✩ COSMIC GIRL ✩

your voice comes out too even. too casual. you’re proud of that for about half a second, until rintarou shifts his mouth and your heel digs hard into the couch.

osamu rounds the corner into the living room still in his work clothes, dark shirt clinging at the shoulders, sleeves shoved up just enough to show the strong line of his forearms. he looks tired in the way he usually does after a day at the shop— shoulders a little low, hair slightly flattened from his cap, expression set into that resting bluntness that makes strangers think he’s annoyed even when he’s just thinking about rice.

then he sees you.

then he sees rin.

and his mouth curves.

not surprised. not scandalised. not even particularly slowed down by it.

just that warm, crooked grin that means he’s home, and the house is exactly as stupid as he left it.

“figures,” he says.

you barely glance away from your switch. “missed you too.”

“didn’t say i didn’t.”

he crosses the floor, stepping around rintarou’s long legs like this is an obstacle he expects to find in his living room. rin’s hair brushes your inner thigh when he turns his head a fraction, acknowledging osamu’s presence with nothing but a pleased hum into you.

your body jolts.

the switch nearly slips.

osamu catches it with one hand before it can slide off your stomach.

“careful,” he says, amused.

“he’s cheating.”

rin’s eyes flick up. slow. bored. shiny-mouthed.

he does not stop.

osamu leans over the back of the couch and kisses you.

it’s easy. familiar. one hand braced on the cushion beside your head, the other still holding your switch safely against your stomach like he’s saving both your dignity and your game. he kisses you like he just got home from work and you’re his favourite part of the apartment. no hesitation, no self-consciousness, no particular concern for the fact that rintarou’s face is still buried between your legs.

you smile into it, breath hitching when rin’s teeth catch just enough to make you twitch.

brat.

osamu pulls back an inch, brows lifting because he feels the gasp against his mouth.

“good day?” you ask, like nothing happened.

he looks down at rin.

rin looks up through his lashes and blinks once, slow as a cat.

osamu snorts. “same old. lunch rush was stupid. atsumu called twice t’complain about rice balls he didn’t even buy.”

“tragic.”

“devastatin’.” osamu’s gaze drags back to you, taking in the switch, your flushed face, the way your thighs keep trying to close around rintarou’s head and rin keeps holding them open. “rin been good t’ya?”

rin hums again, mouth full.

the vibration goes straight through you. you bite the inside of your cheek and whack the top of his head lightly with the edge of your switch.

“define good.”

osamu’s hand settles at the back of rin’s neck.

it’s casual, almost absent. his fingers slip beneath the hair at rintarou’s nape, thumb stroking once over the warm skin there. affectionate. possessive, but not sharp about it. the kind of touch that says he knows exactly where both of you belong.

rin’s shoulders loosen under it.

your stomach flips.

osamu notices that too, because osamu notices everything useful and pretends not to.

“ya eatin’,” he says, fingers tightening slightly at rin’s neck, “or just playin’ with yer food?”

rin lifts his mouth only enough to mutter, “both.”

his breath is hot against you.

you make an undignified sound and glare down at him.

osamu laughs under his breath. “yeah, sounds right.”

then he straightens like the matter is settled and heads toward the kitchen, already unbuttoning his cuffs.

“what d’you two want for dinner? i got chicken thawed. was thinkin’ karaage unless yer both gonna be useless and make me order somethin’.”

“karaage’s good,” you say immediately.

rin’s hand slides up to your stomach, palm pressing there to keep you still when he goes back in with more focus. your hips jump anyway.

“rice?” you add, voice thinning slightly.

osamu opens the fridge. “gotta make a fresh pot.”

“aren’t we out?”

“bought more yesterday.”

“because i reminded you.”

“because ya nagged me.”

“same thing.”

“not even close.”

you grin at the ceiling and try to choose a move in your battle. the screen is a blur of colours and tiny pixel violence. rintarou chooses that exact second to drag his tongue slow and flat, and your thumb hits the wrong command.

“fuck.”

“language,” osamu says automatically, reaching for the ginger.

“i’m losing!”

“to rin or the game?”

“both.”

rin’s laugh is muffled and unbearably smug.

osamu rinses his hands at the sink, then starts moving through the kitchen with the kind of competence that always makes you a little stupid to watch. cutting board dragged down. knife selected. rice measured and washed in a bowl with three quick, practised turns of his wrist. he does everything like his body remembers before his brain has to, like cooking is just another language he speaks when he’s too tired for words.

the apartment fills with small, domestic sounds.

water running.

rice shifting in the pot.

the clean knock of knife against board.

rin’s mouth.

your own breathing, becoming harder to keep level.

that’s the thing that always gets you about the three of you. not the fact that rin is eating you out on the couch while osamu starts dinner ten feet away. it’s the normalcy. the way these things sit beside each other without fighting for space. the way osamu can ask about dinner while rintarou’s tongue makes your thighs tremble. the way rin can be completely indecent and still lean into osamu’s hand like he’s being petted.

it should feel absurd.

it does feel absurd.

it also feels like home.

