#suk

WC. 22k

𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

You were halfway down the frozen path when you saw him. At first, just a shape—dark against the pale stretch of snow and cedar roots—something your tired eyes wanted to turn into a fallen branch. 

You slowed, sandals crunching softly, the cold biting through your sleeves. The air held that quiet that only comes before snowfall, where even your breath felt too loud.  

And then you saw the body.  

He was sprawled beneath the cedar, limbs at impossible angles, skin glistening wet in the half-light. For a heartbeat you thought he wasn’t human at all. Four arms—four—and a face that looked wrong in ways your mind tried to rearrange and couldn’t. Too many lines, too many mouths carved where there shouldn’t be. You nearly turned back right then, heart leaping up into your throat, because whatever he was, he wasn’t something you were meant to find.  

You found him bleeding beneath a cedar tree, the smell of iron thick enough to sting your eyes.  

At first you thought he was already dead. His body lay twisted against the roots, too still, skin torn open in places no man should survive. You stood there longer than you meant to, breath fogging in the cold, waiting for the rise of his chest.  

When it moved, slow and deliberate, your heart stuttered.  

You should have left him.  

That was the sensible thing. 

Everyone knew the roads were dangerous—bandits, war, things people whispered about and pretended not to believe. But the way his blood soaked into the snow felt wrong to abandon. Like leaving a prayer unfinished.  

So you dragged him home.  

It took longer than you thought. He was heavy, impossibly so, his body warm despite the cold. His weight was uneven—it kept pulling you sideways, forcing you to stop and readjust your grip every few steps. The night wind bit at your face, and the frozen ground scraped under your sandals. 

You muttered apologies under your breath the entire way, as if he could hear you. 

By the time you reached your house—small, traditional, tucked away from the village—your arms burned and your hands were shaking.  

You paused just inside the door, chest heaving, unsure what to do with the impossibility you’d carried home. The faint lamplight made the blood on your sleeves look almost black.  

You laid him on your futon and cleaned him as best you could.  

The wounds didn’t make sense. Cuts too deep. Flesh torn like something had tried to pull him apart. And yet… no rot. No smell of death. His skin was smooth beneath the blood, unnaturally unblemished once you wiped it away. 

The fabric stuck to his skin at first, each movement peeling away dried blood with the soft tear of cloth. He didn’t move. You caught yourself glancing at his chest—half expecting that awful stillness again.  

It took hours. The water grew pink, then red, then nearly clear again as you replaced it. The scent of iron filled the small room until you could almost taste it on your tongue. Your hands trembled, your knuckles numb from scrubbing. Somewhere between one breath and the next, the exhaustion faded into something else—something quieter, unsteady.  

For days he didn’t move, not even to stir in his sleep. You changed the cloth at his side, traced the edges of those strange black markings that wound across his arms and chest like ink that breathed. You told yourself it was curiosity, nothing more—that if you stared long enough, you’d understand what kind of man could bleed like that and still live. But the markings seemed to shift in the low light, curling almost imperceptibly toward your touch. You stopped mentioning them aloud after that.  

Sometimes, when you forgot he was a stranger, you almost spoke to him. Just small things—the weather, the chill, the sound of the river below your house. You never did. But the words hovered in your throat, waiting.  

His extra limbs didn’t make sense either, but maybe you felt that you didn’t want to know what kind of monster you were welcoming into your home.

He woke suddenly.  

One moment you were wringing out a cloth, the next a hand clamped around your neck with crushing force. The sound you made wasn’t even a word—just air, caught and broken.  

“Who are you,” he rasped.  

You gasped, pain shooting up your body. The cloth slipped from your hand, hitting the floor with a wet slap. His eyes were open now—sharp, glowing faintly in the lantern light. Not frightened. Not confused. Furious.  

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered. “You were hurt.”  

His gaze dragged over you, slow and vicious, lips curling. “You think I need help from something like you?”  

Something like you. 

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t pull away. “You would have died.”  

A laugh tore from him, rough and ugly. “You should pray I don’t kill you for dragging me here.”  

He meant it. You could feel it in the way his grip tightened, bones creaking beneath his fingers. You could smell the iron of his blood and the heat of his breath, close enough to taste.  

And yet—he let go.  

You stumbled back, rubbing at your neck, lungs burning as the air rushed in again. His glare followed you, unwavering, as if you were the intruder here and not him.  

You told yourself you hadn’t made a mistake.  

You told yourself you weren’t afraid.  

Neither felt true.  

You stood outside longer than you’d meant to, the night pulling at your breath. When your hands finally stopped shaking, you filled the basin again. The water steamed faintly against the cold, pale ribbons curling upward into the dark. The lantern in the house flickered through the paper screens.  

When you slid the door open again, you froze.  

The futon was empty.  

The blood-stained cloths lay scattered where you’d left them, but the man—the thing—was gone. Only the air felt disturbed, faintly warmer than before. You scanned the corners, your own heartbeat crashing in your ears. He couldn’t have moved far. Not with wounds like his. Not after—  

But there were no footprints in the threshold’s dust. Only the faint, distorted shape of where he had lain.  

The silence pressed in strange and heavy, like the house itself was holding its breath.  

The waterfall roared in the distance, a low thunder filling the canyon. Mist clung to the rocks like breath. Uraume stood near the edge, pale hair damp, her expression unreadable as always. She bowed slightly when he appeared from the shadows of the cedar grove, blood still faintly marking his chest.  

“My lord,” she murmured, eyes flicking over the faint traces of his injuries. “You should not be moving yet.”  

Sukuna’s mouth twisted into the ghost of a grin. “I tire of being pitied.”  

He stepped closer, leaning one shoulder against a boulder slick with moss. The tattoos across his body darkened and pulsed, faintly alive in the moonlight. The wind caught the edges of his voice—low, deliberate, almost amused. “What do you know of the weapon they used?”  

Uraume’s gaze dropped. “Not much. It was old. Ancient. I don’t know how they came to wield it.” She hesitated, then added softly, “Once it has taken a life, it cannot be used again.”  

The sound that came from him was not quite laughter—just a rough exhale shaped like one. “Very good.”  

He looked past her, to where the water fell into a basin far below, white foam catching moonlight like fragments of glass. “They won’t look for me here. The villagers think this forest haunted. Let them keep their fear.”  

Uraume dipped her head. “And the woman?”  

Sukuna’s grin widened, sharp. “She’s ordinary,” he said. “Harmless. And foolish enough to bring me to her home.” He flexed one of his four hands, slow and thoughtful, tracing where the veins glowed faintly beneath his skin. “Her presence will serve its purpose.”  

“And what purpose is that, my lord?”  

He chuckled low under his breath. “To heal me. Love is a temple for fools, but it bleeds power all the same. I’ll make her fall for me—and when she does, that purity will mend what their blade could not.”  

Uraume’s expression didn’t change, but her grip on her cloak tightened. The sound of the water swallowed the rest of their words.  

Somewhere beyond the trees, the woman’s lamplight flickered in a tiny window, unaware that the monster she saved was already plotting the ruin of her heart.  

“ I shall use the body of a mortal with two arms to make it easier.”

You didn’t mean to go after him.  

At least, that’s what you told yourself while you pulled on your shawl and stepped into the freezing dark. 

The wind smelled of cedar and smoke, and every sound—the creak of branches, the hiss of your breath—felt louder than it should have. You followed the faint trail of blood the way someone might follow a prayer, too desperate to stop.  

The forest seemed different at night. The trees leaned close, their roots twisting like bone. You whispered his name once, low and careful, though you weren’t sure why—he wasn’t the kind of man who answered.  

When the ground suddenly dropped away beneath your feet, it happened too fast to think. One wrong step, the world lurching, your body pitching forward toward the unseen cliff edge—  

And then hands caught your waist.  

Strong, unyielding, skin warm against the cold. You gasped as the motion stopped, his grip steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The only sound was the rush of water far below and your own breath trembling in the space between you.  

He stared down at you, expression unreadable. His hair was damp, the faint sheen of mist glinting against the markings along his arms.  

“Stupid,” he muttered, the word sharp but quiet.  

You swallowed hard, realizing too late how close you’d come to dying. “You—” Your voice broke; you tried again. “You were gone.”  

His gaze flickered sideways, the corner of his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I needed air.”  

He stepped back, releasing you, but his fingers lingered a moment longer than they should have, pressing faint warmth through the thin fabric at your side.  

The moonlight spilled through the branches in fractured silver, catching in his hair. You kept your eyes forward, your heartbeat still uneven from more than the near fall.  

You knelt before him out of habit—careful, cautious—and reached for the cloth from your pouch.  

“Let me see,” you said quietly.  

He didn’t argue. He only watched you as you pressed the clean wrap against his side, your fingers tracing the edge of a wound that already looked half-healed. The skin beneath the blood was unnervingly perfect.  

“Where did you really go?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.  

Sukuna’s eyes met yours, glittering faintly in the dim light. “I told you,” he said, smooth and deliberate. “I needed air.”  

You held his gaze a second too long, searching for truth where there was none. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, and the room filled again with that quiet, dangerous stillness that always seemed to follow him.  

They walked back together in silence.  

The forest seemed even darker now, each sound sharpened by the cold night. You walked ahead, glancing back only once to make sure he was following. He was—quiet, measured steps, the whisper of fabric and the faint creak of leather. But you could feel his eyes on you.  

Every time the moon broke through the canopy, you caught him in the corner of your vision—his expression calm, unreadable, gaze tracing your form as you led the way down the narrow path. It wasn’t the look of someone grateful. It was heavier than that, darker, the kind of attention that made your skin heat despite the cold air.  

You told yourself to ignore it. You focused on the crunching  of snow beneath your sandals, on the mist rising from the ground, on the sound of the river that would soon guide you home. But when you stumbled, his hand brushed your lower back, steadying you, and even after you moved again you could still feel the heat of his palm.  

By the time you reached your house, your heartbeat had quieted—mostly. You gathered extra blankets and laid them out on the tatami near the low table, building him a makeshift bed while he stood in the doorway, watching. His shadow lingered across the paper screens, tall and unyielding, like a warning that didn’t need words.  

“I made porridge,” you said finally, your voice quiet. “You should eat something warm.”  

He sat when you motioned to the table, his movements deliberate, graceful in a way that made you nervous. 

You poured the bowls, the steam curling between you, and for a few long minutes neither spoke. Only the faint clink of ceramic and the scratch of wood against the tatami broke the stillness.  

