#ven writes

If your ears could twitch, they would.

You know the sound of his name, know the syllables that fall from everyone’s lips, like a wave, a chorus, a prayer — his name travels to you and you’re on your feet before your closest companions ever get to you.

Barefoot you run along the pathways, wooden planks and stone and grass, the fabric of your gown tangling in bushes and unattended flowers. You’ve neglected your garden, your green little paradise because it meant nothing when the man you love wasn’t close.

Now he is, tho. Now he is just outside the castle walls, or already inside of them. He’s there, travel-worn and weary, he’s there and you’ll be whole again. You’ll be held in his strong arms, kissed by his lips, taste the life and the blood and the power on his tongue. You’ll listen to his strong heart that beats for and with you.

You trip when rounding a corner, almost fall and catch yourself with a little yelp before you’re back on the main road towards the stables, the front gate. Towards the long winding road that stretches into the distance and vanishes on the horizon. The same horizon he turned smaller and smaller and vanished all those nights ago.

Gathered servants and guards part for you and then, there he is - Sukuna, the two faced demon of Japan, the King of Curses, your Beloved.

He towers over his retinue, hair pale from the dirt of the road, a bandage on his left upper arm, eyes roaming until they find you. You.

Sukuna’s running towards you long before you’ve managed to gather your robes. He’s there to lift you in his arms before you’ve managed to make any distance.

Like sweat he smells, like the road and the steel of his weapons, like blood and death and endless power.

You weight nothing in his arms as he spins you around, as his hands hold you beneath your armpits, ribs held together by nothing but him, his other hands on your waist. Even now, when the world is nothing but swirls of night sky and fire and him, he holds you close.

Your own arms are around his neck, so bulky and wide, sticky where his skin is exposed, you pull yourself closer to pepper him in kisses. Catch the corner of his mouth, his nose, feel breathless and light, giggling against his skin.

Whatever weighted you down is lifted with his touch, his presence.

You do not notice when he sets you down, when his chest is pressed against yours. On your tiptoes you have to stand, his hands holding your face, cradling you, gently angling you up and he’s the sun, he’s the light. He’s bright and endless and yours and he’s right here, smiling down on you.

He’s turned tan, dark lines of ink a bit less prominent where the sun has darkened his skin. His grin is as wide as always, his laughter full and honest, meant for you and only you.

Both of you have always been like this. Unapologetic and disgustingly in love.

Oshidori fūfu is what you hear them call the two of you, close like two mandarin ducks, two love birds, always together. You’ve tried to make a home for the birds in your garden but the pond is too small and they always fly away.

Then again, he’s your own mandarin duck, colorful and vivid, unforgettable in every way.

To stifle the laughter that bubbles in your chest is a fruitless endeavor. His fingers tighten around you and you close your eyes, smell him, feel him — exist only with him.

Sweet nothings he tells you, calls you his, Beloved. Loud enough for everyone you hear. His laughter booms across the courtyard when he wipes your tears away. Happy tears, a grin so wide it burns in your cheeks.

You bask in his attention, his warmth and his love and when he carries you off into your untouched chambers, you know you’ll hold him as close as you can, squeeze his body until he acts like he’s unable to breathe and you will laugh and he will laugh with you.

Whole, finally. Together, once again.

“I’m sorry Rav’” Link said, an apologetic smile on his face. Link held his hands behind his back “I think I have something that’ll make it up to you though.” Link extended his hands, showing Ravio the two bright red apples he had procured. Ravio’s eyes widened and he put a hand over his mouth to hide the delighted expression that had overtaken his face.

“How did you-?” Ravio began to ask, worried for a moment that Link had gotten himself into trouble again. Ravio’s stomach seemed to overtake his worry as it let out a low growl, causing his face to turn a pinkish hue.

“I paid for them, don’t worry” Link offered Ravio an assuring smile, lying blatantly through his teeth. Ravio looked at him incredulously for a moment before giving in to his hunger and taking one of the apples from Link’s hands, his whole face lighting up as he bit into the sweet  fruit.

Link let out a small chuckle before sitting beside Ravio. He took a bite out of his own apple, appreciating the literal fruits of his labour. There were a few moments of stagnant silence before Ravio spoke.

“How is your burn doing?” Ravio asked, looking at the even layer of bandages that covered most of Link’s right hand. A burn is the only way the brothers could describe the mysterious wound that had appeared on Link’s hand a few weeks prior.

“It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt really” Link explained. When Link had shown the Old Hylian priest his hand the Priest had suggested Link keep it covered, explaining that it would some day put him in great danger. The words of the Priest circled in Link’s head for a moment before he shook his head. Unbeknownst to Link, two others had also received this mark and had been tied to the same destiny..

—

The kingdom was abuzz with news of the recent engagement of two royals. Princess Zelda and Prince Ganondorf had announced their plans to unite both their families and the two kingdoms of Hyrule and Gerudo. Their union was momentous, as it was going to mark the end of a 100 year conflict between the two kingdoms. The streets were alive with new commerce, Gerudo people of all ages had seemingly come to the capital to showcase their wares and culture in celebration. The streets were lined with beautifully decorated stalls full of spices, cookware, clothing, pottery, anything the heart could desire could be made by the skillful craftspeople running the colourful stalls. 

The young Prince and Princess walked arm-in-arm down a busy street. Zelda looked around with wide eyes at the stalls that lined the once too-serious street. She couldn’t help but notice the delightful clicking her shoes made on the cobbled streets. She rarely had the chance to get out of the castle between her classes, let alone be out without droves of royal guardsmen following on her heels. Since she had been engaged with Ganon she had been able to experience a lot more freedom, although the two had already had a few disagreements. Zelda smiled, young love was supposed to be disorderly wasn’t it?

Ganon couldn’t help but notice the smile of his fiancée, she hardly resembled the meek young girl who had agreed to marry him a few short weeks ago. The two had been spending a lot of time together at the insistence of their parents, who were overjoyed at the thought of the union. The two kingdoms had both suffered a considerable amount of casualties during the 100 year war, and with the birth of the first king-to-be since the war began the two kingdoms were hopeful for a future of peace. Ganon couldn’t help but chuckle to himself quietly

‘What fools the heroes of old must have been’ he thought to himself, an arrogant smile now adorning his face. ‘Succumbing to the fear and ideals of legends, how laughable’

The young couple were confident in their stride. Ganon had long red hair, pulled into a high pony-tail and adorned with gold jewellery. Ganon contrasted the average Hylian, wearing traditional Gerudo clothing and standing at 5’8” at only 14 years old. He towered over Zelda, who was two years younger than him, and stood at only 4’3”. Seeing her walk beside Ganon still wearing a dress that reached her mid-calf made the contrast appear more stark, the fabric of her dress almost seemed to swallow her whole sometimes. The two were an odd pair undoubtedly.

“We should look at some of the wares!” Zelda exclaimed excitedly, pulling Ganon towards a colourful booth. Ganon stumbled because of the force the small girl was able to exert, almost knocking him over as she excitedly dragged him towards a stall of jewellery.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of all the hand-made wares, a multitude of colourful gems and stones on display. Ganon smiled at her enthusiasm, and took a look at the jewellery. A pair of turquoise earrings caught his eye, he took one of them in his hand.

“Zelda, come here.” He said, his voice gentle but firm. Like a dormouse Zelda perked up, and she turned on her heels to face Ganon. Her face always seemed to be a pinkish hue when Ganon spoke to her, she was still shy in many ways.

Ganon brushed her short blonde hair behind her ear, holding the earring up to compare it against her complexion. A satisfied smile appeared on his face, he seemed satisfied with his vision.

“These compliment you nicely, would it be okay if I bought them for you?” He asked, not wanting to give her any attention that might overwhelm her. They had only known each other for a few weeks after all.

“Of-Of course!” She said, tripping over her words as she spoke. Zelda’s face seemed to shift to an even darker shade of pink. She was never really sure where to put her eyes, so she often ended up looking around aimlessly while she was flustered.

Ganon smiled softly at her. The young prince wasn’t certain that the feelings he held in his heart for this girl were necessarily love, but he felt a certain fondness for her.

“I’ll be right back, my love.” He said, using the pet name that had seemingly come out of nowhere not long ago. In reality it had come at the insistence of his mother, who urged him to be more romantic.

Zelda wondered if he had been receiving some sort of courting lessons from his tutors since their engagement was such an important event. She couldn’t quite understand the gravity of it, nor could she understand why the only way to end the war was for the two of them to be wed. Couldn’t the two Kingdoms just choose not to fight?

Ganon returned with a sachet made of a delicate material, Ganon presented the gift to Zelda. She brought her hands to her face to cover the smile that was rapidly developing on her face. She had to attempt to remain composed in public, all of their subjects had their eyes on the couple. She couldn’t resist any longer,

“Thank you so much, I love it!” she exclaimed, throwing herself into Ganon’s arms.

The two linked arms once again, and began making their way through the sea of people. Zelda’s eyes wandered once more, and she caught the eyes of a young boy with black hair, waving enthusiastically at her on the shoulders of another almost identical young boy with blond hair. The young boy with blond hair seemed to be struggling to hold the weight of the other.

Zelda giggled at the sight, and offered a friendly wave back.

—

Link and Ravio weaved through the streets, their fingers securely interlaced so as to not get separated. The two boys were young, Link being only 10, and Ravio two years younger than him still. It wasn’t uncommon for people to either not see the boys because of their small stature, or to simply not care because of their unkempt appearances. The two had become quite good at holding on to one another.

They pressed into the side of a building, taking a moment to breathe in the middle of the sea. Link took a moment to survey the area, a great deal of people seemed to be gathering around one area. It wasn’t long before Link spotted them.

