.

“Anything weird about your body?” the man asks.

Yuuji glances down at himself, shaking out his limbs. “Nah, I don’t think so. Hima?”

She gives him another once over. “You look the same right now - shame, that.”

“Hey!”

The attempt at levity works at least, easing some of the tension in his shoulders - and hers as well. They need to see that Yuuji is just himself, just her best friend. Not some monster that needs to be stopped.

“Can you swap with Sukuna at will?” the man asks.

“Sukuna?” Yuuji repeats.

“The curse you ate.”

Sukuna.

She turns the name over in her mind, though it doesn’t spark any particular reaction. Just something to call the manic entity that twisted her best friend around into a stranger for a few heart-stopping moments.

“Oh!” Yuuji says, putting a hand on his hip. “Mm-hmm, I think I can do that.”

The man takes another few steps back and drops into a squat, twisting his spine this way and that.

“Okay, gives us ten seconds,” he says, like he’s asking Yuuji to do jumping jacks. “Then change right back into yourself.”

She starts. “What? That’s not—”

“Don’t worry,” he says with an easy smile, “I’m way too strong for him.”

And… she believes it, oddly enough. That strange extra sense still tingles at the back of her mind, that there’s something else to this man. But his safety wasn’t actually her concern.

“Yuuji…” she starts.

His hand laces with hers and squeezes. “It’ll be okay, Hima! I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

She grimaces. “You said that about that konbini sushi one time…”

He has the audacity to look offended.

“This is completely different.”

“You just ate a mummified finger.”

“It’s better than throwing up until 2 am.”

“By what measure?!”

“Hima.” At a loss, she meets his eyes, trying to express all her worry and confusion, all the ways she’s afraid for him. He gazes back, steady and calm, the same reassurance that’s gotten them through the hardest moments of their lives. “Trust me.”

Of course she does. More than anyone.

“Okay, Yu-chan.”

She squeezes his hand one last time and steps away.

“If you could just stand over here with Megumi,” the white-haired man says, “we don’t want you in the line of fire.”

“Right,” she sighs, crossing to Fushiguro.

He glances at her as she kneels down beside him, ripping off a bit of her undershirt to press against the biggest cut on his forehead. At the very least, she can make herself useful like this. It’s better than sitting and watching, wringing her hands.

“Hold onto this for me,” the stranger says, tossing Fushiguro a bag as he continues stretching.

She’s not listening to their exchange, though. She’s watching Yuuji. Sees his head roll forward, jaw slack. Black marks bloom across his chest, shoulders, and arms - have barely solidified before he’s leaping into the air, almost too fast for her to track. Two pairs of crimson eyes gleam in the darkness.

She opens her mouth, but can’t get out a warning before the impact. A cloud of dust explodes around them, forcing her eyes shut.

Her mind screams that it’s not safe, that she needs to see.

She opens her eyes and gasps.

Yuuji - no, Sukuna - is crouched over her, hands planted on the ground to either side of her thighs. And his face is close. Burning red eyes lock with hers, his expression twisted in shocked fury. He snarls, treating her to a front row view of a wicked set of fangs.

Sitting on his bent back like a chair, the white-haired man continues chatting, unconcerned.

And the fight is on.

She can’t keep up with what’s happening, or even what’s being said. Her heart is pounding all over again, drowning out almost everything else. Her free hand curls in the front of Fushiguro’s jacket, keeping him close - though she doesn’t know whose sake it’s for.

Ten seconds feel like they stretch out for an hour. Another quarter of the school is destroyed in the clash; she’s not sure how she and Fushiguro remain unscathed (further) by the destruction. But they survive. The blindfolded man is standing between them and Sukuna as he counts out the last seconds.

She breathes a sigh of relief with Fushiguro as Sukuna jolts and stiffens, frozen. He sways, head falling forward again.

And then her best friend is back.

“Oh,” he says, like he just woke up from a light doze, “how’d it go?”

She lets Fushiguro go, the danger passed again.

“How about that,” the man observes cheerfully. A handful of floating rocks hit the ground. “So you really can control that guy?”

“He’s kind of annoying to tell the truth,” Yuuji complains, smacking at his own head, “and I keep hearing his voice.”

Huh. She tilts her head, admittedly intrigued - though she can imagine what Sukuna’s spouting off about, considering what he said in the little time he had initial control. She doesn’t envy him.

“It’s a miracle that’s all he’s doing to you,” the man says, approaching Yuji with his hand raised.

She realizes something is off too late. He touches Yuuji’s forehead and his eyes roll back as he slumps, knees giving out.

“Yuuji!” she yelps, bolting up.

“Don’t worry, I just knocked him out,” the man says, turning to her. Completely unconcerned.

“That why I’m worried,” she snaps, reaching for him.

He lets her get close enough to touch Yuuji’s cheek, but they both know she can’t take Yuuji from him. Even if he let her, she couldn’t support his weight. He’s all muscle, and she knows from experience that he’s dense as hell.

“Please be okay,” she whispers, ruffling her fingers through his sweaty, dirty hair.

He doesn’t stir, but his breathing is deep and even; it’s like he’s just sleeping. She can’t stop looking at the blood around his mouth.

“You two are close,” the man observes. “Not many people would still be around.”

“We grew up together,” she explains. “We’re all the family we have.”

“What is it with kids these days and their immortal bonds,” he mutters, seemingly to himself.

“Wh - hey!”

Electricity snaps between them as his fingers get within centimeters of her forehead. She jerks back instinctively, but it looks like his hand is pushed away.

“Well, isn’t that something,” he muses, tilting his head. “You two make an odd pair.”

“You just tried to knock me out,” she accuses, taking a another step back.

But he still has Yuuji and she stops from retreating further.

“I did,” he agrees, “but you used a cursed technique to stop me.”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“You don’t even realize what you did, do you?” he asks.

She shakes her head, eyes flicking between him and Yuuji. This is all too much. She doesn’t know what’s going on, can’t make herself think. Doesn’t know why he couldn’t knock her out or what it means.

“How long have you been able to see curses?” he continues.

She blinks, tries to focus. “My whole life.”

“But no one trained you.”

It’s not a question this time, but she still shakes her head. Adds, “My parents thought I might be crazy, so I just pretended not to see them. I didn’t know what they were… until tonight.”

He touches his chin with his free hand thoughtfully, then shrugs.

“Okay, we’ll come back to that later. Right now, we have to deal with Itadori here. If he isn’t possessed by Sukuna when he wakes up, then he might have potential as a vessel.”

He half turns, addressing Fushiguro, who’s still hugging his souvenir bag on the ground.

“What do you think we should do with him, Megumi?”

She glances at Fushiguro, heart in her throat. What if he insists that Yuuji needs to be exorcised. What will she do?

What can she do?

“Well, even if he is a vessel, jujutsu regulations demand that he be executed.”

Her heart sinks and tears sting her eyes for the first time that night. Fushiguro’s eyes land on her; he gives her a tiny nod. Then he turns to the white-haired man.

“However, I don’t want him to die.”

“Personal?” the man asks, curious.

“I suppose.” He steels his expression, brow furrowed with determination. “So can you save him?”

The man chuckles and bends his knees, hefting Yuuji up onto his shoulder. She shifts as if to help, though he seems to have it under control.

“A request from a precious student?” He gives them a thumb’s up. “Leave it to me.”

Yuuji is four and he’s living with Grandfather Wasuke now.

Grandfather is quiet and stern but usually nice. It’s fun going with him to pull the pachinko levers and they usually go to the park after, so that he can run and play. The other kids like him well enough, but he’s not close with any of them and they all live too far to visit often.

Except for one.

She lives next door and her parents are introducing her to Yuuji. She’s rocking back and forth on her heels, twisting her shirtsleeves in her hands. Her shoes light up pink and blue.

They want her and Yuuji to be friends. It would be nice, they say, she’s shy.

There are yellow ribbons in her hair.

“Yellow is my favorite color,” he blurts. He’s cut off the adults, which is rude, but he’s too busy smiling at his new friend. “What’s yours?”

She blinks, looks at his hair. “Pink.”

“Cool! Wanna play airplanes?”

She tilts her head. “How d’you do that?”

“I’ll show you, c’mon!”

He grabs her hand and tugs - not too hard, though! Grandfather Wasuke says he’s strong for his age and he needs to be careful. So he is! He’s just also really excited.

But his new friend only stumbles a little before her feet catch up, following him. She starts to smile and Yuuji suddenly gets what adults mean when they say someone “lights up.”

He thinks of sunflowers turning their faces to the sun.

“O-Okay!” she says.

Yuuji is six and it’s his first day of school.

His backpack feels weird on his back. The straps are too tight. And he doesn’t like his uniform, either. It’s not as comfy as his shorts and t-shirts, but Grandpa said he has to wear his uniform, so he is.

He still doesn’t like it.

His best friend is standing at the front door, gripping her mama’s hand with one of her own. The other is tight around the strap of a pink backpack. She’s not wearing her light-up shoes today.

They’re waiting on Yuuji, who can’t quite get the hang of his shoelaces this morning. He got it right just a couple days ago! But he wasn’t excited then, and he is now because it’s his first day of school and his neighbors are waiting for him.

“Around the other way, Yu-chan!” his neighbor calls.

“Eh? Oh, right!”

He pulls the loop and hops to his feet. Auntie compliments him for figuring it out, but he’s watching his best friend, who’s started rocking on her heels again. He knows she does that when she’s scared. Like when they have to cross busy streets or that time the power went out.

“It’ll be okay,” he tells her as he reaches her side. She told him yesterday what she’s scared of - all the new people and the teacher and breaking any rules. “We already know each other and I won’t let anyone be mean to you, even teachers!”

She stares at him with big, nervous eyes. There are yellow flower barrettes keeping her hair back.

“Promise?” she mumbles. He pries her hand off her backpack strap and squeezes.

“Pinky promise!” he declares.

They twist their hands and interlock their littlest fingers. Yuuji loves pinky promises. They’ve made at least a hundred now, and kept every one!

“I promise I won’t let anyone be mean to Yu-chan either,” she chirps.

Yuuji is ten and his best friend kicks her legs from the top of the monkey bars. It’s the middle of summer and he’s just jogging back from the ice-cream stand. He has a garigari-kun in each hand, trying to hold the sticks through the wrappers so they don’t melt too fast.

“What flavor did you get?” she asks.

“Peach for you and grapefruit for me!” he announces.

Another kid jumps from the slide and lands right in front of Yuuji, throwing up gravel. Yuuji doesn’t know his name, but he didn’t want to play earlier when they invited him.

“Whoa, that was a big jump!” Yuuji exclaims, impressed.

“Thanks,” the kid says, then points to the yellow pop in Yuuji’s hand. “So, can I have that?”

Yuuji blinks. “W-What?”

“It’s hot out, I need something to cool off,” the kid explains. “Grapefruit is my favorite.”

Yuuji hesitates. It is hot out and the kid looks sweaty. But Yuuji is sweaty too, and grapefruit is also his favorite.

“C’mon,” the kid whines, “don’t be selfish. I’m gonna die if I don’t cool off soon!”

There’s a gravelly splash behind him, and then Yuuji’s best friend is standing between them, hands on her hips.

“I saw you take Tama-chan’s Gyunyu earlier,” she declares, scowling.

The kid startles and blinks, then flushes. “S-so?!”

“So, if you’re so hot, go sit down in the shade instead of taking ice cream that isn’t yours!”

Yuuji awkwardly tries to smile. “Ah, hey now…”

“What’s it matter to you anyway? He’s got two, can’t you just share?”

She scrunches up her nose. “You didn’t share with Tama-chan. So we’re not gonna share with you. C’mon, Yuuji!”

She whips around and starts marching away, yellow sneakers kicking up rocks. Yuuji scrambles after her. Luckily, Yuuji is pretty fast, even with an ice cream in each hand.

“Here, at least take yours,” he says as he catches up to her.

“Oh! Thanks, Yu-chan!” she chirps, taking her peach pop with a smile.

They sit on a bench in the shade. Yuuji grins as they tap their pops together in “toast” even though it mixes the flavors a bit where they touch.

“I wouldn’t have minded giving him my ice cream, ya know?” he says after the first bite.

She hums. “I know. But you would have done it ‘cause you felt guilty, not ‘cause you wanted to.”

“Yeah…”

“It’s like when Namako-kun took my favorite pencil. Remember?”

He does. She’d had other pencils to use, or could have even borrowed one of Yuuji’s. But that one was her favorite and Namako-kun took it without asking. And even though he said he’d give it back when class was over, Yuuji knew he wouldn’t because he never gave anyone their pencils back.

So Yuuji took matters into his own hands when the bell rang. He would have done it sooner, but his sunflower whispered at him that he’d get in trouble if he interrupted class and it was fine just for a little bit.

“We look out for each other,” she insists.

“Yeah,” he says, bumping his shoulder into hers.

Yuuji is twelve and gramps frowns at him.

“Aren’t you two getting a little… old for sleepovers?”

Yuuji frowns right back, halfway through stuffing a bag of chips in his backpack. It’s a brand new flavor and he’s been dying to try it with her all week. Now that the weekend is here, they can pass judgment on it - and the four other new snacks they picked up throughout the week.

“No?” he questions. “Is there an age limit on sleepovers or something?”

“Not… exactly. It’s just… you two are getting older and she’s a girl, you know. Are you sure her parents are still okay with you two… sleeping over?”

“Of course they are!” Yuuji says. It’s rude to impose, even on neighbors he’s known his whole life. If they didn’t want him over, he wouldn’t insist. “And besides, she’s not a girl. She’s Himawari.”

She’s his sunflower.

Gramps sighs, looking resigned. “As long as her parents don’t mind…”

Yuuji doesn’t understand why they would. If they had a problem with Yuuji, surely they would have said something sooner. He was over just last night doing homework!

“They don’t,” Yuuji promises.

Yuuji is thirteen and his best friend’s father falls ill.

No one knows what it is, so no one knows how to fix it. It starts out with doctor’s appointments, more and more each week. Until one day he goes to the hospital and stays.

Auntie picks up extra shifts to help with the medical bills. What little time she has off is usually spent at the hospital.

There are no more questions about sleepovers. The Itadoris step up to help their neighbors. Yuuji’s sunflower starts to spend a lot of nights over.

She tells everyone that she’s okay, but Yuuji knows better. She’s anxious a lot of the time, fidgeting with her sleeves and chewing her bottom lip to pieces. Sometimes she stares off into space with her brows furrowed, too caught up in her thoughts and worries.

Yuuji offers anything and everything he can. Answers to homework when the circles under her eyes are dark and half the questions are empty. Her favorite meals when her appetite gets scarce. Distractions when she’s been frowning too long, or comfort when distractions don’t work.

She cries into his shoulder sometimes. Quietly, while they’re watching TV - usually reruns of their favorites because she says she likes the familiarity. Yuuji never asks what’s wrong or if he can help; he knows what’s wrong and he’s already helping as much as he can. If he could do more, she’d tell him, and he’d oblige.

But she hates when he sees her cry.

So he keeps his eyes on the screen until her breathing evens out, and she falls asleep beneath the yellow blanket they’ve shared since they were kids.

Yuuji’s fourteen and his neighbor dies.

The funeral is quiet and somber. Wasuke and Yuuji are there before it even officially starts, offering support. His sunflower looks wilted in a black dress he’s never seen before. It stays burned into his mind for years, how wrong it looks on her.

He holds her hand while she cries. She hugs him tight while he cries.

They place yellow camellias and white carnations on her father’s grave together.

When he and gramps finally return to their own apartment, Yuuji doesn’t see her again for another two weeks. It’s the longest they’ve been separated since they were toddlers. His heart aches.

In the aftermath of her father’s passing, Yuuji can’t help but look at gramps with new eyes, new realization. Wasuke is getting older, slower, back bending more and more every day, it seems. He’s as spirited as ever but his body betrays his age and Yuuji is afraid.

It’s selfish, and he couldn’t imagine burdening Hima with his thoughts. Not now. But in those two weeks he misses her fiercely, knowing just her presence would be a comfort.

Yuuji is eighteen and getting yelled at by his grandpa. Something about going to school and living his life, to stop calling the hospital. It’s honestly too early to process anything at that volume, but he’s heard it enough times by now to get the gist.

The shouting is a little comforting, though. Means gramps is in high spirits - or has the energy to yell, at least. Same difference.

“Yu-chan?” Hima pokes her head around the corner. “We’re running - oh, is that Jiji?”

“Yeah, here.” He shoves the phone at her. “It’s your turn.”

She presses the receiver to her ear without hesitation. “Morning, Jiji!”

Even now, he can hear gramps going off. Gramps practically raised her too, so it’s not shocking that she’d get the same ear-ringing treatment. But she just smiles, serene as ever.

“Sounds great, Jiji, we’ll see you later!”

And she hangs up. Because she may have been shy when they were kids, but somewhere along the way, his sunflower’s spine grew in with steel.

“Anyway, what were you saying?” he asks, scrubbing a hand through his undercut. She’ll need to shave it for him again soon. It’s getting long.

“Oh! We’re running late.”

She holds up her phone screen, showing him the clock on a yellow lock-screen. Sure enough, ten minutes past the time when they usually head out.

“He was yelling longer than I thought,” he muses, reaching for his bag.

Well, there’s nothing for it now. No rewinding time to make that phone call any shorter (or quieter).

She nods, tugging his sleeve to hurry him. “We have that test in first period, remember?”

Was that today?!

Seeing his expression, she grimaces. “We’re so screwed.”

Which is basically just challenging him. “No way! Hop up, I’ll run us there.”

