fic recs

Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Panic explodes in your chest, tight and suffocating. Your hands fly up to press against your sternum, feeling the frantic thud of a heart that isn’t supposed to be yours. Cold sweat prickles along your hairline and down your back. The room feels smaller, the air thicker. If I don’t change this right now, he will kill me. I have to win him over — the man I’ve been completely obsessed with — before he decides I’m still that same woman who deserves to die.

The heavy wooden door creaks open. Two maids slip inside, heads bowed low, shoulders hunched like they’re expecting the worst. They carry a tray between them with a pitcher of steaming water, neatly folded linens, and a small bowl of scented oil. Their footsteps are quick but nearly silent on the cold stone floor, as if they’re trying to disturb you as little as possible.

“My Lady,” the older maid says quietly, almost whispering as she carefully sets the tray down on the side table. “We’re here to help you dress. Your usual silks today?”

You swallow and keep your voice soft. “No, not the silks. Something simpler and warmer, please. I’m going down to have breakfast with the Duke in the dining hall.”

The younger maid’s eyes go wide. She almost drops the pitcher, water sloshing dangerously over the rim and dripping onto the floor. “Breakfast… with His Grace?” she blurts, voice cracking with surprise. “In the dining hall?”

The older maid quickly elbows her and forces a nervous smile, though her hands are visibly shaking. “Are you sure, My Lady? He always eats alone. He might not… like it if you show up.”

You nod, sliding your legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor is icy against your bare feet, sending a shiver up your legs. “I’m sure. Please help me get ready.” You pause, then add gently, “And thank you. Both of you.”

The maids go completely still. The younger one stares at you with her mouth slightly open, pitcher forgotten in her hands. The older one blinks rapidly, her hands freezing mid-air above the tray. They exchange a wide-eyed, startled glance, the kind that speaks volumes without a single word. The silence stretches for a long, awkward moment, thick with confusion and unease.

Finally, the older maid clears her throat. “Of course, My Lady. Right away.”

They hesitate for another heartbeat, still stealing uncertain glances at you, before hurrying into motion. Their hands are a little clumsier than usual as they help you out of the nightgown and into a heavy charcoal gown with long sleeves. The soft wool feels warm and comforting against the chill in the air. While they brush out your hair and pin it up in a simple style, they keep darting quick, nervous looks at your reflection in the mirror. The younger maid’s fingers tremble slightly as she works, and the older one’s breathing is a touch too shallow.

They finish dressing you in tense, heavy silence. Once they step back, you thank them again. They both bow deeply, still visibly unsettled, and you step out into the torch-lit corridor. Servants you pass press themselves flat against the walls, whispering frantically the moment your back is turned. Your heart hammers louder with every step toward the grand dining hall.

The massive double doors swing open with a low creak.

There he is.

Duke Ryomen Sukuna sits alone at the head of the long oak table. Pale morning light filters through the tall windows, casting sharp shadows across his face. Loose strands of pink hair have escaped their tie and fall across his forehead. His dark tunic stretches tight over broad, powerfully muscled shoulders, the collar open just enough to reveal the edges of intricate black tattoos that swirl across his collarbones and down his arms. Crimson eyes are narrowed in concentration as he cuts into a thick slab of meat with slow, deliberate strokes of his knife. Old scars mark the visible skin of his neck and the backs of his large, calloused hands. He radiates raw, quiet danger — the kind that makes the air feel heavier. This is the man you’ve spent months fantasizing about, the one whose every appearance in the manhwa made your pulse race.

You walk straight to the chair on his right — the seat that has stayed empty for the entire six months of your marriage — and sit down.

His knife stops mid-cut.

The silence is immediate and suffocating, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth fire.

Sukuna’s crimson gaze lifts slowly. It locks onto you with raw disbelief and burning disgust. His jaw clenches, the scar along his cheek tightening. For a long moment he simply stares, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re real or some new form of insult.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is low and rough, laced with irritation.

You swallow hard, hands trembling under the table. You force a small, nervous smile and say softly, “Good morning, husband. I thought it might be nice to have breakfast together for once.”

The words hang in the air.

Sukuna’s expression darkens. He sets the knife down with a sharp clink that echoes through the hall. Slowly he rises to his full height, towering over you — tall, broad-chested, every inch the warlord who has killed without hesitation. The look he gives you is ice-cold.

“You thought it would be nice?” His voice is low, cold, and dripping with contempt. “Six fucking months you couldn’t even be bothered to speak to me… and now you suddenly decide to play house?”

He pushes the chair back with a harsh scrape and rises to his full height, towering over you. His large hand clenches so tightly around the back of the chair that the wood groans in protest.

“Just looking at you ruins my appetite.”

Without another word, he turns sharply on his heel. His cloak snaps behind him like a whip as he stalks out of the hall. The heavy doors slam shut with a deafening boom that echoes through the room and makes the silverware rattle on the table.

You’re left completely alone at the long table, staring at his abandoned plate as the food rapidly cools. Your heart pounds violently in your chest.

This is going to be so much harder than I thought.

But you don’t run. You pick up your fork with still-shaking fingers, take a small bite of the now-lukewarm food, and force yourself to swallow. A heavy, determined weight settles in your stomach alongside the food.

The rest of the morning dragged by in a haze of nervous energy. You moved carefully through the castle, speaking softly to the servants, thanking them for small things, and trying not to overwhelm anyone with your sudden change in behavior. Every time someone flinched or stared too long, your stomach twisted. You knew they were waiting for the old you to snap back into place.

By mid-afternoon the light outside had shifted to a softer gold, and the castle felt a little less oppressive. You decided it was time to try something more direct.

You found one of the kitchen maids and asked her to prepare a simple tray — strong black tea, warm bread, and a few slices of roasted meat. These were the things you remembered him enjoying in the manhwa, the small details you’d clung to while reading late at night. Nothing too elaborate. When the tray was ready, you took it yourself, ignoring the wide-eyed, startled looks from the staff as you carried it down the long corridor toward Sukuna’s private study. Your heart beat faster with every step.

Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to climb out of your throat. Two guards outside the heavy double doors stared at you in open confusion but didn’t stop you. You paused for a second, took a steadying breath, and knocked once.

A gruff “Come in” came from inside.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the study.

The room was exactly the kind of place you’d pictured him in — tall shelves lined with old books and rolled scrolls, a massive oak desk covered in maps and scattered letters, weapons mounted neatly on one wall. A fire burned low in the hearth, filling the air with the faint smell of smoke and polished leather. Sukuna sat behind the desk, quill in hand, pink hair tied back messily with a few loose strands falling forward. He didn’t look up right away, focused on whatever he was writing.

Then his crimson eyes flicked up.

The moment they landed on you holding the tray, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. His expression shifted from irritation to pure suspicion in a heartbeat.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, voice low and flat, like he was already tired of whatever game he thought you were playing.

You stepped further inside and carefully set the tray down on the edge of his desk, trying not to let your hands shake too obviously. “I noticed you didn’t eat anything at breakfast,” you said quietly. “So I brought some tea and a few things. It’s nothing fancy. I just thought… maybe you’d be hungry by now.”

Sukuna leaned back in his chair, studying you like you were a problem he couldn’t quite solve. The silence stretched out, thick and uncomfortable. He glanced at the tray, then back at your face.

“You brought me food,” he said slowly, almost like he was testing the words. “You suddenly show up with tea and bread like we’re… what? Friends now?”

He pushed his chair back and stood, circling around the desk with slow, deliberate steps until he was standing right in front of you. He was so tall you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Up close he was even more overwhelming — the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and steel and something darker, the way his broad shoulders seemed to fill the space between you.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I know I’ve been terrible to you,” you said, voice soft but steady. “I don’t expect you to believe me right away. I just… I want to try and do better. That’s all.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He reached out and picked up one of the slices of bread, turning it over in his large hand as if checking it for poison. Then he dropped it back onto the tray with a quiet scoff.

“You want to try,” he repeated, the words laced with disbelief and a sharp edge of mockery. “How convenient. Tell me, wife — what exactly changed overnight? Did someone put you up to this?”

His hand suddenly came up, fingers gripping your chin firmly but not harshly, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. His touch was warm, rough from years of fighting, and the closeness made your pulse spike.

“Or are you just scared I’ll finally do what everyone’s been expecting me to do for months?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Your breath caught. Being this close to him — feeling the intensity rolling off him in waves — made fear and something far more complicated twist together in your stomach.

“I’m not here to scheme,” you whispered. “I just don’t want things to keep being like this.”

Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy moment. His thumb brushed once over your jaw, almost absentmindedly, before he let go and stepped back.

“Get out,” he said, the words cold but quieter than you expected. “And take your pity tray with you.”

He didn’t move away any further. He stayed standing there, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes — like he was waiting to see whether you would actually leave… or do something else.

You didn’t argue.

You simply picked up the tray with both hands, gave him a small nod, and left the study without another word. The heavy doors clicked shut behind you. The hallway felt longer than usual as you walked back toward your chambers, the tray growing heavier with every step.

Once inside your room, you set the tray down on a side table and closed the door. Then you sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

That went badly.

You let out a slow breath, rubbing your hands over your thighs. The memory of Sukuna’s cold stare and dismissive words kept replaying in your head. He hadn’t even touched the food. He’d barely listened.

Of course he didn’t. Months of silence doesn’t just disappear because I brought him tea.

You leaned back on your hands, looking up at the canopy above the bed. The situation felt heavier now. Fixing this relationship was going to be a lot harder than you’d hoped. He clearly still saw you as the same person who had ignored and schemed against him for half a year. And why wouldn’t he?

If you couldn’t turn this around, things were only going to get worse. You didn’t want to think about how the original story ended, but the possibility lingered in the back of your mind anyway.

You sat there for a while, the afternoon light slowly shifting across the room. Eventually you stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out at the grounds. Your mind kept turning over what to try next. Another small gesture? Giving him more space? Something else entirely?

It was going to take time. A lot of it. And patience you weren’t sure you had.

You sighed quietly and moved away from the window, already thinking about what you could do tomorrow.

The next morning arrived quietly.

You woke earlier than usual, the soft grey light filtering through the tall windows pulling you from a restless sleep. For a few minutes you lay there, staring at the velvet canopy above the bed, thinking about yesterday. The rejections still stung, but you refused to give up after just one bad day.

You got up, washed, and chose a simple but elegant deep-grey gown. After eating a light breakfast alone in your room, you decided on a different approach today. No trays, no forcing your way into his meals. Just quiet presence.

You made your way to the castle’s main library — a spacious, peaceful room lined with tall shelves of books and scrolls. You picked a thick volume on regional history from the shelves and settled into a comfortable chair near the window where the light was good. Not too close to his usual spot, but not hiding either.

About an hour later, the door opened.

Sukuna walked in, still wearing his cloak from whatever business he’d been handling outside. He stopped short when he saw you already there, book open in your lap.

For a brief second his expression flickered with surprise before settling back into that familiar guarded look.

“You’re here too now,” he said, voice flat as he moved toward the large table in the center of the room. He pulled out a chair and sat down, spreading some documents in front of him. “Is there anywhere in this castle that’s still mine?”

You closed your book slowly and looked up at him.

“I can leave if you want,” you offered calmly. “I just thought it might be nice to read in here. It’s quiet.”

Sukuna didn’t tell you to go. He leaned back in his chair and studied you for a moment, crimson eyes sharp and assessing.

“You’ve been talking quite a bit these past two days,” he said, tone dry. “More than I’m used to.”

You gave a small, honest shrug. “I know. I’m trying to change that.”

He tapped his fingers once against the table, watching you openly now. “Trying,” he echoed, like he was testing the word. “That’s what you keep saying. But I still don’t know why.”

You hesitated, then answered simply, “Because I don’t like how things have been between us. And I think we could be… better. If we tried.”

Sukuna let out a short, humorless breath and leaned back further, still studying you.

“Better,” he repeated. “That’s a bold claim.” He paused, then added quietly, “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not interested in pretending.”

But he didn’t ask you to leave.

You stayed in the library for another hour, reading in silence while he worked across from you. He didn’t speak again, but every so often you caught him glancing in your direction — wary, confused, and just a little unsettled.

It wasn’t much.

But it also wasn’t outright rejection.

You stayed in the library for another hour, the only sounds being the occasional rustle of paper and the soft crackle of the fire. You kept your eyes mostly on your book, though you were barely absorbing the words. Every now and then you felt Sukuna’s gaze on you — heavy, searching, and still full of suspicion.

Eventually, he set his quill down with a quiet tap. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest as he looked at you directly.

“If you’re serious about wanting to fix things,” he said, voice low and even, “then maybe you should start by actually appearing publicly with me.”

You looked up from your book, surprised. He continued before you could respond.

“There’s a ball tomorrow night at the capital. I’m expected to attend.” He paused, studying your reaction. “Rumors have already reached half the empire that my wife hates me. It would be good to change the public perception a little. At least act like a fucking couple for once.”

The invitation — if it could even be called that — hung in the air. It wasn’t warm or romantic. It was a test, plain and simple.

You closed your book slowly and met his eyes. “I’ll go with you,” you said without hesitation. “If that’s what you want.”

Sukuna watched you for a long moment, as if waiting for you to take it back. When you didn’t, something unreadable flickered across his face.

“Good,” he said simply. Then he stood up, gathering some of his documents. “Be ready by evening tomorrow. Don’t make me wait.”

He headed toward the door, cloak shifting over his shoulders. Just before he left, he paused and glanced back at you one last time.

“And try not to embarrass me,” he added, though his tone was less biting than before. Almost… cautious.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet library once again.

You let out a long breath and leaned back in your chair, heart still racing. A public ball. Tomorrow. With Sukuna.

This was a big step — and a dangerous one. You’d have to be careful. Very careful.

But it was also an opportunity. A chance to stand beside him in front of everyone and start showing that you were different.

You stood up, clutching the book to your chest, a mix of nerves and quiet determination settling in your stomach.

Tomorrow it is.

The next day passed in a quiet blur of nerves and preparation.

You spent most of the afternoon trying not to overthink everything, but as evening approached, the anxiety crept in anyway. When the maids finally arrived to help you get ready, they moved around your room with careful, slightly confused energy — still adjusting to this gentler version of their mistress.

