Chronically Writing

In the beginning, when you’d first found out about his little side hustle and he’d been absolute stubborn and downplaying the whole ordeal, you’d told yourself you would leave if he didn’t stop. The thing about love is and was, that the heart always wants what it wants. Sukuna loved the fight, loved the blood, the brutality, the simplicity, the danger and the payoff. You — you loved Sukuna. And so, Sukuna never stopped fighting and you never left.

Now, almost a decade together, you know you’ll never leave. Not because of this. Any boundaries you had set, he’d trampled over and any tears you’d shed, he’d kissed away with enough love and guilt and gentleness to make you endure. 

Sukuna had tried to show you the upside of it all. One fight equals a whole lot more money he’s ever about to make at the garage or with training sessions at the gym. 

Spontaneous weekend trips to luxurious hotels, fancy dinners at freshly opened restaurants, a home you could only ever dream of, too many cars for a two person household. 

But right now, you’re harshly reminded that all the glitz and glam isn’t worth it. Not when you don’t even know if he’ll come home or if he’ll spend the night in the ER - or worse.

So here you are, perched on the couch, soft blanket pooling in your lap, lights on so he for sure knows you’re awake and waiting when he finally wanders in. Each passing car has your heart speed up. Each voice drifting by has you hold you breath and wonder if it’s him. 

More often than not, you tap your phone to ensure nobody has tried to call or message. Toji, who’s trying to get a hold of you after a fight turned bad, Sukuna who’s asking you to pick him up from the hospital where he got his face stapled together. None of those horror scenarios are imaginations. It happened before. You’re pretty sure it will happen again and nothing will change until he finally loses his hunger for a fight or you find the courage and strength to break both your hearts and walk away.

Time’s liquid and liminal when there’s enough anxiety in your body and absolute silence outside of it. Beside your fearful heart and the blood that rushes in your ears like distant rivers, only the fridge hums somewhere in the kitchen. The flickering images of girls all younger and prettier than you don’t help. 

Of course you’ve done your research. Back when you learned about the whole business of it, cages and hungry beasts. Bloodthirsty fans and too much money to even count. 

The lock at the front door clicks and his feet drag along the floor as he shuffles inside without a sound. It takes everything you have not to spring up, tangle in the blanket and sprint towards him either way, desperate to see him safe and whole and home - or to scream at him to ensure he knows how hurt you are.

Silently, you listen to his bag drop to the ground, a low groan he can’t stifle as he shrugs out of his jacket or slips out of his shoes. He knows you’re here, knows you’re awake or at least waiting. He knows home can become hell when he’s hurt you so thoroughly. When he’s lied while looking in your eyes and kissing the corner of your mouth and brushing his fingers over your hair. 

Once, you’d considered yourself above begging. Above crying and clinging and asking him to stay so pathetically. Now, years down the line, you’ve been there, done that and given up on it again. It never got you anywhere, only hurt more when he was so crushed by guilt that he couldn’t speak and you were a blubbering, crying mess, hyperventilating and yet having to watch him step out of the door when the time came.

At one point, he’d asked you to come along. You’re not sure what made him think you would agree to this madness, to watch the love of your life fight for spectacle and blood money. To watch him throw punches and collect beatings while others thirsted for more violence. 

Not even once you followed him. He’d tried to include you by telling you about it. The recurring faces, familiar opponents and newcomers with bad technique. You couldn’t even look at him and he’d stopped soon after, guilt and hurt and understanding all mixing in his dark eyes. 

You blame him for the blood on your floor. Blame him for the endless cycle of violence he once told you to escape, only to climb into a new cage and never get out again. Sukuna never blamed you. Not for staying, not for leaving, not for anger and silence and tears and insults. 

By now, this is routine. A guilty one, forbidden and dark, and yet, a routine.

Sukuna doesn’t even come to you first. Instead, he wanders into the kitchen. You know how his bare feet sound on different floors, can trace his steps by sound alone as he wanders to the fridge, goes for the freezer and rustles about. 

You know what it means, too. Bruises and lacerations, cracked bones and split skin. In your mind, he’s bleeding. Teeth red instead of white, eyes bloodshot, hair matted and several shades darker, covered in sweat and smeared grime.

In reality, he always showers before coming home. He smells of his 3 in 1 shampoo and the body wash you keep sneaking into his things. He’ll wash the blood off before stepping inside your home, he’ll have a change of clothes on, fresh and still unwrinkled except from where the seatbelt dug in.

But a shower doesn’t close wounds.

And so, you sit there frightened and anxiously stare toward the entrance until his shadow finally appears, followed by himself, silent and exhausted.

For a moment, you ponder if you shouldn’t even look his way, act ignorant and stare at the endless string of changing frames instead of him. But then, you’ve always been weak for him and you’ve always loved him and you can’t bear the thought to ignore him while he’s hurt. So, you look.

Immediately, you realize it could be worse. Way worse. But it could be better, too. 

Most of all, he looks absolutely rundown. Exhausted, eyes heavy-lidded and legs dragging, whole posture slouched while you can see his arm visibly shake as he holds a frozen bag of berries to the side of his face. 

Effectively, he covers his bad eye with it, hiding any injury you might otherwise immediately clock. 

Thankfully, there’s no limp to his walk, no bandages visible as he carefully steps closer. Even after all this time, after all the fights and all the money and all the late nights spent alone, he still has the guts to look utterly devastated by guilt.

There’s nothing you can say to ease the struggle, nothing to utter to numb both your pain. Wordlessly you pull the blanket further into your lap, making space for him beside you. He takes the invite just as silently, settles with a barely swallowed groan. The couch dips as his weight hits, back against the pillows as his head falls back against the headrest. The moment he can, his arm drops to his side, frozen package precariously balanced as he closes his eyes.

You stare at him and find everything you hoped you wouldn’t. The night has painted a picture of red and purple, violence across his sharp cheekbone, upper lip split close to the corner of his mouth. Someone hit him in the jaw, where the hint of his stubble vanishes in an abrasion still angry red.

There’s still leftover tape on his fingers, where he’s stabilized the joints or tried to work around an old injury. You know his fingers will still be sticky to the touch, gray athesive that refuse to be removed by soap.

For a while, neither of you say a word and you consider several times to speak, only to open your mouth and close it again. Everything you could say you’ve already said. He knows the whole tirade, the whole shebang. 

“Thought you would be sleeping,” he eventually offers, jaw barely moving, words pressed out between grinding teeth. 