She doesn’t hesitate, scooping his backpack onto one shoulder and then hopping up as he squats. Her arms loop around his shoulders, careful not to strangle him. He secures his hands behind her knees.

“All set?” he double-checks.

This isn’t the first time they’ve done this, but he doesn’t want to drop her again. Especially when he’s sure he’s the reason they’re late in the first place - she hates cutting his calls to the hospital short.

“Yep! Onward, noble steed!” she declares, nudging him with her heels.

“I’m not a horse!” he complains, even as he takes off at a dead sprint.

She squeals and grips onto his hoodie, but then starts giggling a second later, whooping with delight. It doesn’t take long to get to school, not when he runs like this, but he savors every second. It reminds him of summers chasing each other around the park and sleepovers wrestling for the last cookie.

“Yuuji!” she cries. “You’re gonna overshoot again!”

“Huh? Oh, crap!”

He hits the brakes hard, nearly tripping and overbalancing them both with the momentum. Thankfully, he manages to recover, skidding to a stop just within the school’s gates.

As usual, they’re a bit of a spectacle, other students staring. Neither of them pay it any mind though, as she leans around his shoulder to smile, mussing his hair.

“Thanks for the heads up!” he breathes, grinning back. “Sorry, I’m not sure what’s up with me today. You alright?”

“’Course I am!” she trills, hopping down and smoothing her skirt. “And look, we’re five minutes early now!”

He brightens. “Alright! Does that mean we have time for breakfast?”

“Like I’d let you go hungry.”

He accepts the red panda themed bento she offers with sparkles in his eyes. 

“You’re seriously the best!” he cheers.

She opens her mouth to answer - only to be interrupted by one of the teachers.

“Young lady, how many times do I have to tell you not to be so improper?!”

Mrs. Sakamoto - the bane of her existence. And Yuuji’s, to a lesser extent. She’s been on their case since first year, taking it upon herself to act as some kind of mother hen figure. 

Problem is, Yuuji’s never missed having a mom with his neighbor around - not that she’s around much, anymore. Not since her husband passed.

As for how Hima feels about it…

“I’m here early, what’s so improper about that?” she demands, a scowl already tugging at her features. Yuuji shuffles behind her, out of the line of fire. Best to let her handle this - besides, his mouth is full of food and he’s not looking for a lecture too.

“Climbing on a boy like that, it’s shameful! Completely inappropriate!” Mrs. Sakamoto lectures.

Yuuji makes a face. This again?

“Yuuji’s not a boy,” Hima scoffs.

“Wh - hey!” he yelps. “What am I then?”

“My best friend, duh!”

Which - yeah, okay, fair. But that doesn’t mean he’s not a boy! He’s all man, thank you very much!

“I know you two grew up together,” Mrs. Sakamoto interjects, “but you aren’t children anymore. You need to be more aware of how you behave. You’re too old to be acting so carelessly with each other.”

Hima clicks her tongue. “Ya know what I think is improper?”

Uh oh.

“Thinking about a couple students like that,” she says. Mrs. Sakamoto’s mouth drops open, face paling and then flushing. “You seem really preoccupied with what Yuuji and I are up to.”

Aaaaand that’s his cue.

“Would you look at the time!” he says, looping an arm around Hima’s waist. “We don’t want to be late to homeroom after all that, do we?!”

“Yuu-ji!”

“See ya, Mrs. Sakamoto!” he calls over his shoulder, already dragging her through the door.

He deposits her in her usual window seat with a nervous grin. She blinks for a second, reorienting herself, and then huffs.

“Aw, I just fixed my hair,” she complains, plucking the yellow ribbon out to start her braid all over again.

He sighs in relief - looks like he’s safe from her wrath. This time.

“Here, I think I have a spare brush in my bag,” he mumbles.

There’s a pocket in the front where he keeps most of his Hima-related items. Her favorite flavor of gum, hair clips, pads, and (huzzah!) a little portable brush. She starts tugging it through her windswept hair with a small, grateful smile.

Yuuji doesn’t miss the shadows under her eyes.

He doesn’t ask if she had a bad night; he knows she did. She didn’t sleep at his last night - instead tending to her mother at the tail end of another bender.

“Grab my notebook, I’ll help you cram before the test,” she offers. “And you never understand your own notes.”

He perks up, chest squeezing with appreciation. Even now, she’s always watching out of him.

“Thanks, Hima-chan!”

“Yuuji, hold your head still.”

“Sorry, but this is my favorite part!”

She groans and twists his shoulders so that he can see the TV screen without turning his head. The clippers buzz to life by his ear again, and a pleasant shiver races up his spine as they carve a path through his overgrown undercut.

“Keep fidgeting and I’m gonna shave a heart back here,” she threatens without heat.

“Aw, that sounds awesome!” he says. “Can you?”

“I don’t trust myself to make it even,” she admits.

“I don’t care if it’s even!”

She huffs, combing her fingers through the longer hair at the top of his head to keep it out of the way. He hums as her nails scrape gently over his scalp, eyes falling half-shut. Man, the day always seems to catch up with him all at once when she does that. If it weren’t for the hard kitchen chair, he could probably fall asleep right now.

“Maybe next time,” she allows.

“M’kay,” he mumbles, yawning.

They sit quietly for a moment, silence cushioned by the TV and the continuous drone of the clippers. Every once in a while, she brushes his hair one way or another, pinning stray strands out of the way to keep the sections straight. She’s been doing his hair since Gramps’ health started to decline, an effort to save money on haircuts that they’ve turned into yet another bonding ritual.

Sometimes, in moments like this, he tries to imagine the future. A time where they don’t practically live together. Where someone else is reaching over his shoulder to steal popcorn, someone else’s warmth is blanketing his shoulders. Another voice speaking lines along with movies they’ve already seen a hundred times.

It makes his stomach feel sour, unease fluttering in his chest.

“Hey, everything okay?”

He blinks, dragging himself from his thoughts. “We should pick up flowers for Jiji tomorrow.”

“He hates that,” she giggles.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll call tomorrow morning so they can be ready in time.”

He glances at her over his shoulder. She smiles, bright and sunny as ever, even though he can tell she’s tired. He never asked how much she slept last night, but he comforts himself knowing that she’ll stay over tonight. Yuuji always feels a little better knowing she’s within reach. For both their sakes.

There’s another quiet stretch as she focuses on his hairline, cleaning up it up into a neat line. He already knows what face she’s making as she focuses, bottom lip between her teeth and a little furrow in her brows. Probably getting light-headed from holding her breath, though he knows better than to break her concentration to remind her.

When she’s finished, she uses a damp towel to collect the little hairs sticking to his neck and shoulders.

“Do you think…”

He stops before he can ask. He knows the answer, doesn’t he?

“Hm?” she asks, pausing with her hand on his shoulder.

He taps his fingers along his knee, suddenly unsure. But he’s already gotten her attention and she knows him too well to believe any deflection. Besides, Yuuji can ask her anything.

“Do you think… it’ll always be like this?” he says finally.

She hums. The answer seems obvious, but she’s giving it more thought than he expected.

“Exactly like this? No,” she muses finally, “but some things will always be the same, I think.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you’ll always be Yuuji, and I’ll always be your sunflower.”

He blinks, glances at her over his shoulder. She meets his eyes, not quite smiling, but her expression is soft and warm. A gentle balm for his worries.

Something in his chest settles.

They’ll always have each other. And as long as that’s true, it’s okay if everything else changes.

Occult club isn’t the most glamorous, but Yuuji’s not in it for glory.

They host meetings right when school ends and they never run longer than five o’clock, leaving plenty of time to visit Gramps. Even with only four members, they don’t ask for a lot either. A few spooky investigations (always well after the hospital’s visiting hours) and maybe the odd bit of research into “haunted” locations.

Not to mention - it’s actually pretty fun! Sasaki-san and Iguchi-kun have good vibes despite jumping at every shadow, and Hima always leaves with a smile on her face. Like Yuuji, supernatural entities and black magic don’t scare her. In fact, she usually spends their “hunts” cracking jokes about ghosts and goading poltergeists with silly internet dances.

They both like occult club, and it works well with their schedules, so he wishes the track coach would let him be.

Ms. Sakamoto is here too, saying something about changing Hima’s form to the cheer team. That she can be a cheerleader and Yuuji can be on track, and isn’t that so much better? Normal? Instead of skulking around in the dark and reading about morbid things.

It’s on Yuuji to get them out of this, but neither of them are worried. He’s always been stronger and faster than other people. They both know the outcome before they’ve even reached the track field, and spend the walk there exchanging sneaky smug glances.

Once they’re out there though, he notices her eyes are wondering over the grounds, brows pinched.

“Hima?” he calls. “Everything okay? I won - you don’t have to be a cheerleader.”

There’s a beat before she answers, her eyes focused on something beyond the crowd of students that came to watch Yuuji and Coach Takagi. There’s a boy a little ways off in a white button-up, dark spiky hair and an annoyed expression.

Yuuji’s about to ask if she knows him (though if she did, Yuuji would know him too) but she turns back to him and snorts.

“No kidding - you broke the goal,” she cackles. “Your aim sucks.”

“Hey! I’d like to see you do better!”

But they don’t really have time for that - it’s already four-thirty and they still need to pick up flowers.

She hops onto his back, letting the shop know they’ll be there soon while Yuuji runs them through the gates.

Gramps is as thrilled to see them as always - which is to say, not much. Even looking too small and frail in the hospital bed, he’s too proud to be anything but irritated by their presence.

“They must have taken the vase to clean,” Hima says when they find the windowsill empty. “I’ll go find it.”

She drops a kiss on Gramps’s forehead before leaving the room, humming quietly under her breath.

Years later, when he remembers that last conversation with Wasuke, it won’t be the old man’s final wishes that haunt him. Giving others a proper death, saving those he can - there’s a comfort in working towards that goal, like keeping his spirit alive and burning in Yuuji’s chest.

No, it’s the way he feels in that moment. When he calls for his grandfather and receives no response.

The floor drops out from under him.

One minute. Just one single minute ago, Wasuke had been scolding him at full volume.

And then Yuuji’s suddenly alone.

All at once, it’s just him in this cold hospital room. Him and the body of his grandfather. The man who raised him, too quiet and too still to be the firecracker that was Wasuke Itadori right up until the very end.

His hands shake as he picks up the room phone. He’s feeling so much at once that he’s numb and all he can think is that he doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want to be the last-

“You’re not alone.”

There are arms around him, squeezing so tight it feels like his heart’s been jump-started. The scent of flowers and the same detergent since childhood in his nose. A voice he knows better than anyone’s, thick with her own tears.

“I’ll always be by your side, Yuuji. Always.”

He grips his Himawari tight and sobs into her hair, pouring his heart out. And she just holds him, breathing with him, soaking the front of his shirt. They share everything, they always have, even this.

She doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t give him any platitudes, or remind him that this was inevitable.

She’s just there. Always there. And it’s enough.

Eventually, he cries the edge off his loss, dulling the pain and sadness until he can breathe right again.

She fetches them water, wipes Yuuji’s face with tissues provided by a sympathetic nurse. Their eyes meet in the waiting room while the nurses take care of… of his grandfather. He already misses Wasuke fiercely but… but it’ll be okay. Wasuke is gone, but Yuuji’s not alone, and Gramps would smack him over the head if he wallowed for long.

They stand together while he fills out paperwork, surprised by the steadiness of his own hand. But her shoulder is pressed gently against his arm, keeping him warm. He feels like he’s finding his feet again.

And then they meet Megumi Fushiguro.

It all becomes a blur, later on. For everyone.

Megumi can’t fill in many gaps, too injured from the fight with the curse. Head injuries are a hell of thing.

Hima fills in what she can.

She and Yuuji stood at the school gates after Megumi went in. Yuuji remembers struggling with instinctive visceral fear, self-preservation gripping his heart in a vice. He remembers the echo of Gramps’ final words in his head; he remembers catching her eyes. A silent exchange.

He remembers the weight of her on his back as they crashed through the upper story window. She dropped to snatch up Sasaki-kun while Yuuji drove his fist into a writhing mass of eyes and mouths and hands.

The details smudge after that, like running water colors.

They crashed through the walls into open air. Yuuji was fighting against the curse’s reaching hands and snapping jaws. Keeping a vague eye on a wide-eyed and trembling Hima, standing over Megumi’s prone form.

(He doesn’t remember this later, but Megumi does. One of the curse’s appendages lashed wildly in the struggle, coming straight for the two of them. Hima leaped into the direct line of fire, bodily protecting him. The appendage struck off something that shimmered in the air between one blink and the next. It knocked her to the ground with an “oof” that did catch Yuuji’s attention and motivated him to do what he did next.)

What Yuuji will remember of those last moments before everything changed was desperation. Not fear, but an overwhelming need to protect, to fulfill Wasuke’s final wishes. To honor the promise he made to his best friend over a decade earlier, the one person he had left in the world.

And he swallowed the mummified finger of Ryomen Sukuna.

Comfort in paper, your mother used to say. Comfort in ink.

A woman accustomed to bowing her head, she found submission easier to stomach with a scroll beneath her eyes. She would occupy her flighty hands with crisp pages, drown herself in the waters of calligraphy. You used to wonder, did she find freedom there, between the characters and illustrations? Or was she just decorating the walls of a mental prison?

Even if you could ask her, you don’t think she would have an answer.

After all, you wouldn’t have one if the question was turned on you - unlikely as that is.

Comfort in paper.

It’s difficult to describe Ryomen Sukuna.

He’s inscrutable to you, not quite divine, not quite monstrous. Oh, surely his appearance is frightening, with ghastly appetites to match. A quadruplet of eyes and arms, a chiseled abdomen bisected by a jagged maw. Functional, you know all too well.

It’s one of the first things you recorded, following the sack of your family’s ancestral manor. The arm of a dissatisfying servant bitten clean off, down a mysterious gullet. Droplets of blood still decorate the kosode you wore that day. You hear the servant’s agonized cries in your dreams.

Comfort in ink.

Whatever he is, Ryomen Sukuna is as revered as he is feared. He is beset with offerings almost constantly. Tributes, sacrifices. The label is as interchangeable as his moods. Amongst his endless libations, manuscripts and scrolls began to pile up like fallen leaves.

Eventually, the master saw fit to do something with them.

The library is cool and dry, somewhat removed from the rest of the manor as Sukuna rarely finds his entertainment in reading. Should he deign to, though, disorganization is apparently an unacceptable inconvenience.

He needed a keeper of his priceless tomes, someone to organize the nearly-constant new additions and fetch volumes should he call.

It was truly some twisted design of the stars that you were chosen. A cosmic luck you’ve yet to determine as good or bad. His most faithful vassal, Uraume, found you cowering in your family’s library. Had asked if you knew your letters and numbers, then presented you to the cursed king as a useful war prize.

Books are your sanctuary now as they were then; you hardly leave for more than food and rest. And sometimes not even then. You’ve woken any number of times at your writing desk or curled up in some corner. Have skipped meals in favor of reorganizing shelves and updating the catalog.

It’s not, in fact, fear of Sukuna that dedicates you to your work.

Well… maybe it is a little.

But truly, you do love books, and the ones Sukuna is gifted are splendid. You take your joy in perusing the volumes when time permits. Comfort where you can find it.

The rest of the manor is perilous. Besides the master himself, there are curses currently in Sukuna’s favor (or at least tolerated) that roam about, preying upon various servants like yourself. Members of his harem that enjoy tormenting those they see below their status.

Not to mention the more-than-occasional gruesome displays of violence. The palace is decorated in trimmings of viscera and gore, dripping into the floorboards and staining the tatami. You’d prefer to avoid the sight (and smell) when you can.

Like your mother before, you bury yourself beneath paper and prose. Keep your eyes fixed on brush strokes and your head bent towards scrolls until everything beyond the library doors fade away.

A haven from it all, you believed.

Foolish.

It’s a mild morning when you hear the doors open some meters away - Kiro with the weekly additions. You’re perched on a step-stool, a half dozen books stacked beneath your chin. You slide another collection of poems amongst its brethren, blowing loose hair from your face.

“Please tell me there’s not another copy of Genji,” you call mildly. “I fear we’ll need another library just for those.”

“If that is all you fear, then you’ve forgotten who you serve,” a deep, all too recognizable voice sneers.

A yelp snags between your teeth. You hop off the stool and hurry around the corner, horrified to find that your ears were not deceiving you.

Ryomen Sukuna is in the library.

You drop to your knees, realize you’re still holding the books, and awkwardly hold them out in front of you to duck your head as low as you can. Pray that it’s enough to appease him when you’ve already tested his temper. He’s flayed others for less.

There’s a long, frightening moment of silence. Four of your frantic heartbeats thunder in your ears. Then Sukuna grunts.

“Bring me the atlas.”

You pause, blink. “W-which atlas, my lord? You have sixteen.”

He clicks his tongue - as if you’re wasting his time with trivialities. “The one I received last winter.”

He received three last winter, in fact. You weigh the dangers of asking for further clarification against the risk of retrieving the wrong item. Choose the latter and back away with a quiet murmur.

Your mind races as you carefully set your last task aside. Instinct guides your feet to the correct shelf, providing precious spare seconds to make your guess.

Last winter’s atlases didn’t all arrive together. Two came from a northern lord, and you remember Sukuna had barely glanced over the offerings when they were presented. Nothing about their coverings would have indicated their contents without opening them.

The third had come from a curse user that had killed a prominent jujutsu sorcerer, and brought the man’s wealth to Sukuna. And he had leafed briefly through that one.

You pluck it from the row and return to Sukuna, anxiety nearly knocking your knees out from under you. Somehow, you keep your hands and voice steady as you present it, again as low and deferent as you can get your body.