You chose a deep crimson gown made of rich, heavy silk that flowed elegantly to the floor. It had long, fitted sleeves and a modestly elegant neckline that showed just enough collarbone to feel refined rather than daring. The maids helped you into it, lacing the back with steady fingers while you stood in front of the large mirror. The fabric felt cool and luxurious against your skin, the color bringing out a quiet intensity you hadn’t expected.

They brushed your hair until it gleamed, working through every tangle with patient strokes. Most of it was pinned up into an elegant style with delicate silver pins, but they left a few soft strands loose to frame your face. One of the maids added a simple but beautiful necklace with a single dark gem that rested just below your collarbone, along with matching earrings. A touch of rose-tinted balm was applied to your lips, and a light dusting of powder to even your complexion.

You stared at your reflection the entire time, heart beating faster. This version of you looked every bit the refined duchess — poised, beautiful, and completely unlike the cold, silent woman the public had come to expect at Sukuna’s side.

“You look beautiful, My Lady,” the older maid said softly as she stepped back, a hint of genuine surprise in her voice.

“Thank you,” you replied quietly, smoothing your hands down the front of the gown. Inside, your stomach was in knots. This would be your first real public appearance with Sukuna. Everyone would be watching. Waiting for the usual tension or outright disdain they’d grown used to seeing between the Duke and his wife.

A firm knock sounded at the door.

“He’s ready for you, My Lady,” a servant called from the hallway.

You took one last steadying breath, thanked the maids again, and stepped out.

Sukuna was waiting in the main hall, dressed in formal black with subtle gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs. His pink hair was neatly tied back, and the sight of him in full formal attire made your chest tighten. He looked every bit the powerful duke — tall, imposing, and dangerously handsome.

His crimson eyes swept over you slowly, from head to toe. For a moment his expression was unreadable.

“You’re actually coming,” he said, voice low. It wasn’t quite a question.

“I said I would,” you replied simply.

He gave a short nod, then offered his arm. The gesture felt stiff, like he was still testing whether you’d take it or pull away at the last second.

You slipped your hand through his arm without hesitation. His muscles were tense beneath your fingers, but he didn’t pull away.

As you walked together toward the waiting carriage, he spoke again, keeping his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“People talk. A lot. If we’re going to do this, at least try to look like you don’t hate being next to me.”

You glanced up at him. “I don’t hate it.”

Sukuna didn’t respond, but his grip on your arm tightened just slightly — not painful, just… firmer. Like he was anchoring himself.

The carriage ride to the capital was quiet, the only sounds being the wheels on the road and the occasional shift of fabric. Sukuna sat across from you, watching the passing scenery with a distant expression. Every so often his gaze would drift back to you, as if he still couldn’t quite believe you were really there.

When the carriage finally slowed to a stop outside the grand hall, music and warm light spilled out into the night. You could already hear the murmur of voices and feel the weight of the eyes that would soon be on both of you.

Sukuna stepped out first, then offered his hand to help you down. His palm was warm and steady against yours.

“Ready?” he asked, voice gruff.

You nodded, slipping your hand back into the crook of his arm.

“Then let’s go act like a fucking couple.”

The grand hall glowed under hundreds of crystal chandeliers, casting warm golden light across marble floors and velvet-draped walls. Music from a full orchestra swelled through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation, the clink of champagne glasses, and the rustle of silk and satin gowns. The scent of expensive perfumes, fresh flowers, and roasted meats from the banquet tables hung heavy in the room.

The moment you and Sukuna stepped through the tall arched entrance together, the entire atmosphere shifted.

Conversations faltered. Heads turned. A ripple of surprised murmurs spread through the crowd like a wave.

You felt every eye on you. Some were curious, some shocked, many openly calculating. The Duke and Duchess of the North rarely appeared together in public — and when they had in the past, it had always been marked by cold distance and icy silence.

Tonight was different.

Sukuna’s arm was solid beneath your fingers as he guided you forward. His posture was straight and commanding, every inch the powerful Duke Sukuna the empire feared and respected. You stayed close, your hand resting lightly but deliberately on his arm, chin lifted with quiet confidence.

A portly lord with a heavy gold chain and an embroidered waistcoat approached first, bowing deeply.

“Your Grace, Duke Sukuna,” he said smoothly, then turned to you with a slightly wider smile. “And Duchess… what an unexpected pleasure to see you both together this evening.”

Sukuna gave a curt nod. “My wife wished to attend. I saw no reason to refuse her.”

The lord’s eyebrows rose, but he recovered quickly. “How wonderful. The two of you make quite the striking pair tonight. The Duke and Duchess of the North, united at last.”

You offered a polite, gentle smile. “Thank you, my lord. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

Sukuna’s arm tensed slightly under your hand, but he didn’t pull away. As the lord moved on, more nobles drifted closer, drawn by the unusual sight. You heard the whispers clearly now.

“...the Duke and Duchess actually look civil…”

“I thought she hated him…”

“Look at them. She’s practically standing with him…”

Sukuna kept you close the entire time, one large hand occasionally resting at the small of your back as you moved through the hall. The touch was possessive, almost protective, even if his face remained cool and composed.

Later, when the orchestra struck up a slower, more intimate melody, Sukuna leaned down, his voice low against your ear.

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded. He led you onto the polished floor, one broad hand settling firmly on your waist while the other held yours. He moved with surprising grace for someone of his size and power — confident, controlled, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. You followed his lead, hyper-aware of every point of contact: the heat of his palm burning through the silk of your gown, the solid wall of his chest so close to yours, the faint scent of leather and smoke that clung to him.

For a few moments the rest of the room seemed to fade.

“You’re doing better than I expected,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the music. His crimson eyes flicked down to meet yours. “People are staring less like they’re waiting for us to start arguing in the middle of the floor.”

You looked up at him, a small genuine smile tugging at your lips. “I told you I wanted to try.”

His grip on your waist tightened just slightly. His thumb brushed once over the fabric of your gown, almost absentmindedly.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he said, though there was less bite in his tone than usual. “This doesn’t mean I trust you yet.”

“I know,” you replied softly. “But thank you for giving me the chance anyway.”

Sukuna didn’t answer. But he also didn’t let go of you when the song ended. Instead, he kept his hand on your lower back as he guided you off the floor, staying closer than strictly necessary.

A short while later, a group of older lords approached Sukuna. One of them — a tall man with silver hair and sharp features — gave a respectful bow.

“Your Grace, if we could steal a moment of your time? There are some matters regarding the northern border that require your input.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened for a brief second. He glanced down at you, then back at the lords.

“Fine,” he said curtly. “I won’t be long.”

Before he stepped away, he leaned in close to your ear, voice low. “Stay here. Don’t wander off.”

You nodded. His hand lingered on your waist for one extra second before he pulled away and followed the group toward a quieter side balcony for their discussion.

Suddenly, you were alone.

You stood near the edge of the dance floor, champagne glass in hand, trying to look more relaxed than you felt. The weight of curious stares hadn’t faded. A few noblewomen still whispered behind their fans, and every so often someone would glance your way with open speculation.

A deep, smooth voice spoke from your left.

“Duchess, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a proper introduction tonight.”

You turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and sharp green eyes watching you with a lazy, confident smile. He was dressed in deep emerald and black, a marquess’s insignia pinned neatly to his lapel.

“Marquess Toji Fushiguro,” he introduced himself with a respectful bow of his head. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you over the years. Though I must say, seeing you here with the Duke tonight is… refreshing.”

His tone was warm and easy, without any obvious scheming edge. You felt yourself relax just a little.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marquess,” you replied with a small smile. “I’ve heard your name mentioned before. You handle the eastern trade routes, don’t you?”

Toji’s smile widened, looking genuinely pleased that you knew. “I do. Though I’m surprised you’re familiar with such dull matters. Most duchesses prefer to stay far away from trade talk.”

The conversation flowed surprisingly well. He was charming in a straightforward, slightly roguish way — asking light questions about the northern estates, commenting on the music, and even making a dry joke about how stiff most balls tended to be. You found yourself smiling more naturally, the tension in your shoulders easing as you chatted. For the first time that evening, talking to someone felt… comfortable.

Toji tilted his head slightly, green eyes glinting with curiosity. “If I may be bold, Duchess — you seem different tonight than what the rumors suggested. Happier, perhaps?”

You were about to respond when a large, familiar hand suddenly slid around your waist from behind, fingers gripping your hip with clear possessiveness. A warm, solid body pressed against your back, and you didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Sukuna.

His grip tightened, pulling you back against his chest in one smooth motion. The heat of his body seeped through the silk of your gown, and his thumb brushed slowly over your hip bone — a blatant, territorial claim.

Toji’s easy smile faltered for half a second before he recovered, inclining his head respectfully.

“Duke Sukuna,” he greeted calmly. “I was just keeping your wife company while you were occupied.”

Sukuna’s voice was low and dangerous, rumbling against your back. “I can see that.” His hand stayed firmly on your hip, fingers pressing in just enough to make a point. “Though I don’t recall asking anyone to entertain my duchess.”

You felt the tension rolling off him in waves. His other arm came around your other side, almost caging you against him in front of the entire hall.

Toji raised an eyebrow, still perfectly civil. “No offense meant, Your Grace. It was an honor speaking with the Duchess.”

Sukuna didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke loud enough for Toji to hear.

“We’re leaving this conversation,” he said flatly. Then, louder, “Come, wife.”

Sukuna didn’t stop walking until he had guided you into a quieter corner of the grand hall, partially shielded by a tall marble pillar and heavy crimson velvet drapes. The music and chatter of the ball felt distant now, muffled. His hand never left your hip. If anything, his grip tightened, fingers digging possessively into the silk of your gown as though he needed the contact to ground himself.

He turned you to face him with surprising care, then backed you gently but firmly against the cool marble pillar. One large hand stayed locked on your waist while the other came up to brace beside your head, effectively caging you in. His body heat enveloped you instantly — warm, solid, and overwhelming. The faint scent of smoke, leather, and something darker clung to him, making your pulse stutter.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he said, voice low and rough, almost a growl. His crimson eyes burned down into yours with unmistakable intensity. “Laughing with him like the two of you were old friends. Did you forget you’re here with me tonight?”

The jealousy in his tone was unmistakable — sharp, dark, and barely leashed.

You kept your voice calm, though your heart was racing. “We were only talking. He was civil. Nothing more.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched visibly. His thumb began to trace slow, deliberate circles over the curve of your hip through the thin silk, a possessive caress that sent heat rushing across your skin.

“Civil,” he repeated, the word laced with pure disdain. “I saw the way he looked at you. The way he smiled at you.”

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, voice dropping into something dangerously intimate. “And here I thought you were trying to mend our relationship. Yet the second I turn my back, you’re chatting and smiling with another man like it means nothing.”

His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against the hard wall of his chest. You could feel the tension coiled in every muscle, the barely restrained frustration rolling off him in waves. One of his fingers slipped just beneath the edge of your gown, brushing bare skin at your hip — a deliberate, claiming touch.

“I don’t like sharing what’s mine,” he growled softly, lips brushing your ear. “Especially not with bastards like Toji Fushiguro.”

You swallowed hard, breath shallow. “I wasn’t trying to make you jealous. I was just being polite while you were busy.”

Sukuna let out a low, dangerous sound in the back of his throat — half a scoff, half a laugh. His free hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his burning crimson gaze.

“Polite,” he murmured, thumb stroking slowly along your jawline. “You’re lucky I didn’t drag you out of here the moment I saw his hand move toward you.”

His eyes dropped to your lips for a long, heavy second. The air between you felt charged, electric, like the tension might snap at any moment. For a heartbeat you thought he might kiss you right there — hard, claiming, in full view of everyone still watching from across the hall.

Instead, he leaned in until his lips ghosted against your ear again.

“Next time someone approaches you while I’m gone,” he said, voice dark and velvet-rough, “you tell them you belong to me. Clearly. Because if I have to remind them myself… I won’t be nearly as polite.”

His fingers flexed on your hip in one final, possessive squeeze — a silent promise — before he slowly stepped back. His hand remained at the small of your back, heavy and unrelenting.

The music swelled again around you.

Sukuna’s expression smoothed into something cooler and more composed for the public eye, but the heat in his eyes stayed locked on you.

“Come,” he said, voice still low. “We’re dancing again. And this time, you’re not leaving my side for the rest of the night.”

Sukuna led you back onto the dance floor without another word, his hand firm on your waist, pulling you closer than strictly proper for a public setting. The orchestra had shifted into a slower, more intimate melody — strings and soft piano weaving through the air. Couples swirled around you, but you barely noticed them. All you could focus on was the heat of Sukuna’s body pressed against yours, the way his fingers splayed possessively across your lower back, and the unmistakable tension radiating from him.

He moved with controlled grace, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. Your bodies were flush together, chest to chest, his thigh occasionally brushing yours as you turned. Every point of contact felt electric.

“You’re quiet now,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense. “What happened to all that polite conversation you were having with the marquess?”

You tilted your head slightly to meet his gaze. “You told me not to leave your side. I’m listening.”

A low sound rumbled in his chest — not quite a laugh. His hand slid lower on your back, fingers pressing in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Good girl,” he said softly, almost mockingly, though the heat in his eyes was anything but. “Keep listening. I don’t want to see you smiling at anyone else like that tonight.”

The jealousy was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. You could feel it in the way he held you — tighter than necessary, almost like he was daring anyone to try approaching you again.

As you turned under his arm and came back into his embrace, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“He thought he had a chance,” he continued, voice rough. “Like he didn’t know exactly who you belong to.” His fingers flexed against your waist. “Maybe I need to make it clearer.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Being this close to him — surrounded by the swirl of music and watching eyes — made everything feel heightened. The scent of him, the solid strength of his body, the barely restrained possessiveness in every touch.

“Sukuna…” you started softly.

He cut you off by pulling you even closer, until there was almost no space left between you. His breath was warm against your temple.

“You wanted to mend things,” he reminded you, tone dark. “Then stop giving other men reasons to think they can talk to my wife like that. Smile at me. Stay close to me.”

The song began to slow, but Sukuna didn’t release you. He kept you locked in his arms even as other couples started drifting apart. His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine through the silk, a silent claim in front of the entire hall.

When the music finally faded, he didn’t let go right away. He stared down at you, crimson eyes heavy with something dangerous and hungry.