“Obviously not,” you whisper, hate how your voice betrays you immediately, frail and shaking, too high, too anxious.

Something quickly flickers across his profile, a turn of his mouth, crunch of his eyebrows. 

“I won,” he tells you and you couldn’t care less. Not when he’s injured, when he’s obviously in pain, when he can’t even look at you.

You can’t find anything in you to congratulate him and before you can really think, you wrestle out of your blanket, carelessly strewn to the side as you stand and leave the room. Half your mind is willing to go to bed and just leave him there. Now you can sleep. He’s home, he’s alive, he’s injured but well enough that he’ll just crash on the couch and you’ll find him like this in the morning, knocked out cold and snoring.

But you love him and he loves you and every fight he fights he fights for a future he wants with you and every time he returns, guilty and hurt, but he returns. He comes to you because you’re all he has and he is all you love. 

So no, you don’t go to bed. You go to the bathroom, grab the box of first aid material and a blister of painkillers before making your way to the kitchen, filling a glass with cold water and returning to the living room. Sukuna hasn’t moved a bit, hands in his lap and you can tell by the way he’s holding himself that there’s something wrong with one of his wrists. His fingers look cramped, the imprint of the bandages beneath his gloves still visible.

You pop two pills from the aluminium and hold it out to him.

“Drink up,” you demand and he opens his eyes, catching your gaze for the first time since he left hours ago. When he straightens, the frozen berries slide dramatically off his face and he reaches for the glass with his wrong hand, water rippling as he tries to balance it with tired arms. 

There’s a point made as you refuse to touch him, just grab the bag of berries and settle back beside him, keenly watching as he downs the whole glass in one go. 

You were right: he’s been hiding the worst of it beneath the frozen pack. An ugly cut right beneath his eye, washed blue and purple and swollen skin. The bruising already looks bad but the cut beneath is angry and leaking. Someone’s tried to tape it together but the whole thing is already coming apart again, the little strips of tape that were supposed to hold it together, already flaking away.

With a barely-there clink, the glass is set down on the coffee table. Sukuna has bent forward, spine curved as hair hangs in his face and obscures his eyes. He’s tired and you know he’ll fall asleep as he is if you don’t start wrapping things up soon.

“What’s the worst of it?” you say, question offered not as peace but a truce. Just as you do, Sukuna knows how it goes. 

He offers his dominant hand without argument, without explanation and lets you take a hold of it without pulling back. There’s a twitch in his fingers and you know it pains him as you carefully try to gauge the damage. 

You’re not a nurse, never been medically trained besides the obligatory first aid training and patching up the love of your life. Learning by doing, you suppose. You’ve gotten oddly proficient at closing wounds, would say your bandages are top notch and to your absolute disgust, you know how to sew up a wound. 

Sukuna hisses and groans when you test the flexibility of his wrist, finding it rather stiff and painful but hopefully unbroken or -chipped. There’s been a guy who’d waited in the parking lot for him, a professional fight turned brawl among cars and he’d deliberately tried to fuck his dominant hand up. Sadly, he’d succeeded. What had turned out to be a chipped bone had never fully recovered. Not that it ever stops him from throwing a punch.

With a sigh, you hand him the packed berries again, holding it against his wrist before he can complain. 

“Anybody check if something’s broken?”

Sukuna shifts. “Nothing broken. Just sprained…”

Before you can argue or ask for more information, Sukuna offers all he has. “I’ve seen the Doc, he said it’s fine, just sprained most likely.”

“Hold it there,” you tell him and scoot a bit closer. 

It never got easier to look at him like this. Never felt like you wouldn’t have to cry when you see him so violated. 

As you examine the damage, there’s barely anything you can do. Bruises need time and broken hearts won’t be fixed by bandaids and tape. All you can do is fix up the taped cut. 

Quietly, you shuffle closer and settle in his lap, straddling his legs, chest to chest. Sukuna immediately makes space for you, moves his arms, slings them loosely around your waist as if you could fall if he wouldn’t hold onto you. Both of you know it’s the only comfort either of you will get. You won’t let him any closer and he won’t dare to force it.

You put on gloves to fix the strips. They don’t even hold anymore and so you end up removing them all, replacing them with newer ones, adhesive still fresh and sticking to his skin as you ensure the cut stays closed. 

All the time, Sukuna stares. Stares, because you’re not watching him, fixed on the cut on his lip, the broken blood vessels on his jaw, the pulsing pain in his wrist each time he moves it. 

Fuck, he loves you. Loves you sad and angry and desperate and pissed and grumpy and tired and sick and crying and laughing and happy. Most of all happy. But he’s always been bad at that, at keeping that pretty smile on your lips, of making your eyes shine and the worry in your brows disappear. 

All the gray hairs you find are his doing, he knows. 

The disinfectant stings as you clean out a cut he wasn’t even aware of having but your eyes are as gentle as ever, full of love if he manages to ignore the pain you hold in your mouth. 

He thinks he could fall asleep like this, your weight and warmth above him, his face in your caring hands, his angry heart beating only for you. Sometimes he wonders if you even know how much he loves you. That he does it all for you, scared shitless of letting the anger win. He’ll never hurt you. Never. But cycles barely ever break and the only bad habit he ever managed to break was quitting smoking and even that he’s bad at - occasional party smoker and too weak a mind to deny Toji or Choso whenever they offer. 

“Should I wrap it?” you ask, voice scratchy and quiet and now you’re staring too, defiance and too much pain to contain it in your gaze. He could drown in your gaze. Make the whole world disappear, only you: tired eyes and frown and messy hair with little gray wisps and those soft hands of yours. 

Carefully he nods. Perched on him like this, angry and hurt as you are, he knows he has to be careful. One wrong move, one wrong word and you’ll be gone, he’ll be banished to the couch and you’ll not speak to him for days, he’ll buy flowers and make you food and you’ll have tears in your eyes each time you go in for a kiss and force yourself to stop so.

Taking a deep breathe, you carefully take his hand, removing the iced package and grabbing something from the first aid kit. The tiger balm is mostly empty, cold against your fingers as you carefully coat his skin with it.

By the heat of his skin, you know your simple touch must already hurt. Still, he bears it, watches you as you massage the balm in, wrap it all in gauze and then some of the dark-red bandages you always keep at hand. He uses it often to wrap his wrists, bruised fingers, an ankle that just won’t stop straining. Now, you wrap his wrist in it, wind it between the space of index and thumb and eventually secure it neatly. 

