—

You weren’t a harlot. A traitor, perhaps, but not some whore he randomly found on the street. 

You were that man’s servant— by choice, might you add. 

Going to work in a grand estate sounded better than marrying your neighbour the moment you turned 20. You would’ve been his servant too, along with being forced to pop out dozens of that gremlin of a man’s kids, so off you went to work directly under the lord of the province you had grown up in.

Life before him felt empty— pointless, almost. Sukuna was his name. Is.

There’s no doubt he’s still out there somewhere. 

Despite how cruel he may have been at first, lashing out at you at times like some wounded, feral animal, you loved that man. That cold, broody recluse of a man— one whose skin had apparently never felt the sun's warmth, whose beauty that only a scant few had laid eyes on. It was a pleasure, if anyone had asked you, though they never did during your rare visits home. The villagers kept their distance from his compound during the day and locked themselves indoors at night, scared of the beast their parents, and their parents before them, have told tales of. Your parents included.

They would’ve never believed you anyway— there was a point where you also imagined Sukuna as a hideous monster after all. But no, the man who spat the ugliest of words turned out to be the handsomest of them all. 

You did everything you could to put a smile on his face, and then some to keep it there. Even his temper, as bad as it was, you had grown to adore. He knew how you felt— he saw that adoration in your eyes grow with each passing day. He could claim he didn’t like it all he wanted, yet the way he let you speak freely, to the point where you’d chide him over his impossibly high standards for his home, which no one visited, showed his acceptance long before he admitted it out loud. 

He was a grump. The little pout that’d form on his face made it easy to talk to him that way. At first, he just barelytolerated the way you spoke to him without permission, all the stupid questions you asked him. Then there were the times you’d break something, like a plate… or the ancient vase he had long before cleo-fucking-patra was born. 

You tried to blame it on the vase itself, and in that moment, he swore he’d drain every last drop of blood from your lifeless corpse. But then your eyes began to well up. 

You had no idea how old it was, you just knew it was something he seemed to care about, and you began apologizing over it— offering to glue the thousands of ceramic shards back together, offering to have your wages cut for however long needed. You would’ve been indebted to him for the rest of your life, so would the generations after you too— that was the last thing he wanted. 

At the time, he thought it was because he’d rather not deal with the same clumsiness for centuries, only for him to later realize that he just didn’t like to see you cry. It came out as frustration, his concern just barely concealed by his irritation as he tried to get you to stop. His words fell on deaf ears as you continued to convince him (and yourself) that you could fix it, searching for whatever pieces you missed on the floor. 

Tears still streaming down your cheeks, nothing but sincerity in the words that trembled out of you, not at all considering the risk of cutting a finger on a shard. 

It was pathetic.

He couldn’t handle it.

“Stop it,” he snapped, the sharpness of his tone snapping you out of it and pulling you back to reality. 

“But there’s patterns,” you said, sniffling like a guilty child. “It’ll be like a puzzle game–”

“I don’t need you playing with pottery shards,” he cut you off, making you realize how ridiculous it all sounded. “It’s just a fucking vase.”

It wasn’t just a fucking vase, but it was somehow easier to watch that break into pieces instead of the clumsy woman in front of him.

Things changed between the two of you after that. You wouldn’t say he was more cautious— quite the opposite, actually. Comfortable was a better word. Your questions were met with a hint of amusement rather than annoyance. He would still roll his eyes, sometimes going as far as letting out a long, disappointed sigh, but he still indulged in the exchange. The conversations were no longer one-sided— he began to continue them… somewhat begrudgingly at first, but the interest was obviously there. 

Sukuna was still Sukuna, of course. He’d try to poke fun at you here and there in his own rough, sometimes dark, way. His demands became requests that were followed by subtle threats. Were they bluffs? Yes… most of them at least. It was sometimes difficult to tell. His idea of a joke was talking about someone’s death, then following it up with quite possibly the most evil laugh you had ever heard. You got used to it in the three years you worked for him and lived at the estate. 

By that last year, it was him who’d start to seek you out. Again, in his own way, like calling for you the moment he’d catch a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye. 

“Yes, my lord?” was usually how you’d answer him. You weren’t close enough to call him by his name yet. Who knows how he would’ve responded to that during the time you worked for him. 

