In the end, when there is nothing left to ransack, Sukuna leaves and finds you trailing behind. On wobbly legs you follow him, clothes on your body dirty and loose.

A monster like him does not concern himself with a shadow like you. So he leaves you be.

But you turn out to be as persistent as the darkness. Through every shrine you follow him and accept the scraps he leaves behind.

You’re slower, must be younger than him too, not even six and the only thing you have on him is height. When the plum rain hits without mercy, he thinks you might just succumb to the waters. Drown in puddles or wash away with the flooded rivers.

But Sukuna is not that fortunate.

You stay and each day he manages to gain distance on you, you return with the night, exhausted and panting but with hope in your eyes as they find him. You curl up a safe distance away, his eyes glowing in the dark as you watch him. There’s safety in numbers but he seems to be enough to keep the wolves at bay.

When you come up sick, Sukuna finds himself lingering. He has no food to offer you, nothing to give but his presence as he sits close by, watches you thrash through your fever until your skin shines like the moon in the night.

On the fourth night, he’s sure your heart will give out and in the morning, Sukuna declares you dead. Despite the shallow breaths, despite the stuttering heartbeat, Sukuna abandons you.

He doesn’t make it far before he hears you, feet stumbling, breath ragged as you drag your body after him.

A random girl more loyal than his father, his mother, his twin.

So, he keeps you.

For the boy inside of him that always wanted to belong. For the hole inside his chest that steadily warps to fit your shape.

And in return, for the first time in your life, your loyalty is rewarded. Like a dog you defend him, howl and snap at people who throw things when he comes too close. He’s the only home you’ll ever know and you’re grateful for it, for the four arms that can hold you better than two and for the four eyes that can read you like an open book. A home-shaped monster. A monster-shaped home.

Somewhere along the line, he thinks you could be his pet. A small, ferocious companion that curls at his feet, eyes on the entrance, nails long enough to draw blood.

What a feral thing you are.

And what a deadly thing he is.

Because when a man catches you stealing his fish, grip bruising, the imprint of his hand on your cheek scarlet red, Sukuna does not think before he acts. Even in the womb, he was a killer. Even now, eight and savage, many-limbed and four-eyed, he jumps the man without a warning, rips at his throat until he tastes blood, keeps biting until the thrashing stops, screams up a thunderstorm until the man lies there in pieces and you sob at his side, small and weak but his. Only his.

Years you spend roaming the lands, taking what you can from the people who can’t keep it. Something like rhythm finds you, something like routine, like habit, like home.

You never believed a building could hold you and you realize soon, only one person can.

Sukuna commands the dirt roads you travel, overshadows the towns you come through, dwarfing whole city squares with his presence.

When adolescence strikes, what height you had on him shrinks and soon, he towers over you, three heads taller and three times as wide.

He eats more than you can provide and yet, you work yourself to the bone to keep him fed. You do anything you can for grain and fish and veggies. He takes up jobs to foul for normal men.

In the evenings, hiding inside shrines and ruins, he holds your hands and growls at the raw skin, snarls at reddened cuticles, bares his teeth when he finds cuts and bruises.

His way of taking care of you is brutal: Like a wound, he lays himself bare before you, gratitude in the shape of dull blades, wools and blankets and dead livestock.

That’s how he provides. By killing the sheep and the cows and the oxen and dragging them to you where you try your best to turn them into something edible. You stain your hands in blood for him.

When you are more woman than girl, he finds an abandoned farmhouse at the edge of a village and it becomes your shelter. Not home - never home when it’s a person, when it’s four arms and four eyes and a smile that cuts you open. But you feel safer when there’s doors to shut, when the roof keeps the rain away, when the two of you find a rotting futon, large enough to fit the both of you.

Sukuna leaves during the day and returns at night smelling of smoke and bloodshed. Each night, you clean the blood off his face, his hands, his neck. You stitch the wounds that need stitching with a tread of your dress. You wash his leathers and shine his armor, wipe his blades until you can see yourself in the shine of the metal. You do not question what he does, you do not ask about the blades he sharpens at your back or the screams that follow him.

He takes care of you in the same way he has always taken care of himself. Ferocious and dedicated, whole-heartedly and with blood smeared about.

You feel safe with him. Life is looking up.

But everything good eventually comes to an end and every childhood eventually concludes in a cruel and sudden way one only recognizes down the road. This is where ruin found a home in me, this is where innocence died.

And it isn’t even special or extraordinary. It happens on your way to the market, a short walk, early morning, when the birds chirp and the sun is just warm enough to soften your shoulders and warm you cheeks.

It’s five of them and they do not find the money they search for.

You try to run from them but their steps are made of light and shadow and their sorcery is more powerful than your survival instinct can ever be. They laugh when they catch you, taunt when you beg.

And because there’s no money, they take everything else from you instead - peace and hope and voice.

You scream so much they cut your tongue right out of you and when they leave you to die, you drag yourself back to him with a mouth full of blood.

You’ve been through worse, you tell yourself. You just need to make it back to him, you convince yourself and when you faint on the steps of your shared house, Sukuna finds you drowning on your own blood.

Anger isn’t what does him justice. Wrath doesn’t even come close.

For the first time in your life together, Sukuna lets a stranger get close to you. The local healer comes with incense and fearsome eyes. She tries her best to stop the bleeding, to disinfect the wound and for the few moments you’re conscious and aware, Sukuna fills your whole vision - your blood on his clothes, something strange and hurting in his eyes that do not blink when they regard you.

If he blinks, you will die, he tells himself and keeps staring. Stares until his eyes water and his lids twitch. Stares even when the healer is long since gone, and you’ve fallen into a restless, deep sleep.

It takes three days for you to wake. Eyes sluggish and mind hazy as you blink up at the ceiling.

There’s a fire somewhere, soft crackling and the flicker of light.

He hears the change of your breathing. The drum of your heartbeat.

That night, he curls closer, has you pressed against his chest, his chin against the crown of your head. You dream of knives and blood and screams. Sukuna guards you through it all. There’s a beast in your dreams, a looming shadow that protects you like it’s heart.

Eating is difficult. You choke on rice grains, need to rip everything else into small, digestible pieces and hate each second of it. To your surprise, Sukuna takes the change in strides.

Like a bird he feeds you food, makes sure you swallow each bite he offers. Vulnerability is foreign to him. He does not see how much it costs you to be this weak, this voiceless, this lost.

When you try to speak to him and all the sounds are garbled and muted and wrong, you cry for hours. Sukuna doesn’t know how to console, but he tries for you. Tries with clumsy words and hands that are too strong. He holds you till your body aches and licks your tears till your cheeks are flushed and hot.

Recovery takes months. Maybe forever.

Life changes after this.

For you, it’s in the silence that settles over it all.

For him, it’s in the utter shock of your mortality. His inability to stop your hurt.

The worst part is, that Sukuna has no trouble finding the attackers. They’re sorcerers, high on power, high on boredom. They blame him. Say they came for him but got distracted. Ask for forgiveness in all the wrong places. There is nothing like forgiveness in his heart. Only rage, only hatred, only violence. They knew you belonged to him - a wicked girl in the shadows of a demon.

He kills them in all the horrible ways he knows how to and it leaves him empty. It doesn’t do anything to him or for you. He still hates the world for what it did and you still find no words to speak.

From this point forward he knows. He knows you’re his, only his. He will die trying to shield you from the cruelty of this world.

Something dark and hungry eats at him and when the time comes, nothing can stop it. Hatred consumes him. Revenge becomes the thing he lives by. Hatred in the rhythm of his heart.

Violence for violence.

Blood for blood.

II.

There is a void inside of him and Sukuna has spent all his life standing at the edge of it, staring down into the endless black until it looked just like him - sharp teeth and too many eyes.

It grins at him at random times, whispers promises and lies, draws him closer with the song of vengeance and power.

Sukuna trains, endlessly. The little farmhouse is still decrepit, still in ruin, still yours. Grunts echo through the garden when you watch him work. Sweat coating his body, muscles bulging and trembling from strain. He never stops and you don’t think he even can.

Because he was born with a chip on his shoulder and all it’s done was grow and grow. Now it’s so large, it swallows him whole.

There’s a void inside you too. You’re scared of it. You’ve done your best to befriend it, to come to terms with the hollow pit in your chest, but it swallows you whole more often than not.

“Curses just ooze out of you, woman,” he drawls one day, watching you watching him. He’s told you before, how your misery takes shape. How that endless pit inside of you is not just that but a birthplace for more struggle, more sorrow, more pain. How your sadness follows you with snapping jaws and saliva dripping from it’s fangs. How the weight on your shoulders is not the world but the curses you keep creating.

It doesn’t take much to eliminate them. You watch him do it so effortlessly, the snap of a finger, the fling of a hand.

You’ve never seen them for yourself, but you know of the power that encompasses it all. Everybody knows, because it’s the Golden Era of Jujutsu, Sorcerers are everywhere and Sukuna is the strongest you’ve ever encountered.

There’s attempts where he tries to make you a part of this world.

But he is a bad teacher. Brash and impatient and rude. You appreciate that he tries. That he makes a valiant effort at teaching you how to control your energy, how to not birth more of the monsters into this world. Some days it works, on others it doesn’t.

Sometimes, you think of them as your pets. Your little misery-companions. Your sorrowful, ghostly entourage.

Sukuna calls them a pest.

When he exorcises them, you feel lighter, if only for a few days, ensuring you don’t drown in your own emotions, choke on the depression that clings to you like a second skin.

And when you finally master it, know how to control yourself and dampen the energy to something that won’t spew forth wicked beasts, he smiles at you in this lopsided, honest way. Pride makes him appear even taller, but it softens him in a secret way.

With your newfound ability, you grow sensitized to cursed energy. It fills your ears with a constant buzz. When Sukuna is close, it climbs to a roar - the endless push and pull of an angry ocean, the endless scream of earth cracking open.

After that, something changes between you. It’s raw and fragile and unknown. Shows itself in lingering eyes and wandering hands. When he holds you at night, it feels different and when you wake in the morning, tension crackles in the air like lightning.

He can come home bloody and broken and bruised and you still embrace him with all you have. You can rot in your room for weeks, stink of misery and hopelessness and he will still look at you as if you’re beautiful.

Sukuna takes any job that is offered to him - kills curses and bad men, returns with heads on his saddle and flowers from the roadside and all you see is the smile on his lips as you greet him.

You realize it’s love when a cut across his chest brings you to tears, leaves you hyperventilating and fear-struck as he tries to calm you. His attempts are clumsy, blood dripping on splintered floorboards and even once the wound is cleaned and stitched and bandaged, you can’t bring yourself to leave his side.

That night, you sit in his lap and stare at the wound as if it could burst open again.

Sukuna teases you for it, sharp teeth and reckless eyes.

“One day you will die,” you threaten with shaking hands and press your palm above his heart to ensure it’s not yet time.

He only snorts, unbothered. “We all do one day.”

“You’re all I have.”

That makes him go quiet, if only for a moment. “You’re all I need,” he mumbles in the space between you and you can feel your heart jump.

“If you die, so will I”, and you believe it. There’s no world without him, no life. The time before you met him is shadow and ash, a flicker at your periphery you can never quiet catch.

Your life started with him - it will end with him too.

He’s so close you can feel his breath against your skin, making your skin crawl with the way he smells of something raw, like meat and something chilled, like steel.

Your fingers scratch gently over the bandages you secured around his torso and when his hands around your hips pull you closer, when his lips meet yours, he steals your breath away. He kisses you like a starved man an*d you kiss him back with all the bravery his care has given you.

Sukuna is as brutal in love as he is in friendship.

His hunger is endless and it’s one only you seem able to satisfy. You give yourself willingly, hopefully, whole-heartedly.

You want all of him, sharp edges that cut you open whenever he presses close, blood on his lips when you kiss.

The first time he lays with you, you know he tries to be gentle. Tears streak your cheeks, blur your vision as his trembling hands claim you, pry you open like seafood, take something you know you will only ever offer to him. He loves you with his teeth in your skin and you return it with his blood beneath your nails. His lust has claws and leaves you a shell, sucked empty, mind blank. His devotion rots even through bone.

You call it love.

He’s a passionate lover, a ravenous one. You’re an offering at his altar, a gift to unwrap and claim each time he returns, sweat in his hair and dirt on his hands.

You bend for him however you can, twist and turn to still his hunger, break apart beneath and above, unravel with groans and cries and endless devotion.

But Sukuna was born with a chip on his shoulder, a mountain on his back.

And when there’s no curses left to kill, your home grows too small for the demons he’s facing and you will never be able to fight his battles for him. Trying to hold him together with warm meals and unconditional love turns out to not be enough.

It’s not enough that your constant tremble only ever stops when he’s there, that you drown in his ox blood eyes and feel peace for the only time. Because your body doesn’t have the same effects on him. Because in some way, you will never be enough for the beast inside of him.

Fights are quick to rise and it’s small, unnecessary things, mostly. You call it love anyway, ignore the shades of purple and black that decorate your skin, turn a blind eye to the tears you shed each time he leaves angry and fuming, punching holes through paper doors and glass-like domesticity. Sukuna punishes with silence and absence and fear.

Every fight is unfair at best because language is beyond you. Signs are there but even with four eyes, he looks away when he is angry. Sometimes, arguments mean he’s screaming until your ears ring and your hands shake so much that even they fail you. Sometimes, he’s as quiet as you, all four of his hands desperately trying to proof a point in your very own words - silent, twenty fingers at once.

Those are the worst days. When he leaves in anger and you know not when he’ll return. The farmhouse is just shelter when he’s not there, just a roof over your head, just four walls keeping you caged.

More often than not, he’s gone for weeks, months even.

During his absence, the house becomes haunted. All the demons he’s facing and all of them are yours. You’ve always been a creature of sadness.

Some days, you don’t even manage to get up from the ground, curled beneath blankets and wools. Your cheek sunken so deep into the futon that you feel like the whole world bears down on you. You do not care for your creations, for the curses that dwell when he’s not there.

Whispers find you before he does.

You know the world has always been too small for him, to meek for the power that courses through his veins. You fear he might find someone out there, in the wilds, who will match his freak better than you ever will. You fear he’ll never return at all. You wait. You yearn. You wallow in self-pity.

It’s one of the market women who tells you of the newest gossip. It starts easy, with weddings and children and stolen goods, a death. Someone is killing sorcerers and leaves them a bloody mess to be found.

At first, you give it little thought. Competition is ever present. You think it’s like the mice and the black kites that live about. First too much food, then too many predators. Give and take. Like the tides.

You consider Sukuna the pinnacle of sorcery. An apex predator among spoiled, household pets.

Maybe, maybe Sukuna is the black kite, and when all the curses had vanished, he turned to cannibalism, turning from rodents to his very own kind.

Nobody ever makes it out alive, nobody ever returns from the fights and is able to tell who attacked them. You know it’s Sukuna, when people whisper of an imaginary demon, a warrior more monster than man, blood-eyes and too many limbs.

When he finally returns to you, in dusty clothes and with blood dried dark against his skin, you run to him before he even manages to fully slide the door open. He huffs, but his hands find your waist, your shoulders, the back of your head. He holds you close, your face buried against his chest where you can hear the drum of his heart, steady and slow.

He kisses you gentler, then. Passion dampened by lonely nights, with longing for the body and mind that fit so easily with his.

You learn not to mention the arguments, the fights. You take him back in just as he did when you were a child.

Rhythm and routine are slow.

You love him when he’s with you and you hate him when he’s not.

You watch the scars accumulate on his skin, watch ink spread beneath it, watch his hair grow long and unruly until he lets you cut it.

You keep a lock of his hair, sew it into the sleeve of your tomesode, ensure he stays in all the ways you can make him. You curate bruises like love marks, hope your scratches stay long enough on his skin until he returns.

Kisses linger. So do his hands.

One night, during late autumn, Sukuna sits with you on the veranda, his hulking mass dwarfing you while you arrange the fallen maple leafs by shade of red.

“You’re mine,” he claims and doesn’t even have the need to look at you while doing so.

You wait for him to finally turn his head before you sign your answer, fingertips smudged with damp dirt.

“Enough to marry me?”

“Enough that there’s no need to do so. You’re mine in every instance, every way. In body, soul and mind. Neither you nor me need law to make it true.”

You should have known it was something protective, maybe even frightened, that kept him from claiming you by name. Tying you to him in a world made up of blood and power, it would have been the noose around your neck, the blade slicing your throat.

So he doesn’t.

Momentarily, you mourn the fact that others will never know who you are to him. But in the end, you watch the moon reflect in his eyes and realize that he is yours just as much.

In body, soul and mind, he’s yours and you are his.

III.

During the times Sukuna stays, he stays fully.

He learns to take his time with you, to treasure the mornings, the noons, the evenings, the nights.

You cook for him only to find his hands around your tummy, dragging you back just enough to be able to move around you, taking your spot, helping you in all the unhelpful ways only a brute like him can.

He chops the vegetables too large, overcooks the rice, crushes seafood before it has a chance to be eaten.

You take life in strides like this. With him at your side, it’s a bit easier to conquer the darkness that lurks in the corners of your mind.

He tries to refine your cursed energy. You try to teach him how to sing.

Both of you are horrible at it.

He teaches you of weapons, how to spot sorcerers, what to do when you encounter them. You teach him how to garden. How to nurture without drowning, how to safely remove what’s rotten without killing it.

For you, Sukuna stains his hands with dirt - for him, you learn how to hold a blade steady.

Slowly, the two of you cultivate the garden. Years of overgrowth and kudzu smothering the place are ripped and burned and banished.

In the center of it, an ancient maple tree stands tall. Crooked roots and aching branches that droop low with age. When you ask him to, he hangs lanterns on the branches while you light them, perched on his shoulders.

You plant flowerbeds in his name, red as his eyes, striking as his form, unforgettable as his presence. From his travels, he brings you seeds. Hydrangea becomes your favorite, the small blossoms crowding together in beautiful colors. You place them everywhere - at the front of your house, in the garden, as cuttings in every room. He acts as if he finds them annoying, but you catch him smiling when he thinks you aren’t there.

Love warps over the years.

You adapt to his sharp edges, mold yourself into a shape that fits effortlessly against him. You harden into something only he can crack open. He softens into something only you get to see.

He kisses his adoration into your skin and worships your body beneath the moonlight. Sukuna tells you that’s how he likes to claim you the most. Bare beneath him, moonlight turning your skin blue. He says the sounds you make when he’s pressed so deep he sees the stars are the ones he likes best. Your moans and badly stifled cries only he can pull from you.

With each thrust he punches the air from your lungs, with each spill of him inside you, he ensures he’s the only one you’ll ever take. You don’t think you could ever enjoy another man claiming you. He’s spoiled you like this, ruined you for the world. Each time you topple over the edge, he smothers you with his weight, has you twitching and trapped beneath him until your vision swims.

Afterwards, he licks the tears from your skin, cleans you with a damp cloth, swaddles you in furs and blankets and holds you till your breath is even and calm again.

So, the two of you have something good. Something peaceful.

But peace can never be good for long in the eyes of men like Sukuna.

IV.

A home is a home not for the furniture or walls, but the people that reside in it. But for Sukuna, a home is a trap.

It cages him, ties his wrists and muzzles his jaws. Restlessly he paces the halls, wanders the grounds while you sleep. He is a trapped wolf, ears twitching, jaws snapping at anything that moves.

He is made for you, but not made for this life.

It is when the garden slumbers beneath thick layers of snow that he leaves, only footsteps and a short letter in his wake, trying to give words to the feeling in his chest that agitates and pulls on him. Pulls him out the door, away from the decrepit place you two have made your own, away from the small town that hides cattle and sheep behind fences and guard dogs.

His horse is anxious, ears flat against it’s head, eyes white-rimmed as he chases it out the stables.

Maybe in another life he could stay with you, build a true home, maybe even a family. But he’s been born a curse to his kind and you’re a girl he found by the shrine - unsure if goddess made flesh or sacrifice to his very own slaughter.

V.

Fear reigns southern Japan.

The Jujutsu Sorcerers have finally come together against one common threat. A curse, a demon, a king in his own right.

First time you hear the whispers, you do not believe them. It’s not unusual for him to disappear, not uncommon that he vanishes without a proper kiss goodbye. You’re not sure your heart could take it, if he left while you were awake, following him to the door and kissing him with the prospect of having to stop. You’re not sure you could survive watching him ride down the road until he vanishes out of view, chest so tight it might just collapse.

People whisper a name and one name only: Ryōmen Sukuna has declared war upon the world and the grand clans have answered.

There’s little reprieve in the fact that you’re in the south, that the most powerful clan sits up in the north, behind high castle walls and armed guards.

You find posters of him nailed to the walls.

The portrait doesn’t do him justice, a hulking beast with sharp teeth, nothing like the man you love. A bounty is set on his head but someone rips down the papers before anyone could ever really do anything.

Your hometown turns a blind eye, known him from childhood like a local cryptid, feared but treasured. You find offerings at the small shrines, placed there in his name. From pearls to dried flowers to food. How ironic, you think, now that he holds power they give what they all denied you as children, when you begged for scraps and anything else that could keep you alive.

You feel no remorse when you take what is offered in his name, feel no shame when you take the food, take the coins, the jewelry.

Wandering traders speak of bloodbaths by the coast.

You seek them out in taverns and squares, ask for stories like any bored housewife would. They do not question your curiosity, only feed you all that they’ve seen and heard.

A monster has the land in a chokehold. They speak of him as if he’s a curse, a demon, a fiend. You yearn for the man only you love. The man that only ever loved you.

Over a year passes before he returns to your side, on a random summer day.

The air is stifling, heat so oppressing that you only step from shadow to shadow, a wet piece of linen draped over your head to soften the migraine that’s lingered there for days.

The footsteps that approach you are layered, several or at least two, and when you finally deign to look, it’s him, unchanged.

Same hair, if longer, same body, if even broader, same eyes. Same eyes that stare without blinking as you scramble to your feet, cloth falling without your notice, stumbling towards where he stands. You cry before you even reach him, throw yourself against his chest with enough force he has to balance out, a half-step back before his arms circle you, his laughter rumbling in his chest.

He kisses you like a starved man.

You kiss him like your life depends on it.

When you finally pull away, just enough to look at him, to keep looking until there’s an afterimage that lingers for the rest of your life, he smiles at you with all the love he holds for you.

Only then do you realize there’s someone else.

A child stands beside him, skin and bones, eyes so sunken their face already looks dead. He introduces them with something wicked in his eyes.

Uraume is, like all of you, an outcast. Skirting by the edges of society and they’ve come to find themselves pulling the short end of the stick.

It’s with laughter that Sukuna claims he’s found you a cook. Your questioning eyes are met with more barks, sharp teeth and a grin that reaches higher on the left than on the right. The rundown on their power leaves you breathless - pity for a child that ruined their own life.

You wonder if a frozen wasteland really is what you need in your life, more cold while he’s not there, more ice in your veins when he abandons your side.

Your worries are unnecessary.

Unlike you, Uraume has the benefit of traveling with him, of sticking to his side when you’re left behind over and over again. Sorcerers among Sorcerers, you think and wonder if there truly ever was a place at his side for you.

Maybe it’s supposed to be that way: Mice to the mice and black kites to black kites.

VI.

The world has pledged itself against your happiness.

Japan is at war with your husband, smoking wastelands and mass grave battlefields left in his wake.

Despite his first claims, Uraume stays at the farm, sometimes. There’s something hopeful about their presence, childlike wonder in their eyes when they help you in the garden or when the two you realize you can freeze water to cool yourself down during heat waves. Put sticks in the little bowls you freeze it in and then make a challenge who’s tongue gets stuck first until the sun melts it away.

For the first time in years, laughter fills your home.

When Sukuna returns, you feel like a family. You might not carry his name but you carry his heart, right beneath your ribcage, where it beats inside your own. You and Uraume create banquets for his returns, grilled meat and fish, rice with all the vegetables you can find, rice cakes for good measure.

At night, when Uraume sleeps down the hall, safely tugged away beside a steadily burning light, he loves you beneath the moonshine like he always does. Holds you till you sink into sleep, nose pressed against his chest, his scent inhaled with each breath you take.

But each time he leaves again, you’re left with the cold space beside you, an indent in the futon, clothes strewn about and his smell lingering for a few days before everything is gone again.

He vanishes like a ghost and you’re left in the ruins of it all.

And he is only gone for a few days, before your luck runs out.

Darkness has crept back into your life, one that not even Uraume can alleviate. It leaves you bedridden, weak, a brain full of fog and one of his obi wrapped around you as if it could bandage your heart back together.

It’s Uraume who wakes you, doors pushed open so forcefully that the wood splinters, paper ripping.

“Get up, get up!” they scream before you’re really awake, tugging on your arm, dragging you from your bed and to your feet. “They’re here! Get up, please!”

You try, if only for Uraume’s sake. They lead you through the back door, along the veranda and the sprawling gardens. At night, the moonlight turns it into a flowering ocean, paints everything in blue and white.

But tonight, the garden blooms orange and yellow.

You smell it before your eyes can make sense of what you see, your paradise of trees and flowers engulfed by flames, the further part of the building, the one closer to the road, groaning under the roar of the flames. Your maple tree is a husk, a canopy of fire and enough heat to push you back a step.

Beneath it all, the shouts of men, armor and weapons clanking together.

For the first time in your life, you’re glad no words can leave your lips.

Because you would scream, you would howl, you would curse them all. But as you are, the sounds that leave you are muffled and wrong. Easily swallowed by the fire that lick up your home, that swallow the farmhouse in minutes, eager to devour and leave nothing behind.

Uraume drags you through the night. Their grip like a vice around your wrist, they pull you forward, along the edge of the garden, only away.

Behind you, the only place you ever called yours, goes up in flame.

Then, you run headfirst into your companion. Staggering, you loose balance and almost fall, only to be quickly moved about, hidden behind the child you took in, smaller and younger and more powerful than you will ever be.

The men who find you are armed to the teeth. They wear the emblem proudly on their chest but you cannot place it. A circle, leaves, wisteria if you combine it with the colors that adorn their belts.

When one of them raises their weapon, points it at Uraume and you, time freezes. Literally.

They have no chance to attack before the ice caught up to them, before the chill in the air is so overpowering that even your breath fogs up, safely hidden behind Uraume, where none of the cold will touch you. The men freeze to death before they ever lay a hand on you.

Quietly, Uraume grunts, takes a hold of you again, and drags you further into the wilderness.

You return two days later, exhausted and hungry and what you find breaks your heart right in two. Nothing is left of the farm and the gardens. Charred beams of wood and the husk of your tree are the only landmark you can find for the place you considered your household. You find nothing of worth in the rubble and suddenly, your possessions shrink back down to the clothes you wear on your body.

Back to being a child, back to ransacking shrines and stealing from the already poor. You sob and cry and mourn a place that holds more memories than you can cradle in your hands.

Hot and furious tears burn their way down your cheeks and drip from your jaw.

Maybe for the first time in your life, you feel the anger Sukuna tells you about. You feel the injustice, the urge to put the whole world down with you. To tear and rip and shred it to pieces like your poor heart.

Weeks you sit in the ruins of your house and wait for Sukuna to return. Some foolish, hopeful part of you thinks he must feel your anguish, must know you need him and come to your aid.

Time drag by. Uraume salvages what they can but the townsfolk is too scared to help and you’re too saddened to do anything but weep.

You sit in your garden of ash and scorched ground and this is how he finds you, so long since the fire has burned that the wind has removed all the footprints, all the heaps and scratches and grooves where your fingers dragged through the ash - where you tried to put it all back together. No proof that you tried to fight it, that you tried to mend.

Wordlessly he settles beside you, plumes of ash rising as he sinks to the ground, arms cradling you before you can turn to him, dragging you into his lap. The space is made for you and effortlessly you find your spot against him, bury yourself against his chest, inside his arms, press yourself as close as you can in hopes to make it all less real - less painful.

His heart beats like a war drum in his chest, your heart pounds on like a rabbit, rushed and frightened.

You have no heart to sign him what happened, hands cramping by the way they dig into his clothes, pull and tug on him as if you could hide inside his very heart.

“Are you hurt?,” he ask eventually, a deep rumble and you manage to shake your head, then try to make the agreed sign for Uraume. Frozen Child.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingers and he’s so gentle that it makes you hiccup, a sob tearing from your throat again.

So, Sukuna simply holds you, sways you like a babe from left to right, holds you until you grow limp and heavy and tired from sorrow.

“I’ll kill them all,” he promises you. You have no strength left that all you ever asked for is peace. Not war.

VII.

The estate is too large to hold you. Like water you slip through all the cracks, like ash you settle where you’re unwanted.

You know Sukuna meant well when he moved you. Away from your childhood, your farmhouse, your loss. But your new home is massive. There’s a shrine at the edge of the property, a bathhouse, the main rooms so large you feel like a speck of dust drifting about.

Sukuna wants staff. Maids and guards and people you don’t know, don’t trust. You tell him to live his dream but he can see you’re not a part of it.

The fight that follows is vicious. Leaves your wrist twisted and swollen, his ego bruised.

You leave for the smaller pavilions, following the long corridors and leaving the buzzing heart of the residence behind.

You claim one of them, furthest from the courtyard, close to the pond, the small bridges, another, smaller maple tree where you can open your windows. It feels like home when nothing else does, like the ancient one that stood tall and protective at the farm. Here, the leafs are even darker, like the blood that dries on his blades.

Uraume is the only one you let close.

The staff tries, they do. Servants try to appease you with small gestures. People cook the food you enjoy. A maid lays your clothes out every day and Sukuna’s smell vanishes even quicker from the fabric. Each day, they force you out of your suffering and isolation into a world you want no part of. They try to make your life easier when all you want to do is make it yours.

By now, Sukuna is more often gone than not.

There’s only two ways to survive the King of Curses. Worship or Death.

The shrine by the street groans under the weight of offerings. Candles always lit, incense sticks making the air waft about like fog, heavy and reverent.

Someone carves a statue that does him no justice. Someone carves one that does. You let it be moved into the garden where you see it from your futon if you leave the doors open.

At one point, you cut the paper from the wooden frames so you can see his stone face whenever you rest.

You yearn for him, touch yourself while looking at the stone that resembles him so much, unmoving eyes that always stare and you know that he’ll never just be yours now.

The world has grown too small for him and while he keeps you safe and hidden, surrounded by guards that never sleep and walls not even kudzu gets to climb - in a tiny but safe haven - Sukuna dominates the world.

You’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t take other women while he’s gone. He’s a man and he’s powerful and these two factors are all you need to know to be aware of the possibility that strangers warm his bed at night. Somehow, it leaves you unbothered.

This was never about sex.

This is about body, mind and soul and you know that whatever woman or man he invites in his chambers, he will send them away again.

You’re the only one he will return for. Eventually.

Hopefully.

VIII.

When you wake, he’s already above you - massive, blocking out the moonlight, his lust hot and heavy against your belly.

For a moment, you do not recognize him. The smell of fresh linen and soap instead of blood and sweat and him. His hair is still wet, water dripping onto your body. He’s washed himself, scrubbed the wrath right off his body before returning to your side.

You make a sound for him, breathe his name into the night and he hums yours right back.

You raise your hand towards his heart where it endlessly beats in it’s slow and steady pulse while your other hand grips at his hair, pulling and pressing him further down against you.

He still tastes of salt and iron.

It comes natural when your legs fall open around him, accommodating his frame.

When he slides a hand beneath the folds of your gown, you let him. Callouses adorn his palms and the contrast to your sensitive flesh has you suck in the air through your teeth. Goosebumps rise in his wake.

Sukuna is a slow lover, which doesn’t mean he’s a gentle one. Every touch is precise, brutal - each movement of his hips hard and ruthless.

Above you, he grunts, pushing his fingers into your mouth before stroking them through your folds. When he pushes into your cunt, you groan at the stretch, eyes fluttering shut.

Two of his fingers are enough to have your breathing hitch, the way he works you open with steady, endless strokes. He curls his fingers just the right way, caresses the spot inside of you that makes your vision white out.

Against your stomach, he already leaks. Sticky and warm it follows the curves of your body, tickles your ribs and your waist.

You beg with every sound you can make and his teeth find the bend of your neck, digging so deep the pain flares hot and bright. You cling to him desperately, push your hips against his hand as if it could imitate the real thing that hangs heavy between his legs. You can feel the smile that curves his lips as he digs his teeth deeper.

When his fingers leave you, you’re clenching around thin air, desperate to be filled. The sounds you make are lewd, mewling and panting as you dig your nails into his shoulders and leave trails of blood down his spine where you try to pull him closer.

The smell of iron makes him feral.

When he pushes in, he does so relentlessly and without a pause. You squirm beneath him, four hands holding your body tight - no escape as his length stretches your insides with just enough pain to make you grit your teeth. Tears prick at your eyes and his kisses turn lethal, split your lip, burn your skin. His eyes are dark as he watches your tears spill with each brutal snap of his hips.

Every time he claims you, you wish to die like this. Split open, claimed - his. He should be the one to kill you, smother you with his love, suffocate you with his lust, tear you apart as he stuffs you with his cock.

Each of his thrusts has you seeing stars, the sounds you make music to his ears. You press yourself against him in all the ways you can. Arms slung around his neck, lips pressed against his, his tongue in your mouth as if you two could become one.

He bites your lips so hard the skin keeps breaking, blood in your mouth and a flashback at it’s heels. He fucks you through it all, pounding into you until the futon shifts with his thrusts, until his face is all you see, tattoos shifting on his skin as he regards you.

You’ve never quiet figured out what this expression means. The one he makes when he takes you like this. His eyebrows drawn together, with his pupils blown so wide you barely see the red in them. Sometimes you think he will kill you and sometimes you think he will die for you.

Sukuna enjoys pushing the blood about. Paints his symbols on your skin with the blood you both draw. You always smear it over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest and to his hips.

When there’s your fingerprints above his heart, you can always feel the tension in your body coil, somewhere beneath your navel, where heat pools so eagerly that you wonder if he feels it too, that need for him.

Because he always knows when you’re close. But you suppose he also knows in the way your breathing changes, in the way you push against him, in the way your walls cling to him as if to never let him go. That’s when his grip turns bruising, when his fingers dig into your flesh and you wonder each time if he’ll rip you apart or crumble like paper in his hold.

He bares his teeth when he comes, heavy grunts into the crook of your neck, hips flush against yours, an ache in your waist and your insides that will persist for several days. He fills you warm and endlessly and when you tumble over the edge with the help of his thumb between your legs, he smothers you with his whole weight.

You groan, exhaustion and ecstasy leaving you boneless and twitching in his arms. He always smiles then, softer, his face flushed, a sheen layer of sweat coating his brow and chest. Calls you his life, his love, his.

“Yours,” you try to sign back each time, a hand pressed to his heart where it beats just a bit faster.

His hand is large enough to cover your heart and curl around your ribs.

He kisses your tears that dry itchy on your skin. Licks the blood that has smudged and smeared and dried black.

Each time, hot and sticky, his seeds spills the moment he pulls out. And each time, he scoots back, regards you with this strange look and settles with his face between your legs.

You dig your hands into his hair, nails raking over his scalp and stare at the ceiling. You try to memorize this night. He loves you with all of him and you, you might just be the only altar he ever kneels at.

With a palm pressed firmly against your lower belly, he laps up all he’s given you. By now, it is a ritual. He fucks it into you, only to try and take it again. You don’t want to bear him children. Sukuna never asks you to. And so, he eats his seed from between your legs, feasts until you come undone again, panting and shaking where he holds you down and hums against your flesh.

Dizzy, blurred - you watch his dark eyes as they roam over your body, his erection still there, twitching and pulsing between your bodies.

Nights like these never end. There’s no sleep for the wicked, no rest for the deprived - no peace for the yearning. When the sun rises, he cleans you, swaddles you in blankets and holds you as close as he dares.

Your insides pulse with the memory of him.

Wordlessly, you two watch the darkness leave, golden rays of first light illuminating the statue outside your room, maple leafs red as blood.

You fall asleep with his hand against your lower tummy, his nose in your hair. Sweet nothings fill the air between you, whispered in the liminal space of dawn and slumber.

You think that Sukuna was never meant to create life - only ever take it. Uraume will be the closest to a child you will ever have. Maybe it’s for the best - this bloodline beginning and ending with him.

IX.

It takes him a month to declare war upon the Fujiwara Clan. Only three years to half their forces and have them scrambling, frantically hiding up north behind veils and talisman that do nothing to keep the King of Curses away.

He defeats some of the greatest names in sorcery, snuffs them out like candles. Broken wisteria sigils and severed bodies are all that’s left in his wake.

You never hear it through him, only ever hear about him, stories of merchants and wanderers and people who come to worship him at his shrine. Offerings start spilling out the building, lining the street like hopeful, eager devotees.

There is no end to his reign.

Sukuna will continue to fight and murder and torment until there is nothing left.

Visits are short, bruises and bite marks lingering longer than his touch. You mark him up as best you can, keepsakes for the road, good luck charms while he fights the world.

Recently, you’ve started to come to think of him as an Oni, strong and powerful and deadly - not one of the brutish ogres but ancient guardians. You like to think he’s here to protect you, to keep you safe from the world that’s done you so wrong.

Once you’d tried to explain it, compared one of the intricate paintings to him and he’d grinned. Lopsided and thoroughly entertained.

“An Oni? And what are you then? My own Onryō?”

It’s almost romantic, the idea that you haunt him as much as he haunts you.

Almost, as long as you don’t think too much about the idea you might the reason he’s always gone.

X.

The rule of beasts leaves your bedside empty.

Sukuna ravages Japan. And just like you feared, you are left haunting your own halls.

When you stare at the statue that stares back at you, you think of the time you first met, when you offered him a peach, juices dripping from your hands. In a way, even all these years later, Sukuna tries to repay you for that offering. Now that you can afford it, you slice a peach each day, set it out by the door, like you’re trying to feed the rabid dogs that stalk the streets at night, hoping he will find it if he returns. If it’s still there the next morning, still untouched and Sukuna nowhere to be seen, you place it at the foot of the statue, offer it up to him in all the other ways you can, try to erect your own little shrine where only your offerings count.

By now, the shrine at the road is overrun with pilgrims who come to worship a king who’s never home.

Sukuna repays you in raw meat. He repays you in dangling heads and claimed weapons. In yet warm bodies he killed in your name, kanji edged into the side of his blade.

All your life you’ve been weak for him. And when he offers you the dead, you accept them with a smile, with a hand over his chest and a mass grave of body parts in your backyard. You don’t tell him that you let the bodies be burned the moment he leaves again. Don’t tell him that the stench of rot makes your stomach twist, that the flies have you on edge, that all the death he causes has no home in your halls.

May he wage war in all of Japan, as long as your place stays clean of it.

All you ever wanted was peace. Safety. Him.

So when he returns, a slice of peach between his fingers, freshly washed and barely dressed, you get to see all the scars that have marked his body, cruel and vicious, in all the places only you should ever reach. Only your nails should ever draw along, only your lips should ever touch.

He stops in the door, a set of arms crossed in front of his chest, another at his hip and the door frame, watching you with unguarded eyes.

The flickering light makes the scars look even worse, gashes that slice up his body as if he fell victim to his own cursed technique. You hate the sight of it, a frown apparent on your face as Sukuna clicks his tongue, already shifting into something harder, unapproachable.

“Thrilling to be greeted with disgust on your face, woman.”

You’re quick to school back your expression, to raise your hands to defend yourself.

“You’re hurt,” you sign and point an accusing finger towards him.

He barks in your face, pushing away from the door to step into the room, the pavilion suddenly very small for his presence alone.

“I’m a victor, I just like to collect memories of every fight.”

“Reckless,” you chastise and he bares his teeth at you, something that doesn’t quiet resemble a grin.

“Don’t project your own weakness onto me.”

It hits like a slap, hurts like one too. Your anger flares instantly, blinding and blistering.

You notice a routine in these encounters. He returns and if both of you are unlucky enough, you won’t be asleep and he won’t be exhausted and a fight will always surge.

You call him reckless and he calls you weak.

In some sense you both truly are.

He’s starving on a hunger he will never be able to still, thoughtlessly seeking out fight after fight. And you, you are weak, in every sense of his definition, in every way he considers inferior. You are no sorcerer, you are voiceless and small and people have used and taken from you ever since you were a child.

You insult him with every gesture you can.