“You’ll be okay,” you say but it sounds more like a question by the quiver in your voice. He’s the reason for it. It’s his fault, all of it. And yet, you set the tawing bag back on his wrist and take his face instead. The swell of his cheekbone is enough to make it all feel wrong - wrong face, wrong time, wrong him, wrong scenario. You should both be asleep in bed, tangled limbs and soft snoring. 

“I’m okay already,” he tells you and very faintly leans into your touch. No matter what side he picks, he presses an injury against your palm and you can see by the way his mouth twitches, that it hurts but he does it because it means something to you. 

For a while, all you do is hold his face and pretend to look for more injuries to fix. For a while, all he gets to do is hold you so carefully as if you’re made of glass, his fawn, his lioness, his tiger and his little mouse. You’re all of it and he couldn’t be prouder. 

“You should sleep.”

“I will,” he appeases and doesn’t move. You’re yet to give your verdict. Banishment to the couch or tangled limbs in a familiar bed. 

You do not give him the clarity, instead slide off his lap, remove your hands from him and start cleaning up. By the way you take your time folding the blanket, shutting the TV off, collecting all the gauze and scissors and tiger balm, he should already know you’re playing for time. Which means you don’t know what to do yet. Which makes nothing of it easier. You’re hurt and you don’t know what to do.

“I can sleep on the couch,” he offers. His back may be a bitch the next morning and it definitely won’t help the headache but the painkillers already got rid of most of the throbbing so he’ll just have to deal with it. 

You’re already on your way out of the room as you shake your head again, head slightly turned towards him. “No, Sukuna. Just go to bed.”

That’s how you leave him, wandering into the bathroom and locking the door. He’s in charge of turning the lights off, finding the bedroom undisturbed, bed still made. Tonight, he can’t even argue with himself to wait for your return, to pull you against his chest and whisper everything he rarely says into your ear. Sukuna just crawls under the sheets, head nestling against the soft pillow and feels his whole world spin. 

Sleep doesn’t come that easy. He’s still awake, world slowed but not steady yet, when you shuffle into the room. You’ve changed, smell of your cleanser and oils and whatever else you slap onto your face. In the moment before you turn the hallway light off, he can see how puffy your face looks. You’ve cried and once again, he’s the reason for it.

There’s no sniffling, no hiccups or attempted takes of a promise. You simply slither under the covers and turn to your side, facing the wall, back to him. 

Sukuna stares at the silhouette of your body beneath the blanket, the dip of your hip and the rise of your shoulder, how you shift with every breath. 

“Good night, love,” he tries but you only give a hum, don’t turn, don’t touch. 

The endless cycle continues. You’ll sleep with his back to him, already gone when he’ll wake up tomorrow and he’ll tell himself just ‘one more fight’ and then it all will start again. He should have chosen the couch instead, willingly taken the solitude over the loneliness he feels beside you. 

It’s his own fault and deep down, he still tries to tell himself he does it for you. 

After a while, you appreciate the unconsciousness more than the sleep. Then at least, all there is is darkness and nothing. No pain, no blood, no death.

That’s how Leon finds you, unresponsive and cold.

You wake only after some shaking, Leon’s hands desperately grabbing your shoulder, patting your cheek. The jostling and his voice drag your mind back to the surface, his words only slowly making sense as you try to open your eyes.

Before you, everything is blurry. The light is out, only the bright cone of a flashlight that sits on the ground and paints a bright circle one the plain wall. Right above you — Leon.

He looks worse than the last time.

There’s scratches and bruises covering his skin, two fingers hastily taped together with what you assume is duct tape, already fraying at the edges. The sleeve of his shirt is torn at the shoulder, the wound beneath covered in stained bandages.

“Leon…,” you mumble, words slow and tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

“There you go…,” he says, relief evident in the way he breathes out air, a sigh that washes over you. He smells of sweat, antiseptic and blood.

“Thought you were gone there… for a moment.”

You cough and try to sit up, but he stops you, hand still on your shoulder, gently pushing you back down.

“Slow there. Slow. I brought some gifts.”

With a wheeze and a wriggle, trying your very best to finally lay flat on the ground, you look up at him and try to crack a joke.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

It’s pathetic.

For your comfort, Leon still forces a smile before emptying his pockets.

The gifts are plentiful. And far more than you ever hoped for.

Two bottles of evian water are placed on the ground. Then follow several packed nutri-grain cereal bars and a bag of potato chips. Then, a complete First Aid Kit, assuming by the holes in the back of the bag — freshly ripped off the wall.

“God…,” you mumble and stare at the water. Just by seeing it, your mouth gets even drier. Leon cracks a smile.

“No need to call me God.”

It’s such a low punchline that you can’t but snort, attempting to roll your eyes but it actually makes the migraine unbearable.

Instead you mutter a “Shut up,” and he gets to laugh at that, slowly sinking down to sit next to you.

“Can I… drink?” you ask and he nods, assisting your next attempt at sitting upright, leg ablaze with pain that buzzes even in your fingertips. Still, you push yourself up, let your body be guided by Leon who ensures you sit properly.

It’s him who takes the bottle, unscrews it and keeps the pink plastic cap in his hands as he holds out the drink.

“Take it slow, or you’ll only throw it all up again.”

You try to follow his words. You really do. But the first drop of water in your mouth has greed take hold and moments later, you’re gulping down the cool liquid like a madman. Only when you have to take a breath and the plastic bottle has crinkled itself into a dense, contorted capsule, do you lift it from your lips.

At least you manage to look partially guilty.

Leon doesn’t mention it, already busy tearing the plastic wrapping off one of the cereal bars and exchanging it for the bottle in your hand.

“I gotta look at those wounds…”

You nod. You’re pretty sure you’re in paradise. Maybe you are already dead and just didn’t notice. Food, water, first aid. Leon.

Leon lays it all out before he gets to work. Antiseptic wipes, gauze pads, bandages, tweezers. There’s no gloves to be found, neither any adhesive tape or an emergency blanket. Clearly it’s been used before, never stocked again. It has to be enough.

The food is heaven. It’s crunchy, sweet, there’s chocolate drizzled on top, maybe something like nuts in between the cereal. You can barely hear him when he keeps talking, words swallowed by the sound of your grinding teeth.

But then he scoots a bit closer and you stop chewing, watching him closely, suspicious at best.