“spicy mayo or plain?” osamu asks, glancing up from where he’s slicing ginger.

you try to answer.

rintarou, because he is evil, sucks your clit into his mouth at exactly the wrong moment.

your voice catches hard.

“uh—” you swallow, fingers clenching around the switch. “plain. plain’s good.”

rin’s eyes flick up.

he looks pleased with himself.

osamu points the knife in his direction without even looking. “rinnie.”

rin pauses.

barely.

“don’t make ’em useless before i finish cookin’.”

rin lifts his mouth, chin shiny, expression flat. “you gave me twenty minutes.”

“i gave ya a warnin’.”

“sounds like a deadline.”

“sounds like yer gonna get dragged off the couch by yer shirt if ya don’t behave.”

rin’s mouth curves.

you groan. “don’t threaten him with something fun.”

osamu’s laugh is low and easy. “yer both impossible.”

“you love us.”

rin kisses your inner thigh with exaggerated sweetness.

you nudge his forehead with your knee. “don’t start acting cute now.”

“i’m always cute.”

“you’re a parasite.”

“favourite parasite.”

“most expensive parasite maybe,” osamu mutters from the kitchen.

rin looks smug enough that you would kick him if you trusted your legs.

osamu tosses the sliced ginger into a bowl, then starts working on the marinade. soy sauce, sake, a little grated garlic. he eyeballs every measurement because he’s good enough to get away with it. you watch him for a second over the top of your switch, his hair falling forward as he leans over the counter.

“cucumber?” he asks.

“yes.”

“salad or just sliced?”

“just cucumber and vinegar.”

“how d’ya want it?”

“thin,” you say immediately. “not your usual brick chunks.”

osamu pauses with the knife halfway to the board.

slowly, he looks at you.

“brick chunks?”

“you heard me.”

“they’re good chunky. more crunch.”

“they’re better thinner, soaks up the vinegar better than your stupid big chunks.”

rin snorts against your thigh.

you point down at him without looking. “don’t even.”

rin nips you.

you gasp and bap his forehead with two fingers.

“less teeth.”

“you like teeth.”

“i like appropriate teeth.”

“define appropriate.”

“not during menu planning.”

osamu is grinning now, knife moving through cucumber in neat, thin slices just to prove a point. “bossy thing.”

“thank you for listening.”

“didn’t say i was listenin’. just didn’t wanna hear ya complain through dinner.”

“because you love me.”

“because i love quiet.”

rin lifts his head. “wrong person to love, then.”

you kick him gently in the ribs.

he catches your ankle and kisses it before going back down.

it’s unfair how quickly the banter turns into heat again. one second you’re laughing about cucumbers, the next rin’s tongue is flat and unhurried, his lip ring catching just slightly, cool metal dragging over a nerve-bright place that makes your stomach jump under the switch.

your breath breaks.

the pokémon battle music keeps playing.

you lose.

badly.

“no,” you whisper, devastated and breathless.

osamu glances over. “game?”

“rin made me lose.”

rin, mouth still against you, makes a sound that is very clearly not an apology.

you drop the switch onto the cushion beside you before it can become collateral damage. your fingers slide into his hair instead, not sure if you’re pushing him away or pulling him closer. he looks up only long enough to catch his breath, lips slick, eyes half-lidded, expression lazily cocky in the exact way that makes you want to ruin his life.

“need something?” he asks.

his voice is rough.

you thumb his forehead.

“a new boyfriend.”

rin smiles. “which one?”

“you.”

“harsh.”

“less teeth.”

“heard you the first time.”

“then why are you still doing it?”

“because you sound cute when you complain.”

osamu’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “he’s right.”

betrayal.

you turn your head to glare toward the kitchen, but osamu isn’t looking at you. he’s coating chicken in potato starch, expression completely neutral except for the dimple trying to show near the corner of his mouth.

“i’m being bullied.”

“ya started it.”

“i am literally vulnerable.”

“yer playing pokémon while gettin’ head.”

rin laughs again, then shuts you up with his mouth.

the problem with rintarou is that he looks lazy until he decides not to be.

most people mistake the slow blink and slouched posture for a lack of intensity. they see him sprawled on couches, hood up, phone in hand, thumbs moving over a screen, and assume he is half-asleep through life. you know better. osamu knows better. rintarou is lazy only when he doesn’t care.

when he does care, he’s relentless.

and rintarou cares very deeply about getting his mouth on you.

he holds your hips down when you start squirming. he follows every little shift, every attempt to roll away from the pressure once it starts tipping from good into too much. his hands spread wide over your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you there, his tongue slow and precise and mean with knowledge.