“We’re leaving,” he said abruptly, voice low. “I’ve had enough of these people watching us.”

He didn’t wait for your agreement. His hand stayed firmly at the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd toward the exit. Nobles parted for him instinctively, eyes wide at the sight of the Duke and Duchess leaving together so early — and so obviously entangled.

The cool night air hit you the moment you stepped outside. Sukuna kept you close as you waited for the carriage, his arm wrapped around your waist like he still wasn’t ready to stop touching you.

Once inside the carriage, he sat beside you instead of across from you. The door had barely closed before his hand was back on your thigh, gripping possessively through the fabric of your gown.

The carriage started moving, carrying you both back toward the estate through the dark roads. Sukuna’s hand remained on your thigh the entire ride, heavy and warm — a silent reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

By the time it finally rolled to a stop in front of the castle, the moon hung high in the sky. The journey had been quiet, thick with lingering tension. Sukuna hadn’t spoken a word, but his grip on your thigh never loosened.

When the footman opened the door, Sukuna stepped out first and offered you his hand. You took it, letting him help you down onto the stone steps. The cool night air felt refreshing after the stuffy ballroom, but it did little to calm the nerves fluttering in your stomach.

He walked you inside, his hand resting possessively at the small of your back the whole way through the dimly lit halls. Servants bowed and quickly disappeared when they saw you both. The castle felt unusually still.

When you reached the point where the corridors split — one leading to his private wing, the other to yours — Sukuna stopped. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable in the low torchlight.

“You did well tonight,” he admitted grudgingly, staring at you for a long moment before glancing away. “But if I see him — or anyone else — near you again like that…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Sukuna gave a short nod, almost like he was dismissing you. “Goodnight.”

He turned to leave, heading toward his own chambers.

You stood there for a second, heart pounding, before the words slipped out — soft, shy, and a little nervous.

“Wait…”

Sukuna paused, looking back at you over his shoulder.

You swallowed, cheeks warming as you forced yourself to speak. “You know… we can’t really fix things as a couple if we keep sleeping separately"

The words hung in the air between you. They sounded bolder than you felt.

Sukuna went completely still. For several long seconds he simply stared at you, crimson eyes narrowing slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but something darker, more dangerous.

“Is that so?” he said, voice low and rough. He took one step back toward you, then another, until he was standing close again. “You’re asking to sleep in my bed now?”

He tilted his head, studying your face like he was trying to find the trick in your words. His hand came up, fingers lightly brushing your jaw as he looked down at you.

“Careful, wife,” he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip. “You keep pushing like this… I might start thinking you actually mean it.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second before returning to your eyes. The tension between you crackled again, even stronger than it had been at the ball.

Sukuna didn’t move away. He waited, watching you closely, as if daring you to take it back… or push further.

The silence stretched, heavy and charged. His thumb was still resting against your lower lip, warm and rough, while his crimson eyes searched your face for any sign of deception. You could practically feel the suspicion rolling off him in waves.

Finally, he let out a slow breath, almost a scoff.

“…Fine,” he said, voice low and guarded. “If that’s what you want.”

He stepped back slightly, but his hand stayed on your waist, fingers still gripping you with quiet possessiveness. His expression remained cold, cautious, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Don’t expect this to mean anything,” he added, tone flat. “I’m still not convinced you’ve changed. But if you’re so determined to play the part of a real wife… then come.”

He turned and started walking down the corridor toward his private wing, keeping his hand on the small of your back to guide you along with him. The touch was firm — not gentle, but not forceful either. It felt like both an invitation and a test.

The halls were quiet at this hour, lit only by flickering torches. Every step echoed softly. Sukuna didn’t speak again until you reached the heavy wooden doors to his chambers. He pushed them open without hesitation and stepped inside, holding the door for you.

His rooms were large and unmistakably his — dark wood furniture, a massive bed with black silk sheets, a low fire burning in the hearth, weapons and scrolls neatly arranged on shelves. It smelled faintly of smoke and leather.

Sukuna closed the door behind you with a heavy click. He leaned against it for a moment, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with that same calculating stare.

“You wanted this,” he said quietly, almost like he was reminding both of you. “So here we are.”

He pushed off the door and walked further into the room, loosening the ties on his formal tunic as he went. The movement was casual, but you could feel the tension still radiating from him.

“Get comfortable,” he told you, glancing back at you over his shoulder. His voice was low, almost seductive, but the suspicion never fully left his eyes.

He didn’t say anything else. He simply waited, watching to see what you would do now that you were truly alone with him in his space.

You stood there for a moment, suddenly very aware of how large his chambers felt and how small you felt inside them. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting warm light across the dark wood and black silk sheets. The air smelled like him — smoke, leather, and something faintly metallic.

You swallowed and moved toward the side of the room where a large wardrobe stood. One of the maids had already brought a few of your things here earlier, as if the servants had anticipated this. You picked out a simple black silk nightgown and hesitated.

Sukuna had turned away slightly, pulling off his formal tunic and tossing it over the back of a chair. The movement revealed the strong lines of his back and the black tattoos swirling across his skin. He didn’t look at you, but you could tell he was still aware of every move you made.

You changed quickly behind the privacy screen in the corner, the silk cool against your skin. When you stepped out, Sukuna was already sitting on the edge of the massive bed, wearing only loose black pants. His pink hair was untied now, falling messily around his face. He looked up when you approached.

For a long second he just stared.

Then he let out a slow breath and patted the space beside him.

“Come here,” he said, voice low.

You walked over and climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight. Sukuna watched you the entire time, suspicion still clear in his crimson eyes even as he pulled the covers back for you.

You slipped under the sheets, lying on your back. The silk felt cool and smooth. Sukuna stayed sitting for another moment, then finally lay down beside you. The bed was large, but he took up so much space that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

He turned onto his side, facing you. One arm rested above his head while the other lay between you, close enough that his fingers almost brushed your arm.

The silence was heavy.

“You’re really here,” he muttered, almost to himself. His gaze traced your face, still guarded. “In my bed.”

He reached out slowly and brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes remained cold and watchful.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said quietly. “If this is another game… I won’t be kind about it.”

Then he shifted closer. Not enough to touch fully, but close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. He didn’t pull you into his arms. He simply laid there, watching you like he was waiting for you to prove something — or reveal your true intentions.

The fire crackled softly in the background. The weight of his presence beside you made it hard to relax, but you stayed there, heart beating steadily.

Sukuna’s voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke again.

“Sleep, wife. We’ll see how long this little performance of yours lasts.”

He didn’t close his eyes right away. He kept watching you in the dim firelight, guarded, suspicious… and just a little intrigued.

Morning light filtered softly through the heavy curtains, pale and hazy, casting long golden stripes across the dark wooden floor. You woke slowly, cocooned in warmth that felt both foreign and strangely comforting. Sukuna’s arm was draped heavily over your waist, his broad chest pressed against your back, one leg loosely tangled with yours beneath the black silk sheets. His breathing was deep and steady, the faint rise and fall of his chest brushing against you with every inhale.

For a long moment you didn’t move. This was the first time you’d ever woken up beside him — sharing the same bed, the same space, the same air. Your heart beat a little too fast as the reality settled in. The Duke of the North was holding you in his sleep, even if it was only out of habit or unconscious possession.

Sukuna stirred a few minutes later. His arm tightened around your waist for a brief second, pulling you closer on instinct, before his body went still. You felt the exact moment consciousness returned to him — the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his muscles tensed ever so slightly against your back.

He didn’t pull away immediately.

“You’re still here,” he said quietly, voice low and rough with sleep. There was a hint of genuine surprise beneath the words. “Figured you’d sneak back to your own room before I woke up.”

You turned your head slightly on the pillow to look at him. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, messy pink hair falling across his forehead. Up close like this, without the usual cold mask, he looked almost human — though the sharp suspicion in his gaze reminded you he was anything but.

“I told you I wanted this,” you replied softly.

Sukuna let out a slow breath, almost a huff. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you properly. His hand stayed on your waist, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles over the silk of your nightgown. The touch was light, but you could feel the weight of his attention — guarded, calculating, searching for any crack in your resolve.

He watched you for a long, heavy moment, suspicion still clear in his expression. The silence between you felt intimate and fragile at the same time. His fingers flexed once against your waist before relaxing again.

“Don’t get too used to this,” he said eventually, tone flat but not cruel. “One night doesn’t fix anything. One night doesn’t make me trust you.”

Then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he added more quietly, “But… you can stay for breakfast if you want.”

Sukuna rolled away and got out of bed, stretching his powerful arms above his head. The morning light traced every line of muscle and the intricate black tattoos that covered his shoulders, chest, and back. He moved with the casual confidence of someone completely at ease in his own space, yet you could still feel the tension humming beneath his skin.

God, he’s even hotter in person… no wonder I was obsessed.

He grabbed a fresh tunic but didn’t put it on. Instead, he leaned against the wardrobe, watching you in his sheets with that dark, cautious gaze. The fire had burned low, leaving the room quiet and heavy with unspoken tension.

Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “Well?” he asked, voice still rough from sleep. “Are you going to lie there all morning?”

You didn’t make him wait long.

You slipped out of bed, the black silk nightgown clinging lightly to your skin as you moved. The morning air in the chamber felt cooler than the warmth of the sheets you’d just left. Sukuna watched you the entire time from where he leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable but intense.

“Breakfast will be brought here,” he said simply, voice still rough from sleep. “No need to go to the main hall today.”

A short while later, servants arrived with silver trays. They moved quickly and quietly, setting the table near the tall windows with practiced care — a pot of strong black tea, warm crusty bread, thick slices of roasted meat, fresh berries, and a small dish of honey. The scent of the food filled the room, warm and savory. They kept their eyes lowered, clearly unsettled by the sight of you in the Duke’s private chambers wearing only a nightgown and robe, but they left without a single word.

Sukuna sat down first. You took the seat across from him.

The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, casting a soft golden glow across the table and highlighting the sharp angles of his face. It traced the black tattoos visible at the open collar of his tunic and the faint scars on his hands as he picked up his knife. For several long minutes, the only sounds were the quiet clink of silverware and the distant crackle from the hearth.

Finally, Sukuna set his knife down with a quiet click and leaned back in his chair, crimson eyes locking onto you with that familiar guarded intensity.

“So,” he said, voice low and guarded, “what made you change?”

You looked up from your plate, heart skipping a beat. Just died and woke up in the body of the woman you’re supposed to kill. No big deal.

There was no point in holding back anymore. 

“I like you,” you said simply, meeting his gaze. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy beat. Then he let out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Bullshit.”

The word landed blunt and cold. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching you with sharp suspicion.

“You expect me to believe that? After months of silence, after treating me like I was beneath you, after making sure everyone knew how much you despised this marriage… you suddenly like me?” His voice dripped with disbelief. “Try again.”

You didn’t look away. Your voice stayed quiet but steady.

“No, really,” you said. “I do. I like you. That’s why I’m trying so hard.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. He studied your face like he was searching for the lie, the manipulation, the trick. The silence stretched between you, thick and tense. His fingers tapped once against the edge of the table before he leaned back again, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, dangerous smirk.

“Okay, little liar,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Then prove it to me.”

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Prove it to you…?” you repeated softly, the words coming out a little breathless.

Sukuna’s smirk deepened, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, closing some of the distance between you.

“Yes,” he said, voice dropping lower, almost velvet-smooth. “Prove it. You say you like me. You say you want to fix this marriage. So show me.”

His gaze drifted slowly down to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. The air between you felt heavier now, warmer. He reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly against the back of your hand, the touch deceptively gentle.

“You’re in my chambers. In my bed,” he continued, thumb tracing a slow line over your knuckles. “If you’re actually serious… then stop hiding behind pretty words and prove it.”

His touch lingered, possessive but controlled, sending a slow shiver up your arm. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched your reaction closely, crimson eyes dark with suspicion and something much hotter underneath.

“Prove it, wife,” he said again, voice low and seductive. “I’m right here. Show me how much you like me.”

The breakfast table suddenly felt far too small. The tension had shifted — still laced with his suspicion, but now crackling with slow, deliberate heat as he waited for you to make the next move.

Your pulse thundered under his thumb. You could feel the weight of his stare, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat. He wasn’t touching you anywhere else, but it still felt like he had you pinned.

You swallowed, heat blooming across your cheeks and down your neck.

“…How?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended. “How do you want me to prove it?”

Sukuna’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. He leaned in a little closer across the table, his thumb still stroking lazy circles over your knuckles.

“That’s the fun part,” he murmured. “You figure it out. You’re the one claiming you like me. So show me what that looks like.”

His free hand moved, reaching across to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was almost gentle, but his fingers lingered at the side of your neck, tracing lightly down the column of your throat before pulling away.

“You can start by coming here,” he said, voice low and commanding. He pushed his chair back slightly and patted his thigh once. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Your breath caught. Heart racing, you stood up slowly and rounded the table. The moment you were close enough, Sukuna’s hand caught your wrist and pulled you down onto his lap. He settled you sideways across his thighs, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while the other rested on your leg, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh.

Up close like this, you could feel the heat of his body, the solid strength of his chest against your side, the way his breath brushed your temple.

“Better,” he said, voice rough. His hand slid slowly up your thigh, stopping just below the hem of your nightgown. “Now… show me.”

He tilted his head, lips hovering near your jaw.

“Kiss me,” he ordered softly. “Like you mean it. Like you actually want your husband.”

His crimson eyes were locked on yours, still guarded, still waiting for the lie to slip through. But beneath the suspicion, there was clear hunger — dark and patient, daring you to close the distance.

Sukuna’s fingers flexed on your thigh, a silent reminder of his patience running thin.

“Well, wife?” he murmured, voice velvet-rough against your skin. “I’m waiting.”

You didn’t hesitate any longer.

Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his. The kiss started soft — tentative on your end, testing. Sukuna stayed still for half a second, as if surprised you’d actually done it.

Then he took control.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you harder against his mouth. The kiss deepened instantly, turning hungry and demanding. His tongue swept past your lips, claiming your mouth with a low growl that vibrated against you. He tasted like black tea and heat, and the way he kissed you was nothing short of possessive — like he was trying to erase every other man who had ever looked at you.