“Look Rav’! It’s the Prince and Princess!” Link exclaimed, pointing at the stall the two royals were stopped at.

“Whaaaat!! No fair!” Ravio exclaimed, jumping in place to try and catch a glimpse of the two

Link thought for a moment before turning and crouching down.

“Here, climb on. If you sit on my shoulders you’ll be able to see them!” He said, turning his head back to look at Ravio with a grin.

Ravio’s face lit up with excitement, he quickly scrambled onto Link’s shoulders. It took a moment for the blond to steady himself with the newfound weight of his brother, but it wasn’t much different than lifting stones in the field, or moving rice bags at the monastery. 

“I can see them!” Ravio exclaimed, causing Link to stumble a bit as he chuckled.

“Good! You’re high up so you better wave, maybe Princess Zelda will see you,” Link teased, knowing of his brother’s fondness for the princess.

“Good idea!” Ravio said, too starstruck in the moment to realise Link was teasing him. He excitedly waved his hand, vying for the attention of the princess.

His whole body stiffened as the princesses' gaze caught his own. Ravio’s sudden change in body language surprised Link just enough to lose his balance, sending both of them crashing to the ground.

Link couldn’t help but let out a boisterous laugh, it took him a moment to compose himself before he checked on Ravio.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concern apparent on his face. Ravio nodded, pouting and a little embarrassed.

“I’m alright, just a little sore I think” Ravio smiled, the two shared a peaceful moment.

A shriek broke the silence.

“Those gutter rats aren’t even speaking Hylian!” a woman slurred out, shaking a bottle in her hand as another woman seemingly held her back “Fucking trash! Get off my streets!” she continued to yell obscenities at the two boys.

Ravio looked as though he was frozen in fear, the irate woman seemingly scaring him into a state of shock. Link grabbed Ravio’s wrist and started with a run down the street, deciding it was better not to figure out if she would become more physical. 

“It’s okay Rav’! Just some drunkard, you don’t need to pay attention to her!” Link turned his head back again to smile at Ravio reassuringly “Besides, she wasn’t even right. Not our fault she doesn’t know old Hylian”

Ravio couldn’t help but laugh, Link seemed to be the best at comforting him. Thick as thieves some would say.

The two weaved through the streets of Castle town, and before long they came to a run-down monastery on the outskirts. The building itself was still in use, but its stone exterior had been obviously worn by time. There were several statues of the goddess Hylia, and a few of the god Demise. Most Hylians still worshipped the goddess, although many preferred a more casual approach to their worship. This downturn in practitioners meant that many monasteries had now fallen into disrepair.

The boys opened the large door, and it let out a loud creak. 

“Master Link!” a priestess exclaimed, running up to Link and throwing her arms around the young boy. After a moment she held him at arm's length “Where were you? We’ve been worried sick waiting for you.” She scolded.

“And You” she said, turning her head towards Ravio “I specifically told you to wait here until we found Link, it’s much too dangerous for the two of you to be running off alone!” 

“Now now, Hilda”, a gentle voice chided, a priest appeared behind the priestess, Hilda. “It’s only natural for young boys to be adventurous” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder

Hilda almost jumped for a moment, her face flushing a pinkish hue. 

“Of course, Rauru” she said, releasing Link from her bear grip.

Ravio’s face had puffed up a bit, and he had his fists balled into his tunic. His mouth was contorted into a pout.

“A lady said we weren’t speaking Hylian, even though we were, it was just Old Hylian.” he said, matter-of-factly. Hilda couldn’t help but chuckle at his outburst

“Well then I suppose she was wrong wasn’t she?” Hilda smiled comfortingly at him

“That’s what I said!” Link exclaimed, Hilda shushed him gently

“How come you two were talking in old Hylian anyways?” She asked, tilting her head a bit by habit.

“So we can always find each other!” Ravio explained excitedly “Link said it would be good if we could talk to each other so other people don’t get it in case it’s not safe or there’s mean people around” He explained, rather out of breath by the end of it.

“My, isn’t that resourceful” Rauru smiled at Link, his eyes creasing so much they almost disappeared into his face. Rauru’s expressions were always exaggerated because of his wrinkles; he was the oldest priest in the monastery. A few of the other orphaned or abandoned children that lived within the monastery walls referred to him as ‘Grandpa’ although Link always felt like it was more appropriate to call him Rauru.

The two boys were off to the dorms before long, as the sun set in the windows behind them. Link dropped himself onto his cot, looking out distantly at the sunset. Ravio seemed to immediately crawl under his blanket and drift to sleep. 

Link unwrapped his hand, sheltering it between his body and the wall. He smiled warmly at the green light that seemed to dance around the triangular shapes of his wound. He still didn’t understand what fate he was tied to, nor the dangers it possessed. 

He heard a thump from behind him and hastily rewrapped his hand, tossing the covers over himself. He had already been scolded enough for one day. He cradled his hand close to his chest as he laid on his side, it wasn’t long before he too was asleep.

—

Ganon sat on the window ledge, looking out at the sunset dancing across Castle town’s skyline. He didn’t mind being here, but he certainly missed the comforts of home. He held his right hand up to the sun, admiring the blue glow that seemed to emit from it around this time every evening. He wondered for a while if this would always happen, or if this strange wound that connected him to his fate would eventually become nothing but a scar.

He mulled in his head for a moment, the legends he had been told had spoken of the great red energy that had flown through his predecessors. He couldn’t help but feel as though something had truly shifted this incarnation, at least from what he had been told. He chuckled once more at the foolishness of his ancestors, and placed his hand on the brick wall beside him. 

The mark on his hand sparked to life, causing his eyes to roll back into his head. The last thing he saw before his head made contact with the stone floor was one of his Guards running in an attempt to catch him.

—

Zelda smiled at herself in the mirror, admiring the earrings that Ganon had bought her earlier that day.

“Don’t they look splendid!” a voice called out from behind her, from sound alone it would seem as though the voice was coming from right behind her. Although she didn’t appear in the mirror

“Oh don’t you think so?” Zelda exclaimed, spinning around to face her friend. “It’s so romantic of him to buy something that compliments me!” she smiled

“Oh of course” the girl said, she was the spitting image of zelda, though she had a few key differences. “Just wait until you meet the hero though! You’ll never be the same” the girl said dreamily, swooning dramatically and falling onto a plush chair beside the wardrobe.

“Oh you and that hero! You’re obsessed with that silly legend.” She said stubbornly, before turning back to the mirror to admire the earrings again. She picked up her brush, pulling it through her hair for a while before giving herself another once-over. 

“There we are.” she said, seemingly satisfied with her work. She stood up from her seat, and made her way over to her bed. She sat on the edge, wrapping the canopy around her shoulder. Her friend stood up from her seat to join her.

“You really must start taking this seriously.” She said, worry apparent in her voice. She reached for Zelda’s right hand, rubbing a thumb over the mark. “I believe you’ll be purified once you meet the hero, then this gloom that seems to lurk within may be cleansed.” She said

Zelda pulled her hand away defensively, admiring the red glow that emitted from her hand.

“I think you’re being silly, besides.” she said, holding her palm up in the light of the sunset “Red is a strong passionate colour, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it.” She said, offering her friend a firm smile.

Her friend offered Zelda an exasperated sigh.

“You’ll understand one day.”

When the clock ticks to 5:45pm, he’s had enough and tries to get a hold of you. Your phone goes straight to mailbox and when he calls your work, nobody picks up for a long time until some stressed out woman tells him that you left earlier than usual, chipper and excited for your date.

Great, you’ve been talking again, your whole workplace eager to get snippets and bits of your relationship and piece together the unlikely match. Not that he cares.

What he very much cares about is you not showing up. You’ve went by foot this morning, claimed to get some fresh air and something you called a “walkout”. He knows the route you take.

So, with a hiss and a sneer, Sukuna stuffs his phone back into his pocket and tracks the way towards your work. You must be somewhere, right?

Funnily enough, he does find you, two streets over, past the sidewalk on a patch of green grass beneath one of the old walnut trees that drape the street in speckled shadow. You’re crouched on the ground, holding something close to your chest and for a stuttering, frightened heartbeat, Sukuna fears you’re hurt.

You don’t notice him approach, barely react when he calls your name and only lift your head when he’s right beside you, knees digging into the soft grass as he settles beside you. Large hands grab your shoulder and he half expects you to be in tears, to flinch or start crying but instead, you just turn to him with wide eyes and a pout.

“Look at it…” you whisper, and hold out your hands.

In the cup of your palms rests something tiny and naked, all wrinkles and rosy skin, eyes closed shut — utterly helpless.

“Fucking hell…” he curses and sits back on his haunches, relief and exasperation battling for dominance as he watches you stand.

“I thought you were fucking dead or something—”

You laugh at that, shake your head and gently free a hand, holding it out to him.

“I found this baby and couldn’t just leave it here, could I?”

He takes it and gets up with enough momentum that you’re not really doing anything to help. Still, he lets you live with the illusion and inspects the tiny creature closer.

It’s a squirrel, newborn and defenseless, small enough to fit into one of your palms, tiny heart hammering away as it’s whole body shudders.

“You could have called, you know?” he grumbles but starts circling the tree, attempting to find the drey it clearly fell out of.

“Phone died during lunch break, I figured you would show up here if I won’t make it in time.”

“Damn you, woman…”

You smile again, tilt your head in a way you only ever do when you know he might be grumbling and cursing but doing it with a devotion barely anyone gets to witness. He’s already here, already trying to solve the problem you posed.

