#ryomen

The smoke didn’t roar. It crept.

It slid through the vents of your luxury high-rise like an unwelcome rumor, carrying the sharp, chemical bite of burnt plastic and insulation. By the time the alarms finally screamed, you were already awake. Years of 5 a.m. training had rewired your body to sense disaster before it fully arrived.

Your manager, Haru, burst into your apartment less than two minutes later, hair sticking up on one side, tie askew. “Fire in the mechanical room. Grab your skates and documents. Everything else can burn.”

You moved on autopilot. Competition skates first always. Passport, training logs, sponsor contracts, the small bag of skincare you couldn’t live without. The rest of your elegant, perfectly styled life could wait. Within four minutes you were in the lobby with the other residents: some in silk robes, others clutching designer handbags like shields. Camera flashes already flickered beyond the emergency tape outside. Someone had leaked your name.

No one was hurt. The fire was small, contained. But the smoke damage was ruthless. Your apartment. With those cream walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Tokyo’s glittering skyline, the minimalist luxury you’d earned after two Olympic cycles was now off-limits for months. Renovations, they said. Air quality testing. Legal bullshit.

You stood on the sidewalk at 2:17 a.m. in leggings, an oversized team Japan hoodie, and a black mask, watching the controlled chaos. Your body ached from evening practice. Your mind was already spiraling toward the upcoming Grand Prix series. This was the last thing you needed.

Haru paced nearby, phone pressed to his ear. “Yes… private, secure, no media presence. She can’t be photographed coming and going from a hotel every day.” A pause. “Above a tattoo shop? Are you serious?” Another pause. “Fine. We’ll take it. Send the address.”

He hung up and gave you the look you hated most. The one that said this is damage control. “Temporary housing is sorted. It’s… unconventional. But the landlord owed a favor. Second-floor apartment above a tattoo studio in a quiet neighborhood. Two bedrooms. You’ll have your own space. The guy who lives there is apparently reliable enough.”

You were too exhausted to argue. “As long as its quiet and no one knows I’m there.”

The cab ride was silent. Tokyo blurred past, neon signs bleeding into wet streets from an earlier drizzle. You kept your hood up and mask on, staring at your reflection in the window. Elegant on the ice. Hollow off it. You barely recognized the woman looking back.

The building was narrower than you expected, tucked between a late-night ramen stall (still steaming) and a closed flower shop. The ground floor windows were blacked out, dominated by a blood-red neon sign that read MALEVOLENT in sharp, aggressive strokes. A metal staircase ran up the side of the building to the second floor.

You dragged your suitcase up alone. Each clack of the wheels felt deafening in the quiet alley. Haru had promised to handle the rest of your things tomorrow. Right now, you just wanted a bed and silence.

The door opened before your knuckles could touch it.

Ryomen Sukuna stood there like the building had grown him out of its bones.

Tall. Broad. Shirtless beneath an open black button-down that hung loose on his shoulders, revealing a canvas of black ink: snarling beasts, tribal patterns, sharp lines that crawled across his chest, down his arms, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants. His hair was a messy pinkish-red, sticking up like he’d run his hands through it after waking. His crimson eyes narrowed, unimpressed which locked onto you immediately.

“You’re the skater,” he stated, voice low and rough, like it had been dragged over gravel and left there.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle. “And you’re… my temporary landlord?”

“Something like that.” He stepped aside with obvious reluctance, arms crossing over his chest. The motion made the ink on his forearms shift. “Ground rules. Shoes off at the door. Don’t touch my equipment. Don’t blast that classical skating music at full volume. Thermostat stays where I fucking set it. You’re gone most of the day, right?”

You wheeled the suitcase inside. “Training starts early. I’ll be out of your hair.”

The apartment hit you all at once.

It was sparse in a way that felt deliberate. A large black leather couch faced a massive TV. Sketchbooks and loose sheets of tattoo designs covered the low table. One expensive-looking coffee maker gleamed on the kitchen counter like the only luxury item allowed. A single plate, one bowl, and one pair of chopsticks sat drying on the rack. A motorcycle helmet rested on the entry shelf like a silent threat. The place smelled of antiseptic, strong coffee, and something woodsy.

Sukuna closed the door behind you with a solid click. Not a slam, but the sound still carried weight.

“Bedroom on the left is yours. Mine’s on the right. Bathroom’s shared, don’t leave your glitter shit everywhere.” He eyed you again, slower this time. Something flickered behind the irritation. Maybe mild surprise at how small and drained you looked under the harsh hallway light. Dark circles. Tense shoulders. The kind of exhaustion that sponsors paid you to hide.

You tried for politeness. Media training kicked in automatically. “Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice. I really appreciate it. I’ll keep to myself.”

Sukuna snorted softly. “You’d better.” He scratched the back of his neck, tattoos rippling. “Fridge has beer and curry. Don’t touch the good coffee beans.”

His bedroom door shut a moment later.

You stood in the quiet for a long beat, then exhaled. This man lives like a criminal raccoon, you thought, staring at that single lonely plate again.

Still, the guest room was clean. The bed looked soft. And for the first time in what felt like years, no one was waiting for a statement, a smile, or a perfect triple Axel.

You collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed, mask still on.

Through the thin wall, you heard the low murmur of a TV, something about tattoo history, before it clicked off. Then silence.

Sleep took you fast, heavy and dreamless.

For the first time in months, you didn’t set an alarm.

You woke up convinced you had fallen asleep inside a meat locker.

The air was frigid. Your breath puffed visibly in the pale morning light filtering through the blinds. The guest room’s thin blanket felt like tissue paper. You checked your phone, it was 4:58 a.m., you let out a groan. Training started in less than an hour, but first you needed to regain feeling in your toes.

Padding into the hallway in thick socks and an oversized hoodie, you found the thermostat glowing mockingly at 16°C. You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers pushed the temperature up to 22°C with quiet defiance.

Sweet, blessed warmth began to hum through the vents minutes later while you brushed your teeth. Victory tasted like mint toothpaste.

Then the front door slammed.

You froze mid-brush. Heavy footsteps. The sound of keys hitting the entry table. Sukuna had apparently just gotten home from whatever nocturnal tattoo-artist activities he engaged in. You heard him pause in the hallway. A low, dangerous grunt. Then the unmistakable click of the thermostat being forcibly returned to 16°C.

You marched out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in your mouth, and stared at his broad back. He was shirtless again. His black sweatpants riding low, fresh ink on his shoulder looking irritated and shiny, probably from a new piece he’d been working on.

“Cold-blooded?” you asked around the toothbrush.

Sukuna glanced over his shoulder. Crimson eyes dragged over your messy bed-head and fuzzy socks with zero amusement. “I run hot. You run cold. Natural selection says I win.”

You walked past him, reached up, and turned it back to 21°C. Compromise. Your arm brushed his side. The warm skin, hard muscle, the faint scent of antiseptic soap and cedar. He didn’t move away.

“Touch it again,” he said slowly, voice low and rough with exhaustion, “and I’ll hide the entire unit. Good luck finding it, princess.”

You met his gaze. “I have four Olympic cycles of discipline and spite. Try me.”

Something almost like amusement flickered across his face before it disappeared behind the usual scowl. He snorted and headed toward his room. “Whatever. Just don’t crank it so high the walls sweat.”

You finished getting ready in record time, layering up for the cold rink. When you emerged again, Sukuna was in the kitchen pouring pitch-black coffee into a mug that read “Die Mad About It” in chipped white letters. He didn’t offer you any. You didn’t ask.

As you laced up your sneakers by the door, he spoke without turning around.

“There’s a spare key on the counter. Don’t lose it. I’m not waking up at 3 a.m. to let your glittery ass in again.”

You pocketed the key. “Noted. Thanks.”

He made a noncommittal sound.

The rest of your day was the usual blur: ice, sweat, repetition, coach’s critiques, sponsor calls during breaks, forced smiles for the rink’s social media team. By the time you returned to the apartment at 6:15 p.m., your body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry.

The place smelled unexpectedly good. Faint smell of garlic and soy, something fried. Sukuna was at the stove, back to you once again, stirring a pan with precise flicks of his wrist. Still no shirt. You were starting to wonder if he owned any.

You set your bag down quietly. “Didn’t know you cooked.”

“I don’t cook for guests,” he replied flatly. “I cook because I’m hungry. Made extra by accident. Eat or don’t. I don’t care.”

A plate slid across the counter toward you: rice, perfectly seared chicken, stir-fried vegetables, and a fried egg with a runny yolk. Simple. Arrogantly good-looking. Exactly one set of chopsticks beside it.

You stared at the plate, then at the single plate still drying from earlier on the rack.

“You only own one plate,” you observed.

“Two now,” he corrected. “Bought a spare when I heard I was getting a roommate. Don’t get used to it.”

You sat on the stool and took a bite. It was unfairly delicious. Warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the thermostat.

Sukuna leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat with that unnerving silent intensity. He noticed everything. The way you winced when you shifted your weight, the exhaustion etched under your eyes, how quickly you were devouring the food like you’d forgotten to eat all day.

“Rough practice?” he asked. Not kindly. Just… observing.

“Triple Axel still isn’t clean,” you muttered between bites. “Coach wants it perfect by next week.”

Sukuna grunted. “You people just spin in circles and hope judges like the way you land. Sounds stupid.”

You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” A smug smirk tugged at his mouth. “Aggressive ice dancing for points. At least in my line of work, people choose the pain.”

You set your chopsticks down, staring at him in disbelief. The sheer audacity. “I’d like to see you land a quad jump after doing it for twelve hours straight.”

“I’d like to see you sit still for six hours while someone lets me stab them with needles,” he shot back, but there was no real heat in it. More like dry entertainment.

You ate the rest of the meal in charged silence, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. When you finished, you washed your plate and set it to dry next to his singular original one.

Sukuna watched the entire process without comment.

Later that night, after you’d showered and done your extensive skincare routine (products inevitably spreading across the bathroom counter), you stretched in the narrow hallway at 11:30 p.m. Legs extended in a split against the wall, breathing through the deep pull in your hamstrings.

You didn’t hear Sukuna approach until his voice cut through the quiet.

“You’re going to wear a hole in my floor doing that at midnight.”

You glanced up. He was leaning in his doorway, fresh from a shower, towel slung low around his hips, hair damp. More ink on display than usual.

“Flexibility is part of the job,” you replied, switching sides.

He made a low sound. “Try doing it somewhere I don’t have to step over you.”

But he didn’t move. He just watched for another few seconds, then retreated into his room without another word.

You lowered into the stretch further, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

This was going to be a long few months.

The single plate situation was becoming a problem.

By day four of your stay, the lone original plate had been joined by its temporary sibling, but the kitchen still operated like a minimalist war zone. Every time you cooked (or attempted to), Sukuna would hover nearby with crossed arms, watching you use “his” counter space like you were committing a minor felony.

This morning was no exception.

You had woken up at 4:45 a.m. again, your body clock was unforgiving. Now decided to make a proper breakfast before heading to the rink. Rice, miso soup from a packet, grilled salmon, and some quick tamagoyaki. The smells filled the small apartment, warm and savory. You were humming softly to yourself, still half-asleep, when Sukuna emerged from his room like a disgruntled bear.

He stopped in the doorway, hair messy, wearing only black sweatpants. His eyes narrowed at the two plates on the counter.

“You’re using both plates,” he observed.

“One for you, one for me,” you replied without turning around. “Consider it rent payment.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

“You do today.” You slid a plate toward the end of the counter where he usually leaned. “Eat before you go back to sleep or whatever nocturnal creatures do.”

Sukuna stared at the plate for a long second. Then, with a dramatic sigh that could have won awards, he sat down and picked up the chopsticks. He ate in silence, but you caught him taking seconds on the tamagoyaki when he thought you weren’t looking.

Progress. Sort of.

Later that evening, after another brutal practice where your coach had made you repeat the same combination until your vision blurred, you returned to find Sukuna gone. A note that was scrawled in aggressive handwriting on a scrap of flash paper was stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a skull.

Out late. Don’t wait up. And stop buying those stupid expensive face waters. Bathroom looks like a cosmetics store exploded.

You smiled despite yourself. Your skincare had indeed begun its slow, inevitable colonization of the shared bathroom shelf. Serums, creams, patches, and sheet masks lined up like tiny disciplined soldiers. Sukuna’s single bar of soap looked lonely and judgmental beside them.

You took a long shower, letting the hot water ease the screaming muscles in your back and legs. When you came out in soft shorts and a tank top, hair damp, you found Sukuna already home. He was sprawled on the couch, sketching in one of his large books, the TV playing a muted tattoo documentary in the background. A fresh wrap covered part of his left forearm. His new work, probably.

He glanced up. His eyes flicked over your bare legs for half a second before returning to his sketch.

“Practice go to shit?” he asked.

“How could you tell?”

“You have that kicked-puppy look again.”

You flopped onto the opposite end of the couch with a groan, stretching your sore legs across the cushions. Your foot accidentally brushed his thigh. He didn’t move it away.

“It was fine,” you lied. “Just… pressure. Nationals are coming up fast. Sponsors want new content. Media wants interviews. Everyone wants perfection.”

Sukuna flipped a page in his sketchbook. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” You hesitated, then added quietly, “Sometimes I miss when it was just fun. Before it became… this.”

He didn’t respond right away. The scratch of his pencil filled the silence. Eventually he muttered, “Then stop letting other people decide what it means.”

You turned your head to look at him. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have cameras following you everywhere.”

“Neither do you, technically. Yet here you are, hiding in my apartment like a fugitive.”

You laughed softly. It felt strange, it was genuine and tiring, but real.

The next afternoon, the universe decided to test the fragile peace you’d built.

Your manager texted that basic groceries were needed because “you can’t live on takeout and protein bars forever.” Sukuna happened to be heading out for supplies for the shop when you mentioned it.

“We’re going to the same supermarket,” he said gruffly. “Just get in the damn sidecar.”

You blinked. “You have a sidecar?”

“Temporary. Friend’s bike.”

Ten minutes later you were clinging to the sidecar of Sukuna’s motorcycle, helmet slightly too big, oversized hoodie and mask on as camouflage. The wind whipped past as he navigated Tokyo streets with practiced ease. For once, you weren’t thinking about jumps or scores. Just the rumble of the engine and the strange, unexpected freedom.

At the supermarket, the domesticity felt absurd.

Sukuna grabbed meat and beer like a man on a mission. You loaded the basket with vegetables, rice, your fancy oat milk, and an embarrassing amount of skincare-adjacent snacks. An old lady stared at Sukuna’s tattoos, then at you, then back at him. You could practically see the gossip forming in her head.

You bickered in the aisle over pasta sauce.

“You’re buying that weak shit?” Sukuna scoffed, holding up your chosen jar. “This one has actual flavor.”

“It’s not weak, it’s balanced,” you argued, reaching for it.

He held it higher, smirking when you had to jump slightly to try and grab it. “Short.”

“I’m graceful, not tall.”

A teenager nearby snapped a quick photo. You didn’t notice. Sukuna did, but said nothing.

Back at the apartment, you unpacked together in surprisingly comfortable silence. He even let you use both plates again without complaint.

That night, while you stretched in the hallway again, Sukuna paused on his way to the bathroom.

“You know there are photos of us online already,” he said casually.

You nearly pulled a muscle. “What?”

“Some kid at the store. Internet’s calling it a ‘mysterious tattooed boyfriend’ situation.” He shrugged, clearly amused. “They’ll get bored in a week.”

You groaned, pressing your forehead to your knee. “My manager is going to kill me.”

“Or he’ll use it for publicity. Either way, not my problem.” Sukuna’s voice dropped slightly. “You really hate it that much? Being seen with someone like me?”

You looked up at him, surprised by the question. “No. I just… hate the lies they’ll make up. The scrutiny.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. “Then stop reading that shit.”

Easy for him to say. But as he disappeared into the bathroom, you realized something unsettling.

You hadn’t felt this relaxed in someone else’s space in years.

The thermostat war had evolved from childish bickering into something almost ritualistic.

Every morning you crept out of bed before dawn and nudged it up to 21°C. Every evening when Sukuna returned from the shop. Usually smelling of ink, antiseptic, and the faint metallic tang of his motorcycle, he would walk straight to it and knock it back down to 17°C without a word. Neither of you acknowledged the game out loud anymore. It had become a silent conversation: I exist here. So do I.

Tonight, you returned from the rink later than usual. Practice had run long because your coach wanted to perfect a new step sequence for the upcoming competition. Your shoulders burned. Your ankles felt swollen. The cold from the ice had seeped so deep into your bones that even the apartment’s naturally frigid temperature felt almost welcoming.

You pushed the door open at 10:42 p.m. and paused.

Sukuna was on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest. He wasn’t sketching for once. Instead, he was watching something on his phone with the volume low. It was the highlights from your last Grand Prix performance, it looked like. The commentator’s voice faintly praised your “elegance under pressure.”

He didn’t look up as you entered. “You fell on the triple Lutz in the short program.”

You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Thought figure skating was supposed to be graceful. Looked like you were fighting the ice.”

You dropped your bag and shot him a glare. “We are fighting the ice. That’s the entire point, you caveman.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitched. The closest he ever got to a real smile. “Caveman with better taste in entertainment. At least when I stab people they sit still.”

You huffed a tired laugh and headed for the kitchen. True to the new, unspoken routine, there was a plate waiting. Chicken katsu this time, reheated but still crispy, with shredded cabbage and a generous drizzle of sauce. One plate. Yours.

You glanced toward the couch. “You ate already?”

“Hours ago.”

“Liar. You waited.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, but didn’t deny it.

You ate standing at the counter, too exhausted to sit properly. Sukuna eventually wandered over, leaning against the opposite side with a fresh mug of coffee. His third of the night, probably. He watched you eat in that quiet, observant way of his. Not staring. Just… noticing.

“You’re favoring your right leg,” he said after a minute.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.” His crimson eyes narrowed. “You landed weird on that last jump. I saw the clip.”

You paused mid-bite. “You watched my old competitions?”

He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Curiosity. You’re living in my apartment. Might as well know what kind of lunatic I let in.”

The words were classic Sukuna but the fact that he’d looked up footage at all felt heavier than it should. You finished the meal in silence, washed the plate, and set it beside his original one. Two plates now lived permanently on the drying rack. A small, ridiculous victory.

Later, after your shower and the inevitable spread of moisturizers across the bathroom counter, you found yourself unable to sleep. The pressure was building again. Nationals were three weeks away. Sponsors had been calling. Social media was already dissecting your every practice video. You slipped into the hallway at 1:15 a.m. in soft shorts and a tank top, pressing your back against the wall and sliding into a deep stretch.

The floor creaked.

Sukuna’s door opened. He stepped out in nothing but black sweatpants, hair messy from whatever half-sleep he’d managed. A fresh tattoo wrap peeked out from his side, he’d been adding to the piece on his ribs again.

“You’re going to wear grooves in my hallway,” he grumbled.

“Helps with the soreness.” You switched legs, breathing through the pull. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t. You’re making too much noise existing.”

You expected him to retreat. Instead, he leaned against the wall opposite you, arms crossed over his broad, inked chest. The silence stretched, comfortable in its awkwardness.

After a few minutes, you asked quietly, “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“People coming in, wanting something permanent on their skin. Wanting you to make them look cool or meaningful or whatever.”

Sukuna was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.

“Sometimes,” he finally said. “But they choose it. They sit through the pain. No one’s forcing them. That’s more honest than most shit in life.”

You lowered yourself further into the stretch. “On the ice… it feels like everyone’s forcing it. The judges. The audience. The sponsors. Even when I win, it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”

He studied you. Really studied you, the exhaustion you couldn’t hide, the way your shoulders curled inward when you talked about skating lately.

“Then stop skating for them,” he said simply.

You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’s not that easy.”

“Never said it was easy. Said it was honest.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You finished your stretch and sat on the floor, knees drawn up. Sukuna didn’t move. For once, the apartment didn’t feel too cold.

Eventually he pushed off the wall. “Come on. Couch. I’ll put something mindless on.”

You followed him without argument. He dropped onto one end of the leather sofa. You took the other, curling your legs beneath you. He flicked on a random action movie. Something loud and stupid with explosions, and turned the volume low.

Halfway through, without looking at you, Sukuna grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over your legs.

“Don’t read into it,” he muttered. “You’re just blocking the screen.”

You smiled into the blanket, small and hidden. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You fell asleep there sometime after 3 a.m., the low rumble of movie gunfire mixing with Sukuna’s steady breathing on the other end of the couch. When you woke briefly at dawn, the blanket was tucked more carefully around you, and Sukuna was gone. Probably retreated to his own bed.

But the thermostat had been left at 20°C.

A truce, maybe.

Or the start of something neither of you wanted to name yet.

The rumor mill had officially spun out of control.

Your phone buzzed incessantly on the kitchen counter while you attempted to eat breakfast. Headlines ranged from “Mystery Tattooed Man Spotted with Olympic Figure Skater: Secret Romance?” to “From Ice Princess to Bad Boy’s Girl? What We Know.” One particularly creative tabloid claimed you’d been seen arguing passionately outside a convenience store over “sauce preferences” which was annoyingly accurate.

Sukuna leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee, reading over your shoulder with zero shame. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Passionate sauce debate,” he read aloud. “They’re not wrong.”

You groaned, locking your phone. “Haru wants me to ‘lay low’ and ‘avoid public appearances with unknown men.’ Too late for that.”

“Not my problem,” Sukuna said, but there was a glint of amusement in his crimson eyes. “Though if they’re going to call me your boyfriend, I should at least get some perks.”

You nearly choked on your rice. “Perks?”

“Free labor. You can clean the bathroom since your army of bottles conquered it.”

You threw a piece of cucumber at him. He caught it mid-air and ate it without breaking eye contact. The casual domesticity of the moment hit you harder than expected.

Later that afternoon, after a particularly brutal practice where your coach had torn apart your program components, you found yourself walking toward MALEVOLENT instead of straight back to the apartment. Your legs carried you there almost on autopilot. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the early evening light. You hesitated outside for a full minute before pushing the door open.

The shop was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it.

Heavy metal played at a respectable volume. Black walls covered in framed tattoo flash and photography. Three stations were occupied. A heavily pierced woman at the front desk looked up and her eyes widened.

“Oh shit,” she muttered.

The entire shop went still as every artist and client turned to stare.

Sukuna was at the back station, gloved hands working on a large back piece. He glanced up, irritation flashing across his face until he registered it was you. Then the irritation shifted into something closer to resigned surprise.

“The hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice carrying across the shop.

“I… needed to walk. Ended up here.” You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious in your post-practice hoodie and leggings. “Is that okay?”

The pierced woman at the desk whispered loudly, “That’s the figure skater. The Olympic one.”

One of the other artists, a tall guy with a bleached mohawk, dropped his stencil. “No fucking way.”

Sukuna peeled off one glove with his teeth. “All of you, back to work before I kick you out on your asses.” The shop slowly, reluctantly, resumed movement, but the energy had completely changed.

He jerked his head toward a stool near his station. “Sit. Don’t touch anything sterile.”

You sat. The client on his table was a tough-looking man in his thirties who twisted his head to look at you. “Wait, you’re that skater girl? The one who does the spins?”

Sukuna pressed the tattoo machine back to skin with perhaps more pressure than necessary. “Focus on your breathing, not her.”

You watched him work in silence for a while. His hands were steady, precise, almost gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with his personality. The concentration on his face was intense. Every so often he’d glance at you, checking that you were still there.

After twenty minutes, the client took a break. Sukuna wiped down the area and turned fully to you.

“You look like shit,” he said bluntly. “Bad practice?”

“Coach says my edges are lazy. Timing’s off on the combo.” You rubbed your temple. “Everyone’s expecting gold again. No pressure.”

Sukuna made a low sound. One of the other artists walked past carrying supplies and did an obvious double-take at the two of you talking so casually.

Sukuna noticed. “Problem?” he growled.

The artist scurried away.

You smiled faintly. “Your staff looks terrified that you’re being… almost civil.”

“They’ll get over it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. The movement pulled his black t-shirt up, revealing a strip of inked skin at his waist. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

He stood, stripping off the rest of his gloves. “I’m taking thirty. Uraume, watch my station.”

The pierced woman at the front nodded, looking equal parts shocked and delighted.

Ten minutes later you were sitting on the curb outside the shop sharing a bag of takoyaki from the stall down the street. Sukuna ate like he was annoyed at the food for existing, but he kept offering you the best pieces.

“Those idiots in there are going to talk about this for weeks,” he muttered.

“Sorry for ruining your scary reputation.”

“You didn’t ruin it. You’re just… unexpected.” He glanced sideways at you. “Most people who look like you don’t walk into places like this.”

“Places like this?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Real ones.” He wiped sauce from his thumb with a napkin. “Not the polished bullshit you’re usually stuck in.”

The words settled warmly in your chest. You bumped your shoulder against his arm, just a small, deliberate touch. He didn’t pull away.

When you returned to the apartment that night, the atmosphere felt different. Charged in a quiet way. Sukuna disappeared into his room for a while, then emerged while you were stretching again in the hallway.

He stopped in front of you, crouching suddenly. Before you could ask what he was doing, his hands were on your skate boot, the one you’d left by the door. He examined the laces with a critical eye.

“You tie these like a child,” he grunted. “No wonder your ankles are fucked.”

“I do not—”

He ignored you and began re-lacing with quick, efficient movements, double-looping in places you never thought to. His tattooed fingers looked strangely elegant against the white laces. When he finished, he gave the boot a firm tug and stood up.