“Apologies for the delay, my lord.”

Like this, his already impressive height feels towering. Behemoth. It’s been some time since you were in his presence, but longer still since you had his attention. It is just as horrible as you remember. The back of your neck prickles.

Another breathless, terrifying moment as he opens the book. You’ve either guessed correctly, or you’re dead.

Without a word, he turns on his heel and strides away. The door slams behind him, but even then, his presence lingers. Like you aren’t alone despite his absence.

You’re not sure how long it takes, but you eventually peel yourself off the ground, dust yourself off, and return to shelving books. When Kiro comes by later, you’re careful to confirm that it’s him before opening your reckless mouth.

Comfort in paper. Comfort in ink.

You inventory the new manuscripts, soothing yourself by writing down as many details as possible - to later find by any random criteria demanded.

Sukuna returns two days later. This time, you see him enter from your little writing desk where you’ve been diligently working on your… hobby. You stand as hastily as caution permits, trying not to spill ink on your hard work. You shuffle from your station and bow (properly this time) before he’s passed the first shelf.

You stay like that, breathing as slowly as you’re able, until his heavy steps stop far too close for comfort. His shadow swallows you whole, almost a physical thing pressing down between your shoulder blades. You wet your dry lips and wait.

“Bookkeeper, this tome was dissatisfying,” he rumbles. “The maps were of poor quality.”

And how is that your fault? Moreover, what are you meant to do about it?

“I… apologize, my lord,” you offer.

“Did I ask for your empty apologies?” he snarls. Your chest constricts. “Find me a better one.”

A small, hopeful seed of relief blooms in your chest. That, at least, is something you can do.

“Of course, my lord. May I ask… is there a specific map you wish to see?”

“You may not.”

Well, then. “Yes, my lord.”

You shuffle back to the encyclopedias. Your eyes flick over the spines, rifling through your mental catalog. You’ve only got one opportunity to please him. The consequences could mean death - at best.

No pressure.

With your stomach twisted in hard knots, you make your selection. A painstakingly hand-painted series of maps, including entire spreads that unfold from the pages. It’s beautiful, colorful, and accurate from what you understand.

You return to Sukuna.

“I hope this pleases you,” you say with sincerity.

He takes it from you without a word. You don’t dare peek at his expression - not when he’s got a spare set of eyes to monitor your continued deference. As you await judgment, you distract yourself by imagining which pages he’s looking at. You’ve been rather taken by the illustration of Heian-Kyo and it’s waterways. 

“This will suffice,” he says at last, and again, sweeps out of the library.

You’re quicker to stand this time, wiping your damp palms on your mo. Well… that was nerve-wracking. You take a long moment to breathe, slowing your heart. Then make a note in the records that Sukuna-sama does not care of Master Riyoshi’s Complete Atlas of the Gods’ Lands.

Three days later, Sukuna departs on another campaign of terror - this time expanding his territory south.

You fill another page of your ongoing “hobby” with gossip whispered around the servants’ quarters and dining tables. The why and how of his departure, conjectures of his plans. Debates of the death toll.

You try to record only what seems like witness accounts, though you’re always meticulous to leave out your sources.

Without Sukuna to reign them in, his usual circle of sycophants are emboldened to play at authority. His favored concubines order about servants and take liberties they wouldn’t otherwise dare. Curses torment and devour humans they’re certain won’t be missed. Still, somehow, it’s not as frightening as the king himself.

You simply keep to small groups and lock yourself in the all-but-forgotten library. Kiro continues to deliver new contributions weekly. You devote an entire shelf to The Tale of Genji. The sanctity of your library is restored.

Sukuna returns to the manor two months later. You hear about the “campaign” from vassals that traveled with him. Fire and blood, devastation rippling out from his every step. Screams, suffering, horrors that make you doubt any gods you grew up worshiping.

So, standard fare for Sukuna’s travels.

You even make a rare appearance in the throne room to observe his victory feast from afar, milling with the other servants. It’s as horrid as always, but there are some stories to be gleaned from the attendees’ idle chatter.

Sukuna himself never contributes to the tales, you notice. Most of the time, he lounges on his throne with his chin on one fist, all four eyes half-lidded. Bored, it would seem to you. He rarely converses, and when he does, it’s usually to scoff at some other curse making grandiose claims of its own feats.

You observe for as long as you dare, then retreat to the library. You work deep into the night, until your vision blurs and your hand cramps. Eventually, you surrender to sleep and leave your notes out on the writing desk to finish drying. You’ll likely need to correct any mistakes made in your fatigue anyway.

Sukuna visits the next day as you’re doing just that.

It’s poor timing for you, disheveled by the trials of transcribing the previous evening and well into today. Ink has stained your hands (and likely your face as well) and your hair is haphazardly pinned with a single (clean) hashi.

Even so, you leave your writings to bow as deeply as ever, mouth glued shut from too little to drink for several hours. You finished your cold tea near midday and it appears the sun is already diving for the horizon.

“What, no useless pleasantries this time?” he sneers.

Gods forbid you’re polite.

“How may I serve you, Sukuna-sama?” you ask.

“Your recommendation was adequate.”

You sense movement above your head, but resist looking - until you feel a not-gentle thunk to the crown of your skull. You blink and carefully tilt your chin up. The atlas is waved impatiently in your face.

“Burn that other one, it does not belong in my collection.”

“As you wish, my lord,” you demure, hiding your dismay as you accept the tome.

Not well enough, it would appear, as you see his brow arch in your peripheral.

“Ho? You disagree with my decision?” he asks.

The sadistic anticipation lacing his voice sets your teeth on edge. Now that’s a test if you’ve ever heard one, and you have no doubt about the consequences if you fail.

“It’s not my place to disagree, Sukuna-sama.”

The mouth on his stomach parts in a grotesque and unkind grin.

“But you do disagree,” he insists.

You press your lips together, searching for a suitable response and finding none. You hug the atlas to your chest. Appeasing mercurial curse kings was not amongst your etiquette lessons as a young noblewoman.

The silence stretches for a beat longer.

“Not going to deny it?” he prods, a touch impatient.

You pick your words carefully. “I wouldn’t insult you by lying.”

And he chuckles. It’s rich, deep, rumbling in that barrel chest like thunder. The sound surprises you so much you nearly look up. 

“There is a brain in there after all,” he muses, “fitting for a bookkeeper.”

You’re probably supposed to thank him for that backhanded compliment. You stay quiet instead, wishing he’d just leave.

Comfort in paper. 

“Do what you wish with the book, but do not complain of needing more space,” he says.

Oh yes, because a singular sub-par atlas is the space problem. You nod, teeth in your cheek, counting seconds.

“See that you continue to be of use,” he adds.

It takes you a half second too long to realize he expects a response.

“I shall do my best,” you murmur.

He turns and stalks away without another word.

The conclusion of the conversation strikes you wrong. As if you missed a word or two somewhere along the way, and it changed the entire meaning.

You sift through the conversation in your mind. Turn over each syllable, every intonation, trying to discern what you could be missing. But alas, any greater implication (if it exists) is lost to you.

Best not to dwell, you remind yourself. Sukuna remains incomprehensible to you. He is carried by his own whims alone, without rhyme nor reason. You need only concern yourself with avoiding his wrath.

You glance down at the atlas, still clutched to your chest. There’s brownish staining around the bottom edge of the pages. Blood, you realize with slow unease. You haven’t a clue how to remove it, or even if you can. In the end, you put it back in its rightful place and make a note of it in your records.

Uraume has grown on you, with time.

Not to say that the two of you are close, or even proper friends. In fact, they’re even more ineffable than your shared master. But you two have a cordial acquaintanceship that is satisfying in its own way.

You often recommend books for them to peruse in the little free time they allot themselves. In turn, they occasionally bring you sweets from Sukuna’s tributes that he has no interest in. Part of you thinks that they’ve made an unwitting poison-tester of you, but the delicacies are usually worth the small possibility of death. (After all, everyone knows Sukuna is immune to such toxins.)

They are quiet company you don’t mind sharing, on the occasions they visit.

Tonight, you are sharing tea. They’ve come late in the evening - presumably, Sukuna has retired and has no need of them. You don’t ask, and they do not offer the information freely.

They’re reading the newest addition to the poem collection, occasionally commenting to you about the prose or the imagery. You’ve read through it, though only two or three made any deeper impression on you.

Poetry was your weakest writing and reading form to study. An embarrassment for a nobleman’s daughter, sure, but you are no longer that. You’re Ryomen Sukuna’s librarian.

“What are you occupying yourself with this evening?” Uraume asks.

It’s an unusual display of interest, and you try not to look paranoid as you answer.

“Just records,” you sigh. “Perhaps I’m torturing myself with more paperwork than necessary.”

You set your brush aside and draw your wrist in, rubbing your thumb along the tired tendons.

“You are thorough, as one should be serving Sukuna-sama,” they say.

You hum, glancing at the neat lines of reisho drying on the parchment. A story you heard a stable-hand telling a gardener, about Sukuna decimating a larger town during his last travels.

You wonder if he truly did rip a grown man in half with his bare hands. You wonder if it matters, knowing without a doubt that he could.

“Yes, you’re right,” you murmur.

As a teenager, your tutors lectured the importance and the hazard of a historian’s duty. They walk a fine line recording events and decisions faithfully, without displeasing their sponsors. One unflattering turn of phrase or misplaced adjective could incite a prideful lord to replace them with a more complimentary one.

It’s foolish, chronicling Sukuna’s exploits. Dangerous. Your little “hobby” could very well get you killed. Yet, you feel compelled to ink some record of the king of curses from as objective a perspective as you can. (Truly, you don’t need to dramatize the horrors, they are evident in themselves.)

Historians are important. Necessary. Sukuna doesn’t have one - you’ve asked around. So at the very least, you’ve tried to document significant events, if not the day to day matters of the manor.

“Is Sukuna-sama’s collection truly growing so large?” Uraume asks, glancing at the shelves.

All of them have at least a handful of books occupying them, though two-thirds are laden by now. Organized by genre, then by author - and lacking an author, by title. Though there was one manic week that you had everything organized by color.

“It grows all the time,” you answer, “though it helps that only you and Sukuna-sama visit. I don’t spend much time re-shelving.”

A pity that, but you’re not surprised that no one else would risk Sukuna’s wrath by perusing his collection without express permission. And really, who going to weather the peril of asking?

“Speaking of, I’ve finished this one,” Uraume says, tilting their borrowed manuscript towards you. “Quite lovely, thank you for your recommendation.”

You tuck it into your arm with a small smile and bow. “I’m happy you enjoyed my suggestion, Uraume-san. Shall I fetch you another?”

They pick up the tea set, long finished, from the reading table (that no one else ever uses) and shake their head.

“I will turn in.”

“Ah, good night, then.”

You turn away and weave through the stacks to replace the book, grateful to stretch your legs. Perhaps you’ll follow they’re example. It’s growing late and you have sleep to make up for.

Uraume is gone by the time you return to the library’s disused seating area. With a yawn, you snuff the few lanterns left lit, and think even once about the papers left out on your writing desk.

You’re taking inventory of new additions when you’re summoned to the throne room.

It feels like the floor has fallen out from beneath you. You have never, never been summoned to the throne room before. Have only even seen it a handful of times.

A few scant months ago, Sukuna had spoken to you directly once - the day you were assigned your current position. Now you’ve spoken thrice in an unnervingly short span and you’re suddenly demanded in the throne room?

His recent visits to the library must have something to do with it, but you scramble to reason why. If you’d angered him in any of those interactions, you would have been punished on the spot. He doesn’t make a production of discipling servants - he doesn’t even usually do it himself, instead leaving it under Uraume’s purview.

So why?

Being summoned to the throne room bodes nothing good. Sukuna isn’t generous with rewards, and you have certainly done nothing to warrant one. 

You stride through the halls in a frantic haze, heart trying to claw up your throat with each step. An attempt to abandon the rest of your body as a lost cause. You swallow it back with sour bile.

There’s a reason you tend to avoid the throne room - and not just because Sukuna (and other curses) frequent it. The towers of bones are the least of the grim designs. Uraume told you once that they stopped replacing the rugs some time ago, the blood is just easier to mop up from a bare floor.

Panic and fear make you foolish; you don’t immediately drop your eyes when you enter. Instead you seek out Sukuna’s hulking form.

He’s reclined in his throne as usual, and he’s… reading something. Or at least one pair of eyes is.

As soon as you notice the lower pair are watching you, your gaze drops like a stone. You’re in a precarious enough position as is, you shouldn’t provoke his wrath any further.

You drop down into a bow for possibly the last time, breaths coming short and fast. And you wait. He knows you’re there; he’ll acknowledge you in his own time.

You’re almost grateful for the extra moment to collect yourself. If nothing else, you won’t die begging and screaming like your father.

“Tell me, what’s your position here?” Sukuna begins at last.

The tone - casual, almost bored - unnerves you. You both know the answer, yet you have no doubt he expects an answer.

“I’m your bookkeeper, Lord Sukuna,” you answer, as steadily as you can.

“I thought so,” he drawls, shifting. “And are you lacking books to keep?”

You blink, confused and even more uneasy for it. “No, my lord.”

“Really?” Paper crinkles, then rips. “Then explain why this garbage is in my library.”

You jolt as something lands a scant breath away from your head. Uncannily, the scroll unrolls directly beneath your face. Your own handwriting greets you.

Oh.

Oh no.

“I…”

It can’t get any worse, so you dare to rise a bit, touching the edge of the parchment like it’s all just a horrible mirage. But it’s real. Horrifically real.

You curl trembling, bloodless fingers into your palm. Struggle for the air to speak, even as words swim through your mind like frantic fish. You grasp for any of them, knowing that what little grace you’ve been given will dwindle quickly if you delay.

“I was trying to keep a record,” you manage finally, “of the king of curses… for historical purposes.”

He snorts. “And what use do I have for a record about myself, hm?”

You carefully don’t point out that nothing is eternal. All things end, including his reign - even if it’s not within this lifetime… or the next. Nor do you think it’s wise to mention that historical accounts aren’t necessarily for the subjects they’re about.

But he hasn’t killed you on the spot. Perhaps he is only going to make an example of you, but you grasp at the gossamer hope that you can survive this transgression. Maybe, if you convince him that there is some merit…

“For details you may wish to… review one day,” you say, carefully avoiding any implication that his memory is less than perfect. “Names, places, dates… even weather. Things that you may find irrelevant in the moment but could be useful later.”

He hums. “You think I don’t pay attention to relevant details?”

“You will live a very long time, Sukuna-sama,” you reply, and leave it at that.

He huffs, but… it doesn’t sound angry. Exasperated, perhaps? You’re sorely tempted to glance at his expression, but paranoia keeps your eyes down. Unwilling to risk angering him now when it seems you might survive this encounter.

“Fiiiine,” he drones at last, “but if you’re going to waste your time on this, you’re going to do it properly.”

Nothing on earth could keep your head down at the moment. You blink up at him, dazed on a mix of relief and confusion.

“Properly?” you repeat.

“That,” he gestures at the torn half of scroll with one lazy arm, “was shit. You didn’t even get half of it right.”

Ah. That’s… fair, though ominous.

“Apologies, my lord. I only heard the stories secondhand…”

“No shit,” he scoffs, rolling one set of eyes. “From now on, if you want to write it all down so bad, you’ll be there to see it for yourself.”

What.

You’ll… what?!

“Might as well fix whatever trash you’ve already written while we’re at it,” he continues. 

“Fix” it? Never mind his dismissal of your archival abilities - what does “fix it” mean?

 The mean smirk on his face is not reassuring. A fresh pit of dread opens in your stomach.

“Of course, my lord,” you say, voice too high.

There’s a long pause, thick enough to smother you. Then he audibly scoffs.

“We start tomorrow - your hands are shaking too much to write legibly.”

Finally, reprieve. You scramble to your feet, still bent at the waist. “Yes, my lord.”

For the first time in your life, paper and ink don’t promise comfort like they once did.

When you return to the library, you squat down in the farthest corner from the door and allow yourself to hyperventilate.

The first day is a new kind of suffering that you’re sure Sukuna invented just for you. He must be proud.

Uraume fetches you from the servant’s quarters, sleep-rumpled from tossing and turning all night, and not at all prepared to face Ryomen Sukuna at such an early hour.

You’re escorted to the throne room and bow low as usual. Sukuna waves dismissively to the floor below him, where writing materials have already been set out. You hastily fold yourself behind the parchment, mix the ink, and select a brush to begin transcribing.

You’ve never been present for a typical day in Sukuna’s court, but you’re far too nervous to appreciate the novelty. Sukuna is right behind you, practically peering over your shoulder. And while you assure yourself that he’s already forgotten your presence (insignificant and uninteresting as it is) the back of your neck prickles constantly.

You’re hyper-aware of how you’re sitting. How you’re holding the brush. Each stroke of your tidy reisho characters. Even your breathing and minute shifts to relieve aches in your knees and hips feel like a liberty too bold to take.

You expect to be killed or maimed every hour. Still, you dutifully record the curses and curse users milling in the throne room, murmuring amongst themselves. Most stay to the edges and corners, though a brave handful approach Sukuna with tributes or offers of entertainment.

“Entertainment,” as it turns out, is usually torture and/or execution. You keep your eyes on your parchment as often as you can, and try to keep those notes as short and precise as possible.

There’s feasting (with dishes that look uncomfortably human) and news from the edges of Sukuna’s ever-growing territory. Sukuna himself speaks very little, and participates in the violence fleetingly.

You’d be more surprised if your anxious mind had any room for it.