He waves you off instead, not even worth his anger, turns away and you turn silent once more, silenced by his choice of ignoring you, of turning his back, of looking away. So you haul the next best thing.

Your blanket flutters uselessly through the air, falling to the ground not far from you.

Sukuna laughs.

And the next thing you throw is a vase, one of the pretty ones, with paint beneath the green glaze, gifted by an unnamed follower of his and handed to you because you liked it. Not anymore. Not in this moment. Not enough to refrain.

It hits his back, right between his shoulder blades and shatters on impact. The sound is an ugly one, something that rings in your ears as the shards fall like frozen raindrops. Some are stuck in his skin where the edges brim now red.

It’s the only way you can scream “Look at me!”.

Sukuna does, turns with a snarl on his lips and a rush towards you that leaves you frozen. In a heartbeat he’s there, crowding you, your back pressed against the fragile wood paneling as he corners you with all his arms, face to face, nose to nose.

“There you go, all my attention, spit out what you have to say or leave me be.”

It’s not fear that makes you tremble, but rage. Anger. Hopelessness at the unfair prospects. At the inevitable outcome.

“You will die!”

“I’ll die when I’m done. By my own choice. Have you so little trust in me?”

You think of all the people he’s bested, of all the blood he’s spilled, all the body parts in your backyard, burned like your farm, hidden beneath shallow layers of dirt. You think of wisteria sigils and an ancient, dead tree.

“People are coming for you - me. They will find a way to stop you.”

Your anger is a bad outlet. A shallow one. The fire is bright but dies just as quickly as it surged and you’re all of his definitions of weak when you feel the tears brim in your eyes, cling to your lashes.

His anger is a bottomless pit. A well he’s drawn from all his life. Sometimes you wonder if it leads right down to Yomi, where he draws all the violence, all the corruption from.

“They worship me!” he screams in your face and you can feel the spittle hit your skin, the heat of his anger as it washes over your face.

“They don’t know you. All my life I’ve fought so you could keep yours and this is your thanks?”

Silly, you think, how in the end, you both fight for the same cause. You fear for his life, if he continues fighting. He fears for yours if he stops.

Your hands sink to your side where you dig your nails into your palms until it stings. What use is there to argue when you’re the cause for his vigor, his obsession, his inability to stop.

Sukuna seizes the opportunity, a verbal finishing blow, beating you down in all the ways he can without laying a hand on you.

“You will be the death of me, woman!”

Your greatest fear taken shape, taken sound, drowning out the world. He claims you as his cause and in that, blames you for his failure that will ultimately come.

“I only ever wanted peace for us. Safety. A place to call ours and your hand in mine.” You phrase it clumsily, hands shaking, signs sloppy as tears blur your vision and spill down your cheeks.

Sukuna coils back as if they’re toxic. He’s always been powerless against your tears, the sorrow that’s burrowed so deep, not even he could carve it out of your flesh.

From the moment he met you, you were the beginning of his end.

He invited defeat right into his corner when he took you in. He should have known from the beginning, should have known that day at the shrine or that day at the farm or that day in your room. Should have known the moment he ate like a dog from your outstretched palm, the moment he ripped out the throats of men to ensure your safety or the moment you tore the very walls down to be able to look at his face. Or at least the moment he started sleeping by the door, your soft breathing at his back, guarding you like the dog he was.

He should have known because back then, you were only children, lonely and scared in your own ways, desperate to live or at least stay alive. And in the end, he thinks, this relationship only ever had a chance because it was formed in childhood, a bond honed on shared misery and meals, knowing each other inside and out.

He’s fought your demons every step of the way and you’ve held out peach after peach for him, even if he was always willing to bite the hand that fed him.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you might be the only soft one he possesses.

And that realization is utterly grounding, humiliating in a way only intimate things can ever be.

Your eyes shine like the moon, glossy and shimmering, tears tracking down your face in small rivers. You’re flushed from anger, or fear, or something else entirely. He’s aways been bad at this, reading your emotions, knowing what you’re thinking.

“Have I not given you all of that and more?” he hears himself ask and sees himself reflected in the black of your eyes, a halo of moonlight around him. A demon, a monster, a beast. He looks as ruinous as he feels ruined.

Your shoulders sag.

“I never needed any of this-“ you gesture, point at the pavilion and the estate beyond it. At the garden with the tree and the pond and the statue at your back.

All his life he’s fought for you, gave you anything you could need to learn you never really wanted it. No estate, no garden, no jewelry and layered gowns. You only ever wanted him - his presence.

Anger is the only defense mechanism he’s ever had, brutality the only shield he’s ever wielded.

So he shoves you and all his shortcomings away, pushes so hard at your shoulders that the wood behind you splinters, the paper rips and you tumble out into the cold afternoon sun, floorboards creaking beneath your weight as you loose balance and land in a heap of silk and tears on the veranda.

You find no sounds and no words and no signs to tell him of your pain, your misery, your fear. The sun is bright but cold, the shadows of tree and statue framing your form like some imaginary walls and as Sukuna stands before you - tall, broad, powerful - engulfed by the light that spills through the broken wall, you see him as all others must. Untouchable. Terrifying.

He’s showing you all you need to see to know he’s angry with the world. Nothing ever helped when he was angry like that.

And this time you are cause and reason for his wrath and fear dries your mouth, settles like dust along your windpipe. What really stops him from leaving you behind? For decades he’s outgrown, outpaced you. Somehow, he only now seems to realize.

So before he can discard you, you discard him. Panic makes you irrational. The rage of a prey animal fighting for it’s life.

“Go away!” you scream in all the ways you can, angry and furious and desperate and scared, with hands that shake and eyes that say everything you cannot.

Sukuna halts, stops approaching, only stares and so you sit and watch his tattoos and scars shift over his skin as your words sink in. They are blurry from your tears, dance across his body like shadows. Even now, even in his anger, he’s beautiful.

Another push to the wall that still stands, wood groaning under the punch before he turns and stalks away and you know he will leave, will abandon you again because for the first time in your life, you told him so. Men like Sukuna can only ever calm themselves with distance and blood. So much blood.

There’s still pottery shards stuck to his back, like cut wings they protrude from his skin, thin trails of blood running down to the dimples at his back. He still has claws, still is able to bring ruin but you might just be the only rodent that ever had the chance to fight back a black kite.

Others would call it an achievement.

Why do you feel so hopeless when he steps out of sight, a trail of blood following out the door.

XI.

He’s back sooner than expected. You were ready to endure and yearn for months, the blood cleaned from the floorboards, the remaining shards of the vase laid out on a plate before his statue like it’s your attempt to offer back his wings, feather by feather.

To heal what you broke, to return what you’ve taken.

You have made not a single attempt to fix the wall. With the paper and wood now gone, your room is freezing. Early winter has yet to see snow, but there’s no warmth to find you, either. You’re trapped beneath your blankets, futon so dented that you feel like you’re laying right on the tatami. You haven’t gotten up since you offered back the fragments of your anger, chased every servant and maid away with vicious words and a blade in your hand.

It’s one of his, usually mounted to the wall in one of the greater halls, now halfway hidden beneath your bedside. The hilt is simple, the blade slightly curved. It’s the one he taught you to hold and wield and fight with all those years ago.

With his heavy footsteps echoing along the hallway that leads to your domain, you force yourself upright, body sluggish and stiff from the cold.

Your blankets pool in your lap, tomesode disheveled and reeking of the inability to move that’s befallen you the past days. You know he won’t care, won’t be bothered by your unkempt hair. If at all, he will be bothered by the fact that you’ve not touched the food you’ve been brought and the curses that most likely linger about.

You brush the fabric of your gown, run a hand through your hair and sweep a finger along the corners of your eyes and mouth.

The smile you give him when he steps through the door is an honest one, relief flooding you like the first warm rays of sun after a long winter.

Then everything stops.

It’s not Sukuna who stands in your space, but an unknown sorcerer, wisteria mon stitched to the lacing of his armor. Memories of a night in flames fill your vision as you scramble to your feet and pull the blade from beneath your futon. It clanks against the bamboo flooring as you try to drag it upwards, holding it out with shaking arms.

You have no idea how he got past the guards, the gates, the walls. Past even more guards, past your servants and maids, without a single sound reaching you. For a moment, you think of Uraume, somewhere at the eastern coast, holding their own in Sukuna’s name.

The sorcerer laughs, something cruel around their mouth and the bend of their brows as he steps into the room, corners you against your broken wall.

There must be more, you think. More who’ve infiltrated your estate and killed and ruined everything. Once again, the Fujiwara Clan takes from you.

But Uraume isn’t there to save you. Neither is Sukuna. There is your frightened heart and your quivering arms and the blade that dances before you in your trembling hands. It’s heavier than you remember. Still, you grit your teeth and threaten the man.

With the King of Curses as your teacher, you have to hold your ground. Long enough for someone to come and aid you. You have to.

So when the man before you laughs and there’s footsteps echoing through the garden at your back, through the corridors ahead of you, you snarl as best you can and take your stand.

It’s a quick fight, if a bloody one. Shortly after you take your first swing and slice one of the beautiful paintings in two, more people arrive. Fujiwara soldiers clad in lavender and black, with blades far bigger than yours and far steadier hands.

You channel everything you’ve learned over the years, think of Sukuna and Uraume as you hold your ground and strike down five of your attackers. You attribute it to luck, mostly. The blade catching between the folds of their armor, slicing through unguarded throats and wrists and armpits. They underestimate you. You surprise them.

And in the end, nobody comes to help you.

Eventually, your enemy tires of it’s game. Enough bodies have fallen, your own skin now burning with cuts and bruises, your gown sliced at the arm, your leg wobbling with some fierce, blurry pain.

He grins when he approaches you and when you swing at him, he blocks it effortlessly, no more strength in your arms, the blade uselessly clattering and skirting across the room.

You think of Sukuna, his blood-eyes and his anger. How easily he broke the wall. Eyes flicking towards your only other exit, you try to make a run for it. Knee jerking and pain shooting up your hip with each step you take, your skirts gathered in your sweaty hands.

Your pursuer is in no rush. He has to duck through the hole in your home, steps out onto the veranda with a laziness only the powerful can hold. You climb over the fence that separates you from your gardens, run through the neatly cut grass, the sandy paths. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be as you halt before the stone statue, Sukuna’s four eyes cold and unbothered as they watch your demise.

The last thing you ever did to him was chase him out the door. The last thing you ever did was done in anger, despair and fear. Sukuna will never know how sorry you are. You’ll never hold his face again, never feed him another peach, never love him in cold moonlight.

They catch you at the base of the statue, a sudden force in your back pushing you forward, head crashing into the cold stone where pain explodes white and blinding.

This is worse than the time on the road. Worse because it’s your home, the place you’re supposed to be safe.

When they hold you down, you kick and scratch and bite at them. But what’s the bite of a mouse against the talons of a bird of prey. You’re a rodent in your self-imposed prison, trapped by circumstance and destiny. Found food for predators like them.

Despite the pain and the ache in your heart, you manage to scratch him, long nails raking over his face and leaving lines of blood in their wake. He spits at you, slaps you in the face hard enough you see stars.

But the killing blow does not come. Instead, they bind your hands, gag you because you keep biting, tie your ankles together with enough pressure your feet grow numb in moments. You struggle through all of it, stare at them with all the hatred in your heart and make it an effort for them every step of the way.

One of the soldiers picks you up, knocks over the collected remnants of the vase and the platter with frost-covered peach slices, trampled beneath heavy boots. You watch their fuzzy skin break, soft flesh squished and coated with dirt.

When they drag you through your home towards the gates, you can only stare as the bodies pass you. The guards are all dead, blood leaking in puddles from their bodies, weapons discarded and broken.

When you find one of your most attentive maids, ignorant or unwilling to your stubborn isolation, tears finally spill. Her gown is torn, limbs angled strangely as her eyes stare blankly towards you. Even the red paint of her lips is smudged, dragged across her pale cheek like yet another smear of blood. You never bothered to learn her name. Now you’ll never be able to remember her properly.

The whole estate is a graveyard. Soon, your struggles die down and you’re left sobbing and hiccuping as you’re carried out the gates. They throw you over the back of a horse, limbs tingling or already numb.

“Sure it will work?” someone drawls, eyes squinting at you as you fight the nausea of hyperventilation.

“He’ll come for her. Now we just have to be patient.”

You’re sure your ribcage will crack right open, spill your lungs and heart and sorrow right onto the road below and you’ll be relieved of this horror, this terror in your heart.

They’ve realized what the two of you have only learned recently.

Sukuna will come for you. He will tear the whole world down for you, search every corner of Japan to get you back. All his life he’s done so.

A very small part of you hopes he’s angry enough to abandon you, to let the trap stay empty, let the mouse starve and move on to bigger, better prey.

You’re the only weak spot he’ll ever have and you have no choice but to let them use you.

XII.

Your prison is a temple in the middle of nowhere.

As you’ve learned over the travel with your attackers, the one who lead the attack is no other than one of the five Empty Generals of the Fujiwara Clan. You’re shell-shocked but not stupid. He’s a powerful sorcerer, clever and resourceful. His expectation of the upcoming fight is realistic, if clouded by his own idea that Sukuna would hold back because you are involved. You do not correct him. Do not tell them of your fight with his King of Curses, that the hole in your house was his doing, that he left in anger, wordless and blind.

They trap you in the main hall of the building, like an offering on the shrine, in rope and talisman. The paper tags cover the walls, the shrine itself, even your wrists as if you could cause any harm to them.

You’re not sure if they’re just careful or frightened.

Someone told them who you are. But they do not know the extend of you. You don’t give them the satisfaction of showing just how weak you are compared to your husband.

Your tears have long since dried, the cuts scabbed over, the bruises now dark and blurry, wandering beneath your skin like lazy jellyfish.

None of the people around you approach. Nobody dares to address you. Not that you could answer them - not that you would.

So you stare at the floor, intricate tatami and dust.

The temple is old, and there’s irony in it - that you first found him at the shrine and he’s now supposed to die in one.

A small part of you hopes Sukuna doesn’t care. That he won’t bite, won’t be lured into this trap set in the shape of your body.

A far bigger part begs for his presence. For his anger to flare so hot and blinding that the General and his goons will not know what hit them. You dream of his hands that always knew how to hold you together, think of his smile that drags one corner of his lip further up than the other. The soft curls in his hair after months on the road. The taste of iron and salt on his lips. The growl that makes his chest vibrate and your body tingle.

You try to tell yourself that both of you always knew it would end like this.

Either you will die here, starved to death or killed out of boredom because their target won’t come. Or Sukuna will level this temple, fight with tooth and nail and claws and anger until they will kill him. Before your inner eye, you see them stripping him limp by limp, laugh and joke at his expense while he spits and bites and fights until his heart gives out among blood and gore and your tears.

Time turns liminal.

The shrine holds no windows and with the candles always burning, the outer world is as distant as your hope.

When the first scream echoes through the building, your body has become a shell. By now, all that holds you up are the ropes, braided fibers having dug deep enough to draw blood and turned your wrists an ugly purple.

It’s a blood-curdling thing, one that starts already too high and ends too abruptly. You’ve learned what death sounds like and with the echo still lingering, you know he has come for you.

The guards that are with you glance at each other, then you. And you, you smile, overrun by relief - hope, making your painful heart flutter -, vision blurry with tears that spill heavy and hot, but you bare your teeth and smile because Sukuna has come for you. He has come to find you, safe you, hold you.

How could you ever think he would abandon you. The same boy that ate from your outstretched palm, the boy that killed for you, that hunted down your attackers, the boy that offered you severed heads and countless flowers.

Your tears taste almost sweet as you struggle once again against your bindings.

The guards hiss something, threaten you in hushed words that do not even reach you. All you can hear is the chaos unfold. More screams, the screech of weapons and beneath it all, the roar of his power, his energy - as distinctive and particular as his fingerprints.

Without thinking you start to scream. Shout as loud as you can, whatever noise you can make into the halls until it echoes like the dying cries of soldiers. You hope he will hear you, will know where to find you.

But it’s not him who finds you next, but a whole group of soldiers, lining each side of you, weapons raised, jaws tense with determination.

For a flickering moment, you fear they will be enough to kill him.

Then, the world around you shifts.

Black and ruinous it consumes these holy halls, skeletons sprouting from the ground like morbid weed. This is how you know he’s close.

You’ve never been inside his domain, never fell victim to the wreckage of it all. Panic consumes the group around you, someone coming close enough to pull you by the hair, set a blade against your throat.

The metal is cold, chases chills down your spine.

Despite the knowledge that he’ll come for you, fear reigns supreme.

It locks your body into a frozen state, where your heart hammers away as if it tries to leave you too, your lungs straining to catch up.

The first attack that slices through the air cuts two of the soldiers clean in half, severs the rope that holds up your right arm. None of them have time to scream as your hand uselessly falls to the ground, the continuous strain forcing it into a limp appendage that dangles at your side. The man behind you loosens his grip, just enough to let you make a split second decision.

Sukuna won’t be able to do what he has to while you’re in the way. They were right about that and you won’t let them find any proof of it.

So, with all the strength you have left in you, you push yourself up, throw your head back where it collides with the man’s nose, a crunch where bone breaks. It leaves a dull throb at the back of your head but you’re already on your feet, following the line of rope that still has you tied down, trying to get away from the main forces.

The General at your side blindly lunges at you but you duck, make yourself as small as possible while you hear another soldier drop with the whirring of another slash cutting through the room.

Your legs shake as you stumble over skulls and ribcages. Horns of deceased cattle poke against your legs, cutting through the first layers of your skin as you scratch past them. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think of the livestock he used to kill, the cows and bulls and sheep and chicken - anything to keep both of you fed.

Pressing yourself to the walls of the temple, where the surface is now sticky, dripping with blood, you try not to look at the carnage around you.

He’s come to save you, to bring you back to your blankets, to the red maple leafs and the peaches you get to slice each morning. He’ll hold you when this is over, will lick your tears away and love you in the moonlight, slow and fierce and devoted.

At your periphery, the General stares with fear in his eyes. You can see how he realizes that he’s already lost, that there’s no way he’ll stand, trapped in a domain as violent as this. But in that split-second he realizes his defeat, something else flashes across his face, skin pale, lips drawn into a thin line as his eyes skitter towards you.

With one rope around your wrist still tight, you have nowhere to run.

It pulls at you as you try to dart away, a force so vicious it rips at your shoulder, has you lose your balance as the bone cracks. The pain is immense, has you whimper and stare with teary eyes at the strange curve of your arm. You’ve seen it before, if only in enemies. You had no idea a dislocated shoulder was that agonizing.

When the General is upon you, there’s nowhere to go. He slashes at you, sword held high before he strikes you and you have nothing but your good arm to raise in defense.

It hurts, enough to make you scream again, but adrenaline makes you bear it, has you grit your teeth and kick at him. Far from strong, far from enough, but sufficient enough to have him halt for but a moment.

Behind him, at the other side of the room, beneath the torii that groans under skulls not previously there, Sukuna enters.

With shadow clinging to his form, he’s a curse taken shape. A demon in his own right. His name leaves your lips without a sound, you breathe it into the space between you and watch his face contort with something only you ever got to see.

Suspended in time, there’s nothing else but you and him. For a moment, all there is are his ruby eyes, scanning your body for injury and finding them. Relief floods you, hope and sorrow and utter love for the man who chose you every step of the way, no matter how difficult you made it for him.

His own face splits with a softness he’s only ever held for you, a devotion written in blood, a love covered in teeth marks and scratches.

Then he’s swarmed, rushed by all the warriors that previously entered, cursed energies running rampant as domains are cast, techniques revealed. For a long, lingering moment, the world shatters around you.

But among it all, Sukuna’s eyes are on you. You know all you need to do is hold out a bit longer, fight for him as he fights for you so you can make it to him he can make it to you.

So when he unleashes another rain of slashes, a slice through the air severs the other rope, nicks the General’s face, a part of his ear dropping to the ground as he howls.

Without hesitation, you run towards the safety of Sukuna.

You do not feel the blade until it’s too late.

It’s a frantic attack, uncontrolled, uncoordinated. You’re not sure where he’s meant to hit you, but the blade finds your midsection and pushes through until it comes out at the other side. For a heartbeat, you see it, protruding from your stomach like some metal thorn, coated red. Then, your own momentum pulls you away from the sword, pushes you further towards Sukuna because he’s the only safe space you’ve ever known.

You do not get to make it to him.

Blood soaks your gown. Dark and heavy it drags you to the ground and you only realize you’re on the floor when your head hits the straw. It’s not hard, doesn’t even intensify the dull ache that’s lingered there since you’ve fought your way out. You hear your heartbeat, loud and fast in your ears, like a rabbit it runs to catch up to you and for a moment, you can imagine it’s Sukuna’s footsteps, coming to aid you.

Something rings across your skull, rings in your ears, your body, the whole shrine. Something that tugs on you, tears at your arms and your legs, your chest and your very heart. You don’t realize he’s screaming until your eyes find him, world on a slant, a heap of bodies in his wake as he rushes for you.

You smile at him.

He’s come for you. You’re safe.

XIII.

Sukuna is too late. The distance between you and him insurmountable as you’re cut down. Slaughtered like an animal right before his very eyes.

The sound that tears from his chest is one he’s never heard himself make before, something raw enough to crack his very bones. As they come to fight him, he cannot look away from you, dropped to the ground in a heap of red silk and blood. He’s not sure where one starts and the other ends.

So, Sukuna slices and cleaves until there’s only his scream that echoes, his scream that rattles the very shrine as he sinks to the ground beside you.

You know it’s him before you can make sense of it. Strong hands that lift and pull you close, that hold your very body together as it falls and fails all around you.

When you manage to lift your eyes from the bare chest that’s warm and familiar, the smell of him all around you, Sukuna looks devastating.

You’ve never quiet seen him like this - raw and vulnerable, soft in all ways he’s never been. Tender like a bruise as he cradles you.

You sigh in his hold, feel waves of heat wash over you as your body convulses with shudders you can’t place. Here, in his arms, you’re safe.

The mats are drenched with your blood, it bubbles between the straw as he moves and can’t find it in him to be gentle.

Your body is a weak thing, always has been, so much smaller than his, always ever meant to love and give and trust him. When he cradles your form, lifts you off the floor and into his own arms, you make a strange sound, half sigh and half hiss, pain dulling your eyes.

He knows he’s too late when the blood pools in your lap in the span of a few staggering heartbeats. Still, Sukuna tries to stem the bleeding, stop it with a hand pressed to your abdomen as he’d done so many times before, if only for other reasons. Now, there’s warmth covering his hand, a spreading splodge of blood dying the fabric of your dress even darker.

You think you hear your heart break as you regard him. Or maybe it’s his as his palm presses against you. Not sure, nothing sure as you watch his haunted eyes, blurry red as he struggles against your wounds.

His last words were cruel to you, your last act was to send him away.

All you want to do now is kiss the sorrow from his face, hold him as close as he will let you. You want to apologize for not believing in him. You want to ensure he knows you always loved him. Still do. Always will.

Your eyes flutter, search for him in a feverish, unfocused way, pupils blown so wide there’s nothing else left to stare at. Tears clump your lashes together, lips pale as you open your mouth without making a sound.

“They don’t get to take you. You’re mine,” he says, uselessly and you, you have the nerve to smile at him.

Other times, he would shake you, call you names but now it breaks him.

Your hands aren’t yours. Neither are your arms. Or any part of your body beside your stutter-heart that feels like an abrasion inside your very chest.

Lifting your hands doesn’t fail by lack of trying, but your dislocated shoulder leaves one limb discarded and dragging on the ground, the other is crushed between his body and yours, hand uselessly curved across your chest.

You try to will your fingers to move, to sign something, anything. To show him you’re trying to be sorry.

But your body fails you, again and again, it grows cold and weaker with each heartbeat, vision swimming as you struggle to keep him in your sight.

He’s always believed the world was meant to break for him, meant for him to tear it apart - a gift of the gods or the world or just pure chance. He’d reveled in it, in the power to take and to ruin. But now, here, with you in his arms and your ribcage fluttering against his chest like a frightened bird, he wishes for nothing more than to be able to mend something. To stitch your skin back together, to heal whatever the blade has cut inside you, collect the blood that’s leaving you and pouring it right back into your veins.

Never in his life has he needed to heal something, to put things back together because the only one who ever broke something was him. Now, he quietly begs for it, even attempts to do just that, pouring cursed energy into your form as if it could fix what was broken. Nothing happens beside a low groan on your part, so frail he barely hears it.

There’s a pit in your stomach, a pulsing force pressing forward, only hemmed by his strong hand.

You can feel your life leaking out of you, realize, with absurd clarity when everything else turns blurry and vague, that you’re dying.

Fear spikes.

It has your body tremble in his hold, a finger twitching but not by your will.

Panic surges like your blood and you’re consumed by the thoughts and realization of not being able to share your thoughts. He’ll never know you’re sorry. Never know you love him, with all you have you love him. You’re his.

He cannot speak as he cradles you closer, his hand against your wound and your face pressed against his chest. His heart hammers for the two of you, loud and strong and relentless and he wishes it would work like this. That something for once was that simple or just enough.

But nothing ever is in this world. He’s known it since he was a child. Violence will only ever be answered with violence and death always begets death. The weak do not survive, only the strong do and they only ever do so with brutality. All his life Sukuna has fought for his place in this world. He’d thought keeping you in his shadow was enough.

Safely tugged away in a corner of his dominion, with anything you could ever ask for, he’d considered you untouchable. Sukuna should have learned from the farm, should have learned from the whispers and the tales.

I love you, you want to say.

I’m so sorry I send you away. I’m sorry I got angry. I’m sorry.

Nothing of this is your fault. You did what you could and I was too weak to keep up with you.

You taught me to fight and to live and to love.

Stayed when nobody else did.

Promise me this won’t break you. Promise me to keep Uraume safe.

I’m yours. I’ll always be yours.

Some darker part of you, the one with his edges and his claws, thirsts for revenge.

Kill them in my name or at least in my memory. Make them pay for what they took from us. For the farm and the maple tree, the peaches and all the mice they have killed before, plug the feathers from each black kite you find until all the mice are yours.

Above you, Sukuna sobs.

He’s never cried before. It’s an offensive feeling, water leaking from his eyes, nose all congested and throat so tight he can’t speak anymore. Sukuna tries to breathe through it, hates how you get all blurry and dull when the tears cloud his vision. Even with four arms, he has no hand to spare to wipe them away.

He can see your hands tremble, knows you well enough to tell you want to talk to him, hates to realize you’re too weak to lift even a finger.

All this life of shared silence, of deft hands and a language only the two of you speak - suddenly, you’re rendered voiceless despite it all.

At the corner of your vision, darkness lurks. Like a predator it creeps closer, dulls your senses until even the pressure of his hands on your body become something muted and faint. Your eyes wander along the curve of his brows, along his sharp cheekbones to a mouth you never tire of kissing. There’s tension in his jaw, making the muscles at his chin twitch. A vein pulses at his throat, right beside the ink that slithers like a snake with each breath he takes.

His eyes are the color of ruby. Of blood and the leafs on your favorite tree. The color of love.

Death takes you quietly.

All the things you wanted to say stay stuck in your throat, hidden by cold hands.

All the things he wanted to tell you fall on deaf ears when he finally finds his voice again, choked by dread.

“I’m not angry at you. I never could be, not for long. I just needed some time, some air, some space. I didn’t mean for it to take so long. I only ever tried to keep you safe.”

He recognizes the look in your eyes, that dull stare that sees nothing at all.

Even in death, you look frightened.

“Don’t leave me here,” he dares you, spits the words in your face as if their viciousness could reach you, a command you can’t ignore, not even in death.

But your body is still, that rodent-heart of yours no longer hammering against your ribs. In stillness, in death, you look even smaller in his arms that are too large, his hands that are too brutal.

He almost drops you with the shock of it.

He’d always thought you’d be his demise, his downfall, the one who would eventually usher in his own death. He never thought it would be him.

He’d called you the death of him and he’d been yours without even realizing.

Girls like you are not meant to fall in love with beasts like him.

Haunted by your very own Oni.

Sukuna stares at the puddle of blood in your lap, where it drips, drips, drips from your silk gown into the ground, where his hand is covered in our gore, shining in the light of the flickering candles.

He’d called you his Onryō in jest. Now he begs for you to return to him. Even as a ghost, even as a demon.

“You’re mine. You’re mine and I’m yours. So come back to me,” he asks of you, shakes you gently in his arms where your body jostles around, head wobbling before it falls to the side, rest against his chest as if you would only take a quick nap.

“Haunt me, torment me, anything! Come back to me.”

There’s no breath ghosting against his chest, nothing to warm your body as you lay there, limp and lifeless.

“You were supposed to be the death of me!”

XIV.

The rivers of Japan run red.

The Land of the Rising Sun dies a slow death. An agonizing one.

A blood moon each night as the body toll rises.

You do haunt him, in dreams. There, you can speak and you beg him to join you. You feed him peaches and you hand him flowers. He watches you sing beneath a red moon and always wakes, before he can lay a hand against your skin.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you were the only soft one he possessed. And without you, there’s nothing holding him back. Nothing on his side, at least. Only that eventually, gradually, there’s no more people to kill. No sorcerers who challenge him, no grand clans left standing who could attempt to oppose him.

It’s a lonely place, the top of the world, the top of the food chain.

All the mice and all the black kites are gone and he can feel himself starving, on boredom and loneliness. All that keeps him running is utter hatred for the world and that’s what eats him alive.

Kenjaku finds him on a gloomy day.

Voice soft and words eager - he knows how to speak to him. Knows what to say to make him listen, to make him hesitate with killing just long enough to hear him out.

And the proposition is a good one.

Revenge never truly ends - not for Sukuna, not after you.

He thinks he might be able to join you, somewhere, wherever you are - and return when the world has healed the wounds of his doing. He’s not convinced it ever will. The Fujiwara Clan is gone, so are all the Empty Generals and the Troops in the name of the Sun and the Moon and the Stars and whatever else they threw at him.

He can come back, avenge you as long as he wants, over and over, brutalize the world that has brutalized him.

Thunder rolls in the distance when Sukuna lays down his weapons.

Forgiveness is for kinder, wiser men than him.

He’s your Oni. A monster.

A beast.

And the rule of beasts demands violence.

And as Kenjaku smiles and settles before him, Sukuna realizes that you truly were the beginning of his end.

Only you could have this impact. To be haunted by you, even in his own death. To chase you, even after life.

Only you could have ruined him so thoroughly.

In the end, when there is nothing left to ransack, Sukuna leaves and finds you trailing behind. On wobbly legs you follow him, clothes on your body dirty and loose.

A monster like him does not concern himself with a shadow like you. So he leaves you be.

But you turn out to be as persistent as the darkness. Through every shrine you follow him and accept the scraps he leaves behind.

You’re slower, must be younger than him too, not even six and the only thing you have on him is height. When the plum rain hits without mercy, he thinks you might just succumb to the waters. Drown in puddles or wash away with the flooded rivers.

But Sukuna is not that fortunate.

You stay and each day he manages to gain distance on you, you return with the night, exhausted and panting but with hope in your eyes as they find him. You curl up a safe distance away, his eyes glowing in the dark as you watch him. There’s safety in numbers but he seems to be enough to keep the wolves at bay.

When you come up sick, Sukuna finds himself lingering. He has no food to offer you, nothing to give but his presence as he sits close by, watches you thrash through your fever until your skin shines like the moon in the night.

On the fourth night, he’s sure your heart will give out and in the morning, Sukuna declares you dead. Despite the shallow breaths, despite the stuttering heartbeat, Sukuna abandons you.

He doesn’t make it far before he hears you, feet stumbling, breath ragged as you drag your body after him.

A random girl more loyal than his father, his mother, his twin.

So, he keeps you.

For the boy inside of him that always wanted to belong. For the hole inside his chest that steadily warps to fit your shape.

And in return, for the first time in your life, your loyalty is rewarded. Like a dog you defend him, howl and snap at people who throw things when he comes too close. He’s the only home you’ll ever know and you’re grateful for it, for the four arms that can hold you better than two and for the four eyes that can read you like an open book. A home-shaped monster. A monster-shaped home.

Somewhere along the line, he thinks you could be his pet. A small, ferocious companion that curls at his feet, eyes on the entrance, nails long enough to draw blood.

What a feral thing you are.

And what a deadly thing he is.

Because when a man catches you stealing his fish, grip bruising, the imprint of his hand on your cheek scarlet red, Sukuna does not think before he acts. Even in the womb, he was a killer. Even now, eight and savage, many-limbed and four-eyed, he jumps the man without a warning, rips at his throat until he tastes blood, keeps biting until the thrashing stops, screams up a thunderstorm until the man lies there in pieces and you sob at his side, small and weak but his. Only his.

Years you spend roaming the lands, taking what you can from the people who can’t keep it. Something like rhythm finds you, something like routine, like habit, like home.

You never believed a building could hold you and you realize soon, only one person can.

Sukuna commands the dirt roads you travel, overshadows the towns you come through, dwarfing whole city squares with his presence.

When adolescence strikes, what height you had on him shrinks and soon, he towers over you, three heads taller and three times as wide.

He eats more than you can provide and yet, you work yourself to the bone to keep him fed. You do anything you can for grain and fish and veggies. He takes up jobs to foul for normal men.

In the evenings, hiding inside shrines and ruins, he holds your hands and growls at the raw skin, snarls at reddened cuticles, bares his teeth when he finds cuts and bruises.

His way of taking care of you is brutal: Like a wound, he lays himself bare before you, gratitude in the shape of dull blades, wools and blankets and dead livestock.

That’s how he provides. By killing the sheep and the cows and the oxen and dragging them to you where you try your best to turn them into something edible. You stain your hands in blood for him.

When you are more woman than girl, he finds an abandoned farmhouse at the edge of a village and it becomes your shelter. Not home - never home when it’s a person, when it’s four arms and four eyes and a smile that cuts you open. But you feel safer when there’s doors to shut, when the roof keeps the rain away, when the two of you find a rotting futon, large enough to fit the both of you.

Sukuna leaves during the day and returns at night smelling of smoke and bloodshed. Each night, you clean the blood off his face, his hands, his neck. You stitch the wounds that need stitching with a tread of your dress. You wash his leathers and shine his armor, wipe his blades until you can see yourself in the shine of the metal. You do not question what he does, you do not ask about the blades he sharpens at your back or the screams that follow him.

He takes care of you in the same way he has always taken care of himself. Ferocious and dedicated, whole-heartedly and with blood smeared about.

You feel safe with him. Life is looking up.

But everything good eventually comes to an end and every childhood eventually concludes in a cruel and sudden way one only recognizes down the road. This is where ruin found a home in me, this is where innocence died.

And it isn’t even special or extraordinary. It happens on your way to the market, a short walk, early morning, when the birds chirp and the sun is just warm enough to soften your shoulders and warm you cheeks.

It’s five of them and they do not find the money they search for.

You try to run from them but their steps are made of light and shadow and their sorcery is more powerful than your survival instinct can ever be. They laugh when they catch you, taunt when you beg.

And because there’s no money, they take everything else from you instead - peace and hope and voice.

You scream so much they cut your tongue right out of you and when they leave you to die, you drag yourself back to him with a mouth full of blood.

You’ve been through worse, you tell yourself. You just need to make it back to him, you convince yourself and when you faint on the steps of your shared house, Sukuna finds you drowning on your own blood.

Anger isn’t what does him justice. Wrath doesn’t even come close.

For the first time in your life together, Sukuna lets a stranger get close to you. The local healer comes with incense and fearsome eyes. She tries her best to stop the bleeding, to disinfect the wound and for the few moments you’re conscious and aware, Sukuna fills your whole vision - your blood on his clothes, something strange and hurting in his eyes that do not blink when they regard you.

If he blinks, you will die, he tells himself and keeps staring. Stares until his eyes water and his lids twitch. Stares even when the healer is long since gone, and you’ve fallen into a restless, deep sleep.

It takes three days for you to wake. Eyes sluggish and mind hazy as you blink up at the ceiling.

There’s a fire somewhere, soft crackling and the flicker of light.

He hears the change of your breathing. The drum of your heartbeat.

That night, he curls closer, has you pressed against his chest, his chin against the crown of your head. You dream of knives and blood and screams. Sukuna guards you through it all. There’s a beast in your dreams, a looming shadow that protects you like it’s heart.

Eating is difficult. You choke on rice grains, need to rip everything else into small, digestible pieces and hate each second of it. To your surprise, Sukuna takes the change in strides.

Like a bird he feeds you food, makes sure you swallow each bite he offers. Vulnerability is foreign to him. He does not see how much it costs you to be this weak, this voiceless, this lost.

When you try to speak to him and all the sounds are garbled and muted and wrong, you cry for hours. Sukuna doesn’t know how to console, but he tries for you. Tries with clumsy words and hands that are too strong. He holds you till your body aches and licks your tears till your cheeks are flushed and hot.

Recovery takes months. Maybe forever.

Life changes after this.

For you, it’s in the silence that settles over it all.

For him, it’s in the utter shock of your mortality. His inability to stop your hurt.

The worst part is, that Sukuna has no trouble finding the attackers. They’re sorcerers, high on power, high on boredom. They blame him. Say they came for him but got distracted. Ask for forgiveness in all the wrong places. There is nothing like forgiveness in his heart. Only rage, only hatred, only violence. They knew you belonged to him - a wicked girl in the shadows of a demon.

He kills them in all the horrible ways he knows how to and it leaves him empty. It doesn’t do anything to him or for you. He still hates the world for what it did and you still find no words to speak.

From this point forward he knows. He knows you’re his, only his. He will die trying to shield you from the cruelty of this world.

Something dark and hungry eats at him and when the time comes, nothing can stop it. Hatred consumes him. Revenge becomes the thing he lives by. Hatred in the rhythm of his heart.

Violence for violence.

Blood for blood.

II.

There is a void inside of him and Sukuna has spent all his life standing at the edge of it, staring down into the endless black until it looked just like him - sharp teeth and too many eyes.

It grins at him at random times, whispers promises and lies, draws him closer with the song of vengeance and power.

Sukuna trains, endlessly. The little farmhouse is still decrepit, still in ruin, still yours. Grunts echo through the garden when you watch him work. Sweat coating his body, muscles bulging and trembling from strain. He never stops and you don’t think he even can.

Because he was born with a chip on his shoulder and all it’s done was grow and grow. Now it’s so large, it swallows him whole.

There’s a void inside you too. You’re scared of it. You’ve done your best to befriend it, to come to terms with the hollow pit in your chest, but it swallows you whole more often than not.

“Curses just ooze out of you, woman,” he drawls one day, watching you watching him. He’s told you before, how your misery takes shape. How that endless pit inside of you is not just that but a birthplace for more struggle, more sorrow, more pain. How your sadness follows you with snapping jaws and saliva dripping from it’s fangs. How the weight on your shoulders is not the world but the curses you keep creating.

It doesn’t take much to eliminate them. You watch him do it so effortlessly, the snap of a finger, the fling of a hand.

You’ve never seen them for yourself, but you know of the power that encompasses it all. Everybody knows, because it’s the Golden Era of Jujutsu, Sorcerers are everywhere and Sukuna is the strongest you’ve ever encountered.

There’s attempts where he tries to make you a part of this world.

But he is a bad teacher. Brash and impatient and rude. You appreciate that he tries. That he makes a valiant effort at teaching you how to control your energy, how to not birth more of the monsters into this world. Some days it works, on others it doesn’t.

Sometimes, you think of them as your pets. Your little misery-companions. Your sorrowful, ghostly entourage.

Sukuna calls them a pest.

When he exorcises them, you feel lighter, if only for a few days, ensuring you don’t drown in your own emotions, choke on the depression that clings to you like a second skin.

And when you finally master it, know how to control yourself and dampen the energy to something that won’t spew forth wicked beasts, he smiles at you in this lopsided, honest way. Pride makes him appear even taller, but it softens him in a secret way.

With your newfound ability, you grow sensitized to cursed energy. It fills your ears with a constant buzz. When Sukuna is close, it climbs to a roar - the endless push and pull of an angry ocean, the endless scream of earth cracking open.

After that, something changes between you. It’s raw and fragile and unknown. Shows itself in lingering eyes and wandering hands. When he holds you at night, it feels different and when you wake in the morning, tension crackles in the air like lightning.

He can come home bloody and broken and bruised and you still embrace him with all you have. You can rot in your room for weeks, stink of misery and hopelessness and he will still look at you as if you’re beautiful.