“Better tension. Try it tomorrow.”

You stared at him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make it weird.” He headed toward the kitchen. “I’m making curry. You’re eating. No arguments.”

You smiled behind his back, pressing your forehead to your knee to hide it.

Later, as you both stood at the counter eating steaming plates of curry (still only two plates total), Sukuna spoke without looking at you.

“Next time you feel like the rink is going to eat you alive… just come to the shop. Sit in the corner. I won’t bother you.”

You looked up, surprised. He kept his eyes on his food, ears just slightly redder than usual.

“Okay,” you said softly. “I might take you up on that.”

The thermostat remained at a peaceful 19.5°C that night.

Neither of you commented on it.

The apartment was dark when you got home, except for the single lamp in the living room.

It was past midnight. Practice had bled into extra sessions again. Your coach pushing for cleaner landings on the new quad attempt, the federation wanting footage for promotional material, and your own head refusing to let you stop. Your body felt like it had been through a meat grinder. Every muscle screamed. Your right ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent warning that you chose to ignore.

You closed the door as quietly as possible, expecting Sukuna to be asleep or still at the shop. Instead, he was on the couch, one arm slung behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the TV. Some old yakuza movie played on low volume, subtitles flickering across the screen. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table next to an open sketchbook.

He didn’t greet you. Just flicked his gaze over.

“You look like death warmed over,” he said flatly.

“Feel like it too.” You dropped your bag by the door and kicked off your shoes with a wince. “Don’t start.”

Sukuna watched you limp toward the kitchen. You opened the fridge out of habit more than hunger, staring blankly at the contents. The thought of cooking anything felt impossible. Even standing felt optional.

A heavy sigh came from the couch. Then the sound of him getting up.

“Sit,” he ordered, brushing past you. His shoulder bumped yours deliberately. The contact wasn’t hard, it was just enough to steer you toward the couch. “I’ll heat something up.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.”

You collapsed onto the leather with a groan, the cool material heavenly against your overheated skin. The TV flickered with dramatic sword fights while Sukuna moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency. Within ten minutes, the smell of reheated chahan and miso reached you. He set a bowl and plate on the low table in front of you. Still the same two plates that now felt like an established fact of life.

“Eat,” he said, dropping back onto his end of the couch. “Or don’t. But if you pass out from starvation I’m not dragging your ass to the hospital.”

You picked up the chopsticks. The food was simple, salty, and perfect. Warmth spread through your chest with every bite. Sukuna pretended to watch the movie, but you caught him glancing sideways every few minutes, tracking the way you favored your right side or how slowly you lifted the spoon for the miso.

When you finished, you set the dishes aside and leaned back, intending to rest your eyes for just a moment before dragging yourself to bed. The exhaustion crashed over you like a wave.

You were out cold in under five minutes.

Sukuna noticed immediately when your breathing evened out. Your head had tipped sideways against the armrest, lips slightly parted, one hand still loosely gripping the edge of the blanket that had been tossed over the back of the couch.

He sat there for a long minute, arms crossed, staring at the TV without seeing it.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Can’t even make it to your own room.”

But he got up anyway. Moved quietly for someone his size. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking it around your legs with careful, almost irritated movements. His tattooed fingers lingered for half a second on the edge near your ankle, where a fresh bruise was already blooming from an imperfect landing.

He noticed the way your brow was still furrowed even in sleep. The faint lines of tension that never fully left your face anymore.

Sukuna stood over you for another moment, jaw tight. Then he grabbed his sketchbook and moved to the armchair instead of his room, turning the TV volume even lower. The movie played on as background noise while his pencil scratched across paper. Quick, rough lines that slowly began to take the shape of a figure mid-spin, blades carving ice, hair whipping with motion.

He didn’t know why he was drawing it. He told himself it was just practice. New subject matter. Nothing more.

You woke up sometime around 3:30 a.m., disoriented and warm. The blanket was tucked tightly around you. A different movie was playing now, something quieter. Sukuna was still in the armchair, head tipped back, eyes closed, and sketchbook resting on his chest.

You watched him for a moment in the low light. The harsh lines of his tattoos looked softer in the lamplight. His usual scowl was absent in sleep, making him look strangely younger.

You carefully got up, folding the blanket and draping it over him instead. He stirred but didn’t wake. You padded to the bathroom, did your nighttime routine on autopilot, then hesitated at the hallway.

On impulse, you turned back, grabbed a spare throw from the closet, and laid it over his lap.

When you finally crawled into your own bed, the apartment felt less like borrowed space and more like something dangerously close to home.

The next morning, neither of you mentioned the blanket situation.

You woke to the thermostat set at a luxurious 20.5°C and the smell of coffee. Sukuna was already up, pouring a second mug as you entered the kitchen in your practice clothes.

He slid the mug toward you without a word. It was exactly how you’d started drinking it since moving in.

You took it. “Thanks.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he grunted, but his ears were faintly red again.

You hid your smile behind the mug.

Later that evening, after another long practice, you returned to find a new addition on the counter: a small tube of bruise balm and a note in Sukuna’s aggressive handwriting.

For the ankle, dumbass. Use it before you ruin your season.

You laughed quietly in the empty apartment, pressing the tube to your chest like it was something precious.

The rumors online were getting worse. Paparazzi photos from the supermarket run had multiplied. Comment sections were a mess of speculation. Your manager had texted three times demanding damage control.

But for the first time in years, when you looked around the sparse apartment with its two plates, single motorcycle helmet, and growing invasion of your skincare products, the pressure felt just a little further away.

The rumors had escalated from “mysterious boyfriend” to full-blown conspiracy theories.

Your manager sent you a collage of screenshots that morning: blurry photos of you and Sukuna at the supermarket, another of you climbing off his motorcycle (sidecar), and one particularly bad angle where he appeared to be looming over you outside the tattoo shop. The internet had decided you were either secretly engaged, pregnant with a “tattooed bad boy’s love child,” or involved in some underground yakuza skating scandal.

You showed Sukuna the messages over breakfast. He was eating actual breakfast now. It was another small surrender to your influence. Just chewing on rice and grilled fish while scrolling through the photos with a bored expression.

“Idiots,” he grunted. “If I was fucking you, they’d know. I don’t do subtle.”

You nearly dropped your chopsticks. Heat flooded your face. “Sukuna.”

“What? It’s true.” He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax, princess. Let them spin their little stories. Keeps them busy.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Haru wants me to issue a statement saying you’re just a ‘friend from the neighborhood.’”

“Tell him to fuck off.” Sukuna pushed his empty plate toward you. The ritual was established now: whoever cooked, the other washed. “Or better yet, tell them I’m your bodyguard. That’ll shut them up for five minutes.”

You ended up doing neither. The rumors continued to simmer.

That evening, the apartment became a battlefield over something far more serious than paparazzi: pasta sauce.

You had claimed kitchen rights after practice, determined to make something that didn’t come from Sukuna’s limited “protein and rice” repertoire. The pot simmered on the stove, filling the space with garlic, tomatoes, and herbs. You stirred with satisfaction, humming under your breath.

Sukuna appeared like a summoned demon, fresh from the shower, towel around his neck, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders.

“What the hell is that weak-ass smell?” He peered into the pot like it had personally offended him. “Where’s the heat? The flavor?”

“It’s balanced,” you defended, adding a pinch of sugar. “Not everything needs to taste like it was marinated in regret and chili oil.”

He reached past you, grabbed the red pepper flakes, and dumped a generous amount in before you could stop him.

“Hey!”

“Now it’s worth eating.” He tasted a spoonful straight from the ladle, ignoring your glare. “There. Actual food.”

You snatched the ladle back. “You ruin everything.”

“You cook like a sponsor-approved robot. Needs soul.” His crimson eyes gleamed with smug challenge. “Admit it tastes better now.”

You tasted it. It did. You refused to admit it out loud.

Dinner was eaten on the couch that night. Your plates balanced on knees, a new comfort level neither of you commented on. Sukuna had put on one of your old competition videos “for research,” he claimed. Every time you landed a jump cleanly, he made a low, unimpressed sound.

“Too safe,” he critiqued during a spin sequence. “You’re holding back on the last combination. I can see it in your shoulders.”

You paused mid-bite. “You don’t know anything about skating.”

“I know body language. You’re tense as fuck. Scared of falling in front of cameras instead of just skating.”

The observation hit too close. You set your plate down. “It’s not that simple. One mistake can cost everything. Sponsorships, national team standing, my entire future—”

“Sounds like shit,” he interrupted. “You’re out there performing for vultures. No wonder you come home looking dead.”

You didn’t have a response. The silence stretched, broken only by the commentators praising your “elegance” on screen.

Sukuna eventually changed the subject by nudging your foot with his. “Eat. You skipped lunch again. I checked your bag.”

“You went through my bag?”

“Looking for the good coffee you keep stealing.” He didn’t even sound apologetic. “Found three protein bars and nothing else. Idiot.”

You ate. The sauce was better with the extra spice.

Later, while you were doing your post-practice stretches in the living room (the hallway had become too small for both of you now), Sukuna sat at the coffee table sketching. The scratch of pencil on paper mixed with your steady breathing. It was strangely soothing.

After a particularly deep hip flexor stretch, you hissed in pain.

Sukuna’s pencil stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“Groin pull from that fall last week. Its fine.”

“It’s not fine.” He set the sketchbook aside and moved behind you without asking. His hands pressed against your lower back and hip. “Here?”

You nodded, breath catching at the contact. His fingers dug in with precise pressure, working the tight muscle. Not quite a massage, more like clinical assessment. Still, the heat of his palms soaked through your thin tank top.

“Better form next time,” he muttered. “You twist too much on the landing.”

“You watched the practice footage?”

“Shop was slow. Had time to kill.”

He kept working the knot until the sharp pain eased into a dull ache. Neither of you spoke for a while. When he finally pulled away, his hands lingered a second longer than necessary on your waist.

“Don’t push it tomorrow,” he said gruffly, returning to his sketch. “Or I’ll drag you back from the rink myself.”

You turned to look at him. “Why do you care?”

Sukuna didn’t meet your eyes. “Because if you break yourself, I’ll have to deal with your moping around my apartment. Annoying.”

But the thermostat stayed at 20°C again that night.

And when you woke up briefly at 4 a.m. for water, you found a new tube of muscle balm on the counter next to your skincare bottles, with another note in his sharp handwriting:

Use it, or I’ll do it for you. Don’t test me.

You smiled in the dark kitchen, pressing the tube to your chest the same way you had with the bruise balm days earlier.

The single plate had become two. The thermostat had found compromise. And slowly, painfully, so had the two of you.

The pressure was starting to crack you open.

Nationals were two weeks away. Your coach had added extra ice time. Sponsors wanted exclusive interviews. Your social media handler begged for more “relatable” training content. Every jump felt heavier. Every spin carried the weight of expectations. You were smiling for cameras at the rink and coming home hollowed out.

Sukuna noticed.

He always noticed.

Tonight you returned after 11 p.m. again. The apartment smelled like garlic and sesame oil, Sukuna had cooked. Again. Two plates waited on the counter, covered with upside-down bowls to keep them warm. You ate standing up, barely tasting the stir-fry, your mind still looping through the same flawed combination jump.

When you finished, you didn’t head to the shower like usual. Instead, you drifted toward the small balcony off the living room, sliding the glass door open. The night air was crisp, carrying distant city noise and the faint smell of rain on concrete.

You leaned on the railing, arms wrapped around yourself. The city lights blurred.

The door slid open behind you a few minutes later. Sukuna stepped out, two cigarettes in hand. He didn’t ask if you wanted one, just offered. You rarely smoked, but tonight you took it.

He lit yours first, then his own. The flame illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the black ink crawling up his neck. For a while, you both just smoked in silence, shoulders almost touching.

“You’re getting worse,” he said eventually. No sugarcoating. Just a fact.

You exhaled smoke toward the sky. “Thanks.”

“Not insulting you. Observing.” He tapped ash over the railing. “You come back later every night. Eat like a ghost. Stretch like you’re punishing yourself. That shit on the ice isn’t sustainable.”

You laughed bitterly. “Welcome to elite sport. This is what winning looks like behind the clips.”

Sukuna leaned his forearms on the railing beside you. His presence was solid and warm against the cool night. “I watched more of your old stuff today. You used to skate like you enjoyed it. Now you look like you’re at war.”

The words landed hard. You took another drag, the smoke burning your throat in a way that felt grounding.

“I don’t know how to do it any other way anymore,” you admitted quietly. “It stopped being fun years ago. Now it’s just… proving I’m still worth something. To the federation. To the fans. To myself.”

Sukuna was quiet for a long beat. The cherry of his cigarette glowed.

“People who need you to prove shit constantly aren’t worth the effort,” he said. His voice was low, rough. “They’ll just move on to the next pretty face who spins good when you inevitably burn out.”

You turned your head to look at him. “Is that your idea of comfort?”

“It’s honesty.” He met your gaze, crimson eyes steady. “I don’t do the fake cheer shit. You want pretty lies, go talk to your manager.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I think I prefer the asshole version.”

“Good. Because that’s all I got.”

You finished your cigarette and flicked it into the small ashtray he kept out here. Neither of you moved to go back inside. The city hummed below. For once, the silence between you felt full instead of empty.

After a while, you asked, “Do you ever get lonely up here? Before I showed up, I mean.”

Sukuna snorted. “Lonely? I like the quiet. No one bothering me. No expectations.” He paused, staring out at the skyline. “Didn’t realize how fucking loud quiet could get until you moved in, though.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Loud?”

“You talk to yourself when you stretch. Leave your hair ties everywhere. Make the whole place smell like fancy cream and whatever the hell that face mist is.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Ruined my perfectly good solitude.”

The words were complaining, but the tone wasn’t. There was something almost soft underneath the sarcasm.

You bumped your shoulder against his arm. “Sorry for existing so loudly.”

“Don’t be.” He didn’t move away from the contact. “It’s not the worst thing.”

The balcony light caught the edge of his smirk as he lit another cigarette, offering you the pack again. You declined this time, content to just stand there beside him.

Later, back inside, you ended up on the couch again. Sukuna put on another mindless action movie. You lasted twenty minutes before your head dropped onto the armrest. This time, when you woke up hours later, the blanket was tucked around you properly, and Sukuna had fallen asleep sitting up, one hand resting near your ankle like he’d been checking on the old bruise in his sleep.

You studied his face in the blue glow of the TV. The permanent scowl had smoothed out. The tattoos that usually made him look intimidating now just looked like art on someone who pretended he didn’t care about anything.

You carefully adjusted the blanket over both of you and closed your eyes again.

The next morning, you woke up alone on the couch. A fresh mug of coffee waited on the table with a note:

Rink better not eat you alive today. There’s leftover stir-fry. Eat it. — S

You smiled into your coffee, the warmth spreading deeper than usual.

The rumors online had shifted from scandal to something almost affectionate “Ice Princess and Tattoo Beast” was trending with fan edits. Your manager was losing his mind. You didn’t care as much as you should have.

Because when you left for practice that morning, Sukuna’s spare key felt heavier in your pocket. Like it belonged there.

And when you came back that night fully exhausted, but slightly less hollow. The thermostat was still at 20°C, the lights were on, and the apartment no longer felt temporary.

The apartment no longer felt like a temporary refuge. It felt like a heartbeat.

You noticed it gradually. Hiw your skincare army had permanently claimed two full shelves in the bathroom, how Sukuna’s second plate now lived in the cupboard instead of on the drying rack, how his sketchbooks had started migrating into the living room alongside your training notebooks. The thermostat had settled into an uneasy truce at 19.5°C. Small victories everywhere.

But tonight, the pressure finally snapped.

You came home at 1:07 a.m. after yet another overtime session at the rink. Your eyes were red. Your right ankle was taped so tightly it hurt to flex. Nationals were ten days away, and your program still had one stubborn combination that refused to cooperate. Coach had screamed. Sponsors had called. You’d smiled through all of it until you couldn’t anymore.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Sukuna was already there.

He’d clearly been waiting. The TV was off. A fresh pot of curry sat warming on the stove. He leaned against the kitchen counter in a black tank top, arms crossed, crimson eyes sharp.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said. Not angry. Just… tight.

You dropped your bag. “Phone died on the ice. Sorry.”

He studied you for three long seconds, then pushed off the counter. “Sit.”

“I’m fine—”

“Sit the fuck down before you fall down.”

You sank onto the couch. Sukuna disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of curry and a cold beer. He set both in front of you, then crouched to examine your taped ankle without asking permission. His large, warm hands carefully unwrapped the tape, thumbs pressing lightly along the bone.

“Swollen,” he muttered. “You’re pushing too hard.”

“It's Nationals,” you whispered. Your voice cracked on the word. “If I don’t medal, they’ll start talking about retirement. About how I peaked too early. About how the new girls are younger, fresher—”

Sukuna’s hands stilled. He looked up at you from his crouched position, expression unreadable.

“Then let them talk.”

You laughed, wet and bitter. “Easy for you to say. You don’t live under a microscope.”

“No. I chose not to.” He finished re-wrapping your ankle with the bruise balm, movements surprisingly gentle for someone so blunt. When he finished, he didn’t stand up right away. Instead, he stayed there, one hand resting on your calf. “You keep letting them decide what your worth is. That’s why you come home looking like this.”

The words hit deep. You stared at him, throat tight.

Sukuna stood slowly. Instead of moving away, he dropped onto the couch right beside you, closer than usual. His thigh pressed against yours. He reached over and tugged you sideways until your head rested against his shoulder.

You froze.

“Don’t make it weird,” he grumbled, voice low. “Just… stay there. Eat your damn curry.”

You stayed.

The warmth of his body seeped through your hoodie. He smelled like ink, soap, and the faint trace of cigarettes from the balcony. You ate slowly while he flipped through channels, eventually landing on a silent nature documentary. His arm eventually settled along the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder in absent, almost reluctant strokes.

When you finished eating, you didn’t move. Neither did he.

After a long stretch of quiet, you spoke into his chest.

“I don’t know how to exist without the pressure anymore. Skating used to be mine. Now it feels like it belongs to everyone else.”

Sukuna’s hand moved to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into the tight muscles there. “Then take it back. Even if it’s messy. Even if you fall on your ass in front of the whole country.” His voice dropped. “At least it’ll be honest.”

You tilted your head to look up at him. Your faces were dangerously close. You could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they flicked down to your mouth for half a second.

The air thickened.

For one suspended moment, neither of you breathed. His fingers tightened slightly on your neck. You leaned in a fraction.

Then Sukuna pulled back first, jaw clenched.

“Shower,” he ordered, voice rougher than usual. “You smell like ice and regret. I’ll clean up.”

You retreated to the bathroom on unsteady legs, heart hammering. When you came out twenty minutes later in soft shorts and one of his oversized black shirts (you’d stolen it weeks ago and he’d never asked for it back), Sukuna was on the balcony.

You joined him.

He handed you a cigarette without looking at you. You took it. The city lights stretched below like scattered stars.

“I hate that I need this,” you admitted after a while. “The validation. The scores. All of it.”

Sukuna exhaled smoke. “Everyone needs something. At least you’re starting to admit it.” He glanced sideways. “You staying here… it stopped feeling like a favor a while ago.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Yeah?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted closer until your arms brushed. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything neither of you was ready to say yet.

When you finally went inside, Sukuna didn’t retreat to his room. He pulled you back onto the couch, blanket over both of you, and let you curl against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Sleep,” he muttered into your hair. “I’ve got you tonight.”

You fell asleep to the steady rise and fall of his chest and the low rumble of his breathing, his arm locked around your waist like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

The next morning, you woke up tangled together. Sukuna was already awake, staring at the ceiling, but he hadn’t moved. His fingers traced idle patterns on your hip. 

Neither of you spoke about it.

But when you left for practice later, he grabbed your wrist at the door, pressed a protein bar into your hand, and said. “Come home before midnight tonight. Or I’m coming to get you.”

You smiled the entire way to the rink.

The walls were cracking faster now. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of what was on the other side.

The spiral had been building for days.

Nationals were eight days away. Every practice felt like walking a tightrope over broken glass. Your coach was relentless. The federation wanted media sessions. Online comments dissected every wobble in your practice clips. You smiled through it all during the day, then came home and quietly fell apart in small ways. Sometimes forgetting to eat, stretching until your muscles screamed, staring at competition footage until your eyes burned.

Sukuna watched it happen in real time.

He didn’t push. He simply made sure there was food waiting, left balm on the counter, and waited up later each night. But tonight, something felt different.

You had left for “one last short session” at 8 p.m. You told him you’d be back by 10:30.

It was now 1:17 a.m. and you still weren’t home.

Sukuna paced the apartment like a caged animal. He’d texted you four times:

Sukuna: Answer. You dead? If you’re bleeding on the ice I’m not paying your medical bills. Come home.

No replies. Your phone was probably on silent in your bag.

He grabbed his motorcycle keys, jaw tight. “Fuck this.”

The rink was nearly deserted when he arrived. Only emergency lights and a few security lamps were on. He slipped inside through a side entrance that a tired cleaner had left propped open. The cold hit him immediately. It was sharp, biting, and nothing like the controlled chill of the apartment.

And there you were.

Alone in the center of the massive ice, under a single spotlight that made the surface glow like fractured glass. You were skating the same combination over and over. Triple Axel into a quad attempt. Fall. Get up. Loop. Fall harder. Get up slower. Your form was deteriorating with every repetition. Your shoulders tense, landings sloppy, exhaustion carved into every line of your body.

Sukuna stayed in the shadows near the boards. He didn’t call out. He just watched.

You tried again. The jump was ugly this time. You crashed hard onto the ice, skidding several feet. For a moment you stayed down, chest heaving. Then you slammed a gloved fist against the ice once before forcing yourself up. Your hands came up to cover your face. Your shoulders shook.

Not from the cold.

Sukuna’s chest tightened painfully. He took one step forward then stopped.

He knew you.

If he walked out there right now, you’d shove the vulnerability down immediately. You’d smile that polished media smile and tell him you were fine. He didn’t want that version of you.

So he stayed hidden. Watched you breathe through it. Watched you wipe your face, reset your shoulders, and skate to the center again like the ice owed you something.

After another brutal fall, you finally skated to the exit boards. You sat on the bench, head bowed, medal dreams and public expectations crushing you under their weight.

Sukuna slipped out the same way he came in.

When you finally dragged yourself through the apartment door at 2:41 a.m., you expected darkness and silence.

Instead, the lights were on low. Takeout bags from your favorite late-night spot sat on the kitchen counter, still warm. Two plates. Two sets of chopsticks. A note in Sukuna’s aggressive scrawl was propped against one bag:

Eat before you collapse, idiot. Food’s still warm. Don’t make me come find you next time.

You stared at the note for a long time. Your throat closed up.

He’d gone looking for you. He’d seen… something. And instead of confronting you, instead of demanding answers or forcing comfort, he’d done this. Given you space and food and quiet proof that he was paying attention.

You sat at the counter and ate slowly, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the ramen. Not from sadness exactly, just overwhelming relief that someone saw the ugly parts and didn’t flinch or try to fix them with pretty words.

Sukuna’s bedroom door was cracked open. You could see the faint glow of his lamp.

You finished eating, washed both plates, and padded softly to his doorway. He was sitting up in bed, shirtless, sketching. He didn’t look up, but his shoulders tensed like he knew you were there.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He grunted. “Told you to eat.”

You lingered. “You went to the rink.”

A pause. The pencil stopped moving.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t come out.”

“No.”

You stepped inside his room for the first time. “Why?”

Sukuna finally looked at you. His crimson eyes were darker than usual. “Because you hate being seen like that. Figured you’d rather I didn’t watch you break.” He set the sketchbook aside. “But I’m not letting you do it alone anymore.”

The simple honesty cracked something deep inside your chest.

You crossed the room and climbed onto his bed without asking. Sukuna exhaled sharply but opened his arm. You curled against his side, face pressed to his warm, inked chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know.” His hand slid into your hair, fingers gentle despite their roughness. “But you’re not performing for me. You get that, right?”

You nodded against him.

He held you tighter. No grand speeches. No promises. Just the solid weight of him and the quiet knowledge that he was there.

For the first time in years, the pressure felt bearable.

The morning after the rink incident, everything felt slightly shifted.

You woke up in Sukuna’s bed.

Not tangled in some dramatic, passionate way. You were just curled against his side, his heavy arm draped over your waist like it belonged there. He was already awake, staring at the ceiling with one hand behind his head. When you stirred, he didn’t pull away. He simply tightened his grip for half a second before letting go.

“Morning,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and leftover emotion.

“You drool,” was his reply. Classic Sukuna.

You laughed softly and hid your face against his chest. The tattoos there were warm under your cheek. He let you stay like that for a few quiet minutes before finally sitting up.

“Get up. You’re not skipping practice today, but you’re eating first. No arguments.”

He made breakfast while you showered. On the menu was rice, eggs, and vegetables, again. When you emerged, he was plating food with the same focused intensity he used for tattoos. You ate together at the counter in comfortable silence. No pressure talk. No rehashing last night. Just the two of you and the quiet understanding that something had changed.

That night, after a more manageable practice, you found yourself on the balcony with him again. The city glittered below. Sukuna smoked while you leaned against the railing beside him, stealing occasional drags from his cigarette.

Your eyes kept drifting to the ink covering his arms and chest. The designs were intricate. Filled with demons, sharp florals, abstract patterns that looked like they told stories.

“Can I ask about them?” you said quietly.