“It was making tiny squeaks, it sounded so miserable, Sukuna…” you tell him with a breathless voice, carefully stepping closer towards the trunk as you stare up into the crown of the giant tree.

By now, spring has caused a spurt of growth in all the greenery nearby, bright new leaves and tiny flowers decorate the branches but by far not enough to hide the massive ball of leaf litter and twigs that makes up the squirrel’s nest.

No sign of the mother, no sign of more babies up in the drey.

You’re not even sleek when you move to his side, bumping your shoulder with his.

“You know, I tried climbing the tree but I’m not really a good climber.”

Sukuna gives you a massive side eye before examining the trunk. It’s not a great tree to climb, nothing really inviting anyone to try and make it up the tree with the first stable branch at least two meters off the ground. With a jump he might reach it but you - no chance.

Groaning, Sukuna has to realize that you were just eagerly waiting for him to come to your - and the squirrel’s - rescue. And here he is, immediately admitting defeat.

“Fine, I’ll try. But you figure out something else if it doesn’t work. And you’re paying the hospital bills if I fall or get attacked by a rabid squirrel.”

“Oh don’t you worry, big man, you’ll be fine,” you coo and stand on your tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his jawline before carefully offering him the baby.

He’ll need both hands and so ends up tucking it in the hood of his jacket before starting the adventurous climb.

As expected, he can reach the lowest branch with outstretched arms and a big jump, manages to pull himself up and shimmy to the trunk where he then finds a row of other branches that steadily lead him up the tree and closer to the nest.

No angry mother is to be found, no rabid rodents and no breaking twigs.

Sukuna makes it to the drey safely and finds a small ball of even more babies, all naked and tiny and asleep. Fluttering hearts beneath fluttering ribs. He has to twist weirdly to get the baby out of his hood but manages with a bit of strain before carefully setting down the lost one among it’s siblings. Immediately it shimmies closer to the warmth they provide and ends up indiscernible from the others.

Rescue mission accomplished.

Now to getting back down.

When he glances towards the ground, you’re right there, hands twisted with anxiety, eyes full of worry as you watch him slowly make his way back down.

Only when there’s solid ground beneath his feet do you start cheering, cheeks flushed with joy as you jump towards him, arms finding their way around his neck as you hug him like a koala, his hands managing to catch you just in time before you would fall on the ground.

“You did it, is it safe?” you asks, showering him in kisses that taste like late-afternoon coffee and that specific chapstick you keep losing in your bag.

“Yea, back with it’s siblings and as far as I can tell, I didn’t get bit.”

“That’s good,” you grin and press another kiss to his lips. “A real squirrel hero. And mine. Mostly my hero, yea.”

“You’re the reason I already find gray hairs…,” he mutters and you only grin wider.

“Still my hero. Squirro, if you must.”

“I was just about to say that you’re worth every single gray hair but if you keep calling me that, I might rethink it.”

You grin wide, run a hand through his hair and wriggle to be let down.

“I like every single gray hair of yours, oh my squirro!”

He lets you down and demonstratively rolls his eyes, grabbing your hand and tugging you back towards the sidewalk.

“Hero is fine, squirro - not so much.”

“You’re just jealous of my creativity…”

“Drained, you mean.”

“You love me, you meanie!”

“Yes I do… but you’re gonna be the death of me, woman.”

“You’ll die very happy then.”

And to that, he can only chuckle, tugging you closer. Hero or Squirro, doesn’t really matter to him as long as it’s you looking at him with all that love in your gaze.

“Ready.”

Beneath the confidence and bravado, you can already tell his mask has cracks. Nervousness lines his eyes, insecurity nestled in the corners of his mouth. You stand on your toes to reach his face, try to kiss it better - his cheeks, each corner of his mouth, then his lips. Sukuna melts just a fraction, body accommodating your closeness as he tugs you a bit further into him.

“It’s gonna be alright. They’re all so eager to meet you.”

“Hah,” he barks, eyes avoiding you as they trail up the wall. “No pressure at all.”

You know this has been hard on him in a way the previous years have not. This is the first time you asked him to join you, confident in your relationship and his place at your side. The ups and downs have been there, for sure, but lately, everything considered, you can’t imagine leaving him behind. So it felt only natural to ask him to come along, absolutely thrilling when he actually agreed to it. You think, even if just a little bit, he regrets it at the moment.

“Secret signal for when it becomes too much and we have to dip?” you ask and he smiles, softer now, losing the edge when you try to help.

“I’ll start screaming and running in a circle.”

Snorting, you place a hand on his chest and feel his heart race beneath. You don’t mention it, never would when you know he hates his weaknesses. One so obvious would only slam up walls you can’t have today. Not when it’s been going so smoothly.

“How about you go to the bathroom, send me a message and we take a break to talk through how we continue.”

“Fine, that works too.”

This time, he kisses you. Not in this soothing way, but in a manner of devouring. He tips you back, pulls your hips close, has you cling to his shoulders where your nails dig into his suit jacket, a surprised moan falling from your lips when you feel his tongue.

After that, when you have to fix your makeup - again - you take his hand and gather your bag and the box of desserts you’ve prepared and he tells you in a hushed voice that he’s nervous. You squeeze his hand and make a big speech about protecting him from your family until he smiles again.

Today is his turn of meeting your closest people. Soon, it’s yours. Both of you sit in the same boat and you try very hard to calm him.

The drive is quiet, barely-there music playing from the radio, his body so tense his knuckles turn white each time he shifts gears. Finding a parking spot has him already tilted, anxiety ramped up enough to turn it into something he knows, something familiar and manageable. You let him rage until the engine turns off and then sit there with stiff limbs, waiting for him to fall silent again.

When he does, you take his hands and tell him you understand.

“I’m not scared,” he claims and you can see right through his lie.

“It’s okay if you are. I’m nervous too. But you have to trust me that I know these people, and although some of them have pretty bad takes, and some of them have no filter, you’re safe, you’re appreciated and they are all so excited to meet you. Because -“ you pause, collect his hands into your lap and trace the faint scars that line his knuckles. He watches you with nervous eyes, lip pulled between his teeth. “Because you’re my boyfriend and they know you make me very, very happy.”

For a few moments, he stares at you before finding his voice, swallowing so his adam’s apple bobs about, a vein at the side of his neck pulsing frantically.

“I don’t know anything about this family shi- stuff. This family stuff.”

You can’t really hide the grin when he tries to censor himself. He’s aware there won’t only be parents, your sibling, aunts and uncles and grandparents galore. There will be kids and Sukuna, including his very own brother, claims he’s never been good with those. You doubt it would hold true and appreciate his effort with a soft smile and a squeeze of his hands.

“I’m right there. Don’t you worry. Anyone say anything rude I’m going to fight my whole family for you.”

He snorts at that but let’s the bluff slide. He better not doubt you because you’re more than willing to go head to head with that offensive uncle of yours.

When you two finally peel out of the car, he’s wordlessly taking most of the things you’ve brought and follows you down the road towards your family’s house. It belongs to a relative once removed. The daughter of the sister of your grandmother or something like that and each year, you’re assaulted by the onslaught of rapidly blinking lights, of plastic reindeer and flashing candy canes along the window trim. For your family, this time has always been competition. The biggest house and the nicest yard, most lavish decoration and the most expensive fashion. All your life you’ve bit your tongue and run with it, silent eagerness for a time where the next generation will take over, where maybe the gathering and the shared time and the food and the stories will be more important than a freshly painted picket fence.

Beside you, Sukuna slows.

“Tell me again why I said I would come along?”

“Because you love me and you actually also love my mom. And she loves you too. And they have a cat. There will be so much food and you’ll get presents.”

When you ring the doorbell and can already hear voices inside, Sukuna steps behind you.

“Are you using me as a human shield?” you giggle, no offense to be found and he grumbles something, two heads taller and nowhere near hidden from whoever is going to open the door. Relief washes over his face as the door opens and reveals your mother, reindeer antlers and bells on her head and the ugliest sweater known to mankind, all while she still wears the most beautiful smile as she opens her arms.

Kisses and an endless hug later, you take all the things from Sukuna before your mom already has him pulled into her embrace. “Look at you, how is my boy?”

All the effort that went into his hair is quickly ruined but you watch without complain as Sukuna’s tension melts, whole posture dropping as he sinks into the hug your mom offers him.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he tries to appease and just like you, your mother takes no bullshit. “Don’t you fret, honey. Everybody’s nice and if they are not, they can fight it out with me.” Ever since day one, your mom has been in Sukuna’s corner. It’s a well-timed reminder as she pushes at his shoulders just enough to watch him fully.

“Sweetheart, you look amazing. Come inside, quick - quick.”

As she jingles down the hallway and takes the box of food from you, Sukuna carefully steps inside. He’s too large, even for this big house. He has to duck beneath the hanging lamp and almost takes some stupid mistletoe with him as he does so. You can’t but laugh, still far enough away from the living room to be safe from the rest of the family. You stop him as he tries to take off his shoes, instead pull him back up by the collar and kiss him again.

“Keep the shoes on. I haven’t squeezed myself into these heels to take them off again. And you’re going to be okay. You have me and my mom on your side and don’t you worry, we’ll cause a whole mess if someone comes for you.”

His mouth is dry, breath shallow. Beneath his shirt, his heart beats faster than it does when he’s mid workout. You take your time fixing his hair and straighten his jacket. Whisper reassurances he claims he doesn’t need and still let’s you speak them. When there’s a loud wave of laughter filling your ears, you straighten and let him fix your necklace.

“Ready?”

“…Ready.”

You try to ease him into it.

Avoiding the living room, your first stop is the kitchen, where you find your mom and several other’s gushing and stressing and cursing over the endless row of food. The smell has your stomach growl, following the line of salads to the stove where your sister tries to look as if she knows what she’s doing.