You gasped into his mouth. Sukuna used the opening to tilt your head and kiss you deeper, tongue stroking yours with slow, filthy intent. His other hand gripped your thigh tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you more firmly onto his lap until you were straddling him.

“Better,” he rasped against your lips when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe. His crimson eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “But not enough.”

He kissed you again, harder this time. One hand slipped under the hem of your nightgown, palm sliding up your bare thigh, pushing the silk higher and higher until his fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. He didn’t go further yet — just teased, stroking the sensitive skin there while his mouth moved to your jaw, then down to your neck.

“You say you like me,” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Then prove how much.”

He sucked on your skin, hard enough to leave a mark, and you couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped you. Sukuna’s grip on your thigh tightened in response, and you felt him growing hard beneath you, the thick length pressing against your core through his pants.

Your hands moved on instinct, sliding up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. He made a low, approving sound and rocked his hips up once, grinding against you deliberately.

“Touch me,” he ordered, voice rough. “If you’re serious, then fucking touch me.”

You obeyed, sliding your hands under his tunic, palms running over the hard planes of his stomach and the tattoos that covered his skin. His muscles tensed under your touch. Sukuna rewarded you by biting down on your neck again, then soothing the spot with his tongue.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing heavy, eyes burning.

“Keep going,” he said, voice dark and commanding. His hands gripping your ass firmly as he pulled you down harder against his growing erection. “Show me exactly how much you want your husband.”

His hips rolled up deliberately, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against your clit in slow, filthy circles. The friction was maddening, heat building fast between you.

You moaned into his mouth. The sound seemed to snap something in him.

He growled low in his throat and rocked you harder against him. “Fuck,” he rasped against your lips, breath hot. “You’re already so wet for me.”

One large hand slipped further under your nightgown, calloused palm dragging up your bare thigh until his fingers found the soaked fabric of your panties. He groaned at the feeling, pressing two thick fingers against your clothed slit and rubbing firmly, spreading your wetness.

“So fucking wet,” he muttered, voice dark and rough. “All this from just sitting on my lap?”

He pushed your panties aside with impatient fingers and dragged two thick digits slowly through your slick folds. The first direct touch made your hips jerk sharply. Pleasure shot through you like lightning — hot, electric, and overwhelming. You were already soaked, embarrassingly wet, and Sukuna could feel it.

He chuckled darkly against your throat, the low vibration sending shivers racing down your spine as he kissed and bit along your neck, marking you with teeth and tongue.

“You’re dripping down my fingers, wife,” he growled, voice rough and filthy. “This greedy little cunt is making such a mess already.”

He pushed one thick finger inside you slowly, stretching your tight walls. Your inner muscles clenched hard around the intrusion, hot and silky. The feeling of being filled by him — even just one finger — made your breath hitch. He added a second finger almost immediately, scissoring them lazily while his thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed tight, relentless circles.

The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy filled the quiet morning room — lewd squelching noises that would have made you blush if you weren’t already trembling with pleasure. Your arousal coated his hand, dripping down his wrist and onto his lap as he worked you open with practiced, unhurried strokes.

You whimpered, hands fisting tightly in the front of his tunic. Sukuna’s free hand yanked the neckline of your nightgown down roughly, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He leaned in and sucked one sensitive nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking roughly over the peak before his teeth grazed it. The sharp sting mixed with pleasure made your back arch, pushing your chest closer to his hungry mouth.

“So fucking sensitive,” he murmured against your skin, voice muffled as he switched to the other nipple, sucking harder. “Look at you. Falling apart just from my fingers like a desperate little whore.”

He curled his fingers inside you, stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy while his thumb pressed firmer circles on your clit. Your hips rocked desperately against his hand, chasing every thrust, every stroke. The wet sounds grew louder, filthier, echoing obscenely in the quiet chamber.

Sukuna pulled back just enough to watch your face, his crimson eyes dark with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.

“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Let me feel how much this supposed ‘liking me’ makes this tight little pussy squeeze around my fingers.”

His fingers curled harder, stroking that sensitive spot relentlessly while his thumb worked your clit faster. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every thrust, every filthy word.

It snapped.

You came hard with a broken moan, walls clenching violently around his thick fingers. Your thighs shook uncontrollably as slick gushed over his hand, soaking his palm and dripping down his wrist. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, leaving you gasping and trembling.

Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, still pumping his fingers slowly through your spasms, drawing out every last pulse until you were shaking and oversensitive, whimpering softly.

He finally pulled his fingers free, glistening with your release. Without breaking eye contact, he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, tongue dragging slowly and deliberately over his skin, savoring your taste.

“Sweet,” he murmured, voice husky and dark. His eyes never left yours.

He lifted you effortlessly and stood, carrying you toward the massive bed. He laid you down on the black silk sheets, hovering over you with that same dark, hungry look.

“Take the nightgown off,” he commanded, already pulling his own tunic over his head, revealing the full expanse of his tattooed, muscled torso. “I want to see all of you.”

His hands moved to his pants, loosening them as he watched you, eyes burning with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.

“Prove how much you actually want me, wife.”

You sat up on the bed, heart hammering against your ribs. Under his burning gaze, you reached for the hem of your nightgown and pulled it up and over your head, letting the silk fall to the floor. The cool air of the chamber brushed over your bare skin, making your nipples tighten instantly.

Sukuna’s eyes raked slowly over your naked body — from your flushed face, down the curve of your breasts, your stomach, and the glistening wetness already coating your inner thighs. He let out a low, rough sound deep in his chest, almost a growl.

“Fuck… look at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “So small. So fucking pretty.”

He shoved his pants the rest of the way down his hips and kicked them aside. His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, the veined shaft curving slightly upward. It was meaty — obscenely so — the girth making your mouth go dry. The flushed head was already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Even fully hard, it looked almost too big, too heavy, the weight of it making it hang thick and full between his powerful thighs.

You couldn’t help the soft, shaky breath that escaped you.

Sukuna noticed. His smirk was dark and satisfied as he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping deeply under his much larger frame. He settled between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider apart. The size difference hit you all over again — he was so much bigger than you, his body completely eclipsing yours as he hovered above you.

He gripped his thick cock in one large hand and dragged the heavy head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your wetness. The blunt, meaty tip nudged against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch.

“You’re tiny compared to me,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Gonna feel every inch when I split you open.”

He pushed forward slowly.

The thick head of his cock breached you, stretching your entrance with a slow, burning pressure. You gasped sharply at the sheer girth — he was so thick that your walls had to part around him, fluttering and clenching as he sank deeper. The heavy, meaty weight of his cock filled you inch by inch, dragging against every sensitive ridge inside you until you were full, so full, your back arching off the bed with a broken moan.

Sukuna groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. His balls rested heavy and warm against you.

“Shit,” he breathed against your neck, voice strained. “So fucking tight… this little pussy is sucking me in like it was made for me.”

He stayed buried deep for a moment, letting you adjust to the overwhelming stretch, the way his thick cock throbbed inside you, hot and heavy. Then he started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his meaty length along your walls with every thrust. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of your soaked cunt filled the room, slick and filthy.

You whimpered, nails digging into his broad shoulders. “Sukuna… you’re so big—”

He growled at your words, hips snapping harder, driving his thick cock deeper. The drag was exquisite, every vein and ridge rubbing against your most sensitive spots. His size made you feel impossibly full, stretched wide around his girth, the pressure bordering on too much but so, so good.

“Take it,” he rasped, voice dark and possessive. “Take every fucking inch like the good little wife you’re trying to be.”

He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy, hungry kiss, tongue fucking your mouth in time with his deep thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against you with every powerful stroke, the wet sounds growing louder as your arousal dripped down his shaft and soaked the sheets beneath you.

You moaned into his mouth, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back. The size difference made everything more intense — his broad chest crushing your breasts, his muscular thighs spreading you wide, his massive frame completely dominating yours as he fucked you into the mattress.

Sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with lust and that lingering edge of suspicion.

“Tell me again,” he growled, hips grinding deep, the thick head of his cock pressing against that perfect spot inside you. “Tell me how much you like your husband’s cock while I’m ruining this tight little pussy.”

You could barely think through the overwhelming fullness. His cock was so thick it felt like he was splitting you open with every slow, deliberate thrust. The heavy drag of his veined shaft against your walls made your toes curl, pleasure bordering on too much.

“I like it,” you gasped, voice breaking on a moan as he rolled his hips again, grinding the fat head against your g-spot. “I like your cock so much— fuck, Sukuna, you’re so deep…”

A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, spreading you wider, and drove into you harder. The new angle made his thick cock hit even deeper, the heavy weight of his balls slapping wetly against your ass with every powerful thrust. Your juices coated his shaft, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you, the lewd squelching sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet room.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, voice rough and strained. “This greedy little cunt is sucking me in like it doesn’t want to let go.”

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, dominating kiss. His tongue fucked into your mouth in time with his cock, deep and filthy, while his hips snapped forward harder. The sheer size difference made everything more intense — his broad, muscled body completely covering yours, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he fucked you with long, punishing strokes.

You whimpered into his mouth, nails raking down his back, leaving red lines across his tattooed skin. Sukuna hissed at the sting and rewarded you by pounding into you even harder, the thick head of his cock bullying that sensitive spot inside you over and over.

“Again,” he demanded against your lips, breath hot and ragged. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” you moaned, legs shaking as another wave of pleasure crashed through you. “It belongs to you— only you—”

“Good girl.”

He sat back on his heels, pulling your hips up with him so your lower back was off the bed. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his thick cock stretching you wide with every brutal thrust. His thumb found your swollen clit again, rubbing tight, firm circles while he fucked you senseless.

The wet slap of skin against skin mixed with your broken moans and his low grunts. Your breasts bounced with every powerful snap of his hips, nipples tight and aching. Sukuna’s gaze was locked between your legs, watching hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked pussy again and again, stretching you obscenely around his girth.

“Look at that,” he growled, voice dark. “Taking every inch like you were made for me. So fucking pretty when you’re stuffed full of my cock.”

The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every deep thrust, every swipe of his thumb on your clit. Your thighs trembled violently in his grip.

“Sukuna— I’m gonna—!”

“Cum,” he ordered, hips slamming into you harder. “Cum on your husband’s cock like the desperate little wife you are.”

It hit you like a wave. You came hard with a broken cry, walls clenching violently around his thick length, pulsing and fluttering as slick gushed around him. Your whole body shook, back arching sharply as pleasure tore through you.

Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, hips stuttering. “Fuck— that’s it. Milk my cock.”

He fucked you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you were whimpering and oversensitive. Then, with a low, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, thick ropes of hot cum flooding deep inside you. He kept grinding his hips in slow circles, pushing his release even deeper as he emptied himself completely.

“We’re not done,” he said quietly, a dangerous promise in his tone. “Not even close.”

Sukuna pulled out of you with a wet, filthy sound, your combined release dripping down your thighs. Before you could catch your breath, he flipped you onto your back and manhandled you like you weighed nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled you into his lap facing away from him, and hooked his powerful arms under your knees, folding you in a full nelson.

Your back pressed flush against his broad, tattooed chest. Your legs were spread obscenely wide, knees pushed up toward your shoulders by his strong arms. The position left you completely helpless — folded in half, pussy exposed and dripping, his thick cock sliding hot and heavy between your slick folds.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled right against your ear, voice feral. “So small and folded up for me. Perfect little fucktoy.”

He thrust up hard, burying his massive cock back inside you in one brutal stroke. The new angle made him feel even thicker, even deeper. You cried out, the sound raw and broken as his meaty length stretched you wide open again, the fat head bullying against your cervix with every thrust.

Sukuna went feral.

He fucked you like an animal — hard, fast, and relentless. His hips snapped up with powerful force, slamming his thick cock into your soaked pussy over and over. The wet, obscene slap of skin against skin filled the room, mixed with the lewd squelching of your dripping cunt taking every inch. His heavy balls slapped against your ass with every brutal thrust, the impact jolting through your body.

You were cockdrunk almost immediately.

Your mind went hazy, eyes rolling back as pleasure overloaded your senses. All you could do was moan helplessly, body limp in his hold as he used you. His thick cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, the sheer girth stretching you so wide it bordered on pain, but the pleasure was so intense you couldn’t think straight.

“S-Sukuna— ahh— too deep—” you slurred, voice broken and whiny.

He only fucked you harder, arms locked tight under your knees, keeping you folded and helpless as he pounded into you. His chest was slick with sweat against your back, his hot breath panting against your ear.

“Take it,” he snarled, voice feral and animalistic. “Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? My cock ruining this tight little pussy.”

You could only moan incoherently, head lolling back against his shoulder. Drool slipped from the corner of your mouth as he fucked you senseless, his thick cock bullying your insides with every savage thrust. The wet sounds were filthy — your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his balls, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Sukuna suddenly pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, and yanked your hips up so your ass was high in the air. He slammed back into you in one brutal thrust, fucking you in deep, punishing doggy style.

“Fuck— yes,” he groaned, voice wrecked. One large hand came down hard on your ass with a loud smack, the sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, the sharp crack echoing as he pounded into you from behind.

Your face was pressed into the sheets, ass up, completely at his mercy as he railed you. His thick cock drove so deep you felt it in your stomach, the heavy drag of his veined shaft making your eyes roll back. He smacked your ass again, gripping the soft flesh hard as he used you.

“You’re mine,” he growled, hips snapping forward relentlessly. “This pussy is mine. Say it.”

You could barely speak, mind blank and cockdrunk, but you whimpered obediently between moans, “Yours… it’s yours—”

Sukuna snarled in satisfaction and fucked you even harder, the bed creaking violently under the force of his thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against your clit with every brutal stroke, pushing you closer and closer to the edge again.

He was relentless now — grunting low and animalistic, cursing under his breath as his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. He claimed you with deep, punishing strokes, each one driving his thick cock so deep you felt it in your stomach.

“Fuck— this pussy is sucking me in so greedily,” he growled, voice wrecked and animalistic. One hand left your hip and came down hard on your ass again with a loud smack, the sharp sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, gripping the soft, reddened flesh and spreading you wider as he railed you.

Your mind was completely melted. All you could do was moan and whimper into the sheets, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as he pounded into you. His thick, meaty cock stretched you so wide it felt like he was reshaping you from the inside. Every deep, punishing thrust made the fat head kiss your cervix, sending sparks of overwhelming pleasure-pain shooting through your body.