He took a small bite, watching the steam curl away from the bowl. You did the same, eyes on your hands because looking at him felt impossible. The silence grew heavy—almost human, but not. It filled the room like thick air before rain.  

It was him who broke it. “I shouldn’t have…” He stopped, his jaw tensing. His eyes flicked toward your throat—the bruise shadowed there, dark and thin. “When I woke up.”  

You hesitated, then shook your head. “It’s fine. I would’ve done the same if I woke up somewhere I didn’t know.”  

Something in his expression shifted—amusement maybe, or something close to it. The corner of his mouth almost turned upward before he looked away again, the sound of his quiet exhale slipping past you like smoke.  

You finished first and stood. “You should rest. I’ll keep a lamp burning.”  

He said nothing as you carried your bowl to the basin. When you glanced back, his eyes followed you until you disappeared behind the thin paper wall.  

You fell asleep quickly—exhaustion more than comfort.  

He didn’t.  

When the night grew still enough that even the insects had gone quiet, Sukuna rose from where he sat. The food still sat uneasily in his stomach, wrong in a way that made his chest tighten. He moved out into the cold, leaned against a cedar, and with a quiet snarl forced himself to vomit the porridge into the dirt. The scent of it—human, mortal—made his lip curl.  

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Hunger soon followed. The kind he couldn’t silence.  

He left silently, his steps light despite his size, and made his way toward the village. 

By dawn, his bloodlust had settled, and the forest seemed alive again with motion. He cleaned the crimson from his fingers in the river before returning, leaving no trace except the faint metallic scent clinging to him.  

When morning came, you found him sitting where you’d left him, half-reclined, eyes closed. For a moment, he looked peaceful. But when you bent to adjust his blanket, your fingers brushed something wet—dark, sticky. Blood.  

You frowned, instinctively reaching for a clean cloth. He didn’t move as you dabbed at his chest, but you could feel his gaze following your every motion, quiet, unreadable.  

Later, stepping outside to fetch water, you froze. There—just beyond the trees—was a faint trail. Broken branches. Footprints. You hesitated, setting the basin down and walking slower now, the hem of your robe brushing across wet moss. The air cooled against your skin the closer you got to the sound of rushing water.  

A waterfall shimmered through the mist ahead, its spray catching the morning light in fragments. As you neared it, the trail widened into a small clearing. You stopped at the edge, your breath catching.  

There was a campsite—unearthed and half-collapsed, bedrolls pressed into the ground, firepit long cold. 

You turned slowly, eyes scanning the scattered embers, the footprints, and then—off through the trees—you saw your home below. Perfectly framed from this spot.  

A chill crawled down your spine. Someone had been watching.  

That was when you heard it: the faintest crunch of gravel behind you.  

You turned too quickly—your heart lunging into your throat—and nearly stumbled. He stood there, not a sound betraying his arrival, arms folded loosely across his chest. His expression was casual, but his eyes—sharp, knowing—carried something unreadable.  

“This is where you came to get fresh air?” you asked, breathless, trying to mask your pulse with steady words.  

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You catch on quickly.”  

The sound of the waterfall drowned the rest, the mist curling between you like a secret neither of you wanted to name.  

You didn’t ask any more questions on the walk back.  

He followed behind you again, silent as before, but this time you could feel something different in the air. The forest seemed heavier. Even the sound of the waterfall faded slower, like the world itself hesitated to let him go.  

When you returned home, he went wordlessly to the futon and sat, elbows on his knees, head bowed as if the walk had tired him. You pretended not to notice the streak of red along his jawbone that hadn’t been there before.  

You poured what was left of the morning’s water into a basin and dipped the cloth in, twisting it tight before kneeling beside him.  

“Hold still,” you murmured, your voice steadier than your pulse.  

He said nothing, his gaze fixed somewhere just past your shoulder as you pressed the damp cloth to his skin. The blood came away too easily—too fresh. Beneath the mark, his skin was smooth, untouched, the wound that had once been there completely gone.  

“You’re healing quickly,” you said before you could stop yourself.  

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at you. Only exhaled through his nose, slow and faintly amused, as though the fact were meaningless.  

You drew the cloth back to rinse it again and noticed a streak of something darker staining the water. Not red exactly. Almost black. You blinked, unsure if it was the lantern’s shadow or something else.  

When you glanced back at him, he was watching you.  

“What is it?” he asked softly.  

“Nothing,” you said too quickly.  

You stood, taking the basin outside to discard the water. 

The breeze met you cool and damp, tugging at the sleeves of your robe. You poured the water out slowly, watching the dark ribbon of it snake through the soil.  

And yet—you couldn’t shake the image of that mark on his chest, the way it seemed to pulse when you touched it, almost like it breathed under your fingers.  

Inside, he was quiet again, sitting exactly where you had left him—still, attentive, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.  

You didn’t know if it was peace or danger that hung in the air. You only knew it was waiting for you to decide.  

That night, the wind pressed against the screens in long, uneven sighs. 

You lay awake staring at the faint light seeping through the walls, listening to the steady rhythm of the house: the creak of wood, the rustle of loose paper, his breathing from the next room.

Then it stopped.

A soft shift, a whisper of movement across the floorboards. The sound of the door sliding open.

You didn’t turn. 

You didn’t sit up. 

You made your breaths slow and even, shallow enough to sound like sleep.  

The door slid open with a whisper, wood against wood. 

The cold came in first, then silence. You waited. Counted. 

When the air finally settled again, you opened your eyes to the pale stripe of moonlight spilling across the ceiling.  

So he did leave.  

You pushed the blanket aside and sat up, the night chill biting your skin. A strange calm spread through you—not fear exactly, but something sharper, measured. You’d felt it before when standing too close to a wild animal: awareness dressed as stillness. You’d known since that first night under the cedar that there was something wrong about him, something greater and older than flesh.  

But now you were sure.  

He wasn’t just wounded. He wasn’t just dangerous. He wasn’t human.

But you already knew that.

You stood and crossed the room, touching the spot where his futon sunk slightly under his weight just hours before. The air still held the faint trace of iron and smoke. It made your heartbeat quicken.  

You could have followed him—that thought flickered through your mind like a moth near flame. But you didn’t. Not yet. Instead, you whispered into the dark, “What are you?” though you knew there would be no answer.  

Still, you smiled faintly. The kind of smile born not from peace but from resolve.  

If he meant to hide what he was, he’d chosen the wrong house. You might be careful, but you weren’t naive. Not anymore.  

You went back inside, lay down again, and stared at the dark.

If he thought you were weak, ignorant, too kind to question—  

he’d misjudged you. 

Some part of you, quiet but certain, had already decided: you would uncover what he was, where he went, and why his eyes felt older than death itself.  

When the door opened again later, you didn’t move. The smell of the forest clung to him, damp and sharp, but you kept your breaths steady until he lay down once more. You listened to the stillness return, and for the first time, you didn’t feel afraid. 

                      ᣟ𐚁˳

Far from the village, beneath the white roar of the waterfall, Uraume waited. The mist hung low, turning everything pale and half-drowned in light. She didn’t turn when he approached—just lowered her head slightly in silent acknowledgment.  

“My lord.”  

Sukuna brushed past her, the water glittering across his shoulders. He looked toward the forest, his voice low and rough with amusement. “She’s not as dumb as I thought.”  

Uraume blinked once, sharp and even. “The woman?”  

“She heard me leave,” he said, flexing one hand idly, watching the black markings twist like veins. “Didn’t move, didn’t follow. She’s pretending not to notice. That sort of fear sits deep.” He paused, expression unreadable. “And it’s beginning to turn into curiosity.”  

Uraume’s tone was careful. “That could be a problem, my lord.”  

“No.” His grin was slight, but predatory. “It’ll only make things easier. She’ll look for answers, and I’ll let her find the ones I choose.”  

He crouched near the water’s edge, his reflection fractured by ripples. “She’s the kind that falls slowly, painfully. I’ll need to slow my healing if I’m going to make use of it.”  

Uraume’s gaze flicked up, faint worry breaking through her composure. “You would weaken yourself deliberately?”  

“For a short while.” He smiled, teeth catching the moonlight. “Pure affection feeds stronger than fear. And I’ll need that power before I face the sorcerers again.”  

The waterfall boomed behind them, scattering their voices into mist.  

He rose, brushing water from his hands. “Keep watching from here. Don’t get seen.”  

When he vanished into the trees, Uraume stayed where she was, staring in the direction of the small, lamp-lit house below—the one where the woman he spoke of had stopped sleeping so soundly.  

The morning came gray and soft. Mist clung low around the trees, dimming the edges of the world.  

You rose slower than usual, listening for him before you moved. He was still there—sitting by the window, bare-backed, watching the forest beyond the sliding screen. The tattoos along his shoulders gleamed faintly, almost alive in the pale light.  

“Did you sleep?” you asked. Your voice came out quiet, polite, like you weren’t testing anything at all.  

He didn’t turn. “Enough.”  

You watched the side of his face, the curve of his mouth as he spoke. No tiredness. No stiffness. Just stillness. You’d learned the rhythm of human bodies long ago—how they woke heavy, how breath dragged slower through morning air—but he didn’t move like that. He didn’t move like anything that slept.  

You went about your routine with deliberate calm. Boiled water. Laid new herbs out to dry. Set rice to cook. Small noises filled the house—warm, grounding sounds meant to make the day ordinary again. But your eyes returned to him again and again, tracking the slight, fractional ways he breathed.  

“I was thinking,” you said after a while, keeping your tone light, conversational. “You never told me where you’re from.”  

He turned then, leaning an elbow on his knee. “Does it matter?”  

“Maybe not,” you said, stirring the pot. “But people don’t end up bleeding in the woods for no reason.”  

A pause—barely perceptible, but long enough to make you glance up. His gaze met yours, sharp and assessing, but there was something under it too. Maybe amusement. Maybe respect.  

“Accidents happen,” he said finally. “Some worse than others.”  

You let the silence stretch after that, pacing your breath, your heartbeat. “And the markings?” You gestured loosely toward his arms, keeping your tone casual. “They don’t look like something I’ve seen before.”  

He smiled at that—small, curved, mocking. “They don’t belong to anything you’ve seen before.”  

It wasn’t an answer. But it was the closest thing to truth he’d given you yet.  

You turned back to the rice before he could see your expression. You could feel his eyes on you again, heavier now—no longer curious, but knowing.  

When you finally set breakfast down between you, neither of you ate right away. Steam rose between the bowls, curling in thin, silvery wisps.  