Conversation ceases when Sukuna ducks through the door, trailing you like a lost little puppy. All eyes on him, you think that maybe he doesn’t look like a lost puppy but a veloceraptor on the hunt, anxiety masked by a scowl he tries to keep neutral. It’s a whole show for those who know him.

Beside you, your mom is faster than you, shuffling back over to him as your sister pulls you into a hug and kisses your cheeks.

He knows your sister already, at least from stories, from pictures, from that one time you ran into her while shopping. It’s adorable how timid he looks when he lifts a hand, wordlessly waving.

She waves back with a grin, eyes darting between you and him. “Damn, you clean up nicely, Sukuna! How many hours did it take her to convince you to wear a suit?”

Next to you, an aunt and two others try to figure out who he is.

“Needed one anyway…” he grumbles and rubs his neck. Beside him, your mom looks comically small. She’s got her arm looped through his, tugs him along as she introduces the few people scattered about.

It gives you the time to watch everyone’s reaction, eyes following him as he gives firm handshakes and practiced greetings.

Despite the bad times, you think you cracked the jackpot with him. He’s yours, your man, the one who follows you into hell and back and somehow even to your family’s holiday gathering. You’re pretty sure that in his case, he chose the greater evil because you nicely asked him to.

When you slide up to your mom, she eagerly hooks her other arm through yours.

“Is he your boyfriend or mine?” you quip, try to tease as she parades him around the kitchen like he’s her newest tupperware addition.

“Yours, sweetie. But, you know-“ her voice becomes quieter, whole body leaning into yours as she whispers into your ear, “knowing where he comes from, what he’s been through - he’s like a son to me. And I’m so proud of him.”

Maybe it’s the holiday spirit or just your mom’s sentimentality - but it pushes the tears into your eyes and you have to focus very hard on swallowing them back down, blinking and rolling your eyes in an attempt to not smudge your makeup. Stupidly enough, you can’t remember if you even used the waterproof mascara or not. He’ll be damned if he’s the reason you cry your makeup off before ever making it to the living room.

“Me too, mom.”

Your mother is good at this, tracking someone and reading them like an open book. Even from their first meeting, she’d clocked Sukuna right away. You’re pretty sure that’s why she has such a soft spot for him, intuition and learning about him through his vague hints and your secretive and very much censored re-tellings, she’d made it her job to ensure he was well taken care of. Not that she held back when he pissed her off, but you think it’s exactly what Sukuna’s been looking for all his life: a parental figure who loves him and doesn’t shy away from calling out his bullshit. Momma Bear has no problem taking in more lost cubs.

Your sister and Sukuna are an easy mix. She tells him to hand her a spatula and lets him dig through the kitchen for at least a minute, a wicked smile on her face, before he breaks and gives a snide comment. She laughs and barks one right back, ending in both of them taking half the kitchen apart because she’s just as clueless until someone takes mercy and opens the right drawer.

When you steal him away and pull him to your side, he’s already a bit less stressed. You beam up at him with all the pride you hold in your heart and he smiles back with enough honesty to have you brave the walk down the hallway towards the living room.

Someone made another joke, another grouped laughter spilling out of the room.

Just before the threshold, just out of sight, you stop again. Somewhere behind you, your mom jingles about, your sister drops something in the kitchen and more laughter finds you from all sides.

“We got this,” you tell him and try to remember if you forgot anything important in his thorough preparation. Just yesterday evening the two of you sat on the couch, hot chocolate in hand and one of the cheap christmas movies playing on tv. You’d gathered a block of paper on your knees, trying to fill Sukuna in on all the family relations and problems. You’ve warned him about which topics to avoid, which topics were safe, who to dodge like the plague and who was safe to pull into conversation.

“Just remember the guy with the grey mustache is a big no and whatever the woman with the purple glasses say, don’t engage.”

Beside you, Sukuna chuckles. “This sounds like we’re going to war. ‘Don’t engage, Sukuna, they have a tank!’” Hiding your face in his arm, you try not to laugh. “Sometimes it really does feel like that.”

He hums, a hand finding your neck, tilting your chin up to face him, head framed by silver tinsel and plastic holly vines that snake up the railing of the stairwell. “I’ll manage. Gonna be alright with you by my side.”

You almost kiss him again - almost, if it wasn’t for the hasty sound of tiny feet running towards you. You smile and take a step back, just in time for two kids darting through the doorway and through the gap your bodies create. A girl in a frilly red dress, chased down by a boy in checkered pants and a little tie around his neck. He catches himself on Sukuna’s leg, uncaring who actually stands there, calling the girl names just to stick his tongue out, rounding the two of you and dashing back into the living room. The girl follows, braided hair flying as she throws childish insults. Something along “meany bean” and “jelly chocolate” that makes Sukuna laugh enough to turn back towards you.

“From now on, you’re my meany bean, too. Or my jelly chocolate.”

With a gentle jab to his bicep, you shake your head.

“Nah sir, you got to pick one. The other one is my nickname for you now.”

“I don’t want to be meany bean,” he complains, jokingly and tries to claim the ‘jelly chocolate’.

With another laugh, you shake your head.

“Baby, if there’s a meany bean in this relationship, it’s you.”

He doesn’t even argue about that and calls you ‘jelly chocolate’ with a peck to the nose.

You give him one too, call him ‘meany bean’ and take his hand to pull him into the living room before either of you stall for more time.

Both of you had feared the moment more than anything else. Stepping through tinsel and into the warm glow of the living room, where everybody is gathered on tables and couches, several conversations held at once - all to just fall into silence as you step through the door with your boyfriend. You’d imagined turned heads, judgmental eyes and a silence that stretches on until you want to be swallowed by the ground. Sukuna hadn’t talked about it but by the way he holds your hand insinuates he thought the same. And despite all your fears, your entrance goes utterly unnoticed.

No heads turn, no conversation ceases. Everybody ignores you and for maybe the first time in quiet a while, you’re grateful for it.

It gives both of you enough time to take in the room.

A very good reason for your first cousin once removed holding the party is that she has by far the most lavish, extravagant and spacious living room out of all your family. Considering she’s only had one child, the couches that have amassed in her house speak another tale. Still, it’s not enough to hold your family. Seats and chairs and pillows are pushed about, forming a half-circle in front of the hearth.

Garlands, wreaths, an army of LED candles and tinsel wherever it can stick, candy on the coffee table like an offering to the ancestors. The tree is a massive one, taller than Sukuna, scratching the ceiling and overloaded with ornaments and straw stars, everything in a very palatable beige to gold. Beneath it, a dragon’s hoard worth of presents, neatly wrapped and stacked and gathered. Just by a glance, you can find your name on one of them, tiny stars on the wrapping paper, a cute little bow on top. Atop, a smaller one, nice flowing letters that spell ‘Sukuna’. You point it out and there’s something foreign on his face, a new vulnerability that you haven’t gotten the chance to see yet. It makes his eyes all shiny, face lighting up as if the little boy inside the man gets to finally take a breath.

“I didn’t bring any gifts,” he immediately realizes and you squeeze his hand again, three pulses of your own before patting his arm. “Of course we brought gifts. We, in fact, have a whole trunk loaded with gifts we still have to fetch.”

Another wave of relief, before your favorite aunt finally spots you and immediately comes running, calling your name.

“You’ve grown! Look at you, were you ever that tall?” she calls with outstretched arms long before you’re in her reach. Her excitement is contagious and you find yourself letting go of Sukuna, if only to fall into her arms, squeeze and hug until she finally lets you go again, holding you at arm’s length to examine your outfit. “You really have grown taller!” she claims and you laugh and point at your shoes, lifting one leg to show the inches you’re sporting. “Not really, have to blame the 100 mm heels, auntie.”

She laughs at that, slaps a hand on her thigh before her eyes find Sukuna. If he could, you can tell he would shrink under her gaze as she looks him up and down, then, a smile cracks her painted lips.

“No wonder, gotta keep up with his height if you bring a man that tall!”

You bite, take the opening as if you’d done it endless times before and pull Sukuna back to your side. He’s stiff in your hold, muscles tense as you cling to his arm.

“Auntie, meet my boyfriend, Sukuna, really happy to finally bring him along.”

She’s always been a touchy one. You’d warned, you think, but still he’s a bit overwhelmed when she immediately pulls him out of your hold and into hers, pats his shoulders and arms as if it’s a body building competition or some quick frisk before he gets to enter, and eventually gives her summary by calling him a ‘handsome young man’.

It takes a bit of non-verbal convincing to pry him out of her hold again and when you finally do and step towards the crowded table, Sukuna heaves a sigh.

“Here I thought you were an exception by being so handsy.”

It makes you laugh.

“Oh no, baby. It runs in the family. I, unlike others, just needed some time to start being that touchy.”

To make things easier, you knock on the table and shout a ‘hello’. It shuts up most conversations and turns enough heads that Sukuna straightens beside you.

“Hi everybody, so nice to see you all!”

There’s a few faces you yourself haven’t seen before. Some teenage boy who seems to belong to your teen cousin, a woman beside another cousin who’s known for a bodycount in the 100s. At least Sukuna isn’t facing this alone.

Someone, somewhere, shouts: “Who’s that with you?” and someone else laughs a “Any chance your date is my present this year?”

You swallow down any irritation you feel and instead pull him just a bit closer, lacing your hand with his.

“That’s my boyfriend, Sukuna! Everybody say hi!”

Everybody does - a chorus of ‘hi’ and ‘welcome’ and ‘nice to meet you’ and somewhere a disappointed ‘aaawww’.