“What—,” you can’t really ask him what he’s doing. You know he wants to clean the wounds. But by now, they’ve been crusting over, skin so inflamed that even the thought of touch has you cringe. “What’s the plan?”

“Gotta check if the bullet’s still in there.”

Fair. That’s a good point.

“I’m pretty sure it’s right here…” you tell him and make a weak gesture towards your collarbone.

Still, Leon insists on checking, carefully lifting your back off the wall as you lean forward, checking for an exit wound.

As expected - and feared - there’s nothing to be found. The bullet did collide with your bone and got stuck somewhere right behind it, among bone splinters and singed tissue.

He’s very gentle when he lets you lean back again, shielding your head so it doesn’t crack against concrete.

“Yea… so—,” Leon starts and seems to correct himself before speaking any further. “No exit wound. Which is good - would have been a fucking mess if it had torn through your shoulder blade. But also means it’s still inside.”

“Sounds fun…” you say and try to act confident. “Have you ever done this before?”

At least he’s honest as he shakes his head.

“Didn’t have the honors yet. You’re my first,” he makes a face that immediately registers as tongue-in-cheek behavior and you can’t but address his innuendo.

“Damn it, Leon.”

Conversation with Leon is simultaneously awkward and surprisingly charming. He’s easy at holding a conversation, confident despite the absolute extreme situation you both have found yourselves in. He carries the responsibility like a champion. His disastrous one liners and quips manage to lighten even this dreadful mood.

“But I had to do First Aid Training not so long ago… I know how to do a compression bandage.”

You glance down at your leg. The skin has turned from inflammation to some disgusting necrosis. The edges of the wound are black, veins darkened and midnight bruising covering the exposed skin of your thigh. You’re not so sure a compression bandage will help at this point.

“So… how—?”

He goes to work before answering, the stink of the half-dried wipes having you grit your teeth and swallow your question. You try to tell yourself that the burn of the alcohol means it’s doing it’s job. Disinfection is working and even as a child, disinfecting scratches stung like hell. No wonder this is ten times worse.

“Gotta dig around and hopefully find it.”

“Can’t you just leave it in?”

He shrugs. Awesome. Not that you know any better.

“There’s no surgeon left to dig it out. If it travels and hits something vital, you’re done.”

Once again you find your gaze drifting towards your leg. You’re done for already.

“Leave it in,” you tell him and his blue eyes follow your gaze, snap down to your leg before he tries to catch your stare.

“Hey. We don’t know how it works yet. Could be nothing.”

You shimmy about and try to reach for his hand.

“Leave it in… might do more harm than good.”

It’s easy to convince him, which shows you that he was just as eager as you were to have someone dig around in your open wound.

Still, Leon insists on cleaning it, applying some gauze pads and a bandage he secures over your shoulder and around your torso. He doesn’t ask you to undress, you don’t offer. All he does is apologize as he cuts the sweater open at the neckline, widening the already existing tear. Then he wraps it all up and the pressure hurts but seems to secure everything in place a bit more, bones and bullets not as painfully shifting as they used to.

All the while, you’ve been munching on the snack he’s handed you, savoring each bite until there’s nothing left.

Funnily enough, your stomach hurts. Leon was right. Still, at the same time, you feel better. Like the sugar you’ve eaten sustains your brain just as much as oxygen does.

“You think it’s like in the movies?”

“Which movies?”

“Night of the Living Dead… about zombies.”

His hand isn’t as steady as he for sure wants it to be when he starts cutting the fabric of your jeans. You’re going to sport one-sided shorts, but you’re more than willing to sacrifice a piece of clothing when it comes to your survival. Same for the stubble you’re sporting - no real time to shave, not even any time to mention it. Leon doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Horror enthusiast?”

You shrug and immediately regret the action. The bandage keeps it all in place, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt. “My friends made me watch it last Halloween.”

“I don’t even know if they technically classify as zombies.”

“Is it gonna kill me?” you ask anyway, trying your best to hold still as he slips the removed piece of fabric off your leg. You hiss but swallow the yelp that threatens to climb up your throat. Alerting anything dead or alive to your whereabouts doesn’t seem very helpful.

“Not if I can help it.”

You watch as he lifts your leg into his lap, cautiously cleaning the dark edges of the wound.

“Have you watched ‘Day of the Dead’…?”

To your utter surprise, you can’t feel the wipes against your skin. Where you’d already gritted your teeth and expected the pain, nothing reaches your nervous system.

“Can’t say I have… another zombie movie?”

You nod and let curiosity get the better of you. You watch him clean the wound meticulously, can’t feel a single thing all while he does so.

“Yea. There’s this guy, Miguel—“ among the necrosis on your leg, Leon finds something that still has functioning nerves and the burn is enough to have you gasp, choking on the pain as it barrels through you. Leon immediately stops.

“Sorry…,” he whispers and gives you a moment to recover. Head back against the cool wall, you try to find some relief in it.

“Just get it over with… it’s mostly fine,” you don’t look down again but try to wriggle your toes a bit. “I think some parts of the wound are already necrotic…”

What a weird realization, knowing parts of your body have died. With everything going on, you don’t hesitate before speaking again. Anything to not look at the deadly wound.

“So Miguel… he gets bitten by one of the zombies. And this doctor lady, she cuts his arm off to stop the infection…,” your voice gets quieter at the end, horrified by what you’re insinuating.

Leon hums and throws the bloody wipes carelessly to the side. He doesn’t entertain you. And to an extend, you’re grateful for that. You can’t loose your leg. Not in this apocalypse scenario, stuck in some tiny room in a police station with no hospital anywhere.

“She cauterized the wound so it wouldn’t get infected…” you add for no reason in particular.

Meanwhile, Leon has started layering gauze over the wound, trying to get the puddle of coagulated blood out of the hole in your leg. It’s a gross kind of work and you’re kind of impressed that he’s not puking all over the place.

His composure only cracks once, when some of your skin just lifts with the gauze and peels off like flaky tape. You turn your head so quickly it seems to give you whiplash and you can hear Leon quietly gag.

Then, he talks for the sake of talking.

“Did it work?”

You watch the familiar cracks in the mirror. Spiderwebs of pulverized glass.

“Did what work?” you’ve lost your train of thought with the dead skin falling off but you appreciate his attempt.

“Cutting off the limb. Did he live?”

You don’t really remember the messy end of it all. It had seemed like the guts and blood were flying just to make sure it’s really considered a splatter movie. You’d rather enjoyed the bottom of your glass than the gore on the screen.