“rin,” you breathe.

no response.

“rintarou.”

his eyes flick up.

that’s all.

osamu turns on the burner. oil starts warming in the pan with a low, patient shimmer.

“rin,” he calls, not looking away from the stove. “set the table when yer done.”

rin lifts his head, mouth shiny, hair a mess from your hands. “busy.”

“then stop bein’ busy.”

“no promises.”

“don’t tire ’em out before dinner, asshole.”

rin looks up at you.

you are flushed, thighs trembling, one hand braced on the couch, the other still tangled in his hair like you’re going to personally remove him from your body by force.

his smile goes soft around the edges in a way that somehow makes him look worse.

then he says, “they’re fine.”

you wheeze. “i’m not fine.”

“dramatic.”

you make a half-hearted attempt to shove at his forehead.

he does not move.

at all.

it’s actually offensive.

“rintarou,” you warn, but there’s not enough air in your lungs to make it land.

he hums and doubles down.

the oil pops softly in the kitchen.

osamu makes a thoughtful noise. “y’want lemon too?”

“yes,” you gasp immediately, then swear because rin looks pleased that you managed to answer while falling apart.

“both lemon and mayo?”

“both. please.”

“polite.”

“barely.”

rin’s fingers dig into your hips.

your back arches off the couch.

“rin, holy fuck, i’m gonna come—”

he ignores you.

of course he ignores you.

not because he doesn’t hear. because he hears perfectly and decides that your warning is useful only as encouragement. his mouth gets firmer, less lazy, tongue and lips working with the horrible confidence of someone who knows exactly where you are.

you try to pull him off by his hair.

he groans.

wrong choice.

“oh my god,” you gasp, and the sound comes out almost like a laugh because the whole situation is ridiculous. osamu is frying chicken. the rice cooker clicks into its low hum. you are coming apart on the couch because suna rintarou has decided dinner can wait.

“rin—”

your orgasm hits before you finish saying his name.

it rolls through you hot and heavy, legs locking around his shoulders, fingers tightening hard in his hair. rin holds you through it with both arms around your thighs, mouth still working, slower now but not stopping, not even close enough to stopping. your whole body jolts with oversensitivity.

“wait,” you gasp. “wait, wait—”

he does not wait.

you try again, palm landing on his forehead like you’re playing whack-a-mole with the world’s most stubborn man.

“rintarou, i swear—”

“rinnie.”

osamu’s voice cuts through the room.

not loud.

not harsh.

just firm enough that rintarou finally stops.

he lifts his head with the world’s most offended expression, mouth slick, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes narrowed like osamu has interrupted an important scientific process.

osamu stands in the archway between kitchen and living room, tea towel thrown over one shoulder, arms folded. the smell of frying chicken follows him into the room, rich and warm.

“off,” he says.

rin blinks.

“now.”

rin’s mouth opens.

osamu points at him. “don’t.”

rin closes it.

you laugh weakly, still twitching. “thank you.”

“want ya t’walk, not crawl, to the dinner table,” osamu says, stepping closer.

rin mutters, “crawling is fine.”

“for you, maybe.”

osamu grabs the scruff of rin’s shirt and hauls him back like a misbehaving cat.

rin goes, but not with dignity. never with dignity. his expression is pure petulance, mouth pouty, hair wrecked from your hands. he looks like he’s been dragged away from a meal he personally hunted.

“i wasn’t done.”

you lift one shaking leg and gently press your foot to his shoulder. “i was. i was so done.”

“you came.”

“and then i was done.”

“sounds fake.”

“you’re fake.”

“good one.”

“i’m recovering.”

osamu looks between you both, unimpressed and fond in equal measure. then he hooks a thumb toward the hallway while heading back into the kitchen.

“go wash yer face. and don’t touch anythin’.”

rin stands slowly.

so slowly.

then, instead of going to the bathroom, he wanders directly into the kitchen.

osamu sees him coming and sighs.

“rintarou.”

rin doesn’t answer.

he steps right into osamu’s space, catches him by the front of his shirt, and kisses him.

filthy.

open-mouthed.

absolutely flavoured by you.

osamu scowls into it, but he does not shove him away. his hand comes up automatically to rin’s jaw, fingers pressing there for half a second like he’s either going to push him back or keep him close. it ends up being both.

you watch from the couch, boneless and dazed, thighs still trembling.

your stomach flips all over again.

osamu breaks the kiss first, eyes narrowed, mouth wet.