Sukuna lifts his hand and gives a greeting of his own, hand in hand, sweaty palm against sweaty palm.

You know this is a lot for him. You also think he does an excellent job at keeping it together. You reward him with another squeeze and lead him towards the couches, repeat the whole scenario and have to listen to more compliments to his physique, his look, his height. Sukuna smiles through it all, not as politely as you’d hoped and rather in a way that looks as if someone stapled his smile into place.

Better than a scowl, you tell yourself and try to remember how fast his heart beats in his chest. This is new, foreign territory to him. All you can do is give him some grace, lead and guide him and hope the two of you make it out of here without any incident. The family streak of ‘no incidents’ aka fights during the holidays is at zero, so at least there’s nothing to lose. You’ll call it a win if Sukuna get’s through it without losing his temper.

Eventually, after you’ve made your round giving out hugs and he’s shaken enough hands to feel his fingers tingle, you park him on an empty two-seater.

Sukuna sinks into the leather with a sigh, pulls you right with him as you try and step back around the table.

“No way you’re leaving me here,” he mumbles and tugs you into his side. “How big can one family be?”

You don’t have the answer for that, just a few people who got divorced and remarried and have too many children to do any of them justice. Nuzzling against his jaw, feeling his stubble where it’s still barely visible but evidently there, you take a big inhale of your favorite perfume on him.

“You know, I wanted to go fetch the cat and find someone who’s carrying presents with me.”

“I’m carrying them. All alone, preferably. Several times, too. Gotta take reaaaally long…”

The fact he already wants to escape again is hilarious to you. You strike an easy deal. He gets to unload all the presents from the trunk and walk back and forth as much as he wants to in the bitter cold while you try and find the cat for him to hold onto.

When he leaves and you shut the door behind him, two of your younger cousins eagerly pounce you. They’ve given it their all, you can tell. Fake lashes so heavy you wonder how they ever open their eyes, lips over-lined and the first attempts at clumsily clipped-in hair extensions. You tell them they look nice and they pull you back into the living room to bombard you with questions.

“How did you meet?”, “How old is he?”, “How long have you been together?”, “What does he do for a living?”, “How much money does he earn?”, “Does he drive a nice car?”, “What’s his hobby?”, “Does he - by any chance - have a twin who’s still single?”

You actually try to indulge them, maybe because he’s so absolutely yours and because he’s not there and maybe for once, you want to brag and boast about him.

Over the time, more people gather, more questions and more answers until your mom whisks you away to help Sukuna with all the presents of people he doesn’t know.

You place them under the tree and have to confess you never even started looking for the cat.

He forgives you, because of course he does and you take the chance to escape the nosy group of relatives to find the cat on the first floor, fat and fluffy in one of her many beds. Se’s a blue Persian, old and so chunky you have no idea where her fur ends and her legs start. She’s a rolling ball of fluff and when Sukuna spots her, you know his day is saved.

He has always been better with animals than people and thankfully, cute old Dumpling has always been a lover of attention. She eagerly rises to wind around his legs, lets herself be lifted up and carried like a princess down the stairs where you once again park him on the couch, now hands full of needy cat and suit already covered in her fur.

It doesn’t take long for your own group of favorite people to find you. Some cousins, your sister, your mom, your grandparents. You open up your own little gathering among the rest and with greetings and first impressions out of the way, Sukuna relaxes beside you.

Conversations stay in safe waters, people joke and recap their year and you proudly sit next to your behemoth of a boyfriend who’s hands no longer shake because one of them is squeezing your thigh and the other is busy cuddling a cat.

Both of you are on your second cup of mulled wine when your sister’s oldest child decides is time to make a move.

He’s fresh out of preschool, emboldened by this new transition and a new baseball cap he got the day prior. Now, he stands in his little suit, cap crooked on his head, skin pale as he pulls out his music stand, notes and a child-sized recorder.

All bets are off when he confidently plays the first note and it hits absolutely wrong.

You admire your sister for how she smiles and sways in an attempt to keep the rhythm of ‘Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer’. The little boy is so focused on his music, he doesn’t see the way the crowd struggles.

Beside you, Sukuna is dying.

He’s dropped his head into your shoulder, sobs and laughs and shakes at your side in an attempt to quietly keep it together. You shake his wrist and make an attempt at stopping him.

“Shut up, you have a brother, you should know how this goes!”

“My brother doesn’t play the fucking flute!”, he wheezes out and you’re grateful your sister is nowhere in earshot.

Each note is horrendously wrong but you know your nephew is having a splendid time and so you sit there, trying to match your sister’s sways, pull Sukuna with you and smile as if you’ve never heard a song this great.

By the time it’s over, he’s all red-cheeked from effort, eagerly looking for his mom as the room erupts in cheers and clapping and an onslaught of whistles. You yourself rise and give a standing ovation, calling his name like you’re his biggest fan in the whole wide world. Proudly he beams and his smile is so wide it could split his face in two. Sukuna tries his hardest to stay alive while not choking on his laughter. An elbow to his ribs has him finally clap, cheering and whooping as if it’s the best concert he’s ever been to. The grateful look you give him goes not unnoticed and the smile he shoots you in return looks utterly silly by how teary-eyed he is from laughter and cringing.

Two more kids showcase their skills, a magic show that has the crowd in uproar and a little girl that says a poem while her mom mouths every single word.

Each time, you and Sukuna loose it and cheer as if you’ve never seen anything greater. You know it’s a joke to him but still, he acts along and when the final kid is back at their parent’s side, you squeeze his knee and thank him.

He just tells you he’s never had so much fun and tries to kiss you with a grin that has your teeth clank together.

After a while, someone calls for dinner.

Your mom moves the two of you safely to the area of the table that’s reserved for your generation, ensuring you get to sit next to each other, meat and potatoes and some green salad right in front of your nose.

You’ve bribed him - even if just a little bit - with the promise of a festive meal. By the way his eyes move up and down the table, taking in the mass and diversity of food, you know you didn’t promise too much.

By now, the alcohol has melted the last bit of anxiety clinging to his bones. The tips of his ears are flushed, a blush on his cheeks and a careful smile on his lips. You hold his hand beneath the table and lean in close to let him hear you over the buzz of the others.

“You’re cute,” you whisper and feel him shudder.

He looks at you with glassy eyes then, head turned and barely any space left before your noses touch.

“Am I doing okay?” he asks instead and you let your lips press to his and tell him he’s making you proud. After that, the blush only deepens and he busies himself with filling his plate.

The dinner goes uneventful. You ensure his plate is always full and you yourself eat more than you usually eat in a day. Wine and champagne and hot chocolate fills the mugs and glasses at the table and beside some petty argument between several drunk men, nothing happens.

Across from you, there’s a woman your age, she’s a cousin or someone who tagged along with a new husband or wife and you don’t know her name. But what you know is that her eyes are glued to Sukuna.

By now, he’s lost his jacket, rolled up his sleeves to get rid of some trapped heat, muscles and sinews and tattoos and scars all visible and you can’t even blame her for staring. You yourself do, find the wristwatch you’ve gifted him two winters ago and the matching bracelet to the one you left at home.

You can’t even be angry at the girl. Not when he wears your watch and your bracelet and when, beneath the table, his foot is linked with yours, his hand finding your thigh whenever he takes a break from eating. Whenever he looks up from his plate, his eyes look at the food or you. He doesn’t see anyone else. And so, you don’t start drama and instead let her admire him.

After dinner, the kids are so full of sugar that a whole bunch of parents decide to take their little ones for a walk. It gives the rest of you some breathing space and you find some time to talk with your mom. Sukuna stands by and smiles and listens, quips in when it’s appropriate, laughs when you laugh. But when you notice his fingers become restless and the back of his neck is covered in sweat, you pull him away and out on a balcony on the upper floor.

He thanks you with a tired smile and pulls out the cigarettes he’s been hiding in a pocket. It’s a quiet arrangement you have. He gets to smoke and you get to watch, curled into his side as if his body heat was enough to fight off the cold of a late December evening.

It’s your mom who finds the two of you, both your coats in hand, a scolding on her lips. She lets you off easily enough, pats Sukuna’s shoulder and you half expect her to call him a ‘good boy’. But she just pulls him down and kisses his brow dips back inside while you get all misty-eyed over their affection and try to blame it on the biting winds.

“Did you like the food?”, you ask despite already knowing the answer and Sukuna indulges and lists all the things he’s eaten and liked. Then it’s his turn and he doesn’t hold back.

“No shit, the mustache guy is an asshole…”

You laugh and agree and the two of you end up dissecting the hottest takes you’ve overheard, comparing stories and understandings until Sukuna grinds the butt of his cigarette against the balustrade.

The evening turns into loose patterns. You sit on the couch with a cat or without, you drink water and mulled wine and hot chocolate and you snack candy when the urge hits. Your mom stays close, proudly displaying the two of you as if you’ve both been her greatest achievement. Relatives rotate about the room, tell you of cars and promotions and vacations abroad. You listen and smile and feel unbothered while tugged into his side, his arm around your shoulder, lazy patterns drawn by gentle fingers.

Over time, Sukuna finds his people. A bunch of boyfriends and fiancés and husbands of cousins and aunts and whatnot, some male cousins of yours and an uncle or two. Routinely they all shuffle about and into the garden where they congregate and smoke together. He loosens and laughs and when night has already fallen and stars twinkle in contest with the fairy lights all about, you’re pretty sure he’s enjoying himself.

They stand with beer outside, cigarettes idly smoking as they laugh and talk and gesture. You watch lovingly.