“I think he lost it… got eaten.”

“But he didn’t turn, then.”

“Don’t think he had time to.”

The pile of used gauze is disgustingly large. Leon tries to wipe the blood that coats his fingers on his pants but he just seems to make a greater mess and ends up ignoring it, reaching for the closest bandage.

“At least it’s not really bleeding anymore…” he tells you and starts wrapping. You watch his face while he works.

His hair is stringy, there’s a bruise on his left temple and the hastily wiped remains of a nose bleed. There’s the lightest hint of stubble on his face and blueish-purple bruising on his neck. You don’t dare ask what happened.

Then, your leg is gently set back on the ground and he hands you the water bottle you’ve already halfway finished.

“Take your time with it, please.”

Pushing the other things closer, he positions the second water bottle and the snacks in your reach.

“What about you?” you question and try to nudge the unopened bottle back to him.

He vaguely points towards a wall. “Got water in the Main Hall. Don’t worry about me. The vending machines are still pretty stocked.”

You eye the bag of chips and the remaining cereal bar. “Couldn’t ask for a better meal,” you try to quip and smile at him.

He’s been your only contact to the remaining world, the only living being that has come and gone and returned again.

“Glad you like potato chips.”

You nod. “Was never allowed to eat them as a kid. Take that, mom!”

Leon laughs at that, genuine, tiny wrinkles around his eyes and nose that make his eyes shine even brighter. He’s pretty, despite the bruises and the grime.

You try very hard not to think of your family, your friends. It all seems so far away now, everything that happened before the world turned upside down.

Leon is just about to say something, when steps in the hallway have him halt. Heavy and thundering they come closer, no shuffling or inconsistency as they tend to do with the Dead. Leon is frozen, only raises a finger to his lips to tell you to stay quiet.

Instinctively, you hold your breath.

The footsteps echo through the hall and momentarily stop what seems to be right in front of the door. Faintly, Leon shakes his head.

No human could have footfalls this heavy, no normal person steps this large. Whatever monstrosity waits just outside the door, it moves on after a few heartbeats, barreling down the corridor and fading in the distance.

For a while, neither of you move or speak.

“I’ll try to keep it away from here. If you hear it, be as quiet as possible. Don’t give it a reason to search this room.”

Fear drowns you like an ice-cold shower.

“W-what—,” you stammer, try so hard to get a hold of Leon’s arm as he stands up.

“Leon,” you whisper, once again not above begging him to stay. He can’t just leave you when there’s another monster roaming the halls.

“I’ll be back.”

Just when your fingertips brush against the fabric of his pants, he steps out of reach.

“I’m scared,” you utter and he nods, lips tightly pressed together as his hand pushes the door open.

The eerie silence of the hallway swallows him up whole and the door clicks shut.

Once again alone, you realize too late you didn’t ask him for his watch.

The small room itself is in shambles. Metal table and chairs pushed to one corner, the one-way mirror smeared with blood and spiderweb cracks at the edges. Somehow, electricity is still in tact, the simple lamp flickering but refusing to die just yet.

It’s burned an after image into your retina, dangles there no matter how long you close your eyes, the accompanied migraine digging it’s claws into you relentlessly.

By now, time is a construct. Endlessly you’ve listened to people dying, their final screams replaying in your mind while you wait for any other sign of life. It’s been quiet ever since.

‘Quiet’ as in your ‘new form of quiet’, the creaking of floorboards or the shuffling and moaning of the creatures that now rule these halls occasionally audible.

You’ve lost all hope for rescue.

This little room will turn into your grave, your tomb, your final resting place.

Insane, considering you walked in a few days ago, only here to make a statement and be on your way. And stupidly enough, you had considered yourself lucky in the beginning. What better place to be than the Raccoon City Police Department when the Dead start walking?

Not even 48 hours it had taken to go to shit, most of the survivors dead, the few still alive all scattered across the entire station, an army of dead in between. You don’t doubt that most of them are dead by now, fully aware that it would have been the easier way out, the quicker relief.

But you’d had your chance and made it out alive, so here you are, trapped in this room, no food, no water, waiting for a slow, excruciating death. ‘Lucky’ very quickly had turned into being the unluckiest person alive.

From time to time, there’s commotions in the station.

Shouts and gunshots echoing through the vast building, the deep rumble of a helicopter and just earlier, you’re sure some part of the building collapsed, enough to shake the foundations and rattle the bullet in your body.

Not that it matters. Sooner or later, Death will stumble through the door and you will have no energy left to fight it.

It doesn’t even take long.

One moment there’s several gunshots just outside your room, the next someone pushes the door open, rushes inside and slams it shut right behind him, back pressed against the metal as he sweeps the room.

And then, a gun in your face, slightly shaking by the way the guy’s chest heaves, body straining.

He’s young, about your age, dressed in uniform and sweaty hair hanging into his face, blue eyes swallowed up by adrenaline-dilated pupils. He’s a stranger, too, none of the people you’ve come to know as your companions over the past days.

Anxiously, you try to lift your arms, show your palms and convince him you mean no harm.

“Please don’t shoot,” you tell him and he instantly lowers his gun, another glance towards the closed door before he comes towards you, knees hitting the ground as he crouches beside you.

“You hurt bad?”

Nah, what do you think?, you almost want to quip, but you’re too dizzy to joke about it all, body shaking from pain and blood loss.

“Caught a few stray bullets…,” you try to explain as his hand already goes for your shoulder, halting just a fraction before making contact.

“Can I?” he asks and you’re not in any position to deny the aid. With a nod, you consent and almost want to bite his whole hand off when his fingers grace the inflamed skin where your sweater was ripped to pieces.

“Gotta wash it,” he mutters and peels the bloody fabric from the edges of the wound. “You got water, first aid spray, anything?”

Settling your head back against the wall, you stare past him at the dangling lamp.

“Do I look like I have anything on me?”

He huffs as he shakes his head, eyes traveling down to your leg where your jeans was shredded and torn.

His fingers do not touch you as he examines the wound. Something ghosts over his face that you can’t quiet read — just a turn of his mouth, a bend of his brows.

“Bitten?” he questions and you give a small nod, trying to shift your leg to give him better access.

Pain shoots up your spine and settles in the roots of your teeth, forcing your jaw to clench. You bear it and let him do his job.

“Y-yea…”

“Some dog?” he asks and almost sounds hopeful.

You hate even thinking about it.