“S-Sukuna— too much— ahh—!” you slurred, voice broken and whiny, barely coherent anymore.

He laughed darkly, low and breathless, and smacked your ass once more before gripping both cheeks and spreading you obscenely. He watched hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked, fluttering pussy again and again, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his heavy balls.

“Look at this greedy little hole,” he rasped, hips snapping forward brutally. “Taking my fat cock so well. You’re dripping everywhere, wife. Making such a fucking mess on my sheets.”

He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you in place while the other braced beside your head. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his heavy cock bullying that perfect spot inside you with every savage thrust. The wet, filthy plap plap plap of his hips slamming into your ass filled the room, mixed with your broken moans and his guttural grunts.

You were shaking, thighs trembling violently, another orgasm building fast. Your mind was blank — nothing but the overwhelming stretch, the heat, the relentless drag of his thick veined cock inside you.

Sukuna’s breath was hot against your ear. “You’re mine,” he growled, teeth grazing your shoulder. “This tight little cunt is mine. Say it while you cum on my cock again.”

You could barely form words, but you whimpered obediently between moans, voice slurred and cockdrunk. “Yours— it’s yours— Sukuna— please—!”

He fucked you harder, hips pistoning relentlessly, the heavy slap of his balls against your clit pushing you over the edge. You came with a shattered cry, walls clamping down around his thick length like a vice, pulsing and fluttering as another intense orgasm ripped through you. Slick gushed around his cock, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath you.

Sukuna groaned loudly, the sound raw and feral. “Good fucking girl—”

He didn’t stop. He fucked you through your orgasm with deep, stuttering thrusts, hips snapping erratically as he chased his own release. With a final, powerful drive, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded deep inside you, pulse after heavy pulse filling you until you felt impossibly full, the warmth spreading through your core. He kept grinding slowly, rolling his hips in lazy circles to push every drop deeper, making sure you took all of him.

You could feel it leaking out around his thick cock — warm, sticky, and messy — dripping down your thighs and soaking the sheets beneath you.

Sukuna stayed buried deep inside you for a long moment, his massive body pressing you firmly into the mattress. His chest heaved against your back, hot, ragged breaths fanning across the side of your neck. The scent of sweat, sex, and his skin filled the air with every shaky inhale. One of his hands stroked slowly up and down your side, almost possessively, while the other stayed gripping your hip, fingers digging in like he still wasn’t ready to let go.

“…Not bad,” he muttered, voice hoarse and low against your ear. “For a little liar.”

He finally pulled out slowly, inch by thick inch. A heavy trickle of his cum immediately leaked from your abused, fluttering pussy, warm and obscene as it ran down your inner thighs. Sukuna let out a low, satisfied hum at the sight before he rolled you onto your back and collapsed beside you.

Without a word, he pulled you against his chest, one strong arm wrapping around you possessively. His skin was hot and slightly damp with sweat, his heartbeat still racing steadily under your cheek as he held you close.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin as he caught his breath.

But he didn’t let go.

a\n: honestly didn't know how to end this but hope you enjoyed! likes and reblogs appreciated!!

the door creaks open and yuji pads in, blanket dragging behind him, eyes heavy but hopeful. he climbs up between you without hesitation, like it was never a question. like this has always been allowed. he curls in close, pressing his face into your side with a sleepy little huff.

“thanks,” he mumbles.

sukuna pulls the covers up around all three of you. you shift just enough to make room, one hand resting protectively on yuji’s back. his breathing slows almost immediately, comforted by the closeness.

the room settles again. sukuna leans his forehead against yours, voice low. “guess that’s that.”

you smile, eyes closing. “yeah.”

and honestly? you wouldn’t trade it.

yuji wakes up before either of you are ready for the day.

it starts with feet. small, relentless feet kicking under the blankets like he’s trying to escape. you groan into the pillow, barely conscious, one arm reaching out blindly until your hand lands on sukuna’s chest. he makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a threat.

“he’s doing it again,” you mumble.

“he’s fermenting,” sukuna says. “if we ignore him long enough he’ll evolve.”

yuji giggles. immediately louder.

“i’m awake!” he announces, like this is news you asked for.

you peel one eye open. light leaks in through the blinds, pale and early, outlining the mess of limbs in the bed. yuji is sitting up now, hair sticking out in every direction, blanket bunched around his waist.

“what time is it?” he asks.

“too early,” sukuna says flatly. “go back to sleep.”

yuji kicks him. sukuna grabs the blanket and yanks it back with exaggerated offense.

“hey,” he says. “you don’t pay rent.”

yuji grins. “neither do you.”

you snort despite yourself, rolling onto your back. “okay, okay. up. i have class in twenty.”

that gets yuji moving. he slides off the bed and pads down the hall, already talking about cereal and cartoons and whether today is a backpack day or a lunchbox day. you sit up slower, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

sukuna watches you for a second before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “you know,” he says casually, “most people our age wake up hungover. not… like this.”

you glance at him. “jealous?”

“deeply,” he deadpans.

the apartment fills with morning noise in layers. cabinet doors. running water. yuji narrating his entire existence from the bathroom. you move around each other without thinking—him reaching over you for a mug, you nudging his hip out of the way with your knee. he corrects yuji’s shirt like it’s an insult that it was wrinkled in the first place.

“what is this,” he mutters. “are you trying to embarrass me?”

yuji sticks his tongue out. “you’re not my dad.”

“tragic,” sukuna says. “for both of us.”

and it’s stupid, and silly, and familiar—but then there’s a moment.

you’re standing in the doorway, watching them. sukuna crouched down, tying yuji’s shoes with surprising patience. yuji talking nonstop, hands flying, entirely at ease. sukuna listening, actually listening, even as he complains under his breath.

it hits you all at once how much work it took to get here.

how this didn’t come naturally. how he used to be sharp-edged, impatient, all teeth and ego. how he had to learn how to soften without losing himself. how he did it anyway. how he shows up every morning like this, half-awake and fully present.

he glances up and catches you staring.

“what,” he says. “do i have something on my face?”

you shake your head. “no.”

“then stop looking at me like that,” he adds, teasing. “it’s weird.”

you smile and turn back to the counter, but the feeling lingers.

by the time you’re out the door, backpacks slung over shoulders and keys almost forgotten, the apartment already looks lived-in again. bed unmade. a cereal spoon abandoned in the sink. proof of a morning survived.

yuji skips ahead down the walkway, chanting something unintelligible. sukuna walks beside you, bumping your shoulder with his.

“we’re doing okay,” he says, like it’s a joke. like it isn’t.

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. you just walk a little closer.

campus feels louder than it should.

people your age everywhere, moving fast, laughing too hard, complaining about exams and parties and things that feel strangely distant now. you walk through it with your bag slung over your shoulder, phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline, already checking the time without realizing you’re doing it.

you catch yourself thinking in increments. how long until pickup. how long until dinner. how long until everyone’s back under the same roof again.

it’s weird, the way your life reorganized itself without asking permission. how your schedule bent around someone else’s needs. how it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice so much as a shift—like furniture being moved until the room finally makes sense.

you sit through lecture half-present, notes scattered and messy, professor’s voice fading in and out. your mind drifts back to the morning. to yuji’s laugh. to sukuna crouched on the floor, laces between his fingers, complaining the entire time but never once stopping.

you think about who he used to be. sharp. impatient. allergic to responsibility. you think about who he is now—still teasing, still condescending, still impossible—but steady. reliable. someone yuji trusts enough to sleep between at night.

someone you trust enough to build a life around.

your phone buzzes. a text from sukuna.

he asked if dinosaurs could be real again. said to tell you.

you smile to yourself, thumb hovering over the screen before you reply.

only if they behave, you type back.

a few seconds later:

then no. we’re doomed.

you tuck your phone away and lean back in your chair, whatever this is—whatever you’ve made together—it’s holding. it’s real. and for the first time all day, you’re not counting the minutes anymore.

you already know where you’re going back to.

dinner happens in pieces.

not all at once, not neatly. noodles in mismatched bowls. a pot left on the stove a little too long. sukuna complaining about the cost of groceries while adding extra egg anyway. yuji narrating his entire day between bites, swinging his legs where they don’t quite reach the floor.

you catch fragments more than full sentences. a math quiz. a kid at recess. something about a bug. sukuna reacts to each one like it’s a personal affront, scoffing and asking follow-up questions like he’s cross-examining a witness.

“and what did you learn from this exactly,” he says, pointing his chopsticks.

yuji thinks hard. “that bugs are gross.”

“correct,” sukuna says. “no notes.”

by the time the bowls are empty, the apartment looks like it always does after a long day—comfortable, a little wrecked. yuji ends up on the couch with his homework spread out, papers sliding off the cushions. you sit beside him, helping with spelling while sukuna hovers nearby pretending not to care.

“that’s wrong,” he says from across the room.

yuji glares. “you didn’t even look.”

“i can feel when it’s wrong.”

you roll your eyes. “ignore him.”

“i am a victim in this household,” sukuna mutters, grabbing a towel to wipe the counter.

homework stretches on longer than it should. yuji yawns through the last problem, letters wobbling across the page. you guide his hand gently, praising him when he finishes. he beams like he just won something.

“can i stay up a little?” he asks.

you glance at the clock. then at sukuna.

“absolutely not,” sukuna says immediately.

“traitor,” yuji whispers to you.

you laugh and usher him toward the bathroom, bedtime routine unfolding like muscle memory. teeth brushed. pajamas on. one more glass of water. one more question. one more story you swear will be the last.

when yuji finally settles into bed, it feels quieter than it did this morning. you sit on the edge while sukuna stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

“night,” yuji says, already sinking.

“night,” you echo.

sukuna flicks the light off, softer than you’d expect.

later, back in your room, the day catches up to you all at once. you kick off your shoes, stretch out under the covers, exhaustion settling into your bones. sukuna joins you a moment later, closer than he needs to be, warmth familiar.

the door doesn’t open this time. no knock. no small voice. just quiet.

you lie there, listening to the apartment breathe around you—the hum of the fridge, the distant traffic, the soft certainty that tomorrow will look a lot like today.

sukuna exhales beside you. “good day.”

you smile into the pillow.

“yeah,” you say. “a really good one.”

and when you close your eyes, it feels earned.

perm taglist @dearjihyo @sketchbonked @paintedperidot @lucacangettathisass @puppiemilks @icebearcucumber

you haven’t heard that in a while. not since they’d started growing in their baby teeth and you’d taught them how to ask for something to bite on instead of attacking you the exact way he just did. your heart twinges, seeing the look on his face.

“maybe we need your rubber teethy again,” you suggest, wondering if it’s still in the fridge. it had been his best friend when he was growing his teeth, you didn’t think he’d need it again.

kyros nods at the suggestion. “or pop-tickle?”

“sure, baby,” his cheeks are peppered with gentle kisses, soothing his discomfort with your understanding. forgetting about the bite that bruises almost completely.

but it is curious how a tooth can emerge sharp and painful, asymmetrical and just out of nowhere. this one didn’t get to grow in his first set of baby teeth, and now it crowds its way between those already there.

you worry if it’s just him, it it hurts more than he lets on. you’d want to help as much as you can, of course. “papa should know about this too.”

kyros nods, circling arms around your neck to be carried down to the kitchen.

you start to call for sylus to tell him the news, bellowing down the halls, “sy—!”

where a resounding “ow!” echoes back just in time. “lucian!”

“woosian has toof too.” kyros whispers, thinking it a good time to tell you.

you nod in understanding, making the turn into the kitchen rather than continuing on to the study. waiting just a few seconds until your husband and child arrive with the same intentions.

sylus takes one look at you and kyros, sets lucian down on the counter beside his twin and pulls down the sleeve of your shirt to reveal the circular indent of teeth with one very prominent deep notch.

he clicks his tongue in distaste. a finger boops kyros’s nose, and reveals his own battle scar to you, so graciously gifted by your other snaggle-toothed son.

"chat, it's like you want to get called slurs—

now, kuna won't say it, but he is expecting to make at least four thousand off this stream tonight as he jumps around a fortnite server, waiting for the lobby to load in with the scrambling idiots around him.

naoya's droning on and on in his ear, interacting more with his chat than kuna ever really does. he's scowling towards the screen, crimson eyes reflecting the cheery blues and greens of the pixelated landscape on his second monitor.

"—like two years since kuna's got a victory royale."

"was not two fucking years ago, you idiot." he drones, hissing in the receiver as fan service. he's not stupid, and he certainly didn't get so successful by being modest and nice. no, his audience is a bunch of touch-deprived women and pre-pubescent boys. there is no in between, just like his mood at any given second.

"one and a half if you're asking me on a good day... someone in chat said he has a tally — pull it out, man! put it in the discord!"

the two load into their match — kuna keeping his eyes on his gaming screen as his chat rolls with a vengeance. viewers spike with pre-battle, and he reaches to his side, sighing as his duo-partner spouts nothingness in his ear that he just blocks out.

for their last match on, he has to make it count. that thought crosses his mind once he marks their location in the city, choosing all or nothing because he doesn't crave peace. kuna wants to land and start killing immediately.

footsteps on the ground, naoya stubbornly lands somewhere behind him, falling short and falling too quickly for where sukuna marked. chat doesn't even let him breathe — deciding the annoyance's neck is one easily digestible. naoya fights for his life daily, knowing his gaming skills can never hold a flame to his firecracker mouth.

kuna, however, drops down and loads up without muttering a word, eyes flicking from chat every few seconds as it rolls by. donos roll in on his dashboard, all urging him in: PLEASE READ or can you say happy birthday to-

"if you ask me to say happy birthday one more time, you're getting banned." he deadpans, watching as the dono gets buried in real time by even more. "dumbass, you sent like fifty donos asking the same question, you're worthless."

the proxy chat explodes around him and naoya as they regroup in a basement house, crouching and shielding when a duo swings open the door, heavy footsteps thumping in his ear.

naoya speaks, giving their presence away before sukuna can reload his pump. "fuck—

hearing the proxy static of naoya's voice, another player chirps, "wait, where are they?"