Sukuna glanced down at his own skin like he’d forgotten it was there. “Most people don’t get to ask twice.”

“I’m not most people.”

He exhaled smoke through his nose, then gave a small shrug. “Fine. Ask.”

You reached out slowly, tracing a finger along a snarling face on his forearm. His skin was warm. The muscle underneath twitched at your touch but he didn’t pull away.

“What does this one mean?”

Sukuna watched your finger move. “Strength through pain. Got it after my old man died. Bastard used to say I’d never amount to shit. Proved him wrong with every needle.”

You moved to another piece. Now a intricate wave pattern flowing into sharp teeth. “And this?”

“Control.” His voice dropped lower. “Everything in life is temporary except what you choose to keep forever. Ink stays. People don’t.”

The words hung between you. You looked up at him.

“Is that why you live like this?” you asked. “One plate. Minimal shit. No attachments?”

Sukuna smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Smart girl.” He took another drag. “What about you? All that spinning and glitter on ice. Temporary as fuck. One bad landing and it’s gone.”

You nodded slowly. “Exactly. Everything I do gets judged in seconds. Forgotten in months. Your work… it stays on people. Becomes part of them.”

He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face in the dim balcony light.

“You want one?” he asked suddenly.

Your eyes widened. “A tattoo?”

“Not now. But someday. If you stay long enough.” The last part came out almost too casual. Like he hadn’t meant to say it.

Your heart stuttered. “You’d tattoo me?”

“Only if you’re sure.” He flicked ash away. “I don’t do half-assed work. Especially not on you.”

The implication made heat bloom in your chest. You stepped closer, until you were nearly chest to chest. Sukuna didn’t retreat. Instead, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered. “Coming in here, messing up my routine. Making me give a shit.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want this to be temporary anymore.”

The air thickened. Sukuna’s hand lingered on your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. His crimson eyes darkened as they dropped to your mouth. You rose onto your toes slightly.

This time, he didn’t pull away.

The kiss was slow at first, almost testing the waters between you two. His lips were surprisingly soft against the roughness of his personality. Then it deepened. He pulled you flush against him, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist with clear possession. You tasted smoke and something uniquely him. The kiss wasn’t sweet or gentle. It was hungry, restrained, years of tension finally breaking.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.

“Don’t expect me to say flowery shit,” he rasped. “But you’re not leaving when the renovations finish. That’s not happening.”

You smiled, a little dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He kissed you again but shorter this time, no less intense. When he pulled back, that familiar smug smirk was back.

“Bed. Now. Before I drag you there.”

You laughed as he guided you inside, his hand firm on your lower back. For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like something you had to fight for alone.

That night you slept in his bed again, properly this time. No walls. No pretending. Just Sukuna’s steady heartbeat and the quiet certainty that this apartment had stopped being temporary a long time ago.

The shift was quiet, but undeniable.

By the next evening, the apartment had stopped pretending to be two separate lives sharing a space. It was one life now, the space completely messy, stubborn, and intertwined.

You woke up in Sukuna’s bed again, this time with his face buried against the back of your neck and one heavy, tattooed arm locked around your waist like he was daring the world to try and pull you away. His breathing was slow and warm against your skin. You stayed still for a long time, just feeling the solid weight of him.

When you finally tried to slip out for morning practice, he tightened his grip.

“Five more minutes,” he growled, voice rough with sleep.

“You’ll fall back asleep.”

“Don’t care.”

You laughed softly and stayed. When you finally left forty minutes later, Sukuna was in the kitchen making you a protein-packed onigiri to take with you. He pressed it into your hands at the door, then caught your chin and kissed you..

“Come back before you’re dead on your feet,” he muttered against your lips.

“Yes, sir.”

He smacked your ass as you left, smirking at your startled squeak.

That night you returned earlier than usual. The moment the door opened, Sukuna was on you.

He pulled you inside by the front of your hoodie and kissed you like he’d been thinking about it all day. Hard. Hungry. One hand fisting in your hair, the other sliding under your shirt to press against your lower back. You melted into it immediately, skating bag dropping forgotten to the floor.

“Missed you,” you breathed between kisses.

“Shut up,” he replied, but the way he walked you backward toward the couch said otherwise.

You ended up straddling his lap on the leather, hands exploring the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. Sukuna’s mouth moved to your neck, sucking a mark just below your jaw that made you shiver.

“Been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted, voice low. “Mark you up so those gossiping idiots know exactly who you’re coming home to.”

You pulled back slightly, flushed. “Jealous?”

“Possessive.” His hands gripped your hips tighter. “Different thing.”

The makeout session was heated but didn’t go further. Sukuna seemed content to just touch and taste, learning every small sound you made. When you finally broke apart, lips swollen, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Food first,” he said gruffly. “Then you’re telling me how practice went.”

You ate together on the couch. With your legs thrown over his lap while he fed you bites of grilled mackerel between his own. Domestic. Easy. Terrifying in how right it felt.

After dinner, you showed him the new step sequence you were working on. You demonstrated in socks on the living room floor while he watched with sharp, focused eyes.

“You’re still hesitating on the entry,” he observed. “Too much thinking. Stop trying to be perfect.”

You groaned. “Easy for you to say.”

Sukuna stood up, towering over you. He tilted your chin up. “When you skate for me, I don’t give a shit about perfect. I want to see you out there. The one who talks to herself during stretches and steals my shirts.”

Your heart clenched.

Later that night, after showers and skincare. Sukuna now had his own small shelf you’d forcibly assigned him, you ended up in bed again. This time clothes came off slowly. Sukuna mapped every bruise and sore muscle with his mouth and hands, muttering curses at how hard you pushed yourself. You traced every line of ink on his body like you were memorizing a map.

He didn’t let it go all the way. Not yet.

“Not while you’re this exhausted,” he said, pulling you against his chest despite your protest. “When I fuck you, I want you present. Not half-dead from the rink.”

You fell asleep with his fingers stroking through your hair and his heartbeat steady under your ear.

The next few days followed the same rhythm, growing more intimate each time.

Sukuna started coming to watch you practice occasionally. Sitting in the back rows with a cap pulled low, arms crossed, looking entirely out of place among the pastel athletic wear and screaming parents. He never cheered. He just watched. And every time you landed a clean jump, his smirk was pure satisfaction.

One afternoon he surprised you by showing up at the rink with hot tea and your favorite snacks during a break. The other skaters stared openly. Your coach raised an eyebrow but said nothing when Sukuna leveled him with a flat, terrifying stare.

At home, the teasing had turned filthier. He’d corner you in the kitchen, press you against the counter, and kiss you stupid before walking away like nothing happened. You retaliated by wearing his shirts and nothing else after showers.

The rumors online had evolved into something almost affectionate. Fan accounts shipped “Ink & Ice” hard. Your manager had given up trying to control it and was now asking if you wanted to lean into it for publicity.

You told Sukuna while curled against him on the balcony one night.

He laughed lowly. “Let them. As long as they know you’re mine.”

Yours. The word settled deep in your bones.

Nationals were five days away now. The fear was still there, but it felt smaller with Sukuna’s solid presence beside you every night. He had become necessary. Essential. The person you came home to, not just the place.

One night, as you lay tangled together in bed, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back to my old apartment when it’s ready.”

Sukuna’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed.

“Good,” he said simply. “Because I wasn’t letting you.”

He kissed the top of your head, and for the first time in your entire career, you fell asleep thinking less about gold medals and more about the man holding you like you were something worth keeping.

The text from your manager came during breakfast on a rare day off.

Haru: Renovations finished early. Your apartment is ready next week. We can move you back this weekend if you want. Less stress before Nationals.

You stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen. The luxurious high-rise with its perfect view, soundproof walls, and zero tattooed roommates suddenly felt like a cage you’d already escaped.

Sukuna noticed immediately. He always did.

“Bad news?” he asked, setting a fresh coffee beside your plate. He was shirtless again, sweatpants low on his hips, fresh hickeys from last night blooming faintly on his collarbone.

You showed him the text.

His expression didn’t change, but his shoulders tightened. He read it once, then turned back to the stove like it didn’t matter.

“So you’re leaving,” he said flatly.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Bullshit.” His voice was low, edged. “It’s your fancy place. Of course you’re going back.”

The warmth that had been building between you for days suddenly felt brittle. Sukuna shut the stove off with more force than necessary and disappeared into his room without another word. The door didn’t slam, but it closed with heavy finality.

You gave him space. You knew how he operated when emotions got too real, he retreated behind sarcasm and distance like armor.

By evening the tension was unbearable.

You found him on the balcony smoking, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. You stepped out and closed the door behind you.

“Sukuna.”

“Don’t,” he cut you off. “You don’t owe me anything. This was always temporary. I knew that.”

The words stung. You moved closer anyway. “It stopped feeling temporary months ago. You know that too.”

He laughed, bitter and rough. “Yeah? Then why the fuck are you even considering going back?”

“Because it’s easier,” you admitted. “My apartment is closer to the main rink. Better security. No paparazzi camping outside a tattoo shop. My manager thinks—”

“I don’t give a shit what your manager thinks.” Sukuna finally looked at you, crimson eyes burning. “I care what you want. But you’re already pulling away. I can feel it.”

You stepped into his space and grabbed his face with both hands. “I’m not pulling away. I’m scared. Nationals are in four days. Everything is too much right now.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. His hands came up to grip your wrists, not pulling you away, just holding.

“You’re not sleeping in my bed for three months and then walking out like it was nothing,” he said, voice low and rough. “I don’t do that half-in, half-out shit.”

“I don’t want half-in either.”

Sukuna searched your face, then leaned down and kissed you hard. It was possessive, almost punishing, like he was trying to brand the memory of him into you. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers threading through his pink hair.

When you broke apart, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Stay,” he said. Not a plea. A demand wrapped in vulnerability he’d never show anyone else. “Not because of the apartment. Because of me.”

Your chest ached. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your bare waist. The balcony air was cool, but his skin was burning. You ended up inside quickly, clothes disappearing between heated kisses and stumbling steps toward his bedroom—your bedroom now.

This time Sukuna didn’t hold back.

He took you apart with the same focused intensity he used for his art. Learning every sound, every shiver, every place that made you gasp his name. There was nothing gentle about it, but it wasn’t just lust either. Every touch felt like a claim. Every mark he left was a promise.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless. Sukuna’s fingers traced slow circles on your back while you rested your head on his chest.

“I’m telling Haru I’m staying,” you whispered.

“Good.” His arm tightened around you. “Because if you tried to leave, I would’ve dragged your shit back up the stairs myself.”

You laughed softly against his skin. “Romantic.”

“Practical.” He kissed the top of your head. “Now sleep. You’ve got Nationals soon, and I’m not letting you burn yourself out the night before.”

For the first time in weeks, you fell asleep without the weight of your old apartment hanging over you.

But Sukuna stayed awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling with a rare flicker of unease in his eyes. He’d never needed anyone before. Now the thought of you choosing to stay, even after saying it out loud had terrified him more than he wanted to admit.

Nationals arrived like a storm.

The arena was packed. With bright lights, a roaring crowd, and cameras everywhere. You were back in your element: elegant, composed, media-trained smile firmly in place during warm-ups. But underneath, your nerves were razor-sharp.

Sukuna had driven you there on his motorcycle that morning. He hadn’t said much, just handed you your skates at the door and kissed you hard enough to leave you breathless.

“Skate like you fucking mean it,” he’d growled against your lips. “Not for them. For you.”

You’d nodded, heart pounding harder than it had in years.

Now, as you waited in the kiss-and-cry area after your short program, your leg bounced uncontrollably. You’d landed everything cleanly, but the quad had been slightly under-rotated. The scores were about to come up.

Sukuna was somewhere in the stands. He’d refused the VIP seat your manager offered, choosing instead to sit in a shadowed upper section where he could watch without being mobbed. You knew he was there. You could feel it.

The scores flashed.

First place. Narrow lead.

The crowd erupted. You bowed politely, waved, and slipped backstage the moment the cameras turned away. The smile dropped instantly.

You found an empty hallway, a medal from the short program still hanging around your neck, and leaned against the cool wall. The pressure was crushing. One more program tomorrow. One mistake and everything would crumble.

Footsteps echoed.

You looked up. Sukuna was walking toward you, hands in his pockets, black jacket and cap doing little to hide how out of place he looked among the sequined costumes and corporate suits.

Your manager had given him a pass “as security.” Bullshit excuse, but it worked.

“You came backstage,” you whispered.

“Told you I wasn’t letting you do this alone.” He stopped in front of you, eyes scanning your face. “You okay?”

“No,” you admitted. “I’m winning and it still feels like I’m drowning.”

Sukuna pulled you into his chest without hesitation. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head. The familiar scent of him grounded you instantly.

“Most people are fucking stupid,” he said quietly. “They don’t see how hard you work. They just want perfection so they can feel something for five minutes. Don’t let them live in your head.”

You laughed wetly against his shirt. “Since when are you good at pep talks?”

“I’m not. I’m just telling you the truth.” He tilted your chin up and kissed you. The kiss was slow, deep, and completely uncaring if anyone saw. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “Tomorrow, skate like you’re alone on the ice at 2 a.m. Like no one’s watching. That’s when you’re actually good.”

You nodded, forehead pressed to his. “Stay with me tonight? At the hotel?”

“Already told the shop I’m not coming in tomorrow.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of interviews and sponsor obligations. Sukuna waited for you like a shadow. From the back, he was quiet, intimidating, and fiercely protective. When one pushy reporter tried to ask about “the mystery man in your life,” Sukuna simply stepped into frame, stared the man down, and the questions stopped immediately.

Back at the hotel, the tension finally broke.

The moment the door closed, Sukuna had you against it. Clothes came off in a heated rush. This time there was no restraint. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. His mouth and hands were everywhere.

He fucked you like he was afraid you might disappear in the morning. Deep, slow, then rough when you begged for more. You came apart under him twice before he finally let himself go, groaning your name against your neck as he finished.

Afterward, he held you close, your back to his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your stomach.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he murmured into your hair, “you’re still coming home with me. Got it?”

“Got it,” you whispered, intertwining your fingers with his.

For the first time before a major competition, you slept deeply wrapped in tattooed arms and the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat.

The free skate felt like walking into battle wearing silk.

The arena was louder than the day before. Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Your name echoed through the speakers as you glided to center ice. You searched the stands once, just once, and found him. Sukuna. Arms crossed, leaning forward, crimson eyes locked on you like nothing else in the world existed.

You took a breath. Skate like you’re alone at 2 a.m.

The music started.

You poured everything into it. All the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet love you’d found in a sparse apartment above a tattoo shop. Every jump was fought for. Every spin carried emotion instead of just technical perfection. You fell on the quad attempt, hard, but got up faster than you ever had before. The crowd gasped, then roared when you landed the next combination cleanly.

When the final pose ended, the arena erupted.

You bowed, chest heaving, tears already stinging your eyes. The scores came up faster than expected.

Gold.

You won Nationals by a narrow margin.

The crowd chanted your name. Your coach hugged you. Sponsors swarmed. Cameras flashed relentlessly. For three full minutes, it felt like victory.

Then the backlash started.

While you were still in the kiss-and-cry, the online comments flooded in live:

“She fell. That shouldn’t have been gold.” “Underscored the younger girls again.” “Overrated. Time to retire.” “Bet the judges only gave it to her because of the pity narrative.”

By the time you escaped backstage, the medal around your neck felt like lead.

You slipped away from the celebration area into the quiet service corridors, still in full costume, skates dangling from your hand. The gold medal clinked against your chest with every step. You found a dimly lit spot near some stacked equipment crates and sat down hard on the floor.

The numbness hit.

You’d won. And it still felt hollow.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

Sukuna crouched in front of you, elbows on his knees. He studied your face in silence for a long moment.

“They’re already tearing you apart online, aren’t they?” he asked.

You nodded, laughing weakly. “I won gold and they’re acting like I stole it.”

Sukuna reached out and flicked the medal with one finger. “Most people are stupid,” he said, echoing his words from before. “They weren’t on that ice with you. They didn’t see what I saw.”

“What did you see?” you whispered.

“You.” His voice was low, intense. “Fighting. Getting up. Still fucking beautiful even when you fell. That’s not the version they want. They want a doll that never makes mistakes.”

You felt the tears spill over. Sukuna wiped them away with his thumb, surprisingly gentle.

“Come on,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “We’re leaving.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He grabbed your team jacket from a nearby chair, draped it over your shoulders, and led you out through a side exit used by staff. No cameras. No reporters. Just cold night air and the distant roar of the crowd still celebrating inside.

His motorcycle waited in the back lot.

You climbed on behind him in your competition dress and jacket, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Sukuna revved the engine once, then took off into the city streets. The wind whipped past, cold and freeing. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and breathed.

He drove you up to the quiet overlook above the city. The same spot you’d imagined in quieter moments. The lights of Tokyo spread out below like a sea of stars.

Sukuna killed the engine and helped you off. He pulled you against his chest immediately, arms locked around you.

“Winning doesn’t feel how I thought it would,” you admitted against his jacket.

“That’s because you keep letting strangers decide what it means,” he replied. “Fuck their scores. Fuck their comments. You skated like you tonight. That’s the only version that matters to me.”

You looked up at him. The city lights reflected in his eyes. The tension, the adrenaline, the overwhelming emotion of the day, it all crested at once.

You kissed him first.

Sukuna met you halfway, hands sliding into your hair, tilting your head back as the kiss turned deep and desperate. There was nothing restrained about it this time. Months of slow burn, tension, and need poured out between you under the night sky.

When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m keeping you,” he said roughly. “Not just until spring. Not until your lease is up. I’m fucking keeping you.”

You smiled, tears mixing with the cold wind on your cheeks. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. A promise sealed in the quiet above the noisy city.

The gold medal rested between you, warm from your body heat.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like a burden.

The city lights blurred into streaks of neon as Sukuna drove you home. You pressed yourself tighter against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, the gold medal still resting cold against your chest beneath the team jacket. Every turn of the motorcycle sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline and heat through your body. The competition was over. The performance, the fall, the win, the backlash, none of it mattered right now. All that existed was the solid warmth of Sukuna’s body between your thighs and the promise of what waited the second you crossed the threshold of the apartment.

He parked roughly in the narrow alley beside the shop. The moment your feet touched the ground, he grabbed you.

Sukuna pushed you up against the metal staircase railing, mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed possessively. Sliding under your jacket, gripping your waist, then lower to squeeze your ass as he lifted one of your legs around his hip.

“Fuck, I’ve been hard since you took the ice,” he growled against your lips, biting down on your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. “Watching you fight like that… all grace and fire. Wanted to drag you off the rink and fuck you right there.”

You moaned into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Then stop talking and do it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

The climb up the stairs was clumsy, hands groping, mouths barely separating. The second the apartment door slammed shut behind you, Sukuna had you pinned against the wall. He peeled the team jacket off your shoulders and yanked the competition dress down your body in one rough motion, leaving it pooled around your ankles. You kicked it aside while working on his belt.

Clothes scattered across the floor. Sukuna lifted you again, carrying you to the couch and dropping you onto the leather. He followed immediately, settling between your spread thighs.

He didn’t tease for long.

His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a dark, claiming mark just below your jaw while two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning. You were already dripping.

“So fucking wet for me,” he groaned, curling his fingers deep. “This pussy been aching for me all day?”

“Yes— God, Sukuna—”

He pumped his fingers faster, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. His mouth moved lower, sucking hard on one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing sensitive skin. When your thighs started trembling, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, licking broad stripes through your folds before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking.

You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the couch, fingers twisted tight in his pink hair. Sukuna didn’t stop. He worked you through it, licking you clean until you were shaking.

Then he flipped you over.

He pressed your chest down against the couch, ass up, and pushed into you in one deep, relentless thrust. The stretch burned so good you moaned loudly into the cushion.

“Fuck— so tight,” Sukuna hissed, gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Taking me so well. Like you were made for this.”

He set a punishing rhythm immediately. With deep, powerful strokes that made the couch shift beneath you. The gold medal swung wildly between your breasts with every thrust. One of his hands slid up your spine and wrapped loosely around your throat, pulling you back against his chest without slowing down.

“You’re mine,” he snarled in your ear, voice wrecked. “Not the ice. Not the federation. Not the fucking fans. This body, this pussy, every moan, all mine.”

You came again hard, clenching around him, vision whiting out. Sukuna followed with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled deep inside you.

For a moment, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the faint creak of the couch.

Sukuna pulled out slowly, watching his release drip down your thighs with dark satisfaction. Then he gathered you into his arms, cradling you against his chest on the couch.

“You still with me?” he asked, voice surprisingly soft as he brushed damp hair from your forehead.

You nodded, smiling dazedly. “Yeah. That was… intense.”

He kissed your temple. “You earned it. Gold looks good on you, by the way.” His fingers traced the medal still hanging between your breasts. “But it looks better when it’s the only thing you’re wearing.”

You laughed breathlessly and kissed him again but slower this time, savoring the taste of yourself on his tongue.

The shower was supposed to be practical.

It wasn’t.

Hot water cascaded over both of you as Sukuna pressed you against the tiled wall. He lifted one of your legs over his hip and slid back inside you with a smooth thrust, groaning at how easily you took him now.

“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, nipping at your collarbone. “Can’t get enough?”

“No,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he rolled his hips deep and slow. “Never enough.”

He fucked you like that under the spray. His deep, grinding strokes that hit every perfect spot. Steam filled the small bathroom. Your moans echoed off the tiles. When you came again, trembling in his arms, Sukuna held you through it, then spilled inside you once more with your name on his lips.

You barely made it to the bed afterward.

Sukuna laid you down gently this time. The frantic need had eased into something deeper, more intimate. He crawled over you, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. The fading bruises on your hips from training, the new marks he’d left tonight, the sensitive spots along your ribs that made you shiver.

When he finally pushed back inside you, it was slow and deliberate. He intertwined your fingers above your head, eyes locked on yours as he moved.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

You did. The intensity in his crimson gaze made your chest ache with something far bigger than lust.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, thrusting deep and staying there for a moment. “You’re staying. This apartment. This bed. With me. No more temporary bullshit.”

“I’m staying,” you whispered, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “I’m yours, Sukuna.”

Something raw and vulnerable flashed across his face. He kissed you deeply as he picked up the pace again, hips rolling in a devastating rhythm that had you gasping into his mouth. This orgasm built slowly, then crashed over you like a wave. Sukuna followed right after, burying his face in your neck as he came with a low, broken groan.

You stayed connected for a long time afterward, trading lazy kisses and soft touches.

Eventually Sukuna rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, your head resting over his heart. His fingers stroked slowly up and down your spine.

“You did good today,” he said quietly. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up. That’s the part I’m proud of.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time they were warm. You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over a snarling tattoo.

“I couldn’t have done it without you waiting for me,” you admitted.

Sukuna’s arm tightened around you. “Then it’s a good thing you’re never doing anything without me again.”

The gold medal lay forgotten on the nightstand. The only thing that mattered was the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek and the quiet certainty that you had finally found where you belonged.

The morning after Nationals arrived gently, sunlight filtering softly through the apartment curtains.

You woke slowly, wrapped securely in Sukuna’s arms. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, one heavy, tattooed arm draped across your waist, holding you close even in sleep. The gold medal sat quietly on the nightstand, catching the light whenever it shifted. Your body ached from the competition and the intensity of the night before, but it was a satisfying kind of tired.

Sukuna stirred when you shifted slightly, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy grunt. His lips brushed the top of your head.

“Too early,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t move.”

You smiled and relaxed against him, letting the warmth of his body soothe your sore muscles. For once, there was no alarm, no rush to the rink, no obligations waiting. Your coach had given you two full days to recover, and you intended to use every minute of it.

After nearly forty minutes of quiet cuddling. Sukuna’s fingers lazily tracing patterns on your back, he finally sighed and rolled out of bed.

“Stay,” he ordered, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants. “I’ll make breakfast.”

You watched him leave the room, admiring the way his tattoos shifted across his broad back with every movement. A few minutes later, the comforting smells of rice, miso soup, and grilled salmon drifted through the apartment. You slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen wearing one of his oversized black shirts that reached mid-thigh.

Sukuna glanced over his shoulder, his crimson eyes softening at the sight of you. “You look good in my clothes.”

You hopped up to sit on the counter, swinging your legs. “I basically live in them now.”

He stepped between your knees, hands resting on your thighs as he leaned in to kiss you. When he pulled back, there was a rare softness in his expression.

Breakfast was simple but made with care. Sukuna fed you bites of salmon between his own, the two of you sharing comfortable silence broken only by occasional teasing remarks. The domesticity of it all still felt new and precious.

After eating, you migrated to the couch together. You curled against his side, legs tangled with his, while Sukuna picked up one of his sketchbooks. His free hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absentmindedly as he drew.

“So,” he said after a while, not looking up from the page. “You really told Haru you’re staying?”

“I did. He’s handling the sublet paperwork for the old apartment.” You traced a finger along a bold tattoo on his forearm. “I don’t want to go back there. This feels right.”

Sukuna’s hand paused on your thigh. He set the sketchbook aside and turned to look at you fully, his gaze intense.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I wasn’t going to make it easy for you to leave.”

You shifted to straddle his lap, cupping his face in both hands. “I’m not leaving. This apartment… you… this is home now.”

Something raw flickered across his face. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a deep kiss not rushed or demanding, but full of quiet emotion. When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You ruined living alone for me,” he admitted, voice low. “Can’t imagine coming back to an empty place anymore.”