Sukuna takes any job that is offered to him - kills curses and bad men, returns with heads on his saddle and flowers from the roadside and all you see is the smile on his lips as you greet him.

You realize it’s love when a cut across his chest brings you to tears, leaves you hyperventilating and fear-struck as he tries to calm you. His attempts are clumsy, blood dripping on splintered floorboards and even once the wound is cleaned and stitched and bandaged, you can’t bring yourself to leave his side.

That night, you sit in his lap and stare at the wound as if it could burst open again.

Sukuna teases you for it, sharp teeth and reckless eyes.

“One day you will die,” you threaten with shaking hands and press your palm above his heart to ensure it’s not yet time.

He only snorts, unbothered. “We all do one day.”

“You’re all I have.”

That makes him go quiet, if only for a moment. “You’re all I need,” he mumbles in the space between you and you can feel your heart jump.

“If you die, so will I”, and you believe it. There’s no world without him, no life. The time before you met him is shadow and ash, a flicker at your periphery you can never quiet catch.

Your life started with him - it will end with him too.

He’s so close you can feel his breath against your skin, making your skin crawl with the way he smells of something raw, like meat and something chilled, like steel.

Your fingers scratch gently over the bandages you secured around his torso and when his hands around your hips pull you closer, when his lips meet yours, he steals your breath away. He kisses you like a starved man an*d you kiss him back with all the bravery his care has given you.

Sukuna is as brutal in love as he is in friendship.

His hunger is endless and it’s one only you seem able to satisfy. You give yourself willingly, hopefully, whole-heartedly.

You want all of him, sharp edges that cut you open whenever he presses close, blood on his lips when you kiss.

The first time he lays with you, you know he tries to be gentle. Tears streak your cheeks, blur your vision as his trembling hands claim you, pry you open like seafood, take something you know you will only ever offer to him. He loves you with his teeth in your skin and you return it with his blood beneath your nails. His lust has claws and leaves you a shell, sucked empty, mind blank. His devotion rots even through bone.

You call it love.

He’s a passionate lover, a ravenous one. You’re an offering at his altar, a gift to unwrap and claim each time he returns, sweat in his hair and dirt on his hands.

You bend for him however you can, twist and turn to still his hunger, break apart beneath and above, unravel with groans and cries and endless devotion.

But Sukuna was born with a chip on his shoulder, a mountain on his back.

And when there’s no curses left to kill, your home grows too small for the demons he’s facing and you will never be able to fight his battles for him. Trying to hold him together with warm meals and unconditional love turns out to not be enough.

It’s not enough that your constant tremble only ever stops when he’s there, that you drown in his ox blood eyes and feel peace for the only time. Because your body doesn’t have the same effects on him. Because in some way, you will never be enough for the beast inside of him.

Fights are quick to rise and it’s small, unnecessary things, mostly. You call it love anyway, ignore the shades of purple and black that decorate your skin, turn a blind eye to the tears you shed each time he leaves angry and fuming, punching holes through paper doors and glass-like domesticity. Sukuna punishes with silence and absence and fear.

Every fight is unfair at best because language is beyond you. Signs are there but even with four eyes, he looks away when he is angry. Sometimes, arguments mean he’s screaming until your ears ring and your hands shake so much that even they fail you. Sometimes, he’s as quiet as you, all four of his hands desperately trying to proof a point in your very own words - silent, twenty fingers at once.

Those are the worst days. When he leaves in anger and you know not when he’ll return. The farmhouse is just shelter when he’s not there, just a roof over your head, just four walls keeping you caged.

More often than not, he’s gone for weeks, months even.

During his absence, the house becomes haunted. All the demons he’s facing and all of them are yours. You’ve always been a creature of sadness.

Some days, you don’t even manage to get up from the ground, curled beneath blankets and wools. Your cheek sunken so deep into the futon that you feel like the whole world bears down on you. You do not care for your creations, for the curses that dwell when he’s not there.

Whispers find you before he does.

You know the world has always been too small for him, to meek for the power that courses through his veins. You fear he might find someone out there, in the wilds, who will match his freak better than you ever will. You fear he’ll never return at all. You wait. You yearn. You wallow in self-pity.

It’s one of the market women who tells you of the newest gossip. It starts easy, with weddings and children and stolen goods, a death. Someone is killing sorcerers and leaves them a bloody mess to be found.

At first, you give it little thought. Competition is ever present. You think it’s like the mice and the black kites that live about. First too much food, then too many predators. Give and take. Like the tides.

You consider Sukuna the pinnacle of sorcery. An apex predator among spoiled, household pets.

Maybe, maybe Sukuna is the black kite, and when all the curses had vanished, he turned to cannibalism, turning from rodents to his very own kind.

Nobody ever makes it out alive, nobody ever returns from the fights and is able to tell who attacked them. You know it’s Sukuna, when people whisper of an imaginary demon, a warrior more monster than man, blood-eyes and too many limbs.

When he finally returns to you, in dusty clothes and with blood dried dark against his skin, you run to him before he even manages to fully slide the door open. He huffs, but his hands find your waist, your shoulders, the back of your head. He holds you close, your face buried against his chest where you can hear the drum of his heart, steady and slow.

He kisses you gentler, then. Passion dampened by lonely nights, with longing for the body and mind that fit so easily with his.

You learn not to mention the arguments, the fights. You take him back in just as he did when you were a child.

Rhythm and routine are slow.

You love him when he’s with you and you hate him when he’s not.

You watch the scars accumulate on his skin, watch ink spread beneath it, watch his hair grow long and unruly until he lets you cut it.

You keep a lock of his hair, sew it into the sleeve of your tomesode, ensure he stays in all the ways you can make him. You curate bruises like love marks, hope your scratches stay long enough on his skin until he returns.

Kisses linger. So do his hands.

One night, during late autumn, Sukuna sits with you on the veranda, his hulking mass dwarfing you while you arrange the fallen maple leafs by shade of red.

“You’re mine,” he claims and doesn’t even have the need to look at you while doing so.

You wait for him to finally turn his head before you sign your answer, fingertips smudged with damp dirt.

“Enough to marry me?”

“Enough that there’s no need to do so. You’re mine in every instance, every way. In body, soul and mind. Neither you nor me need law to make it true.”

You should have known it was something protective, maybe even frightened, that kept him from claiming you by name. Tying you to him in a world made up of blood and power, it would have been the noose around your neck, the blade slicing your throat.

So he doesn’t.

Momentarily, you mourn the fact that others will never know who you are to him. But in the end, you watch the moon reflect in his eyes and realize that he is yours just as much.

In body, soul and mind, he’s yours and you are his.

III.

During the times Sukuna stays, he stays fully.

He learns to take his time with you, to treasure the mornings, the noons, the evenings, the nights.

You cook for him only to find his hands around your tummy, dragging you back just enough to be able to move around you, taking your spot, helping you in all the unhelpful ways only a brute like him can.

He chops the vegetables too large, overcooks the rice, crushes seafood before it has a chance to be eaten.

You take life in strides like this. With him at your side, it’s a bit easier to conquer the darkness that lurks in the corners of your mind.

He tries to refine your cursed energy. You try to teach him how to sing.

Both of you are horrible at it.

He teaches you of weapons, how to spot sorcerers, what to do when you encounter them. You teach him how to garden. How to nurture without drowning, how to safely remove what’s rotten without killing it.

For you, Sukuna stains his hands with dirt - for him, you learn how to hold a blade steady.

Slowly, the two of you cultivate the garden. Years of overgrowth and kudzu smothering the place are ripped and burned and banished.

In the center of it, an ancient maple tree stands tall. Crooked roots and aching branches that droop low with age. When you ask him to, he hangs lanterns on the branches while you light them, perched on his shoulders.

You plant flowerbeds in his name, red as his eyes, striking as his form, unforgettable as his presence. From his travels, he brings you seeds. Hydrangea becomes your favorite, the small blossoms crowding together in beautiful colors. You place them everywhere - at the front of your house, in the garden, as cuttings in every room. He acts as if he finds them annoying, but you catch him smiling when he thinks you aren’t there.

Love warps over the years.

You adapt to his sharp edges, mold yourself into a shape that fits effortlessly against him. You harden into something only he can crack open. He softens into something only you get to see.

He kisses his adoration into your skin and worships your body beneath the moonlight. Sukuna tells you that’s how he likes to claim you the most. Bare beneath him, moonlight turning your skin blue. He says the sounds you make when he’s pressed so deep he sees the stars are the ones he likes best. Your moans and badly stifled cries only he can pull from you.

With each thrust he punches the air from your lungs, with each spill of him inside you, he ensures he’s the only one you’ll ever take. You don’t think you could ever enjoy another man claiming you. He’s spoiled you like this, ruined you for the world. Each time you topple over the edge, he smothers you with his weight, has you twitching and trapped beneath him until your vision swims.

Afterwards, he licks the tears from your skin, cleans you with a damp cloth, swaddles you in furs and blankets and holds you till your breath is even and calm again.

So, the two of you have something good. Something peaceful.

But peace can never be good for long in the eyes of men like Sukuna.

IV.

A home is a home not for the furniture or walls, but the people that reside in it. But for Sukuna, a home is a trap.

It cages him, ties his wrists and muzzles his jaws. Restlessly he paces the halls, wanders the grounds while you sleep. He is a trapped wolf, ears twitching, jaws snapping at anything that moves.

He is made for you, but not made for this life.

It is when the garden slumbers beneath thick layers of snow that he leaves, only footsteps and a short letter in his wake, trying to give words to the feeling in his chest that agitates and pulls on him. Pulls him out the door, away from the decrepit place you two have made your own, away from the small town that hides cattle and sheep behind fences and guard dogs.

His horse is anxious, ears flat against it’s head, eyes white-rimmed as he chases it out the stables.

Maybe in another life he could stay with you, build a true home, maybe even a family. But he’s been born a curse to his kind and you’re a girl he found by the shrine - unsure if goddess made flesh or sacrifice to his very own slaughter.

V.

Fear reigns southern Japan.

The Jujutsu Sorcerers have finally come together against one common threat. A curse, a demon, a king in his own right.

First time you hear the whispers, you do not believe them. It’s not unusual for him to disappear, not uncommon that he vanishes without a proper kiss goodbye. You’re not sure your heart could take it, if he left while you were awake, following him to the door and kissing him with the prospect of having to stop. You’re not sure you could survive watching him ride down the road until he vanishes out of view, chest so tight it might just collapse.

People whisper a name and one name only: Ryōmen Sukuna has declared war upon the world and the grand clans have answered.

There’s little reprieve in the fact that you’re in the south, that the most powerful clan sits up in the north, behind high castle walls and armed guards.

You find posters of him nailed to the walls.

The portrait doesn’t do him justice, a hulking beast with sharp teeth, nothing like the man you love. A bounty is set on his head but someone rips down the papers before anyone could ever really do anything.

Your hometown turns a blind eye, known him from childhood like a local cryptid, feared but treasured. You find offerings at the small shrines, placed there in his name. From pearls to dried flowers to food. How ironic, you think, now that he holds power they give what they all denied you as children, when you begged for scraps and anything else that could keep you alive.

You feel no remorse when you take what is offered in his name, feel no shame when you take the food, take the coins, the jewelry.

Wandering traders speak of bloodbaths by the coast.

You seek them out in taverns and squares, ask for stories like any bored housewife would. They do not question your curiosity, only feed you all that they’ve seen and heard.

A monster has the land in a chokehold. They speak of him as if he’s a curse, a demon, a fiend. You yearn for the man only you love. The man that only ever loved you.

Over a year passes before he returns to your side, on a random summer day.

The air is stifling, heat so oppressing that you only step from shadow to shadow, a wet piece of linen draped over your head to soften the migraine that’s lingered there for days.

The footsteps that approach you are layered, several or at least two, and when you finally deign to look, it’s him, unchanged.

Same hair, if longer, same body, if even broader, same eyes. Same eyes that stare without blinking as you scramble to your feet, cloth falling without your notice, stumbling towards where he stands. You cry before you even reach him, throw yourself against his chest with enough force he has to balance out, a half-step back before his arms circle you, his laughter rumbling in his chest.

He kisses you like a starved man.

You kiss him like your life depends on it.

When you finally pull away, just enough to look at him, to keep looking until there’s an afterimage that lingers for the rest of your life, he smiles at you with all the love he holds for you.

Only then do you realize there’s someone else.

A child stands beside him, skin and bones, eyes so sunken their face already looks dead. He introduces them with something wicked in his eyes.

Uraume is, like all of you, an outcast. Skirting by the edges of society and they’ve come to find themselves pulling the short end of the stick.

It’s with laughter that Sukuna claims he’s found you a cook. Your questioning eyes are met with more barks, sharp teeth and a grin that reaches higher on the left than on the right. The rundown on their power leaves you breathless - pity for a child that ruined their own life.

You wonder if a frozen wasteland really is what you need in your life, more cold while he’s not there, more ice in your veins when he abandons your side.

Your worries are unnecessary.

Unlike you, Uraume has the benefit of traveling with him, of sticking to his side when you’re left behind over and over again. Sorcerers among Sorcerers, you think and wonder if there truly ever was a place at his side for you.

Maybe it’s supposed to be that way: Mice to the mice and black kites to black kites.

VI.

The world has pledged itself against your happiness.

Japan is at war with your husband, smoking wastelands and mass grave battlefields left in his wake.

Despite his first claims, Uraume stays at the farm, sometimes. There’s something hopeful about their presence, childlike wonder in their eyes when they help you in the garden or when the two you realize you can freeze water to cool yourself down during heat waves. Put sticks in the little bowls you freeze it in and then make a challenge who’s tongue gets stuck first until the sun melts it away.

For the first time in years, laughter fills your home.

When Sukuna returns, you feel like a family. You might not carry his name but you carry his heart, right beneath your ribcage, where it beats inside your own. You and Uraume create banquets for his returns, grilled meat and fish, rice with all the vegetables you can find, rice cakes for good measure.

At night, when Uraume sleeps down the hall, safely tugged away beside a steadily burning light, he loves you beneath the moonshine like he always does. Holds you till you sink into sleep, nose pressed against his chest, his scent inhaled with each breath you take.

But each time he leaves again, you’re left with the cold space beside you, an indent in the futon, clothes strewn about and his smell lingering for a few days before everything is gone again.

He vanishes like a ghost and you’re left in the ruins of it all.

And he is only gone for a few days, before your luck runs out.

Darkness has crept back into your life, one that not even Uraume can alleviate. It leaves you bedridden, weak, a brain full of fog and one of his obi wrapped around you as if it could bandage your heart back together.

It’s Uraume who wakes you, doors pushed open so forcefully that the wood splinters, paper ripping.

“Get up, get up!” they scream before you’re really awake, tugging on your arm, dragging you from your bed and to your feet. “They’re here! Get up, please!”

You try, if only for Uraume’s sake. They lead you through the back door, along the veranda and the sprawling gardens. At night, the moonlight turns it into a flowering ocean, paints everything in blue and white.

But tonight, the garden blooms orange and yellow.

You smell it before your eyes can make sense of what you see, your paradise of trees and flowers engulfed by flames, the further part of the building, the one closer to the road, groaning under the roar of the flames. Your maple tree is a husk, a canopy of fire and enough heat to push you back a step.

Beneath it all, the shouts of men, armor and weapons clanking together.

For the first time in your life, you’re glad no words can leave your lips.

Because you would scream, you would howl, you would curse them all. But as you are, the sounds that leave you are muffled and wrong. Easily swallowed by the fire that lick up your home, that swallow the farmhouse in minutes, eager to devour and leave nothing behind.

Uraume drags you through the night. Their grip like a vice around your wrist, they pull you forward, along the edge of the garden, only away.

Behind you, the only place you ever called yours, goes up in flame.

Then, you run headfirst into your companion. Staggering, you loose balance and almost fall, only to be quickly moved about, hidden behind the child you took in, smaller and younger and more powerful than you will ever be.

The men who find you are armed to the teeth. They wear the emblem proudly on their chest but you cannot place it. A circle, leaves, wisteria if you combine it with the colors that adorn their belts.

When one of them raises their weapon, points it at Uraume and you, time freezes. Literally.

They have no chance to attack before the ice caught up to them, before the chill in the air is so overpowering that even your breath fogs up, safely hidden behind Uraume, where none of the cold will touch you. The men freeze to death before they ever lay a hand on you.

Quietly, Uraume grunts, takes a hold of you again, and drags you further into the wilderness.

You return two days later, exhausted and hungry and what you find breaks your heart right in two. Nothing is left of the farm and the gardens. Charred beams of wood and the husk of your tree are the only landmark you can find for the place you considered your household. You find nothing of worth in the rubble and suddenly, your possessions shrink back down to the clothes you wear on your body.

Back to being a child, back to ransacking shrines and stealing from the already poor. You sob and cry and mourn a place that holds more memories than you can cradle in your hands.

Hot and furious tears burn their way down your cheeks and drip from your jaw.

Maybe for the first time in your life, you feel the anger Sukuna tells you about. You feel the injustice, the urge to put the whole world down with you. To tear and rip and shred it to pieces like your poor heart.

Weeks you sit in the ruins of your house and wait for Sukuna to return. Some foolish, hopeful part of you thinks he must feel your anguish, must know you need him and come to your aid.

Time drag by. Uraume salvages what they can but the townsfolk is too scared to help and you’re too saddened to do anything but weep.

You sit in your garden of ash and scorched ground and this is how he finds you, so long since the fire has burned that the wind has removed all the footprints, all the heaps and scratches and grooves where your fingers dragged through the ash - where you tried to put it all back together. No proof that you tried to fight it, that you tried to mend.

Wordlessly he settles beside you, plumes of ash rising as he sinks to the ground, arms cradling you before you can turn to him, dragging you into his lap. The space is made for you and effortlessly you find your spot against him, bury yourself against his chest, inside his arms, press yourself as close as you can in hopes to make it all less real - less painful.

His heart beats like a war drum in his chest, your heart pounds on like a rabbit, rushed and frightened.

You have no heart to sign him what happened, hands cramping by the way they dig into his clothes, pull and tug on him as if you could hide inside his very heart.

“Are you hurt?,” he ask eventually, a deep rumble and you manage to shake your head, then try to make the agreed sign for Uraume. Frozen Child.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingers and he’s so gentle that it makes you hiccup, a sob tearing from your throat again.

So, Sukuna simply holds you, sways you like a babe from left to right, holds you until you grow limp and heavy and tired from sorrow.

“I’ll kill them all,” he promises you. You have no strength left that all you ever asked for is peace. Not war.

VII.

The estate is too large to hold you. Like water you slip through all the cracks, like ash you settle where you’re unwanted.

You know Sukuna meant well when he moved you. Away from your childhood, your farmhouse, your loss. But your new home is massive. There’s a shrine at the edge of the property, a bathhouse, the main rooms so large you feel like a speck of dust drifting about.

Sukuna wants staff. Maids and guards and people you don’t know, don’t trust. You tell him to live his dream but he can see you’re not a part of it.

The fight that follows is vicious. Leaves your wrist twisted and swollen, his ego bruised.

You leave for the smaller pavilions, following the long corridors and leaving the buzzing heart of the residence behind.

You claim one of them, furthest from the courtyard, close to the pond, the small bridges, another, smaller maple tree where you can open your windows. It feels like home when nothing else does, like the ancient one that stood tall and protective at the farm. Here, the leafs are even darker, like the blood that dries on his blades.

Uraume is the only one you let close.

The staff tries, they do. Servants try to appease you with small gestures. People cook the food you enjoy. A maid lays your clothes out every day and Sukuna’s smell vanishes even quicker from the fabric. Each day, they force you out of your suffering and isolation into a world you want no part of. They try to make your life easier when all you want to do is make it yours.

By now, Sukuna is more often gone than not.

There’s only two ways to survive the King of Curses. Worship or Death.

The shrine by the street groans under the weight of offerings. Candles always lit, incense sticks making the air waft about like fog, heavy and reverent.

Someone carves a statue that does him no justice. Someone carves one that does. You let it be moved into the garden where you see it from your futon if you leave the doors open.

At one point, you cut the paper from the wooden frames so you can see his stone face whenever you rest.

You yearn for him, touch yourself while looking at the stone that resembles him so much, unmoving eyes that always stare and you know that he’ll never just be yours now.

The world has grown too small for him and while he keeps you safe and hidden, surrounded by guards that never sleep and walls not even kudzu gets to climb - in a tiny but safe haven - Sukuna dominates the world.

You’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t take other women while he’s gone. He’s a man and he’s powerful and these two factors are all you need to know to be aware of the possibility that strangers warm his bed at night. Somehow, it leaves you unbothered.

This was never about sex.

This is about body, mind and soul and you know that whatever woman or man he invites in his chambers, he will send them away again.

You’re the only one he will return for. Eventually.

Hopefully.

VIII.

When you wake, he’s already above you - massive, blocking out the moonlight, his lust hot and heavy against your belly.

For a moment, you do not recognize him. The smell of fresh linen and soap instead of blood and sweat and him. His hair is still wet, water dripping onto your body. He’s washed himself, scrubbed the wrath right off his body before returning to your side.

You make a sound for him, breathe his name into the night and he hums yours right back.

You raise your hand towards his heart where it endlessly beats in it’s slow and steady pulse while your other hand grips at his hair, pulling and pressing him further down against you.

He still tastes of salt and iron.

It comes natural when your legs fall open around him, accommodating his frame.

When he slides a hand beneath the folds of your gown, you let him. Callouses adorn his palms and the contrast to your sensitive flesh has you suck in the air through your teeth. Goosebumps rise in his wake.

Sukuna is a slow lover, which doesn’t mean he’s a gentle one. Every touch is precise, brutal - each movement of his hips hard and ruthless.

Above you, he grunts, pushing his fingers into your mouth before stroking them through your folds. When he pushes into your cunt, you groan at the stretch, eyes fluttering shut.

Two of his fingers are enough to have your breathing hitch, the way he works you open with steady, endless strokes. He curls his fingers just the right way, caresses the spot inside of you that makes your vision white out.

Against your stomach, he already leaks. Sticky and warm it follows the curves of your body, tickles your ribs and your waist.

You beg with every sound you can make and his teeth find the bend of your neck, digging so deep the pain flares hot and bright. You cling to him desperately, push your hips against his hand as if it could imitate the real thing that hangs heavy between his legs. You can feel the smile that curves his lips as he digs his teeth deeper.

When his fingers leave you, you’re clenching around thin air, desperate to be filled. The sounds you make are lewd, mewling and panting as you dig your nails into his shoulders and leave trails of blood down his spine where you try to pull him closer.

The smell of iron makes him feral.

When he pushes in, he does so relentlessly and without a pause. You squirm beneath him, four hands holding your body tight - no escape as his length stretches your insides with just enough pain to make you grit your teeth. Tears prick at your eyes and his kisses turn lethal, split your lip, burn your skin. His eyes are dark as he watches your tears spill with each brutal snap of his hips.

Every time he claims you, you wish to die like this. Split open, claimed - his. He should be the one to kill you, smother you with his love, suffocate you with his lust, tear you apart as he stuffs you with his cock.

Each of his thrusts has you seeing stars, the sounds you make music to his ears. You press yourself against him in all the ways you can. Arms slung around his neck, lips pressed against his, his tongue in your mouth as if you two could become one.

He bites your lips so hard the skin keeps breaking, blood in your mouth and a flashback at it’s heels. He fucks you through it all, pounding into you until the futon shifts with his thrusts, until his face is all you see, tattoos shifting on his skin as he regards you.

You’ve never quiet figured out what this expression means. The one he makes when he takes you like this. His eyebrows drawn together, with his pupils blown so wide you barely see the red in them. Sometimes you think he will kill you and sometimes you think he will die for you.

Sukuna enjoys pushing the blood about. Paints his symbols on your skin with the blood you both draw. You always smear it over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest and to his hips.

When there’s your fingerprints above his heart, you can always feel the tension in your body coil, somewhere beneath your navel, where heat pools so eagerly that you wonder if he feels it too, that need for him.

Because he always knows when you’re close. But you suppose he also knows in the way your breathing changes, in the way you push against him, in the way your walls cling to him as if to never let him go. That’s when his grip turns bruising, when his fingers dig into your flesh and you wonder each time if he’ll rip you apart or crumble like paper in his hold.

He bares his teeth when he comes, heavy grunts into the crook of your neck, hips flush against yours, an ache in your waist and your insides that will persist for several days. He fills you warm and endlessly and when you tumble over the edge with the help of his thumb between your legs, he smothers you with his whole weight.

You groan, exhaustion and ecstasy leaving you boneless and twitching in his arms. He always smiles then, softer, his face flushed, a sheen layer of sweat coating his brow and chest. Calls you his life, his love, his.

“Yours,” you try to sign back each time, a hand pressed to his heart where it beats just a bit faster.

His hand is large enough to cover your heart and curl around your ribs.

He kisses your tears that dry itchy on your skin. Licks the blood that has smudged and smeared and dried black.

Each time, hot and sticky, his seeds spills the moment he pulls out. And each time, he scoots back, regards you with this strange look and settles with his face between your legs.

You dig your hands into his hair, nails raking over his scalp and stare at the ceiling. You try to memorize this night. He loves you with all of him and you, you might just be the only altar he ever kneels at.

With a palm pressed firmly against your lower belly, he laps up all he’s given you. By now, it is a ritual. He fucks it into you, only to try and take it again. You don’t want to bear him children. Sukuna never asks you to. And so, he eats his seed from between your legs, feasts until you come undone again, panting and shaking where he holds you down and hums against your flesh.

Dizzy, blurred - you watch his dark eyes as they roam over your body, his erection still there, twitching and pulsing between your bodies.

Nights like these never end. There’s no sleep for the wicked, no rest for the deprived - no peace for the yearning. When the sun rises, he cleans you, swaddles you in blankets and holds you as close as he dares.

Your insides pulse with the memory of him.

Wordlessly, you two watch the darkness leave, golden rays of first light illuminating the statue outside your room, maple leafs red as blood.

You fall asleep with his hand against your lower tummy, his nose in your hair. Sweet nothings fill the air between you, whispered in the liminal space of dawn and slumber.

You think that Sukuna was never meant to create life - only ever take it. Uraume will be the closest to a child you will ever have. Maybe it’s for the best - this bloodline beginning and ending with him.

IX.

It takes him a month to declare war upon the Fujiwara Clan. Only three years to half their forces and have them scrambling, frantically hiding up north behind veils and talisman that do nothing to keep the King of Curses away.

He defeats some of the greatest names in sorcery, snuffs them out like candles. Broken wisteria sigils and severed bodies are all that’s left in his wake.

You never hear it through him, only ever hear about him, stories of merchants and wanderers and people who come to worship him at his shrine. Offerings start spilling out the building, lining the street like hopeful, eager devotees.

There is no end to his reign.

Sukuna will continue to fight and murder and torment until there is nothing left.

Visits are short, bruises and bite marks lingering longer than his touch. You mark him up as best you can, keepsakes for the road, good luck charms while he fights the world.

Recently, you’ve started to come to think of him as an Oni, strong and powerful and deadly - not one of the brutish ogres but ancient guardians. You like to think he’s here to protect you, to keep you safe from the world that’s done you so wrong.

Once you’d tried to explain it, compared one of the intricate paintings to him and he’d grinned. Lopsided and thoroughly entertained.

“An Oni? And what are you then? My own Onryō?”

It’s almost romantic, the idea that you haunt him as much as he haunts you.

Almost, as long as you don’t think too much about the idea you might the reason he’s always gone.

X.

The rule of beasts leaves your bedside empty.

Sukuna ravages Japan. And just like you feared, you are left haunting your own halls.

When you stare at the statue that stares back at you, you think of the time you first met, when you offered him a peach, juices dripping from your hands. In a way, even all these years later, Sukuna tries to repay you for that offering. Now that you can afford it, you slice a peach each day, set it out by the door, like you’re trying to feed the rabid dogs that stalk the streets at night, hoping he will find it if he returns. If it’s still there the next morning, still untouched and Sukuna nowhere to be seen, you place it at the foot of the statue, offer it up to him in all the other ways you can, try to erect your own little shrine where only your offerings count.

By now, the shrine at the road is overrun with pilgrims who come to worship a king who’s never home.

Sukuna repays you in raw meat. He repays you in dangling heads and claimed weapons. In yet warm bodies he killed in your name, kanji edged into the side of his blade.

All your life you’ve been weak for him. And when he offers you the dead, you accept them with a smile, with a hand over his chest and a mass grave of body parts in your backyard. You don’t tell him that you let the bodies be burned the moment he leaves again. Don’t tell him that the stench of rot makes your stomach twist, that the flies have you on edge, that all the death he causes has no home in your halls.

May he wage war in all of Japan, as long as your place stays clean of it.

All you ever wanted was peace. Safety. Him.

So when he returns, a slice of peach between his fingers, freshly washed and barely dressed, you get to see all the scars that have marked his body, cruel and vicious, in all the places only you should ever reach. Only your nails should ever draw along, only your lips should ever touch.

He stops in the door, a set of arms crossed in front of his chest, another at his hip and the door frame, watching you with unguarded eyes.

The flickering light makes the scars look even worse, gashes that slice up his body as if he fell victim to his own cursed technique. You hate the sight of it, a frown apparent on your face as Sukuna clicks his tongue, already shifting into something harder, unapproachable.

“Thrilling to be greeted with disgust on your face, woman.”

You’re quick to school back your expression, to raise your hands to defend yourself.

“You’re hurt,” you sign and point an accusing finger towards him.

He barks in your face, pushing away from the door to step into the room, the pavilion suddenly very small for his presence alone.

“I’m a victor, I just like to collect memories of every fight.”

“Reckless,” you chastise and he bares his teeth at you, something that doesn’t quiet resemble a grin.

“Don’t project your own weakness onto me.”

It hits like a slap, hurts like one too. Your anger flares instantly, blinding and blistering.

You notice a routine in these encounters. He returns and if both of you are unlucky enough, you won’t be asleep and he won’t be exhausted and a fight will always surge.

You call him reckless and he calls you weak.

In some sense you both truly are.

He’s starving on a hunger he will never be able to still, thoughtlessly seeking out fight after fight. And you, you are weak, in every sense of his definition, in every way he considers inferior. You are no sorcerer, you are voiceless and small and people have used and taken from you ever since you were a child.

You insult him with every gesture you can.

He waves you off instead, not even worth his anger, turns away and you turn silent once more, silenced by his choice of ignoring you, of turning his back, of looking away. So you haul the next best thing.

Your blanket flutters uselessly through the air, falling to the ground not far from you.

Sukuna laughs.

And the next thing you throw is a vase, one of the pretty ones, with paint beneath the green glaze, gifted by an unnamed follower of his and handed to you because you liked it. Not anymore. Not in this moment. Not enough to refrain.

It hits his back, right between his shoulder blades and shatters on impact. The sound is an ugly one, something that rings in your ears as the shards fall like frozen raindrops. Some are stuck in his skin where the edges brim now red.

It’s the only way you can scream “Look at me!”.

Sukuna does, turns with a snarl on his lips and a rush towards you that leaves you frozen. In a heartbeat he’s there, crowding you, your back pressed against the fragile wood paneling as he corners you with all his arms, face to face, nose to nose.

“There you go, all my attention, spit out what you have to say or leave me be.”

It’s not fear that makes you tremble, but rage. Anger. Hopelessness at the unfair prospects. At the inevitable outcome.

“You will die!”

“I’ll die when I’m done. By my own choice. Have you so little trust in me?”

You think of all the people he’s bested, of all the blood he’s spilled, all the body parts in your backyard, burned like your farm, hidden beneath shallow layers of dirt. You think of wisteria sigils and an ancient, dead tree.

“People are coming for you - me. They will find a way to stop you.”

Your anger is a bad outlet. A shallow one. The fire is bright but dies just as quickly as it surged and you’re all of his definitions of weak when you feel the tears brim in your eyes, cling to your lashes.

His anger is a bottomless pit. A well he’s drawn from all his life. Sometimes you wonder if it leads right down to Yomi, where he draws all the violence, all the corruption from.

“They worship me!” he screams in your face and you can feel the spittle hit your skin, the heat of his anger as it washes over your face.

“They don’t know you. All my life I’ve fought so you could keep yours and this is your thanks?”

Silly, you think, how in the end, you both fight for the same cause. You fear for his life, if he continues fighting. He fears for yours if he stops.

Your hands sink to your side where you dig your nails into your palms until it stings. What use is there to argue when you’re the cause for his vigor, his obsession, his inability to stop.

Sukuna seizes the opportunity, a verbal finishing blow, beating you down in all the ways he can without laying a hand on you.

“You will be the death of me, woman!”

Your greatest fear taken shape, taken sound, drowning out the world. He claims you as his cause and in that, blames you for his failure that will ultimately come.

“I only ever wanted peace for us. Safety. A place to call ours and your hand in mine.” You phrase it clumsily, hands shaking, signs sloppy as tears blur your vision and spill down your cheeks.

Sukuna coils back as if they’re toxic. He’s always been powerless against your tears, the sorrow that’s burrowed so deep, not even he could carve it out of your flesh.

From the moment he met you, you were the beginning of his end.

He invited defeat right into his corner when he took you in. He should have known from the beginning, should have known that day at the shrine or that day at the farm or that day in your room. Should have known the moment he ate like a dog from your outstretched palm, the moment he ripped out the throats of men to ensure your safety or the moment you tore the very walls down to be able to look at his face. Or at least the moment he started sleeping by the door, your soft breathing at his back, guarding you like the dog he was.

He should have known because back then, you were only children, lonely and scared in your own ways, desperate to live or at least stay alive. And in the end, he thinks, this relationship only ever had a chance because it was formed in childhood, a bond honed on shared misery and meals, knowing each other inside and out.

He’s fought your demons every step of the way and you’ve held out peach after peach for him, even if he was always willing to bite the hand that fed him.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you might be the only soft one he possesses.

And that realization is utterly grounding, humiliating in a way only intimate things can ever be.

Your eyes shine like the moon, glossy and shimmering, tears tracking down your face in small rivers. You’re flushed from anger, or fear, or something else entirely. He’s aways been bad at this, reading your emotions, knowing what you’re thinking.

“Have I not given you all of that and more?” he hears himself ask and sees himself reflected in the black of your eyes, a halo of moonlight around him. A demon, a monster, a beast. He looks as ruinous as he feels ruined.

Your shoulders sag.

“I never needed any of this-“ you gesture, point at the pavilion and the estate beyond it. At the garden with the tree and the pond and the statue at your back.

All his life he’s fought for you, gave you anything you could need to learn you never really wanted it. No estate, no garden, no jewelry and layered gowns. You only ever wanted him - his presence.

Anger is the only defense mechanism he’s ever had, brutality the only shield he’s ever wielded.

So he shoves you and all his shortcomings away, pushes so hard at your shoulders that the wood behind you splinters, the paper rips and you tumble out into the cold afternoon sun, floorboards creaking beneath your weight as you loose balance and land in a heap of silk and tears on the veranda.

You find no sounds and no words and no signs to tell him of your pain, your misery, your fear. The sun is bright but cold, the shadows of tree and statue framing your form like some imaginary walls and as Sukuna stands before you - tall, broad, powerful - engulfed by the light that spills through the broken wall, you see him as all others must. Untouchable. Terrifying.

He’s showing you all you need to see to know he’s angry with the world. Nothing ever helped when he was angry like that.

And this time you are cause and reason for his wrath and fear dries your mouth, settles like dust along your windpipe. What really stops him from leaving you behind? For decades he’s outgrown, outpaced you. Somehow, he only now seems to realize.

So before he can discard you, you discard him. Panic makes you irrational. The rage of a prey animal fighting for it’s life.

“Go away!” you scream in all the ways you can, angry and furious and desperate and scared, with hands that shake and eyes that say everything you cannot.

Sukuna halts, stops approaching, only stares and so you sit and watch his tattoos and scars shift over his skin as your words sink in. They are blurry from your tears, dance across his body like shadows. Even now, even in his anger, he’s beautiful.

Another push to the wall that still stands, wood groaning under the punch before he turns and stalks away and you know he will leave, will abandon you again because for the first time in your life, you told him so. Men like Sukuna can only ever calm themselves with distance and blood. So much blood.

There’s still pottery shards stuck to his back, like cut wings they protrude from his skin, thin trails of blood running down to the dimples at his back. He still has claws, still is able to bring ruin but you might just be the only rodent that ever had the chance to fight back a black kite.

Others would call it an achievement.

Why do you feel so hopeless when he steps out of sight, a trail of blood following out the door.

XI.

He’s back sooner than expected. You were ready to endure and yearn for months, the blood cleaned from the floorboards, the remaining shards of the vase laid out on a plate before his statue like it’s your attempt to offer back his wings, feather by feather.

To heal what you broke, to return what you’ve taken.

You have made not a single attempt to fix the wall. With the paper and wood now gone, your room is freezing. Early winter has yet to see snow, but there’s no warmth to find you, either. You’re trapped beneath your blankets, futon so dented that you feel like you’re laying right on the tatami. You haven’t gotten up since you offered back the fragments of your anger, chased every servant and maid away with vicious words and a blade in your hand.

It’s one of his, usually mounted to the wall in one of the greater halls, now halfway hidden beneath your bedside. The hilt is simple, the blade slightly curved. It’s the one he taught you to hold and wield and fight with all those years ago.

With his heavy footsteps echoing along the hallway that leads to your domain, you force yourself upright, body sluggish and stiff from the cold.

Your blankets pool in your lap, tomesode disheveled and reeking of the inability to move that’s befallen you the past days. You know he won’t care, won’t be bothered by your unkempt hair. If at all, he will be bothered by the fact that you’ve not touched the food you’ve been brought and the curses that most likely linger about.

You brush the fabric of your gown, run a hand through your hair and sweep a finger along the corners of your eyes and mouth.

The smile you give him when he steps through the door is an honest one, relief flooding you like the first warm rays of sun after a long winter.

Then everything stops.

It’s not Sukuna who stands in your space, but an unknown sorcerer, wisteria mon stitched to the lacing of his armor. Memories of a night in flames fill your vision as you scramble to your feet and pull the blade from beneath your futon. It clanks against the bamboo flooring as you try to drag it upwards, holding it out with shaking arms.

You have no idea how he got past the guards, the gates, the walls. Past even more guards, past your servants and maids, without a single sound reaching you. For a moment, you think of Uraume, somewhere at the eastern coast, holding their own in Sukuna’s name.

The sorcerer laughs, something cruel around their mouth and the bend of their brows as he steps into the room, corners you against your broken wall.

There must be more, you think. More who’ve infiltrated your estate and killed and ruined everything. Once again, the Fujiwara Clan takes from you.

But Uraume isn’t there to save you. Neither is Sukuna. There is your frightened heart and your quivering arms and the blade that dances before you in your trembling hands. It’s heavier than you remember. Still, you grit your teeth and threaten the man.

With the King of Curses as your teacher, you have to hold your ground. Long enough for someone to come and aid you. You have to.

So when the man before you laughs and there’s footsteps echoing through the garden at your back, through the corridors ahead of you, you snarl as best you can and take your stand.

It’s a quick fight, if a bloody one. Shortly after you take your first swing and slice one of the beautiful paintings in two, more people arrive. Fujiwara soldiers clad in lavender and black, with blades far bigger than yours and far steadier hands.

You channel everything you’ve learned over the years, think of Sukuna and Uraume as you hold your ground and strike down five of your attackers. You attribute it to luck, mostly. The blade catching between the folds of their armor, slicing through unguarded throats and wrists and armpits. They underestimate you. You surprise them.

And in the end, nobody comes to help you.

Eventually, your enemy tires of it’s game. Enough bodies have fallen, your own skin now burning with cuts and bruises, your gown sliced at the arm, your leg wobbling with some fierce, blurry pain.

He grins when he approaches you and when you swing at him, he blocks it effortlessly, no more strength in your arms, the blade uselessly clattering and skirting across the room.

You think of Sukuna, his blood-eyes and his anger. How easily he broke the wall. Eyes flicking towards your only other exit, you try to make a run for it. Knee jerking and pain shooting up your hip with each step you take, your skirts gathered in your sweaty hands.

Your pursuer is in no rush. He has to duck through the hole in your home, steps out onto the veranda with a laziness only the powerful can hold. You climb over the fence that separates you from your gardens, run through the neatly cut grass, the sandy paths. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be as you halt before the stone statue, Sukuna’s four eyes cold and unbothered as they watch your demise.