“You two finally got your shit together?”, your sister asks before she ever sits her butt down beside you. You can’t tear your eyes from him and hope she gives you the grace to be in love.

“I think so. It’s been good.”

“Good. About time the asshole got his deal figured out.”

You tip our head back and laugh.

“Don’t be mean. You would be so bored if it wasn’t for all the drama in my life.”

It’s her turn to laugh now. She doesn’t argue, instead is interrupted by one of her kids, eagerly climbing all over her. She wrestles him into a seated position, tries her best to hold him down just for him to climb all over you, over the back of the couch and off under the table. She waves and laughs, claims it’s her partner’s turn to look after them.

“Oh, I would be. Still, have to make sure. He make you happy?”

You actually ponder over it. Sukuna and you’ve had a roller coaster of a relationship. Hardship and tears and fights galore. But the highs are high and they are so high that you tend to accept the downfall that will eventually come. Lately, the two of you have been more than happy.

“More than anyone else, yes.”

“Did he pull anymore bullshit?”

You know what’s she’s referencing to, the constant open ear for your relationship problems. Teeth scraping over your bottom lip, you reminisce over the past years. Still rocky, still far from fairytale content or fan fiction material. But yours. A relationship the two of you fought for with tooth and nail all of your hearts. You’re aware you’re the first one he’s really trying for, fighting for.

“No… not really. Not like two years ago.”

Your sister stretches, pulls you in and covers her mouth secretively with one hand.

“If you ever need someone to beat him up, I volunteer.”

You snort, slap her gently.

“No chance you could win against him.”

“It’s on my bucket list, sweetheart. ‘Beat Sukuna on a fast food chain parking lot’.”

You shake your head, incredulous and choose to instead take another gulp of your drink. It warms you from the inside, softens all edges to something fuzzy.

Your sister, apparently, is on a crusade.

“I do like him, you know. I see how happy he makes you when he’s having a good day. He’s fun, good-looking, the type of guy I know my sister is safe with when she’s out in the wide world. But oh man, the shitty stunts he can pull. I like him, really but - news flash - I like you more. So if it ever comes down to it, I got your back.”

“Well, thank you, sis,” you indulge and twist your head to look for him. He’s still outside, cigarette between his lips, beer bottle in one hand and the other arm raised as he tells a story, the brother of a married-in cousin bending with laughter.

“Maybe things will finally settle,” you hear yourself say. “Maybe we just needed to get it out of our system and now things will look up. He’s been-“ you hesitate, but you’ve already started and she eagerly leans closer, almost spilling her mulled wine all over your legs. “—he’s been talking about moving.”

Immediately, her eyes narrow.

“Moving where?”

“Buying a house.”

She spits her wine all over the candy.

“A house?”, her eyebrows are somewhere in her hairline, eyes as wide as saucers. “He better put a fucking ring on you before thinking he can buy a house. Financial ruin my ass, he better cover you and make sure you get everything in case he falls off the roof.”

The wine makes her anger comical. You know she’s just trying to look out for you, the memories of you calling her crying fresh in her mind. Still, you defend him with a smile.

“We talked about getting a dog or at least a pet of some kind.”

“Get a fish…”

“I meant something big and fluffy and with it’s own mind…”

“Are you saying fish are stupid?”

“I’m saying fish are another level of pet than dog or cat…”

She dramatically rolls her eyes and you take the chance to backtrack.

“I don’t need a ring from him. I’m not sure if he’s ready for that… he—he doesn’t have to be. I don’t think I need a ring. What I need is his loyalty, his honesty…,” you trail off, watching him through the window where the tree and fairy lights reflect everywhere and make him shine. “—his smile.”

“Oh,” your sister laughs at you, “you’re so cooked.”

You know. Damn, you know. Absolutely love-struck, even years down the line.

You let her make fun of you, let her tease you and laugh at your expense. She’s mesmerizing when she’s having fun.

“Are you happy?” you ask in return and her eyes shine bright, wine tinging her cheeks and nose and ears.

“I’m having a blast,” she claims, eyes roaming over the gathered people to beam at her partner, following her kids where they chase through the room. Endless energy just like their mother.

As your sister gets lost in thought, your eyes trail back to Sukuna, only to find the garden empty, all smokers having quietly filed back inside. Only that he hasn’t found back to you. Awkwardly twisting and turning, you scan the room to find him near the bookshelves, cornered by a plant and some light-weight romance books for middle-aged women.

There, your mother stands before him.

He’s lost the bottle, lost the laughter. Instead, his eyes are wide and there’s some defenseless affection in his stance, his face, the curve of his lips. Your mother stands before him and smiles, hands raised to cup his cheeks, lips moving as she speaks to him with words you can’t catch.

The blush has deepened on his face.

What you would give to know what she was telling him but as you watch how soft her eyes are, how gentle her hands cradle him, you know it’s something he’s desperately needed. Unaware of the weight of it all, your mother might just have given him the greatest gift in the world. Affection, love, trust - something hopeful and eager as she regards him.

When he blinks, you watch a tear fall down his cheek, watch your mother coo and wipe it away, tug his head into her shoulder and hug and sway him like a child while his body shakes and he cries for the first time in a long, long while.

Both of them are crying when he shifts in her hold, teary-eyed and overwhelmed they stand there and it takes everything you have not to run and hug them both. You let them have their moment. Grateful to be a witness.

You don’t mention it when your sister pulls you back into light conversation, a child back in her lap, the cat Dumpling back weaving about your feet. You keep them in your periphery and glance over every once in a while and each time you find Sukuna smiling, relaxed, tender under her motherly gaze.

When someone rings a bell and yells “Presents!”, everybody springs up and over each other to get to their spot. Some dedicated and yet sober volunteers hand out the presents that have gathered beneath the tree and when you reach your place on the table, there’s already a neat little stack of gifts. Sukuna’s spot next to you looks the same. Several neatly wrapped packages sit like a little tower in front of him and when he joins you, a hand snaking around your waist to pull you close, still with hot cheeks and watery eyes, you keep quiet as he presses a lingering kiss to your temple, fingers digging into your flesh.

Quietly you turn in his hold and hug him back, hold him for as long as he lets you while he tries to get a grip. The beat of his heart has changed, excitement more than anxiety.

Down the table, your mother smiles warmly at you. Whatever they’ve said, it has her in a chokehold, too.

The kids are the first to unpack, cheerful and with stars in their eyes as toys and gadgets find their new owners. Some kind of fairy starts whizzing through the air and lands on top of a shelf on the other side of the room. Another kid throws the ball it got and almost shatters several pictures that hang on the wall.

Beside you, Sukuna has gone oddly still.

When you face him, he stares at the gifts as if unsure what to do. You entertain him, lean close and ruffle his hair that’s long since lost any structure you tried to knead into it - it’s how you like him best anyway: wild hair, wild eyes, wild heart.

“You okay?” you ask and are very careful that your voice is soft.

“They don’t even know me-“ he starts and blinks. You wonder if it’s the alcohol that makes him so emotional or just the overwhelm of a situation he’s never before found himself in.

“Well,” you start, scratching your nails over his scalp in a way that usually soothes him. “You belong to me and so, you get the same treatment as I do. You’re part of this family, Sukuna. And you deserve all the love that’s given to you.”

He turns his head your way, stares too long and says too little and you let him take his time, watch the emotions ripple over his face where the mask has long since slipped and smile at the wonder you see there. He was never granted a life where love was the easiest option. You intent to teach him. You intent to show him.

He doesn’t have to know that two of the gifts are from you, a failsafe in case nobody got him anything. You yourself are surprised that there’s so many in his spot. Probably your mom, your sister, maybe some aunts and grandparents because they take joy from giving. You don’t mention it either way, scratch his hair and pull him down for a kiss.

“You deserve this,” you mumble into his mouth and hope he believes you. Eventually, it will have to stick.

When he unpacks the first gift, his smile is too wide for the world. You don’t care for your own presents while you watch him unpack, fingers clumsy from eagerness as he tries not to rip the paper, instead carefully tugs his finger beneath each stripe of scotch tape and folds it together as if he could use it again. The first thing he finds are candies - chocolate, candy canes, bonbons and a whole packet of cookies. Like a child you watch him bounce and choose the next present.

It’s a whole gift in itself to watch his inner child get the holiday spirit he always wished for. In the end, a whole pile of candy sits before him, a 3-in-1 shower gel that you just know is from your sister because it’s been her go-to present for every man in the family since she moved out. A handmade scarf from your mom in his favorite colors, a gift-bag from a store he loves and a little, kitschy tea-light holder that depicts a winter night with glitter snow and yellow windows. Absolutely not his kind of shit but you watch him get all soft and corny over it. He turns it in his hold for at least three minutes before setting it down so gently that you wonder if he’s ever held anything made of glass before.

Then come your presents for him, generic multi-pack of socks in an attempt to get him to throw out the ones with a hole.

You make a show by nudging him, pointing at the simple stack of footwear.

“Oh look at that, how convenient. Now you get to throw out the ones with holes.”

“Ha-ha,” he gives in return but it lacks all the bite.

Then there’s the more personal one, a calendar you’ve made for the closest in your family, 12 pages of memories in HD and full color. For him you’ve made an extra one. One with just the two of you, favorite adventures and gatherings and times. A selfie in the mountains, a picture from your friend’s wedding. Sneaky pictures in bed and sneaky pictures in the evening. Selfies during mundane and special times. Your favorite picture of him next to that of him and your mom, him and your sister. There’s a raunchy one in there too, the month of his birthday where you’ve taken a risqué shot of yourself in lingerie he’d once convinced you to buy and that has never seen the light of day.