"you— i hope they assassinate you, dickhead... waste of space." kuna clicks around on his pc setup, fingers lost to his audience, and lost on him with the speed they harness. sometimes he forgets he was an early tournament leader.

then, he hears you. "wait, don't kill them—

'here, take this small pot,' your teammate's voice is equally as soft in contrast — dragging and lazy like only a girl that knows what she's doing can pitch. 'these dudes, look.'

"it's a girl. a duo of girls? fuck, let's just shoot each other." naoya speaks through closed teeth, tense-bodied as he prepares to fight against his better reasoning.

not quite talking to him, not quite talking to you, your teammate speaks into the proxy: 'he's a dick, we have to.'

"no!" you chirp, and kuna cannot hide that look on his face when you and your duo's avatars scurry down the steps, not even flinching when naoya builds up in wood around them.

"fuck off, wait," kuna actually stops, swinging out his polished katana axe to demolish the structure. you in your stupid ass razor skin, t-bagging him in his territory that he scouted before your grabby hands came along.

from your line, your voice cracks out, "wait, don't kill us. lets just join up."

naoya starts, "we don't need women—

"shut the fuck up!!!" kuna yells, voice booming through the proxy so deafeningly that your teammate breaks out into hysterical laughter, drawing every single surrounding team your way. "he doesn't ever shut the fuck up — god,"

'cheap ass skin, you're a loser.'

"they can join." kuna decides on a whim, flipping through his inventory — throwing you a mini-pot when your hp shows up on his screen. naoya's on ten shield, twenty health — now you're on fifty shield, a hundred health.

what can he say? kuna looks out for those who look out for him.

sukuna/all char taglist: @wavetojulia @heaveninruins @cowboyvsshop @verykittenwombat → wanna be tagged?

you’ve already called nanami three times in the past hour, crying that you might not make it through the night, that he needs to come over now, and you don’t care if he’s in class or saving orphans or solving world hunger—you’re dying.

you can almost hear the disbelief in his sigh when he finally picks up. you’re not dying, he said, calm as ever, before you started wailing about your will and how you want him to inherit your favorite perfume collection because he’s the only one who truly appreciates your taste. you don’t even remember what he said next because you hung up dramatically after that, crying into your pillow just to prove a point.

and now, ten minutes later, you hear his car outside.

you roll onto your side, pulling the blanket dramatically over your head, whispering to yourself like some tragic heroine. “he’ll regret not coming sooner when i’m gone.”

the door opens. his footsteps echo through the marble floor of the hallway, the quiet authority in his stride irritatingly familiar. then comes the faint knock on your bedroom door—because even now, he’s polite enough to knock—and his voice, steady, level, patient, the voice of a man who’s seen too much of your nonsense but still shows up anyway.

“i’m coming in.”

you sniff loudly, ensuring he hears, then groan weakly, just for effect.

when he steps inside, he’s still in his college clothes—slacks, crisp white shirt, tie loosened, a coat draped over one arm. his hair’s slightly tousled from the wind, glasses fogged from the heat of your room, and you almost hate how composed he looks while you’re a beautiful wreck melting into your satin sheets.

he pauses at the foot of the bed, eyes scanning the disaster that is your bedside table—thermometer, medicine left untouched, half a bowl of soup your housekeeper left earlier that you refused because “it smells medicinal.”

you peek at him from under the blanket, sniffling. “you took your sweet time.”

“i broke multiple traffic laws getting here,” he replies dryly, walking over to set his coat on the chair.

“well,” you say, voice soft and pitiful, “i could’ve been dead by now.”

“clearly, you’re not.”

you throw the blanket off dramatically, revealing your disheveled hair and flushed face, wearing one of his oversized shirts that you stole from his closet weeks ago. “you don’t even look concerned,” you say, eyes glistening with exaggerated pain.

“i am concerned,” he says, taking off his watch and setting it neatly on the nightstand. “you called me thirteen times.”

“because you didn’t sound worried enough the first twelve!” you cry, pointing at him with a trembling hand.

he doesn’t respond. instead, he reaches out, presses his palm to your forehead. his hand is cool, steady, and you lean into it immediately, eyes closing, sighing like a martyr.

“you’re burning,” he murmurs, his tone quieter now.

you hum dramatically. “see? i told you i was dying.”

“it’s a fever,” he says. “you’ll be fine.”

you groan, throwing your head back on the pillow. “fine? fine? i’m sweating like i just ran a marathon and i can’t even breathe properly! i might as well start writing my eulogy.”

he shakes his head, moves to the edge of the bed, and sits beside you. the mattress dips slightly under his weight, and you immediately reach for him, curling your fingers into his sleeve, tugging weakly.

“stay,” you mumble. “don’t move.”

“i wasn’t planning to.”

you sniff, looking up at him with watery eyes. “good. because if you leave, i’ll haunt you.”

he tilts his head, amused. “even after death, you’d still be dramatic.”

“don’t mock the dying,” you whisper gravely, clutching his wrist.

“you’re not—” he stops himself, sighs, then gently pries your hand from his arm only to tuck it under the blanket. “have you eaten?”

“no. i can’t eat. my throat feels like sandpaper.”

“you need to take your medicine.”

“no.”

“you’ll get worse if you don’t.”

“then i’ll get worse.”

he exhales slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—he’s fighting a smile. you see it, and it makes you push harder, because you live to crack that stoic façade.

“you’re supposed to feed me,” you murmur, voice small, batting your lashes.

he looks at you for a long moment, then stands, grabbing the tray from the nightstand. “you can’t even sit up, can you?”

you pout. “no. i’m weak. fragile. helpless.”

he raises an eyebrow. “you managed to scream into the phone for ten minutes straight.”

“that was my final burst of strength,” you say solemnly. “i’m fading now.”

he sets the tray down, adjusts the pillows behind you, and helps you sit up with one arm around your shoulders. you melt into him instantly, cheek pressed against his chest, sighing softly.

“you smell good,” you mumble, fingers curling into his shirt. “you always smell good. it’s annoying.”

he ignores that, scooping a spoonful of soup and holding it near your mouth. “open.”

you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “what is it?”

“soup.”

“but what kind?”

“the kind that will help you get better.”

“so poison.”

his expression stays painfully neutral, but you hear the faintest exhale of laughter. “eat.”

you take a small sip, grimace dramatically. “ugh. it tastes like depression.”

“that’s called nutrition.”

“i hate it.”

“i know.”

you glare up at him, pouting even as you take another spoonful just to please him. he’s annoyingly gentle, blowing on the soup before each spoonful, making sure you don’t burn your tongue. you keep muttering things under your breath—complaints, declarations, vague threats—but he just hums, unbothered, like he’s immune to your nonsense.

“you’re so calm it’s infuriating,” you mumble between spoonfuls. “don’t you ever get emotional?”

“you’re emotional enough for both of us.”

you smack his thigh weakly with your hand. “you’re mean.”

“and yet, you called me.”

you stare at him for a second, then grin weakly. “because you’re the only one i trust with my dramatic death.”

he shakes his head, finishing the last spoonful before setting the bowl down. “you should rest.”

“don’t leave,” you murmur again, tugging at his sleeve.

he sighs, but lies down beside you, his arm slipping easily around your waist as you shift closer, pressing your burning cheek against his shoulder. your eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, you’re quiet.

“you’re warm,” you whisper. “it’s comforting.”

“that’s because you have a fever.”

“no, it’s because you’re comforting.”

he doesn’t answer, only tightens his arm around you. you smile, eyes still closed, fingers playing with his tie.

“you should marry me,” you mumble, half asleep.

“you’re delirious.”

“maybe, but i’d look really good with your last name.”

he hums softly, and you can tell he’s smiling even if you can’t see it. “sleep.”

you do—eventually. half curled against him, half sprawled like a defeated queen, your fevered breathing softening as he keeps his hand on your back, steady, patient. and when the night grows quieter and the rain starts tapping against the windows, he brushes his thumb across your temple, whispering something under his breath—something you’re too far gone to hear—before pulling the blanket up to your chin.

and in your dreams, you’re still dramatic, still dying, still clinging to him like your last breath depends on it. but in the morning, when you wake up and find him still there, sitting by your bedside with his glasses low on his nose and a book in hand, you smile lazily and whisper, “told you i’d survive.”

he looks up, his mouth curving faintly. “unfortunately, yes.”

you grin, voice hoarse but smug. “you missed me?”

he closes his book, leans over, and kisses your forehead. “always.”

episode ii : on the tragedy of my broken leg, and the cruelty of a world that expects me to heal

you swear the world has ended. you swear your life is over. it’s been exactly one day since your leg got wrapped in a cast, and you’re convinced you’ll never walk again. the sky outside is blue, the birds are singing, and you hate every second of it. your mansion-sized bedroom has turned into a battlefield—pillows thrown, water bottles rolling on the floor, remote somewhere under the bed because you threw it when netflix dared to buffer for five seconds. you’re sprawled on your ridiculously oversized bed, leg propped up on a mountain of silk pillows, and you are suffering.

“kento,” you groan dramatically, voice echoing off the high ceiling like a dying actress in an opera, “i can’t live like this.”

you hear footsteps in the hallway, calm and even, like he’s walking into an exam rather than your personal apocalypse. the door opens quietly, and there he is—nanami kento, the picture of composure, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loose, hair perfectly neat like life hasn’t just been torn apart by your tragedy. he looks at you for three seconds, scanning the mess that surrounds you, then sighs.

“you’re not dying,” he says, setting a tray of food down on the nightstand.

you lift your head off the pillow, glaring. “says the man with two functioning legs.”

he blinks, unimpressed. “it’s a fracture.”

“it’s disfigurement, kento.” you flop back down dramatically, clutching the blanket like you’re in mourning. “i’ll never be able to wear heels again. or dance. or run away from my problems. i’m a crippled woman now.”

he hums quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “the doctor said you’ll be walking again in six weeks.”

“six weeks?” you nearly shriek, sitting up only for the pain to shoot through your leg, and you grab his arm instantly, groaning. “that’s practically forever! i’ll wither away before then.”

“you’ll heal,” he says simply, reaching over to fix the pillows behind your back.

you narrow your eyes, clutching his sleeve. “you’re being awfully calm for someone whose girlfriend is now permanently disabled.”

he raises an eyebrow. “you’re not permanently disabled.”

“how do you know?” you snap, voice wobbling. “what if it heals wrong? what if i limp forever? what if i start walking weird and people call me names behind my back?”

“no one’s going to call you names.”

you gasp dramatically. “you think they won’t, but people are cruel, kento. cruel. i’ll be pitied. i’ll have to start wearing flats. do you realize what that’ll do to my image?”

he presses a hand to his forehead, exhaling slowly, like he’s silently counting to ten. “you’ll survive.”

“easy for you to say,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “you’ve never known real pain. you’ve never known the agony of not being able to storm off during an argument.”

his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile. “you can still throw things. that’s one of your talents.”

you gasp again, scandalized. “you’re mocking me.”

“i’m stating a fact.”

“you’re heartless.”

“i brought you breakfast.”

“you’re trying to buy my silence.”

he doesn’t answer, just lifts the tray toward you, neatly plated with omelets, toast, and fruit. your stomach betrays you with a low growl, and you glare at it like it’s a traitor.

“i can’t eat,” you say dramatically, turning your head away. “i’ve lost my will to live.”

“you said the same thing last night,” he replies, calm as ever.

“because it’s true.”

“you ate two slices of pizza after saying that.”

“i was emotional!”

“you’re always emotional.”

you smack his arm lightly, but he catches your hand before you can pull it back, his fingers wrapping around yours easily, grounding, steady. you look down at his hand over yours, then up at his face—too calm, too gentle, too composed for someone who’s dealing with your misery.

“you’re not even worried about me,” you whisper, eyes wide and accusing.

“i’m here, aren’t i?”

you frown, pulling at his sleeve. “you should be more distressed. you should be pacing around the room, looking like your world ended. that’s what people do when their partner is crippled.”

he exhales a quiet laugh, soft and low. “you’ve been watching too many dramas.”

“because my life is a drama,” you say, placing your hand on your chest. “i’m the main character, and this is my downfall arc.”

“it’s a broken leg,” he says again, because that’s all he ever does—counter your theatrics with quiet, immovable reason.

you sigh heavily, flopping back into the pillows. “you don’t understand. this is trauma.”

he hums again, standing to pour you a glass of water. “you’ll heal faster if you rest instead of crying every hour.”

“i don’t cry every hour.”

“you cried at seven, nine, and eleven this morning.”

“those were valid tears.”

he hands you the glass. you take it with exaggerated delicacy, sipping slowly just to make him wait, then look up through your lashes. “you’ll take care of me, right?”

“i’ve been doing that since yesterday.”

“no, i mean really take care of me. like feed me, bathe me, dress me—”

“you’re not helpless.”

“oh?” you challenge, gesturing dramatically at your leg. “then what do you call this?”

“a consequence of ignoring my warning about climbing on the kitchen counter.”

you gasp, horrified. “so now you’re blaming the victim?”

he pinches the bridge of his nose. “you’re the one who fell.”

“i fell in the name of hunger and independence,” you argue. “you should be proud.”

he shakes his head slowly, setting the glass down. “lie back.”

you blink. “why?”

“you need to rest.”

“i can’t sleep, i’m bored.”

“then I’ll stay until you do.”

you soften instantly, eyes going glassy, voice turning small. “you’ll stay?”

“yes.”

you shift a little, reaching for him again. “then hold me.”

he sits back down beside you, and when you reach out this time, he doesn’t resist—his arm slides around your shoulders, and you lean into him, cheek pressed to his chest, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne. your fingers find his hand, tracing the veins along it lazily, and for a brief, quiet moment, you forget about your leg entirely.

“you’re nice to me when i’m broken,” you mumble.

“you’re always broken,” he replies softly, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

you swat his chest weakly. “i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

“i do.”

“sure.”

you groan, dramatic as ever, pressing closer. “you’ll never understand how hard this is for me.”

“then explain it.”

“i can’t walk, kento.”

“for a few weeks.”

“that’s like half my lifespan.”

he laughs quietly—really laughs, the sound low and rare and warm—and it makes you smile despite yourself. you burrow closer, your voice smaller now. “you’ll carry me everywhere, right?”

“everywhere is a strong word.”

“then at least to the bathroom.”

he pauses. “you have a wheelchair.”