Your heart swelled. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to.”

The rest of the day unfolded in peaceful domesticity.

You spent the afternoon properly unpacking the last of your belongings. Sukuna watched from the doorway as you arranged your skincare products across the bathroom shelves and hung your clothes beside his in the closet. Without saying anything, he cleared out an entire drawer for you and even made space on the coffee table for your training notebooks.

Later, you dragged him out to the balcony. The air was cool and fresh. Sukuna lit a cigarette while you leaned back against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. The city hummed quietly below.

“Everyone’s still losing their minds online,” you told him, showing him a few headlines on your phone. The “Ink & Ice” ship had only grown stronger since last night.

Sukuna snorted, smoke curling from his lips. “Let them talk. As long as they know you’re off-limits.”

You turned in his arms to face him. “Very off-limits.”

He smirked and kissed you against the railing slow and steady, one hand cradling the back of your head. When he pulled away, his expression was softer than usual.

That evening, you cooked together for the first time in a while. Sukuna stood behind you at the stove, arms around your waist, occasionally stealing tastes from the spoon while offering (mostly critical) commentary. The kitchen filled with laughter and the clatter of now three plates being used.

After dinner, you ended up back on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket while a random movie played on low volume. Sukuna’s fingers ran gently through your hair as you rested against his chest.

“I’m proud of you,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up after that fall. That’s the shit that matters.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You hugged him tighter. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you waiting for me at home.”

Sukuna’s arms tightened around you. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me now.”

You fell asleep that night in his bed, curled against his side with his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The apartment felt fuller than it ever had. Your things mixed with his, two toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, your skates resting near his motorcycle helmet by the door.

No more temporary arrangement.

No more hesitation.

Just the two of you, choosing each other every single day.

Spring had finally arrived in Tokyo.

Cherry blossoms drifted lazily past the apartment windows, and the air felt lighter somehow. The renovations on your old luxury apartment had been completed for weeks now, but the keys to that place still sat untouched in a drawer. This apartment, the one above the tattoo shop with its creaky floors, single original plate (now joined by many), and thermostat that still sparked occasional minor wars had become home.

You stood in the kitchen late one afternoon, chopping vegetables while Sukuna leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed, “supervising.”

“You’re cutting those too big,” he criticized, reaching over to adjust your grip on the knife. “They’ll cook unevenly.”

You bumped him with your hip. “Says the man who used to eat plain rice and protein straight from the container.”

“I had standards. Low ones.” He smirked when you glared at him. “Now move. I’ll finish this before you ruin dinner.”

You refused to move. The two of you ended up cooking side by side, shoulders brushing, exchanging sarcastic commentary the entire time. Sukuna still refused to admit your seasoning was better, and you still refused to admit his knife skills were superior. The argument was comfortable now. Familiar, almost affectionate.

After dinner, you migrated to the living room as usual.

You stretched on the floor in your usual spot while Sukuna sat on the couch, sketchbook balanced on one knee. The scratch of his pencil was a soothing background noise. Every so often he’d glance up, watching the way you moved through your post-training stretches with quiet focus.

“You’re favoring your left side again,” he noted.

“It’s nothing. Just tight from practice.”

He grunted but set his sketchbook down anyway. A moment later, his warm hands were on your hip and lower back, pressing into the muscle with careful, practiced pressure. Not quite a massage, Sukuna would never call it that but close enough.

“Better?” he asked after a few minutes.

“Much. Thank you.”

He didn’t reply, just gave your hip one last squeeze before returning to his drawing.

You eventually gave up stretching and curled up on the couch instead, head resting on his thigh. Sukuna’s free hand immediately dropped to play with your hair, fingers combing through the strands as he continued sketching.

The apartment had changed so much.

Your skincare collection had officially taken over the entire bathroom counter and one full shelf. A second helmet that was smaller, sleeker, and yours now sat on the entryway table beside his. Your competition skates lived permanently by the door next to his motorcycle helmet, a sight that still made you smile every time you came home. Shared keys hung on a new hook he’d installed without comment.

Sukuna eventually set his pencil down and looked at you.

“You still happy here?” he asked, voice low. The question was casual, but you heard the weight behind it.

You turned your head to look up at him. “I’m happier here than I’ve been in years. This place… you… it feels real. No cameras. No pretending to be perfect. Just us.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded once.

“Good,” he said simply. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

You laughed softly. “I like being stuck with you.”

Sukuna’s hand continued stroking through your hair as you drifted closer to sleep. The TV played some random documentary on low volume. Outside, the city hummed its usual rhythm, but inside these walls, everything felt peaceful.

Later that night, you woke briefly when Sukuna carried you to bed. He tucked you in carefully, then slid in behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist like it always did, possessive even in sleep.

In the quiet darkness, he spoke against your hair.

“Never thought I’d want someone in my space this much,” he murmured. “You changed that. Ruined me for peace and quiet.”

You smiled, intertwining your fingers with his. “You ruined me for being alone.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. No flowery declarations. No dramatic promises. Just Sukuna. Honest, rough around the edges, and entirely yours.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Sukuna moving around the kitchen. When you wandered out, still sleepy and wrapped in his shirt, he slid a mug toward you without a word.

Two plates waited on the counter.

Two helmets by the door.

Two lives that had quietly become one.

And as you stood there drinking coffee while Sukuna argued with you about whether the thermostat should be at 19°C or 21°C, you realized this was it.

This was the ending you’d never known you needed.

Not perfect. Not glamorous.

Just real.

Just yours.

You were cut off before you could even think to share your thoughts with your husband.

"We will find the perpetrator, Lord Ryomen, they cannot be far-"

"Leave us," Sukuna's voice held a deep vibrato that seemed to rumble through the surrounding walls. You had heard it before, threatening and etched with malice. It shook you more now though. having never heard him sound so callous toward Uraume of all temple-goers.

"My Lord..."

"Leave us. Now."

His order came in a serpentine hiss as his hand clutched yours, punctuated only by the shuffling of robes as Uraume retreated. His hand tightened around yours at your fidgeting and if you didn't know him better, you might've thought your bones would snap under the pressure.

To weak to open your eyes you sunk deeper into cold, velvet sheets and hummed, "Don't take it out on Uraume, S'kuna..."

He huffed at your order and rebutled it with his own, "Quiet. Conserve your strength. And stop shuffling. The more you exert yourself the fast your heart will pump that filth around your body."

That filth.

The poison supposedly slipped into your evening meal, strategically tainted on the night of Sukuna's absence as he visited a Western province. He had raced home on horseback at the news of your collapse and it made you feel almost guilty. You were sure you had interrupted some important political meet that you had no previous interest in.

You thought about the servants downstairs, clumsily searching for anything that might aid your condition. You supposed it didn't matter, though. Your breaths were already laboured and something ugly was brewing behind Sukuna's eyes.

"What are you thinking about, dove?" He muttered, bringing you limp hand to his lips. His body dwarfed yours as he planted soft kisses unto your palm and up your wrist. It felt like a goodbye. It made you feel ill.

"Us," you admitted, voice tinged with guilt. "I'm sorry, Sukuna."

He shook his head with an amused chuff, though you could register the pain behind it, "Stupid woman. Apologise for nothing. You are a queen," he pressed one last, devastatingly soft kiss to the weakening pulse-point on your wrist. "My Queen."

It was early in the morning when you exhaled your last breath. A painless death-rattle that Sukuna couldn't help but be thankful for in a way that made him nauseous. The idea that the only reprieve he had was that you had gone comfortably curdled in the bottom of his stomach. Perhaps that was some sick mercy from the Gods above?

It didn't feel like it. In fact, it felt as though the beings above him were mocking his very being. Ripping his beloved from him as if she wasn't the only thing he would protest to have stolen.

The thoughts made clouds form behind his eyes as a punishing silence suffocated him, engrossed in the stillness of your body. It felt so unnatural, so wrong and perverse to see you like this.

Slow patters of rain splattered from the heavens and off the engawa outside, providing a soft song as he held you close; still warm and clinging to his kariginu. Somewhere in his twisted mind, the act felt wretched and intentional. As if the God's themselves has accompanied your loss with their own laughter in the form of the soft rain-pellets, a melody you used to comfortably sleep to now tainted by their mockery of the cursed being below them.

"Uraume?"

They appeared as if they had never left, "Yes, my Lord?"

"Cull them all."

The Gods would pay.

I hope you enjoyed this fic <3

The ballroom of Lady Danbury’s townhouse glittered like a cage made of crystal and candlelight. Hundreds of candles flickered in their sconces, casting warm gold across the polished parquet floors and the sea of silk gowns in every shade of debutante hope. Fill with shades of ivory, blush, and the palest lavender. The string quartet played a waltz that had already claimed three of your dances, each one as forgettable as the last.

You stood near the tall windows that overlooked the darkened garden, a glass of lukewarm lemonade in your gloved hand. Your gown was a deep rose silk edged in delicate gold embroidery. Your gown chosen by your mother with the quiet optimism of someone who still believed beauty could be manufactured through fabric and posture. It suited you. It did not, however, make you memorable.

Three weeks into the season and the pattern had become cruelly clear.

Mothers smiled politely when they introduced their sons. The sons bowed, offered one obligatory dance, and then drifted toward the true prizes: the daughters with larger dowries, brighter smiles, or simply more obvious beauty. You were not plain. You were simply… overlooked. Sharp tongue tucked behind composure, quick mind hidden beneath the required demure smiles, you had learned early that society rewarded performance, not substance.

Tonight was no different.

Your dearest friend, Lady Shoko Ieiri, leaned against the same window frame, a half-empty glass of champagne dangling from her fingers. Her dark hair was pinned with pearl combs, and her sage-green gown made her look like a bored woodland sprite who had wandered into the wrong century.

“Still no bites?” Shoko asked, voice low and dry. “I counted four gentlemen who looked at you, considered it, then remembered they were supposed to be pursuing Miss Featherington’s cousin instead.”

You gave a soft laugh that didn’t reach your eyes. “At this rate I shall be the spinster aunt who embroiders excessively and frightens the children with my opinions.”

Shoko’s mouth curved. “Better than marrying one of these peacocks who think a title excuses a personality like wet bread.”

Your gaze drifted across the room, and caught.

He stood alone near the far column, half in shadow, entirely unbothered by the way the entire ballroom seemed to orbit him without daring to approach. Ryomen Sukuna, Duke of Avarice. The title itself was a whisper of scandal and warning. He had inherited the dukedom young, under circumstances London still speculated about in hushed tones. Wealth beyond measure. A reputation that made debutantes blush and their mothers clutch their pearls. He never danced more than once in an evening, never lingered, never courted.

And yet every mother in the ton dreamed of trapping him for a daughter.

He was impossible to ignore. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that made the air feel heavier. His hair was a striking shade of rose-pink, swept back from his face in careless waves that somehow looked deliberate. Black tattoos, those delicate and sharp lines that curved along his jaw, disappeared beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt, and reappeared over the backs of his hands had marked him like living ink. His eyes, when they flicked toward the crowd, were the deep crimson of old blood under candlelight. He wore black evening dress as though it were armor, the only color the blood-red ruby pin at his throat.

He looked like sin dressed for supper.

And he looked bored.

You didn’t know what possessed you. Perhaps it was the third lukewarm lemonade. Perhaps it was the way Lord Harrington had just patted your hand like you were a promising filly he might consider later. Perhaps it was simply that you were tired of being invisible.

You set your glass down, smoothed your gloves, and walked straight toward him.

Shoko’s quiet “Reader—” followed you, but you didn’t stop.

The Duke noticed your approach. His gaze slid over you slowly, assessing, the way a predator might note an unusually bold rabbit. When you stopped a respectful, but not too respectful, distance away, he lifted one dark brow.

You curtsied, brief and precise.

“Your Grace,” you said, voice steady despite the frantic beat of your heart. “You are being hunted.”

A beat of silence. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Something too sharp to be a smile.

“And you,” he replied, voice low and rough like velvet dragged over stone, “are being ignored.”

The words should have stung. Instead they felt like truth, and truth had always been your weakness.

You lifted your chin. “I find the two states have much in common this season. Both leave one rather… conspicuous in their discomfort.”

Sukuna’s crimson eyes narrowed, studying you as though you were a puzzle he had not expected to find entertaining. Up close he was even more overwhelming. Heat seemed to roll off him, and the faint scent of sandalwood and something darker clung to his coat.

He tilted his head. “Most young ladies would flutter their lashes and pretend they came over to admire the flowers.”

“I am not most young ladies.”

“No,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Evidently not.”

A waltz swelled around you. Couples spun past in a blur of color and laughter. You could feel eyes on your back. A debutante approaching the Duke of Avarice without introduction was the sort of thing that would be in tomorrow’s gossip sheets.

You didn’t care.

“I have a proposition,” you said quietly.

His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture sharpened. “Bold.”

“Practical,” you corrected. “You require an excuse to keep the more determined mamas and their daughters at bay. I require… visibility. A name that is spoken of. A reason for the rest of the ton to stop looking through me as though I were part of the wallpaper.”

He was silent long enough that you began to wonder if you had just ruined yourself in front of the most dangerous man in London.

Then he laughed, genuinely amused by you. The sound slid down your spine like warm wine.

“You want me to court you,” he said, stating it plainly.

“I want the illusion of courtship,” you clarified. “Public dances. Occasional promenades. Enough lingering glances that society believes you have chosen someone. In return, I will be the perfect shield. Polite, composed, and never demanding more than you offer. When the season ends, we part amicably. No broken hearts. No expectations.”

Sukuna’s gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second, then back to your eyes. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I return to being ignored, and you return to being hunted. We both lose nothing we didn’t already have.”

He stepped closer. Just one step, but it closed the distance enough that you had to tilt your head to keep his eyes. The tattoos along his jaw seemed to shift in the candlelight.

“Careful, Lady Ashbourne,” he murmured, using your name as though he had already decided it belonged in his mouth. “I do not half-perform anything. If we do this, it will not be polite glances across a room. It will be convincing.”

Your pulse thundered. “I am not asking for half-measures, Your Grace.”

A long, considering silence.

Then he offered his arm.

“Very well,” he said. “One waltz. Let them talk.”

You placed your hand on his sleeve. The muscle beneath the fabric was hard as iron.

As he led you onto the floor, the entire ballroom seemed to inhale at once. Shoko’s eyes were wide. Across the room, Lord Satoru Gojo. The silver-haired, impossibly beautiful, and always smiling like he knew every secret in London had paused mid-conversation with Lord Suguru Geto and lifted a brow in open delight.

Sukuna’s hand settled at your waist with proprietary ease. The other took yours. He moved like a man who had never been refused anything in his life.

“You realize,” he said as the music began, voice pitched for your ears alone, “that once we begin this little game, there is no stepping back without consequence.”

You met his gaze without flinching. “I am counting on it.”

The waltz carried you both into the swirl of bodies, and for the first time all season you felt seen. Not as a prize, not as a wallflower but as the woman who had just walked straight into the lion’s den and offered him a bargain.

Ryomen Sukuna watched you with something dark and unreadable flickering behind those crimson eyes.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a small, treacherous voice whispered that this arrangement was going to be far more dangerous than you had planned.

Because the Duke of Avarice did not look like a man who played pretend.

He looked like a man who took what he wanted.

And right now, he was looking at you.

The morning after Lady Danbury’s ball, London woke to a new favorite topic.

Whispers spread through drawing rooms like wildfire carried on silk fans. “Did you hear? The Duke of Avarice danced with Lady Ashbourne, twice.” “Not just danced. He lingered.” “She approached him. Can you imagine the audacity?” Servants carried the gossip from household to household along with the fresh milk and newspapers. By noon, your name was on every tongue that mattered.

You sat in the Ashbourne drawing room, a cup of tea cooling untouched beside you, while your mother paced with barely contained excitement. Lady Ashbourne’s cheeks were flushed, her fan fluttering rapidly. “Two dances, Reader! And with him! The Duke has never shown interest in any young lady before. This could be—”

“Mother, please,” you interrupted gently, though your own stomach twisted with a mix of nerves and something far more treacherous. “It was only a waltz. Do not read sonnets into a single evening.”

But you could not stop replaying it. The weight of Sukuna’s hand at your waist. The way his crimson eyes had never left yours during the dance, as though the rest of the ballroom had ceased to exist. The low timbre of his voice when he had murmured, “You dance better than you pretend to be invisible, Lady Ashbourne.” You had nearly missed a step.

A soft knock sounded. Shoko Ieiri entered without waiting for full permission. After all, she’s your oldest friend who had that privilege, dropping onto the settee beside you, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She carried the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, the scandal sheet everyone pretended to disdain but devoured.

“Have you seen this?” Shoko asked, unfolding the paper with dramatic flair. “‘The Duke of Avarice, long a solitary lion in our glittering jungle, has at last been spotted with a companion. Lady Ashbourne approached the beast without fear and emerged unscathed… for now. Is this the beginning of a most unexpected courtship, or merely a fleeting amusement for the untouchable Duke?’”

Your mother gasped in delight. “See? Even Whistledown notices!”

Shoko shot you a sidelong glance, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. Across the room, your younger brother, Megumi, the always quiet, observant, and far too perceptive for his fourteen years had pretended to read a book but kept stealing glances your way.

You forced a calm smile. “It is an arrangement, nothing more. The Duke needs breathing room from the endless parade of ambitious mamas. I need… attention. Proper attention. Suitors who actually see me rather than looking past to the next debutante.”

Shoko leaned closer, voice dropping. “And how does it feel, being the shield for Ryomen Sukuna? He is not exactly known for gentle manners.”

You thought of the tattoos that peeked from his collar, the controlled power in every movement, the way his touch had felt deliberate rather than performative. Heat crept up your neck. “It feels… strategic.”

But strategy had never made your pulse race quite like this.

That afternoon brought the first real test of your bargain.

Hyde Park was alive with the season’s ritual promenade. Carriages rolled along the paths, parasols twirled like colorful flowers, and the elite of the ton displayed themselves and their prospects. You walked arm-in-arm with Sukuna, your gloved hand resting lightly on his sleeve. He had sent a note that morning. Brief, commanding, and signed only with his initial: S. That was requesting your company at four o’clock sharp.

He wore a deep burgundy coat that made the pink of his hair and the crimson of his eyes stand out like warnings. The black tattoos along his jaw and hands drew stares wherever you passed. People bowed or curtsied as you went by, but none dared approach too closely. The Duke’s reputation cleared a path better than any footman.

“You are quiet today,” Sukuna remarked, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His stride was unhurried, yet it forced you to match his pace. “Regretting your bold proposition already?”

You glanced up at him. In daylight he was even more striking. Sharp cheekbones, the faint scar that bisected one brow, the way his full lips curved with faint amusement. “Not at all, Your Grace. I was merely wondering how long it will take for the mothers to stop glaring daggers at me.”

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Let them glare. It keeps them occupied.”

As you continued along the path, several familiar faces appeared. Lord Toji Fushiguro rode past on a powerful black stallion, his dark hair tousled by the breeze and a smirk playing on his scarred lips. He tipped his hat with lazy confidence, green eyes flicking over you both with open interest.

“Sukuna,” Toji drawled, reining in just enough to be heard. “Didn’t expect to see you playing the devoted escort so early in the season. Lady Ashbourne, my condolences if he’s already boring you with that silent stare of his.”

Sukuna’s expression remained impassive, though his grip on your arm tightened fractionally. “Fushiguro. Still wasting good horseflesh on pointless rides, I see.”

Toji laughed, a rough, unbothered sound. Riding beside him was Choso Kamo, his long dark hair tied back, pale face calm and watchful as always. Choso offered a polite nod, his eyes lingering on you with quiet curiosity. “A pleasure to see you out, Lady Reader. The park seems livelier with new company.”

You offered a polite curtsy from your position. “Lord Fushiguro, Lord Kamo. It is merely a pleasant afternoon stroll. Nothing more than that requires condolences… yet.”

Choso’s gaze was steady. “Interesting choice of companion. Most ladies would not dare approach the Duke without proper introduction.”

“I find proper introductions are overrated when one has a clear purpose,” you replied smoothly.

Sukuna’s lips twitched. The closest he came to approval. Toji whistled low. “Sharp tongue. Careful, Sukuna, or she might actually make this interesting.” With another lazy wave, Toji and Choso continued on, leaving a trail of whispers in their wake.

Sukuna guided you toward a quieter stretch of path lined with blooming roses, their perfume heavy in the warm air.

“Acquaintances of yours?” you asked once they were out of earshot.

“Annoyances, more like,” he corrected, though there was no real heat in it. “Fushiguro enjoys stirring trouble. Kamo watches everything and says little. They are useful when one needs information… or a distraction from the more persistent mothers.”

You nodded, then dared to press a little further. “And what do you enjoy, Your Grace?”

He stopped beneath the shade of a large oak, turning to face you fully. The park sounds faded, the sounds of laughter, hoofbeats, and distant music from a nearby bandstand. His crimson eyes held yours with that same heavy, deliberate intensity from the ballroom.

“Control,” he said simply. “And results. I do not waste time on frivolities.”

His free hand rose, brushing a stray curl from your temple with surprising gentleness. The touch lingered, thumb grazing your cheekbone through the thin fabric of his glove. It was not necessary. No one was close enough to require such a performance. Yet he did it anyway.

Your breath caught. “And this arrangement… is it a result you desire?”

Sukuna’s voice dropped lower, intimate. “It is proving more entertaining than I anticipated.” His hand slid down to your waist, pulling you a fraction closer under the pretense of adjusting your shawl against a nonexistent breeze. The heat of his palm burned through the layers of silk and corset. “Tell me, Lady Reader. Does the attention feel as you hoped? The eyes following you? The suitors who now hesitate?”

You swallowed, hyper-aware of every point of contact. “It does. But I did not expect…” You hesitated, then continued honestly, “I did not expect you to perform quite so convincingly.”

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “I warned you. I do not do things by half-measures.”

For a long moment you stood there, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies. His scent wrapped around you. The tattoos on his hand flexed as his fingers tightened ever so slightly at your waist.

Then he released you, stepping back just enough to restore propriety, though the air between you still crackled.

“Come,” he said, offering his arm once more. “Let us give them something else to whisper about. I believe Lady Utahime Iori has organized a small gathering for cards and music this evening at her residence. You will accompany me.”

It was not a request.

As you resumed walking, you caught sight of other faces in the distance. Kento Nanami was nowhere to be seen, but young Nobara Kugisaki pointed excitedly toward a group of debutantes while her guardian, Maki Zenin, looked on with sharp disapproval. Further along, Mahito wandered with his usual unsettling grin, though no one seemed eager to engage him. The ton watched. And for the first time, they were watching you.

But it was Sukuna’s attention that weighed the heaviest. Every lingering touch, every low word meant only for your ears, every deliberate glance. It was all part of the illusion.

Or so you told yourself.

Because when his fingers brushed yours again as he helped you into the carriage later that afternoon, the spark that jumped between you felt anything but pretend.

And in the quiet of the carriage ride home, with Sukuna sitting across from you, watching you with hooded crimson eyes, you began to suspect that the line between performance and reality was already blurring faster than either of you had planned.

The card party at Lady Utahime Iori’s elegant townhouse was a more intimate affair than the grand balls that defined the season. Candlelight glowed softly against cream-colored walls adorned with tasteful landscapes and family portraits. Small tables had been arranged in the drawing room for whist, loo, and commerce, while a pianoforte in the corner provided gentle background music played by one of the younger guests. Refreshments were laid out with precision.

You arrived on the arm of the Duke of Avarice, and the subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere was immediate. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Fans fluttered faster. Eyes followed the pair of you with undisguised curiosity.

Lady Utahime greeted you both with a warm but slightly strained smile, her usual composed demeanor carrying a hint of wariness toward Sukuna. “Your Grace. Lady Ashbourne. How kind of you to join us this evening. Please, make yourselves comfortable. The tables are open for play.”

Sukuna inclined his head, the barest acknowledgment. “Lady Iori.” His voice remained low, controlled, carrying that rough velvet edge that made every word feel intentional.

He guided you through the room with a hand lightly at the small of your back. Proprietary, steady, and far too warm through the silk of your evening gown. The deep rose color you wore tonight complemented the burgundy of his coat in a way that felt almost deliberate, as though the ton needed another reason to speculate.

Shoko Ieiri was already seated at one of the whist tables, partnered with your younger brother Megumi, who looked mildly uncomfortable in his formal attire but determined not to embarrass the family. Shoko caught your eye and offered a subtle nod of encouragement, though her gaze flicked to Sukuna with open assessment.

Across the room, Lord Toji Fushiguro lounged against the mantelpiece, a glass of brandy in hand, his scarred lips curved in that familiar lazy smirk. Lord Choso Kamo stood nearby, quiet and watchful as ever, his long dark hair neatly tied back. Toji raised his glass in a mock toast when he spotted you both.

“Back so soon, Sukuna? And with the same charming shield. Bold move for a man who claims he wants distance,” Toji called, loud enough for nearby guests to hear but not quite scandalous.

Sukuna didn’t break stride. “Fushiguro. Still hunting for easy sport, I see.”

You offered a polite smile to both men. “Lord Fushiguro, Lord Kamo. I hope the evening finds you well.”

Choso nodded once, his dark eyes steady. “It does, Lady Ashbourne. Particularly with such… unexpected company elevating the gathering.”

Toji chuckled low. “Careful, Kamo. The Duke doesn’t share his toys easily.”