When he unpacks it and is faced with the cover, fancy font that spells “Our Year!” and your favorite pictures of the two of you, a shaky selfie on the first date and a picture your mom took during a shared dinner - both of you in the kitchen, him at your back, your head craned backwards to watch him with a smile so wide it physically hurt. He looked at you with so much love and when your eyes wander from the photo to him, he now does too.

“Babe…” he starts but it’s all choked up. He notices too, chooses silence instead of words and lifts the first page.

“Na-ah,” you hastily interrupt, covering the calendar with your hand. “No peeking. Hang it somewhere nobody gets to publicly see it. It’s for you - you only.”

He makes a comically funny face after that, absolutely catching the hint you throw his way and the grin that follows in it’s wake is wicked.

You let him feel what he has to feel as the grin morphs into something else. Into wobbly lips and a tense chin.

“You didn’t have to, you— you already gifted me something.”

You shrug and make sure he knows it’s no problem.

“Well, I love you, couldn’t help but shower you in that a bit more.”

He takes your face in his without compromise, without a way out and kisses you so urgently that your breath leaves you in one, big woosh!

Down the table, your sister whistles. A few old people make inappropriate comments and an uncle turns it into a joke. But you don’t care what they say, don’t care that they are witnesses to his love for you. And to your surprise, to your relief, to your utter shock, Sukuna doesn’t care either. He kisses you and keeps kissing you and when he finally lets go, his pupils drown out most of the color of his eyes and you smile so wide it hurts just as good as on the picture you chose for the front page.

He’s not one for PDA. The most he does is let you loop your arm through his or hold his hand if it gets too crowded. So, today, has been a gift in many ways. He’s been nothing but touchy, borderline clingy. Proudly and openly displaying his affection for you.

You don’t care if he follows an agenda. You don’t care if it’s to appease your mom or relatives or claim you in front of cousins who ask for a ‘twin’. The fact he does it despite his usual unease has your heart all fluttery and soft. You’re nothing but pudding in his hands.

Sukuna lets you stare at him for a while, hearts in your eyes until even his patience runs out and he nods towards your untouched pile of presents.

“Ever gonna open them?”

“Hmmm,” you hum and can’t really find the words. “I think I already got the best gift.”

He clicks his tongue and presses the first present into your hand. “Start unpacking, woman.”

As it turns out, you get the usual gifts. A scented candle, candy, a bunch of lotion in different scents. You, too, get a tea-light holder that matches his and new mittens your mom made you and you requested not so subtly about two months ago when your old ones tore.

There’s a little heart and your initials stitched into the cuff of the left one and you throw your mom a kiss as you catch her eyes over the table.

Your sister gifts you a wellness-weekend for two and immediately invites herself as the second person.

“I got the other ticket!”, she shouts and wriggles her eyebrows. “Gonna find me the finest masseur in the whole building.” You laugh and she shoots finger guns your way and you still laugh when you unpack the next thing on your pile, a plain envelope with your name on it.

The card it holds is a cute one, no glitter or tinsel, just a nice drawing of a star in the middle and a cute little line beneath. When you open it, it’s Sukuna’s handwriting that finds you, enough to fill both sides, another line awkwardly squeezed along the edge of it.

You let him have this moment, don’t look for him when you start reading.

It has you in tears after the first two sentences. He’s never been very flowery with his speech and he sure as hell isn’t in this card but it’s earnest, direct, honest in a way he’s always been and emotional by the way he gives each thing he feels a name. In it, he thanks you for believing in him, for never giving up on him when he himself has done so continuously. He calls you the love of his life, promises he wants to keep trying, improving, working hard to give you the life you deserve. A tear of yours falls on the card and makes the ink spread like languid seaweed. You sniffle and force yourself to continue, power through it because you know once you stop you can’t start again.

At the end, he tells you of his other gift.

Quietly, without you noticing, he’s worked overtime and raked together enough vacation days to whisk you away off season, a hide out you’ve always wanted to have, two weeks where there’s only going to be you and him and nature.

You bawl your eyes out and can’t read the sign off, already falling into his arms where he waits with nervous eyes.

He holds you like your mom held him. Gentle and dedicated and with a hand at the back of your head as if you’re in danger of falling over. When the tears finally ebb off and you find your voice all husky and congested, you take his face in yours and ensure you’re the only one he’s looking at.

“You already gifted me something, why the hell are you doing this extra? I— I didn’t even notice. Where did you even put all those hours in, you came home as usual?!”

He’s almost sheepish when he explains himself. Going to work earlier than usual, refusing to wake you and instead sneaking out in the dark of night to already stack up 3 to 4 hours before his usual shift begins.

“You’re insane,” you quip and he smiles with guilt in his eyes. Oh, he’s so aware he’s got a loose screw.

“And I love you,” you shoot, gather his face and shower him in kisses. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Not just for this, but also for this, but for everything you do and for tonight and for yesterday and for tomorrow. For all the days to come.”

This time he’s more in control. Fights an honest fight against the tears before they well up and spill and you two just cry together, your mind already racing to that get-away with only him. Soft mornings, soft noons, soft evenings, soft nights. Soft everything with a tad of spice. Maybe a lot of spice, depending on where you are in your cycle. Maybe you have to line it up properly, make sure to make the most of it when there’s no neighbors and work schedules and noises to bother you.

“I love you,” he whispers against your skin and you don’t care how corny the two of you are, all over each other at the dinner table.

You don’t know how much time has past when a ball of wrapping paper hits the back of your head and half the table cheers. Your sister, triumphant and grinning, asks you without asking and you give a thumbs up and hope it will suffice.

Sukuna says something about bringing a gift because he wasn’t sure what the proper etiquette was. You squeeze his arm and tell him he did everything right but that he didn’t have to.

“Didn’t have to, my ass,” he mutters, eyes narrowing towards the calendar before him. “You had another gift, I would have looked like the worst fuc-fudging guy if it wasn’t for the card.”

“Nobody would have noticed,” you try to appease but he’s hellbent on proving his point and only lets up once the whole table starts moving and thanking each other.

Later, when you’ve got all the gifts of you and him in your basket and the kids are all asleep scattered on couches and tables and arms, you dig out your phone and ask him if he’s ready to leave.

Not even once he’s used the emergency signal and now that you’re all lazy and heavy-lidded from alcohol and socializing and good food, he gets his own phone, reads your message and shoots you a smile and a nod.

As if she already sniffed it out, your mom emerges with a hand full of leftover food, stacking it atop your presents and pulling you both against her.

“I’m so proud of you two,” she says, all thick with emotion and slurred by the wine.

Sukuna laughs, almost awkwardly, mostly shy and you squeeze her and tell her you love her.

She lingers while you gather your things, say your goodbyes, hug your sister and favorite relatives. Sukuna follows you dutifully, granting smiles and ‘thank you’s and ‘goodnight’s.

At the door, your mom presses a kiss to your forehead and a kiss to his. She waves until you’ve made it the whole pathway to the street and you’re sure she keeps waving even once you turned a corner.

After wrangling all the things into the trunk and maneuvering yourself into the cold inside of the car, you close the door and stare at him.

He does the same, dark eyes and exhaustion finally settling in. The smile on his face is genuine, if a bit tired. He reaches over the center console to hold your hand, squeezes until you squeeze back and then pulls close to press a kiss over your knuckles.

“I love you,” he says again, earnest and eager and raw.

“I love you too,” you echo and mean it. “I’m so proud of you,” you continue, try to show him how deep you feel it by holding his stare.

“Didn’t do anything,” he mutters but you deny anything he might throw your way.

“You did so well. And if my mom gets to be proud without argument, so do I. I’m proud of you. And I love you so, so much.”

He lets himself smile, soft and tired and real.

“I don’t deserve you…,” he starts and you already want to object again but he talks over you before you ever get going, “… but I’m so glad you saw something in me that I couldn’t and that you love me despite my short-comings and all the stupid fucking mistakes I make. I love you so much.”

“Don’t make me cry again,” you scold and let your head sink against his shoulder. “I love you, Sukuna.”

“I love you.”

When the two of you eventually manage to untangle and buckle up, he lets the radio hum in the background, soft jingles and softer voices as he starts the car and takes off, world smearing by.

You rest your head against the window and smile.

Pride warms your chest, love drums in your heart in rhythm with the music.

You love him with all you have and he loves you with all of him. That has to be worth something.

And as your head grows heavy and your eyes tired while stars and fairy lights and snow drifts by, you feel a gratitude fill you that you haven’t felt in a long time. Gratitude for the people you have in your corner, for the life you get to life, for the man at your side who’s choosing you every single day.

When you watch him, you smile and when he notices, he smiles too.

For a while, you sit alone in the lounge area, anxiously bouncing your leg and studying the “Wanna Do” folders while Yuki ran off to fetch him. You can hear her talk but can’t quiet catch the words. There’s the buzz of a tattoo gun, the low music that keeps playing, chatter from where another artist is trying to align some stencil right.

Yuki was — as so often — right. When you get to Sukuna’s section of artwork, it’s all precise lines and striking imagery. From symmetric blackwork and simple but crisp lines to detailed fine line tattoos of plants and animals. You like the range, like the expressive yet simple design. He doesn’t shade, doesn’t overcomplicate things. As anxiety-inducing as it is — he is the perfect fit.

You flip through the rest of the folder, linger on Yuki’s section out of duty and then hear their voices come closer, finally catching snippets of a conversation as their steps halt, closer but still out of sight.

“Be nice,” you hear Yuki basically order him. A snort follows, something deep and definitely from Sukuna.

“I’m always nice.”

“She’s timid. So it’s not fucking sarcasm o’clock. Hear her out, figure out if you can do it and wait if she wants you to. This is important… for both of us.”