A simple morning, nothing unusual.  

Except for the question beating at the back of your mind: If he is In a form from when I first saw him, what is he—and why is he pretending to be?

You finished breakfast slower than usual, letting the silence stretch between each clink of the bowls. Sukuna ate mechanically, his movements too precise, the way his fingers curved around the chopsticks just slightly wrong.  

When the last of the food disappeared, you set your bowl down and wiped your hands on the towel beside you. For a moment you just sat there, watching him from across the table, the morning light running pale across his skin.  

The longer you stared, the harder it became to pretend. You’d seen what he looked like that first night—not just the tattoos, but the parts you hadn’t let yourself remember. The shape of him that didn’t belong to any man.  

“What’s up with your arms?” you asked suddenly.  

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look surprised—only raised his head slightly, eyes narrowing in quiet amusement.  

“My arms?”  

“Yes.” You straightened, heart pounding but voice steady. “You have four. Or—you did. The night I found you.”  

He tilted his head, watching your face rather than answering.  

“And your eyes,” you went on. “You have too many sometimes. And…” You hesitated, looking toward his chest, remembering blood and torn fabric, remembering the brief flash of teeth and a grinning mouth where there should’ve been none. “And there’s one on your stomach.”  

A smile touched his lips—delicate, mocking. “You remember a lot for someone who fainted before dawn.”  

You lifted your chin. “You’re not human, are you?”  

Silence followed. The kind that seemed to warp the air itself. He didn’t deny it, didn’t rush to fill the space with a lie. The steam from his untouched tea dissolved slowly between you.  

When he finally spoke, his voice was low—almost thoughtful.  

“Human,” he said, as though tasting the word. “No. But I’ve worn their shape long enough to pass. It amuses me.”  

You couldn’t look away. His eyes caught the light as he leaned closer, and for one dizzying second, you swore they weren’t eyes at all—just bottomless heat.  

“That frightens you?” he asked.  

You swallowed, forcing your throat to work. “It should.”  

He smiled wider this time, revealing none of his teeth but all of his intent. “Then you’re wiser than most.”  

Outside, a crow cried once, sharp and distant. Inside, the air didn’t move.  

You wanted to ask what he really was, to give that wrongness a name—but something in his expression told you you’d only get an answer when he wanted you to.  

And maybe, for now, it was enough just to know you’d been right. He wasn’t human—and he’d chosen to stay anyway.  

You thought that admitting it—saying aloud what you already knew—would bring relief.  

It didn’t.  

The words just hung there, heavy and alive in the still air.  

Sukuna didn’t move right away. He sat back against the wall, one hand draped over his knee, the morning light slipping down his shoulders in shifting stripes. He looked too calm for what he was, too human for what he’d just confessed. That, somehow, made it worse.  

“What happens now?” you asked finally.  

He arched a brow. “You tell me.”  

You stared at him, searching for any hint of mockery, but what you found instead was something subtler—curiosity. Not the kind humans wore, but a deep, patient kind, like a predator watching the way the light glinted off its prey before deciding when to strike.  

“I could tell the villagers,” you said quietly.  

“You won’t.”  

He said it without hesitation, as if he already knew the shape of your choices better than you did.  

You folded your hands in your lap. “You think you know me that well?”  

“I know people.” His tone softened with amusement. 

“Fear only keeps you frozen for so long. Then it turns into *want.*”  

You looked away, unsure whether you were angry or embarrassed—because he wasn’t wrong. You did want something. Not his presence, not the strange pull of his voice, but understanding. To look at him and know why he existed, what he really was.  

He rose then, unfolding to his full height, and for a moment you caught a glimpse of the faint outlines beneath his skin—something vast, restless, not meant for the shape it wore.  

He stepped closer until the edge of his shadow brushed your knee. “You could ask,” he said softly. “You could know more than anyone else alive.”  

You hesitated. “You’d tell me?”  

“Eventually.” He smiled again—perfect and wrong. “But only if I wish to.”  

You met his gaze, pulse climbing even as your breath stayed even. “Then I’ll find out myself.”  

The smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened, as though this answer pleased him more than it should have.  

“Good,” he murmured. “Curiosity makes for better company than fear.”  

He moved past you then, reaching for his cloak. The movement disturbed the air—subtle, electric—and when the door slid open again, he didn’t look back.  

You sat for a long moment after he left, staring at the empty cup between your hands. He’d given you nothing, and yet somehow it felt like permission to start looking for everything.  

The sound of the door closing was softer than his laughter that lingered in the air—a sound that made your chest tighten with something dangerously close to anticipation.  

          ᣟ𐚁˳

The day unfolded slow and thin, sunlight dripping through the trees like honey. The air outside the house was crisp, still carrying traces of last night’s mist.  

Sukuna had left again. You didn’t ask where. You’d simply heard the door close in the early morning and the forest swallow him whole.  

You spent hours pretending not to mind—hanging laundry, sweeping the porch, coaxing the fire to stay alive. Normal things. Quiet things. But the restlessness in you only grew sharper, like a whisper you couldn’t silence.  

Eventually, you followed it.  

You took the small path that wound behind your house, climbing over the uneven roots and cold moss. The forest smelled of cedar and earth, faintly metallic beneath the sweetness of the wind. Each step you took felt deliberate, as if breaking into a place that wasn’t meant to be seen by human eyes.  

The closer you got, the louder the waterfall’s voice became—a deep, pulsing roar that made your heartbeat echo in your throat.  

When you reached the clearing, you stopped.  

It looked almost the same as before: damp moss, the faint depression in the soil where someone had sat recently, and the ghost of old ashes in the firepit. But the sharpest details came slowly—the prints half-covered by leaves, too large, too heavy, and the faint metallic scent that lingered beneath the water’s spray.  

He came here often—there was no doubt. And someone else had too.  

You moved closer to the edge, crouching to trace the mark of a footstep pressed into the mud. Fresh. Hours old at most.  

When you lifted your head, the hair prickled at the back of your neck. The waterfall framed the world in constant motion, the mist chilling your face—but beneath the sound of crashing water, you could almost swear you heard voices. A whisper of them.  

You turned to follow it, stepping carefully among slick rocks and scattered leaves. Behind the falls, the stone curved inward slightly, dark and cool—a hollow space hidden from plain sight.  

Inside was nothing but damp stone and marks gouged deep into it—patterns like claws, spirals fading into each other. You brushed your fingers across one. The surface was cold but hummed faintly beneath your hand, like the echo of something once alive.  

You drew back quickly, heart hammering.  

Whatever he was hiding here, it wasn’t simply rest.  

You stepped back out into the sunlight, squinting against the glare—and froze. From where you stood, the line of the trees broke to reveal your home below. The angle was perfect. The same view from the campsite she’d seen before.  

Someone had been watching again. Maybe still was.  

The thought made you turn, scanning the treeline. The forest felt too quiet, the light too sharp. Then, faint and distant, you heard the sound of boots against stone.  

He was coming back.  

You didn’t run. You didn’t even hide. You simply stood there, hands stiff at your sides, waiting—because part of you wanted to see if he’d admit it himself, or if he’d still pretend the truth could be hidden that easily.  

You didn’t move when you heard him approach.  

The sound came first—a faint, measured rhythm, boots against stone, rustle of fabric through branches. Then silence. He didn’t rush. He didn’t hide. He wanted you to know he was there.  

When he finally stepped into view, the sunlight caught the edge of his hair and the markings curling across his skin. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between irritation and intrigue.  

“Curious little thing,” he said, voice low, almost warm. “You wander far for someone who claims not to fear me.”  

You turned to face him fully, the wind catching strands of your hair. “I wanted to see where you go when you disappear.”  

His eyes slid briefly toward the hollow behind the waterfall, then back to you. “And now that you’ve seen it?”  

“I know you’re hiding something.”  

He smiled, slow and deliberate—the kind of smile that made your stomach twist because it wasn’t denial. “Everyone hides something.”  

You shook your head. “Not like this. There are marks carved into the stone inside. I could feel them humming. What are they?”  

He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, like the pull of a tide you couldn’t fight. “Old things,” he murmured. “Older than you can imagine. You wouldn’t understand.”  

“Try me.”  

That amused him. “You sound certain.”  

“I’ve lived enough to know what death smells like,” you said quietly. “And it’s all over this place. Whatever you are, it isn’t resting here. It’s feeding.”  

For a moment, he said nothing. The wind snapped between you, carrying the mist from the falls. Then his grin thinned. “You’re not as helpless as I thought.”  

You tilted your chin up. “And you’re not as clever. You said it yourself—I’d start asking questions.”  

He laughed softly, a low sound that almost blended with the water. “True. But you won’t stop, will you?”  

You shook your head once. “You came here to heal from something stronger than me. I just want to know why me.”  

He stepped in close enough that the spray of water hit both of you, his shadow swallowing the light around your feet. “Because,” he said, voice a whisper against the noise of the falls, “you touched me without fear, and something like that has power. You gave me a place I could crawl back into the world.”  

You searched his face, your pulse in your throat. “That’s not an answer.”  

“It’s the only one you’ll get.”  

And with that, he turned from you, his robes snapping in the cold air, heading back toward the forest path.  

You stood staring after him, breathing hard. The sound of the waterfall filled the silence he left behind, and you realized it wasn’t fear keeping you in place anymore. It was the promise that there was more to find—if you were willing to reach for it.  

By the time you made it back home, the sun had already started to fade behind the tree line. 

The air smelled faintly of rain, and your clothes clung to your skin from the mist. You cleaned yourself in silence, trying not to think of the conversation by the waterfall, the way his eyes had looked when he told you half-truths in a voice that sounded like honesty.

The house felt too quiet.

You lit the lamp, swept the floor, rearranged things that didn’t need rearranging—anything to give your hands something to do. When the door finally slid open again, you didn’t turn.

He entered without announcement. The rustle of his steps drew slow circles around the room before he finally sat, watching you.

“You’re overworking yourself,” he said softly.

You pressed the cloth harder into the floorboards, ignoring him.

He chuckled low in his throat. “The silent treatment, then.”

You didn’t answer. You just kept cleaning, the rhythm of your motions sharp and methodical. But you felt his gaze—steady, heavy, tracing the movement of your body as you shifted. The air thickened under it, a strange heat curling over your spine.

When he finally moved, it was too fast to predict. One moment you were bent forward, twisting the cloth; the next, his arm circled your waist and drew you backward until you landed against him.

You froze, breath catching, surprised by the sudden closeness—and by how easily he’d pulled you in. His strength wasn’t human; it never had been.