“yer fuckin’ gross.”

rin’s smile is small and satisfied.

“you like it.”

osamu wipes at his mouth with the back of his wrist, still scowling. “bathroom. now.”

rin pecks him once more, quick and smug, then finally disappears down the hall.

osamu watches him go.

then looks at you.

“don’t encourage him.”

“i literally hit him.”

“he likes that.”

osamu disappears and returns a moment later with a glass of water. he sets it on the coffee table, then crouches in front of you, big hands warm on your knees.

“drink.”

you take it with both hands because you are not entirely sure your fingers work otherwise.

he watches you drink, then reaches down and carefully fixes your underwear back into place. it’s such a practical gesture that it should not make your chest warm, but it does. he smooths the fabric over your hip, then pats you there firmly when you twitch.

like a dad with a dog.

“gonna be okay for dinner?”

you laugh into your glass. “if i can walk.”

“good. yer settin’ the table.”

“i just almost died.”

“and i cooked.”

“rin almost killed me, make him set the table.”

“rin’s gonna wash the dishes if he keeps actin’ up.”

from the bathroom, rin calls, “heard that.”

osamu doesn’t look away from you. “good.”

you smile despite yourself.

his face softens in that small way he rarely announces. his thumb brushes over the outside of your knee, once, then again.

“y’good?” he asks, quieter.

you nod.

“yeah. good.”

his mouth tips into a crooked little smile. “yeah?”

you lean forward and kiss him.

it’s softer than the kiss he gave you when he came home. less casual. more thank you. his hand comes up to the back of your neck, holding you there for one slow breath before he pulls away.

“water,” he reminds you.

“bossy.”

rin comes back with his face clean and his hair damp around the temples, like he has done the bare minimum required of him and expects applause. he flops onto the couch beside you, heavy and boneless, immediately leaning into your side. his phone appears in his hand from nowhere.

you nudge his shoulder.

he nudges back.

you nudge harder.

he looks over, expression blank.

“what?”

“asshole.”

“i just made you come, be appreciative.”

“you were told to stop.”

“eventually.”

you narrow your eyes.

rin’s thumb moves over his phone screen, but his shoulder presses more firmly against yours. apology by weight. it’s one of his languages.

you accept it by putting your leg over his lap and letting him rest his cold hand on your ankle.

osamu returns to the kitchen before the chicken burns, muttering something about living with animals.

dinner is loud in the way your dinners usually are.

not volume, exactly. more texture. oil-crisped karaage piled on a plate in the middle of the table, steam rising from fresh rice, cucumber sliced thin because osamu listens even when he complains. the lemon wedges are arranged too neatly for someone who pretends he doesn’t care about presentation. spicy mayo sits in a small bowl near rin, plain mayo near you, because osamu remembers where both of you reach without having to ask.

rin presses his cold toes against your calf under the table.

you kick him.

he does it again.

osamu, without looking up from his bowl, says, “feet to yerself.”

rin says, “wasn’t me.”

“ya got the toes of a corpse. i know it was you.”

you nearly choke on your rice.

rin’s mouth twitches.

osamu slides you a piece of chicken from the plate, one of the crispier ones, without saying anything. then a second piece. your favourite kind. golden at the edges, still steaming. he does it automatically, like feeding you is part of his own meal.

you glance at him.

he doesn’t look up.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“eat.”

rin leans closer, stage-whispering, “he loves you.”

“i know.”

osamu points his chopsticks at rin. “i love quiet too. never get that.”

“you’d be bored.”

“wouldn’t know. never tried it.”

rin steals cucumber from your plate.

you steal chicken from his.

osamu steals both from the serving plate and pretends not to see any of it.

by the time dinner is done, your body has settled into that warm, loose ache of being fed after being wrecked. rin is slouched so low in his chair he might become liquid. osamu is stacking plates with the long-suffering air of a man who claims he does all the work and secretly prefers it that way.

“i’ll wash,” you say.

osamu looks at you. “ya sure yer legs work?”

“mostly.”

rin’s eyes flick to your thighs.

you point at him. “don’t.”

“didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“face is innocent.”

“face is irritating me.”

osamu snorts.

you do the dishes because osamu cooked, and because the apartment feels best like this: rin sprawled in the living room with his phone, osamu moving around behind you putting leftovers away, your hands in warm soapy water, rice cooker still clicking as it cools.

halfway through rinsing a bowl, osamu comes up behind you.

not quietly. never that quietly. you know his steps, feel him before he touches you. still, your breath catches when his body presses along your back, broad and warm, his hands settling on either side of the sink to cage you in without trapping you.

his chin dips near your shoulder.