Once Yuki turns the corner, her grin is dramatically wide, eyes flashing towards you as Sukuna follows hot on her heels. His gaze is darker than you remember, muscles more pronounced, whole bulk of him taking up as much space as you and Yuki combined. He’s intimidating with his presence alone and instinctively has you scoot closer to the edge of the couch.

“Sukuna, my best friend. Bestie, meet Sukuna. He's going to be nice —“ she pronounces the word funny, throws a threatening glance his way, “and he’s very eager to hear your idea.”

Sukuna, as if he’s held at gunpoint, nods and plops himself on the couch across you, long legs knocking into the glass table between you.

He wears a box cut shirt, jeans that are ripped at his knees, his own tattoos exposed along his strong arms. You can see them crawl up his neck too, framing his face in clean and precise lines.

Yuki, having settled quietly beside you and picking up the leftover sushi she abandoned previously, gives you an encouraging nod.

“I—“ you choke on your own voice, can’t manage to look into his eyes and force yourself to continue anyway. The leather couch has been used as training spot, ink scattered all over it’s surface. “I want a Medusa tattoo. But nothing obvious. I don’t want people to see it and pity me - or think they can make conversation. It’s for me - nobody else. So I want something subtle…”

Despite your fear, your voice grows in determination. This is your idea. Your body. This is your choice. Sukuna and Yuki are here to make it real.

Sukuna shows no real reaction, looks as unimpressed as previously but you can watch how his jaw tightens, releases, how a muscle feathers as he grinds his teeth before exhaling.

“Any ideas yet?”

He doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s a stupid idea, which makes it easier to continue.

“Maybe just… a snake as a strand of hair.” You trail a finger from behind your ear down to your neck. “Like this, maybe.”

He nods again and then only stares. You hate how his eyes seem to shine almost red, a brown so deep you can see your frightened self in them.

Then, his head snaps to a tilt and you hear his bones crack. Not sure what’s on his mind, but he blinks and the spell is broken.

“Any other ink already there?”

You nod and point at several spots on your body. All curtesy of Yuki, who’s repeatedly used you as her canvas during her apprenticeship and work years.

Wordlessly he pulls Yuki’s tablet towards him, steals her pencil and opens a new canvas on the program. Then he starts scribbling several things down, jotting down a few bullet points before his eyes find you again.

“Symmetry?”

“No.” Yuki’s told you once all his own ink is symmetrical, that he’s done parts of it himself, that some of them call him a ‘curse’ because he seems to infect others with his hang for symmetry. Not you, tho. “I just don’t want it to be obvious.”

Another nod, more scribbles and then he stares again. Sukuna studies you like a piece of marble, before he ever places a hand on it. He studies you like an empty canvas, an empty page that’s just waiting to be filled. Meanwhile, you feel like the blinking cursor in your own document, heartbeat hammering away in your chest.

“How do you wear your hair, usually?”

You shrug. “Like this.”

He nods again, gives a hum while twirling the pencil like a drum stick across his knuckles.

“Alright. I can do it. Ever seen any of my work?”

You point towards the folder you inspected earlier, see your own finger shake dramatically and try to play over if with tugging your whole hand beneath your leg. “I’ve seen your Wanna Do’s.”

“If we’re going the route of snake as a strand of hair, then behind the ear is an obvious spot. People will see it, you don’t wear any other tattoos that easily visible.”

He’s scanned you, you realize. The warming weather has tempted you to wear a short-sleeved shirt and he’s right in his observation that you do not show off your tattoos. Work would conflict with it, so does your lacking confidence.

“I don’t know where else to put it…,” you mumble and throw a glance towards Yuki. Like a guard dog she watches over you, all the sushi gone by now.

Wordlessly, Sukuna lowers his gaze towards the tablet and starts sketching. It’s quick lines, different than the slow and thought-out drawing process of Yuki, he’s almost chaotic with how he lines it all.

Swirls and squiggly lines and suddenly there’s a snake, surprisingly close to the real thing considering it was just some strange lines a few moments ago. They all wind differently, half cut off, heads in different angles, one even with an open mouth, fangs protruding in a dangerous hiss.

Nonchalantly he turns the tablet towards you, gives you time to ponder it.

Despite your claim not caring for symmetry, some of the snakes are in fact, symmetric. One curls in tight s-shaped lines and forms a filled out triangle, others at hand are randomly winding.

He clears his throat and catches your attention again.

“Let me try and explain my thought process here…”

You know that for a moment, he’s tempted to stand. You can see it in the twitch of his arm, before he decides against it. You’ve been through it with Yuki more often than not. Talking placement is always a serious business. Inspecting the canvas a certain part of it to ensure to find the right spot for it.

Still, Sukuna decides against it. Gratitude floods you and has your cheeks heat. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it and instead uses himself as example.

“Placement behind the ear is more obvious than, lets say, one on your nape. But both of it fucking hurts.” He points the pencil towards the mentioned areas on his own body, turns his head slightly to run the end of the pen down his neck vertebrae, hidden behind thick strings of muscles and black ink that, comically enough, runs along his own neck and spine.

“I don’t care about pain,” you state and mean it. For once, this is not a fear of yours. It will fade, will pass. Just another thing you will endure. But this time, of your own choice.

Tapping the symmetrical snake designs, he points at the back of his neck again.

“Doesn’t take up as much space, better hidden by certain hairstyles and clothing and you could expand on it, if you ever wanted to.”

You stare at the snakes before you and try to imagine it beneath your skin. Is it something you want to see when there’s pictures of you? When you twist in the mirror? Suddenly, you’re not so sure. It’s a reminder, after all. One for your strength, survival and your own power -but a reminder nonetheless.

“If I still want it behind my ear… or at the side of my neck…” you start, carefully staring at the snakes. “What would your placement be?”

He looks at you with narrowed eyes as if he’s trying to envision something he can’t get a hold of. By not getting close to you, he’s made his job obviously more difficult. Because you know how it works and he’s been surprisingly careful and considerate, you turn your head to the side, try to show him what he’s working with.

The low rumble of his chest could be approval, a hidden ‘thank you’ that only you understand. A smile tugs on your lips and even when you try to swallow it, by the glint in his eyes, he’s seen it.

His pen finds it’s way back against his skin, carefully tracing a curled up line from behind his ear along his hairline.

“We could make it smaller. Thin lines, no shading. Maybe even just the outline instead of every individual scale.”

Despite the tablet upside down, Sukuna sketches another snake, a few quick strokes before it fills a corner of the canvas, simple but striking in it’s dynamic and simplicity. You like it.

“It doesn’t have to be absolutely detailed,” you tell him and gesture towards the newest sketch and the fanged snakehead beside it. “I like this head. And that body.”

“So venom, not constriction,” Sukuna notices and circles the snakes you mentioned.

You nod. You’ve liked the idea of a quick attack and defense more than slowly choking and squeezing their prey to death.

He notes a few more things down while you watch his hands. They are large, strong. Deft fingers that have shown to be quick in handling the pencil. There’s faded ink on the first phalanx of each finger. Double bands of solid black around his wrists. Scars are visible on his knuckles, the nailbed on his left thumb red and irritated.

You think you can be okay with him touching you. With him being the one to press the ink beneath your skin, to settle his gloved hands against the vulnerable curve of your neck. He would do your idea justice, you realize. Not having touched you so far shows he knows exactly what he’s truly doing.

With another rough cough, Sukuna straightens.

“Tell you what. I’ll do a handful of ideas, you tell me what you think and we go from there?”

He still looks grim, disinterested if it wasn’t for the tone of his voice and as you stare at his face and try to nod, the faintest of smiles tugs at the corner of his lips. You see it and return the gesture. Sukuna is the right guy for it. He’s perfect for it and he’s worth stepping out of your current comfort zone. Maybe this can be the next defiance of your past. Letting him be the one to do it. Strong and unreadable and everything you usually fear.

With a quiet click, he sets the pencil against the glass surface.

“I would need some pictures of the tattoo area to work something out.”

Yes. You want this. This is your choice. It’s okay to be uncomfortbale while doing so. He’s giving you a chance to learn that not everyone is cruel.

With a tense jaw, you rise and twist your hands. The two artists stand with you, both of them leading you to an are of better lighting.

Sukuna has taken the tablet with him, lets Yuki position you so the lighting is right and you hold very, very still as he takes snaps of your profile, your neck.

Yuki is called to the front desk, some urgent matter of a missed payment and you’re left alone with Sukuna, towering over you as he tells you to turn.

With your back towards him, you can feel him shift behind, can watch from the mirror on the wall how he takes another picture of the area before reaching out to you.

His fingers never touch your skin and instead you hear his voice, close and quiet, raspy where he doesn’t usually lower it.

“Can I?”

It means more than you can realize in the moment, nodding with a stuttering “Yes.”

Then he reaches out and his fingers graze your neck. His touch is hot, burns your skin and sends shivers down your spine, raising the fine hairs on your arms. The ghost of his fingers brush your hair to the side and before the shiver ebbs off, his touch is already gone again.

When you look into the mirror, he’s already taking a picture again, stoic as always, eyes focused on the screen. And you — you stand there, flushed and shaking.

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

That’s it. He’s gone before you can turn towards him, only his broad back visible as he turns around the corner and vanishes out of sight.

Raising your hand, you touch the spot where his fingers brushed against you. Don’t want to wipe it away but press the memory of it into your very skin.

When Yuki returns, she finds you still standing there, a hand on your neck as she pulls you into her side.

“Proud of you, honey,” she grins and you shake yourself out of your trance, trying to find the right words.

“You were right. He’s the perfect guy for the job.”