Sukuna’s hand pressed a fraction firmer against your back as he led you away, his expression unchanging. Only you felt the tension in his frame, the controlled power that never quite relaxed.

He chose a table for two near the windows, away from the larger groups. “We will play commerce,” he decided, pulling out your chair with effortless courtesy. “Unless you prefer something else?”

“Commerce is fine,” you replied, taking your seat. The game required strategy and subtle bluffing. It was fitting, given the performance you were both maintaining.

As the cards were dealt and play began, the conversation around you hummed with the usual society pleasantries. Nobara Kugisaki, vibrant and outspoken even at her young age, sat at a nearby table with her guardian Maki Zenin. Nobara’s voice carried clearly as she declared her hand with confidence, while Maki watched with sharp, approving eyes, occasionally correcting a misstep with quiet precision.

But your focus remained on the man across from you.

Sukuna played with the same deliberate intensity he brought to everything. His long fingers, marked by those intricate black tattoos that disappeared beneath his cuffs, handled the cards with precision. Each movement was economical, unhurried. When he spoke, it was only to you, his voice pitched low so the words remained private amid the clink of glasses and murmur of other tables.

“You handled Fushiguro well,” he noted, eyes on his cards rather than you. “Most ladies would simper or retreat.”

“I have no interest in simpering,” you said softly, laying down a card. “Nor in retreating. Especially not when the arrangement benefits us both.”

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. He won the trick, then leaned forward slightly as he gathered the cards. The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his tattoos along his jaw and the deep crimson of his eyes. “Benefits. Yes. The invitations have already increased. Mothers who once pushed their daughters toward me now hesitate. And you… you are no longer overlooked.”

It was true. Several gentlemen had nodded in your direction with renewed interest when you entered. Whispers followed you like shadows. Yet the heaviest gaze in the room remained Sukuna’s.

As the game progressed, the illusion deepened. His knee brushed yours beneath the table. Accidental at first, then lingering. When he reached across to discard a card, his fingers grazed the back of your gloved hand. The contact sent a spark up your arm that had nothing to do with strategy.

“You are tense,” he observed quietly during a lull, his voice a rumble meant only for you. “Is the performance becoming burdensome?”

You met his eyes. “It is becoming… convincing. Perhaps too much so.”

He held your gaze for a long moment. “Good. Half-measures are useless.”

Later, when the card tables broke for refreshments and light conversation, Sukuna escorted you toward the terrace doors. The night air was cool and carried the faint scent of blooming jasmine from the small garden beyond. Few guests had ventured outside yet; the darkness offered a fragile privacy.

He stopped just beyond the threshold, where the light from the windows still reached but the voices inside blurred into a distant hum. The Duke turned to face you, his broad frame blocking the breeze.

“Tell me,” he said, voice lower now, almost intimate, “what you hoped to gain from this bargain beyond mere visibility.”

You hesitated, then answered honestly. “To be seen as someone worth pursuing. Not just the polite afterthought. Not the girl that mothers consider only when better options are exhausted.”

Sukuna studied you in silence. The tattoos on his face seemed to shift in the shifting light. He lifted a hand and traced the edge of your jaw with the backs of his fingers. Barely a touch, yet it stole your breath. “You were never an afterthought. Not to anyone with eyes.”

The words hung between you. His hand lingered, thumb brushing just beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward his. The distance between your bodies narrowed without conscious decision. Heat rolled off him, sandalwood and smoke and something darker, more primal.

For a heartbeat, the performance slipped. His crimson eyes dropped to your lips. Yours to the hard line of his mouth.

Then a soft cough sounded from the doorway.

Lady Utahime stood there, composed but clearly aware she had interrupted something. “Your Grace, Lady Ashbourne. Refreshments are being served inside. I thought you might wish to rejoin the others before the next round of play.”

Sukuna’s hand dropped away slowly, as though reluctant. “Of course, Lady Iori.”

He offered you his arm once more. As you walked back inside, the weight of his touch remained imprinted on your skin.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of polite conversation and calculated glances. Shoko pulled you aside briefly near the pianoforte, her voice low. “Be careful. Sukuna is not a man who gives anything lightly. And what he does give… it tends to consume.”

You smiled, though your pulse still raced. “I know. It is only an arrangement.”

But as Sukuna’s gaze found yours across the room. Heavy, deliberate, possessive in a way that had nothing to do with the ton watching, you wondered how long you could keep telling yourself that lie.

Later that night, after he had escorted you home in his carriage, the silence between you felt heavier than before. He helped you down, his hands lingering at your waist a second longer than necessary. The street was quiet, lit only by gas lamps and the moon.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice rough in the darkness, “we walk in the gardens at Vauxhall. Let them see us where shadows make rumors easier to birth.”

It was not a question.

You nodded, throat tight. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

He stepped back, but his eyes held yours. “Sukuna,” he corrected quietly. “When we are alone… call me Sukuna.”

Then he was gone, the carriage rumbling away into the night.

You stood on the steps of your family home, heart pounding, the cool air doing nothing to calm the heat lingering where he had touched you.

The man beneath the fearsome reputation was not cruel. He was not even truly cold.

He was controlled. Intentional. And every deliberate glance, every lingering touch, every low word spoken only for you… felt like a choice.

A dangerous one.

And you were no longer certain you wanted to step away from it.

Vauxhall Gardens at twilight was a world of illusion and temptation. Lanterns strung between ancient trees glowed like captured stars, casting soft, colorful light across winding paths, hidden grottos, and secluded alcoves. The distant strains of an orchestra floated on the evening air, mingling with laughter and the occasional burst of fireworks that painted the sky in bursts of gold and crimson. It was the perfect stage for a performance. One where shadows could hide truths and proximity could blur every line.

You walked beside Sukuna along one of the less crowded paths, your arm linked with his. The deep emerald silk of your gown whispered against the gravel, the fabric chosen to catch the lantern light and make you impossible to overlook. A light shawl draped over your shoulders did little to ward off the evening chill, but the heat radiating from the Duke beside you more than compensated.

He looked every inch the formidable Duke of Avarice tonight. With a black evening coat tailored to perfection over broad shoulders, the blood-red ruby at his throat winking like a warning. His rose-pink hair caught hints of lantern glow, and the intricate black tattoos tracing his jaw and hands stood out starkly against his pale skin. Heads turned as you passed. Whispers followed like trailing smoke.

Sukuna’s hand rested possessively at the small of your back whenever the path narrowed, guiding you with effortless authority. Each touch lingered longer than the last. No longer purely for show. No longer easily explained away as performance.

“You are quiet again,” he observed, voice low and rough, meant only for your ears. The orchestra swelled in the distance, masking his words from any stray listeners. “Does the spectacle displease you?”

You glanced up at him. In the colored lantern light, his crimson eyes appeared darker, more intense. “It does not displease me. It simply… feels different tonight. The eyes on us are sharper. The rumors more insistent.”

A low hum escaped him. Almost amusement, but edged with something heavier. “Let them speculate. That was the bargain.”

Yet as you continued deeper into the gardens, the bargain felt increasingly fragile. The path led to a secluded alcove framed by climbing roses and thick hedges, where the lantern light dimmed to an intimate glow. Sukuna guided you inside without asking, his body shielding you from the main thoroughfare. The air here smelled of night-blooming flowers and damp earth, heady and private.

He stopped, turning to face you. The space between your bodies shrank until you could feel the warmth of his breath against your forehead. His hand rose slowly, fingers tracing the edge of your shawl before sliding it down your shoulders with deliberate care. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat in his gaze.

“You shiver,” he murmured, though his thumb now stroked slowly along your bare upper arm. “The night is not that cold.”

“It is not the night,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. Your heart hammered against your ribs. This close, you could see the faint texture of the tattoos along his jaw, the way his full lips parted slightly as he studied you. The performance had long since stopped feeling like acting. Every glance from him carried weight. Every touch felt claimed.

Sukuna’s other hand settled at your waist, drawing you closer until the skirts of your gown brushed his legs. There was no audience here. No need for pretense. Yet he did not pull away. Instead, his head dipped, lips hovering just above the shell of your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, the words a dark command wrapped in velvet. “And I will.”

Your hands rose of their own accord, resting lightly against the hard plane of his chest. Beneath the fine fabric, you felt the steady, powerful beat of his heart. “I do not want you to stop.”

The admission hung in the air, heavy and irrevocable.

His grip tightened, fingers flexing against your waist as though fighting for restraint. The air crackled with tension that had nothing to do with the distant fireworks or the orchestra. His mouth brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that your breath hitched. Then lower, along the line of your neck, the barest graze of lips and warm breath that sent sparks racing down your spine.

You tilted your head instinctively, granting him more access. A soft sound escaped you.

Sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, crimson eyes burning. His thumb traced your lower lip, the touch possessive, almost reverent. “This was not part of the arrangement,” he said, voice rougher now, strained. “Yet here we are.”

“No,” you whispered, fingers curling into his coat. “It was not.”

For one suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space between you. His body pressed closer, the hard lines of his chest and thighs evident even through layers of clothing. One of his hands slid up your back, pressing you flush against him, while the other cupped the nape of your neck. The almost-touch became something more. His lips hovering, breath mingling, the promise of a real kiss hanging like a blade.

Then footsteps.

Soft voices approached from the main path. A group of guests, laughing and chatting, drawing nearer to the alcove.

Sukuna released you instantly, stepping back with ruthless control. The loss of his heat left you cold and unsteady. He adjusted your shawl with steady hands, restoring propriety in seconds, though his eyes still smoldered with unspoken want.

“Compose yourself,” he murmured, though his own voice carried a faint rasp. “They cannot see.”

You nodded, drawing in a shaky breath as the group passed by without noticing the charged moment they had interrupted. Sukuna offered his arm once more, his expression once again the cool, detached mask of the Duke. But his fingers brushed yours as you took his arm. A deliberate, lingering contact that promised the tension had only been paused, not extinguished.

As you resumed walking, the distant fireworks exploded overhead in brilliant cascades. The ton continued its spectacle, unaware of how close the line between illusion and desire had come to vanishing entirely.

Yet you felt it in every step.

The way Sukuna’s gaze kept returning to you. No evidence of jealousy when other gentlemen nodded in passing with renewed interest. Something sharper. Something that made your skin prickle with awareness.

He watched you as though you already belonged to him.

And you, no longer certain where the performance ended and the truth began, did not step away.

Later, when he escorted you back to the carriage, the silence inside was thick, electric. Sukuna sat across from you, long legs stretched out, his crimson eyes never leaving your face in the dim light. His hand rested on the seat beside him, fingers drumming once before stilling.

“Tomorrow,” he said finally, voice low in the enclosed space, “there is a private musicale at the home of Lady Mei Mei. We will attend together. And afterward…”

He let the sentence trail, but the promise in his eyes was unmistakable.

You swallowed, pulse racing. “Afterward?”

Sukuna leaned forward slightly, the carriage lantern casting shadows across his tattooed features. “Afterward, we will find a moment alone. And this time, there will be no interruptions.”

The words sent a shiver through you. One of anticipation, not fear.

As the carriage rolled through the gaslit streets of London, the illusion of courtship had fully transformed. What had begun as mutual convenience now pulsed with raw, unspoken need. Touches that once served as performance now served as prelude.

And in the quiet dark, with Sukuna’s intense gaze fixed upon you, you realized the dangerous truth:

You no longer wanted the illusion.

You wanted him.

The musicale at Lady Mei Mei’s residence was meant to be an elegant, refined evening. With strings and voices rising in perfect harmony, champagne flowing in crystal flutes, and the cream of London society gathered to admire talent and display their own refinement. The drawing room had been transformed into a miniature concert hall, with rows of gilded chairs arranged before a small stage where a talented soprano performed a haunting aria from the latest Italian opera.

You sat beside Sukuna in the second row, your gloved hand resting lightly on his arm as propriety demanded. The deep sapphire blue of your gown shimmered under the candlelight, the neckline modest yet elegantly framing your collarbones. Sukuna, as always, commanded attention in black and burgundy, the blood-red ruby at his throat catching every flicker of light. His presence beside you felt heavier tonight, more intentional. The almost-kiss in Vauxhall Gardens still lingered between you like smoke. It was unspoken, unresolved, and now… impossible to ignore.

Throughout the performance, his thumb traced slow, absent circles on the back of your gloved hand. Each pass sent warmth blooming up your arm. No one could see the movement beneath the shadow of your skirts and his coat, yet the intimacy of it made your cheeks flush. When the soprano reached a particularly emotional crescendo, Sukuna leaned slightly closer, his breath brushing your ear.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, though his crimson eyes were fixed on you, not the singer. “But not nearly as captivating as the woman beside me.”

Your breath caught. The words were quiet, private, and far too bold for the setting. You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. The tattoos along his jaw seemed to sharpen in the low light, and for a moment the entire room faded.

The performance ended to enthusiastic applause. Guests rose, mingling as footmen circulated with trays of refreshments. Lady Mei Mei glided through the crowd in a gown of silver silk, her sharp smile never quite reaching her calculating eyes as she accepted compliments. Shoko Ieiri found you near the refreshment table, Megumi trailing behind her with his usual quiet vigilance.

“You two are becoming quite the spectacle,” Shoko said under her breath, sipping her champagne. “Even Mei Mei has been watching. Be careful. The walls here have ears, and tongues sharper than knives.”

Before you could respond, Sukuna’s hand settled at your elbow. “Come,” he said simply, voice low. “There is a quieter room where we may speak without half of London listening.”

It was reckless. You knew it the moment you allowed him to guide you away from the main drawing room, down a dimly lit corridor lined with portraits and closed doors. The distant music and conversation grew muffled as he opened a door to what appeared to be a small private library. Shelves lined with leather-bound volumes, a single window draped in heavy velvet, and a low fire burning in the grate for warmth.

The door clicked shut behind you.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The air thickened instantly, charged with everything that had been building since Vauxhall. Sukuna turned to you, his broad frame filling the space, crimson eyes dark with intent.

“No interruptions this time,” he said, the words a rough promise.

He closed the distance in two strides. One large hand cupped the back of your neck while the other pulled you flush against him by the waist. This time there was no hesitation. His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. Deep, demanding, and laced with the hunger he had kept tightly leashed until now. You gasped against his lips, hands fisting in the front of his coat as heat flooded your body.

Sukuna kissed like he did everything else: with complete control and devastating intensity. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, then delving inside with possessive strokes that left you dizzy. The taste of him where wine and something darker lingered, uniquely him had intoxicated you. His hand slid lower, gripping your hip and pressing you back against the edge of a heavy oak desk. Papers scattered unnoticed.

You arched into him, a soft moan escaping as his mouth trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse point, not enough to mark but enough to make your knees weaken. The tattoos on his hands flexed as his fingers dug into your waist, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

“Lady Ashbourne,” he growled against your skin, voice hoarse. “You have been driving me to distraction.”

Your fingers threaded through his rose-pink hair, tugging lightly. “Then stop restraining yourself, Sukuna.”

The use of his given name seemed to snap something in him. He lifted you effortlessly onto the desk, stepping between your parted knees as your skirts pooled around your thighs. His mouth returned to yours, hungrier now, while one hand boldly slid up your stockinged leg beneath the silk. The touch burned. Deliberate, exploratory, stopping just short of true impropriety but promising everything. Heat pooled low in your belly, your body responding with shameless need.

The kiss deepened, turning feverish. His hips pressed forward, letting you feel the hard evidence of his desire against your core through layers of fabric. A broken sound left your throat. Sukuna swallowed it, his free hand cupping your breast through your bodice, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak until you trembled.

Time lost meaning. The distant music from the musicale faded entirely. There was only the heat of his body, the roughness of his voice murmuring your name like a curse and a prayer, the way his touch mapped your curves as though committing every inch to memory.

Then, the unmistakable creak of a floorboard just outside the door.

Voices.

A servant’s hushed whisper followed by a gasp.

Sukuna pulled back instantly, eyes blazing. He helped you down from the desk with surprising care, smoothing your skirts and adjusting your shawl while you frantically fixed your hair. Your lips felt swollen, your skin flushed. One look at him with hair slightly mussed, mouth reddened already told you the damage was done.

He opened the door with calm authority, but it was too late.

A young maid stood frozen in the corridor, eyes wide, a tray of empty glasses in her hands. Behind her, Lady Mei Mei herself had just rounded the corner, her sharp gaze taking in the scene with cold calculation.

The silence stretched, heavy and damning.

By the next morning, the scandal had exploded across London.

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers carried the headline in bold, merciless print:

“The Duke of Avarice and Lady Ashbourne: A Compromised Rose in the Library?”

The column detailed enough to ruin reputations: a closed door for far too long, disheveled appearances upon emerging, the maid’s testimony whispered to anyone who would listen. Your name, once rising in quiet interest, was now synonymous with ruin. Mothers who had begun to consider you a possible match for their sons now steered them firmly away. Invitations dried up overnight. Even some of your family’s closer acquaintances sent regretful notes.

Your mother wept quietly in the drawing room. Megumi watched you with solemn eyes, saying little but staying close. Shoko arrived early, her face pale but determined. “This is bad, but not insurmountable. If Sukuna does the honorable thing…”

But Sukuna had gone quiet.

He had sent a single, brief note the morning after:

We must speak. This afternoon. My carriage will call for you. Nothing more.

No reassurance. No declaration.

When his carriage arrived, you stepped inside to find him already seated, expression unreadable. The ride to his imposing townhouse was silent, the air thick with tension. Once inside the grand, coldly elegant drawing room. With dark woods, heavy drapes, and a massive fireplace that did little to warm the space, he finally spoke.

His voice was controlled, but beneath it lay something conflicted, almost strained.

“The rumor will not die on its own,” he said, standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back. “Your reputation is in tatters. Mine… survives, as these things always do for men of my station. But yours will not.”

You lifted your chin, though your heart ached. “Then what do you propose, Your Grace?”

He turned to face you fully. The Duke of Avarice looked every bit the powerful, untouchable man society feared. Yet for the first time, conflict flickered in those crimson eyes. Not distance. Something worse.

He crossed the room and stopped before you. One hand rose, fingers brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness.

“Marriage,” he said bluntly. “It is the only way to salvage what remains.”

The word hung between you, inevitable and heavy. But his next words were not romantic. They were brutally honest.

“I will not promise you love, Lady Ashbourne. I will not promise heirs or the soft domestic life society expects. I will not become a tame husband who bends to expectation. If you accept this, it will be a union on my terms. Cold where it must be, honest where it can. You will be Duchess of Avarice, protected and provided for. But you will not have my heart laid bare, nor the fairy tale they sell to debutantes.”

His thumb traced your lower lip, eyes darkening with memory of the library. “It is not a romantic offer. It is a warning.”

Yet even as he spoke the harsh truth, his touch lingered. His body leaned closer, as though some part of him fought against the very distance he was imposing.

You searched his face. The sharp tattoos, the controlled set of his jaw, the storm in his crimson eyes. The man who had kissed you with such raw hunger in that library was the same man now offering marriage without softness.

And still… you could not walk away.

Because beneath the warning, beneath the conflict, you had already seen glimpses of the man beneath the reputation. And you wanted more than half of him.

Even if accepting meant stepping fully into the fire.

The heavy silence in the Duke of Avarice’s drawing room pressed down like London fog. The fire crackled in the massive hearth, casting long shadows across the dark wood paneling and the towering bookshelves lined with ancient tomes no one seemed to touch. You stood near the center of the room, hands clasped tightly in front of you, while Sukuna remained by the tall window, his broad back to the gray afternoon light filtering through heavy velvet drapes.

He had spoken the word, marriage, with the same blunt finality he used for everything else. Now he waited, crimson eyes fixed on you with that unnerving intensity, the black tattoos along his jaw stark against his skin.

You drew in a slow breath, forcing your voice to remain steady. “You speak as though this is a business merger rather than a lifelong union, Your Grace.”

Sukuna turned fully toward you, the ruby at his throat catching the firelight like fresh blood. “Because it is closer to the former than the latter. I will not lie to you, Lady Ashbourne. Not now. Not ever.” He crossed the room in measured steps, stopping only when he stood close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his powerful frame. “I will give you my name. My protection. My wealth. The title of Duchess will shield you from the whispers that have already begun to tear your reputation to shreds. You will want for nothing material.”

His hand rose, fingers brushing a loose curl from your temple with surprising gentleness. The same hand that had gripped your waist so possessively in the library the night before. The memory sent heat flooding through you despite the gravity of the moment.

“But I will not promise love,” he continued, voice low and rough. “I will not promise tender words whispered in the dark or the kind of devotion the poets sell. I will not fill my nursery with heirs simply because society demands it. Legacy, expectation, the endless cycle of producing the next Duke of Avarice… those chains end with me if I choose. And I have chosen control over my life above all else.”

You searched his face, heart pounding. The man before you was not cruel. He was brutally, unflinchingly honest. In the library he had kissed you like a man starved, his body hard and urgent against yours, yet here he stood offering marriage as a warning rather than a declaration.

“If I accept,” you said quietly, “what exactly will our life look like?”

Sukuna’s crimson eyes darkened. He stepped even closer, one large hand settling at your waist as though unable to resist the pull any longer. “It will be honest. Intimate in ways society will never understand. You will share my bed when desire demands it. And it will demand it, make no mistake.” His thumb stroked slowly over your hip through the silk of your gown, a deliberate echo of the heated touches from the night before. “You will have freedom within reason. I will not cage you, nor will I parade you as some trophy. But you will not have softness. You will not have a husband who bends. I am not built for it.”

His other hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up so you could not look away. The air between you thickened, heavy with the memory of scattered papers, desperate kisses, and the hard press of his body between your thighs.

“I will ruin you properly this time,” he murmured, voice dropping to that dangerous rasp. “Not in a hasty library, but slowly. Thoroughly. Until you forget every rule they taught you about what a duchess should be. But do not mistake passion for love, Lady Ashbourne. Passion burns hot and leaves ash. Love… love demands change. Softness. Vulnerability I have spent years carving out of myself.”

You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath fine linen and muscle. “And if I want more than ash?”

Sukuna’s grip tightened, pulling you flush against him. His head dipped, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “Then you will have to fight for it. Because I will not hand it over easily. Accept this marriage and you accept a man who refuses to be tamed. Refuses to become what they expect. The cold estate in the country. The endless social obligations. The pretty lies.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his mouth hovering dangerously close to yours. “It is not a romantic offer. It is a warning. Walk away now and I will find another way to silence the scandal. Perhaps a generous settlement, a quiet exile to the continent for a time. But if you stay… you stay with me. All of me. The parts that desire you. The parts that will possess you. And the parts I keep locked away.”

The choice hung between you, sharp and undeniable.

Your mother’s tear-streaked face flashed in your mind. The cruel headlines in Whistledown. The way doors had already begun closing. But beneath all of that was the truth that had been growing since the first waltz: you did not want half of Ryomen Sukuna. You wanted the controlled fire, the deliberate touches, the man who looked at you like you were both salvation and ruin.

You rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his. Soft at first, then deepening when his arms banded around you like iron. Sukuna groaned low in his throat, kissing you back with the same hungry intensity from the library. His hands roamed possessively, one sliding up to tangle in your hair, the other gripping your backside and lifting you slightly so your bodies aligned perfectly. Heat surged between you, urgent and undeniable. You felt him harden against your belly, a reminder that whatever else he withheld, his desire for you was raw and real.

When he finally pulled back, both of you breathing raggedly, his forehead rested against yours.

“Say it,” he commanded, voice hoarse.

You met his crimson gaze without flinching. “I accept, Sukuna. I will marry you. On your terms… for now.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Relief, perhaps, or the first crack in his iron control. He kissed you once more, slower this time, sealing the bargain with a touch that promised both pleasure and peril.

The wedding was arranged with ruthless efficiency. A special license was procured within days. The ceremony itself was small and private, held in the ornate chapel of his London townhouse. Shoko stood as your witness, her expression a careful mix of concern and quiet support. Megumi watched solemnly from the front pew beside your mother, who dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

Sukuna looked devastating in formal black, the tattoos on his hands and jaw stark against the crisp white of his shirt. When the vows were spoken, his voice was steady and deep, binding you to him with the same deliberate intensity he brought to every action.

“You are mine now, Duchess,” he murmured against your ear as the simple gold band etched with a subtle pattern that matched the lines of his tattoos slid onto your finger. His hand squeezed yours possessively. “In name. In body. In every way that matters.”

By early evening you were installed in his imposing townhouse, now your home. The rooms were grand but cold with high ceilings, dark woods, and heavy drapes that blocked out much of the light.

That night, after the last well-wisher had departed and the house settled into quiet, Sukuna came to you in the ducal chambers.

You stood by the large four-poster bed in a delicate white nightgown edged with lace, heart racing as he entered wearing only a black silk robe that hung open at the chest, revealing the hard planes of muscle and the edges of more tattoos that disappeared beneath the fabric. The fire in the hearth painted his skin in warm gold and deep shadow.

He crossed the room slowly, crimson eyes devouring every inch of you. “No more performances,” he said, voice rough with promise. “No more almosts.”

Sukuna reached you, large hands sliding over your shoulders to push the nightgown down your arms. It whispered to the floor, leaving you completely bare to his gaze. His breath hitched before he lifted you onto the bed with effortless strength, laying you back against the cool sheets.

He shed his robe fully, revealing the powerful, tattooed body beneath: broad shoulders, defined chest and abdomen marked with intricate black patterns that continued down his hips and thighs, and the thick, heavy length of his cock already hard and curving upward. The sight made your mouth go dry and heat pool low in your belly.