“ya not tired out yet?”

your eyes close for a second.

behind you, he smells like oil and ginger and clean sweat. like the shop. like home. his voice sits low against your ear, easy enough to pass as teasing if you want it to.

you don’t.

you shake your head, leaning back into him with a soft, contented sigh.

“not yet.”

from the living room, without missing a beat, rin calls, “will be.”

osamu laughs against your shoulder.

low.

promising.

your hands pause in the dishwater.

rin appears in the doorway, phone hanging loose from one hand, eyes half-lidded and bright with the kind of interest that means he has absolutely recovered his energy and learned nothing from being hauled away earlier.

osamu’s mouth brushes the side of your neck.

“finish the dishes,” he says.

“bossy,” you whisper.

“ya like bossy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.

rin leans against the doorframe.

“i’ll dry.”

you and osamu both look at him.

rin blinks.

“what?”

“you?” osamu says.

“dry?”

“suspicious.”

rin shrugs. “want them done faster.”

you laugh, warmth sliding low in your stomach all over again.

that’s tonight’s plans sorted, then.

Beside him, Uraume walks. He holds a bag, filled with gifts for the townspeople. Today had to be the day– otherwise it would have had too much of a stench. Electronic refrigerators are a thing of the past. 

Toji rides too, on Split Soul. He holds his rifle up against his shoulder, at parade rest. He looks more like a knight carrying his lance before he goes to a joust, so comfortable on his horse. Behind his saddle, tied up and frantic, is a man named Holden, who makes pathetic noises, twisting and trying to free himself. 

Sukuna turns around at the sound, resting a hand on the back of his saddle. 

“What are you going to do? Inch away like a worm?” He asks Holden. “Should we have killed you instead?” 

Holden muffles a bit more, fear over his features. Sukuna looks over at Toji. “Shut him up.” Then, he’s facing straight again. 

Toji knocks the butt of his rifle against the man’s forehead. He cuts skin. Holden falls silent, droplets of blood hitting the ground with every pulse of his heart. 

“Don’t know what he thought,” Sukuna says, shaking his head and adjusting the brim of his hat, a black spare Stetson that Toji had. “Can’t even form proper words.” 

You look away from the show of violence. How despicable. You keep your eyes trained on the horizon. It was too dangerous to leave you at the farm. Who knows who might come by looking for shelter, looking for food, looking for women…

As you approach the town, you pass through a small residential area, which has cute, historical townhouses that are pressed together with lawns that were once manicured, but are now gray and thirsty. Perhaps at one point, little families lived in these townhouses. There are toys outside some of them still, Fisher Price cars made of thick, faded, red-and-yellow plastic. 

Each house is contained by a little brick half wall meant to serve as a fence, with large, black iron gates. One yard is simply filled with perfectly smooth little yellow-and-cream stones, which contrast minimally to the painted white brick of the town house. 

You look at the houses with longing. Once upon a time, you dreamed of having a cute little historical townhome that you could take perfect care of with a rose bush and a magnolia tree. Maybe you’d have a little table and two chairs, wrought iron, under the tree to have breakfast and happy hour under. With a lover– all visions of your future include a nondescript lover. 

Now, that dream is dead. Dead as the men being ferried into the town center. The horses' hooves clop as the asphalt turns to neat stone. The townhouses turn into cute little shop fronts and restaurants, advertising flowers and consignments and jewelry. How quaint. A long time ago, you could have probably lost yourself in these streets.

The well-planned roads lead to a town center, where the Sheriff– a lanky, thin man– seems to be trying to give directives through a megaphone to the people gathered around. Maybe fifty people, sixty. There appears to be unrest of some sort. Your heart speeds in your chest at the sight of so many people– being in your small company has dwindled your social anxiety and suddenly, it’s spiking again. 

The Sheriff trails off as he sees the approaching horses. He lowers his microphone, truly taking them in, and what a sight that must be: three riders, faces shaded by wide brimmed hats, someone walking alongside them with a sack in their arms.

He stands on the steps of what must be the city council building, or the town hall. The steps are miraculously white and glisten in the bloody sun. The build itself is a grand thing, a sight to behold. Roman columns, writing at the top where a frieze should be. Maybe you should have really gone to the eye doctor before it all went to shit, maybe your vision really is that bad… 

Sukuna rides through the crowd, which part for him like the Red Sea, gasping and murmuring to each other. Uraume walks still by his side, handing out little parcels of neatly wrapped meat to the townspeople, with Toji right behind him. He keeps a wide berth of the fire that simmers in the center of the square, this pyre of humanity. There’s a cooking rod drawn across it, but no pot hangs from it. 

You linger in the back, unarmed and trying your best to stay out of sight. You don’t want to see this. You know exactly what is going to happen– at least, you can imagine it: Sukuna’s crimes, the screams, the smell of pork the following morning. 