“Let me go,” you murmured, still breathless.

He didn’t. He only adjusted his hold, one hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face before tucking it behind your ear. His touch lingered against your cheek, deceptively gentle. When he spoke, his voice was warm but edged.

“I’m not lying,” he said. “There’s no one I’m meeting. No one waiting in the woods.”

Your stomach twisted. You turned your head slightly to look at him. 

“I didn’t say I thought you were.”

His smile deepened—quiet, knowing. “You didn’t have to.”

You pushed against his chest, and when he loosened his grip, you stood, frowning at him. 

“Just leave, Sukuna.”

He rose too, unhurried. “Is that what you want?”

“I said leave.”

You barely saw his hand before it caught your wrist. Not hard enough to hurt—but enough to pull you back. 

You gasped, startled, your pulse racing as his fingers slid up to catch the ends of your hair. His grip tightened —fingers tangling in it, not gently now, drawing you closer until his breath brushed your skin.

He pulled until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. The force wasn’t cruel, but the anger behind it trembled like a storm held barely in check.

The anger you’d expected wasn’t there in his expression. 

Only something deep and unreadable.

His jaw tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice was rougher, torn between control and fury.

“You doubt me,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Even after everything.”

He watched your face, then slowly lifted his hand to your neck. 

The pressure wasn’t hard, but the strength there—the sheer reminder of what he could do—made your heartbeat twist painfully.

You stared up at him, expecting the next moment to shatter.

You gasped—a small, startled sound—and he froze, every muscle gone still.

But then he exhaled, long and heavy, forcing his grip to soften.

For a moment, it felt like the world narrowed to that single line of contact—his palm warm, your heart stumbling against it. 

The silence between you broke like glass.  

His hand was still at your throat when his restraint finally snapped. With a low breath that wasn’t quite a growl, he turned and threw you back—not cruelly, but fast enough that the air left your lungs.  

You hit the futon, stunned, the shock of it ringing through your ribs. Your robe slipped against the movement, the loosened tie falling just wide enough to reveal a hint of the skin beneath. The lanternlight caught it briefly—a pale shimmer, the shape of your heartbeat visible just under the hollow of your collarbone.  

Then he was there—above you. His shadow swallowed the lamplight as he leaned closer, caging you in with one arm pressing into the tatami beside your head.  

Your pulse thudded in your neck; you could feel it where his hand had just been. “What are you doing?” The words escaped before you could think.  

For a long second, he didn’t answer. His gaze moved—not lingered, not cruel, just undeniably aware. Then, almost too calmly, he reached down and pulled the robe back across your chest, closing it with deliberate care.  

His hand stayed there for a moment, flattening the fabric in place before sliding, slow, to the edge of the blanket.  

“You’re exhausted,” he said finally, voice low, threaded with something calmer now. “You don’t listen.”  

He tugged the blanket over you, one motion that felt too gentle for what had come before. You started to speak, but his tone quieted you before the words could form.  

“Enough,” he murmured, tucking the cover in near your shoulder. “Sleep. I’ll give you your answers when you wake—but only if you stop fighting me for a while.”  

You stared up at him, breath shallow, searching his face for meaning. Under the sharpness there was something steadier, almost—protective.  

You didn’t believe him. Not entirely. But his voice had that low, final tone that wrapped around your will and stilled it.

Some part of you knew that letting your guard down around him was dangerous. But another part—the part pulled tight with curiosity and something harder to name—wanted to see if he’d keep his promise.

The last thing you felt was the weight of his gaze, steady and unblinking, as the world slipped into dark.

ᣟ𐚁˳

The morning light crawled across the floorboards in thin, golden lines.  

You woke slowly, your body stiff, wrapped tight in the blanket he’d left around you. The house was cold again—the kind of cold that seeps from still air and stone floors after a night too long.  

For a moment, you thought he’d gone. But when you turned your head, he was sitting across the room, back to the wall, eyes half-closed like he’d been watching for hours.  

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, the cover slipping slightly from your shoulder. “You’re still here.”  

He hummed, low and amused. “You say that like you wanted me gone.”  

You frowned, wary, your voice quieter when you spoke. “You said you’d give me answers.”  

“I did.” He rose in one smooth motion, the folds of his robe whispering against the tatami. He moved closer, crouching beside where you sat. “The question is—are you ready to hear them?”  

You met his gaze, your heartbeat quick but even. “I’m done pretending I’m not.”  

Something flickered behind his eyes—approval, maybe, or a warning. “Good.”  

He reached out his hand, not to touch you this time but to draw something invisible in the air between you. A faint shimmer trailed after his fingers, a ripple like heat bending light. The markings across his arms darkened, alive again with faint movement.  

“What you call a curse,” he began, voice low, steady as the sound of distant wind, “is only power without reason. It feeds on what humans leave behind—fear, love, hate. I’ve worn all three longer than you’ve been alive.”  

You swallowed. “So what are you?”  

He tilted his head slightly. “A god that was worshipped, once. Then a monster when humans forgot how to fear properly.”  

The words settled between you, sharp and heavy.  

You should have been terrified. And maybe a part of you was—but another part couldn’t look away.  

“And you’re healing here,” you said slowly, thinking of the symbols under the waterfall, the air that pulsed around his presence. “Using me.”  

His smile was faint, unreadable. “Not using. Borrowing.”  

You stood a little too quickly, the blanket falling entirely now. “There’s a difference?”  

“There is,” he said. “Borrowing ends when I choose to return what’s owed.”  

You searched his face for mockery, but there was none this time—only truth, raw and unapologetic.  

And behind it, something almost human flickered for a moment. Something that looked perilously like care.  

He broke the silence first, standing to his full height. “Eat,” he said, glancing toward the small kitchen space. “You’ll think clearer with food.”  

You didn’t move. “And if I don’t?”  

He met your eyes and smiled again—a flash of white teeth and something older than patience. “Then I’ll feed you myself.”  

It wasn’t a threat. But it wasn’t mercy either.  

Still, for the first time since finding him beneath that cedar tree, you felt something steadier than fear settle in your chest: curiosity sharpened into resolve.  

You would eat. You would watch.  

And you would learn what it meant to stand beside something like him without being devoured.  

The rest of the morning passed in uneasy calm.  

You did as he said—ate what little you’d prepared the night before, the simple rhythm of it grounding you more than the food itself. He didn’t touch his portion. He only sat across from you, silent, elbows on his knees, eyes trained on the window as if he could see something beyond the walls.  

You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his body seemed to blur slightly at the edges when the light hit just right, how every movement felt deliberate, purposeful, like a ritual in itself. Even sitting still, he carried a kind of gravity that bent the space around him.  

When you stepped outside later, the forest felt different.  

It wasn’t something you could explain

just an awareness, an edge to the stillness. The air hummed faintly like a string plucked too softly to make a sound yet impossible not to feel. The birds didn’t sing. Even the wind seemed careful where it passed.  

You crouched near the small garden tucked beside the porch. The herbs you’d planted there had grown overnight in the snow

stems straighter, leaves larger, their scent stronger. You brushed your fingers against the petals, and a thin trace of energy prickled up your arm.  

When you glanced back through the door, Sukuna was watching you.  

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable. “They respond to energy,” he said, as if reading the thought you hadn’t spoken.  

“Yours?”  

“Everything’s mine when I’m near enough,” he said simply. “The world remembers what it was made to bow to. Even if it’s forgotten the name.”  

You turned back to the flowers, your stomach tight with something between fear and awe. “And what name was that?”  

He smiled faintly. “You couldn’t pronounce it.”  

You frowned, looking over your shoulder. “Try me.”  

He didn’t. He only watched you a moment longer before stepping down onto the porch beside you. The wood flexed slightly beneath his weight; every shift of air seemed to follow him. He crouched, picked a single sprig from the dirt, and rolled it between his fingers.  

The leaf blackened instantly, curling in on itself before it turned to ash. He blew on it lightly, and the ash scattered without a trace.  

“Life or death,” he said, glancing back at you. “Creation is just direction. Point the energy one way, it grows. Point it another, it ends.”  

You couldn’t look away from his hand. “Then what direction are you pointing me?”  

He smiled again—soft, but sharp enough to cut. “Haven’t decided yet.”  

The breeze moved through the clearing, stirring your hair.  

Later, when you were alone again, you found yourself tracing those same herbs, watching how their leaves trembled faintly under your touch. You didn’t know if it was the wind that made them move—or if they, too, had started to recognize you as something shaped by him.  

ᣟ𐚁˳

The evening settled thick and slow, sunlight spilling away in long ribbons until only the color of fire remained behind the trees.  

You finished your chores early and lit a single lantern by the door. The shadows stretched long across the tatami, their edges blurring with every flicker of the flame.  

Sukuna hadn’t spoken much since morning. He lingered near the porch, silent and watchful, eyes fixed on the forest as if listening to something beneath ordinary sound. More than once, you caught the low hum of something in his throat — not speech, not even language, but a vibration that made the hairs on your neck lift.  

By the time the lantern guttered down and dusk bled into full dark, that hum had gone quiet. You might have thought he’d left again, except that the house still felt… full. Pressurized. Every creak of wood sounded deliberate, every breath drawn from air that belonged to him.  

You sat near the hearth, staring into the thin flame until it wavered. Then, just outside, came a whisper.  

It wasn’t a voice exactly — more like the sound of wind pressed too hard through leaves, low, curling, almost like your name.  

You stood.  

“Sukuna?”  

No answer.  

You stepped onto the porch, the air colder than it should have been. The forest looked wrong now — too still. The mist lingering at the tree’s base moved like it had weight.  

When you leaned forward, you swore something shifted in that fog, the shape almost like a person before it dissolved again. The sound came back — faint, rolling down from the direction of the waterfall. Words, but not in any language you knew.  

Then you blinked, and the sound stopped.  

“What are you doing out here?”  

His voice came from behind, close enough that it startled you. You turned sharply to find him standing in the doorway, lamplight outlining his form. He hadn’t moved silently — you just hadn’t heard him at all.  

“There’s something out there,” you said, eyes still scanning the trees.  

His gaze followed yours, and for a moment, that same unnatural quiet returned. Then he smiled — not kindly.  

“There always is.”  

You looked back at him, heart still thudding. “What was it?”  

He stepped closer, his expression smoothing into calm. “Whispers follow places where power gathers,” he said softly. “This forest remembers more than you think.”  

“And they’re following you?”  