Wishful thinking that it would have been a dog, a cat, some feral raccoon. But no, it had all started with Valerie, back during the first attack after the R.P.D. had shut it’s doors. She’d been ill from the start, battled a fever, her skin ashen and her limbs shaky. Nobody wanted to face the truth and in the end, before anyone had managed to pull the trigger, she’d died and come back wrong. At least that’s what you assume happened.

Everything had gone to shit after that, leading to your current predicament, injured and bitten by one of the people you’ve gotten close to over the past days. His name was Ernest, almost three times your age, a fatherly figure with a round belly, gray hair and a distinct lack of reading glasses he’d mourned excessively.

Even now you wonder if he’s still out there, wandering the halls after he bit you and tore your leg apart. You also wonder how long you’ve got left until you’ll die and turn into just another dangerous creature. Like Valerie, like Ernest.

“No,” you tell him and he seems to know what it means and doesn’t ask another time. You don’t elaborate.

“Name’s Leon. Leon Kennedy,” he says instead, a gentle squeeze of his hand against your knee.

You remember that name. Lieutenant Branagh had mentioned him once, a rookie cop bound for the city and his first day at work before the world - or the city - had gone up in flames.

“Welcome to the job, I guess,” you hear yourself say and he grins at that, dipping his head to the side.

“Thanks. Could have done without the welcome committee, though.”

It’s your time to huff in amusement, flinching as the motions zaps you like a shock, pain fissuring and breaking throughout your body. Everything hurts and throbs with unrelenting consistency.

“Oh, we love to make great gestures here.”

“Didn’t doubt it for a second, considering all the exploding cars, uncontrolled fires and monsters you’ve got here.”

You give a weak nod and simply watch him. It’s nice to see someone alive after an endless time of isolation and death.

Settling back on his haunches, Leon has the audacity to look worried, compassion knitting his brows together, a frown on his face.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him and he looks caught, a hand pushing his hair back and out of the way.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m already dead.”

Funnily enough, he’s the one to immediately start arguing.

“You’re not,” he states, voice stern as he’s pushing himself back to his feet.

“There’s another survivor. Lieutenant Branagh’s keeping an eye on things and working on an escape route. But first, we gotta patch you up and get you out of here.”

“He’s alive?” you can’t hide your surprise and actual relief, the lieutenant having easily and readily taken you under his protection during the first day of the outbreak — you, one of the few civilians who’d lasted for longer than the first hours. At least up until that absolute mess of a fight in the West Wing where you’d ended up here, seeking shelter far away from the mayhem, dying and alone.

Leon does not answer right away, instead stares at your injuries for a moment before nodding.

“Yea, we’re set up in the Main Hall.”

The sigh you breathe is almost comical, lips spreading into a grin as far as you can muster.

“Next thing you’ll tell me is you even got food and water?”

“Building’s still crawling with these creatures, some even stranger thing up in the West Wing. I’m working on clearing all the floors but it’s—“ he grinds his jaw for a moment, frustration evident, “— a slow process.”

You’re injured, not dumb. You know what he’s saying, know how to read between the lines.

Leon can’t get you out of here, not in the current state you’re in, while the monsters still patrol the corridors. You get it, you really do. But suddenly, it’s hard to hold the tears back that push into your eyes.

Someone to find you after an eternity of pain and loneliness, just to be inevitably abandoned again. Who knows if he’ll come back for you?

“Please don’t leave me here,” you beg and see the pain flicker across his face. Empathy is a virtue and he seems like he hasn’t lost it yet.

Before he answers, Leon makes an attempt at digging through his pockets. There’s not much there to be found, besides a few loose bullet casings, the remains of a wrapping paper and a handful of change.

“There’s a first aid kit in the S.T.A.R.S. office on the second floor, over in the West Wing. I’ll go get it, try and scrounge up some water and a snacks if I can.”

In your mind, he’s already being torn apart, ripped and shredded to pieces and nobody will ever come for you. You’ll die here, the sting of false hope making you regret it all till the very end.

“Please don’t go,” you beg again, voice shaking as you try your best to push yourself up, show him you’re not so easily left behind, that you can’t just watch him leave. But your body is long since past it’s limits. Your muscles cramp, your injured leg refusing any cooperation as the pain becomes unbearable and your vision turns dark.

Leon’s hands catch you before you crash to the ground.

“Easy there, Bambi.”

He’s gentle when he sets you back down, carefully pries your hands off his shirt and gives your arm a reassuring squeeze before letting go. You’re too panicked to think anything of the nickname, nor do you have the wits to realize you’ve not given him your name.

“What if something happens to you?” you question instead, lips trembling.

Wordlessly he rises again, checks his gun, unloads the magazine, checks the bullets, loads it back in. The clicking has become rather familiar, the constant company of law enforcement and their weaponry having turned into a saving grace.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says eventually, shaking out his tired limbs. Who knows how long he’s been on his feet already, how many battles his weary bones have already carried him through.

“T-tell the Lieutenant I’m sorry, okay?” you ask and try to scoot up against the wall, sitting a bit straighter, body aching.

“Sorry for what?”

“Just… this whole mess. For Valerie and Ernest. For running.”

Leon fidgets with his belt but nods. “Best you tell him yourself. Hang in there and I’ll get you, promise.”

“Please don’t do that.”

His eyes snap back to you, confusion in their endless blue. “Do what?”

“Promising something. You can’t promise shit. I can’t either. Not with how things are now…”

Leon hums at that, a weary sound that has his chest fall and rise before he pulls something off his belt and holds it out to you.

It’s a leather sheath and when you pull at the hilt, there’s a combat knife in your hand, one edge smooth, the other serrated. It’s heavy in your tired hand, weights your whole arm down as you slowly lower it into your lap.

“I can’t take that,” you tell him despite wanting nothing more than to keep it.

“I don’t need it. Not at the moment. I have another one, found this one in the Library. Please take it. Use it, if you have to. Always go for the head…”

You doubt you’ll have any chance, even with a knife, considering your limbs are too heavy to properly move. But you’re grateful for the weapon that gives you some sense of security.

“Thank you, Leon,” you say and mean it.

He smiles at you, something gentle and soft before dusting off his pants and taking a step towards the door.

“First aid kit, water, a snack. Hang in there, Bambi. I’ll be back in no time.”

“Why Bambi?” you ask, anything just to stall, to have him stay a bit longer.

Leon just shrugs, a lopsided grin on his lips.

“Can’t say you’re steady on your legs, currently. Like Bambi — on the frozen lake?”