The last thing you ever did to him was chase him out the door. The last thing you ever did was done in anger, despair and fear. Sukuna will never know how sorry you are. You’ll never hold his face again, never feed him another peach, never love him in cold moonlight.

They catch you at the base of the statue, a sudden force in your back pushing you forward, head crashing into the cold stone where pain explodes white and blinding.

This is worse than the time on the road. Worse because it’s your home, the place you’re supposed to be safe.

When they hold you down, you kick and scratch and bite at them. But what’s the bite of a mouse against the talons of a bird of prey. You’re a rodent in your self-imposed prison, trapped by circumstance and destiny. Found food for predators like them.

Despite the pain and the ache in your heart, you manage to scratch him, long nails raking over his face and leaving lines of blood in their wake. He spits at you, slaps you in the face hard enough you see stars.

But the killing blow does not come. Instead, they bind your hands, gag you because you keep biting, tie your ankles together with enough pressure your feet grow numb in moments. You struggle through all of it, stare at them with all the hatred in your heart and make it an effort for them every step of the way.

One of the soldiers picks you up, knocks over the collected remnants of the vase and the platter with frost-covered peach slices, trampled beneath heavy boots. You watch their fuzzy skin break, soft flesh squished and coated with dirt.

When they drag you through your home towards the gates, you can only stare as the bodies pass you. The guards are all dead, blood leaking in puddles from their bodies, weapons discarded and broken.

When you find one of your most attentive maids, ignorant or unwilling to your stubborn isolation, tears finally spill. Her gown is torn, limbs angled strangely as her eyes stare blankly towards you. Even the red paint of her lips is smudged, dragged across her pale cheek like yet another smear of blood. You never bothered to learn her name. Now you’ll never be able to remember her properly.

The whole estate is a graveyard. Soon, your struggles die down and you’re left sobbing and hiccuping as you’re carried out the gates. They throw you over the back of a horse, limbs tingling or already numb.

“Sure it will work?” someone drawls, eyes squinting at you as you fight the nausea of hyperventilation.

“He’ll come for her. Now we just have to be patient.”

You’re sure your ribcage will crack right open, spill your lungs and heart and sorrow right onto the road below and you’ll be relieved of this horror, this terror in your heart.

They’ve realized what the two of you have only learned recently.

Sukuna will come for you. He will tear the whole world down for you, search every corner of Japan to get you back. All his life he’s done so.

A very small part of you hopes he’s angry enough to abandon you, to let the trap stay empty, let the mouse starve and move on to bigger, better prey.

You’re the only weak spot he’ll ever have and you have no choice but to let them use you.

XII.

Your prison is a temple in the middle of nowhere.

As you’ve learned over the travel with your attackers, the one who lead the attack is no other than one of the five Empty Generals of the Fujiwara Clan. You’re shell-shocked but not stupid. He’s a powerful sorcerer, clever and resourceful. His expectation of the upcoming fight is realistic, if clouded by his own idea that Sukuna would hold back because you are involved. You do not correct him. Do not tell them of your fight with his King of Curses, that the hole in your house was his doing, that he left in anger, wordless and blind.

They trap you in the main hall of the building, like an offering on the shrine, in rope and talisman. The paper tags cover the walls, the shrine itself, even your wrists as if you could cause any harm to them.

You’re not sure if they’re just careful or frightened.

Someone told them who you are. But they do not know the extend of you. You don’t give them the satisfaction of showing just how weak you are compared to your husband.

Your tears have long since dried, the cuts scabbed over, the bruises now dark and blurry, wandering beneath your skin like lazy jellyfish.

None of the people around you approach. Nobody dares to address you. Not that you could answer them - not that you would.

So you stare at the floor, intricate tatami and dust.

The temple is old, and there’s irony in it - that you first found him at the shrine and he’s now supposed to die in one.

A small part of you hopes Sukuna doesn’t care. That he won’t bite, won’t be lured into this trap set in the shape of your body.

A far bigger part begs for his presence. For his anger to flare so hot and blinding that the General and his goons will not know what hit them. You dream of his hands that always knew how to hold you together, think of his smile that drags one corner of his lip further up than the other. The soft curls in his hair after months on the road. The taste of iron and salt on his lips. The growl that makes his chest vibrate and your body tingle.

You try to tell yourself that both of you always knew it would end like this.

Either you will die here, starved to death or killed out of boredom because their target won’t come. Or Sukuna will level this temple, fight with tooth and nail and claws and anger until they will kill him. Before your inner eye, you see them stripping him limp by limp, laugh and joke at his expense while he spits and bites and fights until his heart gives out among blood and gore and your tears.

Time turns liminal.

The shrine holds no windows and with the candles always burning, the outer world is as distant as your hope.

When the first scream echoes through the building, your body has become a shell. By now, all that holds you up are the ropes, braided fibers having dug deep enough to draw blood and turned your wrists an ugly purple.

It’s a blood-curdling thing, one that starts already too high and ends too abruptly. You’ve learned what death sounds like and with the echo still lingering, you know he has come for you.

The guards that are with you glance at each other, then you. And you, you smile, overrun by relief - hope, making your painful heart flutter -, vision blurry with tears that spill heavy and hot, but you bare your teeth and smile because Sukuna has come for you. He has come to find you, safe you, hold you.

How could you ever think he would abandon you. The same boy that ate from your outstretched palm, the boy that killed for you, that hunted down your attackers, the boy that offered you severed heads and countless flowers.

Your tears taste almost sweet as you struggle once again against your bindings.

The guards hiss something, threaten you in hushed words that do not even reach you. All you can hear is the chaos unfold. More screams, the screech of weapons and beneath it all, the roar of his power, his energy - as distinctive and particular as his fingerprints.

Without thinking you start to scream. Shout as loud as you can, whatever noise you can make into the halls until it echoes like the dying cries of soldiers. You hope he will hear you, will know where to find you.

But it’s not him who finds you next, but a whole group of soldiers, lining each side of you, weapons raised, jaws tense with determination.

For a flickering moment, you fear they will be enough to kill him.

Then, the world around you shifts.

Black and ruinous it consumes these holy halls, skeletons sprouting from the ground like morbid weed. This is how you know he’s close.

You’ve never been inside his domain, never fell victim to the wreckage of it all. Panic consumes the group around you, someone coming close enough to pull you by the hair, set a blade against your throat.

The metal is cold, chases chills down your spine.

Despite the knowledge that he’ll come for you, fear reigns supreme.

It locks your body into a frozen state, where your heart hammers away as if it tries to leave you too, your lungs straining to catch up.

The first attack that slices through the air cuts two of the soldiers clean in half, severs the rope that holds up your right arm. None of them have time to scream as your hand uselessly falls to the ground, the continuous strain forcing it into a limp appendage that dangles at your side. The man behind you loosens his grip, just enough to let you make a split second decision.

Sukuna won’t be able to do what he has to while you’re in the way. They were right about that and you won’t let them find any proof of it.

So, with all the strength you have left in you, you push yourself up, throw your head back where it collides with the man’s nose, a crunch where bone breaks. It leaves a dull throb at the back of your head but you’re already on your feet, following the line of rope that still has you tied down, trying to get away from the main forces.

The General at your side blindly lunges at you but you duck, make yourself as small as possible while you hear another soldier drop with the whirring of another slash cutting through the room.

Your legs shake as you stumble over skulls and ribcages. Horns of deceased cattle poke against your legs, cutting through the first layers of your skin as you scratch past them. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think of the livestock he used to kill, the cows and bulls and sheep and chicken - anything to keep both of you fed.

Pressing yourself to the walls of the temple, where the surface is now sticky, dripping with blood, you try not to look at the carnage around you.

He’s come to save you, to bring you back to your blankets, to the red maple leafs and the peaches you get to slice each morning. He’ll hold you when this is over, will lick your tears away and love you in the moonlight, slow and fierce and devoted.

At your periphery, the General stares with fear in his eyes. You can see how he realizes that he’s already lost, that there’s no way he’ll stand, trapped in a domain as violent as this. But in that split-second he realizes his defeat, something else flashes across his face, skin pale, lips drawn into a thin line as his eyes skitter towards you.

With one rope around your wrist still tight, you have nowhere to run.

It pulls at you as you try to dart away, a force so vicious it rips at your shoulder, has you lose your balance as the bone cracks. The pain is immense, has you whimper and stare with teary eyes at the strange curve of your arm. You’ve seen it before, if only in enemies. You had no idea a dislocated shoulder was that agonizing.

When the General is upon you, there’s nowhere to go. He slashes at you, sword held high before he strikes you and you have nothing but your good arm to raise in defense.

It hurts, enough to make you scream again, but adrenaline makes you bear it, has you grit your teeth and kick at him. Far from strong, far from enough, but sufficient enough to have him halt for but a moment.

Behind him, at the other side of the room, beneath the torii that groans under skulls not previously there, Sukuna enters.

With shadow clinging to his form, he’s a curse taken shape. A demon in his own right. His name leaves your lips without a sound, you breathe it into the space between you and watch his face contort with something only you ever got to see.

Suspended in time, there’s nothing else but you and him. For a moment, all there is are his ruby eyes, scanning your body for injury and finding them. Relief floods you, hope and sorrow and utter love for the man who chose you every step of the way, no matter how difficult you made it for him.

His own face splits with a softness he’s only ever held for you, a devotion written in blood, a love covered in teeth marks and scratches.

Then he’s swarmed, rushed by all the warriors that previously entered, cursed energies running rampant as domains are cast, techniques revealed. For a long, lingering moment, the world shatters around you.

But among it all, Sukuna’s eyes are on you. You know all you need to do is hold out a bit longer, fight for him as he fights for you so you can make it to him he can make it to you.

So when he unleashes another rain of slashes, a slice through the air severs the other rope, nicks the General’s face, a part of his ear dropping to the ground as he howls.

Without hesitation, you run towards the safety of Sukuna.

You do not feel the blade until it’s too late.

It’s a frantic attack, uncontrolled, uncoordinated. You’re not sure where he’s meant to hit you, but the blade finds your midsection and pushes through until it comes out at the other side. For a heartbeat, you see it, protruding from your stomach like some metal thorn, coated red. Then, your own momentum pulls you away from the sword, pushes you further towards Sukuna because he’s the only safe space you’ve ever known.

You do not get to make it to him.

Blood soaks your gown. Dark and heavy it drags you to the ground and you only realize you’re on the floor when your head hits the straw. It’s not hard, doesn’t even intensify the dull ache that’s lingered there since you’ve fought your way out. You hear your heartbeat, loud and fast in your ears, like a rabbit it runs to catch up to you and for a moment, you can imagine it’s Sukuna’s footsteps, coming to aid you.

Something rings across your skull, rings in your ears, your body, the whole shrine. Something that tugs on you, tears at your arms and your legs, your chest and your very heart. You don’t realize he’s screaming until your eyes find him, world on a slant, a heap of bodies in his wake as he rushes for you.

You smile at him.

He’s come for you. You’re safe.

XIII.

Sukuna is too late. The distance between you and him insurmountable as you’re cut down. Slaughtered like an animal right before his very eyes.

The sound that tears from his chest is one he’s never heard himself make before, something raw enough to crack his very bones. As they come to fight him, he cannot look away from you, dropped to the ground in a heap of red silk and blood. He’s not sure where one starts and the other ends.

So, Sukuna slices and cleaves until there’s only his scream that echoes, his scream that rattles the very shrine as he sinks to the ground beside you.

You know it’s him before you can make sense of it. Strong hands that lift and pull you close, that hold your very body together as it falls and fails all around you.

When you manage to lift your eyes from the bare chest that’s warm and familiar, the smell of him all around you, Sukuna looks devastating.

You’ve never quiet seen him like this - raw and vulnerable, soft in all ways he’s never been. Tender like a bruise as he cradles you.

You sigh in his hold, feel waves of heat wash over you as your body convulses with shudders you can’t place. Here, in his arms, you’re safe.

The mats are drenched with your blood, it bubbles between the straw as he moves and can’t find it in him to be gentle.

Your body is a weak thing, always has been, so much smaller than his, always ever meant to love and give and trust him. When he cradles your form, lifts you off the floor and into his own arms, you make a strange sound, half sigh and half hiss, pain dulling your eyes.

He knows he’s too late when the blood pools in your lap in the span of a few staggering heartbeats. Still, Sukuna tries to stem the bleeding, stop it with a hand pressed to your abdomen as he’d done so many times before, if only for other reasons. Now, there’s warmth covering his hand, a spreading splodge of blood dying the fabric of your dress even darker.

You think you hear your heart break as you regard him. Or maybe it’s his as his palm presses against you. Not sure, nothing sure as you watch his haunted eyes, blurry red as he struggles against your wounds.

His last words were cruel to you, your last act was to send him away.

All you want to do now is kiss the sorrow from his face, hold him as close as he will let you. You want to apologize for not believing in him. You want to ensure he knows you always loved him. Still do. Always will.

Your eyes flutter, search for him in a feverish, unfocused way, pupils blown so wide there’s nothing else left to stare at. Tears clump your lashes together, lips pale as you open your mouth without making a sound.

“They don’t get to take you. You’re mine,” he says, uselessly and you, you have the nerve to smile at him.

Other times, he would shake you, call you names but now it breaks him.

Your hands aren’t yours. Neither are your arms. Or any part of your body beside your stutter-heart that feels like an abrasion inside your very chest.

Lifting your hands doesn’t fail by lack of trying, but your dislocated shoulder leaves one limb discarded and dragging on the ground, the other is crushed between his body and yours, hand uselessly curved across your chest.

You try to will your fingers to move, to sign something, anything. To show him you’re trying to be sorry.

But your body fails you, again and again, it grows cold and weaker with each heartbeat, vision swimming as you struggle to keep him in your sight.

He’s always believed the world was meant to break for him, meant for him to tear it apart - a gift of the gods or the world or just pure chance. He’d reveled in it, in the power to take and to ruin. But now, here, with you in his arms and your ribcage fluttering against his chest like a frightened bird, he wishes for nothing more than to be able to mend something. To stitch your skin back together, to heal whatever the blade has cut inside you, collect the blood that’s leaving you and pouring it right back into your veins.

Never in his life has he needed to heal something, to put things back together because the only one who ever broke something was him. Now, he quietly begs for it, even attempts to do just that, pouring cursed energy into your form as if it could fix what was broken. Nothing happens beside a low groan on your part, so frail he barely hears it.

There’s a pit in your stomach, a pulsing force pressing forward, only hemmed by his strong hand.

You can feel your life leaking out of you, realize, with absurd clarity when everything else turns blurry and vague, that you’re dying.

Fear spikes.

It has your body tremble in his hold, a finger twitching but not by your will.

Panic surges like your blood and you’re consumed by the thoughts and realization of not being able to share your thoughts. He’ll never know you’re sorry. Never know you love him, with all you have you love him. You’re his.

He cannot speak as he cradles you closer, his hand against your wound and your face pressed against his chest. His heart hammers for the two of you, loud and strong and relentless and he wishes it would work like this. That something for once was that simple or just enough.

But nothing ever is in this world. He’s known it since he was a child. Violence will only ever be answered with violence and death always begets death. The weak do not survive, only the strong do and they only ever do so with brutality. All his life Sukuna has fought for his place in this world. He’d thought keeping you in his shadow was enough.

Safely tugged away in a corner of his dominion, with anything you could ever ask for, he’d considered you untouchable. Sukuna should have learned from the farm, should have learned from the whispers and the tales.

I love you, you want to say.

I’m so sorry I send you away. I’m sorry I got angry. I’m sorry.

Nothing of this is your fault. You did what you could and I was too weak to keep up with you.

You taught me to fight and to live and to love.

Stayed when nobody else did.

Promise me this won’t break you. Promise me to keep Uraume safe.

I’m yours. I’ll always be yours.

Some darker part of you, the one with his edges and his claws, thirsts for revenge.

Kill them in my name or at least in my memory. Make them pay for what they took from us. For the farm and the maple tree, the peaches and all the mice they have killed before, plug the feathers from each black kite you find until all the mice are yours.

Above you, Sukuna sobs.

He’s never cried before. It’s an offensive feeling, water leaking from his eyes, nose all congested and throat so tight he can’t speak anymore. Sukuna tries to breathe through it, hates how you get all blurry and dull when the tears cloud his vision. Even with four arms, he has no hand to spare to wipe them away.

He can see your hands tremble, knows you well enough to tell you want to talk to him, hates to realize you’re too weak to lift even a finger.

All this life of shared silence, of deft hands and a language only the two of you speak - suddenly, you’re rendered voiceless despite it all.

At the corner of your vision, darkness lurks. Like a predator it creeps closer, dulls your senses until even the pressure of his hands on your body become something muted and faint. Your eyes wander along the curve of his brows, along his sharp cheekbones to a mouth you never tire of kissing. There’s tension in his jaw, making the muscles at his chin twitch. A vein pulses at his throat, right beside the ink that slithers like a snake with each breath he takes.

His eyes are the color of ruby. Of blood and the leafs on your favorite tree. The color of love.

Death takes you quietly.

All the things you wanted to say stay stuck in your throat, hidden by cold hands.

All the things he wanted to tell you fall on deaf ears when he finally finds his voice again, choked by dread.

“I’m not angry at you. I never could be, not for long. I just needed some time, some air, some space. I didn’t mean for it to take so long. I only ever tried to keep you safe.”

He recognizes the look in your eyes, that dull stare that sees nothing at all.

Even in death, you look frightened.

“Don’t leave me here,” he dares you, spits the words in your face as if their viciousness could reach you, a command you can’t ignore, not even in death.

But your body is still, that rodent-heart of yours no longer hammering against your ribs. In stillness, in death, you look even smaller in his arms that are too large, his hands that are too brutal.

He almost drops you with the shock of it.

He’d always thought you’d be his demise, his downfall, the one who would eventually usher in his own death. He never thought it would be him.

He’d called you the death of him and he’d been yours without even realizing.

Girls like you are not meant to fall in love with beasts like him.

Haunted by your very own Oni.

Sukuna stares at the puddle of blood in your lap, where it drips, drips, drips from your silk gown into the ground, where his hand is covered in our gore, shining in the light of the flickering candles.

He’d called you his Onryō in jest. Now he begs for you to return to him. Even as a ghost, even as a demon.

“You’re mine. You’re mine and I’m yours. So come back to me,” he asks of you, shakes you gently in his arms where your body jostles around, head wobbling before it falls to the side, rest against his chest as if you would only take a quick nap.

“Haunt me, torment me, anything! Come back to me.”

There’s no breath ghosting against his chest, nothing to warm your body as you lay there, limp and lifeless.

“You were supposed to be the death of me!”

XIV.

The rivers of Japan run red.

The Land of the Rising Sun dies a slow death. An agonizing one.

A blood moon each night as the body toll rises.

You do haunt him, in dreams. There, you can speak and you beg him to join you. You feed him peaches and you hand him flowers. He watches you sing beneath a red moon and always wakes, before he can lay a hand against your skin.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you were the only soft one he possessed. And without you, there’s nothing holding him back. Nothing on his side, at least. Only that eventually, gradually, there’s no more people to kill. No sorcerers who challenge him, no grand clans left standing who could attempt to oppose him.

It’s a lonely place, the top of the world, the top of the food chain.

All the mice and all the black kites are gone and he can feel himself starving, on boredom and loneliness. All that keeps him running is utter hatred for the world and that’s what eats him alive.

Kenjaku finds him on a gloomy day.

Voice soft and words eager - he knows how to speak to him. Knows what to say to make him listen, to make him hesitate with killing just long enough to hear him out.

And the proposition is a good one.

Revenge never truly ends - not for Sukuna, not after you.

He thinks he might be able to join you, somewhere, wherever you are - and return when the world has healed the wounds of his doing. He’s not convinced it ever will. The Fujiwara Clan is gone, so are all the Empty Generals and the Troops in the name of the Sun and the Moon and the Stars and whatever else they threw at him.

He can come back, avenge you as long as he wants, over and over, brutalize the world that has brutalized him.

Thunder rolls in the distance when Sukuna lays down his weapons.

Forgiveness is for kinder, wiser men than him.

He’s your Oni. A monster.

A beast.

And the rule of beasts demands violence.

And as Kenjaku smiles and settles before him, Sukuna realizes that you truly were the beginning of his end.

Only you could have this impact. To be haunted by you, even in his own death. To chase you, even after life.

Only you could have ruined him so thoroughly.

He was aware that he’d really fucked things up with you in high school - mainly because he hadn’t quite comprehended the idea that someone else would stake a claim on you before he could find the chance to do so himself. 

In his mind, his affection for you had been obvious, and yet, Ryu still decided to get in the way. 

He couldn’t really blame you for basking in the attention that Ryu provided you with back then - not when he’d overheard you explain your reasoning to your friends. You hadn’t believed that Sukuna was serious, had thought that he was just playing with your heart with the intention of one day breaking it. 

Like he’d ever do such a thing. 

So you’d settled for the next best thing, someone who was clear about their intentions, someone who had offered you more than noncommittal flirting. And while Sukuna understood that, he was by no means willing to sit idly by and let Ryu have you. 

He’d spent weeks planning it out - picking the perfect night, the perfect weapon, the perfect words to say as Ryu bled out on the floor. He’d pictured himself as the caring friend, a shoulder to cry on when you discovered your boyfriend laying dead in the garage. 

What actually transpired that night wasn’t really what he’d planned. 

He’d killed Ryu just as he’d intended to, but after he’d cleaned himself up and gone to find you amongst all the bodies at that party, he discovered you in a state of total despair. Apparently your boyfriend, the boyfriend that was lying dead in the garage, had cheated on you. 

With Yorozu no less. 

Your distressed state changed things. You were already clinging to him, more malleable than he was used to you being, clearly a little drunk and sobbing about how you weren’t good enough. It wasn’t an opportunity that he could pass up, forgetting the murder he’d committed in favor of placating you, purring all the right words in your ear until you were putty in his hands. 

He had you in that bathroom without a single thought to how it might complicate the discovery that would be coming your way later in the night. It was short-sighted, he understood that now - a little more patience could’ve earned him four years of bliss with you.

Instead, he had to suffer you avoiding him like the plague all because of your misplaced guilt. If only you could understand that you didn’t technically cheat on your boyfriend, since he was already dead by the time Sukuna sunk into you. 

Not that he could ever tell you that. 

He’d killed Yorozu for the part that she played in the whole mess. If she hadn't thrown a spanner in the works, Sukuna’s plan would’ve played out just as he’d intended, and you wouldn’t be so anxious and cautious around him like you were now. That woman always seemed to find a way to make Sukuna’s life difficult, and he didn’t want to risk any more hiccups when it came to you. 

Besides, he’d seen the way Yorozu spoke to you, you’d probably be happy if she simply disappeared from the world. He did you a favour. The same was true of Ryu’s death - you deserved better than someone who would cheat on you. Sukuna would worship the very ground that you walked on - why couldn’t you understand that already?

But as frustrating as it was, he knew that he just needed to be patient. 

Now that you were back in town he wasn’t going to pass up his chance. Even through all your guilt and your weak protests about some boyfriend back in the city, there was nothing that would stand in his way this time. 

You were always meant to be his, and he knew that you wanted it just as much as he did - you just weren’t quite ready to admit to it yet. But that was okay, Sukuna was more than happy to help nudge you in the right direction. 

First and foremost, he needed to make sure that something was done about that boyfriend of yours or he’d get nowhere - not now you were so touchy about the idea of cheating. 

The day after Toji’s party, Sukuna found himself at the door of the office trailer on the construction site, knocking on it softly and waiting until he heard your soft voice calling out for him to enter. 

It was fortunate that he had such a clear line of access to you, able to apologise face to face rather than waiting for things to be on your terms. He was sure that you’d chalked it up to pure luck that he happened to work for your father, but there was no luck involved - he’d chosen that job out of desperation, hoping that it might one day open an avenue to you.

He just hadn’t anticipated how excellent an avenue that would be.

Likewise, he imagined that it looked like pure chance that he’d cut his hand on some glass the day before, happening to run into you in some kind of meet cute scenario that neither of you could’ve foreseen. Unfortunately, that was all artificial too. Once he’d found out that you were working in the office, he’d cut across his palm with a knife to give himself a reason to go in there and see you. 

It had all worked out great, considering how tenderly you’d held his hand in yours, patching him up like some kind of cute little nurse. 

He’d almost thought things would be easy after that. He’d heard the tremor in your voice, seen the flush on your cheeks, and had figured that you’d succumb to him immediately. But the way you’d reacted at Toji’s party had really put a damper on things. 

Hitting him with an outright rejection all because of fucking Ryu and this new guy was not what he’d been anticipating.

He bet that those damn friends of yours had something to do with it. Yuki had always hated him, taking steps to make sure that he got nowhere near you as long as she was around. He was itching to ensure that she meet the same fate as Ryu, but he was smarter than that - he couldn’t go killing people that you knew indiscriminately or you’d start to suspect something.

Unless Yuki became an insurmountable barrier to the success of your relationship he’d let her live. 

Besides, it was probably better that he avoid putting you in a position where you’d become overwhelmed with grief and trauma - that just wasn’t conducive to a healthy relationship. 

Dealing with your emotional state after Ryu’s death was hard enough as it was. 

Pushing his way into the trailer, he picked up on the way your eyes widened in surprise for a second before you took control over your expression. You looked cute, propped up on a comfy swivel chair, wearing some oversized baggy hoodie that he wished was his. The idea of you wearing his clothes sent him into overdrive. 

There were dark shadows under your eyes, unsurprising considering how late it was by the time you ditched him in the garden the night before. 

“Cut yourself on some more glass?” You asked cautiously. 

He wasn’t quite sure if you knew that he’d been lying about the nature of yesterday’s incident. He didn’t think so - you’d always struck him as mostly naive, opting to see the good in people and believe that they were generally telling the truth. It was a feature that he admired about you, a worldview that differed so significantly to his cynical mindset. 

“Not yet. Maybe later though.” 

He wasn’t going to shut down the opportunity to have you bandage him up again if he could get away with it. 

You pursed your lips. “Why are you here then?” 

“I wanted to apologise.” He had to bite down on his lip a little to stop himself from grinning at the way that your eyes widened in shock, clearly not expecting him to say anything akin to that. To really sell his words, he ran a hand through his hair, almost bashfully, acting all embarrassed to be showing up and saying such things. 

He wasn’t embarrassed - he wasn’t even really sorry, but you didn’t need to know that. 

“You were right, what we did that night was wrong. It shouldn’t have happened, not like that at least. Ryu deserved more respect - I just liked- like you so much, and I got carried away, both then and last night. Sorry.” 

The majority of what he was saying was a lie, outside of the part where he said that he liked you. It was what you wanted to hear though - if he was going to disarm you he had to placate you first, tell you all the sweet things that would bring him back into your good graces. He certainly couldn’t go around telling you the truth, which was that he had no interest in showing Ryu any respect - before or after his death. 

In fact, knowing that Ryu was dead in that garage, picked apart by Sukuna’s own hands, had probably turned him on even more than usual on that fateful night. 

Maybe one day you’d be receptive to hearing such a thing, after he’d corrected certain flaws in your manner of thinking, but that was a long way off. He needed to take it one step at a time and eventually he’d get everything he’d ever wanted. 

“Oh. Uh- thanks, I appreciate that.” 

You were fidgeting with your hands, eyes darting about as if you were too nervous to look at him properly. It was annoying, because he’d spent so much time in high school working on your relationship, building your confidence up until you finally slept with him. Now here you were back at square one, avoiding eye contact with him just like you had when you’d first met. 

“We should start over,” he said, placing a hand down on your desk, encouraging you to acknowledge him. “Let me take you to lunch today.” 

“I don’t know-” 

“As friends. I’ll pay, as an apology for last night.” 

You glanced up at him then, an almost defensive look in your pretty eyes. He’d come on too strongly yesterday and it had really put your guard up around him. It was his own fault - he should’ve taken a more lowkey approach, but knowing you were back in town after years apart had him acting a bit crazy. 

“Just as friends?” You confirmed, the words coming out slow. 

“Yeah. I’ll get you those pancakes that you like at Doug’s and you can tell me all about that little boyfriend of yours.” 

—

Kashimo was mind-numbingly boring. 

You’d been talking about your boyfriend, if he could even be called that, for about five minutes now, and there wasn’t a single thing about him that convinced Sukuna he was even remotely deserving of your time. 

Sitting across from you in a comfy booth at the back of the diner just felt right, and from the way that you were speaking about Kashimo, he couldn’t really imagine that man is his position right now, gazing at you affectionately as you scoffed down your pancakes. There was no way your new boyfriend would appreciate it, appreciate you, in the way that Sukuna did. 

The only reason that he hadn’t voiced that opinion aloud was because he wanted you to keep talking. This was the most he’d heard you speak in a long time without your tone affected by an edge of caution, and he was enjoying hearing the angelic timbre of your voice - even if he was less than moved by the content itself.

From what he could figure, you weren’t really that interested in Kashimo yourself. He’d heard you speak more excitedly about Ryu than you currently were about this university fling of yours. It all sounded very safe and nice - the usual story of meeting in some elective class, with him asking you out on a couple of dates, which you of course said yes to because you’d never been very good at saying no. 

It wasn’t like things got more exciting from there. He took you on the classic dates to independent coffee shops and artsy cinemas, trying to impress you and trick you into believing that he was some deep, free thinker - as if every other university boy wasn’t doing the exact same thing. 

There was no passion in your voice, nothing that moved Sukuna to believe that Kashimo was a genuine threat in the way Ryu had been. As far as he could tell, you were only dragging the whole thing out because it was comfortable, and perhaps out of fear of having to turn the boy down. 

Sad really, how unwilling you were to chase after your own happiness when it was right there in front of you - content to settle for mediocrity just to make some irrelevant person happy. That was another trait of yours that he desperately needed to correct one day. 

“So, what do you actually like about him?” Sukuna asked, interrupting your spiel about some music charity that Kashimo was currently working for.

He’d noticed that you were talking a lot about Kashimo’s jobs and hobbies, and saying very little about your actual relationship. Your descriptions of Kashimo sounded more like you were reading off a wikipedia page rather than dating the guy.

You blinked a couple of times, as if caught off guard by his question. “Oh- uh- well, he’s really nice. Like, such a genuinely kind person.” 

Sukuna frowned. “Nice? Come on, that’s the first thing you thought of? There’s gotta be something more than that, right? Is he good in bed or something?”

“I’m not gonna talk about that,” you said defensively, cheeks warming. To Sukuna, that response was a pretty conclusive no - if he was something special then you’d probably be willing to discuss it. “I mean, I admire how creative he is. He’s the lead singer in a band and he’s really good. Plus I like how dedicated he is to his work and stuff…”

It wasn’t convincing, he was pretty sure that you weren’t even that convinced. You still hadn’t mentioned anything about how he made you feel, or the things he did for you. Everything just felt impersonal.

“Right. So are you guys gonna get serious then?” He asked, enjoying the way that you grew noticeably frazzled, taking a long sip from your cup of coffee to buy yourself some time before responding. 

“I don’t know. We live so far apart now, and he’s always busy with stuff, we’re not even uh- super official so, yeah… I don’t know.” 

Sukuna grinned, glad that you’d finally come clean about the status of your relationship, or perhaps situationship, just as he’d suspected it to be from the start. That made things simpler, how hard would it be to break you up with someone that wasn’t even really your boyfriend? 

“It kinda sounds like he’s stringing you along.” 

You giggled softly and shook your head. “More like I’m stringing him along. He asked me to move in with him when I left town but- yeah, I don’t know. After everything with Ryu, and some other stuff, I just don’t feel like I’m ready for something that serious.” 

Sukuna hummed. He suspected that the ‘other stuff’ that you referred to had something to do with him. It wasn’t like you were doing a good job of hiding your desire for him, putting up something of a fight whenever he’d approach you but ultimately faltering under the smallest amount of pressure. He knew that you still wanted him, held back only by your own morals and guilt. 

There was a reason that you still agreed to go out to lunch with him, and it wasn’t really because you just wanted to be friends. You were no better at resisting him than he was at resisting you - you were just better at pretending. 

“That’s fair enough. It’s smart to take some time to think about what you want, no point rushing into anything.” 

Unless you were rushing into his arms, of course. 

“Exactly,” you said with a smile, turning your focus back to the plate in front of you and scooping up the final few mouthfuls of pancake, smearing syrup over the corner of your mouth in the process.

Sukuna couldn’t help but think how sweet you looked. He’d love to lean over the table and lick the mess from your face, taste the sugariness of the syrup paired with your enticing lip gloss. Though he assumed you probably wouldn’t appreciate such an action, not right now, at least. Instead, he pointed to the corner of his own lips, alerting you to the presence of the sticky substance. 

Your tongue darted out to clean it, failing miserably. Rather than allowing you a second attempt, Sukuna picked up his napkin and reached over to you, softly dabbing up the liquid. You froze beneath his touch, watching him cautiously, your shoulders only relaxing when he pulled back without further incident. 

“There you go,” he said with a smile.

“Thanks.” It was a shy, bashful response, leaving your cheeks ever so slightly flushed. A heavy silence hung in the air between you for a few seconds before Sukuna decided to fill it with more of his bullshit apology, now that you were done with all the Kashimo talk. 

“I really am sorry, you know. For what happened that night with Ryu, and for coming on too strong lately. I get that you have a boyfriend, and still feel guilty about what we did. I respect that you can’t just move on and pretend like nothing happened.” 

You offered him a small smile, nodding along at his apology. “It was just- that was the worst night of my life, you know? I can’t look at you and not think about it.” 

“I know, I get it.” 

“Maybe one day, maybe after a bit more time, but right now I still find it hard to live with myself.” 

The sad little smile marring your pretty face didn’t sit well with him. You were such a good, kind person, always worrying about how your actions affected others. It wasn’t like you were responsible for Ryu’s death - no one was, with the exception of Sukuna alone. Besides, Ryu had cheated on you first, you deserved to get your own back for that. 

“I’m not saying this just to get my way, but you know that it wasn’t your fault, right?” 

“I know that, I just-” 

“I get that you can’t really see it, I just wish that a horrible coincidence wasn’t the thing that stopped…this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, mirroring the sad nature of your smile. 

“Me too.” He barely heard you, your voice a whisper. He watched the way your fingers twitched nervously, as if contemplating whether you should be having this conversation with him at all. 

“To be honest, I’m just still kind of angry with myself. I wish I’d told you how I felt before Ryu did. Or at least, I wish we hadn’t had sex that night, maybe that way I wouldn’t be tainted for you? I know you’re with Kashimo now, and I’ll respect that, but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t wish we could be together.” 

He was putting on his best ‘I’m so sad and I’m so sorry’ face and hoping that you’d eat it up. You were the type of girl who had infinite empathy for those around her, the kind of girl who would cry when an animal died in a movie. He was sure that you’d be easily moved by his sorrowful expression. 

“Sometimes I wish that too,” you said honestly, eyes flitting between him and the table. “Everything just ended up getting too fucked up - maybe we just weren’t meant to be.” 

“Maybe,” he hummed in agreement, despite his brain screaming about how you were dead wrong on that front. “But who knows what life holds. I think that if we were meant to be, one day we’ll find a way to each other. Just like how we stumbled across each other again working for your dad, nothing is certain.” 

Boldly, he reached out across the table, his fingers grazing the back of your hand. You didn’t pull away, eyes dropping down to his fingers but making no further acknowledgement of the action as you raised your head once more, staring evenly back at him. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” 

He wished he could read your mind, eager to pick apart what you were thinking. Were you moved by his desire to be with you? How much pushing would it take for you to give in? You’d literally said that sometimes you wished you were with him too, how hard would it be to get you to take the leap? 

Once again the silence felt heavy, gazes focussed on each other. You were fixing him with an odd sort of look, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get the words out. He wondered if there was a part of you calculating what would happen if you were to throw caution to the wind and give him what he wanted.

He certainly hoped so. 

But you seemed to realise your mistake before you could quite get there, swiftly scrambling to fill the silence, pulling your hand away gently and turning the conversation back around to Kashimo, as if that would obscure your flustered reaction to his touch. “My- my boyfriend is coming to visit in a few weeks.” 

Sukuna’s gaze darkened in annoyance for half a second, frustrated to be shut out again, only to quickly conceal it. He needed to stop viewing this as a short term game - if he started getting angry that you weren’t being more receptive more quickly, he’d be at risk of getting shut out completely. He couldn’t act like some needy incel, he needed to act like your genuine friend and wait until the perfect opportunity arose to pull you to his side. 

Besides, Kashimo’s presence could be a good thing - he could use it as an opportunity to sabotage your relationship, to make that man look bad and make himself look good. If push came to shove, he could use it as an opportunity to deal with Kashimo in the same manner that he dealt with Ryu. 

“Oh yeah? You should introduce us.” He offered, as if he hadn’t been telling you how much he wanted to be with you just moments prior. 

You bit down on your lip, folding your hands carefully beneath the table, firmly out of his reach, as if recovering from the spell you’d temporarily been under. “I- um- don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 

“Aw, come on.” He leaned forward, propping his chin up on his hand. “We’re starting fresh, remember? I won’t mention any shit from the past, we’re just friends. I can be perfectly civil with him, just like I always was with Ryu.” 

That wasn’t a lie - he’d be outwardly friendly and he wouldn’t outright mention your past entanglements because it wouldn’t serve him well to do so. 

Should you let him meet Kashimo? Probably not, because he was certainly going to venture out of his way to twist the situation in his favour, but you’d absolutely never know that. You’d always been far too trusting. 

As far as you’d see any interaction between them, Sukuna would be the perfect friend, displaying kindness and interest with absolutely no ulterior motives at all. He’d been good at acting that way with Ryu, and he was certain he’d find Kashimo just as easy. 

People really weren’t all that complex. 

“He’s coming just in time for the reunion, so you’ll probably see him anyway,” you said with resignation, as if you’d spent the previous few seconds considering all the ways that the meeting could fall apart. 

Sukuna practically beamed. “Great. Can’t wait to meet him.” 

—

In the weeks leading up to Kashimo’s visit, Sukuna made sure to utilise his time to the fullest extent, preparing for what he knew would be his best shot at effectively drawing you to his side. 

Part one of his plan went off without a hitch, as it involved maximising the time spent with you over those weeks. That had been pretty easy considering your shared employment - he’d eat lunch with you every day without fail, be it in your office trailer or out at Doug’s. At first you’d shown something of a reluctance towards those daily meetings, but it only took around a week for you to come around. 

You’d always been at least a little fickle where he was involved - he just needed to push the tiniest amount for you to be all pliable, even if you desperately wanted to pretend that wasn’t the case. 

So by the time Kashimo arrived, you and Sukuna seemed to be the best of friends. You’d opened up to him significantly, giggling freely at his jokes, openly seeking him out for your lunchtime hangouts, and even letting slip vital information surrounding your true reservations about your relationship. 

It was ideal for him, it felt almost like how you’d act with him back in high school - back when you’d go running to him to complain whenever Ryu would upset you, as if he wasn’t supposed to take that as a sign of how much happier you’d be with him. 

You’d confided that you weren’t passionate about Kashimo - you were sitting on the fence, wondering if you’d ever feel genuine love for him beyond simple comfort. Words that came as music to Sukuna’s ears - even if he was sure to hide how happy it made him. 

In his time with you he’d done an excellent job of playing friend, and with the exception of your first lunch together, he didn’t bring up his love for you again. He needed it to look like he had your best interest at heart whether it involved him or not. Otherwise it would be hard for him to seem genuine when all his scheming came to fruition at that stupid reunion. 

So, dealing with you he had down - he was proud of it, it felt like he was halfway to success. However, the second aspect of his plan, which had little to do with you, was a little trickier to pull off in the way he was hoping. 

His original idea had been to dig up dirt on Kashimo, figuring that most people had at least some skeletons in their closet - Sukuna certainly did after all, though likely in a more literal sense than most. 

Subsequently, he’d gone online and stalked the guy to the greatest extent possible, which was minimal, because Kashimo had one of those stupid private Myspace profiles where only friends were able to see your stuff. That was annoying, and led to Sukuna making a fake account, with some stolen picture of a hot girl. 