“What are you doing out of your quarters at this hour?” he asked rather accusingly, despite not actually caring if you broke the rules. It wouldn’t have been the first time. 

“Oh?” you responded, feigning innocence as you looked around his study for a clock. “Past 11 already?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Taking your employment for granted once again, I see,” he grumbled, setting his book down with a sigh. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he looked you up and down. “Perhaps it might be time to give your position to someone else?”

“Perhaps not, my lord,” you responded, kindly shutting down his proposal as if it were some silly little suggestion. “I’d actually argue that I’m your best worker.” 

The battle within himself was lost in that moment, having to look away from you as he barely suppressed a laugh. 

The crystal glasses that he ordered you to polish over a week ago had yet to be touched. Not to mention you’ve successfully killed every single plant that’s been put under your care. Hell, even his recent victims have had more humane endings, not like yours, that’ve had to suffer, parched and ignored for weeks. 

And yet somehow, probably by the grace of the gods that've turned on him long ago, you were still there. There’s only one other servant who had worked under him longer than you had, but the difference between you two was that she actually listened to him. 

Something had blossomed between you two that night. The funny thing is, you two spent centuries arguing over who started it. He always claimed it was you, dropping yourself down onto his lap, when you could’ve simply left. Yet he was the one who took hold of your waist and led you there. 

You may not have been a whore, but he sure fucked you like one on top of his desk that night. Pinning your knees to your chest, leaving you open for him to do as he pleased with you, as if that were your only purpose in life. 

To make him feel something other than the boredom and bloodlust he spent his entire life ricocheting between. To satisfy a hunger he didn’t realize he had until you wrapped your legs around him. A hunger that only seemed to grow from the way he had you whimpering under him and clawing at his back as he drove his cock into you— showing you what it meant to belong to someone like him, which hardly meant anything at the time.

To be with him was to be ruined, to be consumed. It was as natural as a wildfire tearing through a field, reducing even the most beautiful flowers to nothing but remnants of what once was. Was it cruel? Of course it was, but you wouldn’t criticise a fire for burning all that’s in its path. 

So he takes, and takes, and takes. Too selfish to even consider your fate afterwards, or what should’ve been. He was fucked the moment he realized he liked how his name sounded when it rolled off your tongue, all breathy and desperate, sounding like a prayer for once rather than a curse. He sealed his own fate that night when he spent the entirety of it making you say it over and over, relentlessly hitting your sweet spot until you were crying and cumming around his cock, again, and again, and again.

He went from taunting you to talking you through it, to crashing his lips against yours as he fucked you through each one. 

Sukuna wasn’t going to kill you. 

Not that you knew that— you didn’t know anything at that time. You were just a girl with her first love. Naive, too, just like everyone else before experiencing heartbreak for the first time. But if you asked Sukuna, he’d say you were more foolish than naive. He teased you for years over it, how you just offered yourself to him on a silver platter. It wasn’t every day the prey decided to run towards their predators, yet there you were, with all the trust in your heart. All the stars in your eyes. 

His dumb little lamb. 

He thought it was sweet how your feelings blinded you from all the signs of danger. Even after your relationship with him had begun and he started giving you signs and leaving little clues, you didn’t see them. 

At one point, he came back home in the early morning, with unwiped blood on both sides of his mouth, and you still didn’t mention it. It was as if you refused to see it. You didn’t even bother to ask where he’d been. Any question or comment that could’ve led you to find out what he had been up to, you avoided. 

He didn’t actually think you were dumb, but he definitely thought you were smarter than you let on after that day. Truth be told, he didn’t have much of a plan— if you actually said something to him, there was a chance it could’ve ended badly for you. 

He was far from perfect at the beginning of the life you shared with him.

The blatant signs stopped after that night. Aside from him randomly being gone until the early mornings, he was normal. The sunlight didn’t burn him to ashes whenever it hit his skin. He ate meat, seared and always rare, and drank wine when having dinner with you. You never asked if he’d like to have a bite of your food. He was said to be a picky eater when you first started working for him, and you never questioned it. He already had the personality of one anyway. 