He didn’t deny it. His hand came to rest lightly on the doorframe beside you, his shadow folding over yours.  

“They follow anyone who stands too close to me,” he said. “You’ve noticed that by now.”  

You stared at him, realizing just how cold the night had grown — how even the frogs had stopped singing.  

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered.  

“You didn’t have to,” he murmured. “It’s already listening to you too.”  

The way he said it made something inside your chest shift — like the air itself had changed shape around your breath.  

Behind him, the lamp flickered once and went out, leaving the forest and the house both swallowed by the same dark.  

The dark lingered longer than it should have. The forest outside was silent, and the lamp still refused to catch flame again no matter how many times you struck the flint. You sighed, sitting back on your heels, the chill crawling up through the floorboards.  

Behind you came the faint whisper of fabric. “You’ll shake the whole house trying to force it,” Sukuna said, voice low, edged with laughter.  

“I’d rather have light than your jokes.”  

“You have both now,” he said, and when you turned, he was standing there with an open hand. Flame curled lazily over his palm — soft red, not bright, steady like a heartbeat.  

You blinked. “You could’ve done that the whole time?”  

“You didn’t ask.”  

He leaned down and set the fire to the lamp’s wick. The glow rose slow, spilling across his face, and for the first time, he didn’t look so monstrous. The red in his eyes caught the light like melted lacquer.  

He stayed close longer than needed. You could feel the warmth of him against your shoulder, the strange calm that came with it — a heat that didn’t burn but hummed beneath your skin.  

“I forget how fragile you are sometimes,” he said quietly.  

You turned, not sure whether to take offense or laugh. “That’s not a compliment.”  

“It wasn’t meant to be.” His mouth curved, but his eyes didn’t hold the usual cruelty. “It’s a reminder.”  

You tilted your head. “Of what?”  

“That even things meant to destroy can… hesitate.”  

The words hung there, softer than you’d thought he was capable of.  

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached up — tentative, cautious — and brushed your fingertips along one of the markings at his wrist. The skin there was fever-warm, almost pulsing.  

For once, he didn’t pull away.  

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was the kind that holds its breath.  

You realized you were both still leaning too close — his arm propped on the wall beside your head, your heartbeat echoing too clearly to be hidden.  

His voice broke the quiet again, low enough to barely disturb it. “Careful,” he said. “Curiosity can become devotion if you stare too long.”  

You smiled, small but sure. “Maybe devotion isn’t always a bad thing.”  

He looked down at you — the flame caught between your faces — and for one fragile heartbeat, it felt like something unspoken had begun to shift.  

Not tenderness exactly. But the beginning of it.  

The light from the lamp swayed between you, soft and golden, painting the walls in slow movement. The house always felt small when he was near — like his presence filled every inch of air — but now it felt different. Quieter.  

You exhaled slowly. “You talk like you’ve seen everything,” you said. “But you sound surprised. Why?”  

He studied you, faint amusement flickering through his expression. “Because it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me without praying or screaming.”  

You smiled faintly, your voice steady despite the tremor that wanted to enter it. “I didn’t think you cared what anyone thought.”  

“I don’t,” he said, though it came softer than he meant it to. “But indifference is a hard habit to keep when someone looks at you and doesn’t run.”  

You didn’t look away. “You make it sound like staying is brave.”  

“It is.”  

The room fell still again. Outside, the forest shifted — a sigh, the faint call of wind through the cedar tops — and it was enough to draw your attention for just a moment. When you glanced back, he’d moved closer again, slower this time, deliberate but without the sharpness from before.  

His hand reached out, hesitated, then simply rested against your shoulder. The weight of it wasn’t demanding. It was almost grounding.  

“You should sleep,” he murmured. “You’ll keep watching otherwise. Trying to understand me in a single night.”  

You tilted your head toward his hand. “And if I don’t sleep?”  

He traced a small motion with his thumb, the slightest pressure. “Then you’ll end up dreaming with your eyes open.”  

Something like a laugh slipped out of you. “You’re terrible at being reassuring.”  

“I’m not trying to reassure you,” he said. “I’m warning you.”  

You turned slightly, until his hand slid away but his gaze stayed locked with yours. The air between you seemed suspended, a single breath away from breaking.  

“Then stop warning me,” you said softly. “Just don’t lie.”  

The look that crossed his face wasn’t a smile or a frown; it was something in-between, something almost human. “I’ll try,” he said. It was the closest to a promise you’d ever heard from him.  

When you finally lay down, you left the lamp burning — its light thin and wavering. Through your half-lidded eyes, you saw him move once more, quietly sitting by the door, back to you but close enough to see every rise and fall of your breath.  

You thought you’d never sleep with him there. But you did.  

And when your dreams came, they were full of cedar trees, crimson light, and the sound of a voice that no longer frightened you.  

ᣟ𐚁˳

Morning light slipped through the shoji panels, pale and calm after the long night.  

For once, the forest outside sounded alive again—wind through the cedars, water moving softly in the distance, the rhythmic hum of an ordinary day trying to remember itself.  

You woke before he did. 

Or maybe he wasn’t asleep at all—his breathing never changed, only the angle of his head as you stirred. He sat where he’d stayed all night by the door, one knee bent, eyes half-closed in a posture that might have been rest if not for how alert he always looked.  

You pushed the blanket aside and moved quietly to the hearth. 

The kettle’s lid rattled once as you set it down, the sound somehow louder than it should’ve been inside that small house. He didn’t speak while you worked. Neither did you.  

By the time the tea was ready, he’d come to sit opposite you, still silent, still unsettlingly composed. You poured two cups.  

He took his without a word, but the faint shift in his expression—almost a nod—felt like acknowledgment enough.  

Minutes passed like that: simple, unspoken things. The scent of tea. The scrape of ceramic. The faint crack of fire. For a while, it almost sounded like any other morning.  

“You didn’t sleep,” you said finally.  

“I don’t,” he replied.  

You looked up. “Ever?”  

“Not in the way you mean.”  

You nodded once, accepting it, and for some reason that small act—believing him without questioning—made him glance at you longer than usual.  

When you realized he was watching, you raised an eyebrow. “What?”  

“Nothing,” he said, turning back toward the window. “You’re quieter today.”  

“I could say the same.”  

“That’s unusual for me?”  

“Yes,” you said plainly. “You fill spaces without trying.”  

He huffed quietly, almost a laugh but not quite. “You’ve grown bold.”  

“Maybe you make it easy.”  

The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly—no heat in it, no vanity, but something like recognition. Then he looked away again, gaze following a bird cutting past the cedar line outside.  

The silence that followed wasn’t tense anymore. It was comfortable in an unfamiliar way, each of you moving through it without tripping over the other’s presence.  

Later, when you reached for the kettle again, he took it from you without question and refilled your cup before refilling his own. The motion was simple, thoughtless, as if it had always been habit.  

Neither of you said thank you. Neither of you needed to.  

It was just easy—the first easy thing to exist between you.  

And neither of you noticed how easily the quiet had begun to feel like something shared.  

ᣟ𐚁˳

By afternoon, the air had turned crisp and pale. The mist that had lingered around the trees began to lift from snow, revealing veins of sunlight weaving through the branches. You decided it was a good day for work—something simple to keep your hands occupied.  

You stepped outside with a basket of laundry and a bundle of herbs to hang, half-expecting him to vanish into the forest again. But when you looked back, he was still there—standing at the edge of the porch, arms folded, eyes half-closed in that way that meant he was observing more than he admitted.  

“You don’t have to watch me work,” you said, not unkindly.  

“I’m not,” Sukuna replied. “I’m making sure the forest knows I’m still here.”  

“Threatening the trees?” you asked, faint humor creeping in before you could stop it.  

“Reminding,” he said, the faintest quirk of his mouth showing. “They forget easily.”  

You shook your head and kept working, but you could feel him nearby—like the air had weight again, drawn toward him without effort. After a while, he joined you without asking.  

When you reached to string up the herbs above the porch rail, his shadow fell over yours, and his hand lifted the line higher. “You’re too short for this,” he said evenly.  

You frowned at him. “I manage fine.”  

“You don’t have to.”  

You started to argue but stopped when his hand easily tied the knot you’d been struggling with. He didn’t look smug about it, just efficient, stepping back once the work was done. You nodded a thanks you didn’t say out loud.  

Later, as you rinsed the last of the clothes in the basin, you glanced up to find him crouched nearby. He wasn’t helping, but he wasn’t idle either—simply watching, rolling one of your clothespins between his fingers like it was some kind of puzzle.  

“You used to do this before?” he asked suddenly.  

“What?”  

“All of this.” His eyes flicked toward the basin. “These small, human things.”  

You shrugged. “It’s what needs doing. You learn to stop thinking about it.”  

He hummed lowly, as if thinking. “Strange. Humans give meaning to such pointless motions.”  

“They’re not pointless.” You wrung the fabric tighter, gaze downward. “They just keep the noise out.”  

When you risked a glance up, his eyes were already on you—dark and unreadable, but softer than usual. “Does it work?”  

“Sometimes,” you whispered.  

He didn’t answer. Instead, he rose again, starting for the path that led toward the trees. Before the light caught the faint red on his skin, you thought you saw his hand falter—just slightly—like he almost said something else.  

By the time you looked up again, he was gone.  

And yet, you caught yourself humming under your breath as you hung the rest of the laundry—an absent sound that didn’t quite feel like loneliness anymore.  

ᣟ𐚁˳

Night had already swallowed the forest by the time Sukuna left the clearing.  

The air was colder here—thin, tasting of iron, smoke, and something far older.  

He moved without sound. The hunt had ended an hour ago—a brief, efficient thing. The human had barely screamed before his throat tore open. The act itself barely fed him now; it was mechanical, a shadow of hunger he only answered because his body demanded it.  

Even so, the warmth still clung to his hands when he reached the waterfall.  

Uraume was waiting. She always was—steady, solemn, her pale hair slicked dark with mist. At the sound of his approach, she lowered her head, pressing a hand to her chest.  

“My lord.”  

He said nothing at first, stepping closer until the sound of the water hit his back like rain. The wind carried her words away before they fully reached him. She spoke anyway.  

“I found traces of the weapon,” she said. “But not enough. Its origin is lost—buried with the clan that forged it. I don’t know why it can harm you. Yet.”  

His brow furrowed, just slightly. “Not enough,” he repeated.  

“I’m still searching—”  

“I gave you time.” His voice came low, measured, every syllable a soft fracture against the noise of the waterfall. “Extra days. Enough to indulge myself in that house. To play at patience. And for what?”  