Kashimo accepted the friend request from ‘her’, which meant Sukuna had access to his posts and photos, but was dismayed to find nothing sinister at all. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, considering that Kashimo had you as a friend on the platform - if he was up to anything weird, he probably wouldn’t be sharing it in such a public place. 

That led Sukuna to make an attempt at chatting with Kashimo online, figuring that he could send a few flirty messages and have the man gagging for the fake woman that he’d so painstakingly created - spending an ungodly amount of time curating her profile to make her seem so real and interesting, all artsy like the type of girls he’d imagine Kashimo to be ideally into. 

And yet, that asshole shut things down instantly, replying to messages with cool responses, even pushing back with an ‘I have a girlfriend’ message when Sukuna started to come on too strong. Unlike you, Kashimo seemed steady in his affection for you, already loyal to a fault, which was really fucking annoying. 

Since the guy wasn’t engaging with anything obviously shady, and was unwilling to be pushed to cheat, which would’ve provided clear evidence of the man’s rotten nature for him to share with you, Sukuna decided that he needed to take matters into his own hands. 

If Kashimo wasn’t going to do it himself, Sukuna would do it for him. 

Wasn’t he fortunate to have a friend that was so good with photoshop? 

“Alright.” Satoru said, flicking through the pictures on his computer screen, scrutinising each incriminating image of Kashimo that he’d so painstakingly edited. He was sitting cross-legged on his swivel chair, while Sukuna lounged on his bed, waiting for him to finish up before passing judgement on his creations. “This’ll probably work.” 

Sukuna sat up, peering over Satoru’s shoulder at the screen, grin widening with each image that he observed. Satoru had really put his graphic design degree to good use, because Sukuna totally bought that the images were real. So many of them were awful for Kashimo, displaying him engaging in all manners of debauchery: snorting coke, getting in fights, touching girls who certainly weren’t you. 

Perfect. 

This was one of those rare times where he was actually grateful that he had Satoru as a friend, and he was equally grateful that the man had such a low moral compass for most things. Some friends would stop their buddies from trying to sabotage the relationship of a girl they liked - not Satoru though. 

He’d known for years how much Sukuna was into you, and was more than happy to help the relationship along for the sake of the boy he’d been friends with since birth. 

Obviously, Satoru didn’t know everything. The murders were something that Sukuna would be keeping to himself, since he wasn’t sure that his friend would be as willing to abide by that. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

“So, what’re we doing with the pictures now?” Satoru asked, twisting around to look up at Sukuna.

That part of his plan wasn’t really in place yet. He knew that he wanted to dig up dirt on Kashimo, or in this case - invent it, but he wasn’t sure how to go about presenting it all to you without him looking bad. You couldn’t see him as having any nefarious intent or the whole thing would collapse. 

“I guess I just show them to her after the reunion? Tell her Kashimo confided in me or some shit. Tell her he added me as a friend on that private Myspace we’re making for him, I don’t know.” 

Satoru frowned. “No, no, no - it can’t be you telling her dude, do you think she’s stupid? She knows that you’re into her and she also knows that you’re kinda a jerk. If you show up with a load of printed images of her boyfriend she’ll smell bullshit from a mile away.”

He had a point. 

“Then what? I play the long game? Pretend to make friends with the dude and then bring out the photos when she wouldn’t be expecting it?” 

Satoru hummed, scratching his chin as he stared up at the ceiling. For a moment, Sukuna thought he’d zoned out entirely, gaze fixed on the plastic stars that had decorated his room since childhood. Sukuna had spent many a sleepover staring at those stars, wishing that he lived in a house as nice as Satoru’s. 

“What if I tell her?” Satoru suggested. 

“Huh?” 

Sukuna didn’t love the idea of Satoru talking to you. Despite the fact that the two of them had been best friends their entire life, it didn’t prevent jealousy from taking root where you were involved. He knew that Satoru was handsome and charming, knew that girls tended to like him. Sukuna didn’t want you falling for that trap off the back of Satoru revealing your boyfriend to be rotten.

Satoru rolled his eyes, well aware of Sukuna’s tendency to be possessive. “Its more real if it comes from someone other than you. She can hear it from me and then go running into your arms for comfort later, and you can be all clueless. Isn’t that your ideal scenario?” 

It was. 

“I can go up to her, and talk about how I think I’ve seen her boyfriend before. I can ask her if he was at- what gig was it that we saw on the website for his charity? Green Clover? I can ask if he went to a Green Clover gig lately and when she says yes, I can act all weird until she asks me what’s up.”

“Act weird?” Sukuna asked. 

“Yeah, I can act like I just realised something that I feel a bit awkward to say, then when she pushes, I can spill that I saw him doing some unsavory things, and that I have him on a private Myspace account where he posts all of his partying stuff. Oh! On the fake Myspace profile we created, let's make some phoney emails from escorts and stuff!” 

“Sure.” Sukuna liked that idea. He wasn’t great at this side of things - he barely bothered with technology himself, and couldn’t profess to understand it. His flip phone was mainly used for the sake of texting you and his friends, he wasn’t bothered with all the new online shit like Myspace - making a fake account to befriend Kashimo had been pushing the extent of his skills. If Satoru hadn’t been willing to help, perhaps he just would’ve jumped straight to dealing with Kashimo the old fashioned way, which probably would’ve backfired significantly. 

All this build up was necessary. Your view on the man needed to be shifted before anything unfortunate could befall him. 

“Cool, I’ll start on that now. Man, this is so fun, I wanna build more fake profiles. Maybe your girl will get another boyfriend after this one and we’ll get to do this all over again!” Satoru’s voice was cheerful, and it was fortunate for his mood that his blue eyes were fixed on the screen again and not on Sukuna, who was positively glowering at that statement. 

“Don’t even joke about that shit,” he snarled. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Satoru dismissed him with a wave. “You guys are destined or whatever, I’ve heard it all before. Let me focus. Once I’ve done this we can go over all the details to make sure there’s no holes in the story.” 

Sukuna nodded, laying back down on the bed, shoving several of Satoru’s plushed animals to the side. He couldn’t understand why the man had so many, he was in his twenties for fuck’s sake, did he really need thirty teddy bears to cling to at night? 

“One thing I’m concerned about,” Satoru said after a bit of silence, “what if, after I tell her, she straight up confronts Kashimo and he denies everything?”

Sukuna shrugged. “You say he’s just lying to save his skin. We’ve got proof after all.” 

“Not really though.” 

“I’m not worried about that part.” Sukuna said honestly. “She hates attention, so I don’t think she’d confront him at the reunion, plus she said he had to head home right after. Besides, she’s the type of girl who likes to think things through - especially after everything with Ryu - it's more likely that she’ll shut down and give it some thought before confronting him at a later date. She might want to wait until after she’s had a chance to see your evidence too.” 

Satoru hummed. “That doesn’t solve the issue though, does it? She’ll still confront him eventually.” 

A smile curved up on Sukuna’s lips, one that Satoru didn’t quite catch, his focus still fixed on the glow of the computer screen. 

“You just work on getting these fakes right. Let me worry about the rest.” 

—

The reunion was being held in the gymnasium of the high school, all set up with dozens of big tables, with a massive banner in school colours reading ‘welcome back, class of 2003’. It didn’t look unlike various school dances that Sukuna had attended during his time as a student, albeit there were bottles of wine on the table at this particular function, and the attendees all looked significantly more grown up than they had back then. 

He supposed he’d probably changed too - although he’d always been big, and he’d gotten the first of his many tattoos at sixteen, so perhaps his transformation hadn’t been as significant as other people’s. 

The room was already filled with people, some sitting at tables while others mingled around the room, holding glasses of wine or bottles of beer. He’d arrived fashionably late, not the least bit eager to be one of the first ones at the event, only really attending at all because he knew that you would be here. 

He couldn’t care less about most of these people, didn’t even know half of them - a reunion was something that he was wholly uninterested in. He couldn’t give less of a shit if Kusakabe was married now, or if Nanami had started up his own business in the city - the only person who mattered was you. 

It was easy enough to spot you as he pushed through the sea of people. You were sitting at a table towards the edge of the room, with Shoko and Yuki to the right of you. The three of you were giggling about something or other, and he felt his heart pick up with joy at the sight of you. Your smile was so radiant - he loved the way that it lit up your whole face, crinkling the corners of your eyes. 

If only you could smile at him like that everyday. Waking up to that sight each morning would probably send him straight up to heaven. 

You were his angel. 

Thoughts of your beauty almost had him forgetting his current situation, only brought back down to earth as he scanned over to your right, all of his joy quickly dissipating at the sight of the man sitting beside you. 

He’d spent enough time stalking the guy and forging imagery to recognise Kashimo on sight, with those shiny cerulean eyes of his and obnoxiously dyed hair styled in a stupid half bun. He looked even more ridiculous in person than he did in his pictures - what you saw in the guy was absolutely beyond him. 

Much to his chagrin, Kashimo seemed to be chatting away to Choso, who was supposed to be Sukuna’s friend. He was going to keep that betrayal tucked away in the back of his mind for the future, but he supposed Choso probably didn’t have much choice - Yuki had no doubt encouraged him to play nice, and the boy had no backbone when it came to her. 

She really was the worst. 

Either way, there was no point in contemplating things. He was prepared for all this - of course he was going to see you and Kashimo together, that was normal, you’d come here together, he just needed some time for the reunion to get rolling, then Satoru would swoop in and kick things into motion. 

But first, he needed to make himself as friendly as possible. 

“Got space for me here?” His crimson eyes were fixed on you as he approached the table. “You guys are the first people I’ve seen that I actually know, I mean, did these people even go to our high school?” He jabbed a thumb in the general direction of the other tables. 

“I’m certain you have other friends you can sit with.” Yuki deadpanned, her expression less than pleased with his presence. He’d anticipated such a response, so he ignored her entirely, keeping his gaze set on you. 

You wouldn’t cast him aside, not after all the time you’d been spending together over the last few weeks. You were friends, and what kind of person would turn away a friend? Definitely not a kind soul like you. 

“Of course you can sit with us.” You chirped with a smile, gesturing to the empty seat next to Choso. “We were just talking about that time that Gojo got really drunk before a school dance and then got up on the stage and confessed his love to Shoko.” 

“Humiliating.” Shoko said, covering her eyes, “I still get nightmares about it.”

“I think Satoru does too.” Sukuna said with a laugh. 

He could remember that night well - him and Satoru had drunk a shit ton of absinthe before the dance, and unlike Sukuna, Satoru had no skill at all in holding his liquor. Shoko had tried to help get him in a car and safely home, only for him to escape her grip and tell her that he loved her. 

He couldn’t remember anything the next day, and considering that he’d been dating some other girl at the time, she wasn’t best pleased at hearing her boyfriend profess his love for someone else. 

It was really funny though. Even Satoru could laugh about it now that the humiliation had worn off a little. 

“Oh, Sukuna, this is Kashimo by the way,” you said as the laughter died down. “Kashimo, this is Sukuna, he’s an old friend of mine.” 

“Hey man,” Sukuna said politely, holding a hand out for Kashimo to shake. He ensured that his grip was strong, almost testing the other man’s strength and finding him to be inferior, just as Sukuna had expected. 

“Damn, you’re pretty bulky. Do you live at the gym?” Kashimo asked, pulling his hand back and shaking it ever so slightly, as if trying to hide the extent to which the handshake had bruised him. 

“Something like that. Working construction keeps me strong.” 

“Oh, do you guys work together?” Kashimo asked, glancing between the two of you. 

“Kinda.” You shrugged non-comittally. “I mostly work alone because I’m inside the office all day while he’s out doing the actual work.” 

Sukuna sucked on his lower lip, very interested in the way that you’d effectively just lied. Considering that Sukuna was in your trailer every day without fail, your response didn’t make a whole lot of sense - it was clear that you didn’t want Kashimo to know how close the two of you actually were. 

That was fine. It just reassured him that you definitely still had feelings for him. If you had nothing to hide, you’d be more upfront about your friendship. 

“What do you do Kashimo? Something creative? You’ve got that cool look about you,”

Kashimo practically beamed at the praise, completely disarmed as he launched into a whole spiel about his music charity thing, which Sukuna had no interest in listening to because he’d already heard it all from you. Not to mention, he could probably recite that man’s whole life story after all the internet stalking he and Satoru had engaged in. 

Some people were just so easy to play - give them the smallest compliment and they were really ready to believe that someone had their best interest at heart. Thank god for fools like him making Sukuna’s life so much easier. 

Largely zoning out Kashimo’s words while he droned on and on, Sukuna’s gaze flickered momentarily over to you, satisfied at the realisation that you were already staring at him with wide eyes. It was almost like you were seeing him for the first time, comparing him to the man at your side and finding yourself captivated by your old flame. 

He offered you a smug smile, meant only for you, appearing and disappearing in the span of a couple of seconds. He then turned his attention back to Kashimo, and proceeded to slip into his role. Until Satoru came to drop his bombshell, Sukuna would be nothing less than perfect. 

It was after food had been served out on the tables that the part of the plan he’d been awaiting finally fell into place. 

Sukuna had headed away from the table for a while, under the guise of wanting to speak with Toji, but really because he wanted to give Satoru a window to speak with you without him being there. 

They’d discussed it beforehand - Satoru was to wait for Sukuna to leave the table and that was his cue to go and deliver the news to you. 

Away from Kashimo, of course. 

And his blue-eyed friend seemed to play the role perfectly, heading up to your table and engaging in excitable small talk just like he always would, making all the girls laugh raucously. He spent almost five minutes building rapport at the table, before turning to you and saying something with a serious expression, having you follow him over to a more secluded part of the room. 

From there, you were out of Sukuna’s line of vision, and he just had to hope that Satoru would deliver the message like he was supposed to. He should really have more faith in the man, but he felt jittery about the idea of anything going wrong. He’d already destroyed one chance with you and it had cost him four years of time at your side. 

He didn’t want to fuck this chance up. 

“Hey, who's the hot guy at your table?” 

He’d been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Uro sidling up to him, swirling wine in her glass. Her eyes were fixed on Kashimo, who was still locked in conversation with Choso.

Shrugging, he mumbled an answer about how Kashimo was your boyfriend, uninterested in really engaging in conversation with someone as annoying as Uro.

“Really? He’s so hot, better looking than Ryu. How does she even get these guys?”

Sukuna was moments away from telling her to fuck off, potentially proceeded by a long rant about how Uro couldn’t even begin to compare to your level of beauty, but he held himself back as a sudden thought popped into his head. 

How would you feel if you came back from your harrowing conversation with Satoru, only to see your boyfriend chatting with Uro? 

He shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve heard this guy is rich as fuck too. Apparently he gets into all the best clubs in the city. He’s a real catch. I feel like he’s probably on the fence about their relationship too right now.” 

Shooting a sidelong glance at Uro, he caught the way that her eyes practically lit up at his words. It was an insane reaction since she was currently dating Toji, who was only two metres away, but she’d always been a shameless little golddigger. 

She ran a hand through her long pink hair, pulling a compact mirror from her purse and quickly applying a new layer of lip gloss before making off in the direction of the table, swinging her hips seductively as she walked. Sukuna wanted to roll his eyes at the corniness of the display, but he wasn’t going to deny that Uro was effectively doing him a favour, so he wouldn’t ridicule her too much. 

Taking another sip of his drink, he watched the scene play out. Uro pulled out a chair next to Kashimo, giggling and leaning in close as she introduced herself. Her body language couldn’t be more obvious, but Kashimo seemed to indulge her all the same, clearly giving her the same speech that he’d given Sukuna, as if she was there with friendly intent. 

You clearly didn’t take it that way, because as you stumbled back into Sukuna’s field of vision, your expression already stormy, you stumbled to a halt mere paces away from your table, lips parting in shock at the sight. 

Uro had moved on to touching Kashimo’s shoulder when she laughed, and that happened to be the position they were in when you saw them. Sukuna watched the hurt and betrayal cross your pretty face, eyes shimmering with tears as you turned away silently, walking off down the hall and abandoning Kashimo to his conversation. 

Perfect. 

Things literally couldn’t have been working out any more perfectly than they were. 

He gave it a couple of minutes to not make things look obvious before heading down the hallway after you, pushing through the double doors and into the dark corridor beyond, heading to where the toilets were located. He hoped that was where you were, it would be annoying if you’d just up and left, but he supposed he could always drop by your house in that case. 

About ten minutes elapsed before he started to get fidgety, wondering if he should go and look for your car outside. Fortunately, the bathroom door swung open before he could make the decision to leave. 

You stumbled out into the hallway, your eyes and cheeks red from crying, eyes widening in surprise as you practically stumbled into him, steadied by his hands gently gripping your shoulders. 

“You okay?” He asked, eyes taking in your disheveled form. You still looked beautiful, even with your dress all crumpled, your make-up smeared every so slightly. 

“Yep. Peachy!” You said with a shuddering breath, fresh tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He asked, hands soothing your shoulders softly, playing the perfect role of concerned friend as if he didn’t already know everything you were about to tell him. 

“It's nothing, just stupid stuff. I think I’m just gonna go home. I just realised that high school actually sucked for me so I don’t know why I thought it would be fun to be reminded of it.” 

Sukuna tilted his head sympathetically, thumbs rubbing circles into your soft skin. “Is this about Uro?” 

You barked out a humourless laugh. “So you saw then? I bet everyone did.” 

“Yeah, she’s pretty shameless.” 

“It wasn’t like he was stopping it either,” you shot back, lip wobbling ever so slightly. “I’m not really surprised after everything I heard from Gojo earlier, but I feel like I just got overloaded with information and its fucking me up. I feel like I’m sixteen again finding out that Ryu fucked Yorozu.” 

“Everything you heard from Gojo?” He pressed, his face a practiced picture of confusion. 

You shook your head. “Don’t get me started. Turns out Kashimo wasn’t really who I thought he was, so now I just feel like a big idiot.” He could feel you shaking beneath his grip, completely blindsided by everything that was happening so quickly. 

He hummed, pretending to think that over, before dropping a hand down to your wrist. “Come on, let's get you some fresh air. Sounds like you need it.” He softly tugged you down the corridor, and you followed with little resistance, letting him keep your wrist firmly in his grip as he led you out the back of the school. 

The two of you ended up on the field out the back of the building, and Sukuna dragged you over to a bench, sitting you down and making it clear that you had his rapt attention. 

“Tell me what happened, I feel like everything’s a bit too fragmented for me to piece together.” 

“Gojo knows Kashimo. He met him at one of those gigs that Kashimo runs. He said he saw him doing drugs and publicly touching other women.” You took a deep breath. “I know we aren’t exclusive, I chose that, but Kashimo was always telling me that he wanted to be exclusive, that I was the only one he was seeing. He always said he never did any of that partying stuff too. Guess it was all lies.” 

Sukuna stayed silent for a moment, red eyes fixed on the field before him as he contemplated what to say next. He figured that to really put himself in your good graces, he might as well take a gamble. 

“Are you sure? Maybe Satoru was talking about someone else.” 

You shook your head, offering Sukuna a little smile as thanks for his optimism. “I don’t see why Gojo would bother to lie about it. It's not like Kashimo is easily mistaken for someone else, and this happened at a gig for one of the bands that Kashimo manages - there’s no mistaking it. Satoru said he could show me some private Myspace profile Kashimo has, but to be honest, I’m not sure I even want to see.” 

Your lack of interest would spell a serious waste of several hours of Sukuna and Satoru’s time, but he supposed he could live with that. 

“Seeing Uro all over him kinda just affirmed everything Gojo had to say. I was on the fence about him anyway, so this is just a sign I guess.” 

“Mmm.” Sukuna started down at the daisies surrounding his feet, giving you the space to continue if you wished to. When you offered him nothing but silence, he opted to fill it. “If you were on the fence anyway, why do you seem so upset?” 

His question was tender, expression soft as he gazed into your teary eyes. Instinctively one of his hands found its way to your cheek, carefully wiping away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. You let him do it, taking another deep shuddering breath. 

“It's not really about Kashimo, I guess.” 

“Then what’s it about?” 

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I just- I feel like this is how it always goes for me. Guys who seem nice make me think I can trust them, only for the rug to be pulled out from under me. Ryu seemed lovely until he fucked Yorozu, Kashimo seemed perfect until I found out he was doing all this shit behind my back. Do I just have a terrible judge of character?” 

“Maybe.” He hummed, a soft smile spreading over his face at the way you pouted up at him, clearly not in the mood for jokes. “Men tend to be pigs.” 

“You included?” You asked. 

Oh, definitely.

“I mean, I took the chance to sleep with you the second things went wrong with Ryu, so yeah, I guess it includes me. I’d never pull any of the shit they pulled with you though, I can guarantee that.” 

You nodded thoughtfully, eyes glancing down at your hands in your lap. Sukuna’s hand was still gently caressing your face, stilling tears in their path. He wasn’t sure why you hadn’t pulled back yet, but he’d gladly push his luck as far as it would go. 

“If Uro so much as looked at me I’d tell her to fuck off. Yorozu too. Any woman, actually.” 

You huffed softly. “I believe that.” 

“Yeah?” He’d almost thought that you’d hit back and call him just as bad as everyone else that you’d dated. He was arguably worse - not in his treatment of you of course, but fundamentally as a human being. 

“Yeah, I saw how you treated Yorozu back in high school. You never gave her the time of day.” 

He scrunched up his nose. “Obviously not. She’s annoying as hell. I’m glad she disappeared.” 

“Me too.” 

That caught him off guard, because he’d always thought that you were just too kind to really admit to such a thing out loud. Apparently not. That was a good sign, it meant that one day, in the distant, distant future, you might be receptive to hearing about all he’d done to have you at his side. 

“Honestly, I wish Uro would just disappear too,” you added. 

“Never say never. Maybe she’ll fuck off to be a star too.” 

“Maybe.” You said with a soft giggle. 

If only you knew how willing Sukuna was to make such a thing happen if you really wanted it. For now he was keen to keep Uro alive, because she could certainly serve a purpose just like she had today, but perhaps one day, when he could be more honest with you about his actions, he could kill her for you as a big profession of love. 

Wouldn’t that be romantic? 

“I’m being serious though, you know. I’d never do anything but treat you with the reverence you deserve.” Slowly he pulled his hand back from your face, before sliding his arm around your shoulders. It was a cautious action, allowing you ample time to shuffle away. But you stayed perfectly still - just like all the other times he’s reached for you. 

Your lips parted in surprise, a soft smile gracing your features as you nodded, leaning into his side ever so slightly. “Noted.” 

“I know you’ve got all these reservations about us - the guilt and all that shit. But twice now your choices have failed you. Perhaps it's time to start doing the opposite of what you believe the best path to be.” 

He wasn’t sure what to think of the way that you giggled.

“You really want me huh?” You wiped tears from your cheeks as you gazed up at him, a mischievous sparkle in your eyes. “Spouting all this deep thought nonsense just to try and make me give you a chance.” 

He smirked down at you, giving your shoulder a squeeze. He could’ve backed down, argued that everything he was saying was genuine, but you didn’t seem unhappy, so he figured it was best to go along with the flow. 

“Yeah, you got me. But I don’t think you’re opposed to it. I can see it in the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.” 

The way that you bit on your lower lip was painfully sexy. You made no effort to deny his words, and that might as well have been an admission of love in his eyes. 

“You’re so infuriating,” you said.

“So I’ve heard.”

“And incredibly persistent.” 

“Some would see that as a positive,” he pointed out with a smile. You seemed more at ease now, your tears having stopped entirely. You shook your head with amusement, his heart fluttering in his chest at the action. 

“Look, I’m not having this conversation right now, outside of some stupid reunion where I’ve just found out my boyfriend has been lying to me for months.” 

“So you’re saying you’d be willing to have this conversation another time?” 

You rolled your eyes, shooting him an incredulous look. “You have really selective hearing.” 

“That’s not a no.” 

You snorted. “You’re right, it's not. I just need some time, gotta deal with this Kashimo thing, and figure out if I could even forgive myself for what we did all those years again. Then maybe we can have this conversation.” 

“Mmm, so you do really like me, huh?” 

Letting out a deep sigh, you slipped out from under his arm and stood up, stretching a little. “If Ryu hadn’t died that night…I don’t know. Things might be different - I guess they still could be. Of course I like you, I’ve always liked you.” 

“Me too-” 

“But, like I said, that’s a conversation for another time. I’ve been running from those feelings for four years and I’m not going to jump into your arms the same night that I find out my boyfriend’s been fucking me over. Be patient and maybe good things will come your way.” 

His eyes were shiny with joy, staring up at you eagerly. He sort of enjoyed the way that you were tugging at his leash, laying down the law with him. It was the most you’d ever given him outside of that night that Ryu died. 

He was fucking ecstatic. 

“For now, I’m gonna go back inside, I’m gonna tell Kashimo I feel ill and get the fuck out of here. Then I’m gonna berate him over text message and tell him we’re done.” The initial shock of the situation seemed to have worn off for you, tearful expression giving way for something more hardened. 

You’d grown up a lot from the girl who’d crumbled upon finding out about Ryu’s cheating. 

“And you’re gonna wipe that stupid smirk off your face and go back in there, and you’re gonna act like none of this happened. When I’m ready to talk to you about what I feel for you, I’m gonna let you know. Is that acceptable?” 

He was really struggling to wipe the grin off his face, such an action wasn’t inherently in his nature. But he did give you an affirmative nod - he’d take a few moments before rejoining the reunion to try and stop himself from looking too excited. 

It wouldn’t do to have Kashimo suspecting anything. 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he purred.

You stared down at him for a moment, nibbling on your lip for a second before leaning down and planting a quick kiss on his lips. It happened so fast that he hardly had time to register it, failing to kiss you back in any capacity. That was probably for the best, because if he’d had time to do anything, he would’ve pulled you into his lap and kept you there. 

Before he could speak, you were gone, stalking back towards the doors to the school, a slight blush warming your cheeks. He was practically frozen, basking in the feeling of affection that overcame him at the contact, savouring the taste of your lipgloss. 

He needed more of that.

And soon he’d get it. 

—

The rest of the reunion passed without issue. You disappeared off home, and Kashimo stayed for about half an hour before calling it quits himself. 

Sukuna couldn’t quite decide if Kashimo sensed something amiss with your behaviour when you stopped by his table to say goodbye. He didn’t think that it really mattered. As far as he was concerned, his gambit had paid off and his position with you was finalised. You were going to break up with Kashimo and everything would work out in Sukuna’s favour. 

And to make sure there was no chance of anything getting in his way, Sukuna had some matters to take into his own hands. 

He needed to make sure that you and Kashimo had no opportunity to talk about the accusations, and that meant dealing with Kashimo, before he could start asking questions around the specifics of why he was being broken up with. 

He’d be more careful than he was with Ryu, he’d learned from that experience. You couldn’t find out that Kashimo was dead - this time Sukuna was going to make sure that the man disappeared. You already believed that he was a piece of shit who’d been cheating behind your back, it wouldn’t be too far a reach for you to believe he’d simply gotten tired of you and ghosted. 

It would be even easier for you to believe if Kashimo were to send you a shitty text from his phone. 

Yeah, Sukuna would do this in a much better manner than he did with Ryu. There was no space for sloppiness this time around. 

“Car trouble?” 

Sukuna had pulled his car up next to Kashimo's, leaning out the window as he observed the blue-haired man. Your boyfriend was pulled over just outside of town, the hood of his car open, with him bent over it with a look of defeat creasing his brow. 

A flicker of relief registered in his blue eyes at the sight of Sukuna, grinning at him from his own perfectly functioning truck.

“Yeah, something’s fried. Don’t know what. I only took this thing to the garage recently, can’t believe it's breaking down on me already.” 

“I can take a look, I’m pretty good with cars,” Sukuna said with a friendly smile. 

“That would be a big help.” 

Sukuna shut off his truck and leapt out, rounding the car to take a look at the engine. He wasn’t really looking at it, since he was already well aware of what the issue was, having caused it himself. It was easy to sneak into the carpark during the reunion when no one was around, giving him ample opportunity to fuck with Kashimo’s shitty little car. 

“Alternator’s clearly fucked,” he said finally. “I could hit it with a hammer and you might get a few more miles out of her, but you’re gonna need to get that shit replaced as soon as possible.”

“Think it would manage seventy miles?” Kashimo asked, sounding defeated. 

“Doubtful.”

“Shit.” 

“My dad’s got a garage though, I could go and see if he can help out? I should even be able to get you the friends and family discount, although he’s a stingy asshole so we’ll have to see what mood he’s in.” Sukuna stepped back, slamming the hood of the car closed and walking back to his own truck. 

So far this was going exactly as he’d hoped - part of him had been worried that the alternator would hang on for longer than he ideally wanted, and he’d have to follow the fucker halfway home. Running into him out on the highway would be much harder to explain than meeting him just outside of town.

It seemed like it was his lucky day. 

“Hop in, you might as well come with me rather than hanging out around here. There’s weird folk about.” He had to bite down on his lower lip to not chuckle at the irony of his statement, since Kashimo would be far safer if he remained in his car. 

Kashimo gave him a grateful smile, clearly sensing nothing amiss. He rummaged around in his car for a few moments and grabbed his backpack before jumping into the passenger side of Sukuna’s truck. “Thanks man, I owe you one. You’re a good guy, can see why my girl gets along with you.” 

“Yeah?” 

He started up the engine, taking a glance over his shoulder before doing a U-Turn and heading back towards town. He imagined that most people would feel stressed if they were in his position, going back and forth in their minds about whether they should go through with their plan. Perhaps their hearts would be thumping, blood rushing in their ears. 

Sukuna felt none of that. He was completely calm, his heart rate steady, his mind clear. Now that he had Kashimo in his car he felt secure, because he knew with certainty that he could carry out the next bit with flawless efficiency. 

He’d done it before - more than once. In this sort of field, that practically made someone a professional. 

All he’d felt when he’d killed Ryu was satisfaction. The same when he bashed Yorozu’s head in. He’d feel no more remorse over Kashimo. He’d do anything if it meant that he could be at your side, with all potential threats thoroughly eliminated. 

Could anyone really blame him for doing such a thing? He was in love.

“Yeah, not many people would bother helping some guy they barely know - I’m just the new boyfriend of your buddy, it's not like you have any obligation!” Kashimo said fondly. Sukuna had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at how thickly the man was laying on the praise. “You’re a pretty cool dude, y’know?” 

Sukuna chuckled, eyes locked on the road ahead of him. 

“Don’t sweat it. I’m really just doing her a favour.” 

a/n: reader be folding for him so easily :(

hope you enjoyed the chapter and thank you for the support! comments and reblogs are appreciated as always! <3

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In the end, when there is nothing left to ransack, Sukuna leaves and finds you trailing behind. On wobbly legs you follow him, clothes on your body dirty and loose.

A monster like him does not concern himself with a shadow like you. So he leaves you be.

But you turn out to be as persistent as the darkness. Through every shrine you follow him and accept the scraps he leaves behind.

You’re slower, must be younger than him too, not even six and the only thing you have on him is height. When the plum rain hits without mercy, he thinks you might just succumb to the waters. Drown in puddles or wash away with the flooded rivers.

But Sukuna is not that fortunate.

You stay and each day he manages to gain distance on you, you return with the night, exhausted and panting but with hope in your eyes as they find him. You curl up a safe distance away, his eyes glowing in the dark as you watch him. There’s safety in numbers but he seems to be enough to keep the wolves at bay.

When you come up sick, Sukuna finds himself lingering. He has no food to offer you, nothing to give but his presence as he sits close by, watches you thrash through your fever until your skin shines like the moon in the night.

On the fourth night, he’s sure your heart will give out and in the morning, Sukuna declares you dead. Despite the shallow breaths, despite the stuttering heartbeat, Sukuna abandons you.

He doesn’t make it far before he hears you, feet stumbling, breath ragged as you drag your body after him.

A random girl more loyal than his father, his mother, his twin.

So, he keeps you.

For the boy inside of him that always wanted to belong. For the hole inside his chest that steadily warps to fit your shape.

And in return, for the first time in your life, your loyalty is rewarded. Like a dog you defend him, howl and snap at people who throw things when he comes too close. He’s the only home you’ll ever know and you’re grateful for it, for the four arms that can hold you better than two and for the four eyes that can read you like an open book. A home-shaped monster. A monster-shaped home.

Somewhere along the line, he thinks you could be his pet. A small, ferocious companion that curls at his feet, eyes on the entrance, nails long enough to draw blood.

What a feral thing you are.

And what a deadly thing he is.

Because when a man catches you stealing his fish, grip bruising, the imprint of his hand on your cheek scarlet red, Sukuna does not think before he acts. Even in the womb, he was a killer. Even now, eight and savage, many-limbed and four-eyed, he jumps the man without a warning, rips at his throat until he tastes blood, keeps biting until the thrashing stops, screams up a thunderstorm until the man lies there in pieces and you sob at his side, small and weak but his. Only his.

Years you spend roaming the lands, taking what you can from the people who can’t keep it. Something like rhythm finds you, something like routine, like habit, like home.

You never believed a building could hold you and you realize soon, only one person can.

Sukuna commands the dirt roads you travel, overshadows the towns you come through, dwarfing whole city squares with his presence.

When adolescence strikes, what height you had on him shrinks and soon, he towers over you, three heads taller and three times as wide.

He eats more than you can provide and yet, you work yourself to the bone to keep him fed. You do anything you can for grain and fish and veggies. He takes up jobs to foul for normal men.

In the evenings, hiding inside shrines and ruins, he holds your hands and growls at the raw skin, snarls at reddened cuticles, bares his teeth when he finds cuts and bruises.

His way of taking care of you is brutal: Like a wound, he lays himself bare before you, gratitude in the shape of dull blades, wools and blankets and dead livestock.

That’s how he provides. By killing the sheep and the cows and the oxen and dragging them to you where you try your best to turn them into something edible. You stain your hands in blood for him.

When you are more woman than girl, he finds an abandoned farmhouse at the edge of a village and it becomes your shelter. Not home - never home when it’s a person, when it’s four arms and four eyes and a smile that cuts you open. But you feel safer when there’s doors to shut, when the roof keeps the rain away, when the two of you find a rotting futon, large enough to fit the both of you.

Sukuna leaves during the day and returns at night smelling of smoke and bloodshed. Each night, you clean the blood off his face, his hands, his neck. You stitch the wounds that need stitching with a tread of your dress. You wash his leathers and shine his armor, wipe his blades until you can see yourself in the shine of the metal. You do not question what he does, you do not ask about the blades he sharpens at your back or the screams that follow him.

He takes care of you in the same way he has always taken care of himself. Ferocious and dedicated, whole-heartedly and with blood smeared about.

You feel safe with him. Life is looking up.

But everything good eventually comes to an end and every childhood eventually concludes in a cruel and sudden way one only recognizes down the road. This is where ruin found a home in me, this is where innocence died.

And it isn’t even special or extraordinary. It happens on your way to the market, a short walk, early morning, when the birds chirp and the sun is just warm enough to soften your shoulders and warm you cheeks.

It’s five of them and they do not find the money they search for.

You try to run from them but their steps are made of light and shadow and their sorcery is more powerful than your survival instinct can ever be. They laugh when they catch you, taunt when you beg.

And because there’s no money, they take everything else from you instead - peace and hope and voice.

You scream so much they cut your tongue right out of you and when they leave you to die, you drag yourself back to him with a mouth full of blood.

You’ve been through worse, you tell yourself. You just need to make it back to him, you convince yourself and when you faint on the steps of your shared house, Sukuna finds you drowning on your own blood.

Anger isn’t what does him justice. Wrath doesn’t even come close.

For the first time in your life together, Sukuna lets a stranger get close to you. The local healer comes with incense and fearsome eyes. She tries her best to stop the bleeding, to disinfect the wound and for the few moments you’re conscious and aware, Sukuna fills your whole vision - your blood on his clothes, something strange and hurting in his eyes that do not blink when they regard you.

If he blinks, you will die, he tells himself and keeps staring. Stares until his eyes water and his lids twitch. Stares even when the healer is long since gone, and you’ve fallen into a restless, deep sleep.

It takes three days for you to wake. Eyes sluggish and mind hazy as you blink up at the ceiling.

There’s a fire somewhere, soft crackling and the flicker of light.

He hears the change of your breathing. The drum of your heartbeat.

That night, he curls closer, has you pressed against his chest, his chin against the crown of your head. You dream of knives and blood and screams. Sukuna guards you through it all. There’s a beast in your dreams, a looming shadow that protects you like it’s heart.

Eating is difficult. You choke on rice grains, need to rip everything else into small, digestible pieces and hate each second of it. To your surprise, Sukuna takes the change in strides.

Like a bird he feeds you food, makes sure you swallow each bite he offers. Vulnerability is foreign to him. He does not see how much it costs you to be this weak, this voiceless, this lost.

When you try to speak to him and all the sounds are garbled and muted and wrong, you cry for hours. Sukuna doesn’t know how to console, but he tries for you. Tries with clumsy words and hands that are too strong. He holds you till your body aches and licks your tears till your cheeks are flushed and hot.

Recovery takes months. Maybe forever.

Life changes after this.

For you, it’s in the silence that settles over it all.

For him, it’s in the utter shock of your mortality. His inability to stop your hurt.

The worst part is, that Sukuna has no trouble finding the attackers. They’re sorcerers, high on power, high on boredom. They blame him. Say they came for him but got distracted. Ask for forgiveness in all the wrong places. There is nothing like forgiveness in his heart. Only rage, only hatred, only violence. They knew you belonged to him - a wicked girl in the shadows of a demon.

He kills them in all the horrible ways he knows how to and it leaves him empty. It doesn’t do anything to him or for you. He still hates the world for what it did and you still find no words to speak.

From this point forward he knows. He knows you’re his, only his. He will die trying to shield you from the cruelty of this world.

Something dark and hungry eats at him and when the time comes, nothing can stop it. Hatred consumes him. Revenge becomes the thing he lives by. Hatred in the rhythm of his heart.

Violence for violence.

Blood for blood.

II.

There is a void inside of him and Sukuna has spent all his life standing at the edge of it, staring down into the endless black until it looked just like him - sharp teeth and too many eyes.

It grins at him at random times, whispers promises and lies, draws him closer with the song of vengeance and power.

Sukuna trains, endlessly. The little farmhouse is still decrepit, still in ruin, still yours. Grunts echo through the garden when you watch him work. Sweat coating his body, muscles bulging and trembling from strain. He never stops and you don’t think he even can.

Because he was born with a chip on his shoulder and all it’s done was grow and grow. Now it’s so large, it swallows him whole.

There’s a void inside you too. You’re scared of it. You’ve done your best to befriend it, to come to terms with the hollow pit in your chest, but it swallows you whole more often than not.

“Curses just ooze out of you, woman,” he drawls one day, watching you watching him. He’s told you before, how your misery takes shape. How that endless pit inside of you is not just that but a birthplace for more struggle, more sorrow, more pain. How your sadness follows you with snapping jaws and saliva dripping from it’s fangs. How the weight on your shoulders is not the world but the curses you keep creating.

It doesn’t take much to eliminate them. You watch him do it so effortlessly, the snap of a finger, the fling of a hand.

You’ve never seen them for yourself, but you know of the power that encompasses it all. Everybody knows, because it’s the Golden Era of Jujutsu, Sorcerers are everywhere and Sukuna is the strongest you’ve ever encountered.

There’s attempts where he tries to make you a part of this world.

But he is a bad teacher. Brash and impatient and rude. You appreciate that he tries. That he makes a valiant effort at teaching you how to control your energy, how to not birth more of the monsters into this world. Some days it works, on others it doesn’t.

Sometimes, you think of them as your pets. Your little misery-companions. Your sorrowful, ghostly entourage.

Sukuna calls them a pest.

When he exorcises them, you feel lighter, if only for a few days, ensuring you don’t drown in your own emotions, choke on the depression that clings to you like a second skin.

And when you finally master it, know how to control yourself and dampen the energy to something that won’t spew forth wicked beasts, he smiles at you in this lopsided, honest way. Pride makes him appear even taller, but it softens him in a secret way.

With your newfound ability, you grow sensitized to cursed energy. It fills your ears with a constant buzz. When Sukuna is close, it climbs to a roar - the endless push and pull of an angry ocean, the endless scream of earth cracking open.

After that, something changes between you. It’s raw and fragile and unknown. Shows itself in lingering eyes and wandering hands. When he holds you at night, it feels different and when you wake in the morning, tension crackles in the air like lightning.