Sukuna climbed over you, caging you with his arms. His mouth claimed yours in a deep, devouring kiss, tongue stroking against yours with possessive hunger. He trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point before moving lower. His lips closed around one nipple, sucking hard while his tongue flicked over the sensitive peak. You arched with a gasp, fingers threading into his rose-pink hair. His free hand kneaded your other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple until both peaks were tight and aching.

Lower still, he kissed a path down your stomach, hands spreading your thighs wide. He settled between them, broad shoulders holding you open. Crimson eyes flicked up to meet yours for a heartbeat before his mouth descended.

His tongue dragged slowly through your folds, tasting you with deliberate thoroughness. A low groan vibrated against your core when he found your clit, circling it with firm strokes before sucking it between his lips. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling expertly against that sensitive spot while his mouth worked you relentlessly. Pleasure built fast and sharp. Your hips bucked, but he pinned you down with one strong arm across your pelvis, forcing you to take every sensation.

“Sukuna—” you moaned, thighs trembling.

He didn’t stop. He devoured you like a man starved, fingers thrusting deep and steady, tongue flicking faster until the coil inside you snapped. You came hard, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your walls clenching around his fingers.

Only when the aftershocks faded did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He positioned himself between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance, slick with your release.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, voice hoarse.

He pushed in slowly at first, stretching you inch by thick inch. The burn was exquisite. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you completely, bottoming out with a deep groan. He held still for a moment, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were powerful and controlled, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingled with your moans and his low, guttural grunts. He hooked one of your legs over his hip, changing the angle so he hit that perfect spot with every thrust. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.

“Mine,” he growled against your lips, hips snapping harder. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, legs wrapping tighter around him. “Sukuna— yours— ah—”

He drove into you faster, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you. Sweat slicked your skin. His mouth claimed yours again in a messy, desperate kiss as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. You came a second time, walls fluttering around his cock, pulling a broken groan from his throat.

Sukuna followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt with one final, powerful thrust. He spilled deep inside you, hot and thick, his body shuddering against yours as he growled your name like a curse.

For several long moments, the only sounds were your ragged breathing. Sukuna did not pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside you, holding you close with one arm banded possessively around your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on your damp skin.

But even in the afterglow, the distance lingered. He offered no soft words of love. No whispered endearments. His touch remained attentive, his body warm and solid. But his heart stayed guarded, locked behind walls he had built long ago.

You lay there in the circle of his arms, sated and aching in the best way, skin still tingling from his possession, and realized the truth.

Marriage had not softened the edges between you.

It had sharpened them.

The real battle had only just begun.

The first weeks of marriage settled over the ducal townhouse like a heavy velvet cloak.

You were now Her Grace, the Duchess of Avarice. The title carried weight, and the ton felt it. Whispers still lingered in drawing rooms and behind fans, but they had shifted from scandal to speculation. Some called it a brilliant match. Others predicted it would end in quiet misery. Lady Whistledown had written a single, arch column on the wedding: “The Rose and the Beast have wed in haste. One wonders whether the thorns will draw blood before the season is out.”

You learned quickly that being Sukuna’s wife meant living in two worlds at once.

By day, the house ran with ruthless efficiency. Servants moved like shadows, anticipating needs before they were spoken. Your new wardrobe arrived in trunks of silk, velvet, and jewels that could rival any duchess in London. Invitations trickled back in that were cautious at first, then grew bolder as hostesses realized the Duke’s wife could not be entirely shunned without risking his displeasure.

By night, however, the distance between you and your husband sharpened into something almost tangible.

Sukuna was never cruel. He was simply… contained.

He joined you for dinner most evenings, seated at the opposite end of the long mahogany table. Conversation flowed easily enough. Politics, the latest gossip Shoko brought during her visits, observations about the ton. He listened when you spoke, offered dry, cutting remarks that made you laugh despite yourself, and watched you with those crimson eyes that never seemed to soften.

But he rarely volunteered pieces of himself.

After dinner, he would retire to his study or the library, leaving you to your own devices unless desire pulled him to your shared chambers. And when it did, the passion was as intense and consuming as your wedding night.

He took you with the same deliberate control he applied to everything else. Hands pinning your wrists, mouth mapping every inch of skin, hips driving deep and steady until you shattered beneath him, crying out his name. Sometimes he was slower, almost teasing, drawing out your pleasure until you begged. Other times he was rougher, fucking you against the wall or bent over the desk in his study, growling low praises that made your toes curl.

Yet afterward, he would hold you. His arm heavy across your waist, breath warm against your neck. But the words never came. No soft confessions. No promises whispered in the dark. Just the steady beat of his heart and the quiet reminder that he had warned you exactly what this marriage would be.

One evening, after a particularly intense encounter where he had brought you to release twice before finding his own, you lay curled against his chest, fingers tracing the black tattoos that curved over his shoulder and down his arm.

“Sukuna,” you murmured into the quiet, “do you ever wonder what it would be like if we stopped fighting the current?”

His fingers paused where they had been stroking lazy circles on your bare hip. “Fighting what current?”

You lifted your head to look at him. Firelight danced across his sharp features, highlighting the tattoos along his jaw. “This. Us. The walls you keep so carefully in place. The way you touch me like I belong to you, yet refuse to let me see beyond the surface.”

For a long moment he was silent. Then he rolled you beneath him in one smooth motion, caging you with his arms. His body was still warm and heavy from exertion, his cock half-hard against your thigh.

“I touch you like you belong to me because you do,” he said, voice low and rough. He leaned down, brushing his lips along your collarbone. “I claimed you in front of God and half of London. That is not enough?”

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the inked lines on his cheeks. “It is more than I expected. But it is not everything I want.”

His crimson eyes darkened. He kissed you then. His lips were deep, possessive, and almost punishing in its intensity. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you still slick from earlier. He stroked you slowly, deliberately, until you were gasping and arching into his touch.

“You want softness,” he murmured against your mouth, slipping two fingers inside you and curling them just right. “You want me to bare my soul and promise you the fairy tale. I warned you I cannot give that.”

You moaned as his thumb circled your clit, pleasure building again despite the ache in your muscles. “I want you, Sukuna. Not the version you show the ton. Not the controlled Duke who keeps everyone at arm’s length. The man who kissed me in the library like he was drowning. The man who looks at me like he wants to devour me whole.”

He thrust his fingers deeper, faster, watching your face with hooded eyes as you trembled beneath him. “And if that man is not gentle? If he is selfish and possessive and refuses to change?”

“Then I will take him anyway,” you gasped, hips rocking against his hand. “All of him. Even the parts he hides.”

Sukuna’s control frayed. He withdrew his fingers, replaced them with the thick length of his cock, and drove into you in one powerful stroke. You cried out, nails digging into his back as he set a relentless pace. Deep, hard thrusts that shook the bed. His mouth claimed yours, swallowing every moan while his hips snapped forward.

He fucked you like a man trying to prove a point and lose himself at the same time. One hand pinned your wrist above your head. The other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could sink even deeper. Pleasure coiled tight and sharp inside you.

“Come for me,” he growled against your ear. “Let me feel you fall apart while I’m buried inside you.”

You shattered with a broken cry, walls clenching around him. Sukuna followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot and deep onto your stomach with a low, guttural groan.

Afterward, he collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest once more. His breathing was still ragged, but his voice, when it came, was quieter than usual.

“You ask for more than I know how to give,” he said into the darkness. “But I am not blind, Duchess. I see what this is doing to you. The way you watch me when you think I am not looking.”

You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, over one of the larger tattoos. “Then stop hiding.”

He did not answer. But his arm tightened around you, and for the first time, the silence that followed felt less like distance and more like hesitation.

The days continued in that strange rhythm with public poise and private fire. You attended a handful of events together, Sukuna’s hand always at your waist, his presence a shield and a statement. Toji Fushiguro offered crude congratulations with a smirk. Choso Kamo observed the pair of you with quiet curiosity. Shoko visited often, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

“You look well,” she told you one afternoon over tea, “but tired. Is he… kind to you?”

You smiled, thinking of the way Sukuna had woken you that morning with his mouth between your thighs until you sobbed his name. “He is many things. Kind is not the word I would use. But he is honest. And he wants me.”

Shoko raised a brow. “Wanting is not the same as loving.”

“No,” you agreed softly. “But it is a beginning.”

Yet as the weeks passed, the cracks in Sukuna’s armor became more visible if only to you.

He began lingering in bed longer after lovemaking, fingers tracing patterns on your skin as though memorizing you. He sought you out during the day more often, pulling you into his study for “conversation” that inevitably ended with you bent over his desk or straddling his lap. Once, after a particularly tiresome dinner with several lords, he dragged you into an empty corridor and took you against the wall with frantic urgency, muffling your cries with his hand over your mouth.

The passion never dimmed.

But the distance… the distance was slowly, stubbornly beginning to fray.

One rainy evening, you found him in the library, staring into the fire with a glass of brandy in hand. You approached quietly and slid onto his lap without asking. He stiffened for a moment, then his arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer.

“You are persistent,” he muttered, but there was no real irritation in his voice.

You rested your head against his shoulder. “You warned me you would not change easily. I am simply refusing to accept half of you.”

Sukuna was silent for a long time. His free hand stroked down your back, then slipped beneath your dressing gown to rest warm and possessive on your bare thigh.

“Careful, Duchess,” he said at last, voice low. “If you keep pushing, one day I may stop pushing back.”

You smiled against his neck. “That is exactly what I am hoping for.”

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, the fire burned lower, and for the first time since the wedding, the silence between you felt less like a wall and more like the quiet before something inevitable gave way.

Marriage had not resolved anything.

But it had brought you closer to the fire.

And you were no longer afraid of getting burned.

The weeks following your wedding blurred into months, each one layering new complexities onto the already intricate dance of your marriage. The ducal townhouse, once imposing and cold with its high ceilings and heavy velvet drapes, slowly began to feel like a living space rather than a fortress. Servants moved with their usual quiet efficiency, but now they offered you small, respectful smiles when they passed. The gardens you had begun tending showed the first hints of autumn color. The crimson and gold leaves mirroring the tattoos that marked your husband’s skin.

You had learned the rhythm of being the Duchess of Avarice intimately: public poise during the occasional society event, where Sukuna’s hand rested possessively at the small of your back and his presence alone silenced whispers; private fire that consumed you both behind closed doors. He still offered no flowery declarations of love. He still guarded the deepest parts of himself with the same iron control that had defined him since long before you entered his life. But the walls were cracking.

He no longer left your bed the moment pleasure faded. Instead, he lingered, his large, tattooed body curled around yours, one arm banded heavily across your waist as though afraid you might slip away in the night. He began seeking you out during the day more often. By pulling you into his study under the pretense of discussing estate ledgers, only to end up with you bent over the desk or straddling his lap while he took you with deep, deliberate strokes. Once, after a tedious dinner with several lords, he had dragged you into a dimly lit corridor and fucked you against the wall with frantic urgency, his hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries as he spilled deep inside you.

The passion between you never dimmed. If anything, it burned hotter, more insistent.

Yet the emotional distance remained a sharp edge, one that pricked at you even in the afterglow.

One stormy autumn evening, the rain lashed violently against the tall windows of the master chambers. Thunder rolled in the distance like distant cannon fire. The fire in the massive hearth roared high, casting flickering gold and shadow across the room and the large four-poster bed. You stood before the ornate mirror in nothing but a thin silk robe the color of deep wine, slowly brushing out your hair after your evening bath. The strokes were methodical, almost meditative, but your mind wandered to the man who now shared your life, and your body, so completely, yet still withheld so much.

The door opened behind you. Sukuna stepped inside, rain-damp rose-pink hair clinging to his forehead. He had already discarded his coat and waistcoat somewhere downstairs; his white shirt hung open at the collar, revealing the intricate black tattoos that swirled across his broad chest and disappeared beneath the fabric. Water droplets traced paths down the hard planes of muscle. His crimson eyes found yours in the mirror and darkened with immediate, unmistakable hunger.

He said nothing at first. He simply crossed the room with that predatory grace that always made your pulse quicken. Large hands settled on your shoulders from behind, sliding the silk robe down your arms with deliberate slowness. It whispered to the floor, leaving you completely bare to his gaze. His palms skimmed down your sides, warm and possessive, before wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling your back flush against his chest.

“You have been quiet today, Duchess,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was already rough with want, the low timbre sending a shiver racing down your spine. “Thinking too much again?”

You leaned back into him, feeling the solid heat of his body and the growing press of his hardening cock against the curve of your backside through his trousers. “I was thinking about what you said the night we married,” you replied softly, your breath catching as one of his hands drifted upward to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the already tightening nipple. “That you would not promise heirs. That you would not be bound by legacy or expectation.”

His hand stilled for the briefest fraction of a second. Then the other slid lower, bold and unhesitating, cupping your mound before two thick fingers parted your folds. He found you already slick with anticipation and began slow, teasing circles over your swollen clit.

“And?” he asked, voice dropping even lower, dangerous. His fingers moved with practiced precision, coaxing pleasure from you with every stroke.

You gasped softly, hips rocking instinctively into his touch. “And I realized I do not need your promise,” you managed, voice trembling. “I only need you. All of you. Including the parts you fear giving. The legacy. The vulnerability. The possibility of something more permanent than passion.”

Sukuna growled low in his throat. A sound that vibrated through his chest and into your back. He spun you around in his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the floor as though you weighed nothing. In three strides he had you on the bed, laying you down on your back against the cool sheets. He stripped off his remaining clothes with impatient, economical movements, revealing the powerful, tattooed body beneath: broad shoulders, defined abdomen marked with swirling black ink, powerful thighs, and his thick, heavy cock standing proud and hard against his stomach, the tip already glistening with arousal.

He climbed over you, caging you completely with his arms. Instead of entering you immediately, he kissed his way down your body with deliberate, devouring hunger. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard while his tongue flicked over the sensitive peak. His free hand kneaded your other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple until both were tight and aching, sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core.

Lower still, he moved with predatory focus. He pushed your thighs wide apart, settling his broad shoulders between them. Crimson eyes flicked up to meet yours for a heartbeat. Dark, hungry, and carrying a rare flicker of something deeper, before his mouth descended.

His tongue dragged slowly through your folds, tasting you thoroughly. A low, appreciative groan vibrated against your core when he reached your clit, circling it with firm, relentless strokes before sucking it between his lips. Two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling expertly against that sensitive spot deep within while his mouth worked you mercilessly. Pleasure built fast and sharp, coiling tight in your belly. Your hips bucked, but he pinned you down with one strong forearm across your pelvis, forcing you to take every sensation he gave.

“Sukuna—!” you moaned, fingers threading desperately into his damp rose-pink hair, tugging as the pleasure mounted.

He didn’t relent. He devoured you like a man starved for your taste, fingers thrusting deep and steady, tongue flicking faster and harder until the coil inside you snapped violently. You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling around his head as waves of intense pleasure crashed through you. Sukuna continued licking you through every aftershock, gentling his tongue only when you became oversensitive and whimpering.

When he finally rose, his chin glistened with your release. His crimson eyes burned with raw, unguarded need. He positioned the thick head of his cock at your entrance, rubbing it slowly through your slick folds, teasing your still-fluttering entrance.

“You want everything?” he rasped, voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Even the parts that could bind me to you forever? Even a child that would make this marriage irrevocable in every possible way?”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs stroking tenderly over the sharp black tattoos along his jaw. “Yes,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “Even those. Especially those. I want all of you, Sukuna. No more walls. No more half-measures.”

With a guttural, almost pained sound, Sukuna pushed inside you in one slow, powerful thrust. You both groaned loudly as he bottomed out, stretching you perfectly, filling you to the brink. He held still for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged as he savored the tight heat of your body around him.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were deep, deliberate, and devastatingly controlled at first. Each stroke dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you, pulling moans and gasps from your throat. He hooked one of your legs over his hip, changing the angle so he could sink even deeper, the head of his cock brushing that perfect spot with every thrust. The wet, obscene sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with your increasing moans and his low, possessive growls.

“Take me,” he commanded hoarsely, hips snapping harder, faster. Sweat slicked both your bodies. “Take every drop. Let me give you what you asked for.”

One hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it in tight, relentless strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. Pleasure built again, sharper and more intense than before, coiling low and tight in your belly. Sukuna’s pace began to falter. His legendary control fraying at the edges as he fucked you with raw urgency, hips pistoning powerfully.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice breaking slightly.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his crimson gaze through the haze of overwhelming pleasure. “Sukuna… please— I’m so close—”

He slammed into you harder, thumb pressing firmer against your clit. “Come for me, Duchess. Let me feel you milk my cock while I fill you. While I give you my child.”

The words, combined with the relentless stimulation, sent you hurtling over the edge. You shattered with a loud, broken cry, walls clenching rhythmically and fiercely around his thick length. Sukuna followed you over the brink almost instantly, burying himself to the hilt with one final, powerful thrust. His body shuddered violently as he came, hot, thick pulses of his release flooding deep inside you again and again, filling you so completely that you could feel the warmth spreading.

He stayed buried inside you long after the last spasm, breathing hard against the curve of your neck, arms wrapped tightly around you as though anchoring himself. The rain continued to lash the windows outside, but inside the chamber there was only the sound of your mingled breathing and the crackle of the fire.

For several long, quiet minutes, neither of you moved. Sukuna finally lifted his head, his crimson eyes searching yours with a vulnerability he had rarely allowed himself to show.

“I did not want this,” he admitted quietly, voice still rough from exertion. “The vulnerability. The possibility of legacy. The fear that loving you would force me to become someone softer, someone weaker than the man I swore I would always be.”

He brushed damp strands of hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone.

“But you refused to accept only half of me. You pushed. You demanded. And somewhere in these months of fire and silence, I stopped wanting to deny you the rest.”

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of the admission coming from a man who had built his entire reputation on control and isolation.

Sukuna leaned down and pressed a slow, deep kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead. “I will not change overnight, Duchess. I am still the Duke of Avarice. Still selfish in many ways. Still difficult and possessive. But I choose you. Not because scandal forced my hand years ago. Not because duty or society demands it. But because, for the first time in my life, I want to stay. With you. All of me, whatever that eventually becomes.”

You pulled him down into another kiss, tasting salt and truth on his lips. In the quiet afterglow, with his release still warm and deep inside you and his powerful body curled protectively around yours, something fundamental had shifted.

It was not a fairytale ending.

Sukuna would never transform into a gentle, doting husband who wrote sonnets or danced at every ball with effortless charm. He would remain sharp-tongued, fiercely independent, and unapologetically dominant. You would continue to challenge him, to push against his walls, and to demand the parts he still tried to keep hidden.

But in the quiet, stolen moments. When no eyes from the ton watched and no roles remained to play, he chose to stay.

He chose you.

And several months later, when your courses failed to arrive and a discreet visit from the physician confirmed the unmistakable signs of early pregnancy, Sukuna’s reaction was not fear or cold calculation.

He found you in the private garden one crisp morning, kneeling among the late-blooming roses. Without a word, he dropped to one knee beside you, his large, tattooed hand coming to rest gently and almost reverently over your still-flat stomach.

“A child,” he murmured, voice low and thick with an emotion he no longer tried to fully conceal. His crimson eyes held a new softness when they met yours. “Our child.”

He pulled you into his arms right there among the flowers, kissing you deeply, possessively, and with a tenderness he was only beginning to learn how to give. His hand never left your stomach, as though already protecting what you had both created in the fire of that stormy night.

It was not perfect.

It was not easy.

But it was real. Raw, complicated, and undeniably theirs.

And in the end, for the Duke of Avarice and his sharp-tongued Duchess, that was more than enough.

And worst of all, he hated how you seemed unaffected by it, like he was some frat boy you let fuck you every now and then.

It all made him restless.

Why were you so tempting... was it because of the way you dressed? All cute like you were a present wrapped up just for him to tear into, or was it the fact that you hated his guts...

It was driving him crazy, the boxing ring wasnt enough anymore, no matter how many opponents laid unconscious after a couple hits from sukuna, no matter how many victories, no matter how many drinks he had, he always seemed to end up at your doorstep in the middle of the night, not bothering to speak as his hands found purchase on your hips, salvation on your lips, cutting off whatever sparky comment you had ready, pushing you inside your dorm as he kicked the door shut behind him, lifting you up and carrying you towards the bedroom, loving the way you clung to him, hands wandering his skin, as if you were trying to tangle yourself beneath his black tattoos.

He may hate how he'll feel in the morning, full of regret and hating himself for letting himself cave yet again, but now? Right now, all he can think about is how beautiful you sound, heavy breaths mingling together where your lips connect again and again, or how your still stuck on him like if you let go he'd disappear.

He didnt let your clinging stop him as he plopped you down onto the bed, climbing ontop of you as he quickly discarded his clothes onto your floor.

Red piercing eyes slowly raking over your form in a twisted form of reverence, taking his time sliding your pajamas off your body, relishing how your smooth skin felt beneath his rough, calloused hands, before diving in like a man starved, like your warmth was an oxygen he had been deprived of.

Like you were salvation.

And that made it hurt all the more when you wake up in the morning to an empty bed, the same old text lighting up your screen that this would be "the last time, for real", even if you both knew it was an obvious lie that he'd told you a million times over.

The Heian era was a time of blood and gold.

Sorcerers carved their names into history with blades and curses, while lords and emperors hid behind paper screens and whispered prayers. In the shadow of those fragile thrones walked Ryomen Sukuna. With four arms, four eyes, tattoos like black flames across his skin, and a second mouth that laughed at every scream it tasted.

They called him the King of Curses. Calamity.

Everything except what he truly was to you.

Yours.

You were no trembling village girl offered as tribute. Your name already carried weight among the clans. Starfire chains, your inherited technique, could bind even the strongest cursed spirits, wrapping them in burning light until they shattered like glass. Clans had tried to marry you off for alliances. You had burned every proposal scroll in front of their envoys.

Then came the day the great Ryomen Sukuna arrived at the borders of your clan’s territory, not to conquer, but to see the sorcerer who had single-handedly sealed a special-grade curse that had been terrorizing three provinces.

You met him in the open courtyard under a blood-red sunset.

He towered over every warrior present. Two arms crossed over his broad chest, the other two resting lazily on the hilts of his cleavers. His lower eyes watched the trembling guards while the upper pair fixed solely on you. The mouth on his abdomen grinned with too many teeth.

You walked forward without hesitation, bare feet silent on the stone, your crimson robes whispering against the ground. Your hair was long then, falling to your waist in loose waves, adorned with a simple gold circlet that caught the dying light.

Sukuna’s voice rolled like distant thunder. “So this is the little star who thinks she can chain what I would devour.”

You stopped only a few paces away and looked up at all four eyes, all that raw power without flinching.

“I don’t think,” you answered, voice clear and steady. “I do. And I choose who I stand beside.”

A low chuckle escaped both mouths. The guards around you shifted, hands tightening on weapons they knew would be useless.

Sukuna leaned down slightly, one massive hand reaching out. Clawed fingers stopped just short of your chin, as if testing whether you would retreat.

You didn’t.

Instead, you stepped into his reach and tilted your head so his fingertips brushed your jaw.

“I choose you, Ryomen Sukuna,” you said softly, but loud enough for every witness to hear. “Not because the world fears you. Because I don’t. Because something in you looks… bored. And I want to see what happens when you’re not.”

Silence fell across the courtyard like a blade.

Then Sukuna laughed. A full, rolling sound that vibrated through the air and made several lesser sorcerers drop to their knees. He straightened, but his hand did not leave your face. Instead, his thumb traced your lower lip with surprising care.

“Bold,” he murmured. “Foolish. Intriguing.” His lower eyes narrowed with dark amusement. “Very well, little star. Come with me. We’ll see how long that fire lasts before it burns out.”

You smiled. “It won’t.”

That night you left your clan’s compound without looking back. No forced marriage, no chains, no fear. You walked beside him willingly, your hand resting lightly on one of his lower arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The first time he took you to his domain. A ruined temple he had claimed as his own, the air tasted of incense and old blood. He watched you explore the halls with four unblinking eyes.

You stopped in front of the great throne of carved bone and gold, then turned to face him.

“Everyone says you destroy everything you touch,” you said quietly.

Sukuna’s grin was sharp. “They’re usually right.”

You crossed the distance between you, robes sliding from your shoulders until they pooled at your feet. Naked, unafraid, you looked up at the King of Curses and traced the black markings that ran across his chest with gentle fingers.

“Then touch me,” you whispered. “And let’s see what happens.”

Four hands descended on you at once.

Two pinned your wrists above your head against the cold stone wall. One gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. The last cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head so he could claim your mouth in a kiss that tasted of smoke and iron and something dangerously close to hunger.

He was not gentle. Sukuna had never needed to be.

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you against the wall. The mouth on his stomach opened, teeth grazing your collarbone while his main mouth bit down on your shoulder, drawing a sharp gasp from you.

“You’re smaller than you look when you’re burning things,” he growled against your skin, voice rough with want. One of his hands slid between your thighs, fingers teasing until you were trembling. “But you feel just as fierce.”

When he finally pushed inside you—thick, hot, unrelenting—you moaned his name like a challenge. He fucked you against the wall with deep, powerful strokes, four arms holding you exactly where he wanted you, the second mouth licking and sucking at your breasts until you cried out.

You came hard, nails raking down his back, starfire flickering at your fingertips and leaving faint glowing marks on his skin that healed almost instantly.

Sukuna followed with a low groan that vibrated through both his mouths, spilling deep inside you as if marking territory no one else would ever claim.