You grew up with the movies, watched them all endlessly curled up in front of the flickering TV. Slowly, you nod at him.

“With Thumper?” the name of the silly bunny is slurred by your heavy tongue, exhaustion washing over you.

“Yea. Damn good movie…” he muses and you appreciate the way he entertains your attempt at making him stay. Just for a bit.

“You just reminded me of that, I don’t know—,” he shrugs but keeps smiling. Then, his hand settles against the doorknob.

Wearily you watch him at the door, knife cold even through the jeans of your pants, heavy where it rests. You clench your fingers around the hilt and nod. You’ll have to bear it like everything else.

“Hang in there,” he tells you again and opens the door, stepping into the dark corridor before closing it behind him.

Just like that, he’s gone again.

For a while, you let him browse, busying yourself with the bouquet you’ve been binding, a final mix of ferns and aspidistra leaves to frame your newest art piece. You follow the sound of his steps in your mind, know when he lingers at the white roses, runs a finger across the artful petals of a dahlia flower and follows the endless vines of your favorite pothos.

You snip off a string of twine and tie it all together with a neat bow, placing it in the closest vase. Then, your eyes fall back on him. He’s closer now, hands shoved into the torn pockets of his jeans, staring at a few candles you keep in stock because a friend of yours makes them, simple beeswax and pretty patterns.

“Can I help you?” you ask eventually and his eyes snap towards you as if he forgot you were there to begin with. Several beats pass before he slowly nods, taking a step into your direction.

“Looking for something to put on a grave.”

Oh. You brush your hands against the apron you wear and round the counter.

“My condolences,” you start but he just waves off as if it’s unnecessary. You don’t question it. Instead, you come to a halt beside him, try to see what caught his eye.

“Are you thinking about planting it in soil or rather, a bouquet?”

He shrugs and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “Just something to let him know I haven’t forgotten him.”

“A recent loss?”

“No.”

The most obvious choice would be roses, white or dark red, maybe both, a mix of pistachio leaves and some ornamental grass. Despite knowing better, he intrigues you and so, you keep asking.

“Family or friend?”

“Family.”

Despite the one-word answers, he entertains your questions, eyes glued to the marbled pothos leaves.

Roses would be too easy, you decide. Too easy for a man like him, towering beside you, curious hair color and strange ink on his face. You like the way he doesn’t seem to care about what other’s think. And since you’ve always loved a challenge and to tell stories with your flowers, you try to match him with what you pick.

“Were you close?”

That takes a while to verify an answer. His eyes dart around a bit before they settle on your dirty hands, stained green from the stems you’ve cut, band aids where thorns have pricked you.

“Twins…”

The physical ache in your heart is real, so is the flicker of something like pain in his eyes before he turns his head to the side and wanders over to the row of assorted flowers. You follow, try to fight for composure, try not to reach out to him, to console where he doesn’t want it. So, you do the only thing that’s left.

“White often holds the meaning of innocence, faith but also sorrow,” Carefully, you pull a calla lily out of it’s bucket.

“Dark red symbolizes lasting love and mourning,” one of the dark red roses wanders into your hands, one of it’s thorns digging into your soft skin and you try not to flinch.

“Carnations—“ you wander down the aisle to where the multicolored and variegated flowers stand, buckets with tulips and carnations in all sort of combinations. One of the white ones with a red rim catches your eye and you pull it from the bucket. “— hold a variety of meanings, especially since they come in color combinations.”

You twirl the flower in your hands, the thin petals fluttering with the movement.

“Love, remembrance, loyalty but also farewell.”

Carefully, you scan his face for any hint of what he might be thinking but all you catch is a muscle fluttering at his throat.

Holding out the three flowers, you try to show them to him.

“Any speaking to you? Any you like?”

His dark eyes muster each flower before he points at the red-trimmed carnation.

“Full bouquet or are you thinking more of a single flower?”

If you would have to guess, he seems more like the single flower type - nothing extra, nothing pompous.

“One of those…,” he mutters and points once again at the bicolor carnation.

You offer him more, the whole bouquet to pick the one he likes best but he’s undeterred and keeps pointing at the one you already have in hand.

Gently, you place the rose and the lily back into their place down the line and wander over to your counter.

“Decorative green?”

Quickly, you whip up a bit of ivy and decorative leaves, bundle it all together and hold it out to him.

“Nah, just this one…” despite his preference, you remove all but one of the green leaves, showing it again. “Like this maybe?” He gives in, nods and lets you tie it up. Instead of twine, you choose black lace, tie a neat little bow to keep it all together.

He’s followed you to the counter, one arm leaning against the wooden surface as he watches you work. Tendons and muscles flex as he shifts, thin lined scars criss-cross his skin, some darker, deeper ones that seem to have barely healed, circular and strange. The skin there is reddish, stretches like burned tissue.

“First time coming here?” you ask in an attempt to make conversation, eyes dancing up to his face.

“Just here for a visit…”

Eyes flickering down to your fingers, you grin as you say your next words. “Enjoy your stay in Tokyo then…”

“Nah just—“ he hesitates for a moment before offering you more information. “— not from this side of the city.”

Naming the price, he hands the yen and a few extra coins over. “Keep the change.”

You hand over the carnation and feel the warmth of the coins in your palm. He must have held onto them for a while already, heating up the metal with his own skin.

When he’s almost at the door, you call after him.

“You know what else this flower symbolizes?” He turns, sharp features a glaring cut against the bright outside behind him.

“Hope.”

You imagine he smiles, face cast in shadow as his tattoos shift with the movement before he turns and leaves. Another chime of your door, another fresh breete of air rustling your flowers.

Each thrust has you gasping, each stroke of his dick so deep inside of you that you feel like he’s punching the last bit of air out of your lungs.

Relentlessly he’s been fucking you, and with each second your airway is blocked, your skin feels more sensitive, more on fire, more in every way.

You dig your nails into his arms, grip onto his wrist where he holds your neck, your own necklace, covered in scars and ink and calluses from the garage.

No words leave your lips as you gasp at him, everything too much, everything consuming you with each continuous rut of his hips and press of his fingers, heavy palm against your jugular.

Just when your eyes flutter shut and you lose all feeling in your limbs, he let off — fingers splaying and relaxing as they push up to your jaw, stretching and exposing your neck with gentle determination.