The day ends when Sukuna stands, one pair of arms stretching while the other settles on his hips. All those in the throne room fall silent and freeze.

“Get lost,” he says plainly.

And the throne room is suddenly very empty - save for you, Uraume, and Sukuna himself.

“Alright, let’s see it,” he says.

You blink, realize he’s speaking to you, and quickly set your brush aside. One of his many hands is already extended, so you hand him the stack of notes gathered by your thigh. While he begins perusing them, you free the latest from beneath a stone weight and blow gently on the half-dried ink.

“Huh,” he muses, rifling through the parchment, “you’re not half-bad at this.”

Was that… a compliment? Has the stress finally made you delirious? Perhaps forgoing meals all day has you hearing things.

“I’m… glad you’re pleased, my lord,” you say anyway.

He grunts, attention seemingly caught on one of the pages - though you have no idea what could have drawn his fickle attention. He doesn’t seem irritated, at least. Granted, your eyes are usually on the floor, so you wouldn’t know… what that… looks… like…

Your eyes lock with the bottom pair of Sukuna’s, watching you askance and half-lidded, just as you realize your error.

Trying to recover, but already knowing it’s too late, you drop your gaze to your lap. Thankfully, he indeed doesn’t seem irritated enough to take offense this time. 

“You’re dismissed for the evening,” he drawls handing the papers back, “unless you need records of which concubine I’m fucking and what positions I’m fucking them in.”

His tongue curls around the words like poison and honey, mocking yet lurid. It’s not nearly the most provocative thing you’ve ever heard, but somehow, the crudeness catches you off guard. Your face radiates heat. Your hand spasms around the fresh records and you practically leap to your feet, bowing quickly at the waist.

“No, my lord, that’s not typically part of court records,” you say, far too quickly to be polite. “Have a pleasant evening, my lord.”

And you flee from the throne room - only realizing once you’re safe in the library that you are lucky to have made it there at all.

Your mother had another saying - or more accurately, an addendum to her mantra. She’d say it when the back of your hand stung and bruised from tutor corrections via thin bamboo shoots. Or when your father’s dissatisfaction became too explosive. Or when you’d stare out the window too long, tracking the birds with visible envy.

Comfort in paper, comfort in ink, she’d begin, smoothing your hair back from your face, all the better to read. With these, all things are bearable.

In her defense, you once thought, her advice was not designed with curses, with Sukuna, in mind. She could not have known that her only daughter, a scant two years after the fever took her, would bear witness to horrors that could make gods shudder. Her wisdom could not have accounted for flaying skin, cannibalism, and bone gardens.

What solace could plant pulp and pine soot provide, in the face (two faces) of embodied cruelty?

Yet, as the days progress, you find more than meager comfort in your new task. With each stroke of the brush, your hands steady and your spine uncoils. Every completed page dulls the sharp blade of Sukuna’s doubled gaze scraping between your shoulders. Your lungs learn to function with shallower breaths while Sukuna reviews the day’s records. The death knells ringing through your skull fade to echoes with every dismissal to the library.

It takes a few days, but you optimize your record-keeping. You begin discerning the details of importance, develop a shorthand to keep pace with spoken word. Sukuna offers no praise, of course, but you keep all your limbs, blood, and organs, which is approval enough.

It becomes bearable, your position near Sukuna’s throne, keeping his records. Even being spoken to by him (and by extension, speaking to him) become commonplace.

“Keeper, how long has it been since this worm last squirmed before me?” He sounds bored. Worse, he sounds annoyed about being bored.

Cautiously, you tilt your face up from your work. The curse trembling at Sukuna’s feet is indeed uncannily worm-like, but also familiar. And, for now, in one piece.

(That is one thing you’ve yet to be desensitized to - the violence. You’ve become adept at knowing when and for how long to keep your eyes on your documents. Though, of course, you can’t stay completely blind to it all. You doubt you’ll ever adjust to it, but a small part of you, shamefully, hopes there comes a day that you do.)

“Ten days, my lord,” you answer, clear and concise.

“And what did it want last time?”

From the corner of your eye, one of Sukuna’s dark nails tap-tap-taps the orbital bone of some long-dead creature.

“Permission to hunt in… Mizushima,” you reply. The clarification of just what he was hunting goes unsaid.

Sukuna makes a derisive noise behind you. “And now you’re back, crying to me because you can’t kill a few measly humans?” he sneers.

“Th-the sorcerers, Sukuna-sama…”

You make a small note about the sorcerers (this is the third account of them being an issue in Mizushima this month) and pause to take a sip of tea. Uraume, indispensable pillar of the estate that they are, has begun to deliver you food and drink through the long days in court.

“Did I stutter?” Sukuna asks, dangerously bland. “Keeper, did I stutter?”

Oh, dear.

You set your cup primly aside. “You did not, my lord.”

Quietly, you slip the fan from your sleeve and unfold it.

“If you can’t even manage to slaughter a couple humans, you no longer have permission to exist.”

You strategically place the fan in front of your paper just as Sukuna makes a sharp gesture with two fingers of one hand. Slimy green remains innards spatter the floor and the front of your fan, thankfully protecting the day’s records. Some, unfortunately, also gets on your hand - but that’s what your handkerchief is for.

“I’m sick of this,” Sukuna announces. “All of you get out and don’t return until you have something of interest.”

You finish the last of your tea while the various courtiers hastily vacate. Uraume silently appears at your side to collect the empty cup and saucer. You nod at them politely, then begin organizing your stack of dried documents to take with you.

“And where do you think you’re going, keeper?”

You pause, pages half-shuffled into a neat pile. His expression is still mild, which you’ve come to find usually precedes something that makes you nauseous. As always, you pick your words carefully, but you’re getting better at it.

“Usually, you no longer have use for me once you’ve adjourned court. Can I be of further service, my lord?”

“I’ve got some time to kill,” he drawls with a disconcerting flash of sharp teeth, “we will begin fixing that trash you wrote before.”

“Ah,” you say, unbalanced by the change in routine. “I would need to fetch them—”

He holds out one hand lazily. “Uraume.”

They place a manuscript into his palm - your previous attempt at record-keeping, you realize. All compounded into one document. A sliver of embarrassment flares in your cheeks. The thing is only slightly thicker than notes you would take in a single day.

(Never mind that Uraume had to have gone through your things to get them all. You’ve given up on silly notions like privacy or autonomy.)

“Of course, my lord.”

You pull a fresh sheet of parchment and wet your brush. “Are we beginning with the first entry…?”

He skims over it and makes a face. “Boring.”

Well, yes. It’s not supposed to be an epic, you don’t say. It’s just supposed to be a factual account, dry as the paper it’s written on. You keep your mouth shut as Sukuna leafs through other entries, then stops about a third of the way through, brows arching.

“We’ll start with this one,” he says.

“What’s the date?” you ask, and jot it down in the top corner. “Okay, whenever you’re ready, my lord.”

It was one of the bloodier days in the court - a foolhardy band of sorcerers that had tried to storm into the estate all on their own. It had been audacious (and stupid) enough to trickle down even to the servants. You’d gotten various contradictory accounts so had only been able to record the vaguest and most common bits of the stories.

Sukuna tells you about the rumors that had led up to the confrontation, and how he’d allowed them easy passage through his territory. Evidently, he just wanted to see if they had “the stones” to actually face him. He gleefully tells you that half of them had pissed themselves when they finally made it to the throne room and to Sukuna waiting for them.

He speaks smoothly, unhurried, cadence ebbing and flowing with amusement and annoyance in turns. Often adds dry commentary that you genuinely find humorous, much to your shock.

At one point, needing clarification but wary of interrupting, you raise a finger to catch his attention. He glances at you over the top of previous faulty account with an arched brow.

“Hm?”

“Was it just the five sorcerers, or did they have a…” you cast about for the word, “entourage… or something?”

“A war party?” he supplies.

You nod, wiping excess ink from your fingers on a rag.

“Oh, yeah. Dumb as hell, dragging a bunch of human servants along with them,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I left those maggots to the others. They’re not even worth eating, usually.”

By “others” you realize he means curses and curse users that hover around like flies. (You discard the offhand comment about his unusual diet with barely a flinch.)

“I see,” you hum, adding it to the record, “thank you, my lord. If you’d like to continue…”

The rest of the story is every bit as gruesome and bloody as you’re expecting. It’s somehow easier to hear, knowing that it’s inevitable. Sukuna is especially detailed during this part, but much like every day in court, you keep your eyes on your work and just write what is said.

Following the story’s conclusion, you offer him the corrected version for inspection, but he just waves you off.

“Don’t you have books to organize or something?” he says. “I don’t need to read every little thing.”

And while he sounds aggravated, you get an odd… warmth about it. Like he’s already assured of your work’s quality. You try not to brighten too noticeably.

Appreciation from anyone, even Sukuna (especially Sukuna) is always gratifying.

“Yes, my lord.” You bow, collecting your materials. “Good evening.”

Over the next several days, a new pattern establishes itself.

You always wake early, hours before Sukuna is willing to entertain anyone. You sweep and dust, catalog the books, and prep your writing materials. Uraume always fetches you when Sukuna finally deigns to hold court.

Curses and curse users try vainly to curry Sukuna’s favor by whatever means they can think. Sometimes he grants boons, more often he makes a mess of the floors. When he grows bored, he dismisses everyone and the retellings of your initial, faulty records continues - though it’s never done in the court room again.

He gets sick of sitting there, apparently, so you follow him to whatever pastime he’s engaging in. Sometimes lounging by the koi pond, watching the fish. Other times, sitting on the engawa near the library while he smokes hookah and drinks sake. Once in the archery field, as he looses arrow after fiery arrow at (initially) living targets.

The first time you have a session in the library, his face twists with distaste. The space is clean, of course, but barren of anything but basic furniture and books. He becomes restless quickly and ends up perusing his own collection while recounting a battle near Heian-kyo. Apparently, recalling victory isn’t enough stimulation for him. 

(The next morning, you stop short in the doorway, tea halfway to your mouth. The once bare floors are now carpeted with lush, vibrant rugs. Atop them, lavish couches and lounges have been arranged around polished tables. There are fine silk-shaded lanterns, tapestries on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. It’s beautiful, the finest library you’ve ever seen, and you fall asleep on one of the cushioned settees that evening.)

Whenever Sukuna is done speaking, you return to the library. Always the library. You complete any lingering tasks from the morning and clean your brushes, hanging them to dry for overnight.

You never quite forget the danger of Sukuna. It’s impossible when his cruelty and power are on display daily. Yet… a part of you settles. As if, at some point, you passed some milestone that made you an unlikely target for Sukuna’s casual wrath. Perhaps sunken-cost of his valuable time, perhaps you’re just more convenient alive than dead.

Eventually, a small writing desk becomes a fixture in the throne room. Your usual spot just to the side and a little in front of Sukuna. Your joints are so grateful for a proper seat that you make a point of thanking Sukuna when court adjourns - though you can’t quite force yourself to look at him as you do.

The next morning, a new set of brushes is waiting for you. Beautiful, and finely made. The handles are lacquered, carved with rolling cloud designs, and the material… you suspect it’s made of bone. Even so, it’s a gift you know better than to decline. (And truly, it is so nice… you tell yourself it once belonged to an animal, and pretend to believe it.)

Eventually, you deplete your stock of ink sticks and inform Uraume, hoping they’ll be able to procure more. Surely you’re not the only one using ink in the estate.

“What would be needed to make more?” they ask. “Buying so much of it may not be economical.”

Quietly, you despair at the prospect of making your own ink sticks. The sheer amount of time it will take, never mind the skill required for it to be usable, is enough to make you teary.

“Well, typical ink is usually just pine soot, nikawa, and maybe something to make it smell more pleasant,” you muse. “The more expensive kinds just have pigment mixed in.”

They hum. “I will procure more ink.”

You blink. Have they already discarded the idea of hand-making it? Gods, you hope so.

“Thank you, Uraume-san.”

The following day, a stick pressed into the shape of a dragon is waiting at your desk. When you activate it and begin writing, the ink is deeply red. You marvel at the color, hand hovering over the page.

The back of your neck prickles, that unmistakable feeling of Sukuna’s eyes on you. As usual, you keep your eyes down.

You shouldn’t waste it, but you find yourself adding a little flourish to your characters that day, just to see the lovely flow of crimson.

You thank Uraume later for finding such nice ink on such short notice, you feel all four of his eyes on you again. But when you turn, he just motions for you to follow him to wherever you’ll be transcribing his next story.

With winter approaching, evening creeps up to smother the sun faster than usual. It requires more light - which usually involves a servant following the two of you around with a lantern on a pole at a respectful distance. However, Sukuna catches you trying to warm your half-frozen fingers one too many times and tsks something about “shivery handwriting.”

The two of you being working in the library more often. Despite the new decorations (presumably for his benefit) Sukuna still wanders the shelves, sharp eyes catching on every new volume that’s been added since his last visit. During a pause (he’s telling you about something decidedly less interesting for him, so he keeps trailing off, trying to remember details you usually ask for) you sense him approach from behind you.

His shadow blots out the candlelight before he even stops, much closer than necessary. Not so long ago, that would have frozen you into a trembling, hyperventilating statue. Now, accustomed as you are to having him at your back, and knowing he’s not as prone to random violence as you once thought, you have the capacity to notice two things.

The first is that he radiates heat. You’ve seen him produce fire from nothing - something about his technique, you think? - at the archery range. You didn’t consider that it would manifest in other ways. It’s almost nice, honestly, with the chill in the library.

The other thing is that he smells… good. Disturbingly good. Most curses that you’ve been unfortunately close to stink of decay, refuse, old blood. But Sukuna smells like incense, like woodsmoke and cloves. Something of earth, something a little divine - unexpected, yet fitting.

Clearing your throat a little, you turn your head and come face to… mouth with… well with the mouth on his stomach. That, too, you’ve become familiar with - though not usually so close. You tilt your chin up to peer at Sukuna. He holds a book over your face, brows arched. 

“We really do have a lot of these,” he says.

You glance at the cover again and see the title. The Tale of Genji.

“So many,” you blurt with feeling. “You’d think it’s the only novel ever written!”

He snorts, then casts the book a skeptical look. “Is it even any good?”

He’s asking your opinion? Shock almost robs you of an answer.

Maybe it’s the crippling loneliness of your position in an estate like Sukuna’s, but you’re eager for some small connection. A chance to speak slightly more freely than normal.

“It’s not bad by any means, but I think it’s popularity is a little inflated,” you muse. “I suppose it depends on your taste.”

He grunts, one set of eyes considering the novel at length. The other pair slide to you.

“You’re getting ink on your hand again.”

“Oh!”

While you clean, Sukuna drops himself onto one of the couches. Privately, and safely away from all four of his shrewd eyes, you marvel at the sheer breadth of him. Sitting as he so often is, and as much as you keep your eyes on your writing, you sometimes forget how much he outmeasures any human. By every dimension.

A couch that nearly swallows you seems to only just fit him comfortably.

“Are you done yet?” he calls.

“Ah, yes, my lord,” you reply. You can wash your brushes later. “How may I be of service?”

He tosses you the book. There’s no stopping the dismayed yelp that squeaks out as you fumble a bit, hugging it to your chest. He doesn’t look at you, but the mouth on his stomach snickers.

“Read it,” he commands, stretching out. “Let’s see if it’s actually any good.”

It takes you a beat too long to realize that he means you’re to read it out loud. You balk for a brief moment, confused and nervous. But it wasn’t a request.

Overly aware of yourself in a way you haven’t been since you were a teenager, you perch on one of the armchairs. It’s a thick manuscript, you don’t expect Sukuna to be entertained for more than an hour - and that’s a generous estimate.

You clear your throat one last time, crack it open, and begin.

No matter the amount of time you spend with Sukuna, you’re always reminded of his unpredictability.

The reading sessions are folded into the new routine. Your days are now library, court, transcribing Sukuna’s stories, and then finally reading Sukuna stories. Or just the one, so far. It’s a very long book, after all.

Not once has he appeared bored, despite your prediction that he’d lose interest quickly. Yet, whenever he props his chin on one of his hands, his eyes are always clear. Engaged. He even comments sometimes, or makes faces. He’s actually listening.

You’d be self-conscious, if you had the energy.

This addition to your schedule is not a small one - you read until Sukuna is satisfied, usually well into the evening, when the lanterns begin to dim. You suppose fatigue doesn’t drag at him like it does a human. Like it does you.

Your work doesn’t end when he’s retired to his chambers. You still have to finish any tasks left from the morning - inventory, cleaning, storing away the day’s records. Most recently, checking and replacing any books.

Apparently a few members of his harem, wondering what has their king so preoccupied, have discovered the library. And with his blessing (more accurately, the shooing motion he makes over the back of the couch) they’ve begun perusing with relish. Most of them come from noble families, as spoils of war or appeasement to Sukuna, and seem eager for a bit of familiarity from their previous lives.

Truly, you don’t mind. They are respectful of the books and treat them with care. Often, they even leave their picks out for you to replace, rather than try to do it themselves and disrupt your organization system.

But it is another task you must account for.

Uraume, intuitive as they are, has been providing a steady stream of strong black tea - which you find keeps you more alert than matcha.

Alas, the benefits of tea only extend so far.

“Keeper.”

“Ah, yes, Sukuna-sama?” you ask, blinking yourself from the hypnotic daze his deep voice lulled you into.

You’re in the library again, because it’s been raining all day. The thrush of water on the roof and against the windows is an unfortunately effective accomplice challenging your ability to stay awake.

“Am I boring you?” he asks, audibly displeased.

You wince and rub at your eyes with your free hand. The characters are starting to blur, which does not bode well for reading later. “No, my lord, I’m sorry.”