Afterward, he did not let you go.

He carried you to the furs piled near his throne and laid you down, surprisingly careful. Two arms wrapped around you, the other two resting possessively over your waist and thigh. For the first time anyone had ever seen, the King of Curses looked… at ease.

You traced the tattoos on his chest with lazy fingers.

“I told you,” you murmured sleepily. “My fire doesn’t burn out.”

Sukuna’s lower eyes closed. The upper pair watched you with something dangerously close to fondness.

“We’ll see, little queen,” he rumbled. “We’ll see.”

Outside the temple, the world already whispered in fear.

The monster had taken a bride.

And she had chosen him back.

The months that followed your choice blurred into a rhythm of violence and intimacy that no one else in the Heian world could have understood.

You rode beside Sukuna on campaigns that turned rivers red. While lesser sorcerers hid behind barriers and chanted protective sutras, you stood at his right hand on the battlefield. Your starfire chains lashed out alongside his cleavers, binding groups of enemies so he could carve through them with leisurely precision. He never ordered you to stay back. He never treated you like fragile porcelain.

Instead, he watched you fight with open amusement and something darker—pride.

One particular skirmish against a coalition of rival clans remains burned into your memory.

The valley was narrow, hemmed in by steep cliffs. Three hundred warriors and sorcerers had gathered under a false banner of “righteous purification,” thinking numbers and a hastily constructed anti-domain barrier would be enough. Sukuna had laughed when the scouts reported it.

Now the air reeked of smoke and opened bodies.

Sukuna stood at the center of the carnage in his full glory. Four arms moving like separate instruments of death. Two cleavers sang through armor and bone. One hand summoned slashes of cursed energy that bisected men mid-scream. The fourth hand occasionally flicked away arrows as if they were annoying insects.

You fought at his flank, crimson robes stained darker with blood that was not yours. Your chains of starfire whipped through the air, glowing white-hot. They wrapped around a cluster of archers, tightening until their bows snapped and their screams cut short as the flames consumed them from the inside.

A spearman broke through the chaos and lunged at your unprotected side.

Before you could react, one of Sukuna’s lower arms shot out, massive hand closing around the man’s head like a vice. With casual strength he crushed the skull and tossed the body aside.

“Careful, little star,” Sukuna called over the din, voice carrying easily. “I’d hate to have to replace you so soon.”

You laughed, it was bright and unafraid. Sending a chain lashing toward a sorcerer who was trying to weave a binding vow. “Then stop talking and keep up, my king.”

His answering grin was feral.

When the last enemy fell, the valley had become a slaughter yard. Crows already circled overhead. Sukuna wiped blood from his cleavers on a fallen banner and turned to you.

You were breathing hard, hair wild, a shallow cut across your forearm already clotting. Without hesitation you stepped over corpses until you stood directly in front of him. Two of his hands settled on your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto a broken stone pillar so you were closer to eye level.

“You enjoyed that,” he observed, lower eyes half-lidded.

“I enjoyed watching you,” you corrected. Your fingers rose, tracing the black markings that ran down the side of his face. The touch was gentle, familiar. No one else alive would have dared. “You move like the world is too slow for you.”

Sukuna’s main mouth curved. The stomach mouth opened slightly, teeth glinting. “Everything is too slow except you.”

He leaned in and kissed you right there among the dead. Deep, claiming, tasting of iron and victory. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. Another slid beneath your robes to rest possessively against the bare skin of your lower back. The kiss was not soft. It never was. It was heat and teeth and the promise that whatever came next, you would face it together.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment. Four eyes closed, a rare moment of stillness.

That night you returned to the ruined temple he had claimed as his seat of power.

The great hall was lit only by braziers and moonlight filtering through cracks in the ancient roof. Sukuna dismissed his few remaining followers with a lazy wave. The moment the heavy doors closed, the air between you shifted.

You barely had time to loosen your blood-stained robes before four hands were on you again.

He lifted you onto the wide stone altar that served as his makeshift throne platform. Your back met cool rock as he loomed over you, tattoos stark in the firelight.

“Strip,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

You obeyed slowly, deliberately, enjoying the way all four eyes tracked every inch of revealed skin. When you were bare beneath him, he paused—just watching.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to keep,” he said quietly. It was as close to a confession as the King of Curses ever came.

Then he descended.

Two hands pinned your wrists above your head. One large palm spread your thighs wide. The fourth hand traced lazy circles on your stomach, claws lightly scraping. His main mouth claimed yours again while the mouth on his abdomen moved lower, hot breath ghosting over your inner thigh before the tongue. Longer and more dexterous than any human’s, licked a slow stripe up your center.

You arched with a sharp cry.

Sukuna chuckled against your lips. “Still so responsive. Even after painting a valley red.”

He didn’t tease for long. The second mouth latched onto your clit, sucking and licking with relentless focus while two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right. The stretch burned beautifully. You moaned his name like a prayer and a challenge at the same time.

When you were trembling on the edge, he withdrew.

You whined in protest.

He positioned himself between your spread legs, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance. In this form he was large—almost too much—but your body remembered him, opened for him.

He sank in with one slow, powerful thrust, bottoming out as you gasped.

“Fuck—Ryomen—”

“That’s it,” he growled, voice layered. “Say my name while I remind you who you belong to.”

He set a brutal pace. Deep, punishing strokes that rocked your entire body. The altar creaked beneath you. Four hands held you open and pinned, allowing no escape, no mercy. The stomach mouth continued its work, licking at your breasts, teeth grazing nipples until they ached.

You came first. Hard, vision whiting out, starfire flickering uncontrollably at your fingertips and leaving glowing trails across his shoulders that faded slowly.

Sukuna followed with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, marking you from the inside out.

Afterward he did not pull away immediately. He stayed buried within you, arms wrapping around your smaller frame, holding you against his chest as if you were something infinitely precious.

You traced idle patterns on his skin, fingers following the black tattoos you knew by heart.

“They will come for me one day,” you whispered into the quiet. It was not fear but simply fact. “Because they cannot kill you directly.”

Sukuna’s grip tightened fractionally. “Let them try. I will burn the world before I let them take you.”

You pressed a kiss to the mouth on his stomach. It nipped your lip gently in response.

“I know,” you said. “But if they ever succeed… remember this. Remember how I chose you. How I looked at you without fear.”

He was silent for a long moment.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it: “I will not forget.”

The fire in the braziers crackled. Outside, the night wind carried distant screams. Remnants of the day’s work.

Inside the temple, the King of Curses held his queen close, four arms a cage no enemy had yet breached.

But the world was already whispering.

They could not defeat the monster.

So they would target the one thing he refused to lose.

Winter came early that year, cloaking the Heian provinces in frost and silence. The ruined temple you shared with Sukuna felt warmer for it. Braziers burned hotter, furs piled thicker, and the air carried the constant scent of incense mixed with the faint metallic tang of recent blood.

Your days settled into a dangerous rhythm of power and peace.

Mornings often began with strategy. Sukuna would lounge on his throne of bone and gold while you sat cross-legged on the wide stone steps below him, maps of rival territories spread across your lap. Your starfire technique allowed you to sense cursed energy signatures from miles away, so you marked weak points with glowing embers that hovered in the air like tiny stars.

Sukuna listened.

That alone was a miracle. Generals who had served him for decades were cut down for speaking out of turn. You spoke freely, challenging his plans, suggesting subtler approaches when brute force would waste energy.

“You could take the eastern pass without leveling the entire village,” you said one frost-bitten morning, pointing at the map. “Leave the survivors to spread stories. Fear is a better weapon than ash sometimes.”

One of his upper eyes narrowed in amusement. The lower pair watched you with lazy heat. “Since when did my queen become merciful?”

“Not merciful,” you corrected, rising to your feet and stepping between his spread thighs. Two of his hands automatically settled on your hips, claws pricking lightly through your robes. “Strategic. Dead men tell no tales. Terrified men tell exaggerated ones.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and the mouth on his stomach. “You’re getting dangerous, little star.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against the black marking on his cheek. “Good. You were getting bored.”

That evening he rewarded your cleverness in the way he knew best.

The temple’s inner sanctum was lit only by moonlight and a single brazier. Sukuna had you on your knees on the thick furs, your upper body draped over a low wooden bench. Your wrists were bound behind your back with one of his spare sashes — not because you couldn’t escape, but because you both enjoyed the illusion of restraint.

He knelt behind you, four hands mapping every inch of your bare skin.

Two palms smoothed up your spine, pressing you down. One hand gripped your hip, holding you steady. The last traced slow circles over the curve of your ass before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that made you gasp.

“Still so responsive,” he murmured, voice rough with approval. “Even when you play at politics all day.”

His fingers slid between your thighs, finding you already wet. He teased your entrance with two thick digits, pumping slowly while the mouth on his abdomen licked a hot stripe up your spine.

You moaned, pushing back against his hand. “Ryomen… stop teasing.”

He laughed darkly. “You forget who gives the orders here.”

But he obeyed anyway, because it was you.

He replaced his fingers with the thick head of his cock, pushing in with one long, relentless thrust until he was seated to the hilt. The stretch was perfect, bordering on too much, and you cried out in pleasure-pain.

Sukuna set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the stone walls. Every thrust drove you harder against the bench. His lower hands kept your hips angled exactly how he wanted, while his upper hands reached forward to cup your breasts, rolling your nipples between clawed fingers.

The second mouth joined in, its tongue flicking teasingly over the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulders, occasionally biting down just hard enough to leave marks that would linger for days.

You came first. Walls clenching around him as starfire flickered uncontrollably at your fingertips, leaving faint glowing patterns on the furs beneath you.

Sukuna followed with a low growl that shook the air, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you, hot and endless.

Afterward he untied your wrists and pulled you into his lap, four arms wrapping around you like a living cage. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady, inhuman rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I love you,” you whispered into the quiet. It was the first time you had said the words so plainly.

Sukuna was silent for a long moment. Then one hand stroked through your hair with surprising gentleness.

“You are the only creature I have ever allowed to speak those words and live,” he said finally. “That should be answer enough.”

You smiled against his skin and traced the tattoos over his heart. “It is.”

But peace never lasted long in the Heian era.

The first whispers reached you during a rare journey to a neutral hot spring valley. A place even rival clans respected as temporary ground for negotiation.

You and Sukuna traveled with only a small escort of his most loyal (and terrified) followers. The springs were steaming under a clear winter sky, the water rich with minerals that soothed cursed energy fatigue.

That night, while Sukuna soaked in the largest pool with three arms draped lazily over the rocks, you lingered at the edge, letting the heat seep into your muscles.

A young sorcerer from a minor clan approached under the guise of offering scented oils. His hands shook as he bowed.

“My lady,” he whispered when Sukuna’s eyes were half-closed in apparent relaxation. “There are those who fear what you have become. A queen to the King of Curses… it upsets the balance. Some speak of… removing the attachment. For the good of all sorcerers.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes sharp. “And you bring this message to me?”

The boy swallowed. “As a warning. Leave him. Return to your clan. Or they will make you leave.”

Before you could respond, Sukuna’s voice cut through the steam like a blade.

“Bold of you to threaten my queen in my presence, insect.”

Four eyes opened fully. In an instant the boy was lifted into the air by an invisible slash of cursed energy, dangling helplessly.

You placed a hand on Sukuna’s arm, the one closest to you. “Let him go. He’s just a messenger.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, but he released the boy, who scrambled away into the darkness, sobbing.

You turned back to Sukuna, water lapping at your waist. “They’re starting to realize they can’t kill you directly.”

He reached out with two hands, pulling you through the water until you straddled his lap. The other two arms wrapped around your back, holding you flush against his chest.

“Let them plot,” he growled against your throat. “They will die screaming for their arrogance.”

You kissed him softly, tasting mineral water and restrained violence. “I’m not afraid. But promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If they ever come for me… don’t hesitate because of me. Burn them all.”

Sukuna’s grip tightened possessively. “I would burn the heavens themselves before I let them take you from me.”

You believed him.

But the whispers grew louder in the following weeks.

Messengers arrived with false offers of alliance. Minor clans sent gifts wrapped in protective charms. Once, during a solo scouting mission you insisted on taking alone, you found a letter nailed to a tree with a cursed dagger:

“The monster’s weakness must be excised. For the sake of the world, the star must fall.”

You burned the letter to ash and said nothing to Sukuna when you returned.

He noticed anyway.

One night, as you lay tangled together on the furs. Your body still humming from the way he had taken you twice, slow and deep, whispering filthy praise against your skin. Sukuna traced the gold circlet in your hair with one claw.

“You’re hiding something,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

You sighed, pressing closer to his warmth. “They’re planning something. Targeting me to hurt you. But I can handle it. I’m not fragile, Ryomen.”

His four arms tightened around you. “You are the only thing I refuse to lose. If they touch you…”

You silenced him with a kiss, then guided one of his hands between your thighs again, distracting him the best way you knew how.

“I know,” you whispered as he rolled you beneath him once more. “Now remind me who I belong to.”

He did. Thoroughly, possessively, until the only sounds in the temple were your shared moans and the crackle of dying braziers.

But in the quiet hours before dawn, when Sukuna’s eyes finally closed in rare rest, you lay awake staring at the ceiling.

You understood the danger.

They couldn’t defeat the King of Curses in open battle.

So they would try to break his heart.

And you had already decided: if it came to that, you would make sure they paid for every second of his pain.

Spring thawed the frost, but the whispers did not melt away. They grew sharper, more coordinated, like blades being honed in secret forges across the provinces.

You felt the shift in the cursed energy of the land itself. Subtle tremors in the web of power that connected every sorcerer and spirit in the Heian era. Your starfire technique made you sensitive to such things; faint resonances of binding vows being woven in hidden mountain shrines, alliances forming between clans that had once been bitter enemies.

Sukuna noticed your distraction during a quiet afternoon in the temple courtyard. Cherry blossoms—somehow surviving in the shadow of his domain—drifted lazily on the breeze. He lounged against a pillar, two arms folded behind his head, the other two idly spinning one of his cleavers like a child’s toy. The mouth on his stomach hummed an old, bloody war chant.

“You’re thinking too loudly, little star,” he rumbled without opening his eyes. “Speak it before I get bored and make you.”

You sat on the edge of the stone fountain, trailing your fingers through the cool water. Droplets glowed faintly where your cursed energy brushed them. “They’re getting bolder. Not attacking you outright, they know better. But messages keep coming. ‘Temporary truces.’ ‘Shared threats from rogue curses.’ All of them mention me by name. ‘The Star Queen must mediate.’ ‘Only she can seal the threat without escalation.’”

Sukuna’s cleaver stopped spinning. All four eyes opened, fixing on you with predatory focus. “Let them send their pretty lies. I’ll decorate the temple steps with their spines.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “If I ignore them, they’ll claim I’m hiding behind you. Weakening your image. If I go…” You let the thought hang.

He sat up slowly, massive frame casting a long shadow over you. One lower hand reached out, claws gentle as they tilted your chin up. “You will not go alone.”

“I know,” you said softly, leaning into his touch. “But rushing in with full force gives them the excuse they want. Proof that the King of Curses cannot be negotiated with. That his queen is just a leash.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened. The stomach mouth snarled silently. “Since when do we care about their excuses?”

“Since they started targeting the one thing that makes you hesitate,” you answered, voice steady. You rose and stepped between his spread legs, placing both hands on his broad chest, tracing the familiar black tattoos with your thumbs. “I’m not fragile, Ryomen. My chains can bind armies. And I have you. But let me play their game for a little while. Gather information. Make them reveal their hands.”

He stared down at you for a long moment. Four crimson eyes searching your face as if memorizing every detail. Then, with a low growl, he pulled you flush against him. Two arms wrapped around your waist. The other two cupped your face.

“You test my patience more than any enemy ever has,” he muttered against your lips. “If anything feels wrong, anything, you burn the entire negotiation site to glass and return to me.”

“I promise,” you whispered.

“Be careful,” he said, so softly it almost didn’t sound like him. “The world can burn. But not you.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the marking beneath his lower eye. “I’ll come back to you. I always do.”

The next morning, the false alliance message arrived via a trembling envoy from the Fujiwara-adjacent clans.

A rogue special-grade curse has manifested near the northern border, threatening trade routes vital to multiple provinces. Only the Star Queen’s unique sealing technique can contain it without unnecessary bloodshed. We request your mediation under a flag of temporary truce. No weapons. No armies. Neutral ground at the Valley of White Mist.

You read the scroll aloud to Sukuna, who listened with a bored expression that didn’t hide the murderous glint in all four eyes.

“It’s a trap,” he stated flatly.

“Obviously,” you agreed, rolling the scroll. “But if I refuse, they paint me as the tyrant’s consort who dooms innocents. If I go with force, they scream that Sukuna cannot control his queen. Let me go. Take a small escort if it eases you. I’ll assess their strength, then return.”

He didn’t like it. The air grew heavy with his cursed energy, shrine-like pressure making the braziers flicker.

But he trusted you, the only person alive he truly did.

“Take my cleaver,” he said finally, pressing the smaller of his two into your hands. “And this.” He removed the thin gold circlet from your hair, kissed it once, then placed it back. “Come back wearing it. Or I will paint the valley red searching for you.”

You smiled, rising on your toes to kiss him deeply. “I will. Wait for me, my king.”

As you rode out with a handful of his most loyal (and disposable) followers, Sukuna stood at the temple gates, four arms crossed, watching until you disappeared over the horizon.

The Valley of White Mist waited.

And somewhere in the shadows, a hundred sorcerers bound by a desperate collective vow sharpened their techniques, ready to excise the King of Curses’ only weakness.

The journey to the Valley of White Mist took three days on horseback. You rode at the head of the small escort Sukuna had grudgingly allowed. Six of his most hardened retainers, men who had survived enough battles to know when silence was wiser than questions. They kept their distance, eyes darting nervously between the road and the gold circlet still gleaming in your hair.

You felt the shift in cursed energy long before the valley came into view. The air grew thick, heavier, like breathing through wet silk. Your starfire technique hummed beneath your skin in warning, the chains coiled invisibly around your wrists and ankles ready to manifest at a thought. The cleaver Sukuna had given you rested at your hip, its weight a comforting reminder of him.

The valley itself was deceptively beautiful. Thick white mist rolled between ancient cedar trees, glowing faintly under a pale spring sun. A wide clearing had been prepared in the center. Flat ground ringed by stone lanterns that flickered with unnatural blue flame. Representatives from three minor clans and one major Fujiwara offshoot waited there, dressed in formal robes, faces carefully blank.

No obvious weapons. No large army in sight.

You dismounted, crimson robes brushing the dew-wet grass. Your escort stayed mounted behind you, hands hovering near their blades.

The lead negotiator, an older sorcerer with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that betrayed nothing, bowed low.

“Lady Star Queen,” he intoned. “We are grateful you answered our plea. The rogue curse has grown stronger than anticipated. Your unique binding technique is our only hope for a bloodless resolution.”

You studied him calmly, letting your senses expand. Beneath the polite words, the cursed energy in the valley pulsed like a living thing. Layered, synchronized, bound by a complex vow. Not one curse. Many.

“I see,” you said, voice even. “Show me the curse, then. Quickly. My king grows impatient when I am away too long.”

They led you deeper into the mist.

The trap sprang the moment the trees closed behind your escort.

White light erupted from the ground in perfect geometric patterns. A massive collective domain, not quite a full expansion but something worse: a binding cage amplified by a hundred linked sorcerers hidden in the treeline and behind illusion barriers. The mist thickened into opaque walls. Your escort’s screams were cut short as slashes of cursed energy tore through them like paper.

You reacted instantly.

Starfire chains exploded outward in a blazing lattice, burning through the nearest bindings and shattering three stone lanterns. The air filled with the scent of scorched cedar and blood. You moved like you had on a hundred battlefields beside Sukuna—graceful, ruthless, unafraid.

But they had planned for you.

Dozens of sorcerers emerged from the mist, their techniques synchronized into a single overwhelming assault. Binding chains of their own—weaker than yours but multiplied—wrapped around your limbs. Anti-domain stakes drove into the ground, suppressing your output. Spears of condensed cursed energy pierced your side, your shoulder, your thigh.

You didn’t scream.

You laughed instead, low and bitter, as blood soaked the front of your crimson robes.

“So this is it,” you said, voice steady despite the pain. Your chains still lashed out, snapping necks and burning limbs, but they kept coming. “They cannot kill him, so they kill what he loves. Pathetic.”

A particularly strong binding vow slammed into your chest, cracking ribs. You staggered but stayed on your feet, cleaver in hand, slashing through two attackers in one fluid motion. Sukuna’s weapon sang with his residual cursed energy, cutting deeper than any ordinary blade.

Yet the numbers were too great. The cage too tight.

You realized too late how perfectly they had timed it. Far enough from the temple that even Sukuna’s speed might not save you in time, close enough that he would feel every second through the bond of cursed energy that had grown between you over the months.

“They’re trying to break him,” you whispered to yourself as another spear grazed your cheek, drawing a hot line of blood. Your vision blurred at the edges, but your hands never stopped moving. Starfire flared brighter, desperate. “Fools. He will burn the world for this.”

The final blow came from behind. A cursed technique designed to pierce the core, not kill instantly but ensure a slow, agonizing death. It drove through your back and out your chest, just missing your heart but shredding everything vital around it.

You dropped to your knees in the blood-soaked grass.

The mist began to thin as the sorcerers stepped closer, faces triumphant and terrified at once.

You lifted your head, gold circlet still somehow intact, now stained crimson. Your breathing came in shallow, wet gasps, but your eyes glowed bright with starfire even now held no panic. No begging.

Only calm understanding.

In the distance, the sky tore open.

Black shrine gates manifested like jagged teeth against the clouds. Malevolent energy rolled across the valley like a tidal wave. Sukuna had arrived.

He landed in the center of the clearing with earth-shaking force, four arms already in motion. Cleavers flashed. Dismantle and Cleave shredded the air itself. The collective domain shattered like glass under the weight of his true domain expansion, Malevolent Shrine, painting the sky red and black.

But it was too late for the trap.

It was too late for you.

Sukuna’s lower eyes found you instantly. The upper pair widened fractionally. The closest thing to shock the King of Curses had shown in centuries.

He crossed the distance in two strides, dropping to one knee beside you. Two massive hands cradled your face with a gentleness that would have stunned anyone watching. One pressed desperately over the gaping wound in your chest, trying to stem the blood that wouldn’t stop. The fourth gripped your hand so tightly your bones creaked.

The remaining sorcerers tried to flee. They didn’t get far. Invisible slashes turned them into red mist before they could take three steps.

You looked up at him. Four crimson eyes, tattoos stark against his skin, the face you had chosen without fear, and smiled through bloodied lips.

“Ryomen…” Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried. Your free hand rose, trembling, to trace the black markings beneath his lower eyes exactly as you always had. The touch was weak but sure. “Even now… you came.”

He snarled, but the sound cracked. “You promised you would return. You lied to me, little star.”

A wet, broken laugh escaped you. “I’m sorry… but they needed to learn. They thought… taking me would break you.” Your fingers slid down to rest over the mouth on his stomach. It opened, teeth gentle against your palm for the first time. “Don’t let them win that way. Remember how I looked at you. How I chose you. Not out of fear… but because you were worth choosing.”

Blood trickled from the corner of your mouth. Your starfire flickered once, twice, then began to fade.

“I would find you again,” you breathed, eyes locking with all four of his. “In any life. Any form. My king… my equal… I lo—”

The light left your eyes.

Your hand slipped from his face and fell limp into the grass.

For one endless second, the valley was silent except for the distant crackle of dying flames.

Then Sukuna roared.

It was not grief in any human sense. It was annihilation given voice.

Malevolent Shrine expanded to its full radius. Shrine gates manifested in endless rows. Every surviving sorcerer in the valley. Every hidden ally, every coward who had planned this was torn apart at the atomic level. The trees turned to ash. The mist evaporated in screams of steam. The ground itself cracked and blackened as if the earth were bleeding.

He destroyed everything.

When the rage finally ebbed into something colder, sharper, Sukuna remained kneeling in the crater that had once been a valley. The gold circlet, somehow untouched amid the devastation, lay beside your body. He picked it up with one bloodied hand, then carefully removed it from your hair and wrapped it around the hilt of his cleaver, tying it with a strip of your torn robe.

He lifted your body with all four arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing.

The King of Curses walked back toward his temple alone, leaving nothing but silence and ruin behind him.

For the first time in his long, bloody existence, Ryomen Sukuna carried something he could not conquer.

Something he could not get back.

Centuries passed like ash on the wind.

The Heian era crumbled into legend. Sorcerers rose and fell. Curses evolved. The world forgot the exact shape of the King of Curses’ wrath, but the scars remained. Craters where mountains once stood, blood-soaked soil that still refused to grow anything pure.

Ryomen Sukuna endured.

He sealed himself away in pieces, scattered across fingers and artifacts, waiting. Plotting. Remembering.

He kept the gold circlet wrapped around the hilt of his favored cleaver. Sometimes, in the long stretches of boredom between hosts, he would run a clawed thumb over the thin band of metal and feel the faint echo of starfire still clinging to it. Your final words haunted the empty spaces inside him.

“I would find you again… In any life. Any form.”

He never spoke them aloud. But they anchored him the way nothing else ever had.