Sukuna grins at the Sheriff, charming and boyish. He remains atop Thousand Miles while he talks to him. The beheaded Jeffrey is eye level with the Sheriff, whose eyes bounce back between the dead eyes and the deadly eyes above him. 

“I heard you had a thieving problem,” Sukuna says. “I handled it for you.” 

The Sheriff’s mouth moves– opening and closing like a fish. Speechlessness is written all over his features, down to the way his hand trembles, trembling the megaphone too. 

“I– I– I–” 

“Fushiguro let me know, and I took care of it,” Sukuna says, nodding his head back at Toji. Toji gives the Sheriff a polite nod, a polite tip of his hat. “You know, you’ve had this thieving problem on your hands for two weeks… how many rations have been lost in that time? Your people are going hungry…” Sukuna directs the horse to walk behind the Sheriff. 

“Sheriff, how will you keep this from happening again?” Sukuna asks. He looks to the people. “I know how hunger feels. I have been out hunting. There is still food in the forests, which has been unradiated. I have brought you gifts from my hunt! Please, enjoy.” 

His smile is menacing, canines glinting with malice. 

“Just know that things… things could be better.” 

Sukuna drops from his horse, just as he practiced so many times. He wraps his arm around the Sheriff’s shoulders, lowering his voice to speak privately to him. “How will you keep this from happening again? I’ve brought you the other thief.” 

He gestures to Holden, who’s coming to reality on the back of Split Soul. The man’s eyes widen as he realizes he’s in front of his faction, in front of his people. He twists and turns. He can’t speak. He’s gagged, but his tongue has been fed to the hogs. 

“What will you do?” Sukuna asks quietly. 

“I– I banish him!” The Sheriff says quickly. “You are banished…?” 

Sukuna hums. “That feels like an awfully light punishment. He’s made your people go hungry, hasn’t he? Has he not been able to keep his belly full while you ration out what? Stale saltines and canned tuna?” 

Looking towards the crowd, Sukuna motions for Toji to take Holden down. The man manhandles him, carrying him until he’s kneeling in front of the crowd, fear in his eyes. Sukuna looks down at him with disdain. 

“Should he not be punished more severely?” Sukuna asks the crowd. He needs no megaphone to address them. “Bashishment means that he will be back! What should we do?” 

“Kill him!” Someone shouts from the crowd, like the click of flint against steel. Sukuna grins wickedly as the crowd cheers in agreement.

“I think,” Sukuna ventures, looking down at Holden. “That thieves ought to not have hands. Why travel to the afterlife if they can thieve there too?” 

The crowd cheers, excited and hungry. Sukuna grins, looking at Uraume. “Prepare his hands.” 

Uraume kneels before Holden, taking his hands in theirs. This song and dance is not unfamiliar. Sukuna reaches on Thousand Miles, pulling his machete from the steed’s saddle. He kisses the blade, then raises it up. 

In the poisoned sun, Sukuna’s blade glints. He had sharpened it that morning, when you realized where the midnight scream came from. When it dawned on you, with the rising sun, what your morning would have in store for you. How this day would go. 

The Sheriff watches in abject horror. You watch in abject horror.

Instead, you remember your conversation with Sukuna that morning, teary eyed as you watched Uraume dutifully cook steak bites on the stove and portion out into little ziplock baggies. 

“Don’t worry,” he had said, “We’ll put the other to use too.”

Sukuna bends to whisper to Holden. “You are lucky, my blade is sharp. When I used to do this, I would tie people up and pull their arms off– sometimes their hands would just pop off. Bad joints. But this…” He gently rests the blade against Holden’s bound wrists, against the juncture of wrist to forearm, against the rope binding his hands together. The hairs of Holden’s arms are reflected in the steel. “I’m thinking it will take two, three times to slice through the bone. Let’s find out, huh?” 

Oh, he’s so excited he might as well be hard. But he’s not one of those sick freaks that gets sexual pleasure from this kind of pain. No, no, he’s a real man. And a real man loves hunting and butchering and the spraying of blood–

Holden whimpers. Sukuna raises the machete in both hands and brings it down with a sickening slice, cutting through the thick air. Holden cries out in pain as the machete meets bone. Then, Sukuna raises the bloody blade once more, bringing it down even harder. Bones crack. Again. And again. And then his hands are on the ground and he’s wailing and Sukuna is grinning. 

There’s blood and gratification splattered across his face, and the crowd is cheering. Holden’s hands fall in opposite directions, one continuing down the steps and one landing straight up and down before slowly falling flat on its palm. 

There is so. Much. Blood. It spurts comically and rhythmically, in time with his rapidly beating heart. You pray that he’ll pass out from blood loss before anything worse can happen to him. 