You startle as he appears in front of you from seemingly nowhere - he’d just been wandering the shelves, as he usually does.

All four of his crimson eyes pin you in place. Looking at you. You’re startled to recognize the familiarity of its intensity; usually you’re facing the other way.

“You look bad.”

Perhaps it’s the fatigue. Perhaps it’s the tone. Perhaps it’s that he says it at all. 

But you laugh. And he arches his brows, apparently nonplussed. And you laugh a little more.

“Apologies, my lord,” you say, struggling to contain your giggles. “I just… I must look unfortunate if you’ve noticed enough to say so.”

He snorts, crosses one set of arms. “I am not oblivious.”

“No, my lord, you are not,” you agree. You’ve just always operated under the assumption you’re beneath his notice. Even if he observed your exhaustion, you wouldn’t have ever expected him to acknowledge it aloud.

“Explain.”

You hesitate. There’s an answer, but you know better than to make it sound like you’re complaining. Buying time, you busy yourself with setting your brush very carefully to the side - you’re likely to ruin the entire record at the pace you’re going.

“I’m staying… that is to say, you…” You fumble for the correct combination of words, but your mind provides nothing but the same droning as the rain outside. “There’s just…”

You press your mouth together with a small, frustrated sigh at yourself. Each failed syllable has tightened your nails into your palm, anxious crescents carving into clammy skin.

“Keeper.”

You swallow back another incoherent jumble of words. “Sorry, Sukuna-sama.”

He clicks his tongue. One of his hands (from the pair that’s not crossed) run through his hair, as if he’s frustrated with you as well. There’s a beat of silence. You don’t expect death anymore, but you’ve strained so often to please him that you’re not longer sure what will happen if you don’t.

“Speak plainly for once,” he commands. Your eyes flick nervously at his expression. His brows are smooth, and the top set of eyes are cast elsewhere, disinterested. But the bottom set are still trained on you, slightly narrowed. “I have no patience for you to be clever this evening.”

Clever…? What does that even mean?

Seeing the mouth on his stomach tightening, you tuck the thought away. Sukuna has given you an order and there’s really no other option but to obey.

“I’m so fucking tired,” you blurt.

All four eyes snap to your face, his brows jumping nearly to his hairline. You think his eyes might even widen a little - or maybe that’s just a trick of the light and your fuzzy vision. Then he barks a laugh, deep and booming.

Unlike the sadistic cackle of soon-to-be-dead subjects, or the dangerous chuckle of incoming retribution, this sounds genuine. (It’s rare, but you’ve heard it in response to Uraume’s dry comments, or the couple times you’ve asked incredulous questions about his stories.)

“Is that so?” he asks.

You nod and groan softly, rubbing at your eyes again. Composure has abandoned you, like the admission has spent the last of your endurance. You slump.

“Yes,” you sigh. “I’ve been staying up late to finish work in the library.”

He grunts. “Let me see today’s records.”

Wordlessly, you pluck them from the top of the stack and hand them over. Sukuna inspects them more closely than ever before. Two hands hold the pages, one rests on his hip, the other settles on his chin contemplatively.

“You wrote crooked,” he announces. “And you used ‘spicy’ instead of ‘lucky’.”

Despair wells in your soul. “I’ll rewrite them.”

He waves you off and steps closer to set them on the stack himself. This close, the scent of him washes over you, warm and (you’d be more surprised if you weren’t so weary) pleasantly familiar.

“You have proved yourself capable as my historian and my bookkeeper,” he says, “but my collection has grown too impressive to be attended to by one human. Your priority is at my side, not scurrying amongst dead trees.”

Not sure where’s he’s going with this, and mildly baffled by the “scurrying” part, you make a little noise of agreement.

“Tomorrow, you will train a substitute to operate in your absence while you are transcribing.”

Whatever you were expecting, it’s not that. Part of you fears that you have worn out your usefulness - that you are teaching a replacement, that you’ll be killed or (and this is somehow much worse) demoted.

“Yes, my lord,” you mumble, eyes dropping to your lap.

There’s a half-beat of silence. He grunts again, as if aggravated. Perhaps you weren’t appropriately grateful…?

“If you find that one assistant is not enough, inform Uraume, and they will recruit more. I won’t have my library falling into disarray when I went through the trouble of making it look halfway decent.”

Assistant.

Oh.

Relief and appreciation make you lightheaded. “Of course, Sukuna-sama,” you breathe, “thank you.”

He clicks his tongue and, voice stern, commands, “Clean up and go to bed immediately. I will only spare you a single day. Make use of it.”

“I will, my lord.”

You only realize once he’s gone that the evening’s story is unfinished. Well… it will keep. It will have to; he told you to clean up and go to bed. And you have no doubt that he will somehow know if you don’t.

Besides, your bed is singing a siren song you can no longer resist.

(Late morning the following day, and eating a full meal for once, you hear that Sukuna is in a foul mood. The throne room floors are already bathed in blood, curse and human alike. The estate shakes so badly at one point that it knocks a haphazard stack of manuscripts to the floor.

Sukuna appears just as you’ve finished training your new assistant, a nervous young man named Moriyoshi, at the time you’d normally begin reading Genji. He seems composed, but you see agitation in the line of his jaw and the set of his broad shoulders. When you offer to read to him, he turns and walks away without a word - but not without eying the desk between you and Moriyoshi.)

A week passes, and Moriyoshi grows increasingly frazzled each day. On the eighth morning, he approaches you as you’re gathering your writing materials. His hands are pressed together as if in prayer.

“Please, Shikako-san, it’s too much!” he murmurs, eyes flicking nervously at the doors. “I don’t know how you did it, but I can’t keep up!”

You blink. Is it really so much? But, well, it’s probably more difficult to learn the system than it is to design it, as you did. And you’ve been excruciatingly detailed with the records.

“I’ll speak to Uraume-san. Prioritize the catalog for today and I’ll come to help this evening.”

He looks near tears with relief. “Thank you, Shikako-san!”

Shikako-san?

He’s fleeing into the shelves before you can ask about the new title. Suppose calling you “historian” is apt enough, though. You brush it off and continue with your day.

You approach Uraume with Moriyoshi’s request for further help that same evening, after Sukuna’s excused you.

“Sukuna-sama will not be pleased,” they sigh, “you’ll need to train this one as well.”

“And help them catch up with whatever’s fallen behind,” you agree. A headache is building; you massage your thumbs against your temples. “My work won’t suffer this time. It’ll just be one more day.”

They give you this look. Inscrutable as they are, you have no hope of deciphering what it’s meant to convey, if anything. But you’re left with the distinct impression that you’ve exasperated them, somehow.

You tentatively thank them for their patience when they bring you a cup of tea, but they just give you that look again and sweep out of the library.

By next morning, you have three new assistants. Kiro is among them, scratching sheepishly at the back of his head as he admits he always liked delivering books to the library. Enough so that he’s apparently been reprimanded for spending too long with you before, asking questions about how you organize and handle the additions he’d brought.

“He’s more use there than procrastinating tributes to the concubines,” Uraume explain when you ask about it later. “Make good use of him.”

You hum your agreement and politely pass Sukuna one of your handkerchiefs for the goblet he just cracked.

(During a break from training your assistants, you overhear one of the servants whispering that Sukuna is planning another campaign. You resolve to ask him about it that evening, which you’ve insisted could be spent catching up with the day’s record.

He’s not planning another campaign.

He is, however, going to annihilate - and that is the word he uses - a band of sorcerers making noise in the south.)

Uruame rouses you before the sun has risen. Sukuna likes to leave early and the travel should only be two days with good weather, they say. You have no idea what they’re talking about, but stumble into your clothes and out to the stables anyway.

Apparently, you’re accompanying Sukuna to slaughter the unlucky souls that have drawn his attention. You should have known this would come eventually. In a vague sense, you did. You’ve transcribed several accounts of previous battles already - it just seemed like such a distant concept that the reality of actually going startles you.

Still, you go.

Travel for violence, as it turns out, is almost identical to travel for any other reason. In a word, boring. There wouldn’t be much to record even if you could. Mostly, you sit in the carriage with Sukuna and Uraume, reading until the road gets bumpy enough to make you nauseous.

Every so often, you look out the windows, taking in the landscape - scarred from the memory of Sukuna’s rampages. You pass settlements, none with a population that could exceed a few hundred, but many solitary curses. You try to drudge up any particular feeling about the evidence of his devastation - but all you can muster is melancholy at the loss of natural beauty.

In the evening, you ask Sukuna how he usually handles rebellions and upstarts, which evolves into a conversation about curse users, jujutsu sorcerers, and cursed techniques. He’s more talkative than usual, and your fingers itch to write it all down - but it’s long gone dark and you don’t want to get paper too close to the fire.

In the absence of your usual diversions, you’re left to just watch him. The constant shifts in his faces, the gestures he makes, the pitch and lilt of his voice. Moreover, you notice a lingering tension in the posture of his spine and the slight tick of his lower right hand. It’s not the aggravation you’ve come to implicitly recognize.

It’s… anticipation, you realize.

He spills blood daily but a proper battle is a rare novelty for him. Surely it won’t provide much challenge, but it must be better than nothing.

And indeed, he does seem to get genuine enjoyment from the fight.

A band of maybe thirty individuals with varying levels of strength, according to Uraume. Sukuna tears through them, mouth split wide with maniacal delight. In the air one moment, crashing through trees the next, then crushing them into the earth.

It’s brutal, and drawn out. Blood is spraying, limbs are strewn about like plucked petals. The crunch of bones and cartilage echoes in the air. Part of you wants to look away, to be sympathetic to the terrible suffering of these other human beings.

Yet you can’t take your eyes off Sukuna. The fluidity of his movements, casual and effortless, but deliberate and skillful, even to your untrained eye. You didn’t understand what “controlling the battlefield” meant in historical documents until now. It’s… impressive. 

“Sukuna-sama is enjoying himself,” Uraume observes next to you. “He seems to be utilizing many of his abilities.”

You should not admire him. Especially not for this… though you’re not certain admiration is the correct word, either.

Still, marveling at what is essentially the torture of others…

You’ve been dragged over many of your moral lines, but this one you seem to wander across on your own, too busy staring at the king of curses.

When it’s over, he’s so blood-soaked that half his tattoos are obscured. Both mouths grin madly, lips and teeth stained with meat. He sighs - the sigh of a satisfying meal - and runs a wet hand through the peach fields of his hair. There’s a beat of silence, as if the world needs a moment to recover. 

Then Uraume approaches him with a damp towel, fresh garments folded over one arm.

But you. You’re still rooted to the spot, caught in the crimson glow of his wild eyes. Your heart stutters, somehow startled, though you haven’t once looked away. Even from this distance, you can see his pupils blown wide.

Fear, cold and sharp, cracks through you for the first time in a long while. The old and now unfamiliar terror that he could pounce on you at any moment. You swallow past a dry throat and drop your eyes, falling back on old habits.

“There a river nearby?” You hear him ask. Your stomach flips at the smoke coming from the heat in his voice. “This won’t be enough. I think there’s bits of brain stuck to me.”

“There is,” Uraume answers, professional as always.

When you peek up, his gaze has dropped to them and he’s arching an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“Both.”

He snorts, but takes the cloth anyway, body language softening. You take a deep, steadying breath.

Your notes. You need to write this all down. Well… maybe not all of it. But you need to record everything; that’s what you’re here for, after all.

Comfort...

(For once, you’re not sure what you’re comforting yourself from.)

Your new assistants are waiting for your return, lined up at the entrance to the library. They welcome you back with nervous smiles and awkward bows, apparently nervous for your evaluation of their performance in your absence.

A thorough investigation reveals that they’ve done quite admirably. All documents are back where they belong, the catalog is up-to-date, and every surface is spotless. You thoroughly compliment their efforts, with only a gentle note about adding more details to a few entries, to keep track of the books’ wear over time.

“Ah, there was one other thing, Shikako-san,” Moriyoshi adds as you’re filing the travel records away.

“Hm?” you ask.

You glance up when he doesn’t immediately continue. He’s wringing his ink-stained hands, picking at a hangnail.

“Lady Katsumi has been commandeering Kiro-kun,” he says.

You pause. “What? Why?”

“She… she says that as Sukuna-sama’s favored companion, a history should be taken of her as well,” he explains.

Well… yes, you suppose so. Your father (and grandfather) had secondary wives with their own scribes, and they weren’t the only ones you’re aware of. It’s standard in most noble houses, even expected.

It didn’t occur to you until now because, well, you didn’t think Sukuna has a favored companion. He has concubines yes, but they don’t enjoy the same luxury that most others of their station do from what you’ve heard. You, certainly, were never envious of their position at the estate.

“I can ask Uraume-san for a couple more assistants, but Sukuna-sama will have final say. He’s been cross about all the help we need, but at least one or two other women likely need records too.”

Moriyoshi nods, seemingly content that you’ll handle it, and turns.

“Oh, one other thing, Shikako-san.”

You grimace. “Yes?”

“Genji-san has conquered his entire shelf.”

“Dammit.”

You bring it up before court begins the next day, mixing the ink to your preferred opacity. (The lovely red color has become standard and you can’t say you mind, even though it now conjures images of Sukuna destroying that sorcerer camp.)

“If there are servants to spare that can write, the library could use them.”

From the corner of your eye, Sukuna’s expression shifts, mercurial. “Are the ones you have that incompetent, or are your powers of book-keeping truly so magical?”

You can’t hide your frown - not at the caustic mockery in his voice, but at the slight against your assistants.

“Well, not for the library specifically,” you explain, “but some of your concubines are supposed to have their own records, my lord.”

He rolls all four of his eyes, expression turning sour. (It’s better than angry.) “Is that so?”

You tuck your hair back, casting about for the hashi you usually use to keep it out of your face. Alas, it appears to have been lost during travel. Perhaps you have a bit of twine in your pockets?

“The more favored ones, at least,” you muse. Wordlessly, Uraume offers you a simple wooden comb. You take it with a grateful smile. “But my assistants will fall behind if Lady Katsumi borrows Kiro-san again.”

Sukuna tsks. “I don’t favor any of them; that would be like preferring one spoon over another.”

Crude, but not surprising. (He once referred to children as a “snack between meals,” after all.) You huff softly, too focused on pinning your hair to shake your head.

“Ugh, fine, if it keeps them quiet,” he grumbles. “Uraume will see to it.”

They bow crisply, “As you wish, Sukuna-sama.” 

“Thank you for your generosity, Sukuna-sama,” you add. There’s definitely not a needling note in your polite tone. (And he definitely doesn’t let it slide with just a flash of his big, pearly teeth.)

A comb, made of familiar white material and a red inlay carved into handle, greets you on your writing desk after lunch. 

Three scribes are added to your (regrettably) growing staff. You send them off to the concubines’ wing of the estate with a small but sincere prayer for their fortitude.

It’s not all of them, really. You’ve come to realize that most of Sukuna’s harem are quite pleasant. Beautiful, graceful, and appreciative of the library, they visit often to borrow books or enjoy them on the couches. Like every other human in the estate, they just want to go about their lives safely.

Lady Katsumi, however, is one of the few that are categorically unpleasant. And the books always smell like strong perfume when she returns them.

“Do you think they’ll be alright?” Kiro asks, brow furrowed with worry.

“If they’re not, I’m sure Sukuna-sama won’t mind if they go back to their previous roles.”

As long as he’s not bothered about it, he couldn’t care less.

“I’m glad I’m a librarian,” Kiro adds.

You hum. “Me too.”

All four of your assistants cast you strange glances, but you don’t have time to question them about it - Sukuna’s holding a banquet this evening and you’re required to attend. You really only stopped in for more paper and a fresh brush. If nothing else, maybe you can practice your disused painting skills instead of following conversations Sukuna isn’t likely to participate in.

A handful of weeks pass. You finally finish reading The Tale of Genji.

It’s a bit later than usual into the evening, both of you eager to finish that last stretch of the story. Sukuna’s lounging with his arms spread across the back of his usual settee, one leg stretched out across the divide between you two. He finished his sake about an hour ago - you’re still sipping at the second cup he poured you.

“Well, my lord?” you ask, glancing up. Sukuna’s eyes are already on you. (As they so often seem to be these days.) “Did it live up to your expectations?”

He hums as he considers the question, cracking his neck. 

“Not bad, but definitely not worth the entire bookcase you’ve dedicated to it.”

“Sukuna-sama,” you groan, “it’s not my fault you keep receiving them. I am but a humble keeper of your collection.”

He smirks. “My collection could stand to thin.”

“Perhaps you should threaten to decapitate the next person to bring you a copy,” you muse through a yawn.

It’s only when you see how his eyes light up with wicked delight that you realize what you’ve said. Gods, what’s happened to you?!

“And people say I’m cruel,” he purrs. “You’re bloodthirsty, huh?”

You click your tongue, flustered, and stand to set the book on Moriyoshi’s desk - it’ll be a good opportunity for him to practice catalog updates. “I’m not.”

“Have you gotten a taste for it after all this time?” he continues, rising. Stretching those thick tattooed arms. “Is that it, Shika?”

You glance over your shoulder to frown at him, nose scrunching. He’s closer than you expect. (As he so often seems to be… these days…)

“Please don’t mock me, my lord,” you huff. “I’ve given you no reason to.”

“I don’t need a reason to do as I please with you,” he intones.

It strikes you odd. Different. Something in his voice, maybe, or the way he tilts his head towards you. Your stomach flutters, low and deep in your gut.

“And it pleases you to mock me, Sukuna-sama?”

His mouth curves crooked and devilish as he looms over you. “You make it so enticing when you pout like that.”