A relatively new graduate from Jujutsu Tech’s hidden curriculum, assigned to the Tokyo branch under Gojo Satoru’s loose supervision. Your cursed energy was unusually potent for someone so young: bright, burning, instinctive. Instructors called it “starfire-adjacent” in hushed tones when they thought you couldn’t hear. You had no memories of the Heian era. No recollection of four arms, black tattoos, or the taste of blood and incense on your tongue.

Yet some things refused to stay buried.

You never flinched in the face of special-grade curses. When others hesitated, you stepped forward as if you belonged at the front line—beside power, not behind it. You fought with a quiet fearlessness that made veterans raise eyebrows. And sometimes, late at night in your small apartment in Shinjuku, you would catch yourself tracing invisible patterns on your own arms—black, looping marks that weren’t there.

Dreams came more frequently now.

Blood-soaked valleys. Gold catching moonlight. A deep, layered voice calling you “little star.” Four crimson eyes watching you with something between hunger and devotion. You always woke with your heart pounding and a strange ache low in your belly, as if your body remembered pleasure your mind had forgotten.

You chalked it up to stress.

Today’s mission was routine on paper: investigate a localized curse outbreak in an abandoned subway station beneath Shibuya. Grade 1 at worst. You were paired with a second-year student who kept glancing at you nervously.

“Stay behind me,” he muttered as you descended the stairs, flashlights cutting through the dark.

You ignored him and moved ahead, chains of glowing starfire already flickering at your fingertips. Your technique had manifested as luminescent binding links that could seal or burn on command. The cursed spirit that lunged at you was fast, but you were faster. One chain whipped out, wrapping its torso and igniting. It shrieked and dissolved into black smoke.

“Show-off,” the student grumbled.

You smirked. “Just efficient.”

The platform was quiet after that. Too quiet.

Then the air changed.

A heavy, ancient cursed energy rolled through the tunnels like smoke from a distant fire. It tasted of iron and old incense. Your pulse quickened for reasons you couldn’t name.

A figure stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the platform.

Pink hair. Dark tattoos crawling across his face, neck, and bare arms. He wore a casual hoodie and pants that looked borrowed, but the energy radiating off him belonged to something far older than any teenager. Two eyes glowed with lazy malice, but you swore… for a split second, you saw the flicker of two more.

He stopped a few meters away, head tilted, studying you like a puzzle he already knew the answer to.

You raised your chains instinctively, glowing bright. “Identify yourself. Now.”

The boy—no, the thing inside the boy—grinned. It was too sharp, too knowing.

“You’ve gotten smaller,” he said, voice low and rough, carrying an echo that vibrated through your bones. “And your hair’s shorter. I liked it longer. Easier to wrap around my fist.”

Your stomach dropped. The words sounded insane, yet they landed somewhere deep inside you, stirring half-remembered heat.

“Who the hell are you?” you demanded, stepping forward despite your partner’s frantic tugging at your sleeve.

He took one step closer, hands in his pockets, utterly unbothered by the glowing chains pointed at his chest. “You used to look at me without fear. Still do, apparently. Good. Some things don’t change.”

Your partner summoned a weak technique and tried to step between you. “Back off, curse user—”

The pink-haired stranger flicked two fingers. The student flew backward into the wall, unconscious but alive.

Now it was just the two of you under flickering fluorescent lights.

He studied your face again, all four—no, two—eyes narrowing with something dangerously close to fondness. “Still burning bright, little star. Even if you don’t remember why.”

The nickname hit like a physical blow.

Little star.

Your chains faltered for half a second. Memories that weren’t memories flashed. Strong hands on your hips, a second mouth dragging across your skin, the sound of your own voice moaning a name you couldn’t quite recall.

You shook it off and strengthened your stance. “I don’t know you. And if you don’t stop talking like a delusional creep, I’ll seal you right here.”

His grin widened. “You always did threaten me when you were flustered.”

He vanished in a swirl of red mist before you could strike, leaving only the faint scent of blood and incense behind.

Your partner groaned as he came to. “What… what was that?”

You stared at the empty platform, heart hammering. “I have no idea.”

But your body remembered.

And somewhere deep inside the pink-haired vessel, Ryomen Sukuna leaned back in his makeshift throne of consciousness and laughed—low, dark, and triumphant.

The queen had returned.

She just didn’t know it yet.

That night you barely slept.

The dreams were clearer than ever.

A ruined temple. Braziers casting golden light on black tattoos. Four arms holding you close after battle, after pleasure, after everything. A voice rumbling against your ear: “You are the only thing in this rotting world I don’t get bored of.”

You woke gasping, skin flushed, thighs pressed together against an ache you couldn’t explain.

In the mirror, you traced the faint, phantom lines on your arms again.

And for the first time, you whispered to your reflection:

“Who are you… and why do I miss you?”

The encounters didn’t stop.

If anything, they escalated.

Over the next two weeks, the pink-haired curse user—who still hadn’t given you a proper name—became a walking, talking migraine wrapped in tattoos and smug arrogance.

First incident: the convenience store at 2 a.m.

You had dragged yourself there after a long night exorcising low-grade curses near Roppongi. Your hair was messy, your jacket smelled like burnt curse residue, and all you wanted was strawberry milk and something fried. You were reaching for the last onigiri when a familiar voice spoke right behind your ear.

“Still eating like you’re about to march into battle. Some habits never die.”

You spun around so fast the milk carton nearly slipped from your hand.

He was leaning against the ramune fridge, arms crossed. The tattoos stood out stark under the fluorescent lights. Two eyes watched you with lazy amusement, but you swore you could feel the weight of two more.

“You again,” you hissed, keeping your voice low so the sleepy cashier wouldn’t call security. “What is your problem? Personal space exists for a reason.”

He tilted his head, grin widening. “You used to let me closer than this. Much closer. Naked, usually.”

Your face burned. A customer two aisles over dropped their basket.

“Creep,” you snapped, slamming the onigiri into your basket. “I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. Stop following me or I’ll exorcise that smug look off your face.”

He laughed—low, rolling, far too pleased. “There she is. That fire. You threatened me with chains the first time we met too. Ended up wrapped in them for entirely different reasons.”

You marched to the counter, paid, and left without looking back. But the entire walk home you felt eyes on your back, and the phantom scent of blood and incense lingered in the night air.

Second incident: the training grounds at Jujutsu High.

You were sparring with Maki when the air pressure shifted. A figure appeared on the rooftop overlooking the field—lounging against the railing like he owned the school. Pink hair ruffled by the wind. Tattoos visible even from a distance.

Maki paused mid-strike. “Who the hell is that?”

You didn’t answer. You just raised your hand and sent a warning chain of starfire whipping toward the roof.

He caught it.

With one hand.

The glowing link wrapped around his wrist and he tugged playfully, as if testing its strength. “Cute. But you used to bind me with a lot more enthusiasm, little star.”

Maki’s eyes narrowed. “Friend of yours?”

“Absolutely not,” you growled.

Before you could launch a proper attack, he vanished again, leaving only a faint chuckle echoing across the field.

Third incident: your apartment balcony.

You had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, when you sensed him. You yanked the sliding door open, starfire already blazing between your fingers.

He was sitting on the railing like it was a throne, four—no, two—arms resting casually. In the dim city light his tattoos looked alive.

“You’ve gotten even smaller when you’re half-naked,” he observed, eyes raking over you slowly. “I approve. Easier to carry.”

“Get the fuck off my balcony!” you shouted, launching a chain that shattered the railing inches from where he sat.

He didn’t even flinch. “Still shy after all this time? You used to ride me on a stone altar while the temple burned around us. Literally.”

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Heat flooded your face—half embarrassment, half something dangerously warmer. “I’m calling the police.”

He actually laughed out loud, the sound rich and mocking. “The police? Me? The King of Curses reduced to a suspicious individual? How the mighty have fallen.”

Then he disappeared in red mist, still chuckling.

You stood there dripping wet, towel slipping, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

The dreams got worse after that.

Every night you saw fragments: strong hands pinning you down, a second mouth dragging hot and wet across your stomach, four eyes watching you come undone with something like worship. You woke up aching, thighs slick, whispering a name you couldn’t quite remember into your pillow.

By the end of the second week you were done.

You marched into the local police station with your arms crossed and determination in your eyes. The officer behind the desk looked half-asleep.

“I need to report a stalker,” you said firmly.

The officer sighed and pulled out a form. “Description?”

“Male. Early twenties appearance. Pink hair. Face and body covered in black tattoos. Extremely rude. Keeps saying delusional shit like ‘you’ve gotten smaller’ and ‘you used to ride me on an altar.’ He appears out of nowhere like rooftops, my balcony, convenience stores. He’s insane.”

The officer scribbled slowly. “Has he touched you?”

“Not yet. But he keeps implying he has. In detail.”

Just as the officer asked for your contact information, the station door exploded inward with a casual kick.

Every head turned.

There he stood. Pink hair, tattoos, hands in his pockets, looking deeply unimpressed with the entire metropolitan police force. The cursed energy rolling off him made the lights flicker.

The room went dead silent.

You pointed. “That’s him!”

The pink-haired man sighed, the sound of someone who had toppled empires and was now dealing with paperwork. “Really? The police? I annihilate bloodlines and you file a formal complaint?”

One brave officer reached for his gun. “Hands where I can see them!”

The man raised an eyebrow. Two extra spectral arms flickered into existence for half a second—enough to make the entire precinct freeze—then vanished. “She’s my wife. Reincarnated. It’s complicated.” He glanced at the trembling officer holding the form. “You’re going to ignore this, right? Good. Saves me the cleanup.”

He looked straight at you, eyes softening with dark amusement. “Still fighting me at every turn. Adorable. You’ll remember eventually.”

Then he walked out as casually as he had entered, leaving the door hanging off its hinges.

The station erupted into chaos.

You stood there, face burning, fists clenched. “I am not his wife.”

But your voice shook.

And deep down, something ancient and hungry stirred at the word.

That night the dreams returned stronger than ever.

You saw yourself in crimson robes, sitting beside a four-armed king on a throne of bone. You saw four hands on your body—pinning, claiming, worshipping. You heard your own voice moaning “Ryomen” like a prayer.

You woke up gasping, fingers pressed between your thighs, chasing a release that felt centuries overdue.

In the darkness of your room, you whispered to the empty air:

“Who are you… and why does my body remember you better than my mind does?”

Miles away, Ryomen Sukuna smirked in the shared mental space.

“Soon, little star,” he murmured to no one but himself. “You’ll remember. And then I’m dragging you back where you belong.”

The police report accomplished exactly nothing.

No one at the station wanted to touch the case after the pink-haired intruder casually kicked the door off its hinges and called you his wife in front of twenty witnesses. The report was “misplaced.” The officers suddenly developed convenient amnesia. Even the security footage developed mysterious glitches.

You were on your own.

And he knew it.

Sukuna’s approach changed after that day. The casual, taunting appearances gave way to something more intentional. More predatory. He no longer popped up for cheap shocks. He watched. He tested. He closed the distance.

First came the rooftop again, but this time he didn’t stay at a distance.

You were finishing a solo mission near an old shrine on the outskirts of Tokyo, wiping cursed energy residue from your hands, when you felt him behind you. Not the playful flare of cursed energy from before. This was heavier. Closer. Ancient.

You turned slowly.

He stood only a few feet away, pink hair tousled by the night wind, tattoos stark under the moonlight. He looked deceptively relaxed, hands in his pockets, but the aura rolling off him pressed against your skin like a physical weight.

“You stopped running,” he observed, voice lower than usual. Rougher. It slid down your spine like warm velvet dragged over gravel.

“I’m not running,” you replied, summoning a single glowing chain that hovered between you like a warning. “I’m deciding whether to seal you or hear you out. Talk. Who are you really?”

He took one step closer. Then another. You didn’t back away. Something in you refused to.

“I’ve told you pieces,” he said, stopping close enough that you could smell that faint trace of blood and incense again. “You used to sit beside me on battlefields. You used to trace these marks with your fingers while I was still inside you.” One hand lifted slowly, as if giving you time to flinch. When you didn’t, he brushed a thumb along the side of your jaw. “You used to call me yours.”

Your breath hitched. The touch sent sparks through your nerves. Not fear, but recognition. Heat bloomed low in your belly. The phantom memory of four hands holding you open flashed behind your eyes.

You slapped his hand away, but there was no real force behind it. “Stop saying things like that. It’s insane.”

“Is it?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur that vibrated against your ear. “Then why does your body remember? Your pulse is racing. Your cursed energy is flaring brighter. You’re not afraid of me. You never were.”

You swallowed hard. He was right. The fear you should have felt was absent. In its place was something far more dangerous. Curiosity, longing, a pull you couldn’t name.

“Back off,” you whispered, but your chains had lowered without you realizing.

He didn’t back off. Instead he stepped even closer until your back met the shrine’s wooden pillar. One hand braced beside your head. The other hovered near your waist, not quite touching.

“You’re starting to dream again, aren’t you?” he asked softly. “Blood. Gold. Me. Not this borrowed face, the real one. Four arms. Four eyes. The mouth that used to taste every inch of you.”

Your knees weakened. A vivid flash hit you: strong hands pinning your wrists, a second mouth licking a hot trail down your stomach, a deep voice growling “Mine” while you came apart beneath him.

You shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, voice breathy.

He chuckled, the sound dark and intimate. “Liar. But that’s all right. I can wait. I’ve waited a thousand years already.”

Then he was gone again, leaving you trembling against the pillar, thighs pressed together, cursed energy flickering uncontrollably around your fingers.

The dreams intensified after that night.

They were no longer fragments. They were memories wearing the skin of dreams.

You saw yourself in a ruined temple, crimson robes pooled at your feet. Four massive hands lifted you onto a stone altar. Black tattoos shifted under firelight as he moved above you—inside you—deep, relentless thrusts that made you cry out his name. “Ryomen—” The second mouth on his abdomen sucked marks into your breasts while the main one bit your shoulder hard enough to bruise. You came screaming, starfire exploding from your hands and painting his skin with temporary glowing brands.

You woke up every night gasping, sheets soaked with sweat and something far more embarrassing. Your fingers would find their way between your thighs before you could stop yourself, chasing the echo of a pleasure that felt centuries old.

Each time he got closer. Each time his voice dropped lower. Each time your resistance frayed a little more.

You stopped reporting him.

You stopped trying to exorcise him on sight.

Instead you started looking for him.

One rainy evening, you found him waiting on the rooftop of your apartment building again. The city lights glittered below like scattered stars. Rain plastered his pink hair to his forehead and made his tattoos glisten.

You stepped out under the downpour without an umbrella, chains dormant at your sides.

“Why me?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain. “Why do you keep coming back?”

He turned to face you fully. For once the smirk was gone. In its place was something rawer. Hungrier.

“Because you chose me when no one else would,” he said simply. “Because you sat at my right hand and never trembled. Because even when they killed you to break me, you looked up at me with those same eyes and told me you’d find me again.”

He took a slow step forward, rain streaming down his face.

“And because this body is only a vessel. When you remember, truly remember, I’ll show you the real me again. The one you loved. The one with four arms that used to hold you like the world could burn and it wouldn’t matter.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Another flash hit you: gold circlet in your hair, four hands on your body, a second mouth growling your name like worship while he spilled deep inside you.

You didn’t run.

You stepped closer instead, until you stood directly in front of him, rain soaking both of you.

“I don’t understand any of this,” you whispered. “But… I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”

His hand rose slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing rain from your lower lip.

“Good,” he murmured, voice rough with centuries of waiting. “Because I’m done being patient, little star.”

He leaned in, lips hovering just above yours. You felt the heat of him, the ancient power coiled beneath borrowed skin. Your eyes fluttered half-closed.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

Instead he pulled back with visible effort, a dark promise in his eyes.

“Soon. When you see me I won’t stop at almost.”

Then he vanished into red mist, leaving you alone in the rain with trembling legs and a heart that no longer felt like it belonged entirely to this life.

That night the dreams changed again.

This time, when you woke gasping his name “Ryomen” it didn’t feel like a question.

It felt like the beginning of an answer.

You called in sick to Jujutsu High the next morning.

Instead you wandered the rainy streets, hood up, starfire flickering restlessly at your fingertips. Every shadow felt like it might hide him. Every gust of wind carried the faint scent of blood and incense.

He found you near the old shrine where you had first properly confronted him weeks ago.

This time he didn’t hide on the rooftop. He stepped out of the torii gate like he belonged there, pink hair dark with rain, tattoos glistening. He wore no hoodie tonight. Just a simple black shirt that clung to Yuji’s muscled frame and revealed more of the black markings crawling across his skin.

You stopped in the middle of the stone path. Rain poured down around you both.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply walked forward until only an arm’s length separated you.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” he said quietly. No taunt this time. Just raw observation.

“I haven’t,” you admitted. Your voice shook. “The dreams… they’re not dreams anymore. I see blood. I see gold. I see… you. But not like this.” You gestured at his current form. “Four arms. Four eyes. A mouth that… that used to…” Heat flooded your face.

Sukuna’s expression darkened with hunger. He closed the remaining distance in one step, one hand rising to cradle the back of your neck. The touch was firm, possessive, but he held back—waiting.

“Say the name,” he murmured, voice dropping to that low, layered register that made your knees weak. “The one you whispered in your sleep last night.”

Your lips parted. Rain streamed down your face.

“Ryomen,” you breathed.

Something in him snapped.

He pulled you against him, mouth crashing down on yours in a kiss that tasted of centuries of waiting. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming—teeth and tongue and raw need. One hand fisted in your wet hair while the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise. For a moment you swore you felt two extra spectral arms wrap around your back, holding you tighter.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands sliding up his chest, nails digging into his shoulders. Starfire flickered at your fingertips, leaving faint glowing marks on his skin that healed almost instantly.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.

“You’re close,” he growled against your lips. “So close to seeing me. The real me.”

You stared up at him, chest heaving. “Show me.”

His eyes flashed. For a heartbeat the vessel cracked. Pink hair darkened, tattoos spread further, two extra arms manifested fully, and four crimson eyes burned down at you.

The sight hit you like lightning.

The rooftop dream. The temple. The valley. The way those four hands had held you. The way those four eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth keeping.

Recognition slammed into you all at once.

You didn’t recoil.

Instead your hands rose, trembling, to cup the sides of his face. Tracing the markings exactly as you had in every memory, every dream, every lifetime.

“It’s you,” you whispered, voice breaking. Tears mixed with rain on your cheeks. “Ryomen Sukuna. My king. I only knew your true form… I didn’t recognize you in this vessel. But it’s you.”

A sound tore from his throat—half growl, half laugh, pure relief and obsession.

He lifted you effortlessly with all four arms now fully manifested, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you against the nearest torii pillar. Rain poured down, but neither of you cared.

“Finally,” he snarled against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “My queen. My star. You’re mine again.”

You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, starfire and cursed energy mingling in the air around you.

“I remember,” you gasped as one of his lower hands slid beneath your soaked shirt, claws lightly scraping your skin. “I remember everything. The battles. The nights. The way you held me when the world tried to tear us apart.”

His forehead pressed to yours, four eyes blazing with centuries of devotion and hunger.

“Then let me remind you of the rest,” he growled, voice rough with promise. “Right now.”

The rain continued to fall, washing away the last fragments of your old life.

But in the shelter of four arms and four burning eyes, you had finally come home.

The torii gate groaned under the sudden surge of cursed energy as Sukuna’s true form tore fully through the borrowed vessel.

He was massive again. Towering. The real Ryomen Sukuna you had loved in the Heian era.

And between his hips, where the vessel had hidden it, two thick cocks stood hard and heavy, already leaking at the tips from the sheer force of recognition. The upper one curved slightly, ridged along the underside. The lower sat heavier, thicker at the base, both flushed dark and pulsing with cursed energy that made the air around them shimmer.

You didn’t flinch. You had never flinched from him.

Instead you reached up with both hands, fingers tracing the black markings across his chest exactly as you had done a thousand years ago. Starfire flickered at your fingertips, leaving faint glowing trails that faded almost instantly.

“It’s really you,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion and need. “My king. My monster. I only knew this form… I didn’t recognize the boy’s face. But these marks… these eyes… this body that used to ruin me so perfectly.”

A low, guttural sound rumbled from both his mouths. The main one curving into a feral grin, the one on his stomach opening to drag a hot, wet tongue across your collarbone.

“Mine,” he growled, voice layered and rough, echoing with the weight of every lonely century. “You kept me waiting, little star. Centuries of nothing but ash and memory. Now I’m taking back what’s mine.”

Four hands moved at once.

Two pinned your wrists above your head against the rain-slick torii pillar. One gripped your hip, claws shredding through your soaked clothes with casual ease until they fell away in wet ribbons. The last cupped your jaw, tilting your face up so he could claim your mouth in a bruising kiss.

His tongue—longer, rougher—invaded without mercy, tasting every gasp and whimper. The stomach mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a dark mark while its tongue flicked over your pulse.

You moaned into the kiss, arching against him. Rain poured down your bare skin, but the heat rolling off his body made you burn. When he finally pulled back, a string of saliva connected your lips.

“Ryomen… please,” you breathed. “I remember how you felt. Both of them. I need you.”

His laugh was dark and triumphant. “Greedy little queen. You always were.”

He lifted you effortlessly with the two lower arms, spreading your thighs wide around his waist. The upper two kept your wrists pinned while one hand slid between your legs, thick fingers parting your folds and finding you already dripping—not just from rain.

“So wet for me already,” he rumbled, two fingers pushing inside you without warning, curling hard against that spot that made your vision spark. “This cunt still remembers its king. Clenching like it missed me.”

You cried out, hips rocking desperately against his hand. The stretch was familiar, perfect. Starfire flickered wildly around your fingers, painting glowing patterns across his forearms.

He pumped his fingers faster, scissoring them, stretching you open while the stomach mouth moved lower to latch onto one of your breasts. Sharp teeth grazed your nipple before the tongue soothed the sting, sucking hard until you were trembling.

When you were shaking on the edge, he withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the heads of both cocks.

The upper one nudged your entrance first, thick and insistent. The lower pressed just below it, sliding against your clit with every shallow thrust.

“Look at me,” he commanded, all four eyes blazing. “Watch who’s claiming you again.”

You locked eyes with him as he pushed in. Slow, relentless, both cocks stretching you open at once. The burn was exquisite. Your walls fluttered and clenched around the dual invasion, the ridges and thickness dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. He bottomed out with a shared groan, hips flush against yours, both cocks buried to the hilt.

“Fuck—Ryomen—so full—”

“That’s it,” he snarled, voice rough. “Take both of them like the queen you are. This pussy was made for me. Only me.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving. Deep, powerful thrusts that rocked your entire body against the pillar. Rain streamed down your joined bodies, making every slide wetter, filthier. The dual stretch was overwhelming in the best way; every thrust dragged both cocks against your walls, the lower one grinding perfectly against that spot inside while the upper rubbed your clit from the inside with every withdrawal.

Four hands held you exactly where he wanted you—open, pinned, claimed.

The stomach mouth continued its assault on your breasts, licking, sucking, biting until your nipples ached deliciously. His main mouth crashed against yours again, swallowing every moan and scream.

You came first, hard and sudden. walls spasming around both cocks as starfire exploded outward in a brilliant lattice, wrapping around both of you like glowing chains. Your vision whited out, a broken cry of his name tearing from your throat.

Sukuna followed with a guttural roar that shook the shrine grounds. His hips stuttered, burying both cocks as deep as they would go while he spilled inside you. Hot, thick pulses from both lengths, filling you until it leaked out around him despite how tightly you were stretched.

He didn’t pull out.

Instead he kept you impaled on both cocks, four arms wrapping fully around your smaller frame as he carried you away from the pillar. He laid you down on the wet grass beneath the torii, still buried deep, covering you with his massive body like a living shield.

Rain continued to fall, but his heat kept you warm.

You reached up, tracing the markings on his face with gentle fingers, tears mixing with rain on your cheeks.

“I remember everything now,” you whispered. “The battles. The nights. The way they tried to break you by taking me. I told you I’d find you again… and I did.”

Sukuna’s forehead pressed to yours, all four eyes half-lidded with something dangerously close to tenderness beneath the raw hunger.

“You kept your promise, little star,” he murmured, voice rough but softer than you had ever heard it. One hand stroked through your wet hair while another rested possessively over your lower stomach, where you could still feel both cocks twitching inside you. “Now you wear my crown again. Rule beside me. The world once tried to separate us. It failed.”

You smiled, pulling him down into another deep kiss.

“Then remind me one more time tonight,” you whispered against his lips, rolling your hips to feel both cocks shift inside you. “Make me scream your name until the whole city hears who I belong to.”

His grin was feral.

“Gladly.”

He started moving again. Slower this time, deep and deliberate, both cocks dragging against every oversensitive inch. Four hands explored every curve, every mark he left behind. The stomach mouth licked the rainwater from your skin while he fucked you through another orgasm, then another, until you were sobbing with pleasure beneath him.

Only when the rain finally began to ease did he spill inside you a second time, both cocks pulsing as he marked you from the inside out.

Afterward he pulled you against his chest with all four arms, the gold circlet. Somehow still with him after all this time, now resting once more in your damp hair.

You traced idle patterns on his skin, fingers following the black tattoos you had memorized lifetimes ago.

“I chose you then,” you said softly. “I choose you again. In this life. In every life.”

Sukuna’s arms tightened around you, possessive and eternal.

“And I will burn every world that tries to take you from me,” he vowed.

The King of Curses and his Queen lay together beneath the clearing sky, two bodies. One ancient and monstrous, one reborn in starfire, finally whole again.

The world had failed once.

It would not get another chance.