The gasp that leaves you is enough to have your whole body constrict, muscle spasms wracking through you as you squeeze him tight, chest pressing up against him as your lungs fill with air. He groans into your ear, pushing your jaw further back, exposing your neck as his lips brush lower, teeth digging into your skin.

He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath, the scrape of his teeth and his hot breath against your skin enough to push you further towards the edge. He’s close, you can tell, no matter how dizzy you feel, his thrusts have lost their rhythm, nothing but chasing his own release as he ruts against you, low grunts pressed against your neck.

Strands of sweaty hair stick to your face as he pushes against you, his hand that’s not on your jaw somewhere between your legs, pushing your thighs further apart, everything hot and sticky and messy as you try to groan his name.

“S’kuna—,” you start, struggling to even come up with something else to say as he hums your own name in return, hips meeting yours in another forceful thrust that has you scoot up the bed.

You squeak with surprise, giggle right after as his hand moves into your hair, a gentle stroke while his fingers tangle in your strands and ensure you didn't hit the headboard. Somewhere at your collarbone, his lips stretch into a grin.

“Close…,” he utters as if you didn’t know, as if you can’t feel by the way he’s become sloppy, like he’s chasing after something that’s buried far too deep inside of you.

With shaky limbs, you reach for his face, pull him back up with your palms against his hot cheeks, fingers splayed and digging into the shaved part of his hair as you tug him into a kiss.

Another groan spills from his lips right into your mouth and with a few more frantic thrusts, fingers tugging on his hair, he spills inside of you, stuttering hips that have the bed creak.

You try your best to keep it going, hips bucking upward to give yourself enough friction to find release, his hand now between your legs, knowing where to touch you to have your orgasm build shamefully fast.

He tastes like dinner, like wine, like you. He fucks you through his own climax, presses against you with all his weight and you think if you were forever buried beneath him, you could die happy.

Then his kiss deepens, fingers between your legs more insistent, his voice nothing but a whisper that echoes in the cavern of your mouth and finds it’s way right to your heart.

“Right here with you, baby…”

When your orgasm hits, he holds you through it, hips slowing, fingers continuously dancing until you keen from overstimulation.

Exhaustion runs you over like a truck, legs falling open and a sigh leaving your lips. As he pulls out and rolls to the side, Sukuna tugs you against him, your hands splayed on his chest where his heart beats strong and quick.

You nudge his side and press your nose against his arm.

Angry hissing and meowing that you can’t localize. There’s no cat anywhere beneath the parked cars or on the road. And you’ve already passed him once you realize where he is.

At the side of one of the closed shops, metal gate covered in graffiti, sit a bunch of cardboard boxes. Some filled with books, some with other knickknack. The brown carton is already soaked through, soggy and wobbly at the edges. But there, among the books and dishes and old, yellowed toys, sits a box that’s halfway open and there, miserable and wet, sits a little kitten.

Wet little kitten in a cardboard box, how ironic, you muse and crouch down, umbrella shielding the tiny ball of fur from more rain.

It’s a strange little fella, reddish fur sticking to it’s round tummy, darker streaks running along it’s body in an intricate pattern. Most evident tho, the little kitten has four eyes and — quiete a hole bunch of teeth, all of them exposed as the feral kitty hisses at you in anger.

“Poor little guy…,” you mumble and watch the kitten closer. He’s evidently unhappy with your approach, hisses and swats at you with a paw as small as a coin.

“Do not touch me, mortal…” the kitten says in a surprisingly deep voice, teeth still bared, wet fur sticking up in spikes where he tries to arch his back.

You’re utterly unimpressed. There are far stranger things happening in this cursed city.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you argue, reaching into the box to stroke a finger along the raised back, flattening the stringy fur. “Let’s get you somewhere dry.”

He tries to actively claw your hand bloody when you reach beneath his belly and lift him out of the dissolving box. His claws sting when they dig into your palm but he’s so tiny that all the hissing and spitting doesn’t do much to stop you.

You stroke your thumb over the wet fur of his face and watch his eyes squeeze shut to avoid your touch.

Straightening, you look around you.

The street is still abandoned, the stores all closed, windows in the buildings around you dark.

Your jacket is not large enough to fit the kitten inside and so, you simply open it and tug the struggling kitty into the front pocket of your hoodie. He fits perfectly, despite fighting you a bit.

Claws catch in the fabric, tearing tiny holes and loosening single threats but you’re untederred as you try to stuff him into the try of your hoodie.

“Don’t be stubborn, I’m sure you hate the rain.”

His voice is muffled when he answers you, claws fruitlessly tearing at the inside of the pocket.

“Don’t test me, human! Release me!”

You ignore him, keep a hand on his back inside your pocket as you continue jogging down the sidewalk, trying to get home as quickly as possible.

The whole way home you hear him complain, an endless string of hisses, growls and curses reach you ears and still, you never let go.

When you reach your home and unlock the door to your appartment, your jacket has lost the fight against the endless rain. Even your umbrella wasn’t enough — you’re wet, hair dripping, jacket soaked. When you take your shoes off, your socks are wet too and with a whole lot of grumbling, you tiptoe into your bathroom, turn the heater on and get the hairdryer ready.

With several towels in reach, you pull the feral kitten from your pocket, fur tousled and all over the place, eyes squinting up at you. He bares his teeth just because he can and tries to bite you when you wrap him in a towel to rub him dry.

“How dare you!” he shouts and jams his claws into the fabric as if it would do him any good beside getting stuck.

“Oh come on, I’m going to get you dry, stop complaining!”

He does, in fact, continue complaining all throughout the process of washing him in warm soapy water until his fur is no longer dirty, but clean. Then you dry him again, wrap him in a fresh towel and set him before the hair dryer in a little towel burrito.

Loudly he complains, rants about ‘Dishonor’ and ‘Consequences’ but all you hear is a tiny, angry kitten and soon enough, his hissing grows quieter, anger slowly diffusing as the hair dryer and towel ensure he’s warm and comfortable for the first time in over a week.

You take your time slipping into dry clothes, untangle your hair and watch the eyes of the angry kitten fall shut. He fights it all the way and yet, once his eyes close, he’s knocked out cold.

A tiny kitten wrapped in a soft towel that you place on the couch beside you when you curl up to read your favorite book, a small bowl of milk on the coffee table in case he awakens.

You’ll ensure he gets another chance at life, a better start, a loving home to florish in, far away from the rain and wet cardboard boxes. Nothing about him tells you that you just put the century old King of Curses into a blanket burrito, where he now contently slumbers.

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.”