You can’t hold his eyes anymore; your knees are threatening to buckle. You don’t know what that means, what to do with the rapid tapping of your heart. Breathing feels like a manual process.

Casting about for a distraction, any distraction, you remember that one of your new scribes had requested that you review his notes. You shift away to pluck them up from the desk he left them on.

“I do not pout,” you reply - then remember yourself, “my lord.”

His heat follows. “You do.”

You catch yourself just before you can turn to scowl at him. This may be unfamiliar territory that you’re treading, but you can sense that you’re playing with fire. Perhaps literally.

Entirely distracted, you pretend to skim through the record.

“As my lord says,” you demure.

He snickers at your dry tone, and then - gods in the heavens - leans closer. If possible, you read the report even more intensely but process even less.

“And what has my shika-san’s eyes away from her king?”

“I thought you don’t like when people look at you, my king.”

There’s a beat of silence where you worry that you’ve finally gone too far. But then he hums, deep and low, just by your ear. He must be nearly to your shoulder, you think wildly. You don’t dare turn your head to check.

“It’s a privilege that most don’t deserve.” He still sounds amused. “And your king asked you a question.”

You flip back to the front of the document, willing your hands to stay steady.

“Kuzusuke-san asked me to review his transcription from today,” you explain, “but… honestly, it looks acceptable to me. Unless he’s missing something important that I wouldn’t know about.”

“This is from the concubines?” Sukuna inquires, giving the first couple pages a once-over.

You nod, “I guess one of them complained.”

He makes an aggravated noise, sounding more distant now. “If his work is suitable, then pay it no mind. You have a more important task to complete.”

You’ll look it over again when the spice of his scent isn’t clouding your mind. You turn to him now that you’re confident his face is no longer so dangerously close.

“I do?”

“You must pick a new book to read,” he declares.

You blink, lips parting. A new one?! He wants you to keep reading to him? Not that you didn’t think he enjoyed it - if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have sat with you every evening, listening and commenting. But still… you thought the novelty would wear off when you finished Genji.

“Ah, yes, my lord,” you manage, “what… would you like me to read?”

He waves an impatient hand. “How should I know, you’re the librarian.”

A baffled giggle escapes you, for lack of any other appropriate reaction. His lower set of eyes is half-lidded - though you don’t think it’s with boredom this time.

“As my lord commands,” you say, “I shall have a story picked by tomorrow evening.”

You tell Kuzusuke to be more complimentary, going forward. Lady Katsumi is silent for about a week. 

One morning, Uraume wraps you in an exquisite crimson kakumaki in defense against the cold.

Lady Katsumi sends a handmaid to complain that Kuzusuke’s records are sloppy and too vague. You advise him to be as detailed as possible, even if it’s tedious. When the same handmaid returns two days later, you assign another scribe to help supplement his records. The handmaid doesn’t return.

Your blood-stained and rather overused fan is replaced with one that you know by now is bone. There’s a lavish, gold-leafed painting of your favorite koi from the pond in Sukuna’s garden.

Lady Katsumi makes a personal appearance in the library. She’s resplendent in layered silk, dripping with gold and silver jewelry, accented by jade and coral ornaments. Long, thick, glossy hair to match her immaculate ohaguro, and piercingly shrewd eyes.

Her attendants look like they were dragged out of bed far too early to dress her so nicely to intercept you before court.

She tells you that Kuzusuke’s handwriting is too ugly to transcribe for her. She demands another, so you assign Hiratake, who puts on a brave face when she snaps at him to follow her back to her quarters. Kuzusuke at least waits until the entourage is gone to cry his relief.

You’re sitting off to the side of Sukuna during a feast, painting an unflattering caricature of a curse user you think poorly of. Noticing your concentration - or perhaps even more bored than you - Sukuna hooks his fingers under the lip of your seat. In one long, slow, spine-tingling pull, he slides your chair (and by extension you) to his side.

He glances at your little art project and smirks. “His forehead should be bigger,” he says.

You hum and start all over again, this time making the curse user’s head bulbous and shiny.

For the first time - possibly ever but at least since your promotion - everyone survives that feast.

Another of Lady Katsumi’s handmaids returns to the library two days later, complaining that Hiratake asks too many questions. You advise him to just fade into the background as much as possible, and write only what he sees and hears.

A new tribute is brought before Sukuna. When this happens, he has you pull records to compare with previous offerings, partially to decide if it’s acceptable. This time, he motions you close to read over your shoulder - quicker than listing items aloud, granted. But the disparity in heights has you perching carefully on the arm of his throne.

When a bottle of sake piques his interest among the inventory, he cracks it open right there.

“Not bad,” he muses, glancing into his half-empty cup. He presses it to your bottom lip and, lacking another course of action, you drink.

When it’s empty, you hum appreciatively. It’s sweet and crisp, tastes a little like apricots. Sukuna brings the bottle to that evening’s reading session.

Lady Katsumi reportedly bursts in around midday later that week. You wouldn’t know because you’re not there, still sitting in court with Sukuna. Apparently, she’s got a number of complaints that all seem to amount to Hiratake being an insufficient scribe. 

By the time you hear of it, it’s far too late in the evening for you to be patient. Exasperated, you switch him out for the last of the scribes on your staff, Masayuki.

Sukuna’s in a foul mood. You’re not sure what’s sparked his temper this time, but you keep your fan handy. He calls an end to court even earlier than usual and storms to the archery range. You, as always, follow at his elbow with Uraume.

He doesn’t speak for a long time, firing arrow after vicious arrow at squirming targets. Without anything to transcribe, you sit and begin weaving blades of wilting grass together.

“I’m guessing you haven’t learned any skill with weaponry,” he says after he’s painstakingly “finished” three “targets.”

He sounds calmer now, at least, and his expression when he half-turns towards you is simmering rather than boiling. You absently offer the tiny basket you’ve crafted.

“You’re correct, my lord. I learned how to arrange flowers instead,” you answer.

He snorts, lower set of eyes tilting with amusement as he inspects your miniature craft. 

“I will teach you when it’s warmer,” he says. “Your fingers will freeze before you hit a target in this weather.”

You nearly ask why. Instead, you challenge him to make increasingly difficult shots, and he proceeds to make every single one. The showoff.

Lady Katsumi approaches Uraume, saying that Masayuki makes her feel unsafe - though she doesn’t provide any specific or punishable instances of behavior.

Considering the nature of this particular issue, it’s brought to Sukuna for judgement. He crosses his arms as he listens to Uraume’s secondhand account, one set of eyes on the ceiling, the other askance at seemingly nothing. Then he turns to you.

“Is Masayuki a problem?” he asks.

You certainly don’t know him well, but you can understand how a complete stranger might balk. He’s taller and wider than the other scribes, and has a gruff speech pattern. But you’ve also seen the careful way he holds his calligraphy brushes and how he looks at Moriyoshi.

“He can be intimidating, but it’s not on purpose,” you say finally. “I would be surprised if he… regarded any woman.”

Sukuna makes a “huh” noise - that’s a new one you gleefully tuck away in your mind.

“Fine, give her one of the other two,” he says, not realizing that you’ve already done that.

You simply nod, at your wit’s end. You send Kiro as a temporary placement while you figure out a more longterm solution - it usually takes a few days before she starts complaining.

As luck would have it, Sukuna has a meeting planned three days later. Normally, you would sit in on any meeting as a witness to any deals or promises made. (Not that Sukuna is beholden to anything but a pact - but he likes to know precise wording for the purpose of being the menace that he is.) However, this meeting is with a sorcerer, one that’s apparently expressed a desire to defect.

“It’s a trap, isn’t it?” you ask curiously.

He shrugs. “Probably.”

It will be futile regardless, you know. Just an opportunity to kill more annoying sorcerers. And if, by some slim chance, the offer is sincere, Sukuna won’t pass up the allure of corruption and betrayal.

“You’ll stay here this time,” he explains. “Sorcerers are a pain in the ass, who knows what stupid shit they might try with you there.”

You haven’t gone a single day without Sukuna in… months. Nearly a year. The prospect makes you uneasy now, when you once would have felt bone-melting relief. But it is an opportunity to investigate this ongoing problem with Lady Katsumi.

“Try not to miss me too much, Shika,” he coos with a smirk.

You fix him with a blank look and do your best impression of Uraume. “I shall do my utmost, my lord.”

He cackles.

You trudge to the harem’s wing with Kuzusuke and Hiratake that morning. Kiro was once again near tears with relief and Moriyoshi was apologetic as you prepared your supplies. You wave away their concern while tucking ink bricks into the pocket of your mo.

Lady Katsumi has her own private chamber in the concubines’ sprawling quarters. She really must be favored, despite Sukuna’s scoffing. Or (more likely) he just can’t be bothered by the social underpinnings of such gestures.

Reflective of the woman herself, it’s richly furnished and decadent, every piece carefully selected and positioned to display opulence and refined taste. The air is so sweet that you can feel a headache already brewing. Never did you think you’d miss the sour odor of curse guts.

“My scribes’ work has been insufficient for the lady,” you explain, “so I’ve come to understand what improvements can be made.”

She glances at you in the silver mirror she’s poised in front of, the final touches of her ensemble being clasped and pinned in place. If you had blinked, you would have missed it, but there’s animosity roiling behind her serene facade. It’s as unexpected as it is unwarranted, but you shrug it off.

“So thorough,” she croons, “I see why my king has tolerated you for so long.”

You hum, a noncommittal but passable response while you date the beginning of the day’s record.

What proceeds is the single most infuriating handful of hours you’ve experienced since coming to Sukuna’s estate. It reminds you of those years before, when you were still a nobleman’s daughter. Here in the concubine’s wing - or at least with Lady Katsumi - that culture of doublespeak, backhanded compliments, and needle-sharp barbs is alive and well.

It’s like nostalgia’s loathsome cousin. You quickly come to understand why Kiro and Hiratake were near tears when you relieved them of this particular duty.

You’re forced to sit through an extended tea ceremony and a poetry reading. Then dragged through the frosty gardens, not at all prepared for the chill and denied the opportunity to fetch your kakumaki. She takes lunch but titters that it’s unsightly for servants to dine with higher stations, and you are too busy serving her to excuse yourself besides.

You wouldn’t think it was personal - after all, she’s done nothing but clap and snap her fingers at every servant unfortunate enough to be within hearing distance. However, you’re not blind to the hostile and disparaging looks she repeatedly scans you with. Even if it is targeted for some reason, you still don’t take it to heart.

When she’s done eating, she demands to read through your notes thus far. You offer them without a word.

She barely glances at it before clicking her tongue. “What is this ink? It is so cheap.”

“It is what Uraume-san has provided,” you answer. It’s also not cheap, you’ve seen the seal on the artful boxes they come in.

“I’ve heard there is a red one,” she says, “that color more befits my station.”

You tilt your head, amused. “That is the ink Sukuna-sama has chosen for himself.”

The implication is clear - if she persists, she is likening her station to Sukuna’s. And that is a death sentence. No one here is loyal (or scared) enough that such a slight will stay within these chambers.

She must realize it because she stills, eyes widening in equal parts anger and uncertainty. But she recovers impressively fast.

“Very well, perhaps blue,” she says breezily, “his majesty finds me quite fetching in blue.”

“Perhaps,” you agree, only just leashing your sarcasm.

The corners of her mouth pinch anyway.

There’s flower arranging, then music while she paints. You transcribe it all as faithfully and thoroughly as you would for Sukuna, borrowing lessons from court days to pass the time as it drags.

“You are by far the least annoying of Sukuna-sama’s scribes,” she observes apropos nothing, voice sugary.

You don’t look up from a painstaking description of the tea she’s drinking. “A high compliment,” you remark, flatter than is polite.

“Perhaps you should be my scribe from now on,” she continues, “surely it must be under consideration, if he’s let me borrow you for the day.”

Your bite the corner of your mouth to curb a chuckle. Somehow, the idea that Sukuna loaned you out is so outlandish it’s funny. He’s not exactly renowned for his charity and magnanimity.

“Yes, I think I’ll ask Sukuna-sama to give you to me,” she muses brightly. “He denies me nothing, especially when I remedy his travel tensions.”

This time, you can’t help it, you snort. It’s loud and rude and unmistakably mocking. From this last journey you took with him, he made it abundantly clear that the only remedy he desires after travel is the onsen and strong sake.

Lady Katsumi’s eyes narrow as she lowers her teacup. “You dare doubt the king’s generosity?”

“Certainly not,” you reply, irony audible. “In fact, I can ask him when I’ve finished transcribing for him tonight. You’ll have plenty of time to prepare your… remedies.”

Her face twists. Suddenly. Violently.

You’re so taken aback that you don’t react in time. Her bejeweled arm winds back, then hurls her half-empty teacup at your head. She aims true.

Exquisite ceramic shatters across your right eye.

Jagged shards flay your brow, cheekbone, eyelid - and the thin, gelatinous membrane of your cornea.

A scream rips from what feels like your very soul. The pain is beyond excruciating. Not even the white-hot yet burning-cold you’ve rarely experienced. It’s something else, something defying any of the pretty words now emptied from your howling mind.

You didn’t know that agony was a complete sentence until now.

Your hand flies up on protective instinct, in vain. Something hot and wet coats your palm, seeps between your shaking fingers, slides along the tendons of your hand. 

It doesn’t feel like blood, you think hysterically, it doesn’t feel like blood.

It’s smearing across your cheeks, streaking down your jaw, and dripping from your chin.

In your panic and pain and horror, you don’t hear what Lady Katsumi is saying. She’s speaking, voice like poison-tipped needles, but you can’t make out the syllables. Can’t understand anything over the ragged sounds spilling from your throat.

Until you hear a new voice. A voice you recognize. A voice that, despite every reason telling you otherwise, brings relief. The pain doesn’t subside in the slightest, but somehow it becomes more bearable.

You try to open an eye. Your only eye, now. The thought brings a fresh wave of misery.

“Sukuna,” you choke out.

His shadow cloaks you, an immovable barrier between you and the room. Through swimming vision, you make out the watery lines of his tattoos. The maw of his stomach is baring its fangs, snarling. You can’t make out his face.

A large, firm hand circles your wrist. The one protecting the gaping wound in your skull. A whimper shakes free from your raw throat. You resist an unexpectedly gentle tug.

“I can’t…” you sob, shaking. “It hurts…”

Another hand steadies your swaying body, firm at your waist.

“Drop your hand,” he says. His voice is low and hard, each word articulated slowly. Purposefully. “Let me see.”

Despite every fiber of your body crying against it, your arm goes lax and Sukuna guides it down. A third hand takes your chin between between thumb and forefinger, tilting your head back.

His features are still blurry. You can just make out the tense line of his angular jaw, and the muscle ticking there. The top pair of his eyes are tight around the edges, but carefully blank, matching the smooth set of his brows. But the lower pair… the lower pair blow wide when they see the damage. And they burn.

Sukuna leans down, leans close. The smoke and spice of him mingles with the copper of blood. The severe line of his mouth parts. His tongue, hot and slick, flattens against your cheek and drags. Follows the sticky-wet mixture of blood and tears and fluid, all the way to the corner of your ruined socket.

You watch through your remaining eye as his pupils dilate. Ink spilled into blood.

Your mind falls silent. Still.

The pain retreats like the rush of a tide. In its place, a discomfiting tingle, akin to falling asleep on your arm, begins to radiate across your face.

“There now,” he rasps, giving your chin a tiny shake. “All those tears over a few scratches.”

At some point, your free hand curled around his wrist. Perhaps an aborted attempt to stop him (though the urge never even crossed your mind, and you wouldn’t have been able to besides) but more likely seeking stability.

“Sukuna…” you mumble.

“Open your eye, Shika.”

Your heart leaps when you find that you can.

You’re staring up at Sukuna with both eyes wide, vision clear. The shredded skin around them stings, but it’s nothing, absolutely nothing to what you felt before.

“Oh,” you whisper, hoarse, “I was just panicked… how silly.”

His eyes flicker. You’re still too frazzled to parse what it means, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen this expression on his face.

“Silly,” he echoes. It almost sounds like agreement. (You know it’s not.)

The hand still around your wrist tightens fractionally. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be a reassuring gesture or a tiny sliver of the storm brewing behind his eyes, slipping out.

“Uraume.” He calls. “See to my shika’s wounds. I will find you both. Later.”

“Yes, Sukuna-sama.”

A white shape at the edge of your restored vision steps closer, but doesn’t intrude. Sukuna still hasn’t released you. You draw in a slow breath, what feels like the first in a long time. You squeeze his wrist slightly in return.

“Welcome back, my king.”

He releases you all at once, leaving you momentarily unbalanced. But he doesn’t remove your hand from his arm, doesn’t step away. You find your footing, unlatch your fingers, and force your weak legs to turn towards Uraume. Whatever you look like - and it must be truly awful - it makes their usually stoic face twitch. The temperature seems to plummet.

As soon as you begin wobbling away from Sukuna, their hand curls tightly in the sleeve of your kosode and drags you away.

Sukuna remains behind. A final glance over your shoulder reveals Sukuna, staring at your blood pooled on the floor and Lady Katsumi frozen, wide-eyed and gray, standing by her tea table.

Uraume doesn’t take you far. One wing over, weaving through chambers and halls to avoid the busier engawas. You follow along quietly, focusing on the unnatural chill of their hand in yours to stay tethered. Your efforts are unsuccesful.

It seems that between one blink and the next you’re in an unfamiliar room, warm and quiet. Uraume sits you on a cushioned stool.

Another blink and they’re leaning over you with a warm cloth, dabbing at the cuts around your eye. That numbing tingle returns, one by one, then fades like a dream. In its absence, you feel nothing but water cooling on your skin.