“but it’s ugly.”

“you can decorate it.”

“with what? my tears?”

he shakes his head again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “you’re dramatic.”

“i’m in pain.”

“you’ll live.”

“barely.”

he presses a kiss to your forehead, his voice soft. “i’ll help you through it.”

you hum contentedly, eyes fluttering shut. “you better. if i die from boredom, it’ll be your fault.”

“you won’t die.”

“then bring me flowers every day until i recover.”

he sighs. “you’ll fill the whole room with them.”

“then at least i’ll have something pretty to look at while i rot.”

he smiles faintly, brushing his thumb against your temple. “you won’t rot. you’ll drive me insane before that happens.”

“as i should,” you murmur sleepily, clinging to his shirt, your voice fading. “that’s love.”

he doesn’t correct you. he just stays there, hand in your hair, calm and steady as always, while you drift off—still pouting, still dramatic, still you. and somewhere in that silence, even he can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you’d survive anything, if it means he’d get to keep seeing you like this: unhinged, spoiled, alive.

episode iii : a philosophical inquiry into beauty and the bump upon my forehead

it starts with pain, humiliation, and a loud thud that echoes through the marble floors of your estate—then silence. and then, you screaming like the world just ended. you’re clutching your forehead, dramatic tears already forming, and your poor maid is frozen two feet away, terrified, because you’re on the floor muttering oh my god i’m disfigured, i’m ruined, i’ll never be pretty again. she tries to help you up, but you shove her hand away like you’re the queen of england refusing an inferior’s touch, insisting that no one, absolutely no one, can understand the pain you’re in.

fast forward fifteen minutes, and you’re in your bedroom, sitting in front of the vanity mirror, staring at the massive bump forming right in the center of your forehead. it’s red, shiny, and the size of a small planet. you poke it once and wail, immediately grabbing your phone and dialing the only person who must witness this tragedy firsthand.

“kento,” you croak dramatically when he answers, “come here. come here now.”

you don’t give him a chance to speak before hanging up because this is not a discussion. this is an emergency.

by the time he arrives, you’ve already iced it with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a louis vuitton scarf, and your eyes are puffy from crying, mascara smudged like you’re a tragic movie character who’s just been betrayed. he opens your bedroom door, still in his beige slacks and white shirt from his part-time job, looking painfully calm, like he hasn’t been summoned to a scene of despair.

he stands there for two full seconds, taking you in—the ice pack, the pout, the tear-streaked cheeks—and you can see it. that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

you narrow your eyes. “don’t.”

“what happened?” he asks, already walking toward you, his tone too gentle, too neutral, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“i fell,” you say through a sniffle. “face first.”

his brow twitches, and he looks away for a second. “are you hurt?”

“i’m deformed,” you wail, pointing to your forehead. “look at me! i look like a fucking goldfish.”

and that’s when it happens—he laughs. a quiet, low, soft laugh, but enough to make your jaw drop. your dramatic gasp fills the air, and your hand flies to your chest like you’ve been stabbed.

“you’re laughing?” you shriek, eyes watering all over again. “you’re actually laughing while i’m in pain?”

he clears his throat, immediately trying to compose himself, but his lips are still twitching. “i’m not laughing at you—”

“yes, you are!” you cut him off, voice rising. “you’re laughing because i look stupid! oh my god, you think i’m ugly!”

he sighs, stepping closer, but you flinch dramatically, pressing your hand to your forehead like a fainting victorian woman. “don’t come near me, kento! i can’t bear to see the pity in your eyes.”

“there’s no pity,” he says, calm and steady, but the small smile is still there, and that only fuels your fury.

you grab a pillow and throw it at him. it bounces off his chest harmlessly, but you feel a bit better. “you monster! i’m hideous, and you’re laughing about it. i’ll never recover from this humiliation.”

he catches the second pillow you throw, setting it aside with practiced patience. “you’re overreacting.”

“overreacting?” you clutch your chest. “i have a lump the size of an egg on my forehead! i can’t go outside! i can’t be seen like this! i’ll have to drop out of college and live in the shadows like some kind of troll!”

he runs a hand through his hair, clearly torn between comforting you and not laughing again. “you don’t look like a troll.”

“liar.”

“you don’t.”

“then what do i look like, huh? go ahead, say it. say i look like a swollen fish.”

he sighs, crouching in front of you, his expression softening despite himself. “you don’t look like a fish.”

you blink at him, eyes glassy and pitiful. “a frog, then?”

he exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “you look like someone who tripped and bumped their head.”

“that’s not comforting.”

“it’s the truth.”

you glare at him, tears welling again. “you’re so mean to me.”

he shakes his head, reaching for your hand. “come here.”

you pull away dramatically. “don’t touch me, you’ll get cursed by my ugliness.”

“i think i’ll risk it.”

you hesitate, still pouting, still glaring at him through watery lashes. “you really think i don’t look ugly?”

“no,” he says simply.

“not even a little?”

“no.”

you squint suspiciously, searching his face for any hint of mockery. he looks calm, patient, irritatingly sincere. finally, you give in, leaning forward until your forehead almost bumps his shoulder. “you’re lying.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“you still look like yourself.”

“a self with brain damage maybe,” you mutter, pressing your cheek against his chest. “you don’t get it. this is a crisis. i have to wear a hat for the next three weeks.”

“it’ll go down in a day or two.”

“a day or two? i could die of shame by then.”

he hums, rubbing your back gently. “no one will notice.”

“everyone will notice. i’m practically a public figure.”

“you’re a college student.”

“a famous one.”

he smiles faintly, and you hate that it makes your stomach flip. “you’ll be fine,” he says softly, and the calm certainty in his voice almost makes you believe him.

you sigh, pressing closer to him, your hand finding his tie and tugging lightly. “you’re supposed to be panicking, you know. you’re supposed to be like, ‘oh no, my beautiful girlfriend’s perfect face!’ and then swear eternal devotion.”

“that’s not really my style.”

“well, it should be.”

he chuckles quietly, his thumb brushing over your temple where the bump is, so gently you barely feel it. “does it still hurt?”

“physically or emotionally?”

“both.”

“yes,” you say dramatically, closing your eyes. “my soul is scarred.”

“should i call a doctor?”

“no, just buy me something expensive.”

“something tells me this isn’t about your forehead anymore.”

you peek up at him, pout deepening. “you should make it up to me. for laughing.”

“i smiled.”

“you laughed. i saw teeth.”

he exhales, amused. “what do you want, then?”

“hmm.” you tap your chin thoughtfully. “flowers. a cake. maybe a spa weekend. and you have to carry my bag for the rest of the week.”

“you’re fine.”

“i’m traumatized.”

“you’re fine.”

you whine softly, curling closer into him until you’re practically draped across his lap. “you don’t understand. i’m fragile. i need affection.”

he sighs but lets you, his hand finding its way into your hair, fingers threading through gently. “you’re impossible to argue with when you’re like this.”

“that’s because i’m right.”

“you fell on your face.”

“because gravity is jealous of me.”

he laughs again, quietly, and you gasp, pulling away to glare at him. “you did it again!”

“i couldn’t help it,” he admits, smiling now, soft and fond. “you’re just—” he stops himself, shaking his head. “you’re something else.”

you pout, but your anger’s already slipping, the warmth of his hand on your waist distracting enough to make your chest flutter. “you think i’m cute even when i look like a cartoon character, huh?”

“that’s one way to describe it.”

you hum, smug now, leaning your head against his shoulder again. “fine. i forgive you.”

“how generous.”

“but you still owe me a cake.”

“i’ll consider it.”

“you’ll buy it,” you mumble, already half asleep against him, your words softening. “you always do.”

he doesn’t argue. he just sits there, his hand stroking your hair, the small bump on your forehead catching the faint light from the chandelier. and though you’re dramatic and unhinged and entirely too much, he looks at you like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like every tantrum, every tear, every ridiculous declaration is just another part of loving you. and maybe it is. because when you wake up later, groggy and pouting, the first thing you see is a cake box on your nightstand with your name written on it in neat cursive, and a tiny note beside it that simply says: still the prettiest.

episode iv : the lament of a woman who met a knife and discovered the fragility of flesh

it starts with a knife, an apple, and your delusional confidence. it’s a lazy sunday morning in nanami’s apartment—sunlight spilling through the blinds, quiet jazz humming from the speaker, and you standing in his kitchen wearing his shirt, hair messy, half-awake but determined. he’s still in the shower, and you, the self-proclaimed princess of leisure who has probably never sliced anything sharper than a credit card, have decided that today you’ll surprise him by cutting fruit like a normal, functional human being.

except five minutes in, it’s all chaos. the knife is heavier than it looks, the apple keeps rolling, and your coordination is nonexistent. you frown, bite your lip, press down too hard, and then—pain. sharp, sudden, horrifying pain.

“oh my god,” you gasp, staring at your hand as a tiny bead of blood blooms on your fingertip. for two whole seconds, you freeze, blinking down at it in disbelief. then the panic hits.

“kento!” your voice cracks instantly, shrill and dramatic. “kento, i’m bleeding! i’m dying!”

the sound of running water stops. you hear the bathroom door open, his footsteps quick and heavy across the hallway. by the time he appears in the kitchen doorway, you’re sitting on the floor, clutching your finger like it’s been severed, tears brimming, the knife abandoned somewhere on the counter.

he stops, towel around his shoulders, hair damp, shirt halfway buttoned, and just stares at you. “what happened?”

you look up at him with watery eyes, your lip trembling. “i was cutting an apple and i—i cut myself and now there’s blood.”

he blinks once, twice, trying to process the sheer amount of drama over a paper-cut-sized wound. “how deep?”

“deep enough to end me,” you wail, extending your hand toward him like a martyr.

he sighs, kneeling beside you, taking your hand gently to inspect the damage. it’s a shallow cut, barely bleeding anymore, but you’re breathing like you’ve lost half your blood supply.

“it’s a scratch,” he says quietly.

“it’s a stab wound!” you protest, voice shaking. “i saw my life flash before my eyes!”

“you’ll survive,” he murmurs, standing up to grab the first-aid kit from the cabinet.

“you’re so calm about it!” you yell after him, clutching your chest with your uninjured hand. “your girlfriend is dying in your kitchen and you’re walking! slowly!”

he doesn’t respond, because he’s used to this. he comes back with the small white box, sets it on the counter, and crouches again. “give me your hand.”

you hesitate. “what if you make it worse?”

“i won’t.”

“what if you rip my skin off?”

“i won’t.”

“what if i faint?”

he looks at you flatly. “then i’ll catch you.”

you squint at him, suspicious, then reluctantly extend your hand. he takes it, his fingers careful and steady as he wipes the small cut clean with a disinfectant pad. the sting makes you flinch violently.

“ow! ow, kento, it hurts!” you cry, jerking your hand but he doesn’t let go.

“you’ll live,” he says again, tone maddeningly calm.

“you keep saying that like it’s comforting!”

“it is.”

“no, it’s not! you’re supposed to say things like ‘oh no, my poor baby, how could this happen!’”

“that’s not how first aid works.”

you glare at him, lip quivering, but he’s too focused on carefully wrapping a bandage around your finger to notice your righteous indignation. when he finally tapes it neatly, he glances up and meets your pouty eyes.

“there,” he says, simple, efficient, infuriatingly composed. “all better.”

“it’s ugly,” you sniff, staring at the beige bandage like it’s ruined your aesthetic. “why couldn’t you use a pink one?”

“this is all i have.”

“you’re so unprepared. what if i wanted to bleed in style?”

he breathes out slowly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “you’ll survive,” he repeats, and you gasp dramatically again.

“stop saying that! i might have trauma from this!”

he stands, rinsing his hands, and says over his shoulder, “you’re dramatic over everything.”

you cross your arms. “i am sensitive, not dramatic.”

“you cried when your soup was too hot last week.”

“that was different! that was betrayal.”

he turns back to you, shaking his head, walking over to pat your head lightly. “no knives for you.”

you huff, tilting your head back to look at him, your eyes still wet but your pride too loud to admit you’re grateful he came running. “so what, i can’t even cut fruit now?”

“you don’t need to. i’ll do it.”

you blink. “you’ll cut my fruit for me?”

“yes. to prevent any more… incidents.”

you grin, victorious, despite the bandaged finger. “so you do care.”

he doesn’t take the bait, just walks to the counter, picks up the knife you abandoned, and starts cutting the rest of the apple with practiced ease. you watch him, chin in your hand, sighing dramatically.

“you look good doing that,” you say, voice slow, lazy, flirtatious. “like a sexy househusband.”

“don’t start,” he says without looking at you.

“what? i’m complimenting you.”

“you’re fishing for attention.”

“so? it works.”

he sets the knife down, slicing the pieces into perfect even wedges before placing them on a plate and handing it to you. “eat.”

you smile sweetly, taking it with your uninjured hand. “thank you, my brave savior.”

“you’re welcome, my clumsy patient.”

“rude.”

“accurate.”

you stick your tongue out at him, then wince as you lift a piece of apple to your mouth—the movement tugging at your bandaged finger. “ouch,” you whimper softly.

he raises an eyebrow. “does it hurt?”

“emotionally,” you say, lowering the plate dramatically. “my finger’s been through so much.”

“you cut it two minutes ago.”

“and yet it feels like a lifetime of suffering.”

he shakes his head, sitting beside you on the stool. “you’re something else.”

you lean your head on his shoulder immediately, sighing like a dying heroine. “you should kiss it better.”

he glances at you. “your finger?”

“yes. that’s how healing works.”

he hums, taking your hand gently, and before you can even make another demand, he presses a soft kiss to the tip of your bandaged finger. the gesture is so tender you forget to breathe for a second.

you stare at him, wide-eyed, a little stunned, then smile, all teeth, smug and melty. “see? love is the cure.”

he chuckles quietly, shaking his head, and you curl closer, looping your arms around his waist.

“you’re gonna make fun of me for this forever, aren’t you?” you mumble into his shirt.

“probably.”

“you’re so mean to me.”

“you make it easy.”

you lift your head, pout deepening. “you’re supposed to protect me from the world, not bully me for my suffering.”

“you cut fruit with a chef’s knife,” he says, voice flat, and you gasp.