“Death?” Sukuna asks the crowd again, gripping Holden’s hair with one hand, holding the machete to his neck. His blood pumps excitedly through his veins, his heart leaping with joy. This is better than sex, and it’s been weeks since he got his rocks off. “Think of the hunger in your stomachs!” 

There’s more cheering. Sukuna makes eye contact with you, from across the crowd. And you watch, with wide eyes, as the machete slices along his neck. You imagine he gurgles; the blood gurgles, like it did in the shoe store. The blood pools out of him like shitty Halloween makeup, dripping through his stubble and over his Adam’s apple. 

Then, Uraume comes to take Holden’s head in their hands, gripping his hair. Sukuna lops his head off with precision. At the first swing, Holden’s head goes limp, hanging on by his spinal cord. Blood flows from his gaping wound, rushing out of him and down over his tie-dye Grateful Dead t-shirt. Even from here, you can see how red it all is, though it seems that most of his blood left through his arms, pooled in front of him on the dirtied marble stairs. Another lop. At least he’s dead now. Another. Then the spine breaks, and his body falls, and Uraume holds the head. 

They immediately offer it to Sukuna. Sukuna takes the head in his hands, gripping it by the hair, and holds it up. Blood splatters, on the ground, on him, from the decapitation. 

“You will never be wronged again!” Sukuna announces. “I, Sukuna, will make sure of it.” 

Pride wells in his chest and the people cheer. Sukuna looks over to the Sheriff, questioning look on his face. Defy me? his expression inquires. 

Sukuna raises his machete to the Sheriff’s face, watching the crowd closely. Their breaths are bated, eyes wide. Well liked, he surmises. He slowly lowers the killing tool, dulled from the constant hacking. 

“Make a wise choice,” Sukuna murmurs, slowly sheathing his machete. 

The Sheriff nods quickly, dropping his megaphone with a clatter, which tumbles down towards the severed hands, and heads to join the crowd. Sukuna points at you, then crooks his finger to motion you over. 

With your heart in your throat, you move through the crowd; commanded. Surprisingly, they part for you as well, giving you a wide berth. 

Each step Playful Cloud takes, you match with an easy sway of your body, trying your best to remain calm and collected. Though, you feel your heart in your throat, trying to climb out more and more with each pulse as you near Sukuna. 

Blood-splattered Sukuna. Hair-gripping Sukuna. Your Sukuna. 

Sukuna comes down a stair, and holds his hand out to you, waiting for you to approach. The head is still in his hand. You stop before him, and Uraume quickly comes over to help you dismount. Then, you’re in Sukuna’s greedy arms. He wraps an arm around your waist, dropping the head to the ground. It hits the stair with a dull thud, then rolls down. 

You watch it. Sukuna tilts your chin up to look at him, getting blood on your pretty skin. He leans down– and it’s happening, it’s finally happening– his lips press against yours in a deep claim. He cups the side of your head, tilting his own to deepen the kiss further. He licks his way into your mouth, possessive and demanding. And you find your back arching, pressing yourself to him despite your best interests. 

Sukuna pulls away, wildly drunk on his newfound, rightful power. And you can’t help but grin back at him, placing a hand on his chest, right over his excitedly beating heart. 

This is the best possible place for you to be right now. This is your safety, your future, your sanity: next to this man, awash in the cheers for his brazen undertakings. 

Uraume sets up shop in the center of town, above the pot that’s been brought out to cook pounds of rice in. Town folk are given a paper plate with the fresh rice on it and, if they weren’t handed some earlier, a neatly portioned slice of meat. They’re also given a fork.

You stand beside Uraume, greeting all the survivors. Because that’s the right thing to do– Sukuna is fearsome and you kissed him and you are kind. Behind you, Sukuna sits on the steps of the city building, Toji by his side. The man’s features are unreadable, and Sukuna is simply elated at how things have gone. 

“Look at ‘em,” Sukuna says, watching as the townspeople accept their rice and fork, some of their meat as well. “Fuck, we’ve got them.” 

Toji sucks at his teeth, at some of the sinew from breakfast lingering there. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “We got them.” 

Sukuna beams. He stands up, coming over to your side. He wraps his arm around your waist, making eye contact with the mother you’re talking to as he places a kiss on your cheek. 

She blushes and looks away, down towards her son, who can’t be more than six. His skin is so soft, plush cheeks and chubby arms. 

“Cute kid,” Sukuna notes. He moves his arm to be slung over your shoulder. 

“Thank you,” she says softly, then more firmly, making eye contact with Sukuna, “Thank you for what you’ve done.” 

He grins. “Anything for the greater good.” 