“There,” they says, satisfaction in their voice.

A third blink and they’re pressing a hot cup into your hand. The welcome taste of sencha washes over your tongue and soothes your sore throat. You sigh, tension leeching out of you with every sip.

They press a steaming rice bowl into your hands when you’ve finished your tea. You spare a thought to protest, afraid you won’t be able to stomach anything - but one glance at Uraume’s expression and you swallow any refusal with the taste of nori. It stays down.

Once the bowl is empty - or at least empty enough for their posture to soften - Uraume helps you stand again.

“A bath,” they explain when you hesitate.

They slide open a shoji door, revealing steps down to a private stone onsen. You’re left to undress in privacy, with promises to bring a towel and fresh clothing. The heat makes you shudder; you didn’t realize how cold you were until now.

You sink gratefully into the depths and settle on the little shelf carved out as a bench. Your mind drifts for a long time, gaze focused on nothing while you massage the various stains from your hands. Thoughts float to the surface like dead fish, flashing their pale bellies with blood-soaked images.

The animosity in Katsumi’s eyes. The tight press of her painted lips. The twist of her features. That fraction of a second as the teacup hurtled towards you, and you realized what was about to happen.

You banish each one with the memory of Sukuna standing there. Shielding you, protecting you. Easing your pain and fear.

It’s so fantastical a concept that you almost dismiss it as a hallucination. But you remember the firm, grounding press of his hands on your body, the searing heat of his tongue on your cheek.

Ryomen Sukuna healed you.

Almost unconsciously, you raise your hand to your face again. Tremulous fingers brush featherlight over your eyebrow, eyelid, cheek, temple… and find nothing. No scratches or cuts, just bits of dry blood that Uraume couldn’t get without rubbing at your skin more vigorously.

You don’t know what it all means. Lady Katsumi’s hostility. Sukuna’s care - and to a lesser extent, Uraume’s. Every action and reaction seems displaced or hyperbolic. A fire ignited by the smallest spark, onto timber you don’t remember collecting. You scour your mind for answers and discover none in the wreckage of your composure.

Well. You’re no philosopher or scientist. You’re just a bookkeeper - Sukuna’s bookkeeper. Perhaps that’s explanation enough.

Sighing, you open your eyes and drop them to your clean palms.

Two thick, dark bands circle your wrist. The one Sukuna was holding.

As it turns out, the unfamiliar bathing chamber that Uraume brought you to is Sukuna’s. After everything else - after he healed your eye instead of reveling in your pain - this is somehow the easiest development to swallow. 

Sukuna enters as Uraume is finishing a braid in your wet hair. You’re dressed, and clean, and calm now. And when he approaches, you’re warm too.

His expression is as impassive as you’ve ever seen it, even his lower set of eyes gaze at you steadily, unreadable. No blood on his skin or clothes. You tilt your head back to address him as he stops, as close as he was in Katsumi’s chambers.

“How was the meeting?” you ask.

His arm curls around your waist and begins lifting you from the stool. But before you can get your feet under you, the lower arm loops under your thighs. He scoops you up, raises you until your shoulders are just above his.

You open your mouth. He tilts his head and presses his nose into the column of your neck. Words flee like startled birds. Strands of peach hair feather across your jaw and ear, ticklish. Hot breaths caress the sensitive skin of your throat. He inhales, deeply.

“Sukuna-sama?” you murmur, more curious than alarmed.

He shifts. Lips graze the tender hollow beneath your jaw. They part. You think, for just a fraction of a second, that you feel the wicked points of his teeth.

“A trap, as I said,” he rasps.

It takes you a moment to recall your question. You hum, mouth curling in a small but genuine grin. “As you said, my lord.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” There’s no heat - well, no angry heat - in his voice.

“I’m not,” you huff, amused at his audible offense.

“Then you’re mocking me.”

“Never, my lord.”

He hums, pulls back far enough to scowl at you properly. It’s a fearsome expression; you should be afraid. (You’re not.)

“I thought you once said you wouldn’t insult me by lying,” he says.

“And I have not,” you promise, “does my king doubt me?”

His eyes don’t waver. “No.”

Your hands hover over a freshly bound volume. The cover has been treated to a mellow tan shade, a slight sheen of polish where the candlelight hits just so. The edition number is imprinted across the front and the spine in bold, precise Tensho. It could be mistaken for normal leather.

Splendid work, truly.

“Shikako-san, would you like me to shelve that for you?” Kiro asks.

You blink, glance at him. Only the twitch of his fingers betrays his nervousness. All of your assistants have been a bit skittish since… well, since.

“Set it on an empty shelf,” you say, offering it across your desk, “these are the records I’ve taken for Sukuna-sama so far. More will follow.”

“Ah,” he says. He’s especially gentle as he takes it despite the new, strong bindings. “Are congratulations appropriate for this?”

You hum, noncommittal. “Not necessary, but thank you, Kiro-san.”

You turn back to your court preparations, sure that you were just imagining the sweet, cloying scent clinging to the volume.

Your new quarters are steadily, and not entirely by your own volition, being filled. Pieces of Sukuna’s tributes begin finding their way inside. (Well, more accurately, they show up outside the door and you feel compelled to bring them inside.)

A large, luxurious rug with patterns and colors you admired aloud. A beautifully glazed tea set that your fingers lingered on when you poured a cup for Sukuna. Paintings that caught your eye. An armoire for your steadily growing (and colorful) wardrobe. You already have a private book collection stacking up on a stately writing desk.

It’s farther from the library, but Uraume doesn’t mind helping you wake a little earlier, especially since your chambers are on the way to Sukuna’s.

Your reading and writing sessions begin taking place in his sitting room, since the weather’s taken a turn for the frigid. Sometimes you share a couch, thighs pressed together. Other times, he drops onto the tatami mats by your chair and leans his muscular shoulder against your calf. Once, he sits you between his thick thighs with your back to his broad chest, so that he can rest his chin on your shoulder and follow along. 

The minuscule part of you raised on propriety and modesty balks and flails at this change in your interactions. Like most traditions and social expectations, Sukuna gleefully smothers it with hands that toy with your hair. You settle into it a little easier, a little quicker, each time. You even come to expect it, leaning into him.

He sends you to bed every night with a smirk, knowing you can’t sneak away to stay up in the library. Not with him so close. That doesn’t necessarily mean you sleep as soon as you return to your own room, though.

It’s only because you’re so detail-oriented that you notice how empty the halls are each morning and every evening. Surely, with your quarters between Sukuna’s and the concubine’s wing, you expect to hear one or more of them passing. You never do; perhaps they’re just too quiet to detect. (You don’t think about shadows you never see moving beyond the wall.)

There’s a festival on the horizon, and the estate is abuzz with preparations.

Sukuna is pleased by both the unapologetic hedonism of celebration, and the opportunity to corrupt a traditionally religious event. As long as he’s not bogged down with tedious decisions and monotonous logistics, that is. For the most part, he just sits in on those meetings for posterity. You, however, are always dutifully taking notes (and doodling when the vassals in charge of planning argue) usually while sat on his lap.

Most of the record-keeping of finer details are left to your assistants. They seem equal parts harried and excited by the busyness of the festival schedule. You provide them support and direction when needed, and take those assignments that put them within devouring distance of the less trustworthy curses organizing things.

Those curses might even have considered taking advantage of you, were it not for the unmissable black bands around your wrist. Because they decorate the arm of your writing hand, and you must pull your sleeve back to keep it out of the ink, they’re always on display. Bold and unmistakable, an exact match to the ones on Sukuna’s own wrists.

You’ve caught more than one of his sycophants gawking at them, but none ever dare to question aloud. (Mind, you’ve also caught Sukuna himself staring at them. Repeatedly. Though using “caught” is a misnomer because it implies guilt. You doubt Sukuna is even capable of such a feeling.)

In all honesty, you can’t recall ever interacting with a curse (other than Sukuna) one-on-one until now. You were rightfully terrified of them before, and they had no reason save predation to approach you. Things are different, even if the exact nature of that difference still eludes you.

They regard you with a certain respect now - or at least a healthy dose of precaution. They maintain an arm’s (or appendage’s) length from you, and keep their eyes always trained over your shoulder. If you didn’t know better, you’d think some of them were even scared.

As the date draws closer, the masses flock to the town hosting the festivities. Fewer make the perilous voyage to the estate itself, humans and curses alike, hoping to be permitted to stay. You don’t understand it - or at least you would not have, once upon a time. They do not know Sukuna as you’d like to think you do, so you can’t fathom why they’d take the risk.

Not that it’s truly any concern of yours. You’ve no time to muse on the folly of others, your hands are full enough as is.

Perhaps too full - you forget yourself, and the nature of this place you live in.

It’s evening and you’ve gone to fetch a new story to entertain Sukuna. Your assistants have been excused for the evening, most other servants are preparing to retire. The halls are empty. Deserted.

You turn a counter and nearly collide with someone, only just stop short and stumble around them. 

“Oh!” you say. “Apologies, I didn’t hear you coming.”

The man standing in front of you is taller than you, though not nearly as imposing as Sukuna. He’s muscular, bald, and tanned, wearing a leathery black… apron, of some kind. He only just arrived today, you think, Sukuna had some interest in his craftsmanship. Something about bones, maybe?

“Oh, it’s…” he starts, but then he sees you and his eyes widen, “it’s you…”

The corners of his mouth start stretching and curling.

“Me?” you ask, uneasy.

“So fine and delicate,” he murmurs, almost to himself. That awful smile keeps growing. More deranged. More manic. Deforming the dark markings around his eyes. “I could make so many beautiful things with those bones…”

You dredge your voice up from the pit of your stomach, where it dropped along with your heart.

“I’m sure you could, but it would be foolish to try.”

“Shhhh.” He starts reaching towards you. “Bookshelves don’t need to speak.”

You jerk back, heart racing, and raise your arm protectively. The sleeves of your kosode and uchiki slide down your forearm.

“Neither do maggots.”

The man freezes. Your eyes flick up to the monstrous shadow behind him, find the four scarlet eyes glowing in the darkened hall. Your would-be attacker’s eyes begin to water, as they finally notice the black circles on your wrist.

“Or dead men,” you mumble.

“My clever shika,” Sukuna purrs.

Four large hands clamp onto the mans arms, two each, just above the elbows.

“R-Ryomen S-S-Sukuna-sama,” the man chokes out, whimpering.

And then Sukuna pulls. It’s terrifyingly fast, and yet just slow enough to be agonizing. First skin tears, then muscle. Tendons and ligaments snap, thick and wet. And finally the joints of the man’s shoulders yield, disconnecting from their sockets with a squelching pop.

You squint at the sight and fold your arms protectively over your book. Take a step back to avoid the blood spray.

The severed limbs flop when they hit the ground, grotesque. You only cast them a cursory glance, the disgust vague and distant after all this time. The body, bleeding and twitching but still alive, follows with a louder thump.

You turn back to Sukuna just as his gaze lock onto you.

Your mouth opens thank him - only for the breath to be knocked out of you. Dizzy and disoriented, it takes a beat to realize you’re horizontal, and the surface against your back is soft.

You blink, dumbstruck, at Sukuna’s face looming over yours.

“Helpless woman,” he growls, “how many ways must I show that you are mine?”

You don’t think he’s expecting an answer - if he is, then he robs you of the ability when he ducks his head and bites. A yelp jumps from your throat. Your hands latch onto the closest support, which just so happens to be the corded muscle of his lower arms.

More startled than pained, you squirm and gasp as he clamps down harder. Bruising but still not breaking skin. His tongue laves over the flesh between his sharp teeth, hot and deliciously dexterous. A low groan rumbles from his chest, more felt than heard, shaking you to your foundations.

He’s breathing hard, you realize. Hard and fast, puffing hot by your ear.

“Sukuna-sama…” Your voice is breathy and high, unfamiliar. “W-what…?”

You can’t finish the thought as he pulls away - though not without licking a stripe up to your jaw, teeth grazing. You feel as if the air has been stolen from your lungs again. His eyes are glowing, more pupil than iris. His lips are shiny with saliva, wicked fangs peeking out.

“All the times you have spoken to me,” he intones, “and this is the first time your clever tongue has faltered.”

You blink at him, head spinning. He’s so close. You’ve long grown used to the raw power that radiates off him but this is something else, writhing and hungry in a way it’s never been before. You’re all too aware of your heart pounding against his broad chest, giving you away.

And you have no idea what to say. Surely you’ve stuttered in front of him before… you just can’t think of any instances. Can’t think of anything really.

“I-I don’t… Sukuna-sam-ah!” The moan what spills from your lips is utterly embarrassing, loud and lewd, provoked by the thick thigh wedged between your own. Pressing tight and hard right where you’re starting to ache.

“My name,” he demands. There’s something almost desperate prowling at the edges of his voice. “Just my name. Say it.”

You drag your tongue over your bottom lip, watch the way his bottom pair of eyes fixate on it.

“Sukuna,” you whisper.

All four eyes snap back to yours.

“Again.”

“Sukuna,” you murmur.

His top pair of arms snatch up your wrists and pin them to the mattress. The dry riiiiip of fabric accompanies a rush of air across your overheated body. Something (big) presses hard against your hip. You shiver, but you’re not cold.

“Louder,” he snarls.

You feel movement from his abdomen. Realize what’s happening just as that unnatural mouth parts, and saliva drools onto your bare pelvis.

“Sukuna,” you moan as a slippery tongue laps between your thighs.

An inhuman sound rips from his throat as he tastes the arousal already dripping from your sex. Your eyelids flutter, hips twisting and twitching, not sure if you’re pressing into the unfamiliar pleasure or shying away from the intensity of it.

His mouth, his proper mouth, crashes into yours and swallows the noises that pour from you in earnest. The tongue that dominates yours mirrors the curls and flicks of the one lavishing your cunt with attention.

His hands are everywhere, pinning your shoulders to the bed, squeezing your thighs, massaging your breasts and thumbing your nipples. It’s so much, too much, but you’re too busy sucking on his tongue to do anything but whine about it. 

When he breaks this kiss, all four of his eyes are half-lidded, radiating lust. He chases the taste of you across his swollen lips.

“I’ll have you screaming my name by the end of this,” he promises.

The tongue between your legs presses flat. You’re embarrassed that your hips instinctively rock against it, clumsy and needy.

“Th-that’s obscene,” you babble.

His grin is crooked and absolutely wicked. “Compliments won’t save you now, little one.”

You mewl as two of his hands grip your hips and hold them still. That ravenous tongue starts a slow, torturous circuit. Slow and covetous around your clit, then dragging down to your virgin hole, teasing with delicious pressure, threatening to dip inside.

“Look at me.”

It’s a struggle, especially when that damned mouth won’t stop. (You think you might cry if it did.)

“You’re going to come on every finger that stretches you,” he says, voice deeper and darker than a moonless night. “And if you’re still conscious by the time I’m done, I’ll fuck you on one of my cocks.”

You boggle at him. “O-one of…?”

The chuckle you get in response is mean.

You don’t even have a chance to insist, because his tongue curves back up to that bundle of nerves and grinds. You’re vaguely conscious of a hand leaving your hip, fingertips skimming down your thigh, to your knee, before looping back up to play in the wetness pooling from your entrance.

“Always so observant,” he coos.

His hands are much, much bigger than yours. Even if you indulged in masturbating more than occasionally before now, you don’t think it would have prepared you. The stretch isn’t frightening enough to make you clench up, at least. It still makes you keen, grasping at one of the arms planted on the mattress by your head.

“Theeeere we go,” he purrs, languid and smug, “already so tight, precious girl. How does it feel?”

“G-Good,” you hiccup, “so… so good. I don’t think I’m going to…”

“What’s this? Already?” he chuckles - then outright cackles when he notices how you clench at the sound. His finger crooks inside you, stroking your walls with every pump of his arm, unhurried. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you hold it. At least not tonight.”

That dark promise winds you up even tighter, even faster. Coupled with the rhythmic undulations of his tongue and the devilish, curling motions against your sweet spot…

You come so fast it leaves you lightheaded, a tidal wave of euphoria that washes over you, leaves you gasping and limp. It’s almost gentle for how quickly it takes you.

Sukuna works you through it until your back is flat to the bed again. Your limbs are tingling, skin sensitive. 

He drops a biting kiss to your collarbone. “That’s one.”

That’s all the warning you get before he withdraws his hand, only to return with two fingers already slippery from a mix of saliva and your own slick. Riding the buzz of climax, you barely feel the stretch of them being tucked inside.

You are, however, very aware of them flicking against your overstimulated walls.

“I-I can’t,” you gasp.

“You can,” he promises, “and even if you can’t, you will.”

You writhe beneath him, mind blank as fresh parchment, swept up in sensation beyond anything you’ve experience before. Not like this.

He pumps his hand faster, harder. His tongue flicks cruelly at your swollen clit, over and over and over again, until you swear your heart beats in time with every hot lash.

He palms one of your breasts roughly, dips down to take a nipple into his mouth, scraping his teeth over the aching peak. It feels better than it has any right to, like there’s a direct connection to your fluttering pussy. Winding you up, and up…

The mouth on his stomach closes around your clit and sucks, then licks at the trapped little bud.

There’s nothing gentle about this orgasm. It crashes into you like a tsunami, sweeping you away in a rush of ecstasy. The hand not clawing at Sukuna’s forearm pushes insistently, helplessly at his shoulder. He just huffs in amusement and shoves his fingers as deep as they’ll go.

In the aftermath, you’re a trembling, panting mess. Incoherent, overwhelmed. Blessedly, his movements slow and then stop. Finally, you can breathe. You swallow past a dry throat and try to focus your vision.