“My lord,” she said carefully, gaze fixed on the ground. “There’s very little recorded—”  

“I am not interested in excuses.”  

The water around them seemed to pulse with his voice. A faint, sickly red bloomed through the mist, staining the air before fading again as he exhaled. His restraint was visible only in the stillness of his stance.  

“I let things breathe longer than I should,” he said after a long pause, his tone tightening. “I let her breathe longer. A mortal. Soft. Pointless. Because I thought waiting might deliver me something worth the time.”  

Uraume’s silence deepened.  

He looked away from her and toward the dark tree line, his jaw set. The night pressed heavily against his thoughts, too quiet, too far from the small noises of the house—the creak of wood under bare feet, the sound of a human heart still asleep in a world that would flinch if it knew what shared its walls.  

He smirked once, a sharp, humorless thing. “And yet you stand here telling me you don’t know.”  

Her chin lowered. “Forgive me, my lord.”  

The moment stretched—so taut that the air itself trembled. Then, finally, he turned away.  

“Keep searching,” he said, his voice a whisper more dangerous than any shout. “And don’t return until the weapon’s purpose is clear. I won’t waste another night waiting for nothing.”  

He vanished into the trees before she could bow again, steps soundless, expression unreadable. The mist folded in over the clearing like a wound trying—and failing—to close.  

As he moved through the forest, the tension in him didn’t fade. It only shifted, mutating into something quieter, stranger. His fury—cold and divine—had a pulse beneath it now he didn’t want to recognize.  

By the time the small house came into view between the trees, the light inside was out. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the chimney, pale against the dark.  

He stopped at the edge of the clearing and exhaled once, hard through his nose. The anger dulled some—not gone, but buried deep enough to hide under the sound of her steady breathing he could already hear from within.  

Even anger, it seemed, couldn’t silence how easily the thought of her steadied him.  

ᣟ𐚁˳

The air was cool the next afternoon

You knelt by the river, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing a shirt against the smooth stones as water rippled between your fingers. 

The chill bit at your skin, but the rhythm was easy, steady. Your knees pressed into the damp earth, toes digging into the cold mud for balance as you worked the soap into the fabric.  

“You’ll catch cold doing that,” his voice came from behind, low and smooth as ever.  

You didn’t have to turn to know he was watching—arms crossed loosely, that faint half-smile that made it hard to tell if he was mocking or amused.  

“I’ve done this since I was a child,” you said. “I’ll survive.”  

Sukuna moved closer in that quiet way of his until you felt his shadow fall over your shoulders. His presence cut off part of the light, and the water in front of you darkened with it.  

“You’ll survive,” he echoed, the edge of a chuckle in it. “But you’ll lose the use of your hands for the day.”  

Before you could argue, he reached down, caught your wrist lightly—warm, firm, a startling contrast to the cold stream—and pulled the shirt from your grasp. His touch wasn’t rough, but it left no room for protest.  

“I’ll do it,” he said simply.  

He let go of your wrist and leaned over the wooden bowl, his broad frame folding easily into the small space beside you. The shirt sagged heavy in his hands, dripping into the water as he lowered it in. His fingers disappeared beneath the surface, then reappeared, knuckles pale as he twisted the cloth hard enough to send water spilling back into the basin in sharp, steady streams.  

You watched the way his forearms flexed with each motion, black markings shifting with the pull of muscle. Water slid down to his elbows, tracing the lines of ink before dropping off his skin.  

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, but your voice came out softer now.  

“I said I’ll do it,” he replied, eyes on the shirt, not you. His hands moved with a rough kind of care—efficient, practiced in strength if not in laundry.  

He scrubbed the fabric against itself, thumbs pressing into the weave, the sound of wet cloth and water filling the quiet space between you.

You watched the motion of his hands as he rinsed and scrubbed again, the water splashing up the front of his robes. The simple action was almost wrong coming from him,

“Then tell me,” you said quietly, “what do you actually do when you disappear into the forest?”  

He didn’t look up. “Nothing you should concern yourself with.”  

“You always say that.”  

“That’s because it’s true.”  

You frowned, kneeling beside him. “You’re a strong curse, right?”  

A flick of his eyes. “Somewhat.”  

“Then how could a strong curse end up bleeding beneath a tree?” You tilted your head, voice softer. “Why has it taken this long for you to heal?”  

His grip on the shirt faltered for just half a second before he went back to rinsing it. Water ran red this time—just a tint—but it wasn’t blood from the fabric.  

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “If I’m being honest.”  

You studied him. “What could hurt someone like you?”  

He wrung the cloth tighter. “You wouldn’t understand.”  

“Try me,” you said, leaning closer.  

That pulled a sound from him—half laugh, half sigh. “There’s something out there. A weapon. A wooden knife carved like the crescent moon. Old. Meant to kill beings like me.”  

Your breath hitched. “A moon…” You blinked. “Wait—that’s real? I’ve seen something like that before.”  

He frowned. “You?”  

“Wait here,” you said quickly, rising to your feet before he could answer.  

His eyes followed as you rushed inside. He stayed crouched by the water, his reflection fractured by ripples. After a moment, he shook the excess from his hands and flicked them dry against his thigh, water running clear down carved skin.  

You came back out clutching an old book pressed flat against your palm. “My father’s notes,” you said. “He wrote about the wooden moon—he called it a demon’s deathmark.”  

Sukuna straightened, gaze lowering to the book as you knelt. He reached for it—slow but deliberate—and you instinctively pulled it out of reach.  

“Are you a woman of foolishness,” he asked evenly, one brow twitching.

“No,” you said. 

He frowned, fast, sharp, and seized the book. “Then stop playing.”  

He flipped it open, fingers careful despite his impatience. “Tell me what it says.”  

You pointed toward a passage scrawled in fading ink. “It.. can.. kill.. curses..??”  

His jaw flexed once. “And how do you destroy it?”  

You met his eyes. “Why do you need to know that?”  

His voice dropped low enough to pull the warmth from the air. “Because it can kill me.”  

You stared at him, the words sinking in like lead. Slowly, you looked down to the page again, your voice quiet when you spoke.  

“It says the only way to break it… is to use it. Uhhh.. If the blade kills someone the demon cares about, it shatters.”  

He didn’t react at first—just stared at the book, then at you, unreadable. His hands clenched once at his side, the water still dripping down his fingers.  

You didn’t know if that silence was fear or thought.  

You only knew it was the first time his stillness looked like uncertainty.  

He didn’t say anything for a while. The sound of dripping water was the only thing between you.  

Then, slowly, Sukuna turned the book over in his hands. His eyes flicked up to your face, unreadable, steady.  

When he finally spoke, his voice was low but clear.  

“What were you doing in the forest that morning?”  

You hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone. “I was coming back from the village.”  

His gaze didn’t move. “You had no bags when I woke.”  

“I put them away,” you said quickly. “After I mended you .”  

He hummed—soft, skeptical. His thumb brushed the corner of the book, tightening once before he offered it back to you.  

“Mm.” A small sound of thought, then, “I need air.”  

He rose to his full height. The wet edge of his sleeve brushed your shoulder as he turned, the faint scent of iron and cedar sliding past. Without another word, he crossed the clearing, steps steady, weight silent against the dirt.  

You watched him until the trees took him—until the last ripple of his presence disappeared into the dark line of woods.  

Only then did you move.  

You circled to the back of the house, footsteps light, eyes scanning the distance once more to be sure he was gone. Kneeling, you brushed aside a patch of grass, fingers working through the damp soil until they found the corner of something solid.  

The hidden box slid free with a muffled scrape. You flipped the latch, pulled a small, black device from inside, and held it near your chest as if it might burn you.  

Your thumb hesitated over the buttons, then pressed a sequence you’d memorized long before any of this began.  

The ring was brief.  

A click. Breathing on the other end.  

You swallowed, glanced once back toward the trees. “He knows,” you said softly.  

Then you hung up.  

The silence afterward pressed hard, but your movements stayed steady. You wiped your palms on your sleeves, buried the box again, smoothed the grass flat with the heel of your hand. When you stood, your breath fogged slightly in the cool evening air.  

You straightened your clothes, brushed the dirt from your knees, and walked back inside as if nothing had happened.  

The pot waited on the stove; you filled it with water, dropped in the herbs, and stirred. The scent of broth rose, gentle and ordinary.  

To anyone watching, it would have looked like a woman making dinner in a quiet house.  

Only you knew what kind of storm you were feeding.  

The forest was motionless except for the hiss of the waterfall.  

Uraume was already waiting when he arrived—kneeling on a slick stone, her robes gathering mist, her reflection trembling faintly in the water below.  

Sukuna stopped just behind her. He didn’t speak for several seconds. When he did, his voice was calm but edged with something thin and hard.  

“I underestimated her.”  

Uraume’s gaze stayed on the water. “The woman?”  

He nodded once, hands clasped behind his back. “I should’ve known something was wrong the night she found me. She screamed my name before I ever gave it to her.” He smiled then, quick and cold. “I was too distracted by the fact that she was a frail human—little, unarmed, and a woman. I didn’t think her capable of deceit.”  

Uraume looked up carefully. “You think she’s working with the sorcerers?”  

“Look into it,” he said. “Into her—everything.”  

“Her name?”  

He paused at that. The question hung awkwardly between them. The sound of the water filled it before he finally spoke.  

“I don’t know,” he said, almost to himself. “I never asked.”  

For a man like him, the words landed heavily.  

He stayed facing the falls, his reflection a broken smear of red and gold on the shifting water. His shoulders were straight, deliberate, but the silence near him felt strained.  

After a moment, Uraume asked quietly, “Something bothering you?”  

Sukuna didn’t answer. His jaw flexed, his eyes still on the reflection.  

Then, simple as breath, she said, “You like her.”  

The air thickened. His expression didn’t change, but his tone sharpened. “I tame her.”  

The warning in his glance was enough. She lowered her head, murmuring, “As you wish.”  

It was quiet again—only the sound of water against stone, the hush of traveling mist.  

After a while, he said softly, “It’s… easier around her. Feels like something worth my time.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But that’s over now. She’s not what she pretends to be.”  

“So your plan changes?” Uraume asked.  

“It does.”  

He stepped forward, stopping at the edge of the pool. “She found a book. Her father’s. It mentioned a weapon—a wooden blade carved like a moon. You remember the weapon that nearly killed me?”  

Uraume nodded.  

“She knows how it can be destroyed.”  

“What way?”  