He can come home bloody and broken and bruised and you still embrace him with all you have. You can rot in your room for weeks, stink of misery and hopelessness and he will still look at you as if you’re beautiful.

Sukuna takes any job that is offered to him - kills curses and bad men, returns with heads on his saddle and flowers from the roadside and all you see is the smile on his lips as you greet him.

You realize it’s love when a cut across his chest brings you to tears, leaves you hyperventilating and fear-struck as he tries to calm you. His attempts are clumsy, blood dripping on splintered floorboards and even once the wound is cleaned and stitched and bandaged, you can’t bring yourself to leave his side.

That night, you sit in his lap and stare at the wound as if it could burst open again.

Sukuna teases you for it, sharp teeth and reckless eyes.

“One day you will die,” you threaten with shaking hands and press your palm above his heart to ensure it’s not yet time.

He only snorts, unbothered. “We all do one day.”

“You’re all I have.”

That makes him go quiet, if only for a moment. “You’re all I need,” he mumbles in the space between you and you can feel your heart jump.

“If you die, so will I”, and you believe it. There’s no world without him, no life. The time before you met him is shadow and ash, a flicker at your periphery you can never quiet catch.

Your life started with him - it will end with him too.

He’s so close you can feel his breath against your skin, making your skin crawl with the way he smells of something raw, like meat and something chilled, like steel.

Your fingers scratch gently over the bandages you secured around his torso and when his hands around your hips pull you closer, when his lips meet yours, he steals your breath away. He kisses you like a starved man an*d you kiss him back with all the bravery his care has given you.

Sukuna is as brutal in love as he is in friendship.

His hunger is endless and it’s one only you seem able to satisfy. You give yourself willingly, hopefully, whole-heartedly.

You want all of him, sharp edges that cut you open whenever he presses close, blood on his lips when you kiss.

The first time he lays with you, you know he tries to be gentle. Tears streak your cheeks, blur your vision as his trembling hands claim you, pry you open like seafood, take something you know you will only ever offer to him. He loves you with his teeth in your skin and you return it with his blood beneath your nails. His lust has claws and leaves you a shell, sucked empty, mind blank. His devotion rots even through bone.

You call it love.

He’s a passionate lover, a ravenous one. You’re an offering at his altar, a gift to unwrap and claim each time he returns, sweat in his hair and dirt on his hands.

You bend for him however you can, twist and turn to still his hunger, break apart beneath and above, unravel with groans and cries and endless devotion.

But Sukuna was born with a chip on his shoulder, a mountain on his back.

And when there’s no curses left to kill, your home grows too small for the demons he’s facing and you will never be able to fight his battles for him. Trying to hold him together with warm meals and unconditional love turns out to not be enough.

It’s not enough that your constant tremble only ever stops when he’s there, that you drown in his ox blood eyes and feel peace for the only time. Because your body doesn’t have the same effects on him. Because in some way, you will never be enough for the beast inside of him.

Fights are quick to rise and it’s small, unnecessary things, mostly. You call it love anyway, ignore the shades of purple and black that decorate your skin, turn a blind eye to the tears you shed each time he leaves angry and fuming, punching holes through paper doors and glass-like domesticity. Sukuna punishes with silence and absence and fear.

Every fight is unfair at best because language is beyond you. Signs are there but even with four eyes, he looks away when he is angry. Sometimes, arguments mean he’s screaming until your ears ring and your hands shake so much that even they fail you. Sometimes, he’s as quiet as you, all four of his hands desperately trying to proof a point in your very own words - silent, twenty fingers at once.

Those are the worst days. When he leaves in anger and you know not when he’ll return. The farmhouse is just shelter when he’s not there, just a roof over your head, just four walls keeping you caged.

More often than not, he’s gone for weeks, months even.

During his absence, the house becomes haunted. All the demons he’s facing and all of them are yours. You’ve always been a creature of sadness.

Some days, you don’t even manage to get up from the ground, curled beneath blankets and wools. Your cheek sunken so deep into the futon that you feel like the whole world bears down on you. You do not care for your creations, for the curses that dwell when he’s not there.

Whispers find you before he does.

You know the world has always been too small for him, to meek for the power that courses through his veins. You fear he might find someone out there, in the wilds, who will match his freak better than you ever will. You fear he’ll never return at all. You wait. You yearn. You wallow in self-pity.

It’s one of the market women who tells you of the newest gossip. It starts easy, with weddings and children and stolen goods, a death. Someone is killing sorcerers and leaves them a bloody mess to be found.

At first, you give it little thought. Competition is ever present. You think it’s like the mice and the black kites that live about. First too much food, then too many predators. Give and take. Like the tides.

You consider Sukuna the pinnacle of sorcery. An apex predator among spoiled, household pets.

Maybe, maybe Sukuna is the black kite, and when all the curses had vanished, he turned to cannibalism, turning from rodents to his very own kind.

Nobody ever makes it out alive, nobody ever returns from the fights and is able to tell who attacked them. You know it’s Sukuna, when people whisper of an imaginary demon, a warrior more monster than man, blood-eyes and too many limbs.

When he finally returns to you, in dusty clothes and with blood dried dark against his skin, you run to him before he even manages to fully slide the door open. He huffs, but his hands find your waist, your shoulders, the back of your head. He holds you close, your face buried against his chest where you can hear the drum of his heart, steady and slow.

He kisses you gentler, then. Passion dampened by lonely nights, with longing for the body and mind that fit so easily with his.

You learn not to mention the arguments, the fights. You take him back in just as he did when you were a child.

Rhythm and routine are slow.

You love him when he’s with you and you hate him when he’s not.

You watch the scars accumulate on his skin, watch ink spread beneath it, watch his hair grow long and unruly until he lets you cut it.

You keep a lock of his hair, sew it into the sleeve of your tomesode, ensure he stays in all the ways you can make him. You curate bruises like love marks, hope your scratches stay long enough on his skin until he returns.

Kisses linger. So do his hands.

One night, during late autumn, Sukuna sits with you on the veranda, his hulking mass dwarfing you while you arrange the fallen maple leafs by shade of red.

“You’re mine,” he claims and doesn’t even have the need to look at you while doing so.

You wait for him to finally turn his head before you sign your answer, fingertips smudged with damp dirt.

“Enough to marry me?”

“Enough that there’s no need to do so. You’re mine in every instance, every way. In body, soul and mind. Neither you nor me need law to make it true.”

You should have known it was something protective, maybe even frightened, that kept him from claiming you by name. Tying you to him in a world made up of blood and power, it would have been the noose around your neck, the blade slicing your throat.

So he doesn’t.

Momentarily, you mourn the fact that others will never know who you are to him. But in the end, you watch the moon reflect in his eyes and realize that he is yours just as much.

In body, soul and mind, he’s yours and you are his.

III.

During the times Sukuna stays, he stays fully.

He learns to take his time with you, to treasure the mornings, the noons, the evenings, the nights.

You cook for him only to find his hands around your tummy, dragging you back just enough to be able to move around you, taking your spot, helping you in all the unhelpful ways only a brute like him can.

He chops the vegetables too large, overcooks the rice, crushes seafood before it has a chance to be eaten.

You take life in strides like this. With him at your side, it’s a bit easier to conquer the darkness that lurks in the corners of your mind.

He tries to refine your cursed energy. You try to teach him how to sing.

Both of you are horrible at it.

He teaches you of weapons, how to spot sorcerers, what to do when you encounter them. You teach him how to garden. How to nurture without drowning, how to safely remove what’s rotten without killing it.

For you, Sukuna stains his hands with dirt - for him, you learn how to hold a blade steady.

Slowly, the two of you cultivate the garden. Years of overgrowth and kudzu smothering the place are ripped and burned and banished.

In the center of it, an ancient maple tree stands tall. Crooked roots and aching branches that droop low with age. When you ask him to, he hangs lanterns on the branches while you light them, perched on his shoulders.

You plant flowerbeds in his name, red as his eyes, striking as his form, unforgettable as his presence. From his travels, he brings you seeds. Hydrangea becomes your favorite, the small blossoms crowding together in beautiful colors. You place them everywhere - at the front of your house, in the garden, as cuttings in every room. He acts as if he finds them annoying, but you catch him smiling when he thinks you aren’t there.

Love warps over the years.

You adapt to his sharp edges, mold yourself into a shape that fits effortlessly against him. You harden into something only he can crack open. He softens into something only you get to see.

He kisses his adoration into your skin and worships your body beneath the moonlight. Sukuna tells you that’s how he likes to claim you the most. Bare beneath him, moonlight turning your skin blue. He says the sounds you make when he’s pressed so deep he sees the stars are the ones he likes best. Your moans and badly stifled cries only he can pull from you.

With each thrust he punches the air from your lungs, with each spill of him inside you, he ensures he’s the only one you’ll ever take. You don’t think you could ever enjoy another man claiming you. He’s spoiled you like this, ruined you for the world. Each time you topple over the edge, he smothers you with his weight, has you twitching and trapped beneath him until your vision swims.

Afterwards, he licks the tears from your skin, cleans you with a damp cloth, swaddles you in furs and blankets and holds you till your breath is even and calm again.

So, the two of you have something good. Something peaceful.

But peace can never be good for long in the eyes of men like Sukuna.

IV.

A home is a home not for the furniture or walls, but the people that reside in it. But for Sukuna, a home is a trap.

It cages him, ties his wrists and muzzles his jaws. Restlessly he paces the halls, wanders the grounds while you sleep. He is a trapped wolf, ears twitching, jaws snapping at anything that moves.

He is made for you, but not made for this life.

It is when the garden slumbers beneath thick layers of snow that he leaves, only footsteps and a short letter in his wake, trying to give words to the feeling in his chest that agitates and pulls on him. Pulls him out the door, away from the decrepit place you two have made your own, away from the small town that hides cattle and sheep behind fences and guard dogs.

His horse is anxious, ears flat against it’s head, eyes white-rimmed as he chases it out the stables.

Maybe in another life he could stay with you, build a true home, maybe even a family. But he’s been born a curse to his kind and you’re a girl he found by the shrine - unsure if goddess made flesh or sacrifice to his very own slaughter.

V.

Fear reigns southern Japan.

The Jujutsu Sorcerers have finally come together against one common threat. A curse, a demon, a king in his own right.

First time you hear the whispers, you do not believe them. It’s not unusual for him to disappear, not uncommon that he vanishes without a proper kiss goodbye. You’re not sure your heart could take it, if he left while you were awake, following him to the door and kissing him with the prospect of having to stop. You’re not sure you could survive watching him ride down the road until he vanishes out of view, chest so tight it might just collapse.

People whisper a name and one name only: Ryōmen Sukuna has declared war upon the world and the grand clans have answered.

There’s little reprieve in the fact that you’re in the south, that the most powerful clan sits up in the north, behind high castle walls and armed guards.

You find posters of him nailed to the walls.

The portrait doesn’t do him justice, a hulking beast with sharp teeth, nothing like the man you love. A bounty is set on his head but someone rips down the papers before anyone could ever really do anything.

Your hometown turns a blind eye, known him from childhood like a local cryptid, feared but treasured. You find offerings at the small shrines, placed there in his name. From pearls to dried flowers to food. How ironic, you think, now that he holds power they give what they all denied you as children, when you begged for scraps and anything else that could keep you alive.

You feel no remorse when you take what is offered in his name, feel no shame when you take the food, take the coins, the jewelry.

Wandering traders speak of bloodbaths by the coast.

You seek them out in taverns and squares, ask for stories like any bored housewife would. They do not question your curiosity, only feed you all that they’ve seen and heard.

A monster has the land in a chokehold. They speak of him as if he’s a curse, a demon, a fiend. You yearn for the man only you love. The man that only ever loved you.

Over a year passes before he returns to your side, on a random summer day.

The air is stifling, heat so oppressing that you only step from shadow to shadow, a wet piece of linen draped over your head to soften the migraine that’s lingered there for days.

The footsteps that approach you are layered, several or at least two, and when you finally deign to look, it’s him, unchanged.

Same hair, if longer, same body, if even broader, same eyes. Same eyes that stare without blinking as you scramble to your feet, cloth falling without your notice, stumbling towards where he stands. You cry before you even reach him, throw yourself against his chest with enough force he has to balance out, a half-step back before his arms circle you, his laughter rumbling in his chest.

He kisses you like a starved man.

You kiss him like your life depends on it.

When you finally pull away, just enough to look at him, to keep looking until there’s an afterimage that lingers for the rest of your life, he smiles at you with all the love he holds for you.

Only then do you realize there’s someone else.

A child stands beside him, skin and bones, eyes so sunken their face already looks dead. He introduces them with something wicked in his eyes.

Uraume is, like all of you, an outcast. Skirting by the edges of society and they’ve come to find themselves pulling the short end of the stick.

It’s with laughter that Sukuna claims he’s found you a cook. Your questioning eyes are met with more barks, sharp teeth and a grin that reaches higher on the left than on the right. The rundown on their power leaves you breathless - pity for a child that ruined their own life.

You wonder if a frozen wasteland really is what you need in your life, more cold while he’s not there, more ice in your veins when he abandons your side.

Your worries are unnecessary.

Unlike you, Uraume has the benefit of traveling with him, of sticking to his side when you’re left behind over and over again. Sorcerers among Sorcerers, you think and wonder if there truly ever was a place at his side for you.

Maybe it’s supposed to be that way: Mice to the mice and black kites to black kites.

VI.

The world has pledged itself against your happiness.

Japan is at war with your husband, smoking wastelands and mass grave battlefields left in his wake.

Despite his first claims, Uraume stays at the farm, sometimes. There’s something hopeful about their presence, childlike wonder in their eyes when they help you in the garden or when the two you realize you can freeze water to cool yourself down during heat waves. Put sticks in the little bowls you freeze it in and then make a challenge who’s tongue gets stuck first until the sun melts it away.

For the first time in years, laughter fills your home.

When Sukuna returns, you feel like a family. You might not carry his name but you carry his heart, right beneath your ribcage, where it beats inside your own. You and Uraume create banquets for his returns, grilled meat and fish, rice with all the vegetables you can find, rice cakes for good measure.

At night, when Uraume sleeps down the hall, safely tugged away beside a steadily burning light, he loves you beneath the moonshine like he always does. Holds you till you sink into sleep, nose pressed against his chest, his scent inhaled with each breath you take.

But each time he leaves again, you’re left with the cold space beside you, an indent in the futon, clothes strewn about and his smell lingering for a few days before everything is gone again.

He vanishes like a ghost and you’re left in the ruins of it all.

And he is only gone for a few days, before your luck runs out.

Darkness has crept back into your life, one that not even Uraume can alleviate. It leaves you bedridden, weak, a brain full of fog and one of his obi wrapped around you as if it could bandage your heart back together.

It’s Uraume who wakes you, doors pushed open so forcefully that the wood splinters, paper ripping.

“Get up, get up!” they scream before you’re really awake, tugging on your arm, dragging you from your bed and to your feet. “They’re here! Get up, please!”

You try, if only for Uraume’s sake. They lead you through the back door, along the veranda and the sprawling gardens. At night, the moonlight turns it into a flowering ocean, paints everything in blue and white.

But tonight, the garden blooms orange and yellow.

You smell it before your eyes can make sense of what you see, your paradise of trees and flowers engulfed by flames, the further part of the building, the one closer to the road, groaning under the roar of the flames. Your maple tree is a husk, a canopy of fire and enough heat to push you back a step.

Beneath it all, the shouts of men, armor and weapons clanking together.

For the first time in your life, you’re glad no words can leave your lips.

Because you would scream, you would howl, you would curse them all. But as you are, the sounds that leave you are muffled and wrong. Easily swallowed by the fire that lick up your home, that swallow the farmhouse in minutes, eager to devour and leave nothing behind.

Uraume drags you through the night. Their grip like a vice around your wrist, they pull you forward, along the edge of the garden, only away.

Behind you, the only place you ever called yours, goes up in flame.

Then, you run headfirst into your companion. Staggering, you loose balance and almost fall, only to be quickly moved about, hidden behind the child you took in, smaller and younger and more powerful than you will ever be.

The men who find you are armed to the teeth. They wear the emblem proudly on their chest but you cannot place it. A circle, leaves, wisteria if you combine it with the colors that adorn their belts.

When one of them raises their weapon, points it at Uraume and you, time freezes. Literally.

They have no chance to attack before the ice caught up to them, before the chill in the air is so overpowering that even your breath fogs up, safely hidden behind Uraume, where none of the cold will touch you. The men freeze to death before they ever lay a hand on you.

Quietly, Uraume grunts, takes a hold of you again, and drags you further into the wilderness.

You return two days later, exhausted and hungry and what you find breaks your heart right in two. Nothing is left of the farm and the gardens. Charred beams of wood and the husk of your tree are the only landmark you can find for the place you considered your household. You find nothing of worth in the rubble and suddenly, your possessions shrink back down to the clothes you wear on your body.

Back to being a child, back to ransacking shrines and stealing from the already poor. You sob and cry and mourn a place that holds more memories than you can cradle in your hands.

Hot and furious tears burn their way down your cheeks and drip from your jaw.

Maybe for the first time in your life, you feel the anger Sukuna tells you about. You feel the injustice, the urge to put the whole world down with you. To tear and rip and shred it to pieces like your poor heart.

Weeks you sit in the ruins of your house and wait for Sukuna to return. Some foolish, hopeful part of you thinks he must feel your anguish, must know you need him and come to your aid.

Time drag by. Uraume salvages what they can but the townsfolk is too scared to help and you’re too saddened to do anything but weep.

You sit in your garden of ash and scorched ground and this is how he finds you, so long since the fire has burned that the wind has removed all the footprints, all the heaps and scratches and grooves where your fingers dragged through the ash - where you tried to put it all back together. No proof that you tried to fight it, that you tried to mend.

Wordlessly he settles beside you, plumes of ash rising as he sinks to the ground, arms cradling you before you can turn to him, dragging you into his lap. The space is made for you and effortlessly you find your spot against him, bury yourself against his chest, inside his arms, press yourself as close as you can in hopes to make it all less real - less painful.

His heart beats like a war drum in his chest, your heart pounds on like a rabbit, rushed and frightened.

You have no heart to sign him what happened, hands cramping by the way they dig into his clothes, pull and tug on him as if you could hide inside his very heart.

“Are you hurt?,” he ask eventually, a deep rumble and you manage to shake your head, then try to make the agreed sign for Uraume. Frozen Child.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingers and he’s so gentle that it makes you hiccup, a sob tearing from your throat again.

So, Sukuna simply holds you, sways you like a babe from left to right, holds you until you grow limp and heavy and tired from sorrow.

“I’ll kill them all,” he promises you. You have no strength left that all you ever asked for is peace. Not war.

VII.

The estate is too large to hold you. Like water you slip through all the cracks, like ash you settle where you’re unwanted.

You know Sukuna meant well when he moved you. Away from your childhood, your farmhouse, your loss. But your new home is massive. There’s a shrine at the edge of the property, a bathhouse, the main rooms so large you feel like a speck of dust drifting about.

Sukuna wants staff. Maids and guards and people you don’t know, don’t trust. You tell him to live his dream but he can see you’re not a part of it.

The fight that follows is vicious. Leaves your wrist twisted and swollen, his ego bruised.

You leave for the smaller pavilions, following the long corridors and leaving the buzzing heart of the residence behind.

You claim one of them, furthest from the courtyard, close to the pond, the small bridges, another, smaller maple tree where you can open your windows. It feels like home when nothing else does, like the ancient one that stood tall and protective at the farm. Here, the leafs are even darker, like the blood that dries on his blades.

Uraume is the only one you let close.

The staff tries, they do. Servants try to appease you with small gestures. People cook the food you enjoy. A maid lays your clothes out every day and Sukuna’s smell vanishes even quicker from the fabric. Each day, they force you out of your suffering and isolation into a world you want no part of. They try to make your life easier when all you want to do is make it yours.

By now, Sukuna is more often gone than not.

There’s only two ways to survive the King of Curses. Worship or Death.

The shrine by the street groans under the weight of offerings. Candles always lit, incense sticks making the air waft about like fog, heavy and reverent.

Someone carves a statue that does him no justice. Someone carves one that does. You let it be moved into the garden where you see it from your futon if you leave the doors open.

At one point, you cut the paper from the wooden frames so you can see his stone face whenever you rest.

You yearn for him, touch yourself while looking at the stone that resembles him so much, unmoving eyes that always stare and you know that he’ll never just be yours now.

The world has grown too small for him and while he keeps you safe and hidden, surrounded by guards that never sleep and walls not even kudzu gets to climb - in a tiny but safe haven - Sukuna dominates the world.

You’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t take other women while he’s gone. He’s a man and he’s powerful and these two factors are all you need to know to be aware of the possibility that strangers warm his bed at night. Somehow, it leaves you unbothered.

This was never about sex.

This is about body, mind and soul and you know that whatever woman or man he invites in his chambers, he will send them away again.

You’re the only one he will return for. Eventually.

Hopefully.

VIII.

When you wake, he’s already above you - massive, blocking out the moonlight, his lust hot and heavy against your belly.

For a moment, you do not recognize him. The smell of fresh linen and soap instead of blood and sweat and him. His hair is still wet, water dripping onto your body. He’s washed himself, scrubbed the wrath right off his body before returning to your side.

You make a sound for him, breathe his name into the night and he hums yours right back.

You raise your hand towards his heart where it endlessly beats in it’s slow and steady pulse while your other hand grips at his hair, pulling and pressing him further down against you.

He still tastes of salt and iron.

It comes natural when your legs fall open around him, accommodating his frame.

When he slides a hand beneath the folds of your gown, you let him. Callouses adorn his palms and the contrast to your sensitive flesh has you suck in the air through your teeth. Goosebumps rise in his wake.

Sukuna is a slow lover, which doesn’t mean he’s a gentle one. Every touch is precise, brutal - each movement of his hips hard and ruthless.

Above you, he grunts, pushing his fingers into your mouth before stroking them through your folds. When he pushes into your cunt, you groan at the stretch, eyes fluttering shut.

Two of his fingers are enough to have your breathing hitch, the way he works you open with steady, endless strokes. He curls his fingers just the right way, caresses the spot inside of you that makes your vision white out.

Against your stomach, he already leaks. Sticky and warm it follows the curves of your body, tickles your ribs and your waist.

You beg with every sound you can make and his teeth find the bend of your neck, digging so deep the pain flares hot and bright. You cling to him desperately, push your hips against his hand as if it could imitate the real thing that hangs heavy between his legs. You can feel the smile that curves his lips as he digs his teeth deeper.

When his fingers leave you, you’re clenching around thin air, desperate to be filled. The sounds you make are lewd, mewling and panting as you dig your nails into his shoulders and leave trails of blood down his spine where you try to pull him closer.

The smell of iron makes him feral.

When he pushes in, he does so relentlessly and without a pause. You squirm beneath him, four hands holding your body tight - no escape as his length stretches your insides with just enough pain to make you grit your teeth. Tears prick at your eyes and his kisses turn lethal, split your lip, burn your skin. His eyes are dark as he watches your tears spill with each brutal snap of his hips.

Every time he claims you, you wish to die like this. Split open, claimed - his. He should be the one to kill you, smother you with his love, suffocate you with his lust, tear you apart as he stuffs you with his cock.

Each of his thrusts has you seeing stars, the sounds you make music to his ears. You press yourself against him in all the ways you can. Arms slung around his neck, lips pressed against his, his tongue in your mouth as if you two could become one.

He bites your lips so hard the skin keeps breaking, blood in your mouth and a flashback at it’s heels. He fucks you through it all, pounding into you until the futon shifts with his thrusts, until his face is all you see, tattoos shifting on his skin as he regards you.

You’ve never quiet figured out what this expression means. The one he makes when he takes you like this. His eyebrows drawn together, with his pupils blown so wide you barely see the red in them. Sometimes you think he will kill you and sometimes you think he will die for you.

Sukuna enjoys pushing the blood about. Paints his symbols on your skin with the blood you both draw. You always smear it over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest and to his hips.

When there’s your fingerprints above his heart, you can always feel the tension in your body coil, somewhere beneath your navel, where heat pools so eagerly that you wonder if he feels it too, that need for him.

Because he always knows when you’re close. But you suppose he also knows in the way your breathing changes, in the way you push against him, in the way your walls cling to him as if to never let him go. That’s when his grip turns bruising, when his fingers dig into your flesh and you wonder each time if he’ll rip you apart or crumble like paper in his hold.

He bares his teeth when he comes, heavy grunts into the crook of your neck, hips flush against yours, an ache in your waist and your insides that will persist for several days. He fills you warm and endlessly and when you tumble over the edge with the help of his thumb between your legs, he smothers you with his whole weight.

You groan, exhaustion and ecstasy leaving you boneless and twitching in his arms. He always smiles then, softer, his face flushed, a sheen layer of sweat coating his brow and chest. Calls you his life, his love, his.

“Yours,” you try to sign back each time, a hand pressed to his heart where it beats just a bit faster.

His hand is large enough to cover your heart and curl around your ribs.

He kisses your tears that dry itchy on your skin. Licks the blood that has smudged and smeared and dried black.

Each time, hot and sticky, his seeds spills the moment he pulls out. And each time, he scoots back, regards you with this strange look and settles with his face between your legs.

You dig your hands into his hair, nails raking over his scalp and stare at the ceiling. You try to memorize this night. He loves you with all of him and you, you might just be the only altar he ever kneels at.

With a palm pressed firmly against your lower belly, he laps up all he’s given you. By now, it is a ritual. He fucks it into you, only to try and take it again. You don’t want to bear him children. Sukuna never asks you to. And so, he eats his seed from between your legs, feasts until you come undone again, panting and shaking where he holds you down and hums against your flesh.

Dizzy, blurred - you watch his dark eyes as they roam over your body, his erection still there, twitching and pulsing between your bodies.

Nights like these never end. There’s no sleep for the wicked, no rest for the deprived - no peace for the yearning. When the sun rises, he cleans you, swaddles you in blankets and holds you as close as he dares.

Your insides pulse with the memory of him.

Wordlessly, you two watch the darkness leave, golden rays of first light illuminating the statue outside your room, maple leafs red as blood.

You fall asleep with his hand against your lower tummy, his nose in your hair. Sweet nothings fill the air between you, whispered in the liminal space of dawn and slumber.

You think that Sukuna was never meant to create life - only ever take it. Uraume will be the closest to a child you will ever have. Maybe it’s for the best - this bloodline beginning and ending with him.

IX.

It takes him a month to declare war upon the Fujiwara Clan. Only three years to half their forces and have them scrambling, frantically hiding up north behind veils and talisman that do nothing to keep the King of Curses away.

He defeats some of the greatest names in sorcery, snuffs them out like candles. Broken wisteria sigils and severed bodies are all that’s left in his wake.

You never hear it through him, only ever hear about him, stories of merchants and wanderers and people who come to worship him at his shrine. Offerings start spilling out the building, lining the street like hopeful, eager devotees.

There is no end to his reign.

Sukuna will continue to fight and murder and torment until there is nothing left.

Visits are short, bruises and bite marks lingering longer than his touch. You mark him up as best you can, keepsakes for the road, good luck charms while he fights the world.

Recently, you’ve started to come to think of him as an Oni, strong and powerful and deadly - not one of the brutish ogres but ancient guardians. You like to think he’s here to protect you, to keep you safe from the world that’s done you so wrong.

Once you’d tried to explain it, compared one of the intricate paintings to him and he’d grinned. Lopsided and thoroughly entertained.

“An Oni? And what are you then? My own Onryō?”

It’s almost romantic, the idea that you haunt him as much as he haunts you.

Almost, as long as you don’t think too much about the idea you might the reason he’s always gone.

X.

The rule of beasts leaves your bedside empty.

Sukuna ravages Japan. And just like you feared, you are left haunting your own halls.

When you stare at the statue that stares back at you, you think of the time you first met, when you offered him a peach, juices dripping from your hands. In a way, even all these years later, Sukuna tries to repay you for that offering. Now that you can afford it, you slice a peach each day, set it out by the door, like you’re trying to feed the rabid dogs that stalk the streets at night, hoping he will find it if he returns. If it’s still there the next morning, still untouched and Sukuna nowhere to be seen, you place it at the foot of the statue, offer it up to him in all the other ways you can, try to erect your own little shrine where only your offerings count.

By now, the shrine at the road is overrun with pilgrims who come to worship a king who’s never home.

Sukuna repays you in raw meat. He repays you in dangling heads and claimed weapons. In yet warm bodies he killed in your name, kanji edged into the side of his blade.

All your life you’ve been weak for him. And when he offers you the dead, you accept them with a smile, with a hand over his chest and a mass grave of body parts in your backyard. You don’t tell him that you let the bodies be burned the moment he leaves again. Don’t tell him that the stench of rot makes your stomach twist, that the flies have you on edge, that all the death he causes has no home in your halls.

May he wage war in all of Japan, as long as your place stays clean of it.

All you ever wanted was peace. Safety. Him.

So when he returns, a slice of peach between his fingers, freshly washed and barely dressed, you get to see all the scars that have marked his body, cruel and vicious, in all the places only you should ever reach. Only your nails should ever draw along, only your lips should ever touch.

He stops in the door, a set of arms crossed in front of his chest, another at his hip and the door frame, watching you with unguarded eyes.

The flickering light makes the scars look even worse, gashes that slice up his body as if he fell victim to his own cursed technique. You hate the sight of it, a frown apparent on your face as Sukuna clicks his tongue, already shifting into something harder, unapproachable.

“Thrilling to be greeted with disgust on your face, woman.”

You’re quick to school back your expression, to raise your hands to defend yourself.

“You’re hurt,” you sign and point an accusing finger towards him.

He barks in your face, pushing away from the door to step into the room, the pavilion suddenly very small for his presence alone.

“I’m a victor, I just like to collect memories of every fight.”

“Reckless,” you chastise and he bares his teeth at you, something that doesn’t quiet resemble a grin.

“Don’t project your own weakness onto me.”

It hits like a slap, hurts like one too. Your anger flares instantly, blinding and blistering.

You notice a routine in these encounters. He returns and if both of you are unlucky enough, you won’t be asleep and he won’t be exhausted and a fight will always surge.

You call him reckless and he calls you weak.

In some sense you both truly are.

He’s starving on a hunger he will never be able to still, thoughtlessly seeking out fight after fight. And you, you are weak, in every sense of his definition, in every way he considers inferior. You are no sorcerer, you are voiceless and small and people have used and taken from you ever since you were a child.

You insult him with every gesture you can.

He waves you off instead, not even worth his anger, turns away and you turn silent once more, silenced by his choice of ignoring you, of turning his back, of looking away. So you haul the next best thing.

Your blanket flutters uselessly through the air, falling to the ground not far from you.

Sukuna laughs.

And the next thing you throw is a vase, one of the pretty ones, with paint beneath the green glaze, gifted by an unnamed follower of his and handed to you because you liked it. Not anymore. Not in this moment. Not enough to refrain.

It hits his back, right between his shoulder blades and shatters on impact. The sound is an ugly one, something that rings in your ears as the shards fall like frozen raindrops. Some are stuck in his skin where the edges brim now red.

It’s the only way you can scream “Look at me!”.

Sukuna does, turns with a snarl on his lips and a rush towards you that leaves you frozen. In a heartbeat he’s there, crowding you, your back pressed against the fragile wood paneling as he corners you with all his arms, face to face, nose to nose.

“There you go, all my attention, spit out what you have to say or leave me be.”

It’s not fear that makes you tremble, but rage. Anger. Hopelessness at the unfair prospects. At the inevitable outcome.

“You will die!”

“I’ll die when I’m done. By my own choice. Have you so little trust in me?”

You think of all the people he’s bested, of all the blood he’s spilled, all the body parts in your backyard, burned like your farm, hidden beneath shallow layers of dirt. You think of wisteria sigils and an ancient, dead tree.

“People are coming for you - me. They will find a way to stop you.”

Your anger is a bad outlet. A shallow one. The fire is bright but dies just as quickly as it surged and you’re all of his definitions of weak when you feel the tears brim in your eyes, cling to your lashes.

His anger is a bottomless pit. A well he’s drawn from all his life. Sometimes you wonder if it leads right down to Yomi, where he draws all the violence, all the corruption from.

“They worship me!” he screams in your face and you can feel the spittle hit your skin, the heat of his anger as it washes over your face.

“They don’t know you. All my life I’ve fought so you could keep yours and this is your thanks?”

Silly, you think, how in the end, you both fight for the same cause. You fear for his life, if he continues fighting. He fears for yours if he stops.

Your hands sink to your side where you dig your nails into your palms until it stings. What use is there to argue when you’re the cause for his vigor, his obsession, his inability to stop.

Sukuna seizes the opportunity, a verbal finishing blow, beating you down in all the ways he can without laying a hand on you.

“You will be the death of me, woman!”

Your greatest fear taken shape, taken sound, drowning out the world. He claims you as his cause and in that, blames you for his failure that will ultimately come.

“I only ever wanted peace for us. Safety. A place to call ours and your hand in mine.” You phrase it clumsily, hands shaking, signs sloppy as tears blur your vision and spill down your cheeks.

Sukuna coils back as if they’re toxic. He’s always been powerless against your tears, the sorrow that’s burrowed so deep, not even he could carve it out of your flesh.

From the moment he met you, you were the beginning of his end.

He invited defeat right into his corner when he took you in. He should have known from the beginning, should have known that day at the shrine or that day at the farm or that day in your room. Should have known the moment he ate like a dog from your outstretched palm, the moment he ripped out the throats of men to ensure your safety or the moment you tore the very walls down to be able to look at his face. Or at least the moment he started sleeping by the door, your soft breathing at his back, guarding you like the dog he was.

He should have known because back then, you were only children, lonely and scared in your own ways, desperate to live or at least stay alive. And in the end, he thinks, this relationship only ever had a chance because it was formed in childhood, a bond honed on shared misery and meals, knowing each other inside and out.

He’s fought your demons every step of the way and you’ve held out peach after peach for him, even if he was always willing to bite the hand that fed him.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you might be the only soft one he possesses.

And that realization is utterly grounding, humiliating in a way only intimate things can ever be.

Your eyes shine like the moon, glossy and shimmering, tears tracking down your face in small rivers. You’re flushed from anger, or fear, or something else entirely. He’s aways been bad at this, reading your emotions, knowing what you’re thinking.

“Have I not given you all of that and more?” he hears himself ask and sees himself reflected in the black of your eyes, a halo of moonlight around him. A demon, a monster, a beast. He looks as ruinous as he feels ruined.

Your shoulders sag.

“I never needed any of this-“ you gesture, point at the pavilion and the estate beyond it. At the garden with the tree and the pond and the statue at your back.

All his life he’s fought for you, gave you anything you could need to learn you never really wanted it. No estate, no garden, no jewelry and layered gowns. You only ever wanted him - his presence.

Anger is the only defense mechanism he’s ever had, brutality the only shield he’s ever wielded.

So he shoves you and all his shortcomings away, pushes so hard at your shoulders that the wood behind you splinters, the paper rips and you tumble out into the cold afternoon sun, floorboards creaking beneath your weight as you loose balance and land in a heap of silk and tears on the veranda.

You find no sounds and no words and no signs to tell him of your pain, your misery, your fear. The sun is bright but cold, the shadows of tree and statue framing your form like some imaginary walls and as Sukuna stands before you - tall, broad, powerful - engulfed by the light that spills through the broken wall, you see him as all others must. Untouchable. Terrifying.

He’s showing you all you need to see to know he’s angry with the world. Nothing ever helped when he was angry like that.

And this time you are cause and reason for his wrath and fear dries your mouth, settles like dust along your windpipe. What really stops him from leaving you behind? For decades he’s outgrown, outpaced you. Somehow, he only now seems to realize.

So before he can discard you, you discard him. Panic makes you irrational. The rage of a prey animal fighting for it’s life.

“Go away!” you scream in all the ways you can, angry and furious and desperate and scared, with hands that shake and eyes that say everything you cannot.

Sukuna halts, stops approaching, only stares and so you sit and watch his tattoos and scars shift over his skin as your words sink in. They are blurry from your tears, dance across his body like shadows. Even now, even in his anger, he’s beautiful.

Another push to the wall that still stands, wood groaning under the punch before he turns and stalks away and you know he will leave, will abandon you again because for the first time in your life, you told him so. Men like Sukuna can only ever calm themselves with distance and blood. So much blood.

There’s still pottery shards stuck to his back, like cut wings they protrude from his skin, thin trails of blood running down to the dimples at his back. He still has claws, still is able to bring ruin but you might just be the only rodent that ever had the chance to fight back a black kite.

Others would call it an achievement.

Why do you feel so hopeless when he steps out of sight, a trail of blood following out the door.

XI.

He’s back sooner than expected. You were ready to endure and yearn for months, the blood cleaned from the floorboards, the remaining shards of the vase laid out on a plate before his statue like it’s your attempt to offer back his wings, feather by feather.

To heal what you broke, to return what you’ve taken.

You have made not a single attempt to fix the wall. With the paper and wood now gone, your room is freezing. Early winter has yet to see snow, but there’s no warmth to find you, either. You’re trapped beneath your blankets, futon so dented that you feel like you’re laying right on the tatami. You haven’t gotten up since you offered back the fragments of your anger, chased every servant and maid away with vicious words and a blade in your hand.

It’s one of his, usually mounted to the wall in one of the greater halls, now halfway hidden beneath your bedside. The hilt is simple, the blade slightly curved. It’s the one he taught you to hold and wield and fight with all those years ago.

With his heavy footsteps echoing along the hallway that leads to your domain, you force yourself upright, body sluggish and stiff from the cold.

Your blankets pool in your lap, tomesode disheveled and reeking of the inability to move that’s befallen you the past days. You know he won’t care, won’t be bothered by your unkempt hair. If at all, he will be bothered by the fact that you’ve not touched the food you’ve been brought and the curses that most likely linger about.

You brush the fabric of your gown, run a hand through your hair and sweep a finger along the corners of your eyes and mouth.

The smile you give him when he steps through the door is an honest one, relief flooding you like the first warm rays of sun after a long winter.

Then everything stops.

It’s not Sukuna who stands in your space, but an unknown sorcerer, wisteria mon stitched to the lacing of his armor. Memories of a night in flames fill your vision as you scramble to your feet and pull the blade from beneath your futon. It clanks against the bamboo flooring as you try to drag it upwards, holding it out with shaking arms.

You have no idea how he got past the guards, the gates, the walls. Past even more guards, past your servants and maids, without a single sound reaching you. For a moment, you think of Uraume, somewhere at the eastern coast, holding their own in Sukuna’s name.

The sorcerer laughs, something cruel around their mouth and the bend of their brows as he steps into the room, corners you against your broken wall.

There must be more, you think. More who’ve infiltrated your estate and killed and ruined everything. Once again, the Fujiwara Clan takes from you.

But Uraume isn’t there to save you. Neither is Sukuna. There is your frightened heart and your quivering arms and the blade that dances before you in your trembling hands. It’s heavier than you remember. Still, you grit your teeth and threaten the man.

With the King of Curses as your teacher, you have to hold your ground. Long enough for someone to come and aid you. You have to.

So when the man before you laughs and there’s footsteps echoing through the garden at your back, through the corridors ahead of you, you snarl as best you can and take your stand.

It’s a quick fight, if a bloody one. Shortly after you take your first swing and slice one of the beautiful paintings in two, more people arrive. Fujiwara soldiers clad in lavender and black, with blades far bigger than yours and far steadier hands.

You channel everything you’ve learned over the years, think of Sukuna and Uraume as you hold your ground and strike down five of your attackers. You attribute it to luck, mostly. The blade catching between the folds of their armor, slicing through unguarded throats and wrists and armpits. They underestimate you. You surprise them.

And in the end, nobody comes to help you.

Eventually, your enemy tires of it’s game. Enough bodies have fallen, your own skin now burning with cuts and bruises, your gown sliced at the arm, your leg wobbling with some fierce, blurry pain.

He grins when he approaches you and when you swing at him, he blocks it effortlessly, no more strength in your arms, the blade uselessly clattering and skirting across the room.

You think of Sukuna, his blood-eyes and his anger. How easily he broke the wall. Eyes flicking towards your only other exit, you try to make a run for it. Knee jerking and pain shooting up your hip with each step you take, your skirts gathered in your sweaty hands.