When the image of Sukuna sharpens, your heart stops. He looks as ravenous as when this all began.

“One more, I think,” he muses, “you’ve been so good, you deserve to be spoiled. Don’t you, Shika-hime?”

Your face burns.

“Sukuna,” you warble, “d-don’t call me… don’t s-say that.”

But you recognize the unrestrained greed in his eyes, the sadistic pleasure curling his lips.

“What was that?” he snickers. “It’s just like a princess to be so ungrateful, hm?”

You feel a finger prodding at the tight, puffy seal around his other two. A hysterical mix of anticipation and dismay sears through your veins and springs your shaky limbs into action. You try to scramble back, up the bed, away, anything.

But you should know better than anyone. With Sukuna, there is no escape. And there is no mercy.

He only needs two hands to pin you immobile, writhing and pleading nonsense. He starts fucking you on his hand again, abusing your poor walls with ruthless strokes, and starts working another finger inside.

The stretch is noticeable this time, mostly just pressure but even the slight sting complements the excessive pleasure at this point. It doesn’t stop you from tucking your face into his forearm as you dry sob. Even for all that, your legs wrap around that tapered waist to keep him close - as if he’d go anywhere when you’re suffering so exquisitely.

“Oh, listen to those pathetic noises,” he mocks, “you can do better than that.”

His tongue licks around your entrance, keeping his movements slick and easy as he works you over faster, harder, fingers pounding at that swollen spot inside you. In its place, the thumb of a different hand presses against your clit and rubs viciously, up and down and in tight circles.

Your leg kicks out, a reaction you’re not entirely in control of. His free hands clamps down on your ankle and jerks your leg wider. You feel exposed, displayed. His fingers hook inside your entrance and jerk. Your lips part on a soundless scream.

A palm wraps around your throat, his thumb and forefinger cupping your jaw. Only just tight enough to make a claim, to make you feel it. He angles your head, leans closer, and spits directly on your tongue. You swallow, cunt spasming at the lewdness.

He buries his fingers deep just as he strikes your clit with the flat of his fingers.

Tears build and spill as your vision crackles, a high-pitched cry of his name filling the room. All you can think, all you can understand anymore. You feel weightless, outside your own body, overwrought and incandescent in a way you don’t think humans were meant to be.

You’re not even finished with your third orgasm when you realize, with dawning horror, that the weightless feeling isn’t just your mind strung out. Sukuna’s hands are holding you, maneuvering you. There’s a distant rustling sound, and then your sore pussy is being absolutely violated by an impossibly thick cock.

You know better than to waste your energy on frivolous things like escape or begging. Instead, you do as any intelligent being does when directly in the path of Ryomen Sukuna’s conquest. You surrender.

Your arms slink over his shoulders and loop around his neck, nails biting into hard muscle. Hiding your face against his neck, you breath in the heady scent of his lust, and distract yourself with mouthing along his rumbling throat.

You sink down bit by torturous bit, willing yourself to relax, to yield. The worst part, you think to yourself, is that it still feels sinfully good.

Something presses against your stomach, wet and sticky. When you peek down, you choke out a stupid noise. There’s a twitching, leaking cock rubbing against your abdomen… but there can’t be anything but a cock splitting you open now.

Which means… which means…

One of my cocks, he said.

Even you aren’t sure if the moan that comes out is wanton or miserable. Either way, it makes Sukuna laugh into your hair.

“Halfway,” he soothes. At least, you think it’s meant to be soothing, though it misses the mark because you already feel stuffed full.

You squeeze your eyes shut again and set your teeth against his collarbone, biting as he guides you down… until you finally stop. You swear you feel him in your throat.

“I think I deserve a reward for my generosity,” he says - and perhaps it’s supposed to be a drawl, but right now he sounds borderline deranged. “Don’t you?”

“Ngh!”

His fingers dig into the plush of your hips and thighs. He lifts you up until you’re halfway off the length you took so long to take… and then he drops you. And then he does it again. And again. Faster, faster, harder. Until he’s bouncing you like a toy, like an object for his own pleasure. He’s not even straining with effort, tilting his head back with a gutted groan, proclaiming his pleasure to the ceiling.

When his hips starting thrusting forward to meet you on each descent, you realize why he chose the bottom of his two cocks. The shaft of the other one glides over your clit with every movement, and shows him exactly how deep he is in your guts.

Tears streak down your cheeks again, all of it too much, too intense, but perfect.

He fucks you straight through another, pitiful orgasm, your rippling cunt only serving to encourage him to keep going. Your hands rake over his back and shoulders, no sense for how hard, only that it makes it all bearable, somehow.

You’re not even surprised when another orgasm tails the last, but the strange, sharp pressure makes you squirm, makes you whimper. It builds and builds, inevitable as the sunrise, and finally bursts. A flood of liquid splatters the two of you, drips onto the blankets below, and sets Sukuna off into a final series of brutal, bone-rattling thrusts.

His teeth sink into your shoulder and break skin this time as he hilts himself inside you. Every twitch and spurt feels magnified to your overused nerves. You don’t even feel the bite he just took out of you. Part of you even feels endeared by it.

But most of you feels deeply, viscerally satisfied as your eyes slip closed and your mind goes dark.

The festival lasts three long days and nights. There’s drinking and feasting, singing and dancing and music, skilled craftsmen showcasing their talents. Fireworks streak through the cold evenings and each morning brings delicate layers of frost and snow. Merriment prevails, even with the congestion of human bodies attracting curses in the streets.

You spend the first day planted on Sukuna’s lap, every part of your body deliciously sore and shoulder aching pleasantly. He’d laughed when he noticed your unsteady legs and stiff steps that morning, excused you from your usual duties to avoid an extra trip to the library.

Kiro transcribes in your place that day, recording the brave troupes that wait their turn to entertain the king of curses. You are tasked with attending to Sukuna’s appetites between performances, offering sake and feeding him decadent foods. He snickers every time his teeth snap dangerously close to your fingertips, and you always level him with an unimpressed look.

The second day, you are feeling recovered enough to accompany Sukuna to the festival grounds. A wide and respectful path parts well ahead of him, making it easy for you to stay by his side in the crowd. He takes - doesn’t buy, of course - anything that catches his (or your) fancy from the stalls. You end up with a beautifully illuminated manuscript, a new collection of ink in various colors, and jingling silver hair pins.

You show your appreciation that evening in Sukuna’s private onsen, riding each of his massive cocks in turn. His big hands guide you until your body adjusts to the rhythm he prefers - fast, rough, and hard. He keeps his face buried in the crook of your neck, tonguing the bite mark healing on your shoulder. Sharp nails scratch stringing lines over your ass and thighs, little pinpricks when he squeezes that make you gasp and moan.

You come apart on him twice before he spills inside you even once, cheated by the clever thumb that toys with your throbbing clit. He clicks his tongue when you get teary after the third, body shaking with exhaustion and doing little more than wriggling in his lap. He lays you flat on the cold stones and takes his pleasure from your limp and willing body, your knees hooked in the crook of two arms. The upper ones.

You expect the third day to be the one he most enjoys - and he does, though not for the reason you expect.

It’s slated to be a tournament series of fights between curses, curse users, and a handful of unfortunate sorcerers taken hostage. Exactly the type of bloody entertainment that Sukuna savors.

You should be busy recording the event as best you can, given you only have your human eyes to follow the action. Instead, when Sukuna drags you onto his throne to straddle his thighs, he tosses your writing materials aside. You can already feel him hard and pulsing against the small of your back.

A powerful arm bands around your waist, while two other hands sneak between the layers of your uchiki and kosode. He’s deliberate about it, keeping your body hidden from view by fabric but leaving no casual observer to question what’s happening.

“My lord, the battles…?” you whisper, face hot enough to steam.

“Boring,” he declares, “this is far more interesting.”

Calloused fingers part your pussy lips, glide down to your defenseless hole, still tender from the previous night. Yet, damningly, you know you’re already soaked. You feel his lips part in a mad grin, teeth pressed to the nape of your neck.

“Oh? What a hypocrite, shika-hime,” he whispers in your ear, “it seems you don’t care much for the battles either.”

You bite back a whimper, nails scraping across one of the skulls decorating the arm of his throne. It’s true, you’re not seeing a single thing in front of you. You’re too hypnotized by the cruel movements of his hand. He keeps dipping just the tip of his finger past your entrance, teasing, occasionally circling back up to your clit until you’re trembling with the effort to stay still. 

By contrast, you feel him shift behind you, reclining against the back of his throne. He’s leisurely with his touch, almost mindless. Absent. When you glance at him from the corner of your eye, his chin rests in one of his palms, eyes half-lidded in the general direction of the ongoing fight.

Your body can only take so much. You know it, and he knows it. When it becomes obvious that you’re on the knife’s edge of orgasm, he speaks, though his voice stays pitched low, just for you.

“If you make a single sound, I’ll kill every person that looks this way.”

As a general rule, you don’t like unprovoked death on your behalf. You try to remind yourself of this with each whine and keen you swallow back while pleasure seizes you in wave after wave.

A shuddering breath spills from your lips as you come down, the danger passed. Until two fingers plunge into your still-twitching cunt.

You bite into your bottom lip hard. He’s relentless, keeping you still and flush against him, tapping at your pleasure spot over and over. At this point, you wouldn’t risk drawing attention to yourself even to flee.

“Sukuna,” you whisper in his ear, “please…”

He slides you a sly look and tsks. “So spoiled. Very well.”

His fourth hand smothers your mouth. The relief is short-lived. The skin touching your lips morphs, parts. A slick tongue curls around yours, teeth nipping. It’s a filthy makeshift gag but you wouldn’t complain even if that unnaturally long muscle wasn’t down your throat.

The hand that’s been methodically fingering you senseless retreats. You know better than to hope. You’re still not prepared for the wet slap against your sensitive clit. It’s loud, but the sounds of the fight are thankfully louder. He does it again, and again, an inaudible chuckle with every irrepressible jerk of your body.

Three fingers spread you open again. The palm pressed to your mound shifts in a way you recognize, and you brace yourself as a new tongue wiggles alongside his fingers. You suck on the one licking into your mouth when another orgasm shudders through you. It leaves when your jittery hand grasps at his wrist, needing air, even shaky and uneven as it comes.

Your eyes fluttered closed at some point. Now, you’re too afraid to open them - someone must have noticed by now, surely. Unless the fear of Sukuna’s wrath for looking upon him without permission is stronger than the morbid curiosity of what he’s doing to you here, in front of everyone. You hope that’s the case; it won’t stop Sukuna either way.

His fingers drag as they leave you. A promise that he’s not done with you yet.

You hear fabric rustling behind you and squeeze your eyes closed tighter. Oh, you are going to be ruined if he doesn’t stop, you’re far too sensitive. He can’t, he can’t. No, no, no, no no no…

“Keep your voice down,” he reminds, sounding amused, “unless you want this festival to end in a massacre.”

He hums contemplatively as he lifts you. Just enough to notch the flared, leaking head of a cock at your entrance.

“Maybe it should,” he muses. You sink down as quickly as you dare, knowing you’ll forget yourself if he draws it out. “My shika-hime gets so wet for her king spilling blood, doesn’t she?”

His cock pulses. Without even moving, he’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, making your cunt hug tight around every vein and ridge. You’re already well on your way to another orgasm.

“Sukuna,” you whine quietly, tucking your face against his neck, “d-don’t say things like that.”

“You dare order your king?” He sounds horrifically delighted. His finger begins tap-tap-tapping, like it does when he’s annoyed, except he strikes your clit every time. “I ought to punish you for your insolence.”

Punishment is no bluffing matter - so why does it make you clench down so tight that even Sukuna groans?

“You’re not allowed to come again until I give you permission.”

Knowing him, that may not be for the rest of the night. Your stomach tightens. He keeps drumming his finger against your tingling bud.

“I-if I do…?” you venture. 

The sadistic grin that curls his mouth nearly sends you over the edge right then. Why is that so attractive? Anyone else - anyone with sense - would be terrified. Or at least not aroused by their own terror.

“You’ll become the entertainment,” he answers, greed and anticipation thick in his voice, “I’ll let them live just long enough to see you break on both my cocks. And then I’ll fuck you in the lake of blood left behind.”

You believe it. Sukuna doesn’t make threats; he makes declarations.

“Y-Yes, my king,” you gasp, digging nails into your palm.

He hums, deep and raspy. “Keep behaving, perhaps I will let you come. Eventually.”

His finger starts spiraling over your clit again.

You manage to hold on just long enough for him to demand you finish, so that he can feel your pussy strangling his cock.

He still kills a handful of nosy onlookers, but you’re too blissed out to notice.

The year turns over. You’ve grown used to the feeling of Sukuna touching you, always. Whether it’s just a hand on the back of your neck, or his entire hulking body flattening you against the nearest surface. You learn the pattern of his breathing in the morning. Find a new fascination with the silky fall of that sakura-pink hair.

More rings of vicious teeth begin to decorate your skin. Bruises speckle the canvas of your flesh like stars. The slight ache between your thighs is ever-present but you never quite become accustomed to the exhilarating stretch of his cock.

That doesn’t stop you from being tempted by the promise of both.

When you bashfully approach them, his harem is kind enough to offer their collective wisdom. They sit you down in the library with scrolls illustrating positions, adding their own experienced advice to the diagrams. You’re pleasantly surprised by how quick they are to aid you; you hope it’s not entirely due to the incident with Lady Katsumi.

“Shikako-san is very brave,” one of them compliments, squeezing your arm. (You don’t fail to notice how she carefully avoids the markings on your wrist.)

You don’t really get it, but you smile at her anyway.

Later that evening, when you pause your usual reading to nervously admit to your little tutoring session, Sukuna practically coos. He bends you over the couch right there and introduces your tight, untouched hole to the pleasures of a skilled tongue. And then a finger, rubbing his own cock through the thin membrane separating your clenching channels.

The next time they visit, several of the concubines thank you. For what? You have no idea, but you’re happy that they’re happy.

As the weather warms, Sukuna makes good on his promise to teach you archery. You’re abysmal at it the first few times you try, owing to his teaching method. That is to say, pressing himself tight to your back and adjusting your technique by hand. It doesn’t help that you’re so unexpectedly turned on by the pitch of his “teaching” voice and the sternness of his touch.

The hard bulge that always presses against your back assures you that he’s not unaffected either.

Alas, that doesn’t stop him from mocking your difficulties learning. Luckily (and much to his glee) you become quite responsive to his condescension as well. Especially when he ends each lesson balls deep inside you, an arm or hand around your throat.

With the turn of the season, your nightly reading rituals evolve as well. Sometimes, Sukuna picks up where you left off the previous evening, making use of his mouth while yours is stuffed full of cock. He seems disproportionately amused that you insist on swallowing his spend, unwilling to risk stains on the books. (You think you’d faint from humiliation if you saw them noted in one your assistants’ catalog descriptions.)

You’re delighted when the koi pond finally thaws, revealing the graceful sway of fins and scales you’ve been missing. Sukuna indulges you every time you ask to visit, sprawled on blankets in the sprouting grass while you lean against the prop of his leg to read.

He takes his reward for his charity one bright evening, a full moon heavy in the sky. The light spills over the ridges and curves of carved muscle, forms a halo behind his head. Deceptively divine.

There’s nothing holy about the hunger in those glowing eyes, the saliva dribbling from the corners of the maw in his stomach. Those cruel hands have wrought enough suffering to make the heavens weep, and that wicked tongue would gorge on the tears.

You don’t long for blunter nails scoring your ass, or gentler teeth nipping your throat. You don’t yearn to escape the rough palms that splay your thighs wide. You arch into every possessive squeeze and press. Welcome his brutal cock into your aching pussy with moans that echo only pleasure.

You twist and shake with each impatient finger that stretches your other hole, pacified by the hand rolling your clit in distracting circles. You don’t need him to speak, don’t need sweet platitudes or honeyed encouragement, when the savage growls bubbling from his chest are praise enough.

When Sukuna finally tilts back to line his cocks up with a hole each, you can only brace, knowing you’re not nearly prepared enough, regardless of any physical pain you may feel.

Your mind whites out as both heads press, press, press - and pop past resistance. Babble spills from your gaping mouth, half-words and raw little “ah” sounds, loud and uninhibited. His fingers rub across your lolling tongue, the flavor of slick is cloying; you can taste your own desperation. 

He half-thrusts once, twice, gaging. Then finally forces himself as deep as he can go, carving a space inside you. Delirious, you think there must be some sort of cursed technique at play here, because the human body simply can’t be built to take him. If your cervix were an obstacle, he’s easily surpassed it.

You feel conquered, owned, possessed. The bands around your wrist tingle. He twists his head to mouth at them and (completely unrelated, you’re sure) your eyes water. A reedy little “please” slips from your lips.

Sukuna draws back and slams home again without restraint.

He’s going to break you.

“I’ll put you back together,” he breathes, only just audible over the obscene, wet noises of your coupling. “Just like before.”

You nod like a puppet on a string, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. He hunches over you, two arms beneath your shoulders to keep you from sliding up the blanket. Forcing you to stay, to take it. Between the panting and the slap of skin and the crescendo of ecstasy rushing in your ears, you hear him.

“Mine,” he rasps, snarling and savage, “not permitted to die… you’ll stay mine… by my side...”

You whimper, “Yes, yes, yes! My king… ‘Kuna.”

At the next festival, a curse corners you on your way to check on your assistants.

“You’re just a human,” it burbles. Spindly, lecherous hands paw at the air as it draws closer. “He won’t miss one human, one servant…”

You snort, snapping your fan open to wave away the putrid stench of it.