He stared down at his reflection—the movement of the water cutting his face in half. “The blade breaks if it kills someone I care about.” He huffed faintly, humorless. “It will be difficult, since I care about no one.”  

Uraume glanced up again, studying his expression, but he kept his eyes on the water’s surface.  

“Find another way,” he said finally, turning from the pool. “I won’t rely on sentiment to save my life.”  

“And the woman?” Uraume asked.  

“I’ll keep her close this time.”  

He looked back over his shoulder once, the mist reaching like fingers through his hair. “Closer than before.”  

Then he vanished into the trees, and the waterfall roared on—washing away everything but that faint, uneasy echo of doubt.  

When Sukuna stepped through the doorway, the sound was almost silent—just the faint slide of wood against wood. You looked up from the kitchen, ladle in hand, the steam from the pot curling between you.  

“You’re back,” you said softly.  

He didn’t answer at first. He looked around the room instead—as if he had never really seen it until now. His gaze tracked the shelves, the half-dried herbs, the faint imprint in the tatami where you sat at night. Only after a long pause did he turn to face you.  

“You made something,” he said finally.  

“Broth,” you replied. “It’ll be ready soon.”  

He crossed the floor without a sound, stopping beside you. You felt more than saw him looking at you; the air shifted faintly when he leaned in.  

“How’d you spend your day?” His tone was careful, even.  

You stirred the broth once, waiting long enough to match his calm. “Just chores. You were gone a while.”  

“The forest’s large,” he said. “Larger than I remembered.”  

He sounded almost distracted, but you could feel him watching—not the food, not the house. You.

He crouched slightly, settling his long frame beside the pot. “You always worked alone like this?”  

“When someone had to.”  

He nodded, fingers tapping once against his knee. “Strange what habits people keep,” he murmured.  

You looked at him, uncertain if it was a statement or a question. “…Do you keep any?”  

“A few.” He smiled faintly—small, polite, with nothing behind it. “Like trust. It dies quickly but grows back sharper each time.”  

You paused. Your heartbeat suddenly too loud in your ears. “I didn’t take you for someone who trusted easily.”  

“I don’t.” He met your eyes. The calm there felt deceptive, practiced. “But you seemed… useful.”  

You tipped your ladle carefully back into the pot so he wouldn’t see your hands tremble. “Seemed,” you repeated quietly. “Past tense?”  

He studied you longer than he should have. Then, almost gently, he reached toward the table and picked up the cup you’d set out for him, turning it between his fingers instead of drinking.  

“You said you were coming back from the village the day you found me.”  

You nodded. “Yes.”  

He let the cup fall back to the table with a dull sound. “Strange. I don’t remember seeing any of your things when I woke—no baskets, no rope, no tools. Almost like you hadn’t been traveling at all.”  

You froze, the words catching in your throat. “I put them away,” you said steadily.  

Sukuna didn’t blink. “Mm.”  

The silence between you deepened again. Then he stood, his body unfolding in one slow motion, towering once more over the small room.  

“I need air,” he said quietly, setting the cup aside untouched.  

You forced yourself to nod. “Go, then. The food will keep.”  

He paused in the doorway just long enough for you to notice him looking back—not at you directly, but at the floorboards, the shelves, the shadows themselves, like he was memorizing where everything belonged.  

Then he was gone.  

You exhaled shakily, the wooden spoon clicking against the edge of the pot.  

Outside, his footsteps faded into the trees until there was only the wind again. You listened to it a long time before finally ladling a small bowl for yourself, pretending the tremor in your hands came from the cold and not from being seen.  

ᣟ𐚁˳

The screams shattered the night.  

One cry, then two, then silence that tore straight through the village.

The screams ripped through the still air — sharp, breaking, ending too quickly.  

You didn’t think. You ran.  

By the time you reached the edge of the houses, the dirt was slick. The smell hit before you saw anything: iron, smoke, something burnt. You stopped short only when your foot struck a limb that wasn’t where it should’ve been.  

You froze, chest heaving, eyes wide to the ruin. The small house was torn in half. Blood marked the walls, thick and uneven, splatter reaching the doorframe. You pressed your hand to your mouth, fighting the urge to retch.  

You didn’t need to search to know.  

You already knew who had done it.  

You forced air into your lungs and followed the trail. 

Footprints pressed deep, a clean drag in the mud where blood smeared between them.  

Down by the creek, he crouched in the water. 

Sukuna.  

He was rinsing his hands, slow, methodical, shoulders shifting with each motion. The water turned a cloudy red around his wrists. His aura clung to the air — hot, heavy, wrong against the cool wind.  

He didn’t look up when you stopped behind him.  

“See?” he said, his tone flat, almost conversational. “You’re not scared.”  

You swallowed hard. “I am.”  

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the corner of his jaw tense. The current carried another burst of red past you.  

“Why did you do that?” you demanded.  

He didn’t answer.  

You stepped closer, voice tighter. “I asked you a question.”  

Still nothing.  

Your hand curled into a fist at your side. “Every time I think I understand you,” you said quietly, “you prove me wrong.”  

That broke the stillness.  

He was on his feet before you could blink — fast, violent, the sound of water scattering across the bank. You stumbled backward, instinct pulling you into a half‑step that barely put space between you.  

Then he closed it again.  

He stopped inches away, the air between you electric. His eyes darkened — unreadable, but sharp enough to cut. His palm came up and caught the side of your face, large enough to hold you still with one hand.  

Your breath hitched, shoulders stiff. He leaned down, voice rough.  

“You think you know me?”  

His thumb traced your cheekbone, leaving a dark smear of blood, then dragged down the curve of your jaw then over the side of your throat where your pulse jumped.  

“You still shake,” he murmured, low enough to feel instead of hear. “And say you’re not scared.”  

His other hand moved — slow but definite — to your hip, fingers digging just enough for you to feel the strength in them. You froze, not daring to move even when your heart rattled against your ribs.  

Then tell me,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “what are your orders?”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You blinked up at him, heartbeat clawing at your throat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you managed, the lie thin, brittle.

He did not move. His gaze stayed on you, dark and unblinking, as if he could peel the words right out of your lungs. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until you felt it press at your ribs.

Under that stare, the pretense crumbled.

“I was told to watch you,” you whispered at last. “Keep an eye on you.”

He stilled. His jaw tightened, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before he pulled back a fraction. The hand at your hip lingered, heavy, then fell away.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he stepped in again — sudden, deliberate — his mouth brushing your cheek, the heat of him dizzying. His lips ghosted over the blood trail he’d left there, and when he drew back, his breath still clung to your skin.

He didn’t stay away for long.

His head dipped again, slower this time. 

His mouth pressed a soft, mocking kiss to your cheek, right beside the line of the blood, before his tongue traced the thin, bloody line he’d left onto your skin. 

The sensation burned and chilled all at once as he followed it down with his tongue, over the sharp angle of your jaw and along the side of your throat. You swallowed hard, your pulse jumping against his mouth when he reached the hollow there and kept going.

By the time he neared your collarbone, your breath had turned shallow, stuttering. Your fingers twitched uselessly at your sides before sliding to your robe, bunching the fabric. Without thinking, you tugged it open just a little, the edge slipping, baring the swell of your breast to the cool air and his gaze.

Your breath hitched.

He laughed, low and rough against your skin, the sound vibrating where his lips hovered near the newly exposed skin.

“Was this an order too?” he murmured.

His gaze lifted to yours, unreadable and dangerous, holding you there a heartbeat longer. Then, as if the moment had never happened, he was gone — the water where he’d stood tearing open in his wake, rippling violently.

You were left alone, breath sharp in your chest, his fingerprints still warm on your skin and the ghost of his mouth burning a path down your throat.

You didn’t move for a long moment after he vanished.  

The water rippled where he’d stood, small waves pushing against your ankles before fading back into stillness.

Your breath came short and uneven, every exhale loud in the quiet. 

You pressed your hand to your cheek, feeling the heat where he’d touched you, the faint drag of dried blood still marking your skin. 

Your pulse hadn’t slowed.

Then you turned and ran.

Your feet slipped in the mud once, half going down before you caught yourself on your hands. The streaks of blood smeared across your palms as you pushed back up, the taste of iron cut sharp on your tongue. 

You kept running—through the trees, past the huts, down the narrow path until your house appeared against the dark.

Inside, you slammed the door and leaned your weight against it, forcing your chest to still. The silence pressed hard, but it was better than hearing him breathe beside you.

You moved automatically: washed your hands until the skin burned, rinsed your face again and again until the water in the bowl ran pink, then clear. The bruise against your neck, faint as it was, felt too warm when your fingers brushed it.

You sat at the low table, hands gripping the edge. Still shaky. Still alive.

When the first dawn light broke through the paper screens, he still hadn’t come back.

ᣟ𐚁˳

Two days passed like that—no footsteps outside, no door sliding open, no shadow curling through the house like smoke.  

His absence hung heavy, a void that hummed low under the sounds of morning and night. 

You told yourself it was good, that quiet meant safety. But every unexpected noise—wind, stray knock, the creak of floorboards—made your muscles jump anyway.

You worked longer hours, talked to yourself under your breath just to fill the rooms. Sometimes you forgot he’d ever been there.

Then you’d catch something small: the faint mark of his fingerprints on your doorframe, the shadow where his cloak had hung across the wall, and your hand would stop 

ᣟ𐚁˳

You woke to a sound that barely existed—wood, shifting, a breath disturbed where there shouldn’t have been one.  

Your eyes opened a fraction. The room was dark, the air too still. You could feel someone there before you saw them.  

You stayed frozen under the covers, heartbeat thudding against the silence. The presence moved closer—each step measured, slow. Then the weight on the floorboards changed. Whoever it was was right beside you now.  

Before you could move, the blanket lifted just enough for cold air to slide in.  

A shadow leaned over you, heavy enough that your instincts screamed to run. You reached for the knife you kept beneath the pillow—  

but a hand came first.  

Sukuna’s palm covered your mouth, firm but not rough. The heat of it silenced you before the sound could leave your throat.  

For a moment, all you could do was stare up into the dark outline of his face—his eyes faintly catching the dying lamplight, sharp even in the dark.  

He didn’t speak, didn’t move, just breathed once against your cheek.  

Then he eased his hand away.  

“Why are you here?” you whispered.  

He didn’t answer. The seconds stretched between you, the noise of your pulse filling them. He sat back slightly, eyes unreadable.  

Then his voice came low, quiet enough that the words brushed the air between you.  

“Are you a sorcerer?”  