“so now you’re blaming the victim again?”

he laughs softly, the kind of sound that feels like home. “you’re not a victim. you’re a hazard.”

you pinch his side lightly, your tone dropping into a pouty whisper. “you’re lucky i like you.”

he looks down at you, eyes warm, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “i know.”

you grin, curling up against him again, whispering, “you’re gonna cut fruit for me forever, right?”

“if it keeps you from bleeding again, yes.”

“good,” you murmur, closing your eyes, a little smug, a little sleepy. “that’s what boyfriends are for.”

he hums quietly, the sound low and fond, and when you glance up one last time, you catch the faintest smile tugging at his lips. you decide that even if your finger hurts, it was worth it—because nothing feels better than being indulged by him, even when you’re a walking disaster wrapped in designer pajamas and bad decisions.

episode v : the metaphysics of vanity: or how i blinded myself in pursuit of perfection and was still kissed on the forehead

it starts with the usual chaos of you getting ready, the kind of ritualistic disaster that could only exist in your world—music too loud, every drawer open, makeup scattered like confetti across nanami’s bathroom counter, and you standing in front of the mirror in one of his shirts that you stole last week because it “smells like boyfriend,” hair half-done, mascara wand in hand, mouth open, concentration deadly serious. you look perfect already, obviously, but perfection is your baseline, not your goal, and today’s date feels like a performance you refuse to underdeliver.

he’s out in the living room, quietly reading, because he knows better than to intrude when you’re in this state—when you’re painting your face like a battlefield and muttering under your breath about your eyeliner wings and the unfairness of eyelashes never cooperating when you need them to. everything’s fine, everything’s steady, until it isn’t.

you blink too soon.

the mascara wand jabs straight into your eye with surgical precision.

“fuck!” you yell, jerking back from the mirror, clutching your face. “ow, ow, ow—oh my god!”

there’s a pause in the other room, the quiet sound of his book closing.

“kento!” you shriek, voice breaking. “kento, i think i’m blind!”

you hear his footsteps approaching, calm, steady, the same maddeningly even rhythm he always has, and that just makes you more hysterical. you’re half bent over the sink now, one hand pressed to your eye, the other waving blindly toward the door like you’re summoning him from the underworld.

he appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, expression perfectly neutral. “what happened?”

“i stabbed myself!” you cry.

his brows draw together, confused. “stabbed?”

“with the mascara thing!” you say, spinning toward him dramatically, your left eye already watering uncontrollably, black smudge across your cheek like war paint. “oh my god, i think i popped it out or something—am i bleeding?”

he blinks once, twice, taking in the sight before him. “no. you’re not bleeding.”

“how do you know?” you demand, panicking even more, leaning toward him. “check! check if i’m bleeding!”

he sighs, stepping closer, catching your flailing wrist gently. “let me see.”

you tilt your head back, eyes squeezed shut, trembling like you’re on the verge of death. “be honest,” you whisper. “if it’s bad, just tell me. i’ll wear an eyepatch and start a new identity. i’ll live as a pirate’s widow.”

“open your eye,” he says, and you shake your head violently.

“no! what if it falls out?!”

he’s quiet for a long second, the kind of silence that feels like patience thinning into disbelief. “your eye won’t fall out.”

“you don’t know that!” you snap, pulling your hand away to clutch at your face again. “what if i go blind? i can’t go blind, kento. i have a date today! i can’t show up half blind looking like a tragic backstory.”

“you’ll be fine,” he says, voice calm, steady, infuriatingly rational.

you glare at him through one eye, mascara streaking down your cheek. “you’re so fucking heartless. i’m in pain and you’re—what—smirking?”

“i’m not smirking.”

“you are! i can feel it!”

he exhales, stepping even closer until he’s in front of you, his hands gently cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the smudged makeup under your eyes. “look at me,” he says softly.

you sniff, defiant. “no.”

“look at me.”

you finally crack one eye open, squinting up at him. his face is close—too close—and his gaze is patient, warm, infuriatingly composed, the kind of calm that feels like gravity itself. he leans a little closer, inspecting your eye like he’s a doctor and not your long-suffering boyfriend.

“it’s fine,” he says after a moment, tone final. “you didn’t hurt yourself. it’s just irritated.”

you blink up at him, lips trembling. “really?”

“really.”

“you’re not lying to make me feel better?”

“no.”

“you swear?”

“yes.”

“because if i wake up tomorrow with one eye swollen shut and a tragic scar—”

“you won’t,” he interrupts gently.

you stare at him, pout deepening, before you groan and lean forward, pressing your forehead against his chest. “i hate makeup,” you mutter, muffled against him. “it’s evil.”

his hand comes up, sliding over your back, slow and comforting. “then don’t wear it.”

you gasp, pulling back to glare at him like he’s insulted your ancestors. “don’t wear it? are you crazy? i look like a corpse without it.”

“you don’t,” he says easily, and that makes you falter for half a second before you roll your eyes (carefully this time).

“you’re biased.”

“maybe.”

you huff, turning toward the mirror again, staring at the half-ruined mess of your makeup. “great. now i look like i’ve been crying in a horror movie.”

“you kind of do,” he admits, and you whip around so fast he barely dodges your death glare.

“you’re not helping!”

“i wasn’t trying to.”

you grab a tissue dramatically, dabbing at your face with unnecessary aggression. “i can’t go out like this. cancel the date. tell everyone i died.”

“it’s just me,” he reminds you.

“then tell yourself i died!”

“you’re not dying.”

“i could! mascara poisoning exists!”

he leans against the counter, folding his arms, watching you with the faintest hint of a smile. “you’re the only person i know who could turn getting ready into a tragedy.”

“it is a tragedy,” you say, throwing the tissue at him. it bounces off his chest harmlessly. “you should be mourning my beauty.”

“your beauty’s fine,” he says. “your patience, though…”

“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re already softening, staring at him through the mirror as he steps behind you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. his reflection meets yours, calm eyes, faint smile, and somehow that steadies you more than anything else could.

“breathe,” he murmurs.

you do. reluctantly.

“better?”

“no.”

“liar.”

you tilt your head back slightly, meeting his gaze in the mirror again. “you’re so smug. i should’ve dated someone less calm. someone dramatic like me.”

“they wouldn’t survive you,” he says without hesitation, and you can’t help but laugh—quiet, low, the kind that pulls warmth from your chest.

you turn around fully, hands sliding up his chest to his collar, fingers fisting lightly in the fabric. “you’re so annoyingly perfect,” you murmur.

“you’re covered in mascara,” he replies softly.

“shut up and fix it for me.”

he reaches up, thumb brushing under your eye again, wiping away the smudge with patient precision. “you’re going to finish getting ready,” he says. “we’re still going.”

“no,” you whine, leaning into his touch. “my eye hurts.”

“you’ll live.”

“my ego doesn’t want to be seen like this.”

“you look fine.”

“you’re lying.”

“then let me prove it.”

you pause, eyebrows furrowing, about to ask what that even means when he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your eye, right where the smudged mascara meets skin. it’s gentle, unhurried, the kind of thing that makes your brain shut off completely for a second.

you blink up at him after, lips parting. “…that’s cheating.”

“it worked.”

you grumble under your breath, pretending to fix your hair so you don’t have to admit it did. he straightens, watching you quietly as you pick your mascara back up, hesitating like it’s a wild animal.

“i can’t do it,” you say. “you do it for me.”

“no.”

“please?”

“absolutely not.”

you pout, dragging out a dramatic sigh. “you’re so cold.”

“you’re dangerous with sharp objects,” he says, and you roll your eyes but start applying it again—carefully, cautiously, every blink exaggerated. he stands behind you the whole time, arms crossed, like a bodyguard supervising a crime scene.

when you’re finally done, you drop the wand like it’s a weapon and spin around, grinning proudly. “see? perfect. no injuries this time.”

“progress,” he says dryly, and you swat his arm playfully.

you lean up, tugging lightly at his collar, voice dropping softer. “you’re still taking me out, right?”

“yes.”

“even though i almost blinded myself?”

“especially because you almost blinded yourself.”

you smile then—lazy, smug, warm—and loop your arms around his neck. “you’re too nice to me.”

he leans down, presses a kiss to your temple, and says quietly, “someone has to be.”

and maybe that’s why you go on the date anyway—because he keeps you grounded even when you’re halfway to hysterical, because every tantrum ends in his calm voice, his steady hands, his quiet affection. because somehow, despite the mess you are, he always makes you feel beautiful again.

bonus : letters from a wounded narcissist to the man who still holds her hand

the night ends soft, quiet, unhurried—like the world’s finally tired of spinning. you’re back in his apartment after the date, after the chaos, after the mascara incident that had you declaring you’d never show your face in public again. somehow, he still managed to get you out of the house, still managed to make you laugh over dinner, still managed to make you forget the world was ending because of an eyelash wand. and now it’s late, the lights are dim, the room smells faintly of his cologne and your perfume mixing together in the air, and the two of you are tangled up in his sheets, limbs warm and heavy, the city humming outside the window.

you’re on your side, facing him, half under the blanket, wearing one of his shirts again—soft, oversized, smelling like him. his arm is draped around you, lazy, his thumb tracing idle circles against your hip like he’s not even thinking about it. he’s quiet, the kind of quiet that isn’t awkward but familiar, and it makes you restless. you stare at him for too long, watching his chest rise and fall, watching the way his eyes flicker open when he feels you looking.

“what,” he murmurs, voice low, rough from sleep.

you shake your head, sighing dramatically. “nothing.”

“you’re staring at me.”

“because you’re nice to look at.”

he hums quietly, eyes half-shut again, and you can tell he’s smiling even if you can’t see it in the dark. for a moment, it’s peaceful—too peaceful, maybe, because your brain starts to spiral the way it always does when things are too still. you fidget, fingers playing with the hem of the blanket, and then you say it, voice small but sharp in the quiet.

“do you ever get tired of me?”

he blinks, the movement subtle, but his hand pauses. “tired?”

“yeah.” you roll onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “like. of my dramatics. my tantrums. my… whatever it is that i am.”

he doesn’t answer immediately, and that silence makes your stomach twist, so you keep talking, too fast, too defensive. “because i know i’m a lot. i cry too much, i complain, i say stupid things, and i make everything about me sometimes, and i know that’s annoying, and you’re always calm and patient and perfect and i’m just—” you stop yourself, biting your lip, the words burning your throat. “i don’t know. i just feel like maybe one day you’ll wake up and think, ‘god, she’s exhausting.’”

he exhales quietly, the sound steady, and you hate that he’s so composed when you’re spiraling. you turn your head to look at him again, your eyes catching the soft city light slipping through the blinds. he’s looking at you, of course, because he always does when you talk like this—like he can’t help it.

“you finished?” he asks gently.

you groan, pressing the pillow over your face. “don’t say it like that.”

“like what.”

“like i’m being dramatic.”

“you are being dramatic.”

you peek out from under the pillow, glaring at him. “see? this is why i can’t have emotional moments with you. you bully me.”

he smiles, small and slow, the kind that makes your chest ache. “i don’t bully you. i just don’t let you lie to yourself.”

you frown, propping yourself up on your elbow. “i’m not lying.”

“you are.” he reaches up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “you’re not exhausting.”

“you sure?”

“positive.”

“you hesitated.”

“i didn’t.”

“you did.”

“you just imagine things when you’re tired,” he says, his tone almost teasing now, but there’s that softness underneath—the one that always unravels you.

you flop back down, throwing an arm over your eyes. “ugh, you’re so annoyingly calm. can’t you just say something romantic for once? like ‘no, darling, you’re my reason for living’ or something?”

he chuckles under his breath. “you’d laugh if i did.”

“i would not!” you protest, sitting up dramatically, glaring down at him. “i’d probably cry and kiss you and then accuse you of lying, but that’s completely different.”

he looks up at you from where he’s laying, his expression somewhere between fond and amused, the corners of his mouth curving in that quiet, infuriating way that makes you want to both kiss him and punch him.

“come here,” he says finally, reaching for your wrist, pulling you back down until you’re half sprawled across his chest.

you mumble something incoherent but don’t resist. his hand slides up your back, steady, grounding, like he knows exactly what you need even when you don’t.

“you make things loud,” he says softly after a moment, “but i like loud.”

you blink against his shirt, voice muffled. “that’s weird.”

“so are you.”

“you’re supposed to say something sweet, not insult me.”

“that was sweet.”

you groan, lifting your head to look at him. “you’re so emotionally constipated, i swear.”

he laughs—quiet, real, the sound warm against your skin. “you make up for it.”

you narrow your eyes, but your lips are already curving, because somehow, that feels like the most romantic thing he could’ve said. you reach up, tracing his jaw with your finger, slow and lazy. “you sure you’re not secretly tired of me?”

he meets your gaze, steady and calm. “i wouldn’t be here if i was.”

you pout, leaning closer, brushing your nose against his. “so you like when i throw tantrums?”

“no.”

you gasp, fake offense laced with a grin. “wow.”

“i don’t like it,” he continues, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, “but i like you enough that it doesn’t matter.”

you stare at him, your chest tightening, and for once, you don’t have anything smart to say. instead, you just melt a little, resting your forehead against his, voice small. “you know i don’t mean half the things i say when i’m mad, right?”

“i know.”

“i just—” you pause, fingers curling against his shirt. “i get scared sometimes. like you’ll get tired of dealing with me.”

he hums softly, his thumb brushing against your collarbone. “you’re dramatic. not disposable.”

you blink, your throat tightening, and you whisper, “that was actually really sweet.”

“don’t make me regret saying it,” he says dryly, and you laugh, burying your face against his neck.

you stay like that for a while, your body pressed against his, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest while he runs his hand slowly through your hair. the silence stretches, comfortable now, warm. you can feel his heartbeat under your ear, steady, calm, the kind of rhythm that could quiet a storm.

“kento,” you mumble after a while, your voice drowsy.

“hm?”

“if i ever stop being dramatic, you’ll still like me, right?”

he pauses for a beat, then says, “you won’t.”

you smack his chest lightly. “you’re an ass.”

“but i’m right.”

“shut up,” you mutter, nuzzling closer to him, and he just hums, pressing a kiss to your hair.

you fall quiet after that, eyes half-closed, and he thinks you’ve drifted off until you whisper softly, “you make me feel like it’s okay to be too much.”