You were happy with the life you had with him, and despite never saying it, you knew Sukuna loved you back. You were convinced that you’d never hear him utter those words, and it was something you were okay with. He was better at showing it anyway, whether it be through gifts he’d randomly give you or choosing to take care of you himself instead of the servants whenever you got sick. 

Then it happened. 

The night you thought it’d be okay to be less cautious was the same night he thought it’d be fine to be less discreet. He was tired, hadn’t had a real, fresh meal in days. The servants stayed in their quarters during those hours anyway, there would’ve been more than enough time for Uraume to clean up the mess before work started for them. 

Unlucky for him, he just had to start a relationship with the one servant who always took curfew as a suggestion rather than an order. It’s no different now that you’re no longer one either.

One could imagine his irritation at hearing a stifled breath while he tried to feed in peace. You were quiet enough for most people, but, unlucky for you, his hearing was better than most. Maybe you would’ve just gone back to the room had he just kept his head down, but then again,  he turned the room he chose to sit into a fucking mess. 

Not to mention, there was an entire dead body right in front of him. He was also fairly certain they were in the early stages of some sort of disease, judging by the taste. It was one thing after another— nothing seemed to be going for him that night.

But what set him off? 

Looking over his shoulder and seeing nothing but pure terror in your eyes. It was the kind of look people gave him when they realized that they weren’t going to just be killed by some bad guy. With that, there was some hope— whether it be hope that he had a change of heart or hope that he’d get caught and punished one day. But then they realize they’re just food. His food. 

Which is somehow worse since they didn’t do anything to deserve it. It wasn’t some divine punishment for something they had done. He was just hungry.

At least with humans, you could govern them, give them a set of rules to live by, and punish them whenever they broke one. There’s always a sense of comfort in having safety and order. There were obvious exceptions, though. Animals? That’s fine. People need to eat, they need to feed their families. Animals kill and eat each other all the time. 

Just don’t forget that Sukuna also has to eat.

Just because it’s inevitable doesn’t mean it’s wrong. But he was human once— he understands the hopelessness of it all, he just didn’t expect to see that in you. Not after he’s shown you he could take care of you when you were physically at your weakest. Not when you go to sleep and wake up next to him, every single day. Unharmed. He knew that somewhere deep down, you knew what he was— he’s shown you. There was no reason for you to look as surprised as you were.

The silence between you dragged on for what felt like forever. You usually had something to say, something that would take attention away from the blood he’d sometimes have on him. But it was everywhere this time— the floor, his hands, actively dripping down his chin as he continued to stare you down with this bored, unimpressed look. He was angry, to the point where he didn’t even know how to express it.

But he suppressed it, pushing it down just enough for him to try to give you a chance to say something that wouldn’t worsen his mood.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked in a tone softer than usual. All it did was send your heart racing— he was able to hear that, too. 

“I– no. It’s nothing, I just–,” you lightly rambled, still at a complete loss for words. All he did was mock you, humming each time you stumbled on your words, as if he understood how nervous you were despite how pleased he seemed to be by it. “I thought I heard something. Just wanted to see if it was you.”

“You sure?” he continues to question you, slowly getting up from the seat and turning to fully face you. “You’re usually happy to see me. You look more…”

“Sorry,” you murmured, struggling to keep your eyes on his as he slowly began to walk up to you. “I’m just tired. I think I’ll– it’s probably better if I go back up to bed. I can– do you want me to wait for you? Before I go back to sleep?”

He smiled and looked back, looking over the room and the body on the floor, then returned his gaze to you. “Wait for what?” 

“Just… until you’re ready to go to sleep,” you mumbled, clearly not wanting to say what he wanted you to say, nor giving him the acknowledgement he wanted. 

“Is that what you want?”

“Why wouldn’t I want that?” You let out a little laugh, one that was too forced and way too nervous.

He laughs with you as he starts going through all the different reasons in his head. “Just wondering, you looked disgusted earlier when you first interrupted me.”

He didn’t even try to hide how offended he felt from just that alone.

“I— no, I didn’t.”

“And then you started looking really scared,” he continued, clearly not looking to argue over what he saw with his own two eyes. The hostility in his tone only grew as he kept going. “Terrified, actually, even though I never actually tried to hide this from you. You just looked the other way—” he suddenly cuts himself off and slightly snaps, “I need you to stop looking at me like I’m about to fucking attack you.”