You blinked. “No.”  

He waited.  

“My job was to report back,” you said softly. “To whoever’s on the black box.”  

Something flickered across his expression. “Black box?”  

“I don’t really know what it is,” you admitted. “It just… works. I was told to tell them how you were healing. That’s all.”  

Something in the way he looked at you then—how his gaze drifted across your face, down to where your hands gripped the blanket—felt closer to curiosity than anger now. His hand moved again, slow, tracing the edge of the covers until his palm rested low at your hip.  

“Alright,” he said quietly. Just that one word.  

He started to rise, shifting his weight away, but you moved before you knew why.  

Your fingers closed around his arm.  

He stopped instantly, eyes on your hand, then lifted them to your face. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The silence stretched long enough that you wondered if he’d leave anyway.  

Instead, his voice broke it, quieter now.  

“What’s your name?”  

You hesitated, breath catching once in your chest. “Y/n.”  

He nodded slowly, as if tasting the sound before letting go.  

When he spoke again, there was no edge in it—no demand, no threat—just quiet.  

“Y/n,” he said, and then he straightened, stepping back into the dark.  

You lay still, watching his outline until it disappeared beyond the door, leaving only the faint print of his shadow on the wall and the echo of your name where he’d said it—soft enough to almost sound like a promise.  

ᣟ𐚁˳

You woke to light spilling through the shoji, thin and gold against the floor.  

For a few seconds, you didn’t move. The last thing you remembered was the sound of his voice in the dark — low, careful, your name falling from his mouth like it didn’t belong there.  

Maybe it hadn’t happened. Maybe your mind had twisted the silence into his shape.  

You sat up slowly, sheets pooling at your waist, the faint breeze brushing through the open crack in the door.  

That’s when you saw it.  

Something small rested beside you on the futon — a thin bracelet, braided of black cord and faintly stained along one edge. It wasn’t yours.  

You stared at it, pulse jumping again in your throat. You reached for it carefully, almost afraid it would vanish if you touched it. The cord was rough against your fingers, still warm in places, and threaded through the center was a small bead the color of old bone.  

You turned it over once, trying to find meaning in it. Sukuna didn’t wear jewelry. He didn’t keep things. If he left this behind, it wasn’t by accident.  

Your fingers tightened around it.  

You glanced toward the door, half expecting him to still be there — leaning against the frame, arms crossed, that faint knowing smirk waiting to ask if you’d found it yet.  

But the doorway was empty. The house was still.  

You slipped the bracelet around your wrist anyway, the cord cool against your skin. It fit too perfectly.  

“Y/n,” you heard again — your name, faint and remembered, the sound of it reverberating in your head like an echo from down a long hall.  

You wrapped your hand around the bracelet and said his name once under your breath, just to see if the silence would answer.  

It didn’t.  

Still, the warmth where it touched your wrist didn’t fade.  

ᣟ𐚁˳

You were walking back from the village when it happened.  

The air had gone heavy, that thick, waiting quiet that only means one thing—a curse nearby. 

You quickened your pace, one hand gripping the flap of your robe tighter. 

The path narrowed around the tree line, and that’s when you felt it. A tug in the air, like something pulling at the edge of your soul.  

You turned. Too late.  

The thing came out of the shadows fast, a blur of limbs and teeth splitting open in places where a face shouldn’t be. Its fingers hit your shoulder hard enough to spin you halfway around. The sound it made wasn’t human—wet, low, like bone dragged across stone.  

You stumbled, caught yourself with both hands in the dirt. Its shadow loomed over you, the shape of it bending wrong in the dim light. The stench hit next—rot, blood, soil.  

You threw your arm up on instinct, half a useless defense—  

—and then it stopped.  

The curse froze mid‑step, body tense, growling but not advancing. Its yellow eyes flicked down to your wrist.  

That tiny, bone‑white bead on the black cord glinted faintly in the gray light.  

The change was immediate. The air around you warped, the thing’s growl turning into something closer to a whimper. It staggered back, hissed once, and melted into the brush as quickly as it had appeared, leaving the smell and the silence behind.  

You stayed crouched for a moment, chest heaving. The dirt was cold under your palms, shaking slightly with the force of your heartbeat. You didn’t look up until you were sure it was gone.  

Only then did you raise your wrist. The bracelet caught the light again—innocent, ordinary, but pulsing faintly like a heartbeat just under the skin.  

You whispered into the still air, “What are you?”  

The forest didn’t answer. But the next step you took, the ground seemed to hum faintly beneath the heel of your foot—an echo, a residue of something larger still watching.  

You didn’t look back. You walked faster, clutching your wrist against your chest until your house came into view through the trees.  

Somewhere in the dark, far behind you, unseen eyes followed.  

That night, the house was too quiet.

You sat cross‑legged by the small lamp, eyes on the bracelet around your wrist. 

The flame flickered, catching the pale bead again and again until it seemed to pulse with its own faint light.

You rested your chin on your knees, thumb sliding over the surface. It was smooth, solid. 

Real. 

His.

You tried to think of any reason he’d leave it—protection, guilt, ownership—but none of them fit. Nothing about him ever did.

Your reflection shifted in the window glass. The night outside looked deeper where the forest began, the outline of cedar branches stretching against the faint starlight. 

That same pull rose in your chest again—the one that always led back to him.

You slipped on your jacket and stepped out.

The air was colder than you expected. The ground still held the dampness of rain. 

You walked the path by memory, hands tucked into your sleeves, trying to replay every word he’d ever said about protection, about strength, about what lived inside the trees.

When you reached the clearing, nothing waited for you. The river moved slow, the dirt undisturbed. Even the mist felt thinner than before.

You stopped where he’d once sat—the same patch of ground near the water’s edge—and said quietly, “I know you’re here.”

A new voice answered.

“Close, but not quite.”

You turned sharply. 

A woman stood a few paces back, pale hair falling over one shoulder, her robes catching the faint moonlight. Her face was calm—cold, like sculpted ice.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

Your eyes narrowed. “…Are you Sukuna’s wife?”

That pulled the faintest smile from her. “No. I work under him.”

“Oh.” Your voice dropped, unsure what to do with that answer. You looked down at the bracelet again, turning your wrist slightly. “Then maybe you can tell me something—about this.”

Uraume’s eyes followed the movement. “It will keep you safe,” she said.

You frowned. “Safe from what?”

“From everything that finds its way too close,” she said after a pause. “Sukuna wanted to make sure you’re protected, even when he isn’t here.”

Your head lifted. “He wanted?”

She nodded once. “He knows his name draws things to him—and now to you. That bracelet will keep them quiet.”

You felt the weight of it then, heavier against your wrist than before. “If that’s true, he should’ve told me himself.”

“He will, when he can.”

You crossed your arms, the cold biting through your sleeves. “I want him to tell me,” you said softly, but firm.

Uraume studied you for a moment—something like understanding passing through her expression, gone as quickly as it came. 

“I’ll try my best,” she said.

You nodded once, unsure if you believed her.

When you turned to go, she was already gone. Only the faint mark of her presence lingered in the air—cool, faintly metallic.

By the time you reached your home, the lamp had burned low. You slipped off your shoes and sat by the futon, the bracelet catching the last thread of light. 

You turned it once in your fingers, whispered without thinking:

“You could’ve told me yourself.”

The silence that answered was deep but strangely warm, like someone somewhere had heard you anyway.

ᣟ𐚁˳

The next night was colder. The breeze slipped through the cracks in the shutters, brushing across your cheeks as you lay beneath the blankets. You hadn’t meant to stay awake, but your eyes refused to close for long.  

Every small sound wound through your nerves—the floor adjusting, the soft whine of wind through the roof, the whisper of trees outside. None of it was what you were listening for.  

Your fingers moved without thinking, tracing the bracelet where it rested against your wrist. The bead was warm again, faint and steady, as if it remembered something you didn’t.  

You told yourself you were foolish for expecting him. You’d been wrong before. You said his name once under your breath, barely audible. “Sukuna.”  

Nothing answered. But something felt different.  

The air shifted—just slightly—and you turned toward the door before you even heard it move. A faint slide of wood, the softest creak. Not enough to call attention. Just enough to tell you someone was there.  

You pushed yourself up to sit, your hand unconsciously tightening around the edge of the blanket. “Is that you?”  

No response.  

Still, the sense of him filled the room—dense, measured, unmistakable. It was the same weight that pressed against your ribs when he looked too long, when his silence got too close.  

“I know you’re there,” you said softly.  

Slow, bare footsteps crossed the floor. You didn’t move this time. The sound stopped beside the futon, and then there was a pause—long, careful.  

He wasn’t hiding, not now. He wanted you to know.  

You turned your head slightly, your eyes adjusting to the shadow standing over you. Broad shoulders, slow breath, that faint, dangerous calm.  

“You’re late,” you whispered.  

No answer. Just the faintest twitch of a smile in the dark.  

He lowered himself slowly, crouching at the side of the futon until his face was level with yours. The lamplight caught the faint red in his eyes, dull but alive.  

“You think this keeps you safe,” he said quietly, fingertip brushing the edge of the bracelet.  

“That’s what she told me,” you murmured.  

“Do you believe her?”  

You swallowed. “Do I have a choice?”  

His hand lingered against the thread a moment longer, then dropped away. “You always do. You just never know when it’ll cost you more.”  

You didn’t know what to say, not while his eyes stayed fixed on you like that—sharp, steady, and not angry. For once, he looked… uncertain.  

Before you could ask, he straightened and stepped back toward the dark corner of the room.  

“I didn’t come to frighten you,” he said after a long pause. “Just to see if it still worked.”  

“What still works?”  

His gaze slid down to the mark on your wrist again. “The bond.”  

And then he was gone—too fast to track, leaving the air tense and still.  

You looked down at your hand. The bracelet had gone cold again.  

But it wasn’t fear that kept you awake after that. It was the sound of his voice, low and quiet, like something meant only for you.  

ᣟ𐚁˳

Based off this request!

Djins Bazaar

Inspired by a moroccan myth I read about once wich said that animals with nicks in their ear are djinn in disguise

Koi watercolor

阿德⠀🦋⠀⠀᪤THEOTHEU⠀米扎⠀᭡⠀softigo aesthetic﹗⠀ࣧ（⠀🌼⠀）jong moodboard ⠀ ᨎ⠀ 糖果⠀like or⠀🌼⠀࿔🦋⠀༢⠀爱与关⠀reblog if you use ⠀[犠牲]⠀⠀♡̶⠀