Your pursuer is in no rush. He has to duck through the hole in your home, steps out onto the veranda with a laziness only the powerful can hold. You climb over the fence that separates you from your gardens, run through the neatly cut grass, the sandy paths. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be as you halt before the stone statue, Sukuna’s four eyes cold and unbothered as they watch your demise.

The last thing you ever did to him was chase him out the door. The last thing you ever did was done in anger, despair and fear. Sukuna will never know how sorry you are. You’ll never hold his face again, never feed him another peach, never love him in cold moonlight.

They catch you at the base of the statue, a sudden force in your back pushing you forward, head crashing into the cold stone where pain explodes white and blinding.

This is worse than the time on the road. Worse because it’s your home, the place you’re supposed to be safe.

When they hold you down, you kick and scratch and bite at them. But what’s the bite of a mouse against the talons of a bird of prey. You’re a rodent in your self-imposed prison, trapped by circumstance and destiny. Found food for predators like them.

Despite the pain and the ache in your heart, you manage to scratch him, long nails raking over his face and leaving lines of blood in their wake. He spits at you, slaps you in the face hard enough you see stars.

But the killing blow does not come. Instead, they bind your hands, gag you because you keep biting, tie your ankles together with enough pressure your feet grow numb in moments. You struggle through all of it, stare at them with all the hatred in your heart and make it an effort for them every step of the way.

One of the soldiers picks you up, knocks over the collected remnants of the vase and the platter with frost-covered peach slices, trampled beneath heavy boots. You watch their fuzzy skin break, soft flesh squished and coated with dirt.

When they drag you through your home towards the gates, you can only stare as the bodies pass you. The guards are all dead, blood leaking in puddles from their bodies, weapons discarded and broken.

When you find one of your most attentive maids, ignorant or unwilling to your stubborn isolation, tears finally spill. Her gown is torn, limbs angled strangely as her eyes stare blankly towards you. Even the red paint of her lips is smudged, dragged across her pale cheek like yet another smear of blood. You never bothered to learn her name. Now you’ll never be able to remember her properly.

The whole estate is a graveyard. Soon, your struggles die down and you’re left sobbing and hiccuping as you’re carried out the gates. They throw you over the back of a horse, limbs tingling or already numb.

“Sure it will work?” someone drawls, eyes squinting at you as you fight the nausea of hyperventilation.

“He’ll come for her. Now we just have to be patient.”

You’re sure your ribcage will crack right open, spill your lungs and heart and sorrow right onto the road below and you’ll be relieved of this horror, this terror in your heart.

They’ve realized what the two of you have only learned recently.

Sukuna will come for you. He will tear the whole world down for you, search every corner of Japan to get you back. All his life he’s done so.

A very small part of you hopes he’s angry enough to abandon you, to let the trap stay empty, let the mouse starve and move on to bigger, better prey.

You’re the only weak spot he’ll ever have and you have no choice but to let them use you.

XII.

Your prison is a temple in the middle of nowhere.

As you’ve learned over the travel with your attackers, the one who lead the attack is no other than one of the five Empty Generals of the Fujiwara Clan. You’re shell-shocked but not stupid. He’s a powerful sorcerer, clever and resourceful. His expectation of the upcoming fight is realistic, if clouded by his own idea that Sukuna would hold back because you are involved. You do not correct him. Do not tell them of your fight with his King of Curses, that the hole in your house was his doing, that he left in anger, wordless and blind.

They trap you in the main hall of the building, like an offering on the shrine, in rope and talisman. The paper tags cover the walls, the shrine itself, even your wrists as if you could cause any harm to them.

You’re not sure if they’re just careful or frightened.

Someone told them who you are. But they do not know the extend of you. You don’t give them the satisfaction of showing just how weak you are compared to your husband.

Your tears have long since dried, the cuts scabbed over, the bruises now dark and blurry, wandering beneath your skin like lazy jellyfish.

None of the people around you approach. Nobody dares to address you. Not that you could answer them - not that you would.

So you stare at the floor, intricate tatami and dust.

The temple is old, and there’s irony in it - that you first found him at the shrine and he’s now supposed to die in one.

A small part of you hopes Sukuna doesn’t care. That he won’t bite, won’t be lured into this trap set in the shape of your body.

A far bigger part begs for his presence. For his anger to flare so hot and blinding that the General and his goons will not know what hit them. You dream of his hands that always knew how to hold you together, think of his smile that drags one corner of his lip further up than the other. The soft curls in his hair after months on the road. The taste of iron and salt on his lips. The growl that makes his chest vibrate and your body tingle.

You try to tell yourself that both of you always knew it would end like this.

Either you will die here, starved to death or killed out of boredom because their target won’t come. Or Sukuna will level this temple, fight with tooth and nail and claws and anger until they will kill him. Before your inner eye, you see them stripping him limp by limp, laugh and joke at his expense while he spits and bites and fights until his heart gives out among blood and gore and your tears.

Time turns liminal.

The shrine holds no windows and with the candles always burning, the outer world is as distant as your hope.

When the first scream echoes through the building, your body has become a shell. By now, all that holds you up are the ropes, braided fibers having dug deep enough to draw blood and turned your wrists an ugly purple.

It’s a blood-curdling thing, one that starts already too high and ends too abruptly. You’ve learned what death sounds like and with the echo still lingering, you know he has come for you.

The guards that are with you glance at each other, then you. And you, you smile, overrun by relief - hope, making your painful heart flutter -, vision blurry with tears that spill heavy and hot, but you bare your teeth and smile because Sukuna has come for you. He has come to find you, safe you, hold you.

How could you ever think he would abandon you. The same boy that ate from your outstretched palm, the boy that killed for you, that hunted down your attackers, the boy that offered you severed heads and countless flowers.

Your tears taste almost sweet as you struggle once again against your bindings.

The guards hiss something, threaten you in hushed words that do not even reach you. All you can hear is the chaos unfold. More screams, the screech of weapons and beneath it all, the roar of his power, his energy - as distinctive and particular as his fingerprints.

Without thinking you start to scream. Shout as loud as you can, whatever noise you can make into the halls until it echoes like the dying cries of soldiers. You hope he will hear you, will know where to find you.

But it’s not him who finds you next, but a whole group of soldiers, lining each side of you, weapons raised, jaws tense with determination.

For a flickering moment, you fear they will be enough to kill him.

Then, the world around you shifts.

Black and ruinous it consumes these holy halls, skeletons sprouting from the ground like morbid weed. This is how you know he’s close.

You’ve never been inside his domain, never fell victim to the wreckage of it all. Panic consumes the group around you, someone coming close enough to pull you by the hair, set a blade against your throat.

The metal is cold, chases chills down your spine.

Despite the knowledge that he’ll come for you, fear reigns supreme.

It locks your body into a frozen state, where your heart hammers away as if it tries to leave you too, your lungs straining to catch up.

The first attack that slices through the air cuts two of the soldiers clean in half, severs the rope that holds up your right arm. None of them have time to scream as your hand uselessly falls to the ground, the continuous strain forcing it into a limp appendage that dangles at your side. The man behind you loosens his grip, just enough to let you make a split second decision.

Sukuna won’t be able to do what he has to while you’re in the way. They were right about that and you won’t let them find any proof of it.

So, with all the strength you have left in you, you push yourself up, throw your head back where it collides with the man’s nose, a crunch where bone breaks. It leaves a dull throb at the back of your head but you’re already on your feet, following the line of rope that still has you tied down, trying to get away from the main forces.

The General at your side blindly lunges at you but you duck, make yourself as small as possible while you hear another soldier drop with the whirring of another slash cutting through the room.

Your legs shake as you stumble over skulls and ribcages. Horns of deceased cattle poke against your legs, cutting through the first layers of your skin as you scratch past them. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think of the livestock he used to kill, the cows and bulls and sheep and chicken - anything to keep both of you fed.

Pressing yourself to the walls of the temple, where the surface is now sticky, dripping with blood, you try not to look at the carnage around you.

He’s come to save you, to bring you back to your blankets, to the red maple leafs and the peaches you get to slice each morning. He’ll hold you when this is over, will lick your tears away and love you in the moonlight, slow and fierce and devoted.

At your periphery, the General stares with fear in his eyes. You can see how he realizes that he’s already lost, that there’s no way he’ll stand, trapped in a domain as violent as this. But in that split-second he realizes his defeat, something else flashes across his face, skin pale, lips drawn into a thin line as his eyes skitter towards you.

With one rope around your wrist still tight, you have nowhere to run.

It pulls at you as you try to dart away, a force so vicious it rips at your shoulder, has you lose your balance as the bone cracks. The pain is immense, has you whimper and stare with teary eyes at the strange curve of your arm. You’ve seen it before, if only in enemies. You had no idea a dislocated shoulder was that agonizing.

When the General is upon you, there’s nowhere to go. He slashes at you, sword held high before he strikes you and you have nothing but your good arm to raise in defense.

It hurts, enough to make you scream again, but adrenaline makes you bear it, has you grit your teeth and kick at him. Far from strong, far from enough, but sufficient enough to have him halt for but a moment.

Behind him, at the other side of the room, beneath the torii that groans under skulls not previously there, Sukuna enters.

With shadow clinging to his form, he’s a curse taken shape. A demon in his own right. His name leaves your lips without a sound, you breathe it into the space between you and watch his face contort with something only you ever got to see.

Suspended in time, there’s nothing else but you and him. For a moment, all there is are his ruby eyes, scanning your body for injury and finding them. Relief floods you, hope and sorrow and utter love for the man who chose you every step of the way, no matter how difficult you made it for him.

His own face splits with a softness he’s only ever held for you, a devotion written in blood, a love covered in teeth marks and scratches.

Then he’s swarmed, rushed by all the warriors that previously entered, cursed energies running rampant as domains are cast, techniques revealed. For a long, lingering moment, the world shatters around you.

But among it all, Sukuna’s eyes are on you. You know all you need to do is hold out a bit longer, fight for him as he fights for you so you can make it to him he can make it to you.

So when he unleashes another rain of slashes, a slice through the air severs the other rope, nicks the General’s face, a part of his ear dropping to the ground as he howls.

Without hesitation, you run towards the safety of Sukuna.

You do not feel the blade until it’s too late.

It’s a frantic attack, uncontrolled, uncoordinated. You’re not sure where he’s meant to hit you, but the blade finds your midsection and pushes through until it comes out at the other side. For a heartbeat, you see it, protruding from your stomach like some metal thorn, coated red. Then, your own momentum pulls you away from the sword, pushes you further towards Sukuna because he’s the only safe space you’ve ever known.

You do not get to make it to him.

Blood soaks your gown. Dark and heavy it drags you to the ground and you only realize you’re on the floor when your head hits the straw. It’s not hard, doesn’t even intensify the dull ache that’s lingered there since you’ve fought your way out. You hear your heartbeat, loud and fast in your ears, like a rabbit it runs to catch up to you and for a moment, you can imagine it’s Sukuna’s footsteps, coming to aid you.

Something rings across your skull, rings in your ears, your body, the whole shrine. Something that tugs on you, tears at your arms and your legs, your chest and your very heart. You don’t realize he’s screaming until your eyes find him, world on a slant, a heap of bodies in his wake as he rushes for you.

You smile at him.

He’s come for you. You’re safe.

XIII.

Sukuna is too late. The distance between you and him insurmountable as you’re cut down. Slaughtered like an animal right before his very eyes.

The sound that tears from his chest is one he’s never heard himself make before, something raw enough to crack his very bones. As they come to fight him, he cannot look away from you, dropped to the ground in a heap of red silk and blood. He’s not sure where one starts and the other ends.

So, Sukuna slices and cleaves until there’s only his scream that echoes, his scream that rattles the very shrine as he sinks to the ground beside you.

You know it’s him before you can make sense of it. Strong hands that lift and pull you close, that hold your very body together as it falls and fails all around you.

When you manage to lift your eyes from the bare chest that’s warm and familiar, the smell of him all around you, Sukuna looks devastating.

You’ve never quiet seen him like this - raw and vulnerable, soft in all ways he’s never been. Tender like a bruise as he cradles you.

You sigh in his hold, feel waves of heat wash over you as your body convulses with shudders you can’t place. Here, in his arms, you’re safe.

The mats are drenched with your blood, it bubbles between the straw as he moves and can’t find it in him to be gentle.

Your body is a weak thing, always has been, so much smaller than his, always ever meant to love and give and trust him. When he cradles your form, lifts you off the floor and into his own arms, you make a strange sound, half sigh and half hiss, pain dulling your eyes.

He knows he’s too late when the blood pools in your lap in the span of a few staggering heartbeats. Still, Sukuna tries to stem the bleeding, stop it with a hand pressed to your abdomen as he’d done so many times before, if only for other reasons. Now, there’s warmth covering his hand, a spreading splodge of blood dying the fabric of your dress even darker.

You think you hear your heart break as you regard him. Or maybe it’s his as his palm presses against you. Not sure, nothing sure as you watch his haunted eyes, blurry red as he struggles against your wounds.

His last words were cruel to you, your last act was to send him away.

All you want to do now is kiss the sorrow from his face, hold him as close as he will let you. You want to apologize for not believing in him. You want to ensure he knows you always loved him. Still do. Always will.

Your eyes flutter, search for him in a feverish, unfocused way, pupils blown so wide there’s nothing else left to stare at. Tears clump your lashes together, lips pale as you open your mouth without making a sound.

“They don’t get to take you. You’re mine,” he says, uselessly and you, you have the nerve to smile at him.

Other times, he would shake you, call you names but now it breaks him.

Your hands aren’t yours. Neither are your arms. Or any part of your body beside your stutter-heart that feels like an abrasion inside your very chest.

Lifting your hands doesn’t fail by lack of trying, but your dislocated shoulder leaves one limb discarded and dragging on the ground, the other is crushed between his body and yours, hand uselessly curved across your chest.

You try to will your fingers to move, to sign something, anything. To show him you’re trying to be sorry.

But your body fails you, again and again, it grows cold and weaker with each heartbeat, vision swimming as you struggle to keep him in your sight.

He’s always believed the world was meant to break for him, meant for him to tear it apart - a gift of the gods or the world or just pure chance. He’d reveled in it, in the power to take and to ruin. But now, here, with you in his arms and your ribcage fluttering against his chest like a frightened bird, he wishes for nothing more than to be able to mend something. To stitch your skin back together, to heal whatever the blade has cut inside you, collect the blood that’s leaving you and pouring it right back into your veins.

Never in his life has he needed to heal something, to put things back together because the only one who ever broke something was him. Now, he quietly begs for it, even attempts to do just that, pouring cursed energy into your form as if it could fix what was broken. Nothing happens beside a low groan on your part, so frail he barely hears it.

There’s a pit in your stomach, a pulsing force pressing forward, only hemmed by his strong hand.

You can feel your life leaking out of you, realize, with absurd clarity when everything else turns blurry and vague, that you’re dying.

Fear spikes.

It has your body tremble in his hold, a finger twitching but not by your will.

Panic surges like your blood and you’re consumed by the thoughts and realization of not being able to share your thoughts. He’ll never know you’re sorry. Never know you love him, with all you have you love him. You’re his.

He cannot speak as he cradles you closer, his hand against your wound and your face pressed against his chest. His heart hammers for the two of you, loud and strong and relentless and he wishes it would work like this. That something for once was that simple or just enough.

But nothing ever is in this world. He’s known it since he was a child. Violence will only ever be answered with violence and death always begets death. The weak do not survive, only the strong do and they only ever do so with brutality. All his life Sukuna has fought for his place in this world. He’d thought keeping you in his shadow was enough.

Safely tugged away in a corner of his dominion, with anything you could ever ask for, he’d considered you untouchable. Sukuna should have learned from the farm, should have learned from the whispers and the tales.

I love you, you want to say.

I’m so sorry I send you away. I’m sorry I got angry. I’m sorry.

Nothing of this is your fault. You did what you could and I was too weak to keep up with you.

You taught me to fight and to live and to love.

Stayed when nobody else did.

Promise me this won’t break you. Promise me to keep Uraume safe.

I’m yours. I’ll always be yours.

Some darker part of you, the one with his edges and his claws, thirsts for revenge.

Kill them in my name or at least in my memory. Make them pay for what they took from us. For the farm and the maple tree, the peaches and all the mice they have killed before, plug the feathers from each black kite you find until all the mice are yours.

Above you, Sukuna sobs.

He’s never cried before. It’s an offensive feeling, water leaking from his eyes, nose all congested and throat so tight he can’t speak anymore. Sukuna tries to breathe through it, hates how you get all blurry and dull when the tears cloud his vision. Even with four arms, he has no hand to spare to wipe them away.

He can see your hands tremble, knows you well enough to tell you want to talk to him, hates to realize you’re too weak to lift even a finger.

All this life of shared silence, of deft hands and a language only the two of you speak - suddenly, you’re rendered voiceless despite it all.

At the corner of your vision, darkness lurks. Like a predator it creeps closer, dulls your senses until even the pressure of his hands on your body become something muted and faint. Your eyes wander along the curve of his brows, along his sharp cheekbones to a mouth you never tire of kissing. There’s tension in his jaw, making the muscles at his chin twitch. A vein pulses at his throat, right beside the ink that slithers like a snake with each breath he takes.

His eyes are the color of ruby. Of blood and the leafs on your favorite tree. The color of love.

Death takes you quietly.

All the things you wanted to say stay stuck in your throat, hidden by cold hands.

All the things he wanted to tell you fall on deaf ears when he finally finds his voice again, choked by dread.

“I’m not angry at you. I never could be, not for long. I just needed some time, some air, some space. I didn’t mean for it to take so long. I only ever tried to keep you safe.”

He recognizes the look in your eyes, that dull stare that sees nothing at all.

Even in death, you look frightened.

“Don’t leave me here,” he dares you, spits the words in your face as if their viciousness could reach you, a command you can’t ignore, not even in death.

But your body is still, that rodent-heart of yours no longer hammering against your ribs. In stillness, in death, you look even smaller in his arms that are too large, his hands that are too brutal.

He almost drops you with the shock of it.

He’d always thought you’d be his demise, his downfall, the one who would eventually usher in his own death. He never thought it would be him.

He’d called you the death of him and he’d been yours without even realizing.

Girls like you are not meant to fall in love with beasts like him.

Haunted by your very own Oni.

Sukuna stares at the puddle of blood in your lap, where it drips, drips, drips from your silk gown into the ground, where his hand is covered in our gore, shining in the light of the flickering candles.

He’d called you his Onryō in jest. Now he begs for you to return to him. Even as a ghost, even as a demon.

“You’re mine. You’re mine and I’m yours. So come back to me,” he asks of you, shakes you gently in his arms where your body jostles around, head wobbling before it falls to the side, rest against his chest as if you would only take a quick nap.

“Haunt me, torment me, anything! Come back to me.”

There’s no breath ghosting against his chest, nothing to warm your body as you lay there, limp and lifeless.

“You were supposed to be the death of me!”

XIV.

The rivers of Japan run red.

The Land of the Rising Sun dies a slow death. An agonizing one.

A blood moon each night as the body toll rises.

You do haunt him, in dreams. There, you can speak and you beg him to join you. You feed him peaches and you hand him flowers. He watches you sing beneath a red moon and always wakes, before he can lay a hand against your skin.

Out of all the pieces he’s made of, you were the only soft one he possessed. And without you, there’s nothing holding him back. Nothing on his side, at least. Only that eventually, gradually, there’s no more people to kill. No sorcerers who challenge him, no grand clans left standing who could attempt to oppose him.

It’s a lonely place, the top of the world, the top of the food chain.

All the mice and all the black kites are gone and he can feel himself starving, on boredom and loneliness. All that keeps him running is utter hatred for the world and that’s what eats him alive.

Kenjaku finds him on a gloomy day.

Voice soft and words eager - he knows how to speak to him. Knows what to say to make him listen, to make him hesitate with killing just long enough to hear him out.

And the proposition is a good one.

Revenge never truly ends - not for Sukuna, not after you.

He thinks he might be able to join you, somewhere, wherever you are - and return when the world has healed the wounds of his doing. He’s not convinced it ever will. The Fujiwara Clan is gone, so are all the Empty Generals and the Troops in the name of the Sun and the Moon and the Stars and whatever else they threw at him.

He can come back, avenge you as long as he wants, over and over, brutalize the world that has brutalized him.

Thunder rolls in the distance when Sukuna lays down his weapons.

Forgiveness is for kinder, wiser men than him.

He’s your Oni. A monster.

A beast.

And the rule of beasts demands violence.

And as Kenjaku smiles and settles before him, Sukuna realizes that you truly were the beginning of his end.

Only you could have this impact. To be haunted by you, even in his own death. To chase you, even after life.

Only you could have ruined him so thoroughly.

PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU. 

Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you. 

And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you. 

Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.

To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable. 

Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room. 

But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.

His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.

It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.

“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks. 

“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.

“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers. 

“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it. 

“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.

Ouch. Does he not want you touching him? 

You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void. 

You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown. 

Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this. 

You wish he would just kiss you. 

Just once. 

Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.  

“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.  

Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.  

“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”  

The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty. 

Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.  

Because deep down, you know.  

Jongseong is lying.

You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.

“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—” 

“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision. 

In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice. 

And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks. 

An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face. 

“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence. 

“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.” 

Your breath hitches.  

The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.  

Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.  

You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.  

Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.  

And neither was his.  

For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.  

You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.  

“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.  

“Jongseong—”  

He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.  

You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.  

There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.  

Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.  

Park Jongseong had never kissed you.  

And at this rate, you aren't  sure if he ever will.

THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.

You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.

Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.

Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”

The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.

You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.

“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”

The words taste sour in your mouth. 

You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.

He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.

“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.

Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”

Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.

You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.

You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.

The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.

As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.

Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.

You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.

You walk side by side in silence towards the car.

You can't hold it in any longer.

“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.

Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.

“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.

“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”

He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”

You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”

You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”

His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”

You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.

“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”

The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.

For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.

But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.

When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.

You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.

But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.

So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.

And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.

Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.

PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.

But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.

And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.

No. He does nothing.

Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.

He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.

9:30 am, he reaches his office building.

The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.

The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.

“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.

He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.

The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.

A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.

Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.

“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”

“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”

A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.

When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”

But Jongseong shakes his head.

“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”

He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.

Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.

Birthday.

The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.

He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.

A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.

But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.

“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.

A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.

Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.

Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.

His breath falters, you remember.

His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.

And the scent hits him instantly.

Curry.

Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.

Something coils in his chest.

Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.

JAY

Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.

It indeed spells, JAY.

He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.

Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.

And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.

By you.

“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.

Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.

“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”

“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.

Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”

“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”

“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”

Jongseong glares at him.

“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”

Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.

“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”

“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”

Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.

Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.

“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”

Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again. 

Finally, blessed peace.

He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.

A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.

But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.

YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.

Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.

He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.

“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”

He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.

He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.

But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.

Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.

But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.

Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.

Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.

Is that you?

Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.

“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”

You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.

But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”

“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”

“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?

“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”

You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.

“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”

He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”

Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.

But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.

“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.

He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”

The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.

“I won’t go—”

“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”

Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.

“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.

“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.

He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”

The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.

And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.

His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.

“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”

You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.

“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.

“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”

Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.

You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.

You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”

Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.

“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”

He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.

When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.

“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”

“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.

“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”

“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.

You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.

“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.

“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”

“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”

There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.

It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?

“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.

He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”

Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.

Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.

“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.

You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.

RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.

Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.

It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.

You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.

The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.

You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.

You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.

You hope none of that was your imagination.

Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.

That’s when someone steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.

You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”

“You look tired.”

“You have no idea.”

He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t notice the shift in the room.

But Jongseong does.

He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.

The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.

He downs his drink.

“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”

He doesn’t hear it.

Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.

The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.

Why are you smiling like that?

He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.

And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.

He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.

You feel it before you see him.

The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.

He’s coming toward you.

Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.

Your heart stutters.

You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”

Jongseong stops beside you.

Too close.

Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong says calmly, nodding once. Polite. Cold.

“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.

Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”

He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.

Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.

“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”

Your breath catches.

Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.

Not entirely touching you.

Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.

“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”

When he leaves, the space collapses.

You’re alone with Jongseong.

Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.

“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.

“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.

He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.

“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.

You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.

“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”

For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.

“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”

His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.

Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.

But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.

“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.

“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”

He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

But he isn’t.

You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.

“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.

“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”

The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.

At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.

“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”

You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.

When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.

His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”

He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.

“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”

You freeze.

His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.

You don’t move.

Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.

And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.

It makes him tell the truth.

YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.

Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.

You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.

Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.

If anything, he does the opposite.

He lingers.

At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.

After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.

You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.

But rules blur when he learns your steps.

He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.

It’s never announced. Never even whispered.

It just happens.

And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.

Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.

That’s when it starts to bleed through.

In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.

At night, he sleeps closer.

Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.

You start waking before him just to watch.

The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.

You don’t ask, even when you know you should.

Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.

The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.

You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.

Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.

“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“So are you,” you reply.

He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.

Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.

He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

That alone feels like a confession.

The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.

“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”

You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.

Breakfast is quiet after that.

He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.

It’s barely noticeable.

But you notice.

You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.

“You already have one,” you say.

“I know.”

He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”

He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”

You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.

“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”

You look up at him, still braced.

“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.

Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.

He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.

“I can share,” he says.

You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.

But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.

It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.

Jongseong comes home late.

You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.

You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.

He doesn’t greet.

His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.

“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.

“I know,” he replies, cold.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

Something prickles.

“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.

His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.

“I was busy.”

The way he says it feels deliberate.

You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”

Silence.

You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”

His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”

“I am okay,” he snaps.

The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He sees it.

Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”

The words land badly.

“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”

That does it.

He crosses the space between you in three strides.

Too fast. Too close.

You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.

The sound it makes is soft.

The effect is not.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.

“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”

Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”

You don’t move.

You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”

His eyes darken.

Because he wants to kiss you.

Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.

You think this is it.

Then he pulls back.

Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.

He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”

He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.

And how far he ran.

PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.

He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.

Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.

Just for a fraction of a second.

He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.

The bedroom door opens softly behind him.

“Jongseong?”

Your voice.

He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.

You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.

“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”

The question hangs between you.

Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.

His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.

Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.

“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.

“You look—”

“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”

The moment collapses.

Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”

The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words

----

The family house is already alive when you arrive.

Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.

“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”

Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.

“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”

He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”

That’s not an answer.

You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.

You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”

His jaw ticks. “All of it.”

“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.

He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”

“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”

Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.

Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.

Conversation starts harmless.

Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.

But then the atmosphere shifts.

“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”

Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.

Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”

She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”

Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”

You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”

“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”

The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.

You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.

“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”

Fortunate.

The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.

You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”

You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.

Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.

Jongseong’s fork stops moving.

It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.

He looks at you. Really looks this time.

The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.

“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.

His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”

“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”

His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”

The silence thickens.

His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.

His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”

Jongseong turns to him slowly.

For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.

“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”

He stops. Breathes shakily.

“—my wife.”

The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.

“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”

A pause.

“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”

You move before anyone can stop you.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.

No one stops you. No one knows how.

You walk out before the tears can fall.

The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.

You don’t hear him at first.

“Y/n—!”

Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.

You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.

You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.

Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.

“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”

Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, “You’re not.”

He doesn’t ask for permission.

Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”

He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.

Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.

The house disappears behind you.

THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.

Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”

“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”

He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”

He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.

The silence stretches.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”

He doesn’t look up. “I did.”

“I could defend myself—”

“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”

Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”

Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.

“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”

His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”

That makes him stop again.

“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”

His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.

“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I should’ve been there faster.”

You look at him then. “You caught me.”

“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.

His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.

Then Jongseong straightens.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”

His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.

“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”

You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”

His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.

“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”

The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.

His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.

“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”

“Contained from what?”

“From wanting more,” he admits,  voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”

“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.

Almost reverent.

The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.

He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.

He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.

“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.

“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.

Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.

You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.

He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”

His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.

He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.

“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”

He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”

“Jay,” you answer.

He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.

Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive

He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.

“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.

MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.

The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

You wake first.

For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.

Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.

You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.

Jongseong looks different in sleep.

Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.

Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.

“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”

He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.

“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.

You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes his eyes open again.

Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.

“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”

“A little,” you admit. “You?”

He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”

There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.

“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.

“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”

Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.

Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.

Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”

You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”

He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.

You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.

As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.

And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.

You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.

That’s when you notice the folder.

Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.

Your stomach twists.

You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.

But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.

You stand.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.

You pull the paper free.

Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.

The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.

You scan the first page. And then the words blur.

Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.

Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.

Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.

You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.

Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.

But it doesn’t.

Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“Coffee will be ready in—”

The sentence dies in his throat.

You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.

“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.

When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.

The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.

Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.

“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.

He doesn’t answer.

That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.

“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”

He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.

“A while,” he admits.

The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.

“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”

His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.

“Years.”

The word drops into the room like a blade.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.

“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.

Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.

“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.

“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.

“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”

Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.

“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”

His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”

“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”

“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”

He stops himself.

Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”

“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.

The words don’t land right away.

They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.

“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”

He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.

“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”

You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”

“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”

You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”

“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.

“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”

“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”

He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”

The words gut you.

“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”

His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.

“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.

And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.

Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.

Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.

Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.

Love, most of all.

You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.

Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.

“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”

“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”

That hits him harder than shouting ever could.

Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”

The word hangs in the air between you.

Dying.

It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.

Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.

“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”

Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”

The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.

“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.

His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”

The words knock the breath out of you.

“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”

His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”

“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”

That does it.

Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.

Then he leans in.

The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.

“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.

“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.

“Sorry” you reply quietly.

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.

He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You are my future,” you say without thinking.

The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”

He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”

You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.

“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath stutters.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”

Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”

He winces like you’ve struck him.

“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”

Silence falls again, thick and heavy.

You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”

“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.

His face tightens, but he nods once.

Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.

“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I will marry you, Y/n.”

The certainty in his voice steals your breath.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.

“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”

Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”

Something inside you shatters completely at that.

You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.

Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.

“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.

His breath catches.

“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”

You still, listening.

“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”

He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”

Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.

“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.

“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”

A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.

“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”

You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”

He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.

He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.

And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.

Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.

EPILOGUE

The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.

There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.

Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.

So here you are.

The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.

Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.

Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.

The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.

You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.

Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.

This is real.

When you open them, you see him.

Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.

And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.

His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.

You start walking.

Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.

With every step, memories rise up uninvited.

The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.

And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.

You stop in front of him.

Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.

“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.

When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.

But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.

His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.

When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.

“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”

His voice steadies, just a little.

“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”

Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.

When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.

And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.

The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.

Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.

His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.

“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.

He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.

The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.

You and Jongseong take a step forward together.

The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.

“Jongseong?” you murmur.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”

You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.

“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”

“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”

So you walk slowly.

Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.

And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.

Your own thoughts are no less tangled.

Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.

You reach the middle of the aisle.

There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.

Jongseong exhales, long and slow.

“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”

You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”

His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.

“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”

You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.

It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.

“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.

The room seems to tilt.

For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.

Then his knees buckle.

The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.

Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.

“Jongseong—!”

The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.

His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.

“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.

Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.

AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛

edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3

©BYWONS, 2026 DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST

you grew up with daryl - but instead of riding bikes around the neighborhood and telling fairy tales like a normal kid, you trauma bond over stories about your abusive family situations and collect empty beer bottles littered around both of your childhood homes to throw baseballs at, looking for any form of entertainment to get through the day. you’re practically neighbors, and as you grow up you’re more like brother and sister than just friends. shared trauma will do that to anyone.

during the summer, you stay awake and out of your homes until it’s dark, looking for frogs and eating berries, finding loose change on the road and walking the mile to the little convenience store in town to buy and share a bag of chips. you stay out until merle comes looking for daryl, or your own brother calls out to you, yelling, “get your ass inside or i’m locking you out!”

daryl and you always exchange a look, one that’s founded in humor, a ‘look what i deal with everyday’ expression while you try to act strong - but you both know it’s a very thin thread that holds your emotions, your hope, together these days. the only thing that brings a little light into either of your worlds is the friendship you have with one another.

you don’t have to hide around daryl. both of you can be your broken selves, show your bruises around each other. it’s not even embarrassing to bring daryl into your home, because his home is just the same. dirty, loud, a place that has you constantly tense and ready to defend yourself.

daryl is like your shadow, and you’re his. wherever you go, he goes. wherever he goes, you go.

you’re so close - until you’re not.

────

as teenagers, you grow apart.

you get pretty - and a little slutty. you look for validation from the mean guys at school, offer yourself up to any man that reminds you of your father. your beauty is your currency, your weapon, but also your biggest curse. makes it so you don’t even want to be around your father when he’s drunk, or your brother or his friends for that matter.

you’re busy, flunking your classes and stealing fashion magazines from the same convenience store you used to go to with daryl as kids with pockets full of change. you spend your time in bedrooms, mostly yours, hanging up photos from those precious magazines on your wall to cover up the cigarette smoke stained wallpaper. but you also spend a lot of time in the bedrooms or truck beds of different men.

sometimes, you wonder about daryl - the boy with the haunted eyes that was your lifeline and such a big part of your childhood. he’s just as much of the voice in your head as your own is, and when you walk home alone, from school or the store or past his house without catching a glimpse of him, you think back to the memories you shared together. the games you played, when there was still a little bit of innocence in the both of you.

like pretending to be cops, with daryl being the good cop and you being the bad. hide and seek by the stream in the woods that destroyed both of your school shoes, and you only got one pair a year, in just one weekend. grabbing an old bowl from your house to collect grass and leaves and little rocks and mud, so you could play family and make dinner, pretending the random squirrels that ran past you both were your pets. it was an idealized version of a family from the television you watched - because neither one of you have any actual memories of your mothers cooking.

or your favorite game: royalty, when daryl made you both crowns out of old grass and twigs and bestowed upon you the most important title you’ve ever held: mud queen to his mud king. like you were married or something.

on especially rough days in your present, you swear you see the tiny, muddy footprints of you and daryl when you’re walking on a trail back to your house. when you’d both check to make sure your fathers were at the bar or out of the house so you could sit next to each other on either of your couches, and share a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on stale bread, watch cartoons on televisions with grainy screens and bad audio.

you still remember how daryl likes his peanut butter sandwiches. lots of spread, a little jelly, and if there was one available - a whole banana smashed up inside.

you wonder if he remembers anything about you. you wonder if he even thinks of you at all.

────

daryl’s not like the rest of the guys in town, and that’s good - because he was always worried he would be. used to look at merle and your brother in disgust and hatred whenever they were high or drunk or just being themselves. and you don’t know daryl anymore, not at all, but what you do know about him, hear about him - you can tell that he kept those promises to himself.

promises to you, when you’re feeling extra sorry for yourself.

you have a memory of him walking into your bedroom so you could show him a new coloring book you got. you were much too old to be so excited about a coloring book, but daryl was ranting about how much he hated his family, and you wanted to cheer him up.

you notice this in your life even though you’re almost all grown up. maybe coming from poverty, having nothing, being denied a real childhood - it keeps you young. interested in things that normal people your age would’ve outgrown already.

like now, with your bed full of stuffed animals you could’ve never afforded as a kid, but that you’re so excited you can give to yourself now. back then, it was that coloring book that your mom’s boyfriend of the month, when she finally remembered she had a daughter and came to visit, gave to you. it had unicorns on it and you also had a brand new pack of crayons.

but when you opened your drawer looking for it, excited to show daryl, there was just a bunch of broken crayons and ripped up pages. your eyes watered, and daryl stopped his story about his father putting out a cigarette on his hand to see what was wrong. his expression fell, seeing what was in the drawer, and he picked up whatever was left of the coloring pages. your brother walked by your bedroom at the same time, and he saw what was in daryl’s hand.

he shook his head, and you couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. daryl stepped in front of you, and you don’t even think he realized he was doing it, but you remember that it was obvious that he was turning into a man. he was finally taller than you, and too strong now to climb up and into your favorite tree. your brother scoffed, like he was disgusted just by your presence.

you knew that feeling all too well.

“yer too old for a coloing book anyway. what you do to get that, huh? mom didn’t give me anything. she didn’t even say hi, but you - you whoring yourself out like her already?”

you saw daryl’s hand tense up. he grabbed onto the coloring book so hard it was damaging it more, but you didn’t say anything. just whispered, “let’s go for a walk,” as soft as you could until your brother walked away.

and on that walk, daryl grabbed at his hair and kicked empty cans in the road.

“god,” he groaned angrily, and you still remember that he was the only man or boy you’d ever been around who’s anger didn’t scare you. “i’ll never be like them. i swear it,” he ranted the entire walk. you stopped at the convenience store again.

the guy at the front hassled daryl about telling merle to pay up, and daryl hassled him back, which was unusual. you didn’t realize why he did that, until you both left.

on the way back home, daryl pressed a fresh pack of crayons into your hand. he had been distracting the guy at the counter so he could steal it. he shrugged. “can always just use regular paper,” he suggested, and you remember leaning on your tip toes to kiss his cheek.

nowadays, daryl sticks to himself, and eventually, drops out of high school. but you know he’s still in town because you see him sometimes when your brother drags you to the dixon place to pick up a bag of something to get him high. you never talk to daryl, but sometimes you see that he’s there, from his crossbow by the door or a banana on the kitchen counter - because merel wouldn’t eat that gay shit. or sometimes you hear him in his room, blasting music while merle bangs on his door and roars at him to “turn that shit down!”

you don’t know if he’s avoiding you or just avoiding the world. you wonder why you grew apart exactly. you have some theories, because there was never a falling out between you two. one day - you just stopped hanging out. you don’t even remember how it happened.

both of you just wanted to outgrow the shitty childhood you had, maybe hope for something better as you got older. did it happen? no. but the memories you have together are just reminders of the abuse you’ve seen the other handle. the dreams you bonded over, about escaping this town and your families - they never came true. looking at each other is just a reminder of that.

but your paths keep crossing. it is a small town, after all.

────

daryl sees you at a party one day, being shoved in a room by three guys that you don’t know beause you’re drunk and your reputation precedes you. he pulls you out of the room and gets in a fight in your honor, one against too many to win but daryl is a dixon and can hold his own. he walks you home and when you thank him he just shakes his head. won’t even look you in the eye. “quit bein fuckin’ stupid,” he says, and it hurts. but you know he’s not wrong.

it’s not your fault that you got shoved in a room, but it is your fault that you can’t say no. it is your fault, that you dumb yourself down so you’re easier to use, anything for a crumb of attention from a man who might be your ticket out of this town. you don’t want to be ashamed, but you are. of the woman you are, of the one you’re becoming - at the things you’ve done, just for an ego boost that ultimately ruined your self esteem even more.

daryl can see through you, even after all this time. and you hate it.

you see him smoking on the steps of a diner a few days later, eye bruised and black and nearly shut. his hair is dark and floppy and he’s so handsome, but your heart hurts when you see that even though he’s getting taller than his dad and merle, even though he’s strong now, the way he always used to wish he was as a kid, with big arms and shoulders from buffing up on his porch with the weights merle has - he’s still a punching bag.

you know the feeling. you gaze down at the bruise on your wrist, hidden by a tight sweater. it’s the sad proof that daryl is a stranger now, that you have to hide things from him that you never would’ve had to hide when you were kids. although: both are fucking sad situaions. the fact that you were kids, bonding over bruises anyway.

you walk up to him, and he offers you a cigarette. you shake your head. “good girl,” he says mockingly, and you hate the way that your body heats up. you can’t deny that you feel like he’s mocking you, like cigarettes are where you draw the line in terms of risky behavior, but you try not to dwell on it. it’s just nice to see him.

“they got you good,” you say, referring to his eye and the party. “thanks for helping me.” you don’t know what else to say, aren’t really thinking - you just want daryl to talk to you again. but daryl just shakes his head, scoffs and walks off. but not before putting his cigarette out, stepping on it with his scuffed up boot.

“wasn’t from that fuckin’ party,” he says, about his eye. “you know that.”

you don’t speak again for years.