“I’m- I’m not,” you swore, feeling the tears begin to well up. “Why would I—”

“You’re not?” he barely scoffed, too tired yet too angry to completely let it all go. He continued to get closer, backing you into the corner. “Why do you keep stepping back then?”

You wondered if he even realized how unfair he was being— the way he began to intimidate you, just to prove his point. Yet with the way he was acting, telling him that you were just in a state of shock at first wouldn't have helped. There was no point in telling him that being scared that you bothered him was different from being scared of him either. He seemed too delirious to even think straight, let alone tell the difference. 

Too scared to admit it and too scared to deny it, left you wondering if there was even anything you could say to calm him down. You always look back at this day as the one and only time you truly feared Sukuna. 

And how he managed to make it so much worse. Slamming his hand down against the wall, right next to your head, making you startle out of your fucking skin in the process. He leaned in close so you’d hear every last word he threw at you. 

“You know… I already knew you wanted to avoid this for as long as you could, and I tried to respect that,” he began to mutter, low yet as threatening as ever. “But you’ve been running around the estate, playing the bratty, spoiled-rotten wife. You even dressed the part with all the clothes you asked for, and I gladly gave you. I wanted to make you happy and took pride in that, but I didn’t just fucking spoil you— I took care of you. Every time you got sick and weak and fucking vulnerable, I took care of you. Whenever your body was so frail from how hard a common cold hit you, I was gentle with you— I didn’t want to break you. And not once did I ever fucking complain, I just wanted you to be healthy and NORMAL again,” he says, starting to lose his temper again, hearing the pain in his voice as those last words tore through him. “Yet the moment you see me doing what I need to do to survive, you can’t even try to hide how fucking disgusted you are at the sight of me.” 

“I wasn’t disgusted by you, Sukuna!” you tried to argue, but your words continued to fall on deaf ears. He didn’t believe you.

“And if I knew this was where we’d end up, with you fearing me and keeping your fucking distance from me, I would've snapped your neck the moment you stepped foot into this house,” he added, managing to make that last blow the most painful out of everything he’s said by far. 

You believed him, even if it was only true for the time being, while his own brain forced him to run laps around it until he ran himself into the ground.

Not that it hurt any less. 

Unable to keep up with how fast your chest rose and collapsed, failing to control the breaths and heaves it created. There was nowhere for you to go, and for a moment, you genuinely believed he was going to follow through with what he felt he should’ve done to you at the start. But that was just one of the million things going through your mind, all while trying to get over everything he’d just said to you in his own rage. 

“I don’t— I don’t even know what to say to make you believe me,” you whispered, voice threatening to break after each word, unsure where to even look as he continued to stare at you. “I wasn’t scared, just… shocked. Then you turned around and you were— you looked mad. I thought I was bothering you. I told you I’d wait for you. I ju- I just didn’t want to bother you.”

The explanation made him take a step back, and only then did you begin to feel like you could start breathing again slowly. Though the tears continued to flow uncontrollably. 

The sight of you crying brought on a guilt that made him want to implode, especially that day. It was one of those memories that made his chest tighten whenever he remembered it, having yet to free himself from the thick layer of dread it never failed to coat him in. You could barely even look at him, but he forced himself to look at you— standing next to the bloody handprint on the wall, serving as a reminder that he caged you in so he could continue to rip into you. Then, leaving you with no other choice in the end but to hold on to your own arms, because his arms were covered in some random man’s blood. 

He didn’t even deserve to touch you at that point, nor did he deserve to be forgiven, but you did. There wasn’t an angry bone in your body that day. 

“I’ve loved you for years now— it wouldn’t go away after just one day.” 

You made it look so easy, how you could tell him you loved him without expecting to hear it back. He didn’t get it— he struggled enough with apologizing.

“I wasn’t trying to rub that in your face… just needed you to know I do all of that stuff because I know you like it.” 

He sucked at explaining himself.

“I know. Thank you.” 

“Same with taking care of you whenever you get sick. I wasn’t trying to— fuck. I hate watching you suffer through them.” 

“I know. I always feel bad for you whenever I catch a cold.” 