She wets her lips and nods. 

“We’ll make sure your son grows up well,” you say to her, careful to not make any false promises. Then again, it feels like you may have already. 

“Thank you,” she says again, then leads herself and her little bundle of joy off to eat. 

You turn to look back up at Sukuna, taking him in. He still has some blood splattered on him from earlier, stuck to his clothes, but he’s devastatingly handsome. Maybe it’s the lack of options around you. 

If he was to offer you a shot in a dive bar, you’d have a hard time saying no to him. 

He catches you staring, and tilts his head down to look at you properly. Delightfully, his skin and tattoos crinkle at the angle. 

“What?” He asks. 

You shake your head. “I’d love to go on a walk around the town,” you say softly. 

He snorts. “A walk?” 

“The town seems cute,” you add on. “C’mon, let’s go investigate.” 

Sukuna frowns a bit at that. He swishes his lips side to side, pondering through a pout. Then, he relents. 

“Yeah, whatever. We can go on a walk.” He turns to look back at Toji. “Hold it down here! We’ll be back.” 

Toji gives him a nod, and Sukuna begins to drag you away from the crowd. The two of you head down the street, which is surprisingly still put together. No windows are smashed, nothing’s been stolen with such larceny. 

As you pass a restaurant, you tip your head towards the window, cupping your face to see clearly in. You can make out the chairs and tables, the little counter of the bakery. There’s no food left behind. 

Maybe on a cute Sunday afternoon, you could convince Sukuna to come get a little bite to eat, maybe even walk here. Get a blueberry scone and a ham-and-cheese croissant with some lattes. 

Sukuna leans beside you, taking up the same position to peer in for a moment before righting himself. 

“C’mon, there’s nothing to look at in there anyways,” Sukuna says gruffly. 

“Let me bask in a little bit of humanity,” you pout, but pull away anyways. “C’mon, don’t you think it’s good that the people here are so civilized?” 

Sukuna raises his eyebrow. “Doll, be real with me.” 

Huffing, you put your hands on your hips. “What?” 

Sukuna chuckles. He gestures back to the town’s center– even though everyone is gathered around, there’s a hush about the area. There’s been a hush around the world for the past few weeks now, anyways. 

“You’d call that civilized?” He asks. 

Titling your head to the side, you look up at Sukuna. You gesture to the area around you both in return. “Notice how none of the windows are broken? They’re getting along.” 

Sukuna tilts his head back and at an angle, so he’s sure to be physically talking down to you. He gazes at you down his cheek, and you wonder if he can see his tattoos that linger along the bone. 

“You think they’re getting along? Do you see how quickly they turned on their- on their friends?” Sukuna says, fumbling a bit for the word. It ruins his briefly fearsome demeanor. 

“I think peers is a better word for what you’re describing,” you say. Then, you sigh and shrug, sticking your hands in the back pockets of your pants. “Whatever.” 

“And they’re all eating,” Sukuna tacks on, dutifully ignoring your suggestion. 

“Well, they’re hungry.” 

Sukuna grins. 

You cross your arms. “Whatever. It’s– it’s not illegal. You know this.” 

“It’s desecrating the dead,” Sukuna notes, starting to walk again, he places his crooked finger on his chin, holding it between digit and thumb. “It’s hard to charge someone with, though, if there’s nothing left over.” 

You walk alongside him, scrunching up your nose. “It’s fine when it’s for survival, I guess.” 

“That’s why it’s not illegal,” Sukuna says, then smiles. “Lots of loopholes, though.” 

Your stomach churns. “I’m going to be sick.” 

“No, you’re going to be nice and strong,” Sukuna says. He slings his arm around your shoulders and holds you close to his side as you stroll. “Can’t have my wife being weak, can I?” 

Screwing up your nose, you huff at him. “Are we going back to the farm tonight?” 

“Absolutely not,” Sukuna says. “We’re staying here. We have to make sure that we are dominant.” 

You slip out of his arm, which he allows. “And where are we staying?” 

“In one of these homes,” Sukuna says, gesturing around. “I’m sure there’s someone who will be nice enough to let the heroes of their hunger problem stay with them.” 

“Are you sure it’s safe?” You ask. The farm is safe, it’s just the four of you… those screams weren’t anything of harm to you. They were to your benefit. Your benefit. 

“I thought you thought they were civilized?” Sukuna questions. 

With a sigh, you nod at your own past words. You did say that. 

“And, anyways.” Sukuna reaches to take your hand in his, as if you were two lovers walking the streets on a nice evening. Maybe on your way to dinner at a cute little bistro that you’ve been eyeing for a while, excited to try the truffle fries and caesar salad at. He squeezes your hand, worryingly comforting. “I’ll be there.”