────

in a blink of an eye, you go from two damaged kids to two fucked up adults.

daryl, a man now, big and strong and tough. handsome, dirty, rough. you see him in town sometimes, around his brother and their fucked up friends. or maybe they’re just merle’s friends, but you can’t judge. the people you hang around aren’t exactly good.

you hear the whispers about him, how nobody can read him, how he’s stupid, or a creep with anger issues - all things you know aren’t true. you know that, because they say shit about you too. that you’re stupid, slutty, a whore no better than your mother.

you don’t have an excuse for your behavior, but daryl does. you’ve got a television in your room now, and you watched a show one day that talked about…mental stuff. it was a little too complex for you to fully understand, but the doctor on the show explained somet things that just screamed out daryl to you. quiet, sensitive. they talked about some spectrum thing, and you wonder if that’s what daryl is on. why he’s so hard to understand.

why he dropped out when you saw him coming from a classroom that your peers used to always call the idiot class.

you wish you could tell him about it, but then again. what do you know? about life, or even about daryl in general.

you want out of this life, but you don’t know anything else. you don’t know how to get out. you wonder if daryl thinks about the future you used to dream about when you were kids. two apartments in the same complex, so you could always play together but got to experience your own space, you know? a big, color television. you have that now, but so does everyone. a fridge stocked with food and snacks. no beer allowed.

it’s a sad, funny thought. because every time you see daryl in town it’s with a beer bottle in his hand. and you, well - you’re never alone. never have truly experienced your own space that you’ve always yearned for.

these days, you see daryl as a stranger. not as a childhood friend. not anymore. and you certainly don’t see him as your brother. maybe you never did. because your brother is mean, with cruel hands and even crueler words. daryl could never be like that.

and you know that daryl doesn’t see you as his friend or his sister, or as anything different than the people in your town see you, because whenever he sees you at a bar in town, dressed up and on the arm of whatever shitty boyfriend you have, the way he looks at you, with the same disgust he used to look at your brothers with and something else in his eyes - it makes that clear.

although, when you’re hopeful, you hope that disgusted look is meant for whatever man you’re with and not you.

sometimes, when you know you might see him in passing, you dress up just a little sexier. but you’re not sure why. daryl’s not the type to think you’re any happier than you were as a kid, just because your skirt is short and you’re wearing cheap perfume. he’s not fooled by the charms of any woman, because he does have admirers. you embarrass yourself, for even thinking about getting his attention with your body and your looks. this is the same person who used to smear dirt on your face and call you mud queen, pretending to throw arrows with twigs before merle stole him his first crossbow.

daryl could give a shit about cleavage - and he sure as hell doesn’t think being chosen makes someone any more worthy. you should take notes.

while it’s a good feeling that deep inside, daryl might be the same person he always was, it scares you a little bit. because maybe you’re the only one who’s different. and not better in this case.

sometimes you feel even worse off than when you were a kid.

────

you’re walking home from the store one day, bag of groceries on your arm, when you run into daryl. he’s hopping on his motorcycle, and it starts to rain, which sucks - not because you don’t want to get wet, but because you’ve got makeup covering your black eye and the hand prints on your neck, that’ll surely wash off on the long walk back to your house in this weather.

daryl spots you. he’s leaving the gas station. you’re humiliated that of all people, you run into him today. you pretend you don’t see him, and tighten your hold on the bag.

“hey,” he calls out as you pass him. his voice is different. a little deeper than you remember hearing, but you guess it makes sense - you’re both all grown up. you always wished for that, but now you’re not so sure it was the right wish. because you’re in the same position you were in as a kid.

maybe you should’ve wished for a ride out of this town instead.

you look back at daryl, and give a tight lipped smile and nod of your head to let him know you saw him. you keep walking, but as embarrassed as you are, you’re pretty happy that he’s talking to you.

he starts up the motorcycle, and you wait for him to speed by you. a thought occurs to you, that he’s always wanted a bike like that. used to talk about it as a kid, used maple syrup to stick pictures of motorcycles from his father’s magazines to his bedroom wall.

you’re happy for him. it must feel good, to finally get something you want. you don’t know what that feels like. maybe daryl is happy in this town, and it’s just you who’s so miserable you’re projecting that onto everyone else.

the motorcycle stops right beside you, and you’re closer to daryl than you’ve been in years. you see his face, with more lines than he had the last time you spoke to him. but just as handsome as ever, hair longish and dark and in his eyes. you want to push it back, like you did with dirty, sticky hands back when you were kids.

“you need a ride?” he asks shyly, and you swallow hard, wondering if he remembers that was the first thing he said to you back when you were kids. the sentence that started your friendship.

you were stranded at school, your mom run off with a new man and your dad too drunk to give a fuck, brother probably high somewhere. daryl rode by on his run down bike, just slightly too big for him, the parts all mismatched - but at least it was wheels. he rode that thing until merle went to prison and coudn’t steal him anymore parts to fix it.

he asked you that same question then, and you still have the same answer.

“wanna ride?” he’d asked, no backpack or anything even though you were both leaving school. “you live by me. i’ve seen you.” you nodded, and got on, just like now.

it breaks the ice. much like it did when you were kids.

you realize that day, from a thought that's just as sweet as it is scary for someone like you - that history really does repeat itself.

────

suddenly, you’re not avoiding daryl anymore. and he’s not hiding from you. when you see him in town, you walk over to him to talk. you offer to go to his house to get shit for your brother from merle because you know you’ll see daryl, and you share a soda on the porch with him, sitting mostly in quiet, but daryl’s presence has always been comforting to you. not his words.

being around daryl now, as an adult - it doesn’t feel like friendship. it feels like something else. when you see him, ripped arms showing in a vest, his new camaraderie with his brother that feels more equal than it ever has before - you realize you’re attracted to him. it’s the first time you’ve ever though of daryl like that, and even though your friendship or whatever it is is growing, you pull back, scared.

it’s been a long time since you’ve been around a man who just wants to be your friend - and you trust daryl, but it’s hard to believe that’s all he wants. the pressure you’re making up all in your head starts getting to you, and you change.

start wearing makeup to your little porch sessions. a push up bra that’s a size too small. you’re a little jealous, you think one day, sitting on his porch after your own brother punched a hole in your bedroom wall because you drank the last orange soda, that daryl’s big enough now that his brother and father don’t pick on him, while you’re still at the mercy of the two men in your home who will always be bigger and stronger than you.

you see daryl one day when merle and his father are out so he’s alone at his place. you’re in a little, yellow sundress and daryl scoffs at you. “what the hell are you wearin?’” he asks, and you blush, attempting to sit on the dirty stairs of his porch. but he stops you by reaching a hand out and you flinch - and he notices. looks at you like he always did when you were a kid and he heard your father yelling at you. pity, but something like hurt in there too. hurt, maybe, that you flinched around him. but’s it not like you can control those types of reactions. your body is just being cautious.

daryl doesn’t say anything. he just puts that angel wing vest of his on the step so you can sit on it so you don’t ruin your dress, and it’s sweet but it makes you sad.

you’ve never had a guy be thoughtful to you before. only daryl - and that’s pathetic. you’ve shared your body with more men than you can count, and daryl doing something so normal makes you feel incredibly indebted to him.

“just wanted to feel pretty,” you tell him, embarrassed. he looks you over, shakes his head like you’re an idiot. maybe you are. you can’t say you’ve ever had a man not want to see you in a sundress, but you’re happy he’s noticing the effort you put in to be around him.

“don’ have to do shit to be pretty, mud queen,” he says. your stomach erupts in butterflies. he remembers. “yer already the prettiest girl in this garbage town.”

────

weeks go by, of sharing sodas on daryl’s porch, or bringing him those peanut butter sandwiches he likes so much when he stops by yours. eventually, those childlike foods progress to beer, and then somehow, some way, you kiss him.

it just happens. you’ve never been good with boundaries, and daryl has never made a move. you worry, even if you’re not conscious about it, that if you don’t show him you’re interested soon that he’ll be done hanging out with you. men play the long game that way. it’s all a game to them. you know daryl is different but still -

you put yourself out there. or maybe, a better term would be get desperate. you make it clear, how you’re feeling. and after his compliment, calling you the prettiest girl in your entire town, all you can think about is the fact that you got pretend married when you were kids. you found a dirty lace shirt in the back of your closet that must’ve belonged to your mom, and it looked like a veil you saw in a movie. and daryl humored you, used a leaf as a bow tie and held one of your dirty hands in his own as you said i do.

and then you admitted that you don’t know what being married actually means. how could you? you'd never seen a normal example of a family. “i think there’s supposed to be rings,” you remember telling daryl that day, and he just shrugged. “i’ve never heard of that,” he’d said.

but now you’re adults. and you're not a mud queen, you’re the town slut. and daryl isn’t the broody, quiet kid skinning frogs for fun, he’s strong and handsome and a man - and, okay, he's still broody and sinning frogs. but things are different, and so are you, but he’s still the daryl that always brought you peace.

you wonder, pressed arm to arm on his little porch step, what it'd be like to be married to someone like daryl. to daryl dixon himself. but you shake yourself out of those random, childish thoughts, because they do nothing but hurt. with your reputation, there's no way in hell anyone, even a man as kind as daryl, would ever actually marry you.

but daryl's always been your peace. even with the screaming and yelling and the violence in your home, or in this case, with merle screaming at the television inside of the dixon home -

you’re still that same little girl you've always been. desperately looking for someone to care. to love you. you push yourself into daryl’s arms and kiss him, and he kisses back for a second before pulling away. shoving you, although gently, back.

‘’m not one of those losers you gotta fuck for some attention,” he spits, and you’re speechless. embarrassed. he stands up, and you know it’s your cue to leave, especially when merle comes out. he overheard, despite the screaming. or laughing. hard to tell with merle.

“oh hell, little brother,” he teases. “you finally fuck her? wassit been? ten years? how much longer you gunna make her wait? she’s aching for it, comin’ here all the time. you sure your pecker works?” he goes on and on.

they starts bickering, and you leave, heading back to your home with nothing your brother asked of you - weed, something stronger. you’ve got nothing but the last piece of self-worth in your hand, and you want to just toss it down the toilet and flush it.

what kind of woman puts the moves on a man? it's so desperate. you're mortified, and as you pass the mirror in the entryway of your shitty home, you feel like the ugliest person on the planet.

of course, not having what your brother asked for causes a fight, only - you’re not daryl, and you’re not strong. it’s not a fair fight, and you end up with bruises so bad you just pack your sundress away, because there’s no way in hell you’ll get to wear it again by the time summer is over. it's long-sleeved shirts from now on.

you think you ruined whatever you had with daryl and you hate yourself. how stupid you were, treating him like some other guy. just because that’s the only way you connect with other men, doesn't mean that's the way to connect with daryl. you should known that, better than anyone.

you ignore him. avoid him. but it’s not like he’s seeking you out.

until one day, he comes to your window.

that’s how he used to ask you if you wanted to play, when you were kids. would walk through the dense woods, because he said he was never scared - which was a lie, because you’d seen his eyes when his father pulled his belt out of the closet one day. but maybe he just meant he was never scared of anything in the woods. he would throw a rock at your window to get your attention. anytime you ever watch a romantic movie with a window scene, you always think about daryl - and you wonder why it took so long for you to see him in that light.

why it took so long to realize that daryl dixon is so much more than the dirty, damaged boy you knew as a kid. but maybe that’s because it’s a scary realization. would mean that you could be more than the damaged, dirty little girl you used to be - and if that’s the case…what do you do? how do you move on and learn to live as someone you’ve never even known you could be?

you open your window when daryl taps on the glass. he doesn’t use a rock this time, probably because he remembers when your father shoved you against a wall for throwing a book against the television once as an accident. now that you think about it - the rock throwing did stop after that incident.

when you see daryl and open your window, all you say is, “i'm sorry.” he doesn’t say anything else, just crawls through the window, body almost too big, and lands with a thud after almost tripping. you giggle, so happy he’s not mad.

“room looks different,” he comments, sitting on your bed. he looks funny, a little filthy and all dark clothes, on your ratty, floral print bed covers in your trashy, uber pink room. you wish you’d cleaned up, but you never have anyone in here who matters.

never have had a man in your room who’s more interested in the design of of it rather than the little pajama set you’ve got on. you nod.

"i’m all grown up now, daryl,” you remind him, standing in front of him. “and so are you.” you’re not trying to excuse kissing him or making him uncomfortable, but maybe he forgot. you’re not kids. you’re not friends - you don’t call yourself brother and sister to the people at school after they question why daryl always shares his lunch with you.

it’s okay if he wants to kiss you back.

you wish he would.

he just looks at the ground, at your dirty carpet, the red nail polish on your toes that are so close to touching his boots. you follow his gaze. and then, he notices the bruises on your arms.

“whos been hurtin’ you?” he asks, and you understand why. you’re always seen with a different guy around town. or, you were, before daryl filled the void a few months ago. maybe he thinks it’s someone from town, but you’re too embarrassed to admit that it’s not. or maybe, he forgot that just because he’s bigger, can handle his brother and father - you’re not. it feels like he should really be asking who’s hurting you now?

you understand now, how he felt that day outside the diner. on the spot. like the answer is obvious, and someone is just trying to pry the truth you’re so ashamed of from your mouth. you bite your lip, shutting your eyes as you answer. “you know who.”

he looks from you to the door, hearing your brother laugh at something that’s playing on the television, before visibly taking a deep breath. he shakes his head as he exhales, pausing before his eyes look into yours. he’s quiet for so long, that you shift on your feet, looking for something to fill the silence the way his large frames fills your room.

“i don’t think of you like the other guys, daryl. i just. i dunno. i felt comfortable with you and,” you don’t know what to say. you’ve never had to apologize for coming onto someone before - and you’ve definitely never had anyone apologize for coming onto you.

he looks at you, neutral expression on his face, and then he sighs.

“come here,” he says, tugging you closer by the hand. gently. you stand between his legs, in nothing but your pajama camisole and a pair of shorts, and he kisses you. has to lean up a little from sitting, but it works. he wraps his arms around you, holds your body close, and when he rubs a hand down your back, your body shudders with sobs.

daryl is a good kisser. sweet. he’s timid, and you can tell he hasn’t had much experience. not compared to you, where kissing is like breathing at this point. you like that about him - it makes you, selfishly, happy.

but you’re still crying.

daryl pulls away, visibly confused and worried, but you you push yourself back in his arms. like a stray kitten, who's not taking no for an answer now that it's finally being shown some love.

you’ve never been kissed so gently. never been touched so gently. you never thought about what it’d be like to kiss daryl until recently, but you didn’t know it’d feel so, so. soft? the opposite of home? warm and calm and safe. maybe it's what home should feel like. you lose yourself in him, even with the sound of your brother screaming at the television and hitting the wall in the other room.

you cry like an idiot in daryl’s arms, even as he kisses you. some first kiss between you two.

when you were a kid, you never cried. always prided yourself on being strong and tough - just like your best friend daryl. maybe you have changed more than you realized. you sniffle, and sit beside him at the end of your bed, but he still holds loosely onto your hand.

“you’re the only one who has ever held me without hurting me, daryl,” you admit. sheepishly, with heat in your cheeks, you sort of shrug. “you’re the best man i know.”

you don't know what this is between you two. what it could be, what it will be. what you want it to be. you just know that it feels like the strings of fate wove together to give you both someone to count on. someone who understands. unlike when you were a child, tonight, in daryl’s presence, you don’t hope or wish for anything.

you don’t care what that kiss meant. you just don’t want daryl to go.

daryl says nothing at first, just strokes a hand down the back of your head, a comforting gesture you’re not sure where he learned, considering the way he grew up.

if you weren't so upset, you'd realize that his mother used to comfort him like that. the few times she ever did.

“yeah,” he finally replies, swallowing hard, like the compliment isn’t one at all. maybe he just doesn’t like what it means for you. “that’s a shame.”

and that’s it. you’re inseparable again.

────

after that night spent together, you don’t kiss again. but you touch. something is different between you two. you’re more than just the former friends you used to be, but there’s a line you haven’t crossed.

it sort of feels like it’s always been, you know? you and daryl. daryl and you. you see each other almost every day, but it's hard since you both still live at home. you stopped sneaking him in your room when your father ran into daryl at a bar and slapped him on the shoulder. said, “so you’re the one screwin’ my daughter now, huh? enjoy it while it lasts, dixon. she’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

daryl had to punch a hole in the wall of the men’s bathroom to stop from punching your father in the face. he wants to hurt him, you know. your brother too. now that he’s big enough, no longer the little boy that used to help cover for whatever mistake would get you hit as a kid because he lacked physical strength, he wants to be the friend he’s always wished he could be.

but you tell him no. it’ll just complicate things. you still live at home, and he can’t be there every second to protect you. daryl seems pissed, but he understands. has the scars on his back to prove how just much he does.

but things are good. as good as they can get, anyway. you spend a lot of time together. find an empty field behind your homes and lay on the grass together, watching the stars. he never tries to kiss you again, but he lets you hold his hand or nuzzle against his arm. and that’s enough. it is.

shit’s getting crazy in town. a few hours away, in the big city, there’s word going on about people getting sick and dying. first it’s a fever, and then they’re up and walking and trying to bite others. you don’t understand, but daryl tells you not to worry. you want to trust him, and you do, for the most part -

but it's getting worse every day. people are dropping dead all around. which would be horrible in itself, except for the terrifying fact that they don’t stay dead. they get back up, and they - the walkers - try to attack and -

that’s what daryl says they’re called. you see your first one when daryl’s walking you back from your spot on the field. it looks like the man that owns the old convenience store, but he’s growling, and he’s trying to walk towards you, and his scalp is missing and you’re so scared you start crying.

daryl kills him with a big rock. you’re shaking, hysterical when you get home, and daryl walks you inside. “your dad home? brother?” he asks from the doorway, but you don’t see their truck or the television on, their staple. you shake your head, and he comes inside.

“shit’s going to hit the fan. you understand?” he asks, and you don’t. you’re scared. you’re confused. and you’re worried. but you nod anyway.

“you need to be ready for,” but the sound of a car driving into the garage and alerts you that’s someone’s home. daryl looks at you, then the door that leads into the house from the garage, before nodding. “i’m gunna go. gunna get some shit together and check on merle. i’ll be back in a few hours to check on you. pack a bag or sumthin’ just in case,” he says, and for the first time in all the times he’s walked you home lately, he looks shy as he leans in and kisses your cheek.

he’s out the door before your brother and father even drunkenly stumble in the house.

you obey what daryl says. you lock yourself in your room, and you’re not sure what daryl meant by be ready, but you grab a bag from your closet and fill it with clothes. just in case, right? who knew it’d take an apocalyptic situation to get you to finally leave this shitty town.

you’re worried, about daryl. you count the minutes until he comes back, because it's getting later and later and he’s not here yet. the sound of the clock, the tick tock tick tock makes you want to puke. you honestly consider trying to empty your stomach in the bathroom before your body makes you puke on its own when there’s a sound outside your door.

the door opens. it’s your brother.

“get your shit,” he orders, your door bouncing off your wall. there's a hole in the wall from the doorknob being constantly slammed against it. you catch a glimpse on the skinny part of the door that's normally hidden when it's closed - it still has the height markers you and daryl used to measure yourself with. he's everywhere, has always been, even when you don't notice.

your brother looks down at your bag already packed, purse on top of it. “shit, you already did. where you goin’?” you open your mouth to answer, but then your father is walking behind him, both of them peering at you with so much suspicion in their eyes you actually feel like you did something wrong.

“you planning’ on leavin us as soon as shit goes wrong? we’ve put a roof over your head for how many years? and now, what? you think dixon is gonna save you? that fuckin' re," he stops before he finishes that statement. even he knows better. besides, he'd never be mad at another man - only his daughter gets that special treatment.

"we’re all gonna die, girl. you first. can’t fight, can’t think, can’t do nuthin but pass yourself around town.” your father won’t stop, and you try not to cry, but you really just wish daryl would come back. your hands are shaking when they try to zip up your jacket, but it seems like that just pisses your brother off more. that you’re avoiding their angry outburst.

there’s nothing an angry man likes more than getting someone else angry. so he has an excuse to be the asshole he is at his core. you’re not going to give them the satisfaction.

in the distance, there’s a noise like an explosion. the sound of alarms going off from the neighboring city, the smell of smoke, so strong it actually masks the smell of cigarettes in your own home, which you didn’t think would be possible. tears start flowing from your eyes.

but it’s not because of the state of emergency in the city. on your brother and father’s face you see fear - something you’ve never seen before. and then it all happens so fast.

your brother reaches out and pushes you down. grabs you by the hair and hurts you, hurts you, hurts you. your father only interrupts to tell him it’s time to go, and they leave you, alone on the ground with new bruises and trauma to take with you wherever you go.

they used you, like always, to mask their own fears and pain. at this point, you really feel numb.

daryl comes back, a few hours later. you’ve been staring at the floor, scared to move. the town is literally a hellscape right now, the sound of people breaking windows, screaming, growling. you stay as quiet as possible on your bedroom floor, and you almost jump out of your skin when you realize it’s daryl coming through your window.

“you good?” he asks, a huge bag slung over his shoulder. he’s in a rush, you can tell, is looking around the room with a frequency you’ve never seen in him. he’s reading the situation, and he sees it written all over you.

but you see through him too. he’s scared, but he’s trying to be casual as to not scare you. you wonder where he learned to be gentleman - sure as hell wasn’t from any man in this town.

when you don’t answer, he tosses his bag down and pulls you up, grabs your little bag too and hands you your purse. there’s a little stuffed bunny keychain hung on it, and it looks so fucking stupid for the severity of the situation happening outside your window. you rip it off and daryl notices but doesn’t say anything.

“c’mon. we gotta go. i grabbed some supplies, i’ve got my bike. can’t stay here. it’s crazy outside,” and he goes on and on but you’re not really listening.

you interrupt, just as he helps you to the front door. “my brother and dad. they left,” you say, embarrassed to admit. yeah, you both know you’d be leaving with daryl - but the fact that they didn’t even care about what happens to you hurts more than you thought. maybe you convinced yourself, all these years, that they were so hard on you because they loved you. showed they cared in different ways - kind of like merle with daryl.

you were wrong. because your arm hurts, your hand is cramping, and you’re pretty sure you’re missing hair from the way your brother hurt you. it’d be tough to fight a walker at your full health, but right now, you’re completely useless.

thank god for daryl dixon.

daryl freezes, pauses. looks down before ushering you to his motorcycle. “yeah,” he says, nodding. he won’t look you in the eye. “i know.” another pause. “c’mon. we gotta go.”

he leads you to his motorcycle, and you hop on. it’s kind of impossible to get comfortable, because you’re holding two fucking bags and trying to hold on for your life, but you manage. daryl speeds off, and you wonder how a normal day could turn into such chaos. fire blazes through the trees and neighboring city. there’s these, these - things walking around, slowly, growling.

you hold onto daryl tighter. press your face in his back and breathe in the comforting smell of him. he smells like home - cigarettes, cheap detergent, woodsy.

you want to ask about merle. about your own brother and dad. how you can just leave them, how that’s fair, but you just can’t. you’re scared, but you still know the best place for you to be right now is with daryl.

you just know. and anyway, it’s not like anyone else gave a fuck about you to make sure you got anywhere safe.

that day daryl picked you up on his motorcycle in the rain - you imagined what it’d be like if he just kept going. if you didn’t stop on your street, if you didn’t have to go home. you pictured the two of you driving somewhere better, so long as it was out of this fucking town.

but you never imagined it’d be like this. with the walking dead running after you, cars stalled on their journey out of town because the walkers got to them before they could drive off. fire in the distance, the sound of some alarm going off so loudly you can hardly think. the dead litter the streets - walking, but also just laying there.

and then you see them. you're not even a few minutes away form your house. they’re laying on the ground, right next to a truck you’re sure you’ll see in your dreams for years to come. it belongs to your father.

“daryl,” you say, but he keeps driving. you’re certain the people on the ground are your father and your brother, a group of those things surrounding them, ready to dig in. “daryl,” you say again, “stop the bike.” but he doesn’t. you turn your head to look back, almost dropping your bag, but you catch a glimpse of the muscle in your brother’s arm being torn out. the muscle he always utilized to hurt you.

you sob into daryl’s back.

────

you keep driving until daryl’s bike needs gas. there’s a long road that leads to all the major highways, and it’s completely jam packed. you’ve been on the road for hours, so daryl parks the bike, tells you the run down of the plan that you’re not even listening to because you’re so scared and frozen. he's beyond frustrated with you, but he leads you to a spot in the woods to spend the night.

it’s risky, being anywhere right now. but daryl knows what he’s doing more than you do. you trust him, more than anyone else you’ve ever met. more than you even trust yourself.

“did you,” you start to ask, wanting to know if he was the one who saw your brother and father and put them on the ground. you couldn’t see the blood or how they died, but there was no gunshot wound. it was too clean, and you counted the arrows daryl has left in his crossbow. he's missing two.

“yeah,” he answers coldly, leaning against a tree with a sigh. he pulls out a bottle of water from his bag and hands it to you, and you take a greedy sip before realizing you better learn to ration. embarrassed, you hand the water back to daryl who raises his brows in amusement and puts the bottle back in his bag. you think that’s it. that he’s not going to talk about what happened, what he did, anymore.

but you’re wrong.

“been waiting for a chance to do that. ‘ve wanted to, for a long time. now that the world is shit, thought there’s no better chance, you know? no police, no laws,” he seems proud of himself, but even though you’re not close to your brother and dad, them being dead is still painful.

daryl’s not stupid. far from it. he reads your expression and then hands the water back to you. anything to stop the look you’re giving him. it looks like fear, you know -

but anyone looking a little deeper can see that it’s gratitude.

────

it’s been just the two of you for weeks.

you spend those weeks sharing a little tent, eating the animals daryl catches and cooks for you, wanting to cry at the sheer discomfort that not bathing has brought on. you're itchy, you're tired, you're hungry - but most of all, you're scared.

you don't know how daryl does it. wakes up every morning after a shitty night sleep to hunt for food to feed you both, to protect the both of you against walkers, since you still haven't got the hang of it.

the first few nights, things weren't so bad. the reality of the situation wasn't yet known. deep down, you thought something would be able to save you both from this mess. you were wrong.

but on those nights, you curled up against daryl in the tiny tent, and tried to take his mind off of the sound of distance cries and screams.

"we shared a tent before this, remember?" you asked. he just shook his head. it was actually the night you got fake married. both your brothers and fathers went to some poker game, and you both knew it'd be impossible to sleep at home. so you found a sleeping bag in your garage, and daryl found a tent in his, and the both of you camped out in the woods, too scared to go home.

"married people live together," you remember daryl saying while he zipped up the tent and you opened up a can of expired ravioli. you just shrugged, shared the food with him, and spent the night telling stories about what your future would be like.

you didn't imagine this, but it's like history is repeating itself again.

────

a few weeks later, you find a group to join.

it’s when you’re looking for a place to sleep after moving through the forest, dirty and hungry, that you come across a camp. you hear a child laugh, and then the sound of a woman's voice, and before you know it you're tugging daryl towards the sound while he drags his feet and curses.

he doesn’t want to see anyone else, let alone join anyone else. but you do. you don't know a lot about surviving, but you do know that pretty soon, you're both going to be walker food if you don't eat something proper. if you don't get a full night of rest. it's impossible, to live like this as two people.

it's been days since you even had more than a sip of water.

you both need help, you need -

“do you need a place to stay?” a man says, walking towards you and daryl while you try to reason with him. he scoffs, and you’re too tired to roll your eyes. you nod to the man, and then a woman appears. they must've heard you bickering while you walked towards the sound of their camp. they look friendly. they seem nice. and so you go with them, tugging daryl behind you.

it’s like asking for help makes him feel like a failure. but he goes because he knows you want to, and mutters something when you’re alone about looking for merle again when he gets his strength back. you tell him okay, good plan, knowing and hoping you never see merle dixon ever again. not that you’d ever tell daryl that.

daryl just feels like your other half these days. bonded now, not just from the childhood trauma you shared - but also this situation. you don't hold hands, you only touch to keep each other warm. you don't smile - and sometimes it feels like daryl regrets ever bringing you along with him. you're dead weight, and extra mouth to feed.

you don't know what he's thinking because he won't open up.

the first night at camp, you have dinner with the rest of the group. but you still haven’t had a chance to freshen up. there’s mud on your face and caked under your nails when someone asks daryl who you two are to each other, he pauses for so long that it's actually uncomfortable.

you’re more than friends, but you’re not exactly friendly. you're not close, beyond the memories that you share, that you're not even sure if daryl remembers.

you're stuffing your face with a can of chili, wondering why you're worried about a relationship status during the fucking apocalypse, and you're so in your own world that you don't see the way daryl is looking at you.

you take his word so literally - because you trust him so much. when he told you, ages ago, that he didn't get scared - you must've believed him.

because he's terrified. of losing you. of misreading what you want from him. of admitting, that every single memory with you is etched into the forefront of his brain. that he had to distance himself from you back then, because you deserve more than a hick like him, and watching you destroy yourself never came easy. that he wonders if you'll ever forgive him, for what he did to your dad and your brother.

there has never been a day that has gone by that he hasn't thought about you. and all day long since this shit started, he feels like he's failing you. can't feed you enough, can't find a good enough shelter.

and he looks at you, with mud and dirt on your face, messy hair. even at your worst, you're better than another woman's best, and he sees the greedy eyes of the men around the campfire, wondering if you're free. daryl doesn't know these men. he doesn't know if these people are safe, women and kids here be damned. that doesn't mean shit, not when people put themselves first to survive.

he thinks about the tent you shared a decade ago, after that fake wedding ceremony he went through with to make you happy. how it felt when your soft lips pressed against his before you left town. how you want him, how you never give up on trying to connect with him, even when he doesn't open up back to you. he likes that you're chatty. likes that you're trusting, and even dirty and starved you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

but when he sees the mud on your face, your hands, your clothes - and he sees the men looking at you, leering, he makes up his mind.

a lot has changed. but not how he feels about you. you're still his mud queen, the girl that loved him so much she said yes to marrying him, even without a ring.

“she’s my wife,” daryl says, and that's it. the rest of the men look away, because a man's claim is more important than a woman's own voice. and daryl knew that’d be the case. he knows men. he is one, even if he sometimes hates that he is - particularly when you flinch from a movement he makes, or go all quiet when he raises his voice. being apart of a gender that can do so much hurt has always made him feel like an outsider.

at his words, you don't even think about the way history is repeating once again. because your history, your past that you share with daryl - they've been the best parts of your life. and instead of trying to run from them, to avoid them because of what they mean - you should embrace them.

connection formed during the worst hours of your life is still connection. and you're done feeling ashamed.

daryl throws a look your way. one that feels like you're sharing your own secret world. like you did as kids.

but most importantly, you're riding on a high, because daryl dixon might be a man of few words. he might be more guarded than a maximum security prison, might be ashamed of his emotions and wants and everything else that makes him human. but -

he remembers.

the childhood you shared. the memories you made. history may be repeating - but that doesn’t mean you can’t make new memories together.

life is different now. tough. and it’s all about survival. but then again -

when has life ever been anything different for you and daryl?

so you put yourself out there again, this time without fear. you put the can of chili down and reach for his hand.

but daryl grabs yours first.

Maybe that's why dating never quite worked for him. Every time he tried, he felt like he’d missed a tutorial somewhere. He could talk, sure, and he could be funny when he wanted, but halfway through a conversation he always drifted, like thinking about assignments or projects or that interesting research thread he'd meant to look into. People would smile at him politely, the kind of smile that told him they’d already made up their mind: sweet guy, but not for me.

The last time he'd tried going on a date, he’d barely made it through an hour. He’d checked the timestamp afterwards and realized he’d spent exactly forty eight minutes pretending he wasn't thinking about a bug he’d found in his graphics project. He’d texted Jungwon: "bro i think i fumbled bad." Jungwon had sent back a voice note where he laughed so hard he hiccuped. Comforting, in its own way.

Jungwon was one of like three people Heeseung could be around without keeping a mental checklist of normal things to say. They’d been friends since first year when they got paired on a project and realized they both worked better at two in the morning with no one else around. Jungwon was quiet in the same way Heeseung was, but also completely unhinged when it came to code. He’d get an idea and just lock in for days. So one afternoon, while Heeseung was in the lab pretending to fix code he’d actually broken on purpose because he didn’t want to admit he didn’t understand it, Jungwon walked in with that mischief look. He sat down next to him, opened his laptop, and said, "ok, don’t make fun of me, but I made something."

Heeseung didn’t look up. "Is it stable this time?" which was generous, because Jungwon’s projects were never stable.

"Define stable," Jungwon said, clicking through a folder that had way too many warning icons. "Anyway, it’s a dating sim."

That finally made Heeseung look. "A dating sim? Why?"

"Research." Jungwon always said that when he’d clearly done something for fun and wanted it to sound academic. "It’s called Girlfriend Simulator."

Heeseung stared at him. "That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard."

Jungwon didn’t even blink. "Yeah, I know. But I need someone to test it, and you're the only person who’ll actually give me notes instead of lying to make me feel better."

Heeseung wanted to argue, but he was tired and they had a midterm coming up and honestly he didn't care enough to fight. So he sighed and pushed his chair closer. "Fine. Show me." Jungwon grinned like that was all he’d wanted since morning. He opened the build file, and the screen filled with placeholder art, branching choices, and a character slot labeled "y/n_default." And Heeseung, who was too distracted to think twice, just shrugged.

He had no idea that saying yes to that stupid looking game would end up being the most disastrous decision of his entire academic life.

He only agreed because Jungwon wouldn't shut up about it, and because even with all his complaints, he had this soft spot for him that made it hard to say no. Also, he didn’t have anything better to do on a friday night; the rest of their friends were out, and he wasn't in the mood to socialize. And, honestly, he liked games where he could pretend to be slightly less single than he actually was. It was pathetic, sure, but it wasn't like anyone needed to know.

So later that night, Heeseung sat on his bed with the lights off and his switch on max brightness, which was probably not great for his already questionable sleep schedule but whatever. Jungwon had sent him the build file with a message that just said "lmk if it crashes :)" which was not exactly confidence inspiring, but Heeseung had agreed to this so he couldn't really back out now.

The game booted with this weirdly soft 8 bit lullaby that sounded like it was trying to hypnotize him. The title screen was clean, minimalist, just the words "Girlfriend Simulator" in a font that looked expensive. Heeseung snorted. Jungwon had definitely spent more time on the typography than the actual game mechanics, which tracked. Character customization loaded next, and Heeseung had to admit it was smoother than he expected. The interface was intuitive, the options were detailed, and the hairstyle physics were suspiciously good for something Jungwon had supposedly coded in his free time between problem sets.

He made his character half heartedly. Messy hair because that's what he had in real life and he wasn't creative enough to imagine anything else. A hoodie because hoodies were safe. He picked "student" as his class, and when it came to stats, he maxed out "humor" because he genuinely thought he was funny, even if nobody else seemed to agree. Then he looked at "emotional intelligence" and left it at zero. Honesty was important, right?

The loading screen that followed was surprisingly elegant. Just a slow fade to black with some text that read "Your First Meeting" in delicate script. Heeseung settled back against his pillow, expecting the usual dating sim fare: a classroom, a coffee shop, maybe a cherry blossom tree if Jungwon was feeling cliché.

And then the screen flickered. Just once, quick enough that Heeseung thought maybe it was his eyes. But then it happened again and the lights in his bedroom pulsed in sync, like someone had wired his lamp to the game's framerate. "What the hell," Heeseung said to no one. 

The switch started vibrating in his hands. Not the normal rumble feature, but something harder, more insistent, like the controller was trying to shake itself apart. On screen, a figure materialized. The girlfriend character. For a second Heeseung just stared because the sprite work was genuinely impressive. The lighting was too good, the shadows moved wrong. Everything felt almost real in a way that made his skin prickle.

And then the girlfriend, you, turned around. Slowly like you already knew he was watching. Your face came into view and Heeseung's brain did this weird stutter because you didn't look like a game character, you looked like a person, with the kind of detail you didn't get from placeholder art. Heeseung felt this uncomfortable twist in his stomach like he was the one being observed.

Then you spoke. Not with a text box, not with that awkward text to speech voice that indie games always used. Actual audio, clear and warm and way too close for his own good. "You're here!"

Heeseung's hands went cold. The voice didn't sound small or synthetic or compressed. It sounded like someone was standing directly behind him in his dark bedroom, breath on his neck, words in his ear. He whipped around so fast he nearly dropped the switch, but his room was empty. Just his desk and his dying succulent and his pile of laundry that he'd been meaning to deal with for a week. "What the—"

Before he could finish the thought, before he could even process what was happening, the lights in his room popped, like every bulb had blown at once. The screen went pure white, so bright it hurt to look at, and the controller in his hands went from cold to burning hot in the span of a heartbeat. He tried to drop it but his fingers wouldn't move, locked in place like the plastic had fused to his skin. The air pressure in the room shifted. His ears popped like he was in a plane taking off, and he felt this pull, this hook behind his ribs, yanking him forward with a force that didn't make any physical sense. He tried to pull back, tried to let go, tried to do anything, but the world was already dissolving.

The last thing Heeseung managed to think before everything shattered into pixels was that he was going to kill Yang Jungwon.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was that the world was too bright. The grass beneath him looked like high definition fairy dust, each blade catching light in a way that grass absolutely should not. The sky was blue in that aggressive unnatural way that only existed in concept art. Everything was sharp and vivid and wrong. Heeseung sat up slowly, head spinning, and looked down at himself. His clothes had changed. Instead of his worn out hoodie and sweatpants, he was wearing the outfit his avatar had been wearing. The same hoodie he'd picked in character customization but real now, solid and heavy on his shoulders. His hands looked like his hands but also didn't. The proportions were slightly off, the lines a little too clean.

"What the fuck," he said out loud, and his voice sounded normal, which was worse. Everything else was strange but his voice was still his.

"You made it!"

Heeseung's head snapped up. You were someone standing a few feet away, watching him with this expression that was hard to read. Amusement, maybe, or curiosity. Like you'd been waiting for him and was pleased he'd finally shown up. except you weren't a sprite anymore. You were real, or at least as real as anything else in this place. You looked exactly like the character on screen but with dimension now, depth, the subtle movements of someone actually breathing. Your hair moved slightly in a breeze he couldn't feel. You were wearing something casual but put together in that effortless way that Heeseung had never managed to pull off.

You smiled at him, and he felt something weird in his stomach. "Hi," you said, like this was completely normal, like he hadn't just been ripped through a screen into a video game that shouldn't exist. "Nice to meet you!"

Heeseung opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. His brain was doing this thing where it tried to process too many things at once and ended up processing nothing at all. "What," he finally managed, which wasn't even a complete sentence but it was all he had.

"Sorry I'm late," you said, but you didn't sound particularly sorry. "Jungwon said you might be running behind. He's the one who set this up, by the way. Said we'd get along."

Heeseung blinked. "Jungwon... set this up?"

"Yeah, the blind date?" You looked at him like he was being slow on purpose. "He said you needed to get out more. His words, not mine."

And that was such a Jungwon thing to do that Heeseung almost believed it. Almost. Except he was still processing the fact that the world around him looked like someone had turned reality into a video game filter. "This is insane," he muttered under his breath. "This is the most realistic game I've ever—"

"Game?" You interrupted, and your smile faltered just slightly. "I'm not playing games with you."

The way you said it made Heeseung freeze. It wasn't defensive or annoyed, it was sincere like you genuinely meant it, like you had no idea what he was talking about. And that's when it hit him: You could hear him. Not just the dialogue options he was supposed to pick. Everything. his actual thoughts spoken out loud. "Wait," he said slowly, "you heard that?"

"Heard what?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Heeseung cleared his throat and tried to pull himself together. He could freak out later. Right now there was a person in front of him — a very real feeling and cute person — and he was being weird. "So. Blind date. Right. Jungwon's idea."

He really looked at you then. You were pretty, in this approachable, comfortable way that made him think maybe he could actually talk to you without saying something catastrophically stupid. You had this ease about you, like you weren't trying too hard, and your eyes had this spark that suggested you were probably smarter than you let on.  Basically, you were everything he'd ever put on one of those hypothetical "ideal type" list.

"So," you said, cutting through his thoughts. "Jungwon mentioned you're into games?"

Heeseung tried not to laugh at the irony. "Uh, yeah. You could say that."

"Me too." You brightened, and it was genuine, not that polite interest people usually faked. "I've been replaying persona 5 royal for like the third time. I know, I know, it's excessive."

"No, that's— that's actually really cool," Heeseung said, and he meant it. "Most people don't get the appeal of replaying stuff."

"Right?" You gestured as you talked, animated in a way that made him want to keep listening. "Everyone's like 'you already know the story' but that's not the point. It's about the experience, the details you missed, trying different builds—"

A notification sound chimed softly in the air between you. Heeseung jumped. You didn't react. In the corner of his vision, barely perceptible, text appeared: romantic interest +5. common interests discovered.

Oh. Oh no. This was a dating sim. An actual, literal dating sim. And he was living it.

"You okay?" You asked, tilting your head slightly.