“Don’t. I want you to be okay.” 

“Thank you.” 

But you noticed that whenever he felt guilty, he’d keep going until he finally found the right thing to say.

“And that last thing I said— it’s not true.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not. I’d never kill you.” 

“You were delirious and hurt—“

“I hate seeing you in a bad mood, and I’m sorry that I went and put you in one anyway. I can’t even think about you dying 60 years from now. I’d never kill you.” 

And luckily, you never did. 

Getting him to turn you was honestly a lot harder than you had originally thought it’d be. It was a lot of convincing, and caused a lot of fights where you both had threatened to leave each other. 

“There’s beauty in being human.” You never imagined those words coming out of Sukuna’s mouth, but they did. He thought that growing old and returning to the earth was something to look forward to. 

In a time when you genuinely thought that maybe it was time to give up on him and accept the idea that you’d outlive him one day, he showed you a different side of himself. One that had a little more humility. He suddenly became honest about all his life's regrets and all that he had learned from them. Reflecting on the versions of himself in the past that he’s regretted the most and the ones he’s most proud of. 

For someone who wanted you to stay human as much as he did, you were surprised to learn that being a vampire wasn’t one of his regrets in life. He liked being a part of history, and he looked forward to being a part of the future, to all that would fall and all that would rise in its place. 

You held on to him a little tighter after that, pestering him until he finally admitted that he didn’t want you to die.

He thought you deserved it all— experiencing all the milestones, falling in love and getting married, experiencing parenthood, growing old with someone by your side, all while still having a way out. 

But having a way out still meant that he’d have to wake up one day and realize that you just simply didn’t exist anymore. You’d be gone, and it’d be him left hurting knowing that the world went on without you.

So he did it. For once not out of the need for violence or control, or any other reason that seemed to always stem from chaos or misery. 

Forever was his gift to you. It was his way of thanking you, the one who held all his admiration and adoration. To say he loved you wasn’t enough— you were all of his love. The keeper of his heart, the source of his joy, all the good that was left of him.

Centuries had passed since that day— the beginning of forever, or what you really only remember as the one and only time Sukuna told you that he loved you. 

You had once made a joke saying that his “I Love You” was enough to last you until the end of time itself, yet here you were centuries later still feeling the same way every time you look at the letter that was on its last leg, despite being laminated. You’ve gotten copies made over the years, physical and digital, but like words that came from Sukuna himself, nothing will ever beat the original copy that he wrote himself.

The 1700s blurred into the 1800s. You made and lost friends, moved to multiple countries, sold homes and bought apartments, lived in a suburb, then moved to a farm, went to school, dropped out, went back, got a few degrees, dropped out, and went back.  Not to mention all the name changes. The only constant in your life was Sukuna— your partner, best friend, boyfriend, husband, your enemy every 50 years, and to some random guy you two met at a train station, your perverted boss who made you share hotel rooms with him. You watched each other change and become new people. Picking up new hobbies and learned random talents. Constants, but always growing.

And by the early 1900s, you were gone— taking nothing but a small carry-on with you, along with that stupid love letter he wrote. There were no phones yet— if there were, he’s sure you would’ve thrown it off a bridge, purely out of determination that you were going to fucking find yourself or something. All you left him was a little note that said: 

“I think it’s time for a break. I read in the paper the other day that distance makes the heart grow fonder <3 I hope that we can fall in love all over again the next time we meet. In the meantime, I will be doing some ‘soul searching’.”

p.s— i love you ! ! ! please take care of yourself ! i will be thinking of you more than you know. don't get a girlfriend.

He wanted to murder you then, and he still wants to murder you now,  well over a hundred years later. 

Yeah, that god damn note was written in 1923. He gave you a year to “find yourself” before he started looking and has not stopped since. And with how hard it’s been, you’re either dead or just purposely making it hard for him to find you. 

It’s the latter. He can feel when others die. You are very fucking alive. 

And yet, despite all the stress you’ve caused him in the last century, the love he has for you is alive and real. Unfortunately. If he wasn’t insane before, he definitely was now. There was once a time when he swore he couldn’t imagine you dying, but to be completely honest, he’s had many days where that was all